by Lavinia Kent
He looked back up at her but his lips remained closed.
Did she have to ask? How did you ask a man if he had a mistress, a mistress with a child? Society ignored these things—at least, publicly. Gossip was whole different matter.
She stared a moment more, waiting.
She felt defeat coming, opened her mouth to speak, but no words sprang forth.
It was his business. He had never claimed to love her, never said he would be faithful to her. Did she have the right to blame him for what he had never promised?
Her heart felt frozen in her chest. She did blame him. It did not matter what was right. It did not matter what was fair. He was her husband. He might never have made promises directly to her, but he had stood in a church with her and made promises before God. That should count for something. That should count for a hell of a lot.
Clenching her hands into fists, she started to back away—only to have him grab her arm and pull her forward, causing her to land solidly on his lap.
He held her there for a moment, her body stiff and unmoving. Even now she loved the feeling of his warmth, of his strength, but she would not bend.
He sighed, his breath heavy upon her throat. “This is not what I wanted.”
“I never expected that it was.” Her voice was barely a squeak, her emotions were so strong.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“I never said you had.”
“Annabelle,” he said her name softly, demanding a true answer.
“Yes, I am hurt. What woman would not be? You are my husband.”
“And not a very good one.”
“I did not say that, either.”
“But you do not deny it.”
She kept quiet, kept her back straight.
He pulled her tighter, wrapping his strength, his heat about her.
It took real will not to soften, not to relax into him.
“Do we need to talk about it?” His question took her by surprise. Surely the difficulty of the day was reason enough to speak.
So it was true? Why else would he not deny it?
“Can we get by if we do not?” She turned her face into his chest, forcing the words from her mouth.
His chest rose and fell rhythmically. He had always been her comfort and now—now she did not know.
“What do you want to know?” His question was low, a rumble in his throat.
Did he love that other woman, that girl? And the baby, was it his? Did he wish the girl was his wife? Did he want a life away from here? Away from her? “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Don’t play games. Is the cartoon true? Do you have another family?”
His head fell forward, his face buried in her hair. “Yes, I have another family.”
CHAPTER FOUR
He felt her stiffen in his lap. He’d known that she would. What woman wouldn’t? He cuddled her closer, wishing he could melt her into the soft lapful of woman she’d been ever since he’d first lured her to his lap long before they were wed.
She did not give an inch. “Will you say more?” Her voice was as polished as any duchess’s.
He pulled a deep breath into his chest and held it. He released it in one long, slow exhale, causing her golden curls to quiver. “Do you want me to?”
It was her turn to inhale. He could feel her thinking. Could you feel a body think? Feel the deep thoughts that whipped through a person when there was no outward sign?
She burrowed her face against him, the soft scent of lilacs surrounding him. “I don’t know.”
He understood her pain, felt it himself. Moving carefully, he wrapped his arms about her still-stiff body.
She sniffled and he moved a hand under her chin, lifting her face to his. “Ask me and I will tell you what I can.”
She stared up at him as if she wished to read the answers in his eyes, the answers to all the questions she was afraid to ask. Then her eyes dropped and he wondered if he had lost her.
Her body remained stiff, but she didn’t pull away.
“Tell me one thing,” she said so quietly that he could barely hear. “Is the baby yours? Did you go to her bed so soon after we arrived? Is it a girl or boy?”
How could he give an answer that Annabelle would understand? He cursed his father for all the secrets that he was not free to tell. He even cursed Margaret for her unwillingness to step forward, to let the world see her for all she was. “The child is a girl. Her name is Emily. And—and she is not mine. The cartoon lies on that one point. She is no babe in arms—though she is still a babe, it is true—but she is over a year, just learning to walk. You know that she could not be mine.”
“Over a year?” Her voice held the first tinge of hope. “She is not yours? I am so relieved. I could not have born it if you had a child, a child that is not mine.”
“Yes, over a year. We were not yet in London when she born, much less conceived.”
It was as if all the bones had been pulled from her, her body collapsed into him, her face pressed into the linen of his shirt, just above his waistcoat. He could feel the dampness of tears, but made no move to see her face. Instead he just held her and let her weep against his chest.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing her cry before, not that he was exactly seeing her now. Annabelle was always so strong, so calm, so reasonable. He’d felt comfortable marrying her because of all those qualities. Now he just wasn’t sure.
Not that he regretted marrying her. If anything he was more sure—at least for himself. It was hard to be sure he’d done right by her when her tears were soaking his shirt.
He shifted her closer on his lap, ignoring his very male response to her proximity.
“Shhh,” he whispered into her hair. “It will be alright.”
That brought a huff of air and an almost laugh. “I don’t see how you can say that.”
He wasn’t sure either. It was just one of those things you say. He hadn’t really thought it through. He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up again, finally staring down into her tear-filled eyes. Her nose shone red, whether from emotion or rubbing against his shirt he did not know. He found it adorable, but sensed that she would not. “I don’t know how I can say it, either. But I must hope that it is true. We can move past this. You mean a lot to me, Annabelle. I value our relationship. I do not want it to change.” He leaned forward to lay a soft—but long—kiss upon her lips.
Annabelle let her eyes drift closed and kissed him back. She wasn’t quite sure what else to do. She wanted to ask more, but was afraid of the answers she knew would come.
He didn’t want their relationship to change. Annabelle considered this, unsure if it was a desirable statement. She could see why it would be true from his point of view. She’d worked hard to be a good wife, uncomplaining of his faults, of his long absences, of the invitations he declined even though he knew she was lonely at home, of how he sometimes rolled into her bed smelling of whisky and cigars, of how he never told her she was pretty, of how he’d get lost in the newspaper and forget she was in the room, of how . . .
She opened her eyes and stared at him, her lips still gentle beneath his, not resisting, but not progressing.
She was kissing her husband and listing all his faults in her mind.
It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous.
And the thought that he could appear in a cartoon like that in the morning and kiss her into sweetness at night!
That might be his greatest fault. And she was letting him do it, so it was her fault as well.
His hands had slipped down her back to settle about her waist, his fingers sliding lower, moving to cup her behind.
She kept staring, trying to see the faults in him. His skin was smooth, not as dark as before they’d left Boston, but still darker than her own. His brows were thick and straight, his nose long and fine, jaw strong. His shoulders lay firm and strong beneath her touch, his belly hard and flat—although she couldn’t
actually see that at the moment.
She closed her eyes again, trying to block him from her thoughts. She needed to decide what she wanted to do—how she wanted to act. Did she really want to be sitting here kissing him while anger still brewed in her belly?
As if sensing her mood, Thomas made no move to deepen the kiss. Instead, he eased back, merely nibbling on her lower lip, before slowly trailing kisses across her cheek.
It felt so good. There had certainly never been problems with this part of their marriage. Almost against her will, her hand slipped up and caressed his face. He hadn’t shaved, his bristles scraping against her flesh. A quiet moan caught her ear—and she realized it was her own.
She pushed back against him, bringing space between them.
They were not panting—things had not reached that point—but it was clear that desire was forming, growing.
What did she want? Annabelle scooted off his lap and stood. Her legs were still trapped between his thighs, but she made no move to step away.
What did she want? It was clear what he wanted.
What did she gain if she gave in? And what did she lose if she did not?
How much could she risk? She’d risked so much already.
Did she have more questions? Yes, of course, she did—but did she truly wish the answers?
The child was not his.
Could that be enough?
She could win him back from another woman—no matter how young and fresh. A child she could not have fought against. Every child should know its father.
But the child was not his.
Thomas was watching her, waiting. The next move was hers.
What did she want?
She stepped back, moved away from him. He did not stop her.
His lips tightened. His fingers clenched.
But he did not stop her.
She turned away, staring at the door to the hall. It stood partly open.
How could she live in a place that did not require closed doors to argue—where all manner of things could be discussed where the servants could hear?
She took a step. And another step. Two steps away from him, from her husband.
What did she want?
The hall was empty before her, the house quiet and silent. No maid whistled. No hallboy called out.
It was silent behind her, also. Silent and cold.
This was not what she wanted.
She paused. Waited. Wished that he would move, that there would be some sound.
There was none.
She fisted her hands once, and then relaxed them. There really was no choice. She had been asking the wrong question. It was not in this moment a matter of what she wanted. It was a matter of what she did not want.
She did not want an empty formal marriage—a marriage like so many of those she saw about her.
Love might not be the foundation of what she had with Thomas. That had been decreed from the start. But they did have something, something special.
If she stepped away from him now, it was possible they would lose that forever.
She did not want that.
She turned back and smiled. It was a tentative smile, not one full of promise or pleasure, but it was a smile that had hope in it. Holding out her hand, her arm trembling slightly, she waited.
Did she really mean it? Only rarely did he doubt himself, but how could a man do anything but wonder when a woman who clearly felt betrayed offered . . . Was she really offering? Did she have some trick in mind? Some way to pay him back as he most probably deserved?
He looked at her face, her sapphire eyes still damp with tears, the trail of those tears still glistening upon her cheeks—and that smile, that smile that nearly broke his heart. She offered no deception. Instead, brave woman that she was, she offered herself.
The seconds ticked by.
Taking her hand, following her up the stairs would be so easy. It was what he wanted, wanted with all his heart—and body. Most definitely his body.
But was it fair to her? He would never offer her more than he already had.
His name.
His respect.
His fidelity.
Home and hearth.
Perhaps children.
But never love. It was not that he did not have love to give. He might not love easily. He had accepted that long ago. But it was not impossible for him to love. No, it was only that he did not love Annabelle. It hurt him even to think it. He had married her for money and because it made sense. He had not married her for love and would not cheat her further by pretending that he had.
He was taking too long. He watched her face grow tense, saw further wariness enter her eyes.
Who was he kidding? Certainly not himself. He knew exactly what he wanted—her.
All the rest of it be damned.
He stood, reached out, and grabbed her hand. And, not waiting for her to lead, he led her up to the bedroom.
As a bride on her wedding day Annabelle had not felt so nervous.
She almost pulled to a stop in the doorway of Thomas’s chamber. His bed was so large, so masculine. It was not that she’d never been there before, certainly she had—although mostly he came to her, to her chamber filled with light-colored wood and pale green upholstery. His room seemed dark and forbidding, full of shadowed corners and massive, heavy furniture. If his grip had not swept her forward, she would never have made it over the threshold.
“Could we go to my room?” Did her voice quiver at the end? She hated it when that happened.
“Do you really want to? We are here, now. Let us proceed.”
But were they proceeding or merely fighting the tide to remain in the same spot? Her earlier resolve felt weak and flimsy. What she was doing was right. She did not doubt that—only herself, her strength, her ability to survive further pain.
She wanted to ask for another day to think, another hour to think, another minute to think.
But what was the point? Delay would only hinder things, make them more difficult. Another day would be a day spent as unpleasantly as the morning carriage ride—simply a lengthening of the denial.
Thomas dropped her hand and turned to face her, his eyes seeking answers to questions she did not know.
He felt far more a stranger to her than he had the first evening that they kissed. She’d known his body so many times and now it felt like she’d never even seen him.
She swallowed, wishing for calmness.
Still holding her glance, Thomas peeled off his coat. Normally she helped him with the task, but this time he managed by himself, twisting his arms and shoulders until the coat slipped free.
She stood and watched, still unsure.
His waistcoat dropped to the floor.
Her mouth grew dry as he pulled off his cravat and then began on the buttons of his fine linen shirt. As the silken skin of his chest grew visible, she had to clench her fists for a whole new reason. She would not touch him, help him. Not yet.
The white of the shirt fell from his shoulders, baring his entire chest. The faint dusting of hair she knew so well made her ache to touch, to stroke.
His shoes clattered to a spot beside the bed. It was good he had not worn boots to dinner.
Sitting on the bed, he used one foot to push down a stocking and then the other. He stood again, so large, so strong. She could not have moved her eyes away if the house had been burning down around her.
For a moment neither of them moved, and then he stepped toward her, then stepped back. There was an indecision about him that she had never seen before. And then his shoulders drew back, only the barest fraction of an inch, but it was enough.
He was himself again.
His lips curved up at the corners, as his hands dropped to his waist, hooking into the band of his pants.
It was hard to breathe; the air seemed solid in her lungs. She raised her own hand, placing it upon her chest, pressing down as if to push the breath out.
Thomas’s smile grew. His
fingers found the buttons of his breeches, easing them from the holes. One button. Two. Only his hands kept the breeches and small clothes up—and then they did not. He stepped with ease from the pool of fabric on the floor.
And now she could not breathe. He stood there naked. Naked and very, very proud. Her eyes dropped and she knew she stared, knew she could not help but stare.
It was the oddest sensation, standing there fully clothed, her hair up, her jewelry still on, with Thomas naked before her. The beat of her heart seemed to echo through the room.
God, he was magnificent, his lines reminiscent of the drawings she’d seen of Donatello’s David, but with far, far more muscles. She’d never really seen him naked before—not all of him. She’d seen all of the pieces, even the important ones—but never before had he just stood there, a living sculpture for her enjoyment.
It was hard to know what to do. Did she go to him, touch him with her hands as she now caressed him with her eyes? Did she remove her own clothing?
No, she did not do that. There was a message here, a message she did not understand, but still a message. He was trying to tell her something by standing here before her, bare and vulnerable. She pursed her lips, considered.
“Don’t you like what you see?” His voice was low, husky—and not lacking in confidence.
“I like it very much. I always have, but you know that. Your body drew me from the start.” And that was certainly true. She’d been drawn by those broad, well-defined shoulders long before she’d ever seen them bare. There’d been something in the way he moved, in the ease with which he turned, the grace in how he handled the reins of his horses that had spoken of the wonder of his body long before she’d seen it.
“Then why the frown? Are you truly lost in deep thoughts at this moment?”
She blushed. “I was thinking about your shoulders. How much I’ve always adored them. They are not as wide or heavy as some, but they have such power, such subtle strength.”
“I am naked and it’s my shoulders you think of? I may be insulted.” He took a step nearer. The scent of masculine musk wafted over her.
“I am a well-brought-up woman. What else should I think of?” Her cheeks heated and she dropped her gaze from his—which would have been fine if it hadn’t left her staring at exactly that other thing she should be thinking of. She must be redder than a boiled beet.
