The ladies withdrew to the drawing room immediately after dinner, leaving the men to their wine. It struck Sir William that Lord Ryde was making even more free with the brandy than usual. They discussed fishing and shooting, and when they eventually joined the ladies, Mrs Bascombe, pleading fatigue, had already gone to bed. His remaining guests also retired almost immediately after the tea-tray had been brought in.
Left to himself, and very disinclined to seek his bedchamber, Lord Ryde instructed Porlock to take the decanter to the library and himself off to bed.
‘Very good, my lord. Shall I shall light more candles in the library?’
‘Don’t bother. These few are more than adequate.’
‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Porlock, not betraying his thoughts by so much as a quiver. ‘The house is locked up and I will leave your lordship’s candle in the hall. Goodnight, my lord.’
Alone at last, his lordship kicked off his boots, threw his coat across a chair, stretched his long legs to the fire, and poured himself a generous measure of brandy to keep the dark at bay.
Upstairs, Mrs Bascombe had undressed slowly, climbed wearily into bed, and reached for her book, only to remember she had left it downstairs. For some time, she lay and looked up at the ceiling and then abruptly sat up and reached for her dressing gown. The house was silent. She had heard everyone come up the stairs and disperse to their chambers. She could disturb Tilly, who would undoubtedly be in bed by now, or she could run downstairs, pick up her book, and be back in her chamber in under two minutes. Grasping her candle, she let herself out of her room.
The landing outside was by no means dark. A small oil lamp burned at the top of the stairs, showing the way. Another was set on a low table in the hall, rendering her own candle superfluous. Mrs Bascombe set hers alongside the oil lamp to collect on her return, and glided silently downstairs.
Entering the library, she flitted across the room like a small, white ghost and felt her heart leap from her chest as a shadow moved and revealed itself as Lord Ryde, sitting motionless beside a dying fire.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded with all the exasperation of one who, for a fleeting moment, thinks he might have seen a ghost.
‘It’s me,’ said Elinor, helpfully, if not grammatically.
‘But what are you doing?’
‘I left my book. What did you think I was doing?’
‘How on earth should I know why you would take it into your head to wander around the house in the middle of the night?’
‘Well, how was I to know you would be slumped by the fire working your way through an entire bottle of brandy?’
‘You’ve known me for a week now. What the devil did you think I would be doing? Reading poetry? Come here.’
Mrs Bascombe, perceiving his lordship was three parts drunk, oddly felt quite reassured and fearlessly approached the fire. More embarrassed by her bare feet than actually being caught in her dressing gown, she curled herself up in the opposite chair. Tucking her dressing gown demurely around her ankles, she gazed at him expectantly.
His brief flash of anger had died away and he now found it hard to meet her disconcertingly bright-eyed gaze. However befuddled he might be, one thing was very clear to him.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘You told me come here,’ she reminded him.
Not having a good answer to this, he picked up his glass, gazed in sudden revulsion at the contents, and replaced it on the tray at his elbow.
‘Are you foxed?’
‘I may be,’ he admitted, cautiously.
She tutted.
‘This is my house, my library, and my brandy, ma’am. Pray take your disapproval elsewhere.’
‘You mistake me. It is not your drinking, but your inability to hold it that I am condemning. My father was right.’
Lord Ryde struggled a little to find his place in this wretched woman’s conversation. Knowing he would regret it, he enquired, ‘Your father?’
‘Yes. I believe you knew him.’
‘I knew of him.’
‘Well, my father was always very loud in his condemnation of those who could not hold their drink. His proud boast was that he could outdrink not only the younger generation, whom he frequently stigmatised as cawkers, by the way, but most of his contemporaries like you, as well.’
‘Like me?’
‘Well, aren’t you one of his contemporaries? After what you said today, you’re obviously much nearer his age than mine.’
‘I am forty-five, ma’am.’
‘Good heavens.’
An ambiguous remark that might, at a push, convey admiration of his youth and vigour, but most probably did not.
‘May I assist you in any way, my lord? Perhaps I can put another log on the fire for you. To save you bending down, you understand.’
At least now he recognised when she was being deliberately provocative.
‘Go away,’ he said, a trifle thickly. ‘I need to finish the bottle and contemplate the ruin of my life and you are interfering with both. Go away.’
She glared at him. ‘Now what have you done?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You never mentioned your ruined life this afternoon, my lord, so I can only assume something catastrophic has occurred since then. What was it?’
Brandy loosened his tongue.
‘It was you, Elinor. It’s always you. You are the catastrophe that dogs my every waking moment. Dear God, I thought George Bascombe had dealt me a mortal blow, but you, with your mud-splattered face and above all, your damnable, infernal ability to pierce my very soul. And even now, at the bottom of a bottle, in the middle of the night, when a man might be safe, here you are, in my library and in my heart and I won’t have you in either. Be dammed to you, madam, I wish I had never met you!’
He rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes.
In every life there is a crossroads. A time when a decision must be made. A path must be chosen. Elinor sat quietly and a thousand disjointed thoughts flashed through her mind.
He was going to America. In one week he would be gone. For good. She would never see him again. It was unlikely she would ever leave Westfield and even more unlikely she would ever leave this neighbourhood. The spring and summer of her life were gone. She had never known passion. She probably never would. She had never been desired. Or known desire. Never wanted or been wanted to the edge of madness. Had Fate – or the devil – granted her one last chance? She could seize it. She should seize it. Was she really going to slide into indigent old age without just one golden memory to take with her? She was her own mistress. She answered to no one. And he was going away. And no one would ever know.
It seemed to her that her legs moved of their own volition. Hardly able to believe her own actions, she seated herself on the arm of his chair and put her arms around his neck, knowing that if he repulsed her now then she would die of shame. The sane half of her hoped he would. The other half remembered her sunbonnet sailing over the garden wall. Throwing her cap over the windmill …
He made a small sound and reached for her, pulling her down onto his lap. He took her hand and kissed her fingers.
‘I can’t do this. I can’t take advantage of you like this.’
‘On the contrary, my lord, it is I who am taking advantage of you.’
‘I may be too drunk to know what I’m doing.’
‘I am counting on it.’
‘Elinor, you are a guest in my house. Dear God, when I think of what Lady Elliott would say should she walk in now.’
‘Are you expecting her?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Then why should she? Don’t tell me you’ve been throwing out lures to her as well. She’s a married woman. Have you no shame?’
‘No. Stop. Stop. Elinor …’
‘These protestations would be so much more believable if you were not holding me so tightly I can barely breathe.’
His grip
slackened slightly.
‘Don’t you want me, my lord?’
He buried his face in her hair.
‘God, yes. Beyond reason. Beyond sanity. I can feel your warmth and softness and I’m almost beyond control. You might as well be naked.’
‘In a very short time, I hope to be.’
‘Elinor, this is your last chance. For God’s sake, go.’
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘For your sake, I shall stay.’
He kissed her. Hard and fast, then released her, his eyes very bright.
‘If you stay, you know what will happen?’
‘I look forward to it.’
He stood, suddenly, lifting her with him and set her gently on her feet.
She reached up and with trembling fingers, untied his already loosened cravat. His shirt came off over his head.
Still he held back.
‘Elinor. Ellie, you are not the first woman I’ve had. Or even the tenth.’
‘Oh, good. I look forward to being the recipient of your expertise.’
He swayed slightly.
‘I have wasted so much of my life.’
‘You are lucky. My life was wasted for me. Please. Ruin me. Ruin me now.’
His mouth came down hard and he pushed himself against her, all caution gone. She reached eagerly for him. Somehow, her dressing gown came off and pooled around her ankles. He wondered briefly if she trembled with excitement or fear. He was on fire for her, his blood thickening. Desire had become a need. And that need had become an imperative. If she touched him now …
Again, he drew back.
‘I can’t. Oh God, Elinor. This should be a special time for you. I know you’ve been married before, but I should make this wonderful and all I know is that I want you. Now. Hard. I am so insane with desire for you that I can’t give you what you deserve and …’
‘Never mind what I deserve. Give me what I want.’
She untied the ribbons of her nightdress and pulled it down over her shoulders. It slipped to the floor with the faintest whisper of silk and it was his undoing.
He bore her backwards, remembering her injured shoulder just in time to cushion her fall. Her hands scrabbled at his waist. He tore at his breeches and kicked them away. Her body was a miracle of shadow and light and he gave himself up to it. Lost in her. Drowning in her.
For Mrs Bascombe, it was a revelation. Similar occasions in the past had been an opportunity to review the crop timetable or calculate the rent roll for the coming quarter. She now found herself unable to remember her own name, far less catalogue the repairs necessary to the old barn.
His hands were rough and demanding. There was no gentleness in him. Nor did she want it. She wanted to explore him. To touch every inch of him. To curl her fingers in his coarse chest hair. To run her hands over his flat stomach. To feel his muscles clench. To hold him. To stroke him. To push him past all control …
He was whispering incoherently into her hair. His breath was hot on her neck. His hands were everywhere on her body at once. She was lost – in every sense of the word; her heart thumping so loudly he must surely be able to hear it. He could certainly feel it, as she could feel his. Beating fast and hard. Racing.
Heat pooled low in her belly and when he touched her there, her legs moved of their own accord. His fingers moved inside her and she cried aloud, a storm of sensation breaking over her. She could feel a rhythm. Tension built inside her, demanding release – violent release.
They were equal in their need for each other. Two lonely people, whose lives had been blighted and had never recovered. He – going to the devil as fast as he could manage and she just wishing she could. No longer satisfied by his life, he needed to come home. She – no longer satisfied with her life, needed to escape. To spread her wings. To fly.
And then he was pushing himself inside her, matching her rhythm, matching her breathing, moving with hard, strong thrusts, giving and receiving pleasure, while she arched herself towards him, clawing at his back in her own frenzy, soaring, until suddenly, the world fell away. There was silence. And falling. And deep happiness. And again. And again. Until finally, there was nothing left.
She opened her eyes. He had moved slightly, his weight was lessened and she could catch her breath. One hand still cupped her breast. And he was crying. Quietly. She could feel his body shudder. She closed her eyes and let pity overwhelm her.
When she opened her eyes again, he was sitting beside her, wearing his shirt. He had covered her with her dressing gown. She should not, she knew, draw comparisons between this and previous experiences, but this little courtesy surprised and moved her.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Elinor, we have just given ourselves to each other. I think you may now use my given name.’
‘John.’
‘Why do you say that? Most people call me Jack. Only my father called me John.’
‘Jack is another man. John is the man here today. I prefer John to Jack.’
‘I think – so do I.’
He lay down beside her.
‘I love having you here beside me. I would give anything to sleep now and wake tomorrow with you still here. But at the risk of sounding discourteous, my little witch, you must go.’
‘I am impressed at this concern for my shattered reputation.’
‘As you said, Jack is gone. It is John Ryde speaking now and he is in a fever of anxiety that someone will walk in. There would be hell to pay, you know. Neither of us would survive.’
‘I do know. I thank you for your care of me. Again.’
He drew her to her feet.
‘Let me help you.’
‘You?’
‘Well, I admit I am more accustomed to removing female apparel than replacing it, but it seems fairly straightforward. One simply reverses the process.’
Two tangled minutes later, he was forced to admit defeat.
‘Stop laughing, Elinor.’
‘Your efforts are commendable, but you definitely need more practice.’
‘It’s not easy, you know. There are only so many times you can forcibly dress a woman.’
‘Should I send Tiller to give you some lessons?’
‘I am not dressing and undressing Tiller, Elinor. Not even for you.’
‘I am ready now. You may, if you wish, salvage your self-respect by tying my sash.’
‘And now, I shall escort you to your room.’
‘Thus ensuring, that should we be seen, everyone will know what has been happening. I will go alone and if anyone sees me, I have been collecting my book. Goodnight … John.’
He cupped her face in his hands.
‘Tomorrow, I want to talk to you. In the meantime, goodnight, Ellie.’
The oil lamps were still burning. The house was still silent and she found her candle with no difficulty. Congratulating herself that no one would ever be any the wiser, she slipped quietly into her room to find Laura Fairburn awaiting her.
Mrs Bascombe softly closed the door behind her.
They contemplated each other.
‘Laura, they’re going to America.’
Miss Fairburn paled.
‘Both of them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Elinor, they can’t. What can we do?’
Mrs Bascombe smiled slightly.
‘Well, I have made a start.’
Mrs Fairburn got to her feet with sudden decision.
‘Then so can I!’
Mrs Bascombe had a sudden vision of her friend marching down the landing, fired with resolve – and possibly other things – while Mr Martin slept peacefully on, unaware of his fate bearing down upon him..
She put out a hand,
‘No, Laura. No. ‘
‘But Elinor …’
‘No, Laura. I have been married. I’m a widow. I answer to no one. You, on the other hand …’
‘It doesn’t matter. If I never marry then it’s not important.’
‘Oh, Laura, it
does matter. You know it matters. Our cases are not the same. And your Mr Martin is an honourable man.’ As opposed to Lord Ryde, who most definitely was not. ‘Do not, I beg of you, put him in that position.’
‘But America?’
‘They are not there yet. Do not despair. Something may yet happen.’ She took her friend’s hand. ‘We have fixed worse things than this, Laura. Just promise me …’
Miss Fairburn smiled. ‘I promise. And now, with second thoughts, I’m sure I would have run away before he opened the door.’
She stood up.
‘I’m tired and I’m sure you must be, too.’
‘A little. Why are you here, anyway?’
‘Oh, I thought I heard a sound. I wasn’t sure if it was inside or outside. I came to see if you heard it, too. But you weren’t here.’
‘I went to get my book,’ said Mrs Bascombe, firmly.
‘And where is it?’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’
Mrs Bascombe gave up. It had been a long day.
‘We will talk about this tomorrow,’ and remembered Lord Ryde saying something very similar. It was going to be a long day tomorrow, as well.
Chapter Ten
If Mrs Bascombe thought meeting Lord Ryde over the breakfast table the next morning would prove awkward, she was mistaken. He barely glanced up as she entered the room, greeted her politely but casually, and resumed his conversation with Sir William. They were discussing fishing again, she gathered.
Mrs Bascombe had a busy breakfast. She received the news of Dr Joseph’s impending visit with equanimity, she debated the merits of rod over line with Sir William, a subject about which she cheerfully admitted complete ignorance and agreed demurely to another walk in the walled garden with Lord Ryde, should the weather stay fine.
Dr Joseph professed himself delighted with his patient but warned her against attempting to do too much too soon.
‘For I know you of old, Mrs Bascombe and I hope very much this will be my last visit. Your wound is healing exactly as it should and provided you behave yourself, I foresee no problems at all. Miss Fairburn, I rely upon you.’
So saying, he closed his bag, informed Mrs Bascombe she should be well enough to return to Westfield the next day, or possibly the day after – which was something Mrs Bascombe unaccountably forgot to mention when she joined Lord Ryde in the walled garden later that morning.
A Bachelor Establishment Page 12
