by Lavinia Kent
The soft heat that rose from the fire whispered around Lily, lulling her frozen senses. She felt the warmth, knew when it began to penetrate the biting cold, but still she could not control the deep shudders that radiated from her center.
She tried to protest when Arthur stripped off the thick coat, but only managed another long shudder.
“Easy, my girl, let's just get you out of these wet things and then we’ll get you toasty.”
He slipped her sodden gown from her shoulders, revealing the damp lace of her chemise, the rosy peaks of her breasts visible through the damp fabric. She wanted to protest when he pulled the gown down further, easing it over her hips, lifting them himself when she proved incapable, but in truth being rid of the sodden fabric was heaven. When she lay attired only in the translucent chemise, he spread his coat in front of the fire like a blanket and lifted her to it. He halted, watching her with questions hovering about his eyes.
“I need to take off my trousers and shirt or I’ll be too cold to help.”
He hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed as she lay before the flames, warmth seeping into her. She looked up at him softly, her eyes fastened on his long fingers playing with the ivory buttons of his shirt.
She nodded. The time for trust had come.
Eyes locked on hers, he released the buttons one by one, revealing the spattering of light curls she already knew so well. Warmth grew in her belly now, and not from the fire. Arthur unfastened the top of his trousers, and then, pursing his lips in consideration, fetched the decanter of brandy. He poured a full glass and bent to it to Lily’s lips.
She pushed it away before he could move in close, the smell causing her stomach to knot. “Please, no. The fire already warms me.”
He grinned at her expression. “And you had Jeffers believing you needed a new decanter. If you don’t seem completely comfortable in a minute I may reconsider.” He placed the glass on the table. “I’ll need help with my boots, before I divest myself of the remainder of this drenched clothing.”
Lily was toasty now between the heat of the fire, and that deep insatiable ache that flickered to life in her belly. She pressed her hand to her stomach, attempting to fight the growing tingles, barely noticing the pull of the damp fabric revealing the dark curls below. It was useless: she only grew more restless.
She drew herself to her knees, gesturing to the large wing chair. “If you’ll be seated, I’d be happy to act as your valet. It would be churlish of me not to, when you’ve acted with such grace, your grace.”
She smiled at her small play on words. Once he was seated, she knelt before him, taking the sloshing boot in her hands. “Mathers will never forgive me for causing such damage. I am not sure these will ever be the same.”
“He’ll survive the affront.” Arthur’s voice resonated deep and husky.
Lily pulled hard at the boot, trying to dislodge it from his large foot. She managed to remove one, but the second stuck firm. Only when Arthur braced his bare foot against the softness of her belly could she gain the force to yank it free. The boot cleared his toes, spilling its slushy contents across her silk covered chest.
The renewed chill hardened her already taut nipples, causing them to peak against the fine fabric. The material chafed their tender peaks as Lily sucked in her breath. Then Arthur knelt beside her, his large, warm palms reaching to cup her swelling flesh. She shivered and fought to suppress her nervous reaction.
“These show a distinct chill. Do I need to warm them also?”
Desire flared at the catch in his voice. He held her gaze firm, as he lowered the straps of her shift, baring her ivory curves. She sucked in breath, biting down on her lower lip as goosebumps rippled across her – she knew not whether from cold, fear, or the growing flames of desire.
Lowering her eyes she answered, “You might.”
He rubbed his hands back and forth across her breasts, each caress building the ache within her and sending tongues of flame flickering along her spine. When he caught the pearled tips between his fingers a small gasp of pleasure escaped. She let her head loll back as he bent his head to feast, but she did not close her eyes. She must remember where she was, who she was with. At the touch of his lips she forced herself to relax, and then pulled tight as he drew her tender flesh into his mouth, the warm pull drawing deep to her womb. She gasped sharply.
Instantly he pulled back, leaving her hanging, desire rampant within her. She became still, dazed and bewildered. What had she done wrong? She’d been trying so hard.
What was he doing? Arthur fought the desire to push her down before the fire and yield to the demons longing for satisfaction. He had to restrain himself. He needed to seduce her slowly, to spend time accustoming her to his touch and pushing through her fear. He wanted her with him as he climbed the peaks to paradise.
Cursing the weakness of his own flesh he turned away, glad his trousers were still mostly fastened, concealing the rigid pulse of his passion. He shifted, trying to be more comfortable as he fought for control. Taking one deep breath at a time, he tried to turn the course of his ardor. Spying the filled glass on the table he drank down a mouthful himself.
“Why did you stop?” The nervous question cut through his guard.
A frisson of awareness warned him that she had moved close behind him. Even without glancing at her, he knew every inch of that smooth, glistening skin, the velvet curves, the gentle indentation of her waist, the chemise hanging loose about her, its veiling more evocative than bare flesh.
“I don’t want to push you, for you to do this only for me.”
She moved behind, to press against him. Her high breast compressing against his back, the hard nubs sending sizzling shivers down his flesh. Even the cold from outside was not enough to calm his growing desire. She shifted even closer, her soft belly cradling the curve of his buttocks.
“I still don’t understand.”
He took another gulp of the brandy and set the glass down. Unable to contain himself further, he turned, drawing her close so that he was pressed against her softness.
He could scent her faint musk rising above the smoky smell of the fire. He longed to tear asunder the few scraps of fabric still separating them. His nails bit into his palms as he sought containment.
He bent down intending to bestow the sweetest of kisses. She smiled and he watched as his breath rustled her curls. Her eyes pupil dilated with desire . . . and terror.
She shoved him away hard and fell to her knees.
Worthington charged into the room. One minute Lily watched as the young prince of her dreams smiled down at her and the next Worthington shoved him aside and took his place. The scent, the smell, the taste of him surrounding her, filling her, engulfing her. She pushed with all her might against him, falling to her knees in the effort to escape.
She needed her prince.
She looked up, cringing, expecting raised fists and saw Arthur, his face ashen. The black expression in his eyes stung more fiercely than fists ever had.
“I am . . . sorry,” she spoke brokenly. “I don’t know what . . .what happened.”
He turned from her. She watched his back expand, and heard the sigh of the long breath he released.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But . . .”
He reached for his still sloshing boots and pulled them on. His shirt followed. He reached for his great coat, still warming by the fire, and held it out to her.
“Put this on.” He did not turn to look.
“Please, Arthur, let me explain . . .”
“No, not now. Let us just leave this place. It was foolish to come. You would do better with a hot bath.”
He strode to the door, opened it, and held out his hand to her. He kept his glance fastened on the drifts of snow still gleaming in the growing dusk. She slipped her feet into her wet half-boots and started to gather her remaining clothes.
“Leave them. Somebody else will get them.” He gestured curtly with his hand.
Not knowing what to say, how to explain what she didn’t understand herself, she placed her chilled fingers in his heated ones and followed.
Arthur glanced once at her feet, swung her into his arms and marched back towards the house.
Arthur stood in the center of his chamber staring, brooding at the door that separated him from his bride. He could hear the occasional splash indicating that she had followed his directive and called for a bath.
What was he going to do about her? She kept leading him on the path to heaven and shutting the door in his face. If she’d been another woman he would have thought her the most practiced tease.
But, not Lily. It was real terror he kept seeing flash across her face – a terror he’d inspired.
Damn.
A light tapping sounded at the door.
Impatient at the disturbance, he turned to the door. “Come in.”
Jeffers entered. “I need a word with you, your grace.”
“Now?”
Jeffers jaw clenched, but he held firm. “Yes, it’s about the instructions you left in London.”
Arthur glanced back towards the door to Lily’s chamber. “Yes.”
“Your grace.” Jeffers swallowed. “When you left London you indicated that you should be notified immediately if St. Aubin reappeared. Apparently, the moment you were gone he showed his face.”
Arthur turned to stare at the closed door.
“Yes.”
“A rider was sent immediately with word that St. Aubin has taken residence at the Worthington townhouse.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
Jeffers hesitated, his eyes also turning to Lily’s door.
Arthur tapped a finger against the door in impatience. “There is more?”
“Well, John Singer, he was Sir Drake’s witness at the time, only I didn’t know. Well, John and I have on occasion shared a pint and now I hear that he is very flush with funds. Funds he has whispered came from St. Aubin. He is still not changing his story about her grace being the only one there, but he’s not repeating it either. It seems he may have been asleep part of the time and can’t be sure that no one passed him.” Jeffers did not turn to leave.
“What else?”
“Your grace, I hate to bother you further, but, yes, there is more.”
“Yes.”
“When you did not return from your walk one of the footmen went out to check. He saw the fire in the Summer House and prepared to return.”
“Ahh.” Why were they reminding him of this?
“He started back to house when he saw the pond.”
“Yes, the ice was cracked. I am quite aware of that fact.” Arthur no longer bothered to hide is impatience. “The duchess stepped through it.”
“Did she?” Jeffer’s voice quivered as he asked the question.
“Yes. Why do you bother me with this?”
“Well, your grace . . .”
“Get to it.”
“When James, the footman, approached the ice he saw something small buried in the snow. He thought your grace might have dropped something. He found this.” Jeffers held out his hand. A spent musket ball lay within it.
Arthur took it from him. “This was near the break in the ice?”
“Yes, James said the furrow in the snow was fresh or he would not have noticed. It led straight from the crack in the ice.”
Arthur glanced at the closed door again, and wrapped his hand tight around the ball.
“St. Aubin is in London, you say?”
“Yes, there is a man watching him.”
“Good. I will leave at first light.”
“As you say, your grace.”
Lily squinted at the faint line of orange growing on the horizon. She rolled in her bed, unsure what had disturbed her.
“Lily, I return to London.” Arthur’s voice spoke out of the gloom.
She struggled against her sleep-fogged mind. “You do? How can you be away for weeks and then return for just a couple of days? How can you leave now?”
“It is necessary.”
“Oh.” Her brain swirled as she tried to understand. Was it because of yesterday? If only he had given her a chance to talk.
“I did not want to leave without a farewell. I will return as soon as I have affairs in order.”
“Let me go with you.” The words formed faster than her thoughts could follow.
“No.” His voice was harsh.
“Are you afraid I’ll slow you? Is there a reason for haste?”
“Your presence is not required.”
She huddled back into the bed. “Is this because of yesterday?”
Even in the dark she could feel his gaze on her. She could feel him pull the air into his lungs and let it out. “I did not mean to sound so curt. I'm searching for answers about the your husband's death, and St. Aubin’s part in it.”
“St. Aubin. What does he have to do with it? I know he wants Simon, but –.” He wasn’t even sure he heard the whisper.
“I arranged that he will face insurmountable obstacles in obtaining your son, but I believe he’s responsible for the attack on you, and Worthington’s death. If I am correct he may have been responsible for several of your other mishaps as well. I would ask that you do not leave the house and spend as much time as possible with my aunt while I am gone. I have arranged for you to be watched over. Now that I know the danger I can keep you safer here on my lands than I could elsewhere. I must resolve this situation.”
“Don’t.”
“I must. I won’t risk Simon, or you.”
“Please, you don’t understand. Just leave it alone.”
Arthur gazed at her distantly. “What don’t I understand?”
Lily’s belly clenched hard. She could not let him leave now, not as matters stood between them.
“Tell me.” His voice rang with authority.
She hesitated, and then met his eye, blue to blue, deep to clear. The sun rose higher and first light filtered into the room.
Lily sat upright on the bed. “St. Aubin did not kill Worthington. St. Aubin was blameless . . . in that. I killed my husband.”
Chapter Eighteen
As she spoke the dreaded words that began her tale, Lily felt her soul lighten. It felt so good, so powerful to say them aloud. She certainly hadn’t meant to tell Arthur this way, but speaking the words washed her clean. Maybe if she lay it gently before him, told him of the darkness in which she’d dwelt, he’d come to understand.
“You were attacked. I saw the marks,” Arthur said.
“No, there was no attack.”
“I saw the welts.” He strode over to stand beside her. “The doctor explained that only a whip could have made them, and he described a boot print.”
“Yes, I was whipped, but Worthington and I were not attacked.” She could see the strain and confusion on his face, this man she loved. For it could only have been love that prompted her to speak, to do anything to prevent him leaving. The thought terrified her. She wasn’t sure she believed in love. How could she be experiencing it?
“I don’t understand. What you say, it seems insane.”
“I told you my first wedding night was a disaster. What I didn’t say was that he beat me senseless.”
Her words hung stark and simple in the air. Even in his worst imaginings, this had not occurred to him.
“I don’t know if we had marital relations or not. I waited alone, chilled, in my chamber. He strode in and, without a single word, slapped me across the face. It knocked me to the floor. As I lay there at his feet, stunned, he unleashed the most . . . execrable . . . string of curses. Most of them I didn’t understand. Between his blows and kicks, though, I understood the gist of them. Uncle had forced him into the marriage, also. I don’t know how. Worthington planned on wedding an heiress, and instead he got me. Uncle gave me only the smallest portion. I had allowed myself to be seduced – or so he considered – and therefore, I was without value. I’m not sure how long
the abuse continued before I fainted.
“Afterwards, I tried to talk to my uncle, but he refused to listen.”
Arthur turned away from the pain of her words, words that opened worlds he did not wish to see. Of their own accord, his fingers rose and stroked the ridge that marred his cheek. He knew the pain of a single stroke. What would it be like to endure such abuse daily? He turned and reached out to her as she sat among the pillows, tracing the same pattern down her cheek as her words continued to flow.
“It didn’t stop when we moved to Marclyffe. If anything, it grew worse. Anything I did wrong prompted a stern lesson, and I am afraid I was not a good wife. It took me long to learn my proper place. At Marclyffe it didn’t matter who was present. He would slap me in front of the servants. They said nothing. Some even grinned. I learned too slowly to do whatever was asked. Even after I began to obey, I was constantly getting things wrong. My dress was too loose or too tight, I didn’t control the servants enough or I challenged his authority with them. I could never get it right.”
For the first time since she had begun, she slumped, her shoulders falling forward, the long tresses of her hair cascading forward over her face.
“When I knew I was with child, joy filled me. Finally I would have someone to love, someone to love me. I thought Worthington would be happy to have an heir. And I was wrong. Apparently he’d never quite given up the idea of acquiring an heiress. I was merely a fragile inconvenience. I suppose he fancied I would disappear. Apparently, an heir would limit his market to ladies seeking a title for their own offspring. At first, he tried to deny that the child was his, accusing me of every sort of wanton act. Unfortunately for him, trapped at Marclyffe as I was, I’d had no chance for such a dalliance. He knew the child was his own. But it did not soften him.”
Arthur almost could not believe the story she was telling. What kind of man would so misuse his wife, not to mention his child? “You must have been almost . . . relieved . . . when he was killed,” he mused. “Even if you were injured in the fray.”
