by Trisha Telep
Having known his Gwendolyn for four years of marriage – and a year of courtship before that – he could tell by her eyes, her demeanour and her voice that she was in fact telling him the truth.
He choked, feeling as if the burden he’d been carrying with him all these months fell away. “Gwendolyn,” he rasped, his knees feeling weak. “Forgive me. After you repeatedly denied me of your bed all these months, I have been nothing short of—”
“No, Camden. I ask that you forgive me. You are right. I was distant for too many months, never allowing you to touch me out of an irrational fear of losing another child. But it never meant I loved you any less. I simply never realized our inability to have children was destroying who I was – destroying us.”
He swallowed. “I will not have you blaming yourself. I wasn’t as understanding as I could have been. I expected too much of you.”
“We both expected too much of each other.” She raised her skirts so as not to stumble, and pushed herself up off the floor.
“I . . . should dress,” he murmured, throwing his clothes on to a chair in a daze. He snatched up his trousers, shoved in his left leg, then his right, and yanked them up to his waist in a single swoop.
His hands shook as he attempted to button the front flap of his trousers. He focused on staring at the wooden floor beneath him, doing his best not to look at Gwendolyn, afraid this was all an illusion brought on by severe inebriation.
Camden yanked his shirt over his head, pulling it into place, and stuffed the ends into his trousers. He pulled on his waistcoat and his coat, and then shoved his feet into his shoes, not caring that his stockings were missing. He looped his cravat around his neck, barely aware of what he was doing.
“Camden, the only good to have come of our separation is that it made me realize I cannot lead a life without you. Please tell me you cannot lead a life without me and that our inability to have children will not keep you from loving me.” Her tear-streaked blue-green eyes met his, causing his chest to tighten.
Her words, at this moment, held everything he had ever wanted from them. But, as always, he couldn’t put his cursed emotions into words for fear they wouldn’t match what was truly in his heart.
The clock chimed once, announcing it was half past eleven. Then there was nothing but the annoying sound of his heart beating against his ears. The mingling of laughter and voices drifted towards them from a distance.
Gwendolyn glanced over at the clock. “I suppose you have nothing to say,” she whispered. She turned and made her way slowly to the locked doors.
He stiffened. No. No, no, no. She couldn’t leave. Not now. Not ever again. He would find the right words to say. He would. And that was his vow to her and to himself from this night forth.
Camden sprinted towards her. He slid to a rapid halt before her – or what should have been a halt. The soles of his shoes skidded across the remaining length of the wooden floor until his backside slammed against the double doors with a loud thud.
He winced and stilled his large frame against the door, trying to appear cool, calm and collected despite the fact that he was anything but. He crossed his arms over his unevenly buttoned waistcoat, cleared his throat and eyed her. “I know I’ve always been a man of few words, which has always been my greatest sin against you. But I . . . I love you. I don’t need children to make me happy. I need you to make me happy. I didn’t want to admit even to myself that we were incapable of having children. So I can only imagine what you must be enduring.”
Tears glistened in her eyes and her full lips trembled. “Come home with me,” she whispered. “Where you belong. We will find the words we both lack. I know we will.” She sniffed and then rolled her eyes, as if trying to draw attention away from her own sadness. She yanked her sleeves back up her shoulders and turned, exposing the open back of the gown to him. “Would you mind securing all the hooks back into place?”
God help him, what he really wanted to do was rip off the damn dress and take her again. Without a blindfold this time. So he could see everything and show her exactly what she made him feel every time he looked at her. Show her how she put his body and his mind into a state of constant weakness. Even after all these years.
She looked back at him from over her right shoulder, expectantly. She held the back of her gown together with one hand, pulling long strands of her loose hair out of the way with the other.
He stepped towards her and pushed all of her feathery soft curls to the side, so he could see better. His fingers and palms brushed against the sides of her muslin gown as he slid his hands up to her corseted waist. He managed to find the first hook at the very bottom, just above the curve of her backside. He hooked the material together one by one, up the entire back of her gown, revelling in the moment. He was her husband again. It was all he’d ever wanted and needed. That he knew.
As he reached the top part of her gown, just beneath her neck, his bare fingers brushing against the warmth of her soft skin, she whispered, “We must learn to find new ways to love each other. Seeing it will only be us.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her backside against him and leaned towards her ear, nuzzling against the warmth of her throat. “We will find endless ways. That I know.”
She caught his hands and squeezed them.
His arms tightened. “By the by, I plan on gutting Westbrook tomorrow morning at eight.”
She stilled. “You . . . don’t actually mean that, do you? Mind you, yes, he deserves it. But I would rather not see you hang. That would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it?”
That it would. “Then what do you propose I do? I am not letting that bastard walk away from this.”
She nestled back against him, placing her head in the curve of his throat. “I propose we avenge ourselves by living happily ever after and making him look quite the fool.”
He smirked. “I prefer to gut him and move to France.”
She shifted towards him and grinned. “Are you being serious?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I wish I were. I suppose making him look quite the fool will have to do.” He paused, then added, “For now.” He eyed the clock in the study and then drawled, “Do you think we have enough time to play French Intuition again? Before my uncle returns?”
She turned fully in his arms, her hands sliding up his shoulders and grinned. “I believe we do. Only this time, I intend to wear the blindfold.”
He quirked a brow. “How about we put it around your mouth instead? To keep things quiet.”
Her eyes widened as she smacked him. “Camden!”
He laughed. “It was just a thought.”
“Yes. And how very few of those you have.”
He smirked. “Why do I suddenly feel married again?”
She grinned. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“I think we ought to go home. So we don’t have to rush. What do you think?”
“Even better.” She held out her hand.
“Oh. But before we go—” Camden jogged over and snatched up the pieces of black velvet. He shoved them into his evening coat pocket, sheepishly cleared his throat and strode back over. “For later.”
A Suitable Gentleman
Sara Bennett
A sharp breeze tossed the simple cambric skirts of the petite lady walking along George Street, threatening to display much more than her dainty ankles. Her apparel, while not of the first water of fashion, displayed a certain elegance. Dark hair curled becomingly about a pale heart-shaped face, and big blue eyes were shadowed with tiredness.
“Plain and simple” were Lady March’s watchwords when it came to visiting the dressmaker with her eldest niece. “Clarinda is too old now for frills and furbelows. And of what use are they to her anyway, when her place is by my side?”
Of course Lady March would never have allowed her niece to go about Bath looking like a destitute orphan, although strictly speaking that was what she was. But her aunt had always been kind to her; Clar
inda could not fault that. Lady March had taken Clarinda and Lucy into her home when they were in dire circumstances, and since then they had wanted for nothing.
Nothing material, that is.
Clarinda’s face, so clearly fashioned for love and laughter, appeared drawn and serious as she considered the situation that awaited her at home, where Lady March had taken another one of her turns. If she were truly ill, Clarinda would be genuinely concerned, but her aunt treated illness as a diversion; since her husband died she had sought out ever more bizarre symptoms to while away her boredom. Now Lady March had run out of her tonic – Clarinda doubted it was more than sugar syrup – and had sent her niece out as a matter of urgency to purchase another bottle.
Buried deep in her thoughts, Clarinda did not see the top hat. Blown from a gentleman’s head, it came bowling across the roadway, narrowly missing the wheels of a passing barouche, and rolled up on to the pavement. It wasn’t until the hat struck her on the shin, hard enough for her to cry out in surprise, that she realized she was under attack.
The bottle of tonic wobbled in her hand and she only just prevented it from smashing on the hard paving. Another gust threatened to carry the hat away from where it was nestled at her feet, and, without thinking, she reached down to secure it. Automatically she smoothed the soft beaver fur with her gloved finger. This hat was well made – a wealthy man’s accessory – and he would be missing it.
She looked about her for its owner, and spotted him at once.
Tall and dark, he was standing across the road, directly outside the Good King hostelry. The coat he wore was fashionable without being ostentatious, his neckcloth was elegantly tied and his boots were shiny. The smart equipage behind him looked as if it had just arrived, and baggage was being disengaged by bustling servants.
All that movement going on about him, thought Clarinda. How strange then that he seemed so still. So alone. As if his concerns were such that they set him apart.
Clarinda realized she was staring, but then so was he. The next moment the gentleman was striding across the road towards her. Her breath caught in consternation as she remembered she should be returning post-haste with her aunt’s tonic, and yet her feet did not want to move.
As he drew closer, Clarinda could see that he was handsome indeed. A faint smile was curling the edges of his firm lips and crinkling the skin about his dark eyes. “Good morning,” he said, his voice deep and with a laughing note to it. “You appear to have rescued my hat from this violent weather.”
Clarinda held out the object in question, returning his smile. “Bath is famous for its weather, sir.”
“Infamous, perhaps,” he replied with a teasing note. “If I was not standing on dry land I would believe I was at sea, with squalls such as these.” Another gust of wind blew cold splatters of rain against them and he gave a chuckle of amazed laughter. “It gets worse. And I see you do not carry an umbrella, eh . . . madam?”
They had not been introduced but that didn’t seem to matter. “Miss Howitt. Clarinda Howitt. I normally carry an umbrella, sir, but this morning I was in a rush and forgot it.”
As if to underline the fact, the feather on her bonnet suddenly gave way beneath the weight of water and sagged over her eyes. She laughed, and then wondered at herself. Clarinda rarely laughed in the street, and yet the gentleman’s dark eyes were smiling back at her, seeming to encourage her.
“Allow me, Miss Howitt,” he said. He unfurled his umbrella, then held it over her.
“Thank you, sir. You are newly arrived, I think?” she said, a little breathlessly because he was now so close to her.
For some reason the laughter in his eyes faded, their intensity hinting at something serious. Clarinda wondered what it was that had brought him to Bath, for certainly it did not appear to be pleasure.
“I am indeed newly arrived,” he said. “In England, as well as Bath. I have been abroad in the army for a number of years but now I am home again, and I hope to remain in Bath for some time to . . . eh . . . take the waters. Do I have the phrase correct, Miss Howitt?”
The laughter was back and she responded.
“Perfectly correct, sir. The waters are supposed to be very beneficial. My aunt takes them daily, when she is well enough to make the journey to the Pump Room, that is.”
“Your aunt is an invalid?”
“My aunt is as fit as a fiddle, but she has taken up illness as a hobby.”
He lifted his eyebrows at her dry note.
“Forgive me,” Clarinda said, and lowered her eyes. “That was unkind of me. I have had very little sleep. In fact my aunt is the reason I am out now – she required a bottle of her tonic from the apothecary.”
There was a pause, and she wondered what he must think of her, complaining about her relative to a complete stranger. And yet something about him seemed to invite her confidences, as if he would understand. When he spoke again there was no censor in his voice, only the same warm friendliness as before.
“I have been remiss, Miss Howitt. Let me introduce myself. James Quentin at your service.”
She allowed her gloved fingers to be swallowed by his much larger hand and felt his grip tighten. The hard warmth of his fingers was pleasing, reassuring, although she had no idea why.
“Are you in Bath visiting friends or relatives, Mr Quentin?”
“Alas, I am all alone,” he said, but he didn’t appear to be sorry about it, with his smiling eyes fixed on hers. “Although now I have made your acquaintance I am not quite alone, am I?”
Clarinda felt a tingle of excitement. James Quentin was handsome, clearly with means, and a bachelor. Perfect. Lucy would bowl him over with her pretty vivaciousness, marry him and be set for life. It seemed that it was providence that brought his hat sailing towards her upon this windy Bath day.
“If I visit the Pump Room, Miss Howitt, will I encounter you and your aunt?”
Clarinda’s smile was sparkling with delight. She imagined Lucy in her best muslin, pretty as a picture. How could any man, how could this man, resist her?
“I do hope so, Mr Quentin.”
“Then I will haunt the place every day until you appear,” he promised her, the laughter dancing in his eyes.
She realized with a sense of shock that she was still holding his hand, or he hers. The rain had eased. He refurled his umbrella and placed his hat upon his head.
“Mr Quentin!”
A small dapper man was hailing him from outside the hostelry. Mr Quentin turned and nodded, before bowing to Clarinda.
“I fear I am wanted. Good day, Miss Howitt.”
She returned his bow with a curtsey and a smiling upward glance. “Good day, Mr Quentin.”
“You must take my umbrella, just in case,” he added, as she went to turn away. “I will not need it this morning.”
Clarinda hesitated, but the umbrella would give her a reason to contact him again. She nodded her thanks, her head full of possibilities. She knew her aunt would be beside herself at the delay but even that did not worry her as much as usual. She had the urge to stand and stare after this tall, handsome figure – an urge so strong it was difficult to resist, but resist it she did. Mr Quentin was not for her. He might have been charming and polite, with an air of mystery, but once he saw Lucy he would forget Clarinda entirely.
Men always did.
Clarinda told herself that her sister’s happiness was enough for her, that she didn’t really mind sacrificing herself to ensure Lucy’s future. Lucy would escape Lady March’s household but Clarinda must remain, a hostage to her hypochondriac aunt’s tyranny.
“Even my husband has not heard of some of the things with which Lady March is afflicted,” Etta had informed Clarinda, a sparkle in her dark eyes, “and he is a doctor. It certainly keeps him on his toes.”
“Oh, Etta, you make light of it, but how does he find the patience? She has run through three other doctors, you know.”
“It is not so bad. He says he enjoys the challenge. And t
he tonic he prescribed has helped, has it not?”
“Yes, it has. My aunt declares it a miracle. I do not think she has had a single bout of brain fever since she began taking it.”
Etta had laughed, but there had been a great deal of sympathy in her eyes. “Poor Clarinda, I wish there was some way I could rescue you from this situation. Sometimes I fear it must be like being in gaol!”
Gaols, Clarinda agreed, did not necessarily have barred windows and locked doors. Restraints could just as easily consist of tears and vapours and demands for attention. And Clarinda’s sentence was a lengthy one, for she had long ago come to the conclusion that despite Lady March’s protestations, she would outlive them all.
A rattle of raindrops fell on the pavement around her, bringing her back from her anxieties to the present. It was always raining in Bath. One grew accustomed to it. She unfurled James Quentin’s umbrella. Normally Clarinda would never have forgotten hers, but Lady March had made such a fuss when she discovered her tonic was nearly gone that Clarinda had left the house at a run, and set off for the apothecary as fast as she could manage, Lady March’s threats of dire consequences to her health echoing in her ears.
“I cannot possibly manage without it,” she’d gasped, clutching her shawl across her ample bosom. “I feel palpitations coming on. Do hurry! Oh, my head is beginning to pound.”
With such threats hanging over her, Clarinda had set out on her mission without a thought for the weather. Now she retraced her steps more slowly.
Milsom Street was not directly on her way home, but she turned down it anyway. It contained most of Bath’s more interesting shops and Clarinda found herself dawdling past their windows, casting a wistful eye over the new fashions. Not for herself, of course. She’d long ago accepted such fripperies were not for her. No, she told herself, she was thinking of Lucy.
At nine and twenty, Clarinda had heard herself described as an old maid. Oddly, until now she’d thought herself accepting of the stark truth that she would never have a home and family and husband of her own, but suddenly a sense of rebellion arose in her. She imagined herself in the latest evening gown, dancing lightly in the arms of . . . of . . .
