by Diane Gaston
She could not help but ask, ‘What do you think of it?’
His gaze circled the area. ‘It is certainly different.’
Faint praise, but at least different had been what he’d asked for.
She gestured to the walls. ‘Mr Good, the architect, said he was familiar with the floor plan of these town houses. He said there was not much we could change, because of the confines of the space, but he did manage to move doorways and such.’
She pointed to the left. ‘There will be a small drawing room there where callers can wait, but behind the stairway will be the servery and the cloak room, such as was probably there before. Behind that is the morning room.’ She turned to the right. ‘The room in front can be a library or a drawing room. The dining room is behind it, but come see this.’
She led him to the morning room. ‘Look,’ she said, spinning around. ‘Mr Good put in larger windows and a door here. See all the light in here!’ The windows looked out on to the small garden in the back of the house. The door opened on to the garden. She could imagine this space some day planted with flowers and shrubs, with a little room for a kitchen garden as well.
The curtains in the morning room were a sky blue similar to the hall wallpaper, trimmed in the orange also featured there. The walls were papered with Chinese birds and flowers against a pale blue background. In the centre of the room was a round table, with four chairs around it upholstered in the orange of the curtain-trim. The carpet contained myriad colours in an oriental pattern.
‘This room is done,’ she explained. ‘Except for paintings on the walls. I thought you might want to pick those yourself. Perhaps bring some from your country estate.’
They heard footsteps and voices in the hall. It would be Mr Walters and the men who brought in the furniture that was to arrive today.
Mr Walters was in the hall, indeed. He stood with some sturdy-looking workmen.
‘My lady,’ Mr Walters said with surprise. ‘You are here.’ He gestured to the men who pulled on their forelocks. ‘We were just about to leave. Do you want to see if the rooms above are arranged correctly?’
‘No, I do not wish to keep you if you are ready to leave.’
Dell joined her in the hall.
Mr Walters bowed to him. ‘Lord Penford.’
Dell nodded.
‘Thank you all,’ Lorene said. After Mr Walters and the workmen left, she turned to Dell. ‘Let me show you the upstairs.’
They walked up to the first floor.
The architect had warned her that the floor plan of this floor would also be similar to how the rooms were configured before, but he changed whatever he could. He made the doors to the drawing room double the size of ordinary doors. The room was spacious and continued the blue theme. This time a lovely blue damask covered the walls. The same fabric was used to upholster two couches and several chairs were covered in gold damask. A gold filigree outlined the new white marble fireplace and the white trim around the doors. Above the fireplace was a huge gold-framed mirror that rose to the ceiling.
The chairs sat in the middle of the oriental carpet in a haphazard way, not at all arranged in any sensible order.
Lorene walked over to them. ‘These will not do. Help me place them where they should be.’ She picked up a chair.
He took the chair from her. ‘I will move the furniture; you tell me where.’
The sofas were already in place against their matching walls. They arranged the chairs in front of them and the tables between. Against other walls were cabinets and tables meant for vases of flowers and such.
She surveyed the room. ‘It needs decorative items. Perhaps a card table. Or a pianoforte. But otherwise it is done.’
It was a beautiful room, Lorene thought, with a great deal of impact, but perhaps he did not wish for such vibrancy. She turned to see his reaction, her heart pounding.
‘It is nothing like I remember,’ he said.
‘One more room to show you,’ she said, this time forcing her enthusiasm.
* * *
Dell took one more look at the drawing room before following her across the hallway to another closed door.
He was stunned by what she’d shown him. The house he remembered had white or pale green walls with plasterwork trim, like so many houses influenced by architects like Robert Adam. The bold colours Lorene chose were nothing like that and nothing like she had done at Summerfield House.
She opened the door and walked into the next room. He followed her.
It was the bedchamber. Not blue, but a golden yellow that reminded him of sunshine. The curtains were in the same silk fabric as the walls, a striped pattern similar to the hall downstairs. In this room everything seemed to be in its place. A washstand with basin and pitcher. A mirror. A chest of drawers. Chairs. Tables.
The mahogany bed dominated the room. Its posters were carved into spirals. Its bed curtains were gold fabric with a different pattern than that on the walls.
Lorene crossed the room and opened a door. ‘The—the dressing room is here.’ He could see mahogany shelves and drawers.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what this space looked like before.
Nothing like this.
‘I can always change anything you do not like,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay for what you don’t use, of course.’
Pay? He would not make her pay.
His gaze swept the room again. ‘It is nothing like I’ve seen before,’ he said.
She lifted her chin. ‘I will do it over.’
He strode over to her. ‘No. No. You misunderstand. It is so very different. All the colour.’
‘It is what the magazines show. Like the interiors of Carlton House.’ She was still trying to explain, but it was he who should unravel his emotions upon seeing what she’d done.
He could say he wasn’t used to this new idea of bright colours on the walls and the furniture and the carpets, but that was really of no consequence to him. He liked the colours she chose.
Was it the loss of the old house that bothered him? That was another part of his life that would never return. It was the intruding vision of the fire and of his family and those poor maids trapped in it that pained him. He had not realised that he would miss the house as it used to be. It made no sense, though. It wasn’t even a house he ever considered home. Home was Penford, but he couldn’t bear the memories that were sparked in every part of that house and estate. He’d asked Lorene to change this sad place. He’d asked her to erase the old house. She did just that, so how could he complain?
These rooms would never make him think of his family, but they would make him think of Lorene. He’d see her in every corner, in every shade of blue and yellow, every choice of table and chair.
How could he tell her that? How could he bring another woman—Lady Alice, perhaps—into these rooms and not be thinking of Lorene? How could he even think about bringing another woman to that bed, when it was Lorene he could picture there?
He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I like what you have done,’ he told her.
She looked up into his eyes. ‘Truly?’
‘Yes.’
Her expression relaxed and the worry left her eyes. ‘I am so glad.’ She spun away from him. ‘It is ready for you, Dell, if you choose to move here.’ She extended her arms as if to encompass the whole room. ‘There are enough rooms ready that you could live here now. You have a drawing room to receive guests, a bedchamber to sleep in and the morning room will do for dining until the dining room is ready. The kitchen is complete, as well, and rooms for the servants below stairs. The other rooms merely need furniture and wall coverings, but all that can be done while you live here.’ She continued to circle the room. ‘You’d need servants, of course, but not many at first. A cook. A housekeeper. A butler or simply a footman. A maid
of all work.’
He gazed at the sunshine she’d placed on the walls. He’d been plunged in darkness when he first met her, but she’d always been a bright light in his life. Lately he’d been trying to stave off the darkness by not letting anything—or anyone—matter to him. At that dinner party, the one where her mother broke down in tears, he’d realised how much the Summerfields did matter to him—the Summerfields, the Northdons, Glenville, Tess, even Ross’s father. He’d realised that Lorene mattered most of all.
She danced up to him, extending her arms for him to grasp. ‘What do you say? Would you live here?’
He could not answer. Their gazes caught and he pulled her closer until his arms reached around her.
Seeing her so happy made his heart swell. He’d always had to dampen his attraction to her—when she was married; when her husband died—he’d not even admitted it to himself how much he desired her.
Now he could allow desire to overtake him.
He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.
She stood perfectly still, like a young girl unschooled in lovemaking. Or one who disliked his liberty.
He backed off. ‘Forgive me, Lorene. I should not have done that.’
Her eyes were huge and still focused on him.
‘Why did you?’ she whispered.
‘Because I have long wanted to,’ he answered honestly.
‘Then why did you stop?’ Her gaze remained fixed on his.
‘You seemed not to desire it.’
She lowered her lashes. ‘I—I did not know how to respond. I am unused to such things.’
‘Unused to kisses?’ Did not Tinmore kiss her?
‘My husband’s kisses were nothing like that,’ she said breathlessly.
He took her in his arms again. This time she rose on tiptoe and met his kiss.
* * *
His lips felt wonderful, not cold and lifeless like the pecks Tinmore sometimes bestowed. Lorene pushed any thought of Tinmore out of her mind. Nothing mattered but that it was Dell kissing her.
Her old romantic dreams burst forth. Why hold back? Dell’s kiss was even more than she could have imagined. Why not give herself to it?
She pulled off her bonnet and threw her arms around his neck, answering the press of his lips with eagerness. He urged her mouth open and she readily complied, surprised and delighted that his warm tongue touched hers.
He tasted wonderful.
She plunged her fingers into his hair, loving its softness and its curls. She liked his hair best when it looked tousled by a breeze. Or mussed by her hands.
He pressed her body against his and the thrill intensified. How marvellous to feel his muscles, so firm against her. And more. She felt the hardness of his groin, most thrilling of all. One hand slid down from his hair to his arm to his hip. How wanton was that? How like her mother she must be to want to touch him.
But she was a widow, was she not? Was not everyone telling her she had licence to do as she pleased? It pleased her to touch him. Although she was not quite brazen enough to touch that hard part of him that thrilled her most of all.
‘Lorene,’ he groaned as his hands pressed against her derrière, intensifying the sensations in all sorts of ways. ‘We should stop.’
She did not want to stop. ‘Why?’ She kissed his neck. ‘I am a widow. Are not widows permitted?’
‘Do not tempt me,’ he said, though his hands caressed her.
She moved away, just enough that he could see her face. ‘If you do not want this, then, yes, we should stop, but I do desire it, Dell.’
For a long time, she realised. Since she first met him. He was the man she had dreamed about in her youth, a good man, kind, honourable, handsome. But something more, something that made her want to bed him.
His lips took possession of hers once again and he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She kicked off her shoes and he pulled off his boots. She’d never thought of clothing as a barrier, but it felt so now. He might think her terribly fast, but she was a widow. Did not gentlemen have affairs with widows without anyone blinking an eye?
She unbuttoned her pelisse and slipped it over her shoulders, tossing it aside. As if following her example, he removed his coat and leaned over her to give her another kiss. She managed to work the buttons of his waistcoat and he soon shed that as well, all the while his lips tasting hers.
His hand cupped her breast and she rued the fabric of her dress in the way.
She sat up and turned her back to him. ‘Unlace me?’
He untied her laces and loosened them until she could pull her dress over her head and let it flutter to the floor. Even her corset and shift seemed like too much between them, but, as his hand slipped under the fabric and caressed her bare breast, she suddenly was filled with need.
She pulled up the skirt of her shift and his hands slipped down to where her body ached for him. She wanted this—this coupling now. Needed it now. As he touched her legs, her fingers unbuttoned his trousers. He stopped long enough to pull them off and his drawers with them.
She glimpsed his male member and thrilled at the sight. It meant joining with him, being one with him. That, she realised, was what she’d dreamed of from their first meeting.
His fingers explored that female part of her and the sensations they produced brought pleasure so acute, it was akin to pain.
Without volition she made urgent sounds. ‘Dell, please!’ She dug her fingers into the firm flesh of his buttocks to urge him on.
That seemed to be all he needed. He rose over her and plunged inside her.
She cried out.
In pain.
Chapter Fifteen
Dell withdrew. ‘I’ve hurt you?’
She’d felt a sharp pain inside and could not help but cry out.
It was not supposed to hurt, was it?
‘Lorene?’
She sat up, hugging her knees. ‘I must have done something wrong. I never—’
He cut her off. ‘Never done this?’ He glanced down at the bed linen. Blood stained them. ‘Do not tell me. Tinmore did not—?’
She partially hid her face behind her knees. ‘Tinmore tried. Twice. He—he could never get inside me. I do not know how to explain it, but he made me promise to tell no one and he left me alone after that. It...suited me.’ She shuddered from the distasteful memory.
He reached for his drawers and put them on. ‘Then we should not have done this.’
‘Why not?’ She released her knees and sat cross-legged.
‘Because you are a virgin.’ He stood next to the bed.
But she was a widow. Did that not make it acceptable?
She reached for his hand. ‘Not any more.’
He stepped back and his rejection stung.
She curled up again, hiding her face.
The two times Tinmore had tried to bed her had been nightmarish. She’d believed she would never experience the pleasure that could exist between a man and a woman, the pleasure she assumed played a part in her mother choosing a lover over her own children. Until this day, in this room—a room she created—she’d believed that dream dashed. But then this chance arose to be alone with Dell and he’d said he wanted her.
Now he pushed her away.
‘We should get dressed,’ he said, but he made no move to put on his trousers.
Lorene felt as if she’d lost her best friend, the one person she thought she could always depend upon, the one person she could always confide in. But she’d ruined it all simply by wanting him in this carnal way.
‘Lorene?’ He spoke as if trying to wake her from a sleep.
She lifted her head.
He could abandon her like her mother and even her father did, but she refused to continue t
o be that dispirited person Tinmore turned her into.
She met his gaze and held it. ‘I spent most of my life trying to please other people, but here, now, the one time I try to please myself, you become appalled?’ She shook her head. ‘Merely because my elderly husband could not consummate our marriage? Would you rather he had done so?’ She rose to her knees. ‘Because I certainly did not regret that he could not perform.’
He stood stiffly. ‘I could never bear to think of him touching you.’
‘Then, why castigate me now?’ she asked.
His eyes flashed. ‘I do not castigate you.’
She felt like throwing up her hands. ‘Then what is it? I am a widow. I wanted you. You wanted me, too, did you not?’
He nodded.
‘Then why must you stop? Why wound me that way?’
‘Wound you?’ he echoed. ‘I mean to protect your honour.’
‘What nonsense! What honour do I have after marrying an old man for his money?’ What difference did it make that she was—had been—a virgin. ‘A widow’s honour is in being discreet, is that not so? I did not plan to tell anyone.’
‘You could get with child,’ he said.
Now that really would be a dream come true. To have a child by the man she loved. What could be better?
‘If so, I would do what other widows do when they have a child by a lover.’ She was not certain what that was precisely, but she could figure it out.
His expression turned severe. ‘Do you mean get rid of it?’
Goodness, no! ‘I would never do that. Suppose Edmund’s mother had done that!’ She thought quickly. ‘I could travel to the Continent or somewhere far away to have the baby. Then I would bring the baby home and figure out some fiction to tell the world so they could pretend the obvious did not happen.’
But that would never be, because he would not bed her. All because her husband could not bed her.
She leaned against the bed board and turned away from him. This was too painful. It did not bear more discussion. ‘Just leave, Dell.’
