by Mary Balogh
He drew his hands from beneath her and lifted himself on his forearms and looked down at her. Her eyes looked back into his. Her hair was spread like a flaming halo all about her head.
“I want it to be good for you,” he whispered. “I want it to be perfect for you, Fleur. Tell me what to do. Do you want it ended quickly?” He withdrew from her, pushed slowly in again.
She raised her knees, set her feet flat on the bed on either side of him. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. She moaned again. He stroked her slowly and deeply, over and over again.
He lowered his head to brush her lips with his. “I want it to be perfect for you,” he said. “Tell me when to come, Fleur. Tell me when you want me to come.”
She opened her eyes and looked up into his. And she saw the dark hair, the hawkish face, the scar, the powerful shoulder muscles, the dark chest hair. And she felt his strong thighs pressing her own wide and felt his slow and deep and intimate strokes into the very depths of her. She remembered very deliberately that first encounter with him. And she let it go, let it slip beyond the realm of conscious memory.
“I think the aching will drive me mad,” she whispered to him. “And I want it to go on forever.”
But when he lowered himself onto her again and brought his arms about her and quickened his rhythm, she raised her knees to hug his hips and knew that forever must be held to a moment. She tilted herself against him, tensed against him, waited for the shattering of sanity.
He felt her come, though she said nothing. And he slid his hands gratefully beneath her again and thrust and held deep inside her several times until he could feel her tension soften and tremble about her central core.
“Now, my love,” he said against her ear. “Now. Come with me now.”
And he listened to her strange cry as he pushed into her once more and felt his own breath release with a sigh against the side of her face just as his seed had sprung deep inside her.
She shuddered and trembled about him and against him and abandoned herself to the aftermath of love, content to feel his body bear her down into the bed with its relaxation, content to rest her spread thighs against his, content to feel his hands cupping her hips, and to feel him throbbing deep in the part of her that belonged to herself and the man to whom she chose to give it.
She had chosen to give to him. Only him. Him, this once only and forever.
He disengaged his body from hers, lifted himself away from her, brought her over onto her side against him, his arms about her. He drew the bedclothes up about them.
“Fleur.” He kissed her warmly, lingeringly. “Have the ghosts been banished?”
“Adam.” Her eyes were closed. The fingertips of one hand moved lightly over his face. “You are beautiful. So very beautiful.”
She was not sleeping, as he was not. He held her close, one hand smoothing through her hair, and communicated with her beyond the medium of words. They had only the one night. There was no time for talk. Or for sleep.
They lay quietly in each other’s arms until it was time to love again.
FLEUR DOZED OFF TO SLEEP at some time just before dawn. The duke cradled her head on his shoulder and rubbed his cheek lightly against the top of her head. He stared upward into the darkness. The candles in the parlor had burned themselves out long before.
It should be possible, he thought, to set her up somewhere in a house of her own, somewhere not too far from Willoughby perhaps, or somewhere close to London. He would be able to visit her for days or weeks at a time. It would become more his home than Willoughby.
They could be married in all but name. There had never been a marriage with Sybil. It was not even a consummated marriage. He could be faithful to Fleur. They could even have a child, perhaps. Or children.
It should be possible. He turned his head to kiss the top of hers. Surely it would be possible to persuade her. She loved him as he loved her. She had told him so and she had spent most of a night showing him so.
A cottage by the sea, perhaps. They could walk along the cliffs together, blown by the wind, looking out across the water. They could stroll along the beach. They could take their children running and playing on the sand.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair again. Pamela would enjoy the beach. He must take her. Willoughby was less than ten miles from the sea. He must take her before the summer was over, perhaps arrange to go with Duncan Chamberlain and his children. Pamela would enjoy the company of other children.
She would never be able to enjoy the company of Fleur’s children and his—those mythical children who lived in their mythical cottage in a make-believe world.
He could have ended his marriage to Sybil within a year of its making had he chosen to do so. He had not so chosen. He had committed himself to the vows he had made even though she refused to allow him the rights that would have made a proper marriage of it. He had committed himself because at the time he still felt some leftover love for her. And he had done it because of Pamela. So that Pamela would not be a bastard.
Half a commitment was no commitment at all. Either he belonged to Sybil and Pamela or he belonged to Fleur. There could be no double life. Not for him, anyway.
He tightened his arm about Fleur and continued to stare upward.
“What is it?” she asked, turning more fully against him.
He kissed her unhurriedly.
“I want to tell you something before the morning comes,” he said.
“Yes.”
The imminence of dawn was like a tangible thing in the room.
“After tomorrow,” he said, “I will recommit myself to my marriage. I hope I will have the strength to live with that commitment for the rest of my life, with no more lapses. For Pamela’s sake I will hope it.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know, Adam. You don’t have to feel that you owe me anything. We agreed that there was just tonight. And I would not be your mistress even if you wished me to be.”
He set a finger over her lips and kissed her forehead. “This is what I want to say,” he said. “In one way, Fleur, you will always be my wife, more my wife than Sybil is. And physically I will always remain faithful to you. There will never be any other woman in my bed.”
Her lips were still against his finger.
“My marriage is a marriage in name only,” he said, “and always has been.”
He heard her swallow. “Pamela?” she whispered.
“Is Thomas’,” he said. “He abandoned Sybil, leaving her with child. I had recently returned from Belgium and still fancied myself in love with her, or with the person I thought she was.”
She let out a ragged breath.
“From the moment of Pamela’s birth she has been mine,” he said. “I would die for her. If there were any serious question of my annulling my marriage in order to be with you, I would not do so because of Pamela. If the choice were between her and you, Fleur—and perhaps it is—then I would choose her.”
She was pressing the top of her head against his chest.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“Do you hate me for that?” he asked.
“No.” There was a long pause. “That is the very reason I love you, Adam. There is very little room in your life for yourself. It is filled with your concern for the well-being of others. I did not know it or expect it at first, but I have come to see it more and more.”
“And yet I have taken this night for myself,” he said. “It is a selfishness and a moral wrong, Fleur, or so your curate friend would say.” He kissed her briefly. “But I don’t want to talk. I want to love you one more time. I wanted you to know, though, that I will remain faithful to you and will always think of you as my wife.”
“A piece of eternity,” she said, touching his lips with her fingertips. “It has been wonderful beyond words. I would not exchange it for ten years added to my lifespan, Adam. And there is still a little of it left.”
She turned onto her back and reached up her arms for him as he rose o
ver her once more.
THE SCENERY BEYOND THE CARRIAGE WINDOW grew more familiar as they neared home. They had sat side by side throughout the journey, their shoulders touching, their hands clasped, saying almost nothing.
“There are only a few miles to go?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
His hand closed more tightly about hers for a moment.
“You must apply to whoever does Brocklehurst’s business for him,” he said. “It should be possible to get at least some of your money before your twenty-fifth birthday. You will be able to live in some comfort then.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I shall have Houghton look into the matter too,” he said.
“Thank you.”
There was a silence again.
“I cannot come here again, Fleur,” he said. “I will not even write.”
“No,” she said. “I know. Or I to you.”
“Will you promise me if you are ever in any need or trouble to write to Houghton?” he said. “Promise me?”
“Only in the very extremest of circumstances,” she said. “No, Adam. In all probability, no.”
He stroked her fingers with his own. “Fleur,” he said. “If you are with child …”
“I am not,” she said.
“If you are,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “If you are, you must let me know. I know your instinct will lead you to keep it from me. But you must let me know. It would be my child too. The only child of my own body I would ever have. I would send you to one of my other homes and care for the both of you.”
“I am not with child,” she said.
“But you would let me know?”
“Yes,” she said.
He lowered their hands again to rest on his thigh.
They were no more than two miles from the village, four from Heron House. Fleur concentrated on breathing quietly and evenly, suppressing the panic that was churning her in-sides.
“You will move into your cottage immediately?” he said.
“Yes.” She focused her mind on her future plans. “I will stay at Heron House tonight for the last time and move to the village tomorrow. I shall start at the school the day after, if Miriam is ready for me. I am going to enjoy it immensely.”
“Are you?” he said. “Are you going to teach the children music, Fleur?”
“Singing, yes,” she said. “There is no instrument, but it does not matter.”
He was smiling at her. “I am glad you have a good friend to be close to you,” he said.
“Miriam?” she said. “I have other friends in the village too, Adam. Or acquaintances who will be friends as soon as I am living among them and no longer at the house. Don’t worry about me. I will be happy.”
“Will you?” He was looking sideways into her face, a mere few inches from his own.
“Yes,” she said. “The pain will be intense for a while. I know it and expect it. But it will fade. I don’t intend to pine away. I intend to live. I have had my little glimpse of paradise, which is more than many people have in a lifetime. Now I will go back to living.”
“Pamela was upset when I left,” he said. “I have not always been unselfish where she is concerned. I have left her far too often. I am looking forward to getting back to her.”
“Yes,” she said, “and so you should be. She is worth living for, Adam.”
The carriage rumbled over the wooden bridge that would take them into the village. Fleur closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his shoulder. His hand tightened again over hers.
“Oh, God,” she said.
“Courage.” His cheek came to rest against the top of her head. “If I had a choice between feeling this pain and not doing so, Fleur, I would choose the pain because without it there would never have been you.”
“I am greedy.” She took a deep and audible breath. “I want the pain gone and I want you, Adam. I don’t know if I am strong enough to do this.”
His hold on her hand was painful. “You want me to take you somewhere where we can be together occasionally, then?” he asked.
“Once a year? Twice a year?” Her eyes were still closed. “Heaven to look forward to twice a year?”
“It could be more often if you were close,” he said.
“A cozy cottage near Willoughby?” She was smiling. “And your visits to look forward to frequently. And never having to say good-bye. And children perhaps. Yours and mine. Would they be dark or red-haired, do you think?” Her voice disappeared into a thin thread.
“If it is what you want,” he said, “I will give you that life.”
“No,” she said. “We are just talking of dreams, Adam. With a little temptation mixed in. Neither of us would be able to accept it as reality.”
The carriage was turning from the main roadway to wind up the long driveway to Heron House.
“When we get there,” she said, “don’t come into the house with me, Adam. Just drive away.”
“Yes,” he said.
They said no more, but just sat as they were. She wanted him to take her into his arms and hoped he would not. She would not be able to bear it if he did. She would begin thinking that dreams could be made reality.
One more bend in the driveway and they would be through the gateway and on the straight axis with the house. Two more minutes at the longest.
“I’ll not be able to say anything,” she whispered. “Just leave.”
“I love you,” he said. “For all of my life and forever and eternity. I love you, Fleur.”
She nodded and turned her head to press her face briefly into his shoulder.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
Two people were coming down the steps of the house as the carriage drew up before it. Miriam and Daniel, Fleur saw.
“Isabella!” Miriam cried as Ned Driscoll opened the carriage door and let down the steps. “We have just ridden over to see if you were home yet. We expected you yesterday. Oh, good afternoon, your grace.” She curtsied hurriedly.
The Reverend Booth reached up a hand to help her down. “Isabella,” he said, watching the duke climb out behind her, “did you not take a maid? Why did you not do so?”
“Did you find Hobson’s grave?” Miriam asked. “And is your mind now set at rest, Isabella? Word was circulating in the village yesterday that there are no longer any charges against you, that the death was an accident and the supposed theft a misunderstanding. It is all over, the whole ghastly business. Is it not, Daniel?”
“Miss Bradshaw,” a quiet voice said from behind Fleur, “I will be taking my leave.”
“You are not coming into the house, your grace?” Miriam asked.
Fleur turned, her friends just a couple of steps behind her. She lifted her hands and he took them. He looked deeply into her eyes as he raised one to his lips.
“Good-bye,” he said.
Adam. Her lips formed his name, though no sound emerged.
And he was gone—into the carriage to sit on the far side while Ned closed the door, turned to smile and incline his head to her, and vaulted up onto the box with the coachman.
And he was gone, along the driveway, through the gates, and around the first bend.
He was gone.
“Well, he was in a hurry to leave,” Miriam said cheerfully. “Isabella, you foolish, independent woman. Why did you not call on me to go with you? You know I would have closed the school for a few days. But by the time Daniel had told me that he had refused to accompany you, you were gone already. And imagine our dismay to discover that you had gone with the Duke of Ridgeway.”
“It is done, Miriam,” the Reverend Booth said. “There is no point in scolding further. We will come inside with you, if we may, Isabella. It will relieve your mind, no doubt, to tell us all that happened.”
“You must be exhausted,” Miriam said, stepping forward to take her arm. She smiled up into her face and then turned back sharply to her brother. “Take Isabella’s bag inside, will you, Daniel? I wa
nt to have a brief word with her before we join you.”
She waited until he had disappeared into the house.
“Oh, Isabella,” she said quietly, touching her friend’s arm, patting it. “Oh, my poor, poor dear.”
Fleur stood staring down the driveway as if turned to stone.
AT LEAST THERE WAS PLENTY with which to keep herself busy. Fleur was thankful for that fact more than for any other in the coming days and weeks. At least there was plenty to do.
She removed all her possessions to the cottage that had been Miss Galen’s and arranged and rearranged them to her satisfaction. At first she did everything for herself, including the cooking, since she could not afford to hire a servant. She spent many hours in the small garden, restoring the overgrown hedges and rosebushes to their original neatness and splendor.
And she taught the twenty-two pupils at Miriam’s school alongside her friend and discovered the challenge of instructing more than one child at a time.
She kept an eye on an elderly couple who lived next door to her, taking them some cakes when she baked, sitting and listening to their endless stories of the past, including many of her mother and father.
And she had friends to visit and be visited by. There was always Miriam, of course, who spent a great deal of her free time with her and who was cheerfully friendly without ever prying. For undoubtedly she knew. There had been that tact of hers in sending Daniel inside the house after Adam had left, and her simple words of sympathy and understanding. But if she was curious, she never showed it. She never asked questions. She was a true friend.
And there was Daniel too. He did not cast her off despite her confession to him and her improper behavior afterward in going to Wroxford with Adam. And there were several other inhabitants of the village and a few of the neighboring gentry who had held off as long as she was living at Heron House with her relatives but who were only too pleased now to make a friend of her.
Matthew did not come home. Neither did Cousin Caroline and Amelia, even when the London Season came to an end.
Word came to the village that the ladies had traveled north with friends. Rumor had it that Matthew had removed himself to the Continent to avoid some unknown embarrassment. Fleur did not know the truth of any of the stories. And she did not care where any of them were, provided they stayed away. She hated the thought of Cousin Caroline’s coming back, and she dreaded that Matthew would come.
