by Lavinia Kent
This was madness, the sweetest of dreams, the most costly of fantasies. Even as Wulf’s weight collapsed upon her, pressing her deep into the downy mattress, the first glimmer of sanity returned. What had she done? How had an argument over Anna ended here? At least she had not answered. She had taken his seduction and thrown it back at him. If he could stab with passion like a sword, then so could she. She clenched her inner muscles around him one more time and felt him jerk in response, the last throes of desire still surrounding them.
She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath filled with sweat, brandy, and the joint musk of their bodies. How could she have forgotten how good this was? How could she have forgotten the magic of his touch, the way she responded to the perfection of his body?
His body. She must remember it was only his body, his touch that drew her – nothing more. It was his body she had wanted. His body she had joined with.
She exhaled, her breath rustling the hairs that sprinkled his chest. He raised himself up on his elbows, still impaled deep within her. Their eyes met and for the briefest of seconds she glimpsed a vulnerability she had not expected. She reached up to touch his face, to feel the warmth of that stubble-roughened skin. Before her hand had moved even a fraction of an inch his eyes darkened, shuttered, almost punished. There was a renewal of passion, desire, but no warmth.
He began to move again within her, swelling, growing, filling her completely, but his eyes burned with ice. Self-loathing shook her as his hands gripped her thighs without tenderness. This is what she had brought herself. The pace increased. She cried for him, begged for him, opened herself to him. But even as he brought her to the peak, even as she shattered around him, the intensity of the heat burning her to the quick, she shivered from the ice that encased him.
The first beams of sunlight were just peeking through the windowpanes when Rose wakened the next morning. It was not the light that had awakened her, nor even the first sounds of the house coming to life. It was not even the knowledge that she had a house full of guests and a long day ahead of her.
Rather, it was an absence. His absence. She had lain beside him all the night, his large body sprawled across her bed, their limbs intertwined. They had not spoken since the first time, had not looked into each other’s eyes since the second. But throughout the dark hours their bodies had sought each other, caressed each other as the most familiar of companions – while her soul bled alone.
Only once had she started. He’d called out, his voice coarse with horror and despair, his eyes staring sightless into the darkness. He’d jerked at her touch, not knowing her. The second brush of her hand had stilled him and he rolled away and slept, giving no clue of whatever demons stalked him through the night.
Even in that moment pulled from sleep, she had not been surprised to find him next to her, only longed to provide solace to the misery that held him.
He’d used her, turned her own passion against her as he sought his answers and still she’d offered him comfort. But, that was not strictly true. She’d used him as well, taken the pleasure she’d dreamed of for so long.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
At least he was gone.
She was pleased that he was gone, that she would have this time to steady herself for the day and their inevitable confrontation.
But her mind betrayed her. She fell back on the bed. She still could not forget the beauty of his sunlit smile on that other morning, when they had awakened wrapped in each other’s arms. She could not forget the magical bonding of that night, that morning. Two truly had become one. That had not been the case last night. Her arm flopped to the bed. How could she be so satisfied and yet still wanting?
She stared at the flowered canopy of the bed and willed herself to reason, to think calmly, to understand how she had come to this point, and what she should do now. She traced each line of stitching with her eyes, imagined the tedium involved in planning the pattern, choosing the threads, executing the design. She focused solely on the work involved in each stitch. She refused to allow her mind to stray from the intricate floral motif spread above her bed.
Only when her mind had regained normalcy did she stand. The delicious ache between her thighs drew her attention, but she pretended she felt nothing. She went to the pitcher, and filling a basin, washed herself, before returning to pull her night rail back over her head. She purposely ignored the wrenched seams and the masculine scent that clung to it.
She strode to her desk and picked up her list. She scanned the careful litany of characteristics desirable in a husband, reminded herself firmly of what she sought, of what she could not afford to seek.
Passion was not on the list.
With Wulf she shared only passion. Nothing more. Passion was wonderful. Blindingly so.
But she would not be blinded. She must not forget the coldness she had glimpsed in his eyes. The contempt. The separation. She must not hide from what it was she had seen.
Contempt.
Her eyes turned back to the bed, and the table beside it. The box that held his letter. That one cold dismissive letter he had sent a year ago, before departing for Belgium – it had come wrapped around a string of buttons, brass buttons cut from his regimentals, tied on a green ribbon. Even without opening the box and taking it out she knew it word for word.
My dear Lady,
She could hear his derision as she read the words.
Again, let me say how sorry I am for our country’s loss.
Not her loss, the country’s.
I send this memento to your daughter as a token of my esteem for her FATHER.
He obviously didn’t care for subtlety.
On your advice I have taken up my commission again. Your words made it clear I have no place here, no life but the battlefield. I shall soon be gone, and shall trouble you no more.
Huntington
In the first days after victory had been announced, but before the heavy lists of casualties had been read, afraid to tempt the fates, she’d finally given the ribbon of buttons to Anna. Strangely, it had become one of her daughter’s favorite possessions. She’d had to replace the ribbon several times as it frayed and grew thin.
She recited the letter to herself one more time.
Yes – he held her in contempt. It expressed all he felt for her.
Well, perhaps not all; there was also desire.
Desire for her, but also for Anna.
He had seduced her to get his answer. An answer she still denied him.
Once desire faded, he saw her only as a woman who had welcomed a stranger to her bed, a woman who had betrayed her husband, once in taking a lover and again in passing off her lover’s child as his own. He saw only the woman who would refuse him his child.
She would not let his hidden midnight pain weaken her resolve. She turned her face away from the bed, from the box.
She bit her lip, refusing to give in to the tears that welled within her. What did it matter? Wulf meant nothing to her. Last night had proved the wonder of that other night a dream, a fantasy – her body might have known heaven, responded to his, clung to his, felt alone and bereft without him, but that was her body. She was much more than a body.
She was a soul and a mind.
And her soul had not found peace and paradise in their sweaty couplings. The illusion of oneness on that summer night had been just that, an illusion.
She had more than a woman could expect to gain – indeed, much more than most women dreamt of – her freedom and independence. She would not risk it all for the sake of a man and a dream, a man who looked at her with ice in his eyes and a dream already tarnished at the edges. No, she would continue with her plan. She would find the perfect husband for her needs.
With chilled fingers she put her list back on the table and went to ring for her maid. A hot cup of tea would warm her body and soul.
She shut her eyes and willed today’s tears away. He’d cut her this night with his look of disbelief and hatr
ed. She had paid for her sins before. She would not do so again.
The tap on the door announced the maid and with great relief she turned away from her thoughts to prepare for the coming day.
“Have you seen a copy of Choiseul-Gouffier’s Voyage Pittoresque de la Grece or Chevalier’s Voyage dans La Troade, ou Tableau de la Plaine de Troie? I am sure they must be here, but I can’t find them.”
Mitter had called from the study door as Wulf strode back into the house.
Two hours of galloping recklessly through the fields had not even begun to still the beasts rampaging within him, the devils that returned to taunted him, the dream of a home, his home – Holly House – and a family all turned to mud and blood and the cries of dying men – the canons firing all about.
Focus.
“Perhaps Burberry was too ill by the time it was released. I understand he was bedridden for several years before his death. I know he had some much earlier maps of the area. My stepfather mentioned he’d picked them up during his travels.”
Wulf brought his attention to the present. He had spent the last hours trying to avoid thinking of last night without success. Maybe an academic problem was what he needed.
Mitter considered. “He has other more recent acquisitions. Given the breadth of his collection and his interest, I can’t believe he would have overlooked such important pieces. They coincide so brilliantly with his interest. Perhaps, I should ask Lady Burberry.”
“Ah, yes, you’re right, he would not have missed them. I doubt the lady would know. However, I am sure her interests are lighter.” Lady Burberry, Rose, she’d awakened the devils within him, loosed them again to ravage his mind. He would not remember how she’d . . . Troy. The Dardanelles. Ancient myth and conquest. He’d become lost in history yesterday. He would do so again today.
Wulf walked to the library door and glanced within. If anything, the piles of books and outspread maps seemed more numerous and overwhelming today, although he could see some volumes newly shelved. Mitter had begun to restore order to the mess.
“Let me change and rinse off, then I’ll come join you. My father was never much interested in the Greeks, that was always my . . . it doesn’t matter. Those are not volumes my father would care for. But you’re right, we’ll need to sort them just the same.”
Mitter’s eyes tightened slightly. Undoubtedly, he was not eager to add to the work load. He probably saw his task as only to separate the books they would be taking with them.
“I know it will make the process longer, but I can’t leave Burberry’s library in such a state. Lady Burberry may not care,” damn her anyway, he’d fought so long for his dreamless peace, “but I will consider it one last repayment to the admiral for the service he did us all.”
“As you say.” Mitter relaxed again at his words.
“It shouldn’t take long anyway. If we both put our minds to it I would think we should be able to finish by tomorrow.” God, yes, please let them be done. No matter how great the lure of his daughter, he could not afford the trap presented by the mother – last night had proved he could not master his own desires, channel them to his own purpose. She had reeled him in, distracted him, opened his mind to the demons, and left him . . . still wanting – he didn’t know what, only that he had not found it in the sweat of the previous night. The witch would probably never let him near the child anyway. Lady Burberry was everything he knew he must avoid in a woman, no matter the perfection of the packaging, and that startling awareness that flew between them. He would not fall . . . again.
“As you say.” The tightness had returned to Mitter’s tone, and Wulf wondered about it briefly, before his own thoughts distracted him. He turned on his heel and headed up to his chamber.
Rose heard the deep rumble of his voice and the heavy fall of his booted step coming down the hall. Without thought, she stepped back around the corner, out of sight. Her heart pounded at the thought of coming face to face with him. She knew it was inevitable, she was his hostess, but surely she could be granted a few more hours to collect herself.
She clung to the shadows as he strode past. He’d ridden hard that morning. His shirt clung to his chest and moisture and dust still marked his face. His hair was tousled and his well-muscled thighs were clearly outlined by the tight riding breeches. She tore her eyes away as he turned towards his room. Leaning back against the wall she inhaled sharply. Mistake. It might have been her imagination, but the manly scent of leather and horses still clung to the air.
He’d left her bed only hours before, and still the desire fanned deep within her belly. Where was the sense of calm and reason that was her ready friend?
Tomorrow.
He’d said they’d be done tomorrow. Then her world would balance itself, and she and Anna would be safe. She’d choose a nice, steady, malleable husband, and her world would put itself to rights.
Yes, that’s what would happen. This was just a rock in the road. She tripped, but could now regain her footing. Or at least tomorrow she could. She just had to make it through one more day and one more night.
One more night. One more hot, sweaty night.
No, that way led only to folly.
No matter how gorgeous he was, no matter how feminine he made her feel, no matter how her head spun and her world shifted, she would not follow her passions again. It had not brought her the satisfaction she desired.
It was time to choose a husband. She tilted her nose in the air and headed for the breakfast room. The time had come to get to work.
Even if the whole prospect did seem so much less desirable than it had two days before.
Chapter Six
“How’s the plan proceeding?” Lady Smythe-Burke peered up from her correspondence as Rose entered the room. She had a tiny pair of spectacles set on her narrow nose and sat straighter and stiffer than Rose would have believed possible. How could she write without bending her neck?
She shook herself a little and brought herself back to the question. “I am really not sure.”
“How can you not be sure? Either things are progressing or they’re not.””
“Well, I’ve spoken to several of the gentlemen again. I even talked with Mr. Giddens upon his arrival. But, I must confess, I haven’t been drawn to any of them.”
“In your correspondence you didn’t mention the need to be drawn to the prospects. If I’d known you were looking for that, I would have suggested a different selection.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that . . . well, I haven’t sensed that any of them are quite what I am looking for.”
“Sir Barton? I always find him agreeable.” Lady Smythe-Burke peered from beneath the tiny lenses.
“Perhaps too much so. I do want a companion. I think I’d feel as if I were talking to myself. And, well, he . . .”
“He didn’t pinch you, did he? Poor boy can’t help himself. I warned him you wouldn’t like it. Still, it does show that he’s interested.”
“No, he didn’t pinch me. Although, he did rather stare at –”
“Yes, he does do that, too. So, you are no longer considering him?”
Rose seated herself, feeling her own spine grow straighter as she watched Lady Smyth-Burke. She was so direct. Rose had always prided herself on being straightforward, but next to Lady Smythe-Burke, she felt herself a cipher.
“I wouldn’t presume to make such a decision based only upon a day’s acquaintance. Maybe, with time, I could form an attachment.” Unfortunately her mind took her words too literally and she imagined the man wrapped around her legs, slobbering. She knew Lady Smythe-Burke did not miss her grimace.
“Never mind that then. What about Sommerton? As we’ve discussed, he wants nothing to do with his lands. Still think he sounds perfect for your desires. I’ll have to arrange for you to spend more time with him. Besides, I understand winning you will help line his pockets. A man like that never could resist betting on himself.”
“Here you are.” Lady Claringt
on sailed into the room before Rose could ask Lady Smyth-Burke to explain her last aside. “I wanted to know when we’re all gathering again. I find I miss . . . company.”
Rose could just imagine whose company Lady Clarington was missing. Rose doubted very much it was her husband’s.
“We are to meet down by the lake for a picnic,” Rose said. “Those interested can take a boat out and the rest of us can stroll. The woods are very pleasant at this time of year.”
Lady Clarington pursed her lips in consideration. Rose could see her deciding if the possibilities for dalliance balanced the chance of getting her skirts damp.
“That sounds acceptable, possibly even amusing. I must go change into something more appropriate for walking.”
Rose wondered how many inches lower a bodice had to be in order to be appropriate for walking, as Lady Clarington took herself out of the room.
“I’d best change too, my dear. My bones chill easily these days. Somehow I am not sure that was what Minerva meant, though. Silly chit. She had so much more promise when she was younger. Shows what marrying the wrong man will do. Hold firm to your plan. We can talk more later.”
Rose was left alone to stare out the window. She’d dressed this morning with the outing in mind, and felt no need to change her own sensible gown and shoes. Her forethought in choosing a heavier fabric meant that if she was quick, she could spend a few more minutes playing with Anna. That had been her rationale in choosing a practical, if not particularly becoming dress. It had nothing to do with thoughts of armoring herself against possible temptation.
If the woman showed him any more of her breasts, Wulf decided, he would dive off the skiff, and leave her to row herself back to shore. He appreciated nature’s bounty as much, if not more, than the next man. He’d certainly demonstrated that last night. Against his will, his mind filled with the memory of devouring those creamy peaks, of licking them like the sweetest of custards. But, somehow, what on Rose made him think of pastries and honey, on Lady Clarington only made him think of cows, and of heavily lined maps, and caused him to reflect that bright sunshine was not conducive to romance.
