by Lavinia Kent
And then she was free. She was out the door, in the beautiful spring air—alone as she had not been alone in years. No maid. No groom. No husband. No friend.
Only herself.
She strode down the street, her pace fast and furious. Her mind spun with what she had just learned—that apparently everybody else had known for years.
Was there still an affair going on? Was that why Robert had not been coming to her bed?
Was he Linnette’s true love? Was Linnette his?
The thought was distasteful but she forced herself to examine it with care.
She walked faster.
Was Linnette with child? With Robert’s child?
It felt like a body blow, like a canon shell ripping through her. If it was true, she might not survive.
She was almost running now, letting her body act out the fury that filled her mind.
Oh God, she didn’t think it was true. She couldn’t believe it was true. They would have told her.
Somebody would have told her.
She stopped, gasping for breath—almost falling to her knees.
What now? How did she face the man she had married, the man she loved, after this?
What was left for them to say?
Seduction was certainly out now. He’d had Linnette. He’d know what a fraud Kathryn was, know she knew nothing about passion and desire.
Only—and the thought grew and filled her—she was only a fraud if she let herself be.
She was going home, going home strong—strong and angry—and then she was going to get exactly what she wanted.
He was later than he’d meant to be. Robert glanced at the clock set high on the mantel. He’d managed to find the new Duke of Doveshire and had begun an informative discussion of canals and railroads. He thought he’d made progress, but the new duke with his piercing glance was not an easy character to predict. His time among the savages in Canada had clearly left a mark.
Linnette would have her hands full if she wanted to be anything beyond a retiring dowager duchess.
And then, when he’d finished with Doveshire, several men had tried to stop him as he’d hurried home. He should probably have showed more grace in his refusals of even a moment’s conversation, but he’d wanted to be home.
But enough of such thoughts, all he wanted now was his wife.
He’d worked hard all day not to think of her—largely unsuccessfully—and now it was time.
He caught himself humming as he climbed the stairs. He did hope she was still awake, although if she wasn’t, he might have to wake her to pour him some port.
He smiled to himself, wondering at what point he’d reveal to her that he really didn’t care for the beverage. He was a brandy man—or the occasional glass of whiskey, if someone brought a bottle back from the north.
Her door was open a crack, faint light peering through. He took that as a good sign. She never slept with the candles still lit—she didn’t do anything before the candles were damped.
But that was about to change. She’d mentioned seduction and he meant to hold her to it. Seduction meant candlelight, or sunlight, or bright moonlight—well, there were games that didn’t require light, but he didn’t think his wife was quite there yet.
His hum turned to a whistle.
He tapped on the door and then swung it open without waiting for a reply. Should he have shaved? The thought came to him belatedly.
And then all thought stopped.
His wife sat before him, but his wife as he had never seen her before.
She’d set her chair before the fire, the light warming her features and sending dancing patterns over her dress—and what a dress. It shone crimson in the dim light of the room, rich velvet just begging to be petted. It was lower than he’d ever seen her wear, her breasts rising pale and creamy above the edging of black braid. More braid formed an intricate pattern across her chest and lower belly, ending in a deep vee just above . . . His eyes followed the swirls of braid, breasts, belly, lower.
He swallowed, forcing his glance back to her face.
He couldn’t see her full expression, her face lay in shadow—turned away from the fire, but he could see the gleam in her eye as she examined him, every bit as closely as he had her.
He swallowed again, breathless.
What did one say to a goddess? To a warrior goddess?
Now, why did he think that?
She was the goddess of love. She was Venus in the flesh.
“You lit a fire?” he asked. “I would have thought the night warm enough.” That was inane, but at least it proved his mouth still worked and he did need it to work tonight.
“Yes, it is warm, but I felt a need to be toasty. I did not want to risk a chill, not tonight.”
He had to reply—warm, toasty—there must be something he could say, something provocative. “It certainly is toasty. It feels good.”
Kathryn smiled, a very slow smile that seemed to measure him from boot to crown. “I am glad you approve. The port is here.” She gestured to the table next to the fire. “Would you like me to pour?”
He nodded. That was safe. One could not sound foolish with a nod.
Leaning over, Kathryn picked up the decanter and lifted it to a glass. His gaze was drawn to her low neckline, the shadow between her breasts and the hint of pink at the tip of one of the creamy swells. How did she turn to the side and yet reveal more of her bosom? There were some tricks women knew he would never understand. Not that he objected.
Kathryn turned to look at him, catching him staring at her breasts. She let her own gaze follow his, then looked up again, smiling her acknowledgment. She straightened then, holding the glass of port out before her. “Would you like a sip?”
Again he could only nod, his mouth dry with anticipation—and not for the port.
He stepped forward, his eyes focused on her.
Still smiling, Kathryn dipped a finger into the glass of port and than sucked it into her mouth, the gesture unmistakable in its promise. It stopped him in his tracks.
He pulled a deep breath into his chest, trying to gain control. What had happened to his quiet, elegant wife?
“Is there a problem? Don’t you want a sip? Perhaps you think the glass is dirty. It’s a pity. I only have the one. Hmmm, how else could you taste it?” She dipped her finger into the glass again. Reached towards him as if to offer him a taste, but then pulled back. She dipped the finger again. This time instead of reaching toward him, she trailed the finger across her chest, a line of deep red spirits marking her smooth flesh.
Did she mean . . . ?
She did. There was no mistaking that look.
He was not a fool, he started forward. He needed no second invitation.
And drew up short as cold, burning liquid covered his face.
For a moment, he could only blink, staring at his wife, his eyes burning.
She had tossed the port in his face. She had tossed the port in his face.
His mind repeated the fact, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
“You vile bastard. You toad. You . . . Oh, darn it all. Why don’t I have a proper vocabulary for these moments? You are the lowest of the low. How could you do that and not tell me? How could you sleep with my best friend and then expect to come to my bed?” Kathryn began to stalk about the room.
He followed her movements with care. She looked in a mood to use his head for target practice.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I haven’t slept with any of your friends. I haven’t slept with anybody but you since our marriage. Surely you know that.” He tried to calm her with reason.
She turned and glared, fire shooting from her eyes. He would be burned to a crisp if thoughts had such power.
“What has brought on this show of temper?” He tried again to be calm, to understand.
“Temper? You think this is temper? I’ll tell you what brought this on—learning that my husband and my best friend had an affair, learnin
g that she is with child and it may very well be yours. You don’t bother to come to my bed to give me the child I long for, but evidently you see nothing wrong with casting your seed in other directions.”
Pregnant? He’d made someone pregnant? The words were so shocking that it took him a moment to realize just how preposterous they were. He hadn’t had sex with anyone but Kathryn since their marriage. He certainly could not now be accused of fatherhood—unless . . . “You are not saying that there is already a child, but that one is on the way?”
She strode over to a table and picked up a small bud vase. He could see it contained the blossom he had sent this morning, the single perfect sprout of lily of the valley. Did he need to duck?
“A child on the way—as if that matters.” She stopped and stared. “Are you saying you have other children?”
“No! Well, I don’t know. I cannot deny that it is possible that before we were married that I . . . I was discreet and careful, but things can happen. If, however, you are talking about somebody who is expecting now—then it is impossible. The only woman who could possibly be with child is you and even then you would be months along.”
Her face turned away, as if he had struck her. “I am not with child, as you well know. No, it is Linnette who is going to have a baby.”
Linnette? That didn’t seem possible. She was too smart to be caught in such a trap and— “Did she say I was the father of her child?”
“No, she denies it also—but she does admit you were lovers.”
He almost denied it. He wanted to deny it. He held to honesty. “When?”
“Years ago, before we even met.”
He still wanted to deny it. Kathryn’s face made it clear that there was no acceptable answer. “Yes, after her husband died—and only briefly. It was more comfort than anything. Doveshire had been a great friend of mine, also.”
Did some of the anger leave her eyes? Did she look more accepting?
“And you think that makes it acceptable?” Her voice did not sound forgiving as she passed the vase from hand to hand.
“No,” he spoke with care. “It only makes it fact. I did not know you then, doubt I had even seen you. I have never denied that I was—was with other women before our marriage.”
“But you never told me you were.”
“What gentleman would? Such things are secret. You know that.”
“But, Linnette? How could you not tell me about Linnette? Do you know I asked her advice on how to make you want me, how to seduce you? She could not understand why it was necessary, evidently she considers you quite a lover. I didn’t understand her at the time, but now that I do, how am I supposed to feel?”
“Angry. Betrayed.” He could not deny her the right to her feelings.
“Yes.” It was clear that he had used her words, leaving her with none—but only for a moment. “Why did you not tell me?”
“When should I have told you? When we first met? First danced? When I asked to court you? When I asked for your hand? At the wedding? On our wedding night? Tell me when, because I do not know.” He could understand her feelings, but could not find his fault. He was sorry to have hurt her once again, but he could see no answer. “If I had known how my life would proceed, I would not have slept with her, no matter how great the desire, but I did not know. Knowing only what I did then, I would do the same thing again.”
“You would?” Her voice was still tinged with anger, but she sounded unsure.
He raked his fingers through his hair, not caring of the curling mess he would create. “I want to say no, but yes.”
“And it is not your child? You were not her first lover?”
He was not quite sure where the second question had come from but he answered with seriousness. “No, it is not my child, and I can assure you that at least Doveshire was before me. I do not think she was widely experienced, but I was most definitely not her first.”
Kathryn moved the vase from hand to hand again, but this time with more uncertainty, as if she did not know what to do with it now.
They stood staring at each other; what was to come next unclear. Her fury was gone, but she looked a long way from forgiveness, a long way from seduction.
As if sensing the need for distraction, a quiet tap sounded on the door. “Excuse me, your grace.”
They both answered “yes” at the same moment. The first slight, but genuine smile of the evening lit upon Kathryn’s lips.
Kathryn watched as the door cracked open, and Mr. Johns poked his head through, his eyes on the floor as if afraid of what he might see.
He nodded in Robert’s general direction. “I am very sorry to bother you at this hour, your grace.” Mr. Johns’s face was turning redder by the moment. “But there’s been a great problem downstairs with, ummm, with the delivery you sent for earlier.”
“Delivery?” Robert’s tone was as flat as she felt.
Her anger was fast dissipating and she wasn’t sure what would take its place. Mostly she felt empty, void inside. Her hopes and dreams of this morning seemed so far away. How could she take Linnette’s advice now? Did she even wish to seduce her husband?
She turned and looked him over. His beard was starting to show, a dark shadow upon his cheek. How would that feel against her skin? He’d always come to bed fresh shaven. Had he been so eager?
The beginnings of an ache began deep in her belly—could anger turn to the beginnings of desire so fast?
“Umm. Yes, the delivery from Lord Smokesly.”
“Oh, blast.” Robert shot her a look asking forgiveness for his curse—as if that mattered now. “I had forgotten. I don’t understand how there can be a problem. Can’t you just keep it in the kitchen until morning and then I will deal with it. Now hardly seems to be the time to trouble me with it.”
“Well, the kitchen is the problem.” Mr. Johns still stared at his feet. “I am afraid your delivery has devoured most of the larder. Two joints of beef, a pork roast, all the bacon and kippers, everything the fish man delivered and three dozen eggs. Cook is threatening to quit and the maids are either crying or laughing—and that thing is running circles about us all. I am afraid that by morning it will eat us also.”
“A puppy? A small, sweet little puppy?” Robert looked perplexed, his brows drawing together to form a furrow.
“That is no puppy. I believe it may be a small horse.” Mr. Johns spoke with far more vigor than usual.
“Lord Smokesly assured me that his wife’s dog had delivered the most wonderful puppies. It was work to persuade him to send me one.”
Mr. Johns only pressed his lips tight.
Sighing to herself Kathryn stepped forward. “And, my husband, did it occur to you to inquire as to what variety of dogs they might be?”
“Well, no. It’s a puppy from his wife’s dog. How different can a puppy be?”
“You do remember that Lord Smokesly married that Russian princess, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Understanding began to show on Robert’s face.
“I do believe she raises wolfhounds. Some fierce breed from the far north.”
“Dammit all.” Robert turned and stared into the fire.
“Mr. Johns, perhaps the dog could be tied in the back garden for the night. I relieve you of any responsibility for what may happen to the plantings. And perhaps one of the stable boys would care to sleep out with the beas—, dog, in case it gets lonely. That is not a command, mind you. I just thought one of the lads might find it an adventure.”
“Yes, your grace.” Mr. Johns hurried out, clearly glad to have a solution handed to him.
“And Mr. Johns,” she called after.
He halted. “Yes, your grace?”
“Tell Cook we will be fine with toasted bread in the morning—assuming that it has not been devoured also.”
Mr. Johns nodded and left. The door shut with a click.
Kathryn turned to her husband. “And what, pray tell, were you doing acquiring a wolfhound? If it’s the size o
f a pony now, I cannot even imagine how big it will be—I should have asked Mr. Johns about its feet. They do say that is how you know how large something will grow.”
“I bought it for you.” Robert sounded as if he were choking on the words.
“What?”
“I thought you would like a puppy. You mentioned something this morning. I got it for you.”
“You got me a wolfhound?” What did a woman say to that?
“I didn’t know it would be a wolfhound. I was thinking something small and sweet. I should have paid more attention, but I was distracted.”
“By railroads and canals?”
“By you. I kept thinking about tonight. It made it difficult to accomplish anything today.”
Her heart warmed at that—among other spots. “And so you got me a puppy—a wolfhound. I have always wanted a dog.”
“I am glad. I knew it would not solve everything between us, but I want you to have everything your heart desires.”
“Damn you, Robert.”
He looked shocked at her words. “What have I done now?”
“I wanted to be angry for longer. I am not ready to forgive you yet. I had worked up such a good fury and now . . .”
“And now?”
“And now I don’t know what to do. I can’t be angry with a man who’s gotten me a puppy—even if it did eat my breakfast. But I don’t know what else to do.” She paused. “And I still don’t feel able to take Linnette’s advice. It just seems wrong now.”
He took a step toward her. “Forgive my bluntness. I truly do not wish to say the wrong thing, but are you not ready for seduction—which I could understand after everything—or do you not want to take Linnette’s advice?”
Turning away she stared down at her hands. She didn’t want to let this night pass—not if hope could be found again. And, in truth, the fighting and the fury had left her full of energy, energy that needed someplace to go. “I am not sure. I do know I don’t want to use what Linnette told me, not tonight, and without that I am lost.”
He took another step, reached out and held her shoulders, the bare skin of his hands warming her own skin above the low cut of her dress. She closed her eyes and breathed in, smelling the scent of leather, smoke, and brandy that was her husband—and below all that the smell of skin, his skin.
