by Lavinia Kent
And as if that were not message enough, that delicate purr was in truth an unmistakable snore.
He turned away, willed his unruly body to relax, dreaded the sleepless night that was to come.
And turned back again, shedding coat and shirt, dropping his trousers as he walked to the bed.
Unfulfilled tonight, yes — but there was always morning.
It was time he taught his duchess the true glory of morning.
The Maids
“Look there’s another one,” Abby said excitedly, as she rushed over to the apothecary’s window. “There are only three of them pictured this time and I can’t remember who is who. Come tell me.”
With little pretext of disinterest, Jane walked up to the window. The first morning light was glinting down the street and reflected brightly off the glass. She had to squint to see.
“Oh, they’re at tea. I do feel like I am getting a sneak glance in at their lives.” Jane pushed her nose almost to the glass to see through it. “The one in the middle is the Duchess of Harrington again—where Mary is employed. Mary did say something about them all coming to tea. I believe the Dowager Duchess of Harrington, the younger, was quite upset. She did not approve of having the Marchioness of Tattingstong and her sister to the house. The duchess, herself, apparently held no such views.”
“Who are the other two? I don’t see the marchioness in the print—neither of the other two have those bosoms and I don’t see an American flag anywhere.”
Jane stepped back. The light had shifted just enough that she could gain better perspective. “I am trying to remember what Mary said. I think this one,” she pointed at the standing woman on the left, “is the Countess of Westhampton. She’s the one whose husband took off to some tropical island a month after the wedding and hasn’t been back since. Don’t you remember all the gossip at the time? The footmen were wondering if he’d even found her bed. I never did figure out if they were poking fun at her or at the earl.”
“I thought she was supposed to be a little mouse—a country cousin or something. She does not look like a mouse.”
Jane examined the drawing of the fine-boned woman, shoulders straight, sleek, dark hair smoothed back, with no allowance for fashionable curls. No, she did not look like a mouse. She looked ready for anything. Jane could almost picture her slanted, dark eyes flashing, that strange half-smile parting her lips, as she commanded an army. She was beautiful, incredibly so, but her sense of command was even stronger. A man would be a fool to get in her way—perhaps that was why the earl had fled to . . . Jane couldn’t remember where, but she wasn’t sure it was warm and tropical—although it was southern. “Maybe she’s changed. I do remember hearing that she was a quiet thing.”
“Maybe it’s not her—maybe it’s one of the other duchesses.”
“No, I am sure it’s her.”
“Then who is that sitting next to the Duchess of Harrington? She looks like she could be quiet. I can’t figure who she is.”
“No, I think that’s Lady Richard Tennant. She’s not a duchess, but if her husband’s older brother doesn’t get busy and find a wife, her son will be a duke.”
“I’ve never even heard of her. Why is she with the others?”
“I believe she was a childhood friend of Her Grace of Harrington. She, Lady Richard, has been in the country since just after her wedding a few years ago. Mary said that her husband didn’t want her in London and she came anyway.”
“Why wouldn’t her husband want her here? She is very pretty.”
Lady Richard’s appearance was much more reserved than either of the other two women in the print, but in some ways Jane thought she would be the most fun to talk to, there was something in her little grin and dancing eyes that spoke of kindness and fun. “I do like her curls. I wonder how long it takes her maid to create them?”
Abby leaned toward the window. “I bet they’re really hers. She doesn’t look like she needs more than a couple of rag ties to put them in order.”
“You could be right. I do wonder why it’s only the three of them. Mary said six of them were at tea, and the marchioness brought her sister, although one hardly noticed the little American girl. Mary said the parlor maid said she didn’t say more than two words.”
“The print does make me feel like I am right in the room with them. Maybe that’s why there are only three—the artist was trying to make it seem real.”
“Well, he certainly succeeded. Like I said before, I feel like I am peeking in on some secret meeting.”
“I don’t think it’s secret at all. I think they’re just having a wonderful time—although, look how the countess is glaring at someone off the paper. I wonder who has her so angry?”
Chapter Seven
Kathryn couldn’t ever remember feeling so warm and toasty—although her mouth felt quite dry. For the briefest of moments she lay back in bed and enjoyed, only gradually becoming aware of the warm body cuddled against her own. Turning toward the warmth she shifted and instantly a thousand needles sliced into her brain—and then her belly.
She rolled from the bed frantically, reaching for the bowl on the washstand. She clutched the basin, the china cold beneath her fingers and prayed for mercy as the remains of last night’s dinner left her. It felt like she was dying—and if she wasn’t, she wanted to.
She knelt on the bare boards of the floor as wave after wave of nausea swept through her, emptying her until there was nothing left. She hadn’t felt this miserable since the first months of her pregnancy.
The thought left her cold. Her head had not ached like this then, but the nausea had been the same, the same desperate surge from bed in the morning, leaving behind her husband’s warm body—
Robert was in her bed. She didn’t remember much of the end of last night, but Robert was in her bed.
Her head jerked up, pain shooting in all directions and she met his dark gaze, his eyes tracing her features to the mess of slop in the bowl. His glance dropped away and she could see the strain and pain in his features.
She swallowed, fighting back the bile that threatened to rise again in her throat.
He, too, was remembering those mornings, early in their marriage, when she’d tumbled from bed to the basin. He too was remembering the cause—and the outcome.
There should be something to say. Maybe if her mind had not been so blurred by pain and fatigue, she could have found words, but all that she had were feelings, bleak, miserable feelings.
Ignoring the pain she pushed to her feet, going to call for the maid to take the bowl away. All would be better when it was gone.
There was a tap at the door, the maid entered without comment—and left.
All was not better.
The air was a trifle clearer, but that was all.
Slowly she turned to face her husband, her mind still searching for the words that must be there. “I am sorry. This was not what I had intended. I only—”
“Then perhaps you should not drink more than you can handle.” His voice was sharp, his features cold, before he turned his body away from her.
Kathryn was glad she was still in, or at least mostly in, her dress from the night before. She would have felt horribly exposed with him glaring at her like that if she’d had only thin linen about her.
She wrapped her arms about her breasts, hugging the slipping neckline closer. “I said I was sorry.”
“I am sorry, too.” That sounded a bit kinder.
“I didn’t know the brandy would be so strong.”
“Couldn’t you taste the burn? Don’t you know anything?” Perhaps not kinder, after all.
Did he mean to be so cruel? She wrapped her arms tighter. “No, evidently I don’t know anything—not anything at all.” She would have killed for a glass of water, but could not bear to have the maid witness this interaction—perhaps she could drink the wash water. It was clean. She had not touched the pitcher when she’d grabbed for the basin.
Robert shifted on the bed
, moving to sit, the sheets held loosely, but carefully to his waist. What was he afraid of? Did he think she would expect him to service her now? She felt another wave of nausea, but held it back. The maid had taken the bowl with her.
Turning towards the table and pitcher, and away from her husband, she dipped her fingers in the cool water, splashing it over her face and down her neck.
Did she have to be so damn beautiful? Did his morning cockstand have to drive all thought from his brain, to make him brusque? Did he have to wound her further every time he opened his mouth? The water ran down her neck, drawing his eyes to the faint curve of her breasts visible above her clenched arms.
His body responded again—it was morning. Dammit. He pulled the sheet higher, being careful to drape it appropriately. She was pale enough without being confronted with that.
How could he look at her, standing there so pale and sick, and think only of what he wanted, craved? Kathryn looked like she wished she could die and all he could think of was how warm she’d been in the bed with her buttocks cuddled against him, how delicious she looked in the morning light, of how he’d like to loosen her fingers, to slide the dress down, to bury his face between her breasts . . .
Bloody hell, he needed to be thinking about dry toast and tea, not fucking his wife. He added the vulgarity deliberately, trying to shock himself to reason. It didn’t work. He shifted, even more uncomfortably. His body took the thought—and the word—all too literally.
Dry toast and tea.
That what was she’d called for back when—for the first time, his mind put it all together—back when his child had been in her belly, back when she’d been violently ill each morning and then looked at him with the biggest grin on her face, her eyes sparkling with joy. Her look had proclaimed that the world could not be a better place.
His arousal diminished. She’d been happy back then and all he’d been able to think of was that he couldn’t have sex if she was vomiting. What an inconsiderate lout he’d been.
He still was—his erection might not be straining, but it was refusing to leave.
“I am so sorry,” her quiet continued apologies, drew his eyes to her face, her pallid, unhappy face. She didn’t look happy now. It might not have been possible for her to look more dejected.
“I did not mean to speak harshly. I was taking my own frustrations out on you. It was not the morning I had planned.” He’d have left if he could. Was it possible to walk out with an entire sheet wrapped about his waist? Was there any way to untangle it from the bed without giving her a full display? Dammit, where were his trousers?
Shit, they were over by the door. He should have been sure they were near the bed—not that this scenario had presented itself as a possibility when he’d climbed into bed the previous evening. “Would you fetch me my trousers?” He pointed over to them where they lay, legs still tangled and half inside out.
She walked over slowly, as if afraid she’d break if she moved with vigor. She lost even more color as she bent and picked them up, but regained it when she was upright once again.
“It helps if you drink something,” he said, looking about her chamber for a glass. The decanter of port stood on a table by the fireplace, two cut-crystal glasses beside it.
Grabbing his pants from her, he shimmied into them as decorously as he could. He noted that she looked pointedly away. Couldn’t she even bear to look at him? Did his lack of desirability extend that far?
Standing, he walked over and grabbed a glass.
“No, please—I don’t want a drink.” Her eyes were glued to the port.
“I was just getting you some water, if you don’t mind drinking your unused wash water.”
“Oh.” She held out her hand eagerly as he approached with the water.
“Would you like tea and toast? I can have your maid fetch some.”
Why did that make her pale even further? What was wrong with tea and toast? It was what she always had when she was nauseous in the morning.
“Tea would be nice. I don’t think I can handle toast, my stomach is roiling.”
“But you always have toast when . . .”
“That was different.” She looked down at the floor. “There is a great difference between being with child and overindulging.”
Could the room have been more silent? He could hear the wind blowing through the window, the faint tread of feet far down the hall, the sound of a maid whistling softly—all noises he never even realized were there.
What he could not do was think of a single word to say. They’d already said “I am sorry” far too many times this morning.
“Why can you never talk of him?” Her head rose, her eyes staring into him, through him.
“Him?”
“Our son. Why do you never mention our son?”
Again, there were no words. His son. Their son. What good were words against pain? “I thought that you would not want to. The physician said that it was better to just get past it.”
“And how does one get past something like that? Do you think ignoring it helps?”
She was expecting an answer, demanding an answer.
“I only did what was suggested,” he replied.
Her shoulders slumped, her dress slipping slightly lower. His eyes were drawn to the lush roundness of her breasts, but thankfully his body was beyond response.
She turned away and walked across the room to stare out the window. “I always thought this view was perfect. When you first brought me here, I thought that nothing could be more beautiful.”
“I agree.” He was not looking at the window.
“I almost never look out now.”
Did that mean she felt trapped? Had he trapped her here, here in this ice blue chamber?
“I spent too many hours imagining playing on the grass with our child—our children. Even now, when I look out, I see them there, a little girl in fluttering skirts, a toddling boy chasing a ball—and a puppy. I don’t know why, but there is always a puppy. I’ve never even had a dog.”
A puppy. He would get her a puppy. He’d never even thought of that. A puppy would make her happy. Who wouldn’t smile if they had a puppy?
Oh, he knew it was not really the answer, but surely a puppy could only help.
She turned back from the window. “I need to call my maid. I may have ruined this dress already. It was not made for sleep. I couldn’t get out of it without help—and then I fell asleep.”
“Waiting for me.” He almost offered to help, but didn’t trust himself. If his fingers brushed against her skin, her breasts, her . . . Sometimes he hated being a man, hated how instantly his thoughts could—
“Yes.” Her shoulders rose again. She bit her lip, drew in a deep breath and . . . “I was so proud of myself for seducing you and . . .”
She’d never seen him turn that color before. Could a man both lose all his color and turn a shade of eggplant at the same time?
“You were what?” It sounded like the words came from deep within his chest.
Did she have to say it again? It had taken all her courage to say it once. Did he not believe her? She wished she’d had the ability to add one of Linnette’s knowing little looks, but that was too much to ask, given that knives were still piercing her skull. “I was proud I had seduced you, that you wanted to come to my bed.”
“You seduce me?”
Did he have to sound so baffled by the words? She was sure she’d implied something similar last night. She wasn’t sure whether to scream, to hit him—or to cry her heart out.
“You thought you needed to seduce me? When have you ever needed to seduce me?”
He was too much. “When have you ever not come to my bed for three months? What am I supposed to do?”
“You thought you needed to seduce me?”
Did he have to keep repeating that phrase? “Well, you didn’t come when I just asked.”
“When did you ask?”
“The other night—I asked you to come for p
ort.”
“You meant you wanted me to come and have se— to come to your bed?”
“Yes, dammit. I meant for you to come to my bed.” She’d just cursed. He had driven her to curse. She’d have done it again if the room had not begun to slowly revolve. She took a step back toward the bed.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? I am always happy to oblige.” He grinned, he actually grinned.
She was going to kill him, if she didn’t die first. “Well, why haven’t you come to my bed in months then? You do want to have an heir, don’t you?”
His grin faded. “This is about having a baby? You want to try again?”
“Of course, I do. It’s my duty to give you an heir.”
He turned and looked at the empty fireplace. He still stood upright, but somehow he seemed crumpled. “I will attend to you tonight then. Forgive me if I leave now. You look like you could use more rest. I will send the maid with tea—and perhaps a hot bath. A hot bath is always good.”
Robert pivoted and strode towards the door.
How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? She felt like she’d kicked his—oh, what the hell—his balls. What had she said to do that to him? One moment he’d seemed excited, if baffled, by the idea of her as a seductress and then—something Linnette had said came back to her.
“Robert.”
He paused, his hand on the door handle.
She could do this.
“Robert, it’s not just that I want a baby, want to give you an heir. I want—I don’t actually know what it is that I do want. I was hoping you could teach me.”
He stood still for a moment, his back frozen straight. His head turned, and he stared at her, his face unreadable.
Then he opened the door slowly.
Had she lost?
“I will send for the tea and a bath.” He stepped forward. “And Kathryn, assuming you are feeling better, perhaps you could invite me for that glass of port this evening.”
Chapter Eight
Kathryn stared up at the elegant brick house. She hadn’t wanted to come, but in the end had decided it was necessary to discuss the second print—and far better than sitting home and thinking about tonight. If she thought about it anymore, she’d become deranged.
