B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  Although Howgrave was shorter, fatter, and unarmed, Wickham truly feared for his life. Abruptly, it was no longer a game. Perspiration formed on his forehead as he looked desperately about for a weapon, but to no avail. Howgrave’s bulging eyes looked as if they were to pop out of his eye-sockets. He flailed wildly at Wickham, who put up his hands in a futile bid to deflect his blows.

  Suddenly, Howgrave’s rage-red eyes protruded further. A bit of pink froth foamed from his mouth. He then dropped to his knees. As Howgrave had continued to crawl towards him, Wickham scrambled to his feet and engaged in a hopping dance to remain just beyond Howgrave’s reach. Defeated, Howgrave fell into a motionless heap.

  Wickham cried incredulously, “Is he dead? I never touched him! It must be apoplexy! What luck! But, then he had the neck for it.”

  As Wickham bent over Howgrave, he saw the oddest thing. Obtruding from Sir Henry Howgrave’s side was the gold handle of a very vulgar letter-knife. It was imbedded to the hilt and a great pool of blood was collecting beneath him.

  Juliette stood silently just beyond her husband. With great haste, Wickham understood what had come to pass.

  He said, “My sweet, my princess, you rescued your true love!”

  As if by instinct led, Wickham began to plot. First, he appraised Howgrave’s corpse. The man was beyond saving, but the letter-knife was worth a hundred pounds. Wickham quickly grabbed it and wiped the blood from it on the side of Howgrave’s trousers.

  With Howgrave still leaking blood onto the carpet between them, Wickham crowed, “We are free of him! Come with me now! This letter-knife alone will buy our passage wherever we chose to go. Collect your jewels, for we shall have need of them....”

  He looked about, searching for other items to scavenge from the room.

  “George,” Juliette said quietly.

  Taking no notice of the name she employed, he answered, “Yes, dearest?”

  “Do you have teeth in your pocket?”

  Unconsciously, Wickham’s hands went to his pockets. The expression that then overspread his countenance was not one of contrition. He bore the unadulterated manifestation of a guilty man.

  It was true. Ponce, grave-robber, murderer, thief. She knew it. He knew it. He blanched, but reached for her penitently. As he had so many times before (with so many women), he knew he could convince her that he was not the blackguard that he truly was.

  Ingratiatingly, he told her, “I am of Darcy’s blood and he will pay what I ask.”

  Uncertain how this information was taken, he watched her countenance with exceeding care. Her lovely rosebud lips pursed, seemingly beckoning a redemptive kiss. He took a step towards her, and, as he did, her mouth, so lush and moist, formed a perfect “o.”

  At first, she emitted a single lilting note, one that hung prettily in the air. Then slowly, stealthily, it altered. From the back of her lovely throat came a sound that was other-worldly. What had been a lovely and provocative intonation transmuted into a howl—unlike one he had ever heard. It was a raging, moaning shriek.

  Whilst her cry still hung in the air, Juliette then reached up and clawed at the diaphanous fabric of her bodice. As she did, it shredded. Of the belief that she had keened and then rent her gown in grief, Wickham stood absolutely transfixed. He was so taken by the sight that he was not roused until the room was descended upon by a hoard of Howgrave’s men.

  Observing the bloody tableau, all fell silent.

  Suddenly, Wickham was quite aware that he happened to hold the letter-knife in his hand. Upon that knife, most conspicuously, was the blood of a Member of Parliament, a landowner, and a gentleman. Was that not accusation enough, Lady Howgrave extended a trembling forefinger directly at Wickham. Thereupon, she swooned.

  Wickham was nonplussed. Normally, so adept at slipping into whatever character was required, his mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  This was unfortunate.

  In that void, every man who stood before him believed that they had just disturbed the ravagement of a fair lady and the murder of her devoted protector. Fuelled by alcohol and offended masculinity, they saw in George Wickham, a singularly guilty man.

  Chapter 92

  To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

  By the time Mr. Darcy slipped in beside his wife, he felt the deep respirations of her sleep. He could have serried himself behind her and drawn her to him, but he did not. Rather, he propped his head on one hand and gazed at her in the candlelight. Only within his wife’s cathartic presence did he set aside the disorder of the past days.

  He also did a rather common thing.

  The placket of her gown lay open. That unbuttoned vee exposed a good portion of her delectable, white breast. He had been gone half a fortnight—long enough for him (bridegroom or not) to be brought to arousal by the very sight of his wife’s bare skin. Indeed, he blatantly ogled her. As he did, he exhaled a great sigh of appreciation.

  Without moving a hair or flicking a finger, she opened one eye. Caught in salacious admiration, he gave a start. Half-awake, but sensing discombobulation, Mrs. Darcy gathered the fabric of her gown in her fist and clasped it to her bosom.

  He caught her hand, saying with a small laugh, “You awaken, only to find a strange man in your bed?”

  Embarrassed, she did not want to recount the nettlesome dreams that had been plaguing her nights. Instead, she reached out and stroked his face.

  Then, she employed her most fetching smile, “A ‘strange’ man, you say? Perhaps I should entertain that thought.... Ouch!” she gasped.

  His pinch was quite unexpected and she slapped playfully at his hand.

  “What ungentlemanly behaviour!”

  With an exchange of a single look, all teasing was forgot. Wrapping her in his arms, he rolled atop her. The loose braid she often wore to bed was not in evidence. Indeed, her hair cascaded across the pillow most alluringly.

  Gliding his knee between hers, he looked into her eyes, and said, “There is much to tell you....”

  Placing her forefinger against his lips, she whispered, “Can it not wait until the morn? I have so longed to have you all to myself.”

  No other words could have been half so admirable just then. It was not by great design that he had moved his knee in such a provocative fashion. However unintentional, he credited it with obtaining her acquiescence to set aside his journey and all that had passed therein until another time. His foremost desire was to lie with her in unfleeting splendour until the dawn.

  Her body, which had been taut, becalmed within his embrace. She took his face in her hands and covered it with happy kisses. As she did, his fingers parted the placket of her gown reverentially. Suddenly overtaken with a rare bout of diffidence, she closed her eyes and turned her head in such a way that stole his notice.

  “Pray, why do you not want me to admire you? It is my particular pleasure.” he asked quietly.

  His voice was not critical, but curious—and possibly a little hurt. As he spoke, he brushed his fingers across her cheek. She opened her eyes. He was gazing at her closely, his long fingers burrowed into her hair, thumb stroking her chin. The redolence of his hand (and the specific placement of his knee) recalled a union long past—one quite singular.

  That memory arresting all her thoughts, she bid, “Do you often recall our nuptial night?”

  An odd sound erupted from his throat.

  He said, “Do I what? Why, pray, would I ever do that?”

  She meant no offence, nor did she think he could have taken her inquiry as such. Taken aback, she very nearly let the subject go to the side. However, that was not her nature.

  She prodded, “I simply wonder if our recollections of the event are alike.”

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Allow me a moment.... Yes, to be sure. I have certain recollections.”

  She waited.

  “Our memories may be quite different,” said he. “This is particularly true if you only recall the event as singular. My recollection was that it was
not just the evening, but the night, the dawn, the morning and, if memory serves, twice in the coach ere arriving here.”

  His directness did him credit, but turned her crimson. Still, she sighed in remembrance of it all. There was one niggling memory, however, that kept her reminisces of their wedding from being altogether laudatory. It was one that had no part in their amatory rites. It pertained to the carriage ride thither. Just bethinking it, her brow knitted.

  She asked, “Do you recall how reticent you were upon the journey from Meryton to London? You did not speak two words together until we arrived in town.”

  Her inquiry was met with silence. Perhaps it was too obscure to remain in his memory, she reasoned. Just as she concluded it was thus, he surprised her. When he spoke, it was with uncharacteristic openness.

  “In truth, I was apprehensive.”

  She blurted, “You? If anyone should have been anxious it should have been me—a simple virgin wrested from the bosom of my family by a gentleman of dour opinions and huge... estate.”

  Although she immediately regretted having interrupted him, she understood why she did. His answer was altogether astonishing—and a bit off-putting. It was far easier to jest than believe that he regretted their marriage. As a worldly man, he could not have been apprehensive on any other account. True, she had been quite restless and somewhat agitated on the road to town, but, she had not been truly afraid. Granted, there came a time that night when she was a bit askance that what was supposed to come to pass between them was, in fact, feasible. (Indeed, his member was greatly engorged and she knew not quite where he meant to put it.) Passion quickly overrode such hesitation. After that initial mingling of bloods, she could think of nothing but the next.

  The memory of the first night they took as one had always been her particular pleasure. Perchance, her happy recollections were false. It was possible that she had not pleased him as he had pleased her. He had so eloquently convinced her of his gratification, she had never once considered it was otherwise.

  Suddenly, all that she believed about that passionate time was in question. She looked at him, but he did not return her gaze. Indeed, he lay on his back, his forearm across his eyes. It was quite obvious that he was more inclined to speak of the recent days in London than of those long past. She endeavoured not to take offence. A singular image (forever imbued with a specific fragrance) would always remain with her from that night. Indeed, was she granted but one memory of her husband, it would be of him as he stood barefoot, casting rose petals across their bed.

  Even before she had convinced herself that she was in no way vexed, he removed his arm and turned to her.

  He said, “You say I was reticent in the landau after our vows. If I was, I beg you forgive me. For, you see, I was engaged in a great struggle. I longed to remove your glove, but I was but a glance away from compleat want of conduct. I dared not trust myself with so small a liberty, lest I surrender to abandon altogether.”

  That admission was one she valued beyond all telling. She kissed him lovingly, fully prepared not to speak of it again. Whatever her limitations as an unlearned bride, she believed she had overcome them. Nothing else was of importance. Upon this occasion, however, he was the one to pursue the subject.

  He reached out for her, drawing her beneath him again. Taking her face in his hands, he spoke with uncommon candour, articulating rapturously of what she had no notion that he recalled.

  Said he, “Apprehension quite overwhelmed me. Indeed, when we reached London, I trembled at the very thought of lying next to you. Your skin was alabaster; your eyes were limitless pools of wine. The embroidery on your gown, the way your hair fell across your shoulder, the turn of your countenance, all conspired against my restraint. Your very touch shattered me. And when you spoke my name, I was struck dumb.”

  His voice remained a whisper, but took on the huskiness of penance as he said, “When we were at last one, I was tormented by guilt at the pain my lust, my ardour caused you. Yet, I could not govern my own passion. My will was stolen—along with my breath, my mind, and my heart. If I do not speak of it, forgive me—for it is what I cannot forget that strikes me silent.”

  As she listened, she was still as the night. He had recollected the embroidery on her nightdress (the pattern of pink flowers that she herself had sewn). When she thought she was beyond being surprised by him, she was once again astonished. The clamour of her heartbeat left her breathless. Gathering herself, she clasped his face in her hands, searching his eyes. In them, she saw not regret, but appetence. Wild with abandon, she covered his mouth with hers. Unable to slake herself of him by that alone, she paused but a moment before taking his lower lip between her teeth. She did not bite down, just enough to tug on it a bit.

  “Do you happen to recall the first time I did that?

  Said he, “The oak.”

  In a trice, her gown was in twain, the gossamer fabric no real challenge to a man who was intent on taking his wife. Ere either took a breath, his hand encircled the back of her knee and he stole between her thighs. The familiar frisson of hunger overspread her legs (a week’s worth of ardour stored within them), demanding his repair. As he pierced her very being, she fell back in compleat surrender. Words then came from her lips that she did not mean to share.

  “I beg the nectar of your loins!”

  In the miniscule portion of her mind not overborne by desire, she feared that that ill-chosen phrase had broken the spell that transported them. (She held out hope that he had not heard her, for he did not hesitate in his passionate ministrations.) Then and thenceforward, he performed acts of exhilaration upon her person that were both sure and insistent, each stroke deeper than the last.

  He, master of the crescendoed duet, and she, apt pupil, came to amour’s zenith together—with a minimum of conversation and utmost satisfaction.

  Indeed, as he rolled from her, she was left in leg-quivering gratification, but prostrate from exhaustion. Looking lovingly in his direction, she reached out and laid her hand upon his chest. So still was he, she thought (as was his want) that he had fallen asleep. He had not.

  “The nectar of my loins?” he repeated incredulously.

  For the second time that night, a rubescence spread upwards from her bosom to her throat and brightened her cheeks. Providentially, there was no window light to lay bare her embarrassment.

  He rose upon an elbow and inquired, “Where did you ever hear such an expression?”

  With compleat candour, she answered, “The words came to me in a dream—a most provocative dream.”

  Chapter 93

  Dead Reckoning

  George Wickham once again found himself standing in the Old Bailey, he was not there to cadge, filch, or prevaricate—well, not on someone else’s behalf. From the court, laughter could be heard reverberating from the King of Denmark Inn across the street. From the gaol, the sound of raucousness did not cheer him.

  No matter how loudly he protested, he was taken into custody whilst Howgrave’s blood had yet to coagulate. No investigation was carried out. There seemed no reason to bother. Nonetheless, Wickham insisted that he had been arrested on false charges. At first he screamed; eventually he merely rasped. Never had he begged for his life more sincerely. Eventually, he forsook his pleas and sent word of his arrest to two people. He sent word to Lord Humphrey Orloff and Mrs. Henrietta Younge to come to his aid. To no one’s great astonishment, Mrs. Younge hied to his side directly. Lord Orloff did not come, but he offered to pay whatever legal obligations were incurred by Alistair R. Thomas. Although he accepted the man’s generosity readily, Wickham was not at all grateful.

  “How can my friends desert me in my time of need?” he cried.

  “You haven’t any friends, Georgie,” reminded Mrs. Younge.

  “Hush,” he hissed.

  He quickly explained to her that he had not quite decided which name he would adopt insofar as the trial ahead of him. Indeed, that would be an exceptional challenge. Wickham had always
kept his identity... fluid. Whilst employing what, one must concede, was a masterpiece of factual manoeuvring, Wickham explained the choice of his identities to his solicitor, Mr. Blackbird. The solicitor conferred with the barrister, Mr. Paret. Both concluded that of the two, Alistair R. Thomas’s crimes were more defendable—and as payment was made in Alistair’s name, preferable. Wickham could but agree, believing that he would have better luck being tried for a crime that he did not actually commit. In this, he was mistaken.