by Jane Feather
“And you still won’t tell me?”
He shook his head, but his eyes darkened with that pain and anger she now recognized.
“It’s a tale I must carry to my grave, Octavia. There’s no way to redress the wrong now. And nothing to be gained by passing it on.”
Her own eyes flashed. “You are wrong,” she stated flatly. “You have never been more wrong, Rupert Warwick.”
Before he could say anything, her mouth fastened on his in a kiss of such desperate hunger that he was engulfed in the power and passion of her conviction. His own certainty of the hopelessness of the present and the future dissolved under the sweeping wave of her need and the force of her will.
Her hands were hard on his shoulders as her tongue drove into his mouth, drinking his sweetness, devouring, possessing with all the fervor of a vampire in agonized need of his life’s blood. Her lower body moved sinuously over his loins, her thighs parting as she captured his erect flesh in the throbbing cleft of her body. She lowered herself onto him without releasing his mouth, and he pressed deep within her as she rose and fell against him, her nails scribbling against his skin, her teeth nipping his hp.
He had no active part to play in this. Octavia was loving him with all the possessive, driving need of a long-deprived lover, and he lay still beneath her orchestration, his body thrumming with pleasure as her own was on fire, her wet skin searing his, her hungry words of earthy sensuality rustling against his ear.
She raised her head and he looked up into her face, transfigured by desire and its growing fulfillment. Her skin glowed translucent, her eyes were huge with wonder, her lips hungrily parted. She ran her tongue over her lips, then bent and licked the salt sweat that beaded his forehead.
“I want you,” she whispered. “God, how I want you.”
She surged above him, her hips moving rapidly with each thrust that drove him deeper and deeper inside her. And when he touched her womb and her eyes widened as the explosion of glory grew ever closer, she said fiercely, “I will not let you die, Rupert.”
And then her body convulsed around him and he was devoured in her fires, swept into dissolution on the tidal wave of her passion, and her words flew away like torn scraps of paper in a tornado.
Until the tide receded and the fires went out. And then he heard them again, whispered against his ear. He had no answer for her, and Octavia didn’t ask for one.
She lay beached upon him in the rapidly cooling water, her heart slowing, matching the rhythm of his, beating against her breast. Then she pushed herself up onto her knees and laughed down at him, her expression so light and easy, her eyes so full of amusement and the glow of fulfillment that he wondered if he’d imagined the intensity of those whispered words.
“There, now. Isn’t that a wonderful cure for bruises?”
“None better,” he agreed, grasping her hips firmly. “And perfectly appropriate behavior for a tavern wench.” His hands slipped behind to pat her bottom. “But not, I fear, for the veiled lady.”
“Oh, I daresay she’ll be making very few visits,” Octavia said airily, moving her backside seductively against his palms. “Only enough to create a degree of mystery.”
“Hop out,” Rupert said, releasing her with a final pat. “Before young Amy comes in and starts fussing.”
“Jealous child, isn’t she?” Octavia observed, clambering dripping from the tub. “Now, where did I put the towels? … Oh, here they are, still in the basket.”
She drew out a thick white towel and wrapped it efficiently around herself before holding up a second. “Come, my lord. Allow me to dry you and anoint your bruises.”
Smiling, he stepped out in a shower of drops and stood obediently as Octavia rubbed him dry, walking all around him with a little frown of concentration as she blotted the water from his skin and then smoothed arnica on the livid bruising.
“How about here?” she murmured mischievously, her hands sliding down over his belly. “I’m sure a little here would be beneficial.”
Rupert grasped her wrists and held them away from him. “Mercy, Octavia! I need some recovery time.”
“Pshaw!” she said scornfully. “Since when?”
“Since I was worked over by a trio of hefty barbarian bullies,” he declared.
Octavia was instantly contrite. “Oh, poor sweet, how thoughtless of me.”
She hurried over to the bundle she’d brought with her. “See, I have here clean linen and your riding clothes. I thought you’d be more comfortable in buckskins, rather than anything more formal.”
“I’m not expecting an invitation to St. James’s Palace, certainly,” he agreed wryly, taking the bundle from her.
Octavia looked as if she was about to say something; then she closed her lips firmly and bent to pick up her own discarded garments. There was silence for a minute as she peeled off her soaked stockings.
Rupert buttoned his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his britches with a sigh of relief. Clean clothes had a most amazingly revivifying effect, he reflected. Although, of course, he probably should put his present sense of well-being down to rather more than a new wardrobe.
He glanced at Octavia, who was slipping her bare feet into the wooden clogs. She looked up quickly, feeling his eyes on her, and smiled.
“You look much more yourself.”
“I feel much more myself,” he agreed, passing a hand over his chin. “And once I’ve shaved, I shall be completely restored.”
“Ben said he’d come to see you. He said Bessie would be bound to load him with victuals and other goodies for you.”
She perched on the broad windowsill, idly swinging her legs, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her back, as he lathered his face and applied the razor.
“He’s taking it very hard,” she added.
Rupert made no reply. He knew how Ben would be feeling. The tavern keeper had lost two of his closest friends to the hangman in February. Gerald Abercorn had been almost a brother to him. To face the loss of another dear friend would be dreadful to endure.
Octavia looked over her shoulder, down into the pressyard. The scene had an anarchic air to it, and it was almost impossible to tell those prisoners without irons from their friends, families, or the various shopkeepers who moved among them with their wares. Surely, it ought to be possible to smuggle one man out in the melee?
She glanced back at Rupert, his broad back bent over the mirror. Lord Nick would be hard to disguise, but there had to be a way.
Looking back again, she saw Ben shouldering his way through the throng. He carried two panniers slung over his shoulders.
“Here’s Ben.”
“Ah, good.” Rupert wiped the lather from his face with a towel and examined himself in the cracked glass. “I feel a new man. You’re a miracle worker, sweeting.” He turned and opened his arms to her.
“Just a minor miracle,” she said, coming into his arms, resting her head against his breast. “I’m sure I can work a bigger one.”
He stroked her hair, ran a tracing finger over the line of her jaw, but said nothing.
“Ah, there y’are, Nick. I see miss ’as brought ye some fresh raiment.” Breathing heavily from the steep climb with his burdens, Ben came into the room. His voice was cheerful, but it was belied by his haunted eyes and drawn countenance.
“Bessie’s sent me with enough victuals to feed an army.” He dumped the panniers onto the table.
“Young Amy’s nose really will be out of joint,” Octavia said, jumping off the sill. “She’s Nick’s laundress, Ben, and most possessive. Practically tried to throw me out.”
Ben regarded her in some astonishment. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but I’m not surprised. Right little trollop ye looks.”
Octavia offered him a merry twirl. “I doubt my identity will be compromised in this guise.”
“No, reckon not,” Ben said.
“Well, I’ll leave you two together,” Octavia said. “I have some errands to run.”
; “Not dressed like that, I trust.” Rupert raised his eyebrows.
“No, dressed as Lady Warwick,” she said. “It wouldn’t do for both of us to disappear from society at this point. People believe you’re out of town for a few days, and they must continue to believe that. When you reappear, we don’t wish for any awkward questions.”
The two men exchanged a look; then Rupert said, “No sign of Frank, I suppose.”
“Not so far.” She came over to kiss him. “I’ll come back this afternoon … as the veiled lady. Is there anything you want me to bring?”
“A chess set and books. Ask your father’s advice. Something that will occupy my mind … some Roman history, perhaps.”
Octavia nibbled her bottom hp. “He thinks you’re away on business. How can I explain such a request?”
“You’ll think of something,” he said, kissing her brow. “You’ll find money in the strong box in my book room, if you need it. The key is in the top drawer of the desk. You’ll also find the deeds to Hartridge Folly in the box.”
“Already? You have the house from those swine?”
“Almost. There are a couple of formalities to go through first. But Ben knows what to do.”
“Aye, that I do,” Ben said, nodding. “Don’t fret yerself on that score, missie.”
“I wasn’t,” she said truthfully. How to explain now what a hollow triumph it seemed?
“Until later, then?” She managed a smile and left them.
Rupert went to the window, watching as she reappeared beneath. She looked up and waved. He waved back and stood looking as she threaded her way through the crowd to the dark, narrow passage leading to the great gate. He watched her say something to the gate keeper at the entrance to the passage, her head in its bright kerchief nodding briskly; then she passed on and disappeared onto Holborn, into the freedom of the outside world.
He turned back to Ben. “Well, old friend. Let’s not be melancholy. I’ve some instructions for you.”
“Aye.” Ben sat down at the table and pulled one of the panniers to him. “Let’s take a glass of port while we’re about it.”
Octavia hurried along Holborn. Rupert had given up. He’d given up before they’d even begun. How could he do such a thing? Maybe no one had ever escaped from Newgate, although she found that hard to believe; but even so, there had to be a first time. She would not give up. And she would not give up her part in their joint venture, either. Maybe if she got the ring back, Rupert would see that there was still a future, if he’d fight for it.
And even if he couldn’t see that—even if he continued to believe there was no future—at least he’d have the satisfaction of knowing that he had redressed whatever dread injury Philip Wyndham had done him. He might say that there was no longer anything to be gained by it. He might say that he would carry the secret to his grave. But she would prove him wrong.
How to do it, though?
She ducked into an alley as a crowd of chanting, banner-waving apprentices surged up the street toward her.
“No popery … no popery.” The familiar chant filled the sultry air. Their faces glistened with sweat and enthusiasm as they passed. One of them bent and picked up a stone. It crashed into a pastry cook’s stall.
“Eh, you!” The pastry cook bobbed up from behind the stall, red-faced with outrage. “You there! What d’ye think you’re doin’?”
“No popery!” the lad jeered. “You write that on yer stall, mate, and you won’t get no more stones.” Someone laughed, and a chorus of agreement swelled in the ranks of the group. Another stone flew to crash harmlessly against a door post across the street.
Octavia drew back into the shadows. Something ugly was in the air.
She waited until they had passed and then went on her way, reflecting how strange it was that a few short hours ago Rupert’s deceit and trickery had assumed such ghastly proportions in her mind—so ghastly that she couldn’t imagine ever being able to forgive, and certainly never to forget. And now it seemed the merest nothing. A misunderstanding that had happened between two people before they had known each other. Rupert had had a desperate plan that had required desperate measures, and he had simply used what measures were at his disposal.
At his disposal. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the road. Bessie had presumably supplied the drug. If there were drugs that could release such responses, surely there could be drugs that would do the opposite.
She stood still as the idea blossomed. It was perfect. All she needed was Bessie’s cooperation. And for Nick, Bessie would do anything.
Chapter 23
Letitia stood in the empty nursery, her arms crossed over her breast. She felt as if she’d lost a limb, or as if the blood had ceased to flow to a part of herself, deep inside. Susannah’s crib, hung with filmy pink gauze, still stood beside the window, but the delicate baby smell, that enticing mélange of new-drawn milk and vanilla, no longer invested the air.
Letitia moved around the room, her fingers trailing over the chest, the low armless chair where she’d rocked her child. She picked up a knitted lamb with a pink ribbon around its neck. Susannah had loved it and somehow it had been forgotten in the flurry of departure. Was she crying for it?
The nursery at Wyndham Manor was a low-ceilinged room high under the eaves. The furniture was heavy and old-fashioned, the walls crossed with oak beams, the floor sloping and creaky. Unlike this bright, airy room overlooking the London square. A room where Susannah’s cooing still echoed in the corners and Letitia could still see her toothless smile from the crib.
She replaced the knitted lamb on the mantelpiece and went to the door, her step slow and reluctant. It was already the beginning of June. It wouldn’t be long now before society made its exodus from town and dispersed to the country or to the fashionable spas like Bath.
Philip had not yet told her what his plans would be for the summer, but she couldn’t believe they wouldn’t include some time at Wyndham Manor. However, she didn’t want to ask him in case her anxiety was too apparent. If he sensed it, he would exploit it, and maybe deprive her of a visit to Sussex altogether.
As she descended the staircase, she heard the butler greeting a visitor in the hall below. Letitia turned to go back upstairs. She was expecting no visitors of her own and had no wish to meet any of Philip’s.
Then she paused, listening, as a woman’s voice said, “If you’d be so good as to ask Lord Wyndham if I could have a word with him on urgent business.”
“I’ll tell his lordship that you’re here, ma’am,” the butler replied. “If you’d like to wait in the salon.”
Letitia nibbled a fingernail. The voice was Lady Warwick’s. Did she have another assignation with Philip? Somehow Letitia had gleaned the impression that all was not smooth sailing in that ocean, but whether that was because the lady was playing hard to get, or Philip was losing interest, she couldn’t guess.
She remained where she was as her husband crossed the hall, his booted feet clicking on the marble tiles. He opened the door to the salon, and his voice, cool and ironic, rose upward.
“Lady Warwick. This is an unexpected pleasure. To what do I—” The door closed on the rest of his sentence.
Letitia thoughtfully made her way to her own apartments. If matters were awry between her husband and his mistress, she devoutly hoped that they were about to be put right. Philip’s mood was even more vicious and volatile these days, and he was paying his wife far more attention than she could stoically endure.
In the salon Octavia smiled warmly at the earl, drawing off her gloves as she stepped toward him.
“Philip, my dear, I had to come and apologize for that stupid business the other day. I am so embarrassed and discomfited.” She clapped her palms to her cheeks as if to cool their heated flush, and her eyes fixed him with a pleading, self-deprecating gaze.
“I’m to assume you’re no longer indisposed,” he remarked, unsmiling. He turned to the decanter on the table and poured two glasses of wine, tak
ing a sip of his own before carrying the second glass to her.
“Thank you,” she said almost timidly. “I know you have every right to be put-out, Philip. It was a damnably inconvenient thing to happen. But so was being held up by that dreadful man.”
She shuddered and took a large sip. “Thank heavens they have him fast in Newgate. Shall you go to see him hanged?”
Philip laughed. “How bloodthirsty you sound, my dear. But yes, most certainly I shall.”
He regarded her over the Hp of his glass, thinking how desirable she was with those enormous liquescent eyes and the pink flush on her cheekbones against the ivory tints of her complexion. His eye drifted to her bosom, swelling gently above the lace edging to her gown of pale-green cambric over a white muslin petticoat. A sash of dark-green velvet accentuated her waist and the curve of her hips.
He licked his lips unconsciously as a greedy rush of desire filled his loins, brought a mist of perspiration to his brow. She was there because she wanted him, too. No other reason would have brought her, after that humiliation, to issue such a mortifying apology.
He placed his glass on the table. “Come here.”
She came to him with gratifying obedience, her step quick, her smile tentative yet eager. He pulled her against him, catching her face between his hands, bending her head back on her neck with the pressure of his mouth as he assaulted her lips and the delicate softness of her mouth.
She moaned and moved sinuously against him, pressing her loins to the fullness of his, her hands sliding over his body, under his coat, around to his buttocks to grip and knead with busy fingers.
“Goddammit, Octavia,” he said savagely, as he raised his head just as she was afraid her neck would snap. “Goddammit, but you drive me to madness, woman! I will have you!”
“Yes … yes,” she whispered. “Soon … when … it must be soon.”
She looked up into his intent face, his eyes slate-gray slits. Such a beautiful face, Octavia thought. But something was wrong with it. Again she was haunted by that strange, disorienting sense of something familiar gone awry.
