All of it would be a quiet source of amusement were it not for the object of Penelope’s obsession: His Grace, the Duke of Wakefield. Artemis didn’t like the man, doubted very much that he would, in the end, make her cousin happy. And if they ever did marry …
She stopped and was nearly run down by a porter carrying two geese on his back.
“Watch out, luv,” the man flung over his shoulder, not unkindly, as he stepped around her.
Artemis swallowed and started forward again, moving easily in the stream of shuffling, stomping, running, strolling, limping, and tripping people. London’s streets were like a great river of people, constantly flowing and ebbing, joining into greater rushing courses, parting into side streams, getting caught in whirlpools of milling humanity.
One swam or ran the risk of drowning.
If Penelope married the Duke of Wakefield, in the best case Artemis would join her in her new home, a constant, pale wraith, as His Grace had put it. Continuing to be Penelope’s handmaiden, eventually perhaps, the kind aunt to their children. In the worst case, Penelope would decide that she no longer needed a companion.
Artemis inhaled shakily. But those worries were for the future. She had more immediate problems to deal with.
Twenty minutes later, she at last neared her destination: a small jeweler’s shop in a not very fashionable area of London. It had taken Artemis months of carefully worded questions among the ladies of her acquaintance to get the address of a suitable shop. Her queries could’ve caused comment and started gossip if she’d taken a more direct route.
Artemis glanced around cautiously and then pushed open the door to the little shop. The interior was very dim and almost bare. An elderly man sat behind a high counter with a few rings, bracelets, and necklaces displayed. She was the only patron in the shop.
The shopkeeper looked up at her entrance. He was a small, stooped man with an overlarge nose and leathery, wrinkled skin. He wore a worn gray wig and red waistcoat and coat. His gaze seemed to appraise her clothing: not rich. Artemis stopped the urge to lower her head.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she replied, taking her courage in her hands. She needed to do this—there was no other way. “I am told that you sometimes buy items of jewelry.”
He blinked and said cautiously, “Yes?”
She approached his counter and withdrew a small silk bag from her pocket. The strings were knotted and it took her a minute to untangle them, tears pricking at her eyes. It was her most treasured possession.
But need outweighed sentimentality.
The strings finally gave up their struggle and she pulled open the little bag, sliding out the treasure within. Green and gold sparkled, even within the dimness of the shop, belying the necklace’s true worth: she knew the stone was really paste, the gold merely painted gilt.
Still, she gazed with as much awe upon the little pendant as she had when it had first lain in her hands, nearly thirteen years ago on her fifteenth birthday. His dear eyes had gleamed with eager anticipation as he’d given the silk bag to her, and she’d never asked how he’d come by the necklace, almost afraid to.
She watched now as the jeweler fixed spectacles over his eyes, pulled a lamp closer, and bent forward, a magnifying glass in his hand. The delicate gilt filigree around the green stone glittered in the light. The pendant was in the shape of a teardrop, the chain it hung from much cheaper and duller.
The jeweler stiffened and bent closer, then abruptly looked at her. “Where did you get this?” His tone was stern.
She smiled uncertainly. “It was a gift.”
The elderly man’s eyes, sharp and clear, lingered on her admittedly pedestrian clothes. “I doubt that.”
She blinked at his rudeness. “I beg your pardon?”
“Young lady,” the jeweler said, sitting back and gesturing to the necklace still lying on the counter. “This is a flawless emerald set in what I suspect is nearly pure gold. Either you are selling this for your mistress or you stole it.”
Artemis acted without thought. She snatched up the necklace and, clutching her skirts, ran from the little shop, ignoring the shopkeeper’s shouts. Her heart was beating like a deer in flight as she darted down the street, dodging carts and chairmen, expecting any moment to hear shouts of pursuit from behind her. She didn’t stop running until the breath caught in her throat and she was forced to walk.
She hadn’t left her name with the jeweler. He didn’t know who she was and thus couldn’t send a thief catcher after her. She shuddered at the thought, and then surreptitiously glanced at the emerald still in her hand.
It winked slyly at her, a fortune she’d never wanted, a treasure she couldn’t sell precisely because it was much too dear. Artemis laughed bitterly. The necklace had been a gift, but she had no proof.
Dear Lord, where had Apollo gotten the necklace?
* * *
DUSK WAS FALLING when Megs went into the garden for a walk after an early supper. Higgins had cleared the paths and laid down fine gravel, weeded the beds and neatly edged them. A few faltering daffodils trailed bravely near the house, planted and then forgotten by some ancestor of Godric’s.
Megs paced and thought. Gardens were such peaceful spots, even half-naked ones such as this. But soon she and Higgins would be able to add roses and irises, peonies and Michaelmas daisies.
If Godric let her stay that long.
She frowned. He’d shut himself in his room since his early morning appearance, ignoring both luncheon and the dinner summons, although she’d noticed that trays of food had been brought up to him. At least he wasn’t starving in there.
She paused by the old fruit tree and laid her hand on the rough bark, somehow soothed by its presence. The light was nearly gone, but she peered closer at the low branches, her heart beginning to speed. There were buds on the twigs that lined the branches, she could swear. Maybe—
“Megs.”
His voice was low but carried easily through the garden, steady and commanding.
She turned and saw Godric, standing in the open doorway to Saint House, the light behind him casting a long, black shadow into the garden. For a second she shivered at the image, the dark stranger come to invade her peaceful garden, but then she shook herself. This was Godric, and whatever else he might be, he was no longer a stranger.
He was her husband.
She walked toward him, and as she neared, he held out his hand to her. She took it, lifting her head to peer at him as she’d peered at the fruit tree, looking for signs of life.
“Come,” he said, and pulled her gently into the house.
He led her through the hall and ascended the stairs, her hand still locked in his, and with every step her pulse beat faster until she was nearly panting when he opened the door to his room.
The room within shone with candlelight and Megs blinked and looked at Godric.
He watched her with eyes from which he’d dropped the shutters. The intent that blazed from within was daunting. She nearly took a step back.
He still held her hand.
“I made a promise to you,” he said. “And I will keep it—but not as we did before.”
She suddenly knew he was talking of their lovemaking the previous night.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I was pretending you were Roger. I wasn’t. It’s just that what we did seemed like a betrayal of him. I didn’t want to lose him any more.”
Her lips parted, but nothing more emerged because it had finally dawned on her whom she’d actually been betraying.
“Don’t you think I might’ve felt the same way about Clara?” he asked low. “Don’t you think I had to sacrifice something to give you what you wanted?”
She bowed her head, for she felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Godric.”
He cupped her face in his hands and lifted it so she could see his clear gray eyes. “It no longer matters. What matters is how I—we�
��intend to go forth. Starting with this.”
He lowered his mouth toward her, slowly, so that she could see what he would do. Her eyes widened before she let them fall, surrendering.
It was the least she could do to make amends.
His kiss wasn’t like the gentle embraces of before. This was a seal, a promise of purpose, a pact of understanding. His thumb pressed against her chin, opening her for him, letting him lick inside, claiming her. Her doubts rushed to the surface, making her stiffen, but he wouldn’t let her pull away. He held her and bit down on her lower lip, waiting until she stilled again.
She opened her eyes and saw that he watched her, assessing her even as he let go of her lip, laving it slowly with his hot tongue. She snapped her eyes shut again. This was too close, too personal.
He’d paused at the corner of her mouth, licking it almost pensively, until she yielded with a shudder, parting her lips wider, inviting him in. He made a low, pleased rumble at the back of his throat, and then he was inside her again and she caught his tongue, suckling in atonement. His hands drifted to splay over her neck, arching her head back so that she was entirely open, entirely vulnerable to him, her mouth a sacrifice.
His hands slid from her neck, down her bodice to her waist, and then he was lifting her, walking with her across the room, his mouth on hers, his tongue between her lips. He set her down by the bed and only then lifted his head. While her chest felt tight—her lungs laboring to draw breath—only the dampness of his mouth, the heaviness of his eyelids gave any indication of what they did.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.
Megs’s eyes widened.
He tilted his head down, looking her in the eye. “Now.”
Her lips parted, swollen and oversensitive, and she touched them gently with her tongue, exploring. “Will you help me?”
“I’ll undo any hooks or laces you can’t reach.”
She bowed her head then, fumbling with her bodice. It was no small thing for a lady to undress. Usually she had the help of Daniels and two maids. It would take time. It would not be graceful.
And in the end she would be exposed.
But he stood before her, only inches away, and demanded it, so she complied.
First came the bodice, unhooked and pulled apart. When she’d gotten it off, she moved to put it on a chair or table, but he took it from her before she could and tossed it on the floor nearby.
She bit her lip and didn’t say anything, merely working on the ties at her waist. Her skirts fell in a pool at her feet and she stepped from them, kicking them gently aside. She toed off her slippers and then bent to lift her chemise and roll down her stockings. He didn’t move and her head was nearly touching his thigh. The position made her gasp.
At least she thought it was the position.
She straightened, barefoot, and began on the horrible laces to her stays. They always tangled when she tried to undo them herself. Her fingers shook and she made a frustrated sound as the knot tightened. Godric seemed uninterested, breathing slow and deep in front of her. But then her eyes glanced down and she saw—
Well. He wasn’t entirely uninterested.
The laces finally loosened and she began to draw them through the eyelets, her chest expanding, her breasts falling free. She glanced up at him and held those crystalline eyes as she drew the stays over her head.
He didn’t react other than to glance down her body. She still wore the chemise.
His gaze rose to meet hers again. “Everything.”
She knew it would come down to this, knew he was determined to impress upon her that tonight was different from their previous nights. She would do it, no matter that her neck and face felt aflame, except the reason why she was doing it had become confused in all the heat and emotions. Because while she still wanted a baby—very, very much—there might be a more immediate want.
And he was standing right in front of her, waiting for her to finish stripping for him.
She reached for the hem of her chemise and threw it off before she could think, and then she just froze, standing there naked before him.
He took the final step that made their bodies meet—her nude nipples against the fine wool of his coat, for he was still entirely dressed. He flattened his palms over her shoulders before delicately running his fingers down to her breasts. He circled her fullness, trailing his fingers up to her nipples and running his blunt fingernails around the very edge where rose skin met pale.
She gasped, but before she could say anything, he bent in one swift move and picked her up as if she were as light as a feather, which she most definitely was not.
He placed her on the bed before she could fully understand the fact that he was carrying her. She lay there watching as he toed off his shoes and removed his coat and waistcoat. He doffed his wig and laid it on his dressing table, and then turned back to her. She expected him to continue disrobing, but instead he knelt on the bed, crawling until he was braced over her supine form, close but not actually touching her. He stared at her with severe gray eyes until she lifted a hand and touched the side of his face.
He closed his eyes, almost as if she’d pained him with her touch. “Say my name.”
She swallowed before she could make her tongue work. “Godric.”
His eyes opened and they no longer seemed quite as cold. “Megs.”
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers, brushing, once, twice, until his mouth settled on hers, demanding entrance. She let him in, teasing his tongue with hers, learning the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips. He broke their kiss and stared at her once more, his eyes demanding something of her.
“Godric,” she said obediently.
And it seemed to appease him. He tongued his way down her throat, making her arch, making her wonder how very different he was from Roger. They’d met in trysts, Roger and she, and thus, perhaps by the very nature of their meetings, their joinings had been hurried—the flare of passion fast, nearly out of control, and over again much too quickly.
Godric, in contrast, seemed to enjoy simply exploring her. Taking his time as if he wanted to wring something from her. Something more than mere passion.
The thought made her uneasy.
He lifted his head suddenly as if he were aware her attention had wandered, his eyebrows drawn together over stormy gray eyes. “Say my name.”
“Godric,” she whispered.
He lowered his mouth to her right breast, licking around the sensitive nipple before abruptly drawing her into his mouth.
She gasped, her hands flying instinctively to his shorn hair, grasping uselessly at the too-short locks. He suckled strongly, his tongue working against the underside of the nipple, his fingers petting her other breast. That one point of pleasure was so intense, making her mouth open soundlessly.
He moved to her other breast, laving it before sucking for many long minutes. Her legs moved restlessly, her thighs clenching.
He raised his head above her, his eyes on her breasts, red and wet now. “My name.”
“G-Godric.”
He thumbed her nipples—in reward or punishment, she wasn’t sure—as he began mouthing over her ribs and down her belly. He was heading in the same direction as he had the night before and she instinctively tensed.
He placed both hands flat against her hip bones and took the time to kiss her lower belly, just above where the springy hair began.
Then he looked at her face.
She licked her lips before parting them. “Godric.”
He watched her as his hands grasped her thighs and slowly parted them, pushing until her legs were spread wide.
Then he looked down.
Instinctively she tried to bring her legs together again, but his hands were hard and firm. Not even Roger had examined her so closely. So intimately. The rooms they had trysted in had been dim. Even when he’d kissed her there, it had been only a fleeting touch. She’d been so embarrassed …
Was so embarrassed.
She knew—knew—she was wet there, her curls moist, and she couldn’t possibly be pretty. Why would he want to do such a thing? Stare at her so long without moving? She looked wildly at all the candles lit around the room. Would he put them out if she asked?
“Say my name.” His voice, even lower, even more gravelly than usual, interrupted her frantic thoughts.
“G-Godric.”
It was as if his name on her lips put spur to him. He lowered his head so fast she hadn’t the time to react, to try to pull him back, and once he’d found his goal …
She didn’t want to.
She’d never felt such a wicked thing. He was licking her. Licking into her folds, lapping at that hard pebble at the apex of her slit, tonguing his way in deeper, circling and probing. She caught her breath and then couldn’t exhale, her body shivering, her soul quaking. How was she supposed to endure this? How was she supposed to survive it? There were sounds—moist, intimate sounds. The sound of him pleasuring her in an act that felt like a primitive branding. How did he know? Where had he learned such monstrous, awful, excruciatingly wonderful things?
He opened his mouth, placed it over her clitoris, and sucked, and then she completely lost her mind.
It went flying out the window as she arched under him and moaned, low and embarrassingly loud—well, it would’ve been embarrassing if she’d still had her mind, which she did not. Because he was doing something so deliciously sinful that she was actually pushing against him with her hips, whining under her breath, wanting more. And he just kept doing it. Sucking and licking and—oh!—thrusting a finger inside of her until she exploded. She felt the combustion, the tremors, the roaring in her ears, and then the wonderful, languorous warmth. It snuck through her limbs, turning her muscles to pudding, her bones to ginger biscuits, utterly weak and sweet and open.
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