by Liana Lefey
Then he began to move. Gasping, she focused on the physical event now happening rather than on the emotions threatening to tear her apart. Each motion carried with it a momentary discomfort followed by a sensation of heat, fullness, and a strange, growing tension. It mounted with each stroke, changing, transforming from pain into something similar to what she’d experienced earlier when he’d suckled her.
Desiring that bliss again, she leaned back, lifting her breasts to him now in a silent plea. He bent at once to take a swollen, aching peak into his mouth. Pleasure again rippled through her, doubling as he drew hard and moved within her simultaneously. This time, the lightning streaked from both above and below, meeting in the middle and threatening to unseat her grip on sanity.
A thrumming tingle erupted below as he withdrew a bit farther, sinking back into her after a moment’s pause with a long, low groan of satisfaction. The tingling intensified. Emboldened, she pulled him up from her breasts and grasped his buttocks to draw him toward her, wriggling a little to more fully embrace him.
He shuddered and grabbed her hips, stilling her. “Don’t,” he grated. “Unless you want it to end now.”
She nodded against his shoulder, loving the wild, uneven sound of his voice. Loving him. Allowing him to set the rhythm, she rode the mounting tide. Everything was driven from her mind save the feel of his hard body, the heat of him filling her with every long stroke, and the ragged sound of her name whispered at her ear over and over.
With a groan, he pressed hard up into her, his muscles trembling beneath her hands as he seated himself so deeply she swore their very souls touched. The tension gathering in the place where they were joined detonated with sudden violence, wrenching a hoarse cry from her lips. Pleasure more acute than anything she’d ever experienced tore through her in mounting waves. Shuddering anew with each, she clasped him tightly and tumbled over the precipice into ecstasy.
~ * ~
Harriett waited until his breathing evened out into the unmistakable rhythm of unconsciousness before attempting to disentangle their limbs. She hated to leave, but staying was out of the question. With great care, she lifted his arm and moved it aside, watching him to be sure he remained insensate. She rose from the floor where they lay and looked down at him. His usual wariness and cynicism were erased by slumber, leaving just the man in his raw state.
She’d never allowed herself to simply gaze at him before. She memorized him now. His tousled sandy locks. The slightly darker crescents of his long eyelashes and sweeping brows. The curve of his lips. She longed to see his warm, honey-brown eyes look at her again with want, but that would never happen again. His inhibitions had been removed by the liquid in that half-empty decanter there on the desk, but sobriety would erect them again.
For a moment, she let herself dream otherwise. He would awaken to find her here and he would declare, fully sober and himself, that he loved her. And she would confess her love for him. They would marry, and she would know the bliss of his touch every day for the rest of her life.
Logic quickly reasserted itself, as it always did when one dreamed the impossible. He might marry her out of obligation but he didn’t love her, and he would hate her for ensnaring him so, for taking advantage of him in his moment of weakness. He would never believe she truly loved him. No. A lifetime of misery stretched ahead for them both along that path. The idea that they could marry and be happy together was ludicrous.
She stared down at him, her heart aching. Then, steeling herself, she bent and attempted to set his clothes to rights, her previously agile fingers now clumsy as she tugged and refastened. The pattern of his breathing remained unchanged, and she blessed the brandy for allowing her to complete her work undetected in spite of her ineptness. She looked about. The office was a mess, but there was no evidence that she’d ever been here or that they’d made love.
The bottom dropped from her stomach as her gaze lit upon the mantel clock. Papa would be furious! It was time to go. Now.
As she turned, William’s forgotten, liquor-stained portrait caught her eye. Shame made her flush as she met the painted gaze of her former betrothed, the man she’d thought she’d loved. The warm, approving presence that had always imbued the image was now gone. It was nothing more than an artist’s lifeless rendition, like any other painting.
Unable to bear it, she fled.
Twenty
Roland awoke to a splitting head and stiffness in his back that told him he’d passed out on the floor and had been there for quite some time. Opening his eyes, he took in the flat, vaguely pattered horizon, confirming his assessment. At least he’d landed on a softer surface than bare stone or unyielding wood. He lay unmoving for several moments, not looking forward to the torment that would doubtless strike him like an axe blade to the forehead upon attempting to rise.
Eventually, however, he had no choice. He needed a chamber pot, and fast. Holding his head with one hand, he levered himself up with the other and sat, staring at the disaster that was his office. The dim light of the lamp, which had burned quite low, revealed books and papers scattered everywhere and broken glass all over the floor. The smell of brandy permeated the room.
God above, what a night he must have had. The remnants of his dreams still lingered, some of them quite awful. All but one, in fact. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on it alone, hoping to bring back the feeling of joy. So real was it, he swore he caught the faint scent of lavender on the air. After a moment he opened his eyes, frustrated. Such dreams had no substance and no place in his life now.
Gripping the edge of his desk, he staggered to his feet and took up the lamp, adjusting the wick. The urgent need to piss wrung speed from his stiff, sluggish limbs as he opened the door and made his way across the foyer to the necessary closet. It was pitch black beyond the dim circle cast by the lamp. “What the hell time is it?” he muttered, setting it down.
He began to unbutton his flap and paused mid-action. Something wasn’t right. Looking down, he saw the buttons had been put through the wrong holes all down one side. Dismissing it, he made to relieve himself—and at once encountered a problem. A bewildering problem. One typically only experienced upon trying to make water right after having had...
Sobriety hit all in an instant, galvanizing him. He didn’t even bother to refasten his flap all the way before bursting out of the closet and running back across the foyer. As he skidded through the door to his office, his foot struck something, sending it sliding across the floor. The edge of the rug he’d been laying on stopped it. Walking over, he bent and picked up a set of keys.
Harriett’s keys.
It hadn’t been a dream. It—she—had been real. She had been here. They had made love. And she’d told him she loved him.
Or had that been a delusion crafted by brandy and desire? He shook his head to clear it. No. That had been real as well. As had her cry of pain when he’d broken her maidenhead.
A thrill of elation shot through him, followed by crushing despair. The office was a catastrophe. He remembered yelling, throwing things at the walls. Looking up, he saw that William’s portrait had been damaged. There were stains all down it and a small gash across his brother’s right cheek, no doubt caused by the glass that now lay in shards all over the floor beneath.
Memory flooded back with unexpected clarity considering the level of the fluid remaining in the decanter on his desk. He’d opened the door to find Harriett there, staring wide-eyed at the monster who now resided in her precious William’s office. They’d argued about something—he couldn’t remember—and then he’d kissed her.
There had been pleasure after that—for them both.
I’m sure I could change your mind quickly enough. The words he’d spoken to her at the masque ball echoed back at him. Apparently, he had done just that. And she’d run away.
He had to find her. Now. He started to leave, but then remembered his breeches. And the need to piss. He went back and took care of the latter then with shaking hands
righted himself. Going back to his office, he glanced at the clock and was astounded to find that it was almost three in the morning. There would be no seeing her at this hour. Not without an enormous uproar and subsequent scandalbroth.
He would go to see Lord Dunhaven at first light. No. First he would procure a special license and then go and see him. No, wait. Better to see Dunhaven first and then speak to Harriett. Then he would get the license. Back and forth these thoughts came and went as he turned the key on the lamp, dousing the light and plunging the room into darkness.
Going to the front, he let himself out. But as he faced the street, he belatedly realized there was no carriage waiting to take him home. His driver had given up long ago and had gone back without him. Cursing, he cast about, but the street was empty. A fog had rolled in, and he could see little beyond the first streetlamp. There was no sound of wheels on cobblestones, no clippity-clop of hooves. All was silent.
Whispering a steady stream of invective, he turned around once more and went back in. He would have to wait until bloody dawn! And he couldn’t go to Dunhaven looking—or smelling—as he did. He would have to go home first and make himself presentable.
Faint light filtered through the high windows above, but it was enough for him to find his way. His office door was still open, but it was pitch dark inside now that he’d extinguished the lamp. He had no desire to go back in there, anyway. Even under the cover of darkness, he would feel the disappointment emanating from William’s portrait.
There was a bench on the other side of the foyer. Weary beyond words, he cast himself upon it. He could probably walk to a pub and hire a taxi home, but it would be an enormous risk at this hour. Thieves were everywhere, and he was alone and unarmed. The bench was hard, but he was tired. And though his head pounded and his thoughts whirled like leaves tossed in a storm wind, sleep soon took him.
~ * ~
Harriett’s carriage rolled past yet another village. The farther they got from London, the smaller these became. But the charm of the neatly thatched roofs, the low stone walls containing little gardens, and the cheerful folk going about their daily chores escaped her. The memory of her encounter with Roland—with Manchester, she corrected herself—would allow her no peace.
It was a miracle she’d escaped the house without incident. Papa had been cheerfully tipsy by the time she’d arrived home last night. Fearful of his wrath, she’d poked her head into his study to find him red-cheeked and singing a merry tune to his brandy. Pasting a smile on her face, she’d told him all was in order and bid him a good night. He’d lifted his glass to her and bid her safe journey.
Her sister, she’d been informed, had taken to her room early and was already asleep. Eager to avoid any questions concerning the night’s events, Harriett had gone to bed herself at once.
But not to sleep. Her dreams would be full of him. How could they not? To awaken to reality after reliving bliss would be unbearable. Unable to close her eyes, she’d lain awake until the maids began to move about in the predawn. By the time the eastern horizon had begun to pale, she was already passing London’s outskirts.
Breathing deeply, Harriett willed the wheels to go faster. They traveled light, for her luggage was minimal. Out here there would be no need for fancy gowns and finery. She’d taken only two of her better dresses in case anyone of consequence heard tell of her being in residence and came to call. She doubted they would. Her plan was to arrive as quietly as possible and remain inconspicuous.
No one but the midwife and a few well-paid servants even knew Arabella was there. She had been smuggled in and kept in relative isolation at Papa’s little “seclusion cottage” down by the lake. The small but comfortable little house had long served as his haven from what he called “the constant feminine uproar” he suffered while at the manor.
A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. Though Papa had never breathed so much as a single remark to the effect, she knew having four daughters and no male issue had been both a trial and a sore disappointment.
There would be plenty to do besides play nursemaid to her sister. In addition to sending notice to the Hospital’s governors and staff, she had letters to write to Lily and several of her other friends. They all deserved a plausible, if false, explanation for her sudden departure. There were the manor’s ledgers to review and reconcile, and Papa had charged her with inventorying their furnishings.
He’d finally taken her advice regarding retrenchment. After the Season, their London townhouse would continue to serve as his main residence while he rented out the manor until his debts were paid. He would be on his own, for Arabella would come to live with her and Russell at Woburn Abbey.
That was one decision she’d made without consulting either of her younger sisters. Arabella could not stay with Cat and Hammond. No matter how much Cat loved Bella, Harriett knew the first time Hammond behaved amiably toward his wife’s errant live-in sibling it would inspire suspicion and jealousy.
At least one of the Dunhaven sisters would have a happy marriage.
Looking out of the window, Harriett scanned for familiar landmarks. The sun was now in the west. They ought to be close. The wood cleared a bit as they crested a hill, and in the distance she saw the tip of a white steeple peeking out above the treetops. They’d made it to Englefield. Cranemoor and the lake would be just beyond.
She relaxed. Not long now and she would be free of the confines of this beastly carriage. Yet again, she attempted to shift and find a better position. There was none. Still achy and sore from her illicit lovemaking, she longed for a softer seat that did not jolt her every few seconds. Propping a pillow up beside her, she leaned against it, taking a little of the pressure off her derriere. Uncomfortable as she was, the rocking motion of the carriage combined with the day’s warmth at last lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
It was approaching twilight when she awoke and peered out into the gloaming. The sight that greeted her was a most welcome one indeed—home. The small but proud manor stood like a fine jewel set amid green lawns and orchards. She hated to think of anyone else living here, even though she knew she’d soon have another, far grander house to care for as Lady Russell.
The carriage hit a particularly nasty rut in the road, flinging her back against the squabs. Cursing, she righted herself and prepared to get out at the earliest possible opportunity. It was not long in the coming, thank heaven.
As soon as the conveyance rolled to a stop, she alighted, glad to be back on solid ground. No one came out to greet her, for there had not been time to send word ahead. No matter. Her room would be made ready quickly enough. Meanwhile, she would have a bath and a bite of whatever was available. Perhaps she’d even take dinner in the kitchen.
With a pang, she was reminded of the countless times she’d supped with Mrs. Glasse down in the Hospital’s kitchen. It would never happen again. Those days were now gone.
Before she could lift the ornate brass knocker, the front door was flung open and a head poked out. The woman’s cap was askew, a few wild curls of graying brown hair straggling out from beneath its ruffled edge. On seeing Harriett, the familiar, plump face below it broke into a bright smile.
“Bless my soul!” hooted Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. “We weren’t expectin’ you for another fortnight.” Her brows lowered with concern. “Is everything all right, then?”
“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins. Everything is quite fine.” She nodded in greeting at Katelyn, Mrs. Jenkins’s daughter-recently-become-maid, who’d appeared beside her. “I came early because Arabella wrote and asked after my company.”
The housekeeper’s face scrunched in distress. “Poor mite,” she murmured, shaking her head as they entered the house. “It’s a tragedy. His lordship can trust in us to keep it under our hats, though, m’lady. We know it weren’t her fault. The blackguard what done the deed ought to hang, he ought. I hope they catch him, and I hope they make the noose good and tight,” she finished, her tone venomous.
Whatever tale
her sister had fabricated to explain herself, Harriett didn’t want to contradict it so she kept her mouth shut and nodded agreement. Mrs. Jenkins was terribly biased when it came to Arabella and would’ve believed whatever story she was told.
The kindly housekeeper had always held a special affection for Arabella. Thanks to a flooded ford on the night of Arabella’s birth, the midwife had been unable to attend, so Mrs. Jenkins had been the one to deliver her. A year later after Mama died giving birth to Cat, Mrs. Jenkins had in many ways become a mother to Harriett’s younger sisters. She’d even nursed Cat alongside her own newborn son, Paul, who was now apprenticed to the village blacksmith.
When drawing up the list of those who would accompany Arabella to Berkshire, Harriett had put Mrs. Jenkins’ name at the top. Papa had argued against it, afraid she would be too lenient, but in the end Harriett had won. No one was more loyal, after all, and secrecy was imperative. It had comforted her to know Arabella had the mother of her heart by her side.
“How goes it with my sister?” she asked, anxious for news. “Is she in good health?”
“She is, God bless her. I prepare her meals every day with my own two hands, I do. Sadly, my old knees—being what they are—don’t allow me to visit her every day,” added the housekeeper with a grimace. “So I send her my Katie, instead. They’ve become good friends, those two, even though I know it ain’t quite proper and all.” Her cheeks pinked.
It was a gross understatement, considering the circumstances. Arabella, no matter how she’d told Mrs. Jenkins it had come about, was in a state of disgrace. For Mrs. Jenkins to allow her young, innocent daughter to fraternize with “soiled goods” was beyond the pale, even as close as they were.
“She gets so lonely down there with none but old Mrs. Whipple for company,” continued Mrs. Jenkins. “I always tell Katie to stay until they’re finished eating—so as to bring back the dishes to be washed, you see.” She winked. “I know the master said to leave her be, but it just ain’t right for a young girl to have no one at all to talk to.”
