by Liz Carlyle
Bentley laughed a little bitterly. “My dear, you never met my sire,” he said. “There wasn’t a less lovely, less proper man in all of England. No, not Randolph. Choose something else. What about Frederick, after you and your father?”
Her gaze softened. “And if it is a girl?”
Bentley frowned. “Can’t say,” he mused. “Cam and Helene have snatched up all the good family names. What was your mother’s?”
“Luciana,” she said. “Luciana Maria Teresa dos Santos d’Avillez.”
“Well, that’s pretty,” he said. “And impressive, too.”
That time, the smile reached her eyes and her mouth. And there was, he thought, a soft sweetness in her expression. He stopped on the path and stared down at her. It wasn’t love he saw. No, he was not fool enough to think it was that. But a bit of hope, perhaps? And he had managed to answer most of her questions and hold her tight.
So perhaps—just perhaps—this shipwreck of a marriage could be salvaged after all. And perhaps it was not so base, this almost ceaseless desire he felt for her. Perhaps he really could have a normal life. Was that what he wanted? He’d never dared consider it.
Her brown eyes were warm now, drifting slowly over his face as if she were memorizing his every feature. In response, he lifted both his hands and touched her, stroking his thumbs along her jaw, then sliding his fingers into the hair now loose at the nape of her neck. Frederica turned until her breasts were pressed almost fully against him and rose onto her tiptoes, dropping her lashes shut on a sigh.
It was as if she’d answered a question which had hovered unspoken. Still cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her, his lips slanting over hers, gentle at first. Then harder, more demanding. Ah, God, how he wanted her! She sensed it and opened beneath him. On a moan, he took her mouth, thrusting suddenly and desperately. Something of his savage need reached her then, for she tore away from him.
“Come,” she whispered, dragging him into the forest away from the footpath. He followed her, watching as she pushed deeper into the trees, her skirts trailing through a swath of springy, pale green ferns. The cool shadows enveloped them, almost—but not quite—concealing them. And then she stopped beside a stout young oak, set her spine firmly against it, and drew him suddenly against her. “Make love to me,” she whispered when his lips touched hers.
Bentley felt the earth lurch beneath his feet. “Here? Now?”
She brushed her lips along his jawbone. “Aren’t you supposed to be a wicked rake?” she teased. “Yes, here. Now.” Then, touching his earlobe with the tip of her tongue, Freddie let her mouth slide down the tendons of his neck. Bentley swallowed hard, his throat working up and down beneath her searing lips. He heard himself make a sound, an almost inhuman groan, and then he was touching her—her shoulders, her breasts, the curving weight of her buttocks. The lushness of her body filled his hands; the scent of her filled his nostrils.
Freddie was already tugging desperately at his shirttails. The starched cambric tore free, and her hands skated beneath, warm and eager. She slid her palms slowly up his ribs and then set them flat against his chest. Lightly, her thumbs teased at his nipples, and Bentley felt his entire body draw taut with raw lust. His need for his wife had been simmering now for the better part of the day, and Bentley did not wait for a second invitation. After a fleeting thought for their privacy, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of muslin, jerking her skirts roughly upward.
His mouth never leaving hers, he pressed her harder against the tree. He could hear the rough bark abrading her hair and her dress. He felt blindly beneath her skirts, searching for the slit in her drawers. He found it, eased one finger into her heat. Yes, she was eager. Soon he could feel her trembling.
No shy lass, his pretty wife. Her hands came around his waist, then lower, as if she wished to drag his hips against hers. He couldn’t wait. It was time to lay her down in this soft bed of ferns and thrust inside her until she exploded beneath him. He opened his mouth to say so, but he lost what concentration he possessed when Frederica drew one hand to the front of his trousers. She began to jerk almost desperately at the buttons. But she was tight against him, and the buttons were awkward. With an impatient sound in the back of her throat, she gave up. Instead, she let her hand ease down the front of his trousers, massaging the straining bulge of his cock.
“Ah, Freddie!” he groaned, pushing a little away from her. “Both hands, love. The buttons—take—oh, Lord.”
With a soft hiss, she tore into them again, freeing some, ripping one off. It was enough. She shoved away the linen of his drawers, and Bentley’s erection sprang free. Roughly, he lifted her, his hands filled with her buttocks. “Your legs,” he rasped. “Ah, God, Freddie!”
Instinctively, she threw one around his waist. He lifted her higher and, with one good thrust, drove his hips up, impaling her on his cock. Frederica let her head fall back against the tree, her breath already coming in hot little pants. “Oh, God, oh, God,” she chanted as he shoved into her again. “Oh, Bentley. Do it like—ah, yes. Like that.”
Bentley spared no thought for their surroundings. He kissed her again, his mouth rough and unapologetic. The coarse tree bark caught at her hair, freeing a hairpin, and her dark, heavy tresses began to slide free. Again and again, he drove into her, shoving her against the wood. The young oak shuddered, its branches and leaves quivering over their heads with his every thrust. Frederica clutched at him, her eyes tightly shut now, her face a mask of desire and urgency.
There was a feeling of shared desperation between them. He thought again of their sweet interlude on the blanket. She wanted him—wanted him, he thought, for more than just this, his pleasuring of her body. The possibility left him awestruck. No woman had ever made him feel he had anything else to offer. Wrapped around his thrusting body, it was as if Frederica instinctively offered him a precious gift. He closed his eyes and took it. Treasured it and savored it. He held himself in check as long as he dared, drowning himself in the soft sighs and feminine scent of her. His wife. And when he felt her body tauten and tremble, he called up his every skill, until she was shuddering against the tree, her head and shoulders thrown back, her body exultant. And then she cried out, reaching for him blindly.
Her fingers dug into his flesh. “Oh, Bentley. Oh!”
He let himself go then, pumping his seed into her body, over and over, thrusting high on powerful surges of relief and joy. They seemed to stretch into infinity until, at last, he fell against her in a state of perfect bliss. Clean and new. And somehow a better man than he’d been before.
After what seemed like an eternity had passed, his wife lifted her head from his shoulder and stared down at the leafy carpet beneath their feet. “Oh!” she said, as if awakening from a dream. “How perfectly amazing! I did not know one could do this standing up.”
“Freddie love,” he groaned, letting her slide slowly down his length and onto her feet. “You did say now.”
Chapter Twelve
In which Our Hero is caught Playing parlor games.
At Chalcote, the next fortnight passed in something of a haze for Frederica. May came to the Cotswolds in an explosion of greenery and birdsong. Bentley’s family continued to be kind and to ask few questions. At church, she met their cousin Joan, who was married to the rector, Mr. Rhoades. Afterward, as the congregation flooded from the church, Frederica remarked upon the crowd. Helene just laughed and said the village had turned out to glimpse the woman who’d brought Bentley to heel. But Frederica was not at all sure she’d done any such thing. He was little changed on the surface, behaving as cheerfully and carefree as ever.
To Frederica’s relief, there was no recurrence of the strange incident in the empty bedchamber. And yet something between them did not feel precisely as it ought. Despite their moments of intimacy, it was as if a level of closeness which she had expected in marriage simply did not exist in theirs. Perhaps she was expecting too much of a union made under such hasty and unfortunate circu
mstances.
But Bentley was quite obviously attracted to her, and in that regard, Frederica suffered no disappointment at all. Not a night went by without their making love at least once. Moreover, he was not above catching her alone in the middle of the day. Then, he would simply lock the bedroom door, throw up her skirts, and pleasure her fast and furiously. It was desperate, passionate, and wonderful. And yet, when it was over, Bentley would sometimes apologize, as if he feared he’d taken liberties he ought not enjoy. That made no sense at all, when she herself had so obviously enjoyed it.
There were other things, too, which reinforced her notion that Bentley was keeping something from her. Most nights, after making love, Bentley would simply leave the bed as soon as he thought her asleep. Sometimes, she would wake to find him standing at the windows in his dressing gown, a snifter of brandy in one hand, the other pressed to the panes of glass, as if he felt himself imprisoned. Once, she went in search of him, only to find him alone in the yellow parlor, with the marquetry game table laid open. Backgammon pieces lay strewn across the baize surface, and at least three long-dead cheroots had been stubbed out in an empty glass. Bentley sat with his boots propped high on the table edge, but he had nodded off.
Some nights, he simply vanished. The next day, he might mention having gone to the Rose and Crown for a pint, but for the most part, he said nothing. Of course, he always returned to their bed in the wee hours of morning. They would make love again, then drowse in one another’s arms. But eventually, Frederica would be forced to get up and dart into the bathing closet to wrestle with her morning sickness. Bentley was always greatly alarmed. She was, he still insisted, far too thin and eating far too little. Soon he began to speak of summoning a doctor.
During her first few days at Chalcote, Frederica confessed her condition to Helene, in the hope that she could assuage Bentley’s fears. That had been a mistake. Helene had once miscarried and knew all the symptoms, so Frederica ended up with two nursemaids and twice as many questions. Each morning, Bentley would pace the floor of their bedchamber until she was well again and then provide Helene with a full report.
But once the morning’s melodrama was over, Frederica would see little of her husband. As if set on escaping the house, Bentley seemed to be forever striding off with his gun in hand and a pack of bird dogs at his heels. But he almost never returned with any game.
Then there was the troubling fact that Bentley never mentioned their future together unless she pressed him. It was as if he did not think of it, and yet Frederica knew from their conversation at the picnic that this was not entirely true. Certainly, the child was in the forefront of his mind. She could tell by the way he touched her, always stroking her belly, looking by turn both worried and pleased. But they did not revisit their discussion of where they might live or what they might name the child.
Perhaps there was a reason for Bentley’s silence? Six months, he had said, they must stay together. And he had promised his fidelity while they lived beneath the same roof. Was he waiting to see if she would leave him? Or was he wondering if he would prefer to live alone? Good God, she hoped it was not that. Despite his odd reticence, he continued to surprise her with his consideration and his gentle ways. And, in truth, Frederica was becoming just a little afraid she was half in love with her husband.
So, rather than remain alone with her questions, Frederica began to spend the days with Cam and Helene. She and Cam shared many interests, and it was a pleasure to while away part of an afternoon just talking with him. At dinner, they would discuss politics and history until Helene began to yawn and Bentley began to scowl.
Helene, too, was warm. Chalcote had several tenant farms, and Mr. Rutledge’s new wife, she explained, was expected to visit every one. There were also the children’s lessons to attend to. Although a governess had recently been engaged for Gervais, Helene managed Lady Ariane’s studies herself. Helene also called at the village school twice a week, where she taught Latin to some of the older pupils; soon Frederica was pressed into service, too. And a few days after her arrival, Frederica was invited to tea with Joan Rhoades, whose grand estate, Bellevue, adjoined Chalcote.
At first, it had been a pleasant afternoon. Bellevue was even more beautiful inside than out, and the Rhoades children were impeccably mannered. For better than an hour, she and the rector’s wife made idle chitchat about gardening, needlework, and child rearing. But soon Frederica began to feel as though Joan had something unsaid on the tip of her tongue. Eventually, however, it was time for Frederica to go. She thanked her hostess profusely and set down her saucer.
“We are very close in age, you know,” Joan finally blurted as Frederica began to gather her things.
Awkwardly, Frederica stood. “I beg your pardon?”
Joan blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said, rising to show Frederica to the door. “That did not make sense, did it? Bentley and I, I meant to say. We were born but a few weeks apart.”
“Oh, I see,” Frederica managed.
But Joan had begun to look acutely uncomfortable. “As young children, we were, well, inseparable, really,” she continued. “We were forever slipping away to see one another, for we had no other playmates our age.”
Frederica had tried to smile. “I am glad he had you.”
At the door, Joan lingered uncertainly, her hand on the knob. “And it is no wonder that when we grew older, people thought—or, rather, assumed—that we…well, that we would remain close.”
Frederica had lifted her brows. “And are you not?” she asked, confused. “Close, I mean?” Surely they were; she had seen Bentley with her, and they seemed on quite good terms.
But Joan had shaken her head emphatically. “Oh, no—not—well, not in any way other than as dear friends. And cousins. That is all.”
Frederica had smiled and tossed her shawl over her shoulders. “And what dearer friendship is there,” she had asked, “than the one which binds a devoted family? It is my hope that the two of you will remain close all of your days, Joan.”
Then, as if on impulse, Joan had kissed her. “Ah, I can see why Bentley loves you so very much, Frederica.”
That had shocked her. “Why he loves me?” she had stammered.
At last, Joan’s smile actually reached her eyes. “I always know what Bentley is feeling,” she said. “Usually long before he does. Now, may I call you cousin, too? I’d like us to be friends. And if you have questions, about anything at all, will you feel free to ask me?”
She should have seized the opportunity to question Joan about Bentley’s past. But, more than a little confused, Frederica had returned Joan’s kiss and taken her leave. Joan’s words had stirred a sense of hope which Frederica did not wish to consider too carefully.
After her visit to Bellevue, Frederica worked even harder to to stay busy at Chalcote. Her afternoons were often spent in the nursery or the gardens with the children. Little Gervais and Madeline were so delightful it eased her homesickness considerably. Gervais possessed his father’s solemn eyes but had clearly inherited Bentley’s laugh. And despite her initial shock at finding Frederica in her uncle’s bed, Madeline quickly developed an attachment to her new aunt. The baby, Emmie, was not yet three months old, but already she would smile almost flirtatiously at her uncle. In fact, all of the children adored Bentley and would lure him into the nursery at every opportunity. There, Madeline would ride him, pull on his ears, and poke through his pockets while Gervais showed off his toy soldiers or set up his chessboard.
Bentley seemed especially close to Lady Ariane, whom he treated as more of a friend and equal. Ariane was indeed a very mature young lady. Oddly, Frederica could not but notice that none of the younger children resembled her in the slightest. Many days had passed before she learned Ariane was not Helene’s child at all but the child of Lord Treyhern’s first wife, a young woman who had died tragically and whom no one, not even Ariane, ever mentioned. According to the gossip Jennie brought from belowstairs, Helene had been employed as s
ome sort of governess for Ariane after her mother’s death. It was said that Helene had been trained at a special school in Switzerland and had traveled to Vienna to study the controversial new field of mental diseases, all of which sounded fascinating. Had Ariane suffered such a disease? Neither Helene nor Ariane ever spoke of it. So Frederica did not ask.
And so her days passed with a soothing sameness, until one morning she awoke to find that Bentley had not returned to their bed at all. Strangely ill at ease, she sat up and drew on her wrapper. The mantel clock was indecipherable in the gloom. Padding across the rug, she drew the draperies back with one finger. Dawn was edging near. Where on earth was her husband? Could he have fallen asleep again in the yellow parlor?
Her anxiety inexplicably worsening, Frederica put on her slippers and crept downstairs. On the ground floor, she could hear the stirring of the scullery maids in the kitchen wing as they built up the fires and took down their pots. But the rest of the house still lay in silence. When she reached the parlor, she was surprised to see that the door was already open. Without another thought, she pushed it wide and wandered into the dimly lit room.
It was then that she felt instantly sick. One of the housemaids stood near the hearth, caught in her husband’s embrace. She heard his low, rumbling laugh and saw his hand grab the woman in a most vulgar way. The servant drew back in mock indignation. In response, Bentley dipped his head and kissed her, full on the mouth.
Frederica must have cried out. The woman lifted her head and stared across Bentley’s shoulder, catching Frederica’s gaze. Her expression was one of pity.
Nausea roiled up in her belly then, forcing Frederica to clap one hand over her mouth. She remembered little after that. She must have rushed from the room, for the next she knew, she was turning the last landing of the staircase. Behind her, she could hear Bentley’s heavy boots thundering up the stairs, swiftly closing the distance. Once, he called out her name, the word urgent and pleading. Frederica just gritted her teeth.
