Unlacing the Innocent Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  All of the tension was back winding tight and awkward between them.

  ‘I should go. There are things to be attended to.’

  ‘You have not eaten. The hour grows late.’

  ‘Your family must be found.’

  Did he really wish to be rid of her so quickly? ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you are right.’ She stepped back, increasing the distance between them, determined to show nothing of the hurt she was feeling.

  His gaze held to hers, and she could not look away no matter how much she tried. She saw the muscle tighten in the squareness of his jaw as if he clenched his teeth in determination.

  ‘Rosalind,’ he said, and his voice was hoarse as though the word was wrung from his lips against his will.

  She saw the sudden darkening of his eyes, from pale luminescent dove grey to smoky slate.

  There did not seem to be enough air in the room; her breathing grew short and ragged. She wetted her lips.

  He gave a groan of submission, and then she was in his arms and his mouth was hard upon hers, kissing her. His lips were like the thrum of her own blood—hot and hard and needful. He tangled his fingers in her hair, as his tongue entwined with hers so that she felt the heat of passion sear her thighs. But even as she melted against him, she felt him slip away.

  He stared into her eyes for a moment longer. ‘Forgive me. I should not have done that.’ And then he was gone, leaving only the slam of the front door and the thump of her heart echoing in his wake.

  The butler showed Wolf into a small reception room of the large town house in fashionable Bruton Street and left him there alone. It was the room used for trade and for servants, but Wolf was used to such treatment. He did not speak like a gentleman. He did not dress like a gentleman. In truth, he was no gentleman. He did not sit down on one of the plain wooden chairs as the butler had indicated but, instead, stood by the small high window peering out on to the stables. He did not have to wait long before the tall dark-haired man he had come to see joined him.

  ‘Lord Stanegate,’ he nodded an acknowledgement.

  ‘At your service, Mr Wolversley. You said in your note that you had news of my wife’s sister.’

  ‘Indeed. I come seeking the whereabouts of Mrs Wardale and her youngest daughter, that they might be reunited with Miss Rosalind Wardale.’

  Wolf did not miss the flicker that crossed Lord Stanegate’s face before he schooled his expression once more to impassivity.

  ‘Mrs Wardale passed away several years ago, but Lady Stanegate, her daughter and my wife, has been most anxious to hear of her sister. We read the newspaper account…’ He let the sentence trail off unfinished.

  ‘All of London did, but you need not fear, my lord: Miss Wardale is no jewel thief, despite all that the papers have been saying. You understand the nature of malicious gossip, sir.’

  ‘I do, but what I do not understand, sir, is your connection with Miss Wardale.’

  ‘I am a friend, sir.’

  ‘A friend, sir? I have heard you are something of a thief-taker, Mr Wolversley. Employed by Evedon to capture Miss Wardale.’

  ‘That is so.’ Wolf met Stanegate’s gaze un flinching, and saw the concern behind the suspicion that he was accustomed to seeing in the aristocracy’s eyes when they looked at him. ‘Miss Wardale has suffered enough. If you seek to deal her further censure, then speak now.’

  ‘I wish for nothing other than my wife’s happiness. Knowing her sister is safe and well would do much for that. The lady is welcome here.’

  Wolf nodded. ‘Then I will bring her to you.’

  ‘Sir—’

  But Wolf was already walking towards the door. ‘Ensure that she is treated kindly, Lord Stanegate.’

  From the expression upon his face, Stanegate was not accustomed to taking orders, especially not in his own house—not that Wolf cared one iota for that.

  A single nod and Wolf was gone. His mission was accomplished. He already knew from his research that Stanegate was a decent man and that he doted on his young wife and child. And Wolf was confident that Stanegate would take Rosalind into his household and care for her. Rosalind would be safe in a place that she belonged, with people that loved her.

  But as he strode through the streets, his heart was heavy and there was a hard lump in his throat that would not shift no matter how he tried to swallow it down. People that loved her, he thought again, and knew that none of them loved her as much as he did. But he had first to tell Rosalind the news of her mother’s death. He headed to the Red Lion tavern to delay what must be done.

  It had moved from evening to night when the knock sounded on Rosalind’s bedroom door. Only ten of the clock, but already she was in her nightdress and in bed, lying beneath the clean freshly ironed sheets wide awake in the darkness. She knew instinctively that it was Wolf outside her door.

  When she opened the door, she could not see his face; he was a dark silhouette against the brightness of the wall sconces in the hallway. But she could smell the cold night air and the faint sweetness of brandy that emanated from him.

  He turned slightly so that the light caught his face, and she saw his gaze take in the thick white cotton of her nightclothes. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you. It can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘No.’ She put out her hand to stay him, then drew it back fast at the feel of his bare fingers beneath hers. ‘I was not asleep.’ There was an awkward pause as she found her eyes meeting his again. It was night time and he had come to her bedchamber. Her heart was beating too fast. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw not the tell-tale darkening simmer of desire; she saw pain and dread and resolution to a task. She felt the cold hand of premonition touch to her shoulder and she shivered. The churning dread was back in her stomach.

  ‘You have some news, sir?’ The question was polite and her voice flat and unemotional, revealing nothing. It was the voice of Rosalind Meadowfield, not Rosalind Wardale. She could feel herself re treating back beneath the safety of the familiar guise.

  ‘Indeed.’ He nodded, and his grim expression did nothing to allay her fears.

  Bad news. About Evedon? About the dark stranger? Or her family? She tensed in preparation. She made no move to invite him in, just kept him standing in the corridor. It was all she had left she thought, her pride, and she held her head up and looked him directly in the eye.

  ‘I have found your sister. She has been married these eighteen months to Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate.’

  ‘Nell!’ All pride was forgotten. Rosalind thought only of her sister. ‘She is well?’ Wolf nodded.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She was living with her husband in Stanegate’s father’s residence in Albemarle Street, but following the arrival of their baby, they have moved to their own town house in Bruton Street.’

  ‘She has a child? Nell has a baby?’ Rosalind laughed with relief and joy. ‘I thought for an awful minute that you meant to bring me bad tidings. I am so pleased to hear it. Did you see her? How did she look?’

  Wolf did not smile. His face was both stern and filled with sadness, and all of her joy that had bubbled up stilled and grew cold.

  ‘And what news of my mother?’

  Wolf reached out and took her hand in his. She knew then, before he even said the words.

  ‘I am sorry, Rosalind. Mrs Wardale died some years past.’

  She heard the breath escape her throat as a gasp. ‘It cannot be,’ she whispered.

  ‘Consumption took her.’

  ‘She cannot be dead. I was saving my money. I was to go back to them when I had enough. I was going to buy us a cottage somewhere nice. I would find my brother, Nathan, and he would come back to us.’ She glanced up at him, wide-eyed at the sudden new fear that struck her. ‘Nathan?’

  ‘I have no news yet of your brother, Rosalind.’

  She nodded and turned as if she would go back to the bed, yet in truth her mind was reeling and she could not think at all. Wolf’s hand was warm arou
nd hers. He did not release her.

  She shook her head as if to deny the words he had uttered, as if by doing so all would be as it was before and her mother alive and well. She pulled free and walked back into the room, to stand before the fire, and all the while, the words whirled in her head and she could believe none of them.

  The golden flames danced bright, revealing the dark shadowed form of Rosalind’s body beneath the thick cotton of her nightdress. She looked not at him, but into the flames, and he could see from the set of her body, from the way that she held herself, her bowed head, the droop of her shoulders, the blow her mother’s death had dealt her. He could feel her pain as raw and aching as if it were his own and could not bear to see her hurt.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly. And he wished more than anything that he could undo all that had happened and magic a perfect happy ending for her. But life was grim and painful and harsh. He thought back to his own selfish arrogance in wanting to teach her that lesson. And now she knew it, knew it as well as he, and it gave him no pleasure, only a pain that ripped at his heart so that it was raw and aching. And had he the power to take her suffering on to himself, he would have done so in an instant.

  ‘Rosalind,’ he whispered, but still she did not look round. The truth had not yet sunk in. It would soon enough, and her pain would be all the worse for it. He had seen such reactions a hundred times over when men lost those around them—on the battle fields of King George’s Army, on the streets of London and of York.

  He turned her to him and took her gently into his arms. For all that she stood so close to the fire, her body felt chilled, her fingers where they touched him, frozen to the bone.

  She looked up into his face and there was the tiniest flicker of hope. ‘You are certain, Wolf? I mean, might you not be mistaken in your enquiries?’

  He did not want to douse that last glimmer, but to do anything other would be cruelty for the sake of his own relief. He shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Rosalind, but I had the news from Lord Stanegate himself.’

  She nodded, and smiled bravely, a smile that was everything of misery and disbelief and feigned acceptance. She pushed away from him, then stumbled over to the small armchair, and there she sat, her face white, her eyes staring with disbelief.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said through stiff cold lips. ‘I will call upon my sister in the morning. You have done all that you agreed to do, and more. I thank you.’ She turned away as if she had dismissed him and he was already gone. But Wolf closed the door and sat quietly in the neighbouring armchair.

  They sat in silence, with only the crack and the ripple of the flames upon the hearth and the heavy tick of the clock upon the mantel.

  Rosalind could not move, could not speak, could not think. She knew that she should tell Wolf to leave before she climbed back into the big white bed, but she could not bring herself to do so. Her mama was dead, and the hope of reuniting her family that had sustained her through the long, difficult lonely years was gone. How could her own mother have died and she, who had loved her, not known? Surely she should have felt something? A feeling, a sense, a dream even? But there had been nothing. Her thoughts ran on. If Mama had died, what had become of Nell? Had her little sister married her viscount before their mother’s death?

  So many questions and beneath them all, this sense of emptiness. A nothingness that seemed almost to paralyse her. She did not know how long she sat there staring across at the fire. And when the flames burned low, Wolf rose and trod across the room to feed them with fresh coal.

  She should visit Nell. She should check that her sister was well. She should discover the details of her sister’s life and all that had happened to their mother. She should find Nathan. So much to be done, and yet still Rosalind could not move. So alone and empty, and yet she was not alone. Wolf was there, his silent presence supporting her. She looked across at where his tall figure sat. And in his silver eyes was such strength and compassion to comfort her wounded heart. Their chairs sat side by side, separated by a small table. She laid her right palm flat on the table, her fingers pointing towards him. And slowly, ever so slowly, her fingers edged towards him, moving at most an inch before they stopped.

  Wolf laid his hand gently on hers, resting it there for a moment or two. It felt so warm, warm enough to chase the chill from her soul. She turned her hand over beneath his, so that their palms met and touched and lay together, before he threaded his fingers through hers and took her hand within his own. And it did not matter that he had with drawn his offer of marriage; it did not matter whether he loved her or not; nothing mattered in that moment except that he was there.

  She was so cold and just wanted to be warm. Wolf was warm, and he could fill the emptiness that gaped within her. She was on her feet and did not remember standing. She walked to the bed and heard him follow. And when she climbed beneath the covers, Wolf dis carded his jacket and boots and did likewise. He took her in his arms and held her, just held her, through the long hours until at last she said to him, ‘Love me, Wolf. Love me this one last time.’

  He shook his head. ‘I cannot, sweet lass, for both our sakes.’

  She touched her lips to his and kissed him gently. Tomorrow she would be gone to Bruton Street and there would be Nell but no more Wolf, not ever. She kissed him harder with all the aching need that was in her heart.

  ‘Love me…please,’ she said.

  And when he stripped the shirt from his body, she knew that he would do as she asked.

  He kissed her and stroked her until she was quivering for him.

  ‘Wolf,’ she whispered.

  And when at last he slid into her, the relief was overwhelming until he began to move, their bodies rocking in unison in the most ancient of all rhythms between a man and a woman, and a new desire began to build. She moved her hips to meet each of his thrusts, delighting in his possession but knowing that it was not enough, that there was still something more. And she was striving for it, reaching for it, and this man whom she loved was loving her with every shred of his being, with every breath in his lungs.

  She heard his gasp and felt him shudder within her as the whole of her body and mind exploded in a shimmering shower of ecstasy. And there was the thud of her heart and of Wolf’s, and love, only love. He collapsed down on to her, his body slick with sweat.

  ‘You will always be my love, Rosalind. Always.’ And he stroked her hair and kissed her and held her to him as if he would never let her go.

  He took her in the carriage the next morning to Viscount Stanegate’s house. The awkwardness was back between them. Neither spoke during the short journey. She looked strained and pale, and he berated himself that he had gone to her bed last night. A gentleman would not have, but then Wolf was no gentleman, and never would be no matter how hard that he tried. Last night was yet more proof as to why he was all wrong for Rosalind and why he was doing the right thing returning her to her family. He loved her, and because he loved her, he would do what was best for her, even if that meant breaking his own heart.

  After today it was unlikely that he would see her again. He had already seen the suspicion with which Lord Stanegate regarded him and, in all truth, he could not blame the man. Were he in Stanegate’s shoes, he too would have wondered just what the hell was going on if such a shady character turned up on his doorstep with his wife’s sister in tow.

  He wanted the best for Rosalind, but now there was the added complication of their lovemaking last night. He knew that he could not just let her go and say nothing. If there was to be a child, it would change everything: all of his best intentions and Rosalind’s chance for a better life.

  ‘Rosalind…’ he started.

  ‘All is said between us, Wolf,’ she said, but did not shift her gaze from the houses passing in the window.

  ‘Not quite.’ The carriage rolled smoothly along.

  She glanced round at him then.

  ‘Our actions of last night…if a child should result—’ He had been ca
reless, so caught up in his love for her that he had lost control. He had already spent the morning chastising himself that her future could be ruined because of it, for, undoubtedly, that is what marriage to him would do.

  ‘I shall love and care for it,’ she finished.

  ‘You do not understand how Society will treat you were you to bear a child out of wedlock.’

  ‘I understand enough,’ she said. ‘Am I not already ruined?’

  ‘A bastard’s fate is not an easy one, Rosalind. You will let me know if there is a child.’

  ‘Why?’ she snapped and her eyes flashed with anger. ‘So that you might marry me?’ Her cheeks scalded red. ‘I will not have you, sir.’

  He felt the sting of her words and knew that he deserved them. Seeing her distress, he did not pursue the matter. If Rosalind was with child, he was sure that he would discover it. One step at a time. He would deal with that matter if it arose.

  Rosalind was angry and miserable by the time they arrived at Bruton Street. It did not matter that this morning, for the first time since she had met him, Wolf had taken a care over his appearance. Gone were the casual work clothes and in their place was an outfit befitting a wealthy gentleman of the ton. The black coat that he wore was tailored by London’s finest and fitted to perfection. Beneath it, and attached to his matching waistcoat, she saw the glint of a pocket watch. His dove-grey cravat, that matched the colour of his eyes, was under stated yet elegant, and, had she not known better she would have thought, tied by the hand of the most masterful valet.

  His fitted buff-coloured breeches served only to emphasize the length and musculature of his legs and the shine on his black knee-high riding boots would have been the envy of the Prince Regent himself. His hair had been combed to a tidy style and his rugged jawline had been scraped clean of stubble to be smooth and infinitely kissable. Wolf presented a most handsome and formidable sight. This was not Wolf the thief-taker, but Wolf the gentleman.

  The transformation made his rejection all the harder, yet all the more understandable. He was trying to be a gentleman, and marrying a woman branded a murderer’s daughter would ruin any chance of that. Despite all that he had claimed, it seemed that Wolf did care for his reputation after all.