She smiled more broadly. This kind of attention from a man was what she had always craved.
“The ivory and lace do you justice,” he told her, securing the sash of his dressing gown more tightly around his waist and turning again toward the window. Hands behind his back, he looked out over the Channel waters and flexed his shoulders.
She went to stand behind him. His cologne wafted over her senses. The sage and anise aroused her need to have him take her in his arms. But not wishing to frighten him, she stood still.
“Thank you for the lovely nosegay. And my wedding ring is stunning,” she said and paused to feel the circle of tiny diamonds around her finger. She was tempted to say, I don’t need diamonds, but stopped herself. His Great Aunt Amaryllis had cautioned her not to be self-deprecating to him. “Adam hates that in anyone, especially a woman,” the lady had warned.
“Adam, I know we have not had much time to become reacquainted, what with Parliament in session, but I am eager to begin. Our friendship was a solid one when we were young and—”
“Listen to me, Felice.” He whirled on her, his large, crystal blue eyes caressing her lips, her throat and falling to her cleavage and her pointed nipples. He inhaled, darting his gaze to her mouth. “I want you to know how grateful I am that you agreed to marry me.”
“Gratitude is wonderful, but there must be more.” More that you feel for me or you would not have asked for my hand. She reached out to touch him.
“How true.” He rubbed her fingertips for a moment then jerked away. “But with us, this arrangement we have is different.”
A note of dismay rang in her ears. But she dismissed it. “Yes, we were friends long before this. Trusted each other with our secrets. Read our little stories. Knew what the other wanted from life.”
He stared at her. “We were children, Fee. We acted like ragamuffins and tore up the countryside with our antics.”
She chuckled to ward off the growing premonition that he was about to tell her something awful. “Some marriages are based on less. Ours will be founded in more.” She cupped his cheek.
He removed her hand, his face frozen, his blue eyes flat. “Don’t, Fee. Please. This is hard enough.”
Her spine stiffened. He didn’t want her? She was comely. She knew it. Squire Forester had asked for her hand last year. Months before, Sir Harold Spencer had offered. She might be thirty and a widow, but she was not ugly. Definitely not plain. Her body was svelte, her breasts perhaps too large. And aye, her hair was black as hell and not the pale froth so popular. Her skin was flawless. Most of all, she had a mind and she used to write epic poems, though indeed she earned a pittance for her labors. Her invention of Miss Proper was a new ploy and her forthcoming series loosely alluding to him, a ruse—a terrible necessity to satisfy her debts. Still, she had married him, welcomed this offer because she wanted him. Not his money. Not his name. Not his position. No, she had always adored him. And never had thought to have the chance to live with him. So when the offer came, she’d grabbed it. “Whatever are you talking about, Adam?”
“You know I respect you, Fee.”
That sounded cold. Indifferent. Not what passion is made of. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle, her hopes for his affection withering. “Do I?”
“Of course you do. I like your spirit, your conversation. I even like your poetry.”
I doubt you’ll like my prose. She arched a brow. “Romantic nonsense, you called it when I first began.”
“You are much better at it now than at twelve, and it has made you a penny or two.”
“Writing is a poorly paid profession. My father paid his published authors the same as I earn today for each copy of my works.” She tried for levity, but the fact that she had made more in an advance on a political scandal sheet series about him turned her cold with worry. She shivered, so far from the fire and, too, far from the warmth she had expected from him on their wedding trip. She backed toward the flames of the fireplace.
“Christ! Felice, don’t stand there.” His gaze flowed down her form and stuck on the juncture of her thighs.
She glanced down. Silhouetted by the dancing red conflagration behind her, her body glowed in the fire light, almost bare of the transparent silk. She did not move. Could not. “Out with this, Adam. What are you telling me?”
He inhaled, his mouth thinned as if he were in pain. “I married you for convenience.”
She swallowed back wild disappointment. She could have sworn that a part of him had wanted her in his bed. She’d glimpsed desire in his eyes when she accepted his proposal. He’d been happy to see her yesterday, too, his warm hands on her shoulders caressing her. Very well, if he now had cold feet, he could play at the shy one for the evening. As for her, she would not stand demurely by as he pushed her aside with cruel logic. She was his wife, deserving of his attentions.
She stepped toward him. “I knew some of your motivation was your drive for political advancement.”
There. She’d been bold to say it and let him know she had heard the rumors.
He set his jaw. His eyes dimmed. “But I regret it.”
“Don’t.” She tried for magnanimity. “I am pleased to help you.”
“Pleased? No.” He flinched. “Hear me out. I am proud you are my wife, but I doubt you’ll ever be pleased you belong to me.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because, we Stanhopes have miserable marriages.”
“Ah, the curse,” she said matter-of-factly. “A fable of immense proportions.”
“No fable, madam!”
“It is. Used by men and women to justify their own failures to make a marriage a congenial union.”
“Come now, Fee. You and I are not one of your romantic heroines and heroes in your epic poems.”
“Thank god. I intend we mortals do as we must to make a good marriage of what once was a solid friendship.”
He raked one hand through his hair. “No, Fee. That cannot be.”
“Why not?”
“This marriage will make us miserable.”
“Ridiculous.”
“It’s not, my girl. For over a century, no Stanhope has had a happy marriage. The Stanhope wives have died of broken hearts. The men have turned bitter, some dying in their cups, others going mad. I do not wish that for you or me.”
“Yet you took me anyway.” Why?
“I did. I thought when I saw you at the Brimwells’ country house last month that we might escape the curse. I saw a lovely woman of wit and wisdom. I saw someone who could be my companion and my hostess, my partner. I also saw someone who would make a compassionate mother for my boy. Georgie is two and needs petting and coddling by a woman who can discipline him and love him.”
Thrilled at his logic, she stepped against Adam’s warm hard body and sank her fingertips into the nap of his rough velvet dressing robe. “I want to be all those things for you.”
He gave a pained laugh but jerked her closer. “Don’t make this harder for me.”
He arched his brows as she pressed her hips to his and undulated shamelessly. His cock was high and hard. Impressively so. “Darling Adam, I doubt it can get any harder.”
At her double entendre, he laughed ruefully and hugged her close. “I should not touch you.”
“I will touch you then.” Sliding her hands beneath his robe, she pushed it from his shoulders to swish to the carpet. The broad expanse of his chest was a beautiful sculpted plane and she sighed in satisfaction to touch him everywhere. His flesh was torrid. His hair crisp. His pectoral muscles firm and his ribs rigid slabs. He was hers to have, if she could persuade him. Could she seduce him?
He closed his eyes and flattened her hands over his diamond hard nipples. “Fee, don’t.”
“I want you, too.” She was an expert at logic, facts, gaining points in arguments with men just as her father and her governess had taught her. Her ability to debate was not an asset she had touted but it had earned her a profession and money. Perhaps now it would he
lp her keep a husband. “Don’t you see? I have for years and years.”
Smiling sadly, he smoothed her hair from her cheeks. “You are charming. So highly colored with rich hair, full red mouth, pretty pink cheeks. You remind me of a garden.” He took her lips in a sweet short kiss. “Fragrant and filled with every imaginable delicacy. Ready to be plucked.”
She swayed against him. His kind declarations were more than she had dared hope for, but he proclaimed them in a tone that told her he meant them as her consolations. Perhaps even substitutions for the endearing words a lover tells his beloved in bed. “I’m yours to pluck.”
He laughed, his eyes flowing over her face with wistful compassion. “I mustn’t.”
“I wish you would. I’m not afraid of the marriage bed. No virgin. No prude.”
“I thought as much.” He traced one hand along her throat, over one breast and around the curve of her waist. His action brought her closer to him, heating her, tempting her to rub herself against him like a well-pleasured cat. The abrasion of her nipples against his chest hair sent lightning streaking through her blood. “I took one look at your dusky beauty last month in Kent and was enchanted. Who could imagine little Felice could be such a witty dinner partner? Or know so much about German music?”
“Or French court scandals?” she teased him, and he nodded, his eyes dancing with wicked intent. Just what she wanted from him.
“You are precisely every lovely thing a man could ask for in a wife.”
The compliment was also a dismissal and she couldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t survive another marriage without affection. His affection. She took his hand and placed it on her mound. He startled but did not pull away. He was most definitely lured and she was determined to take advantage of his desire. Cursing the chiffon that separated his skin from her own, she pressed his fingers to her seam.
He slid his fingers between her legs and parted her heavy lips. The chiffon slipped and slid, driving her to new heights of need. His fingers intruded and held, petted and stroked while the fabric grew moist, her folds swelled in need and she clutched his arms for support.
“Fee,” he crooned, his body flowing nearer, his fingers eager and oh so skilled, “you are petal soft and hot.”
The luscious sound of how ready she was for him filled the room. “Wet, too,” she offered.
“Like dew,” he growled and bent to scoop her up into his arms and stride two steps to lay her on the bed. He loomed above her, pulling down the negligee to cup her breasts and rub his lips across her hot skin. “And your nipples are like spun sugar.” She arched as he sucked her into his mouth and laved her like a man starving. He gathered up her hem to slide his two fingers gently, slowly and oh so tantalizingly inside her folds. “You flow so sweetly here. How did I know you would?”
Thrilled at his enchanting words, she moaned and spread her legs wide in invitation.
He sank between her limbs, his thighs searing her own, his cock nestling between her lips. He was almost hers. Almost.
“No, no. I can’t!” He pushed to his knees, the cold air on her body a bracing rush that made her shiver. He stared at her as if seeing her anew. “We will not do this.”
“But—”
“No!” He bounded from the bed, his face flush, his voice strident. “I loved you as a child. I want you to be happy. You must not care for me, nor I you. The best way to ensure that is for us never to share a bed.”
She could barely utter the words that flew through her mind. “You do not wish to consummate this marriage?”
“Better this way to keep my door and my mind locked against you.”
She reeled with sorrow and propped herself up on her elbows. “Not every couple who goes to bed learns to love the other.” She knew that firsthand.
“Love becomes tangled with other emotions. Jealousy, greed, despair are only a few.”
“Joy, rapture, daily delights can come from it too.”
He set his jaw. “How would you know?”
That hit her like a broadside. She stared at him, memories of years of lonely married life blasting away her hope for this new union.
He shook his head. “Oh, Fee. You were not happy with your first husband.”
“That’s true,” she said with much remorse. But she could not let this pass without a forceful counter argument. She sat straight in bed and considered this man who was her husband but who sought not to be. His eyes were wide, wild, fearful. His dark hair askew, hanging over his worried brow. He was in flight from disaster. How could a man of such intellect be so intimidated by such silliness? He could if he had suffered from it—or thought he had. “Adam, this curse is just so much folderol. There is no proof.”
“My mother died of it. So too did Wes’ and Jack’s. My father’s three marriages all were failures. My first was a living hell. There is no joy in loving Stanhopes.”
“What if I don’t love you?” She didn’t, did she? “What if I just want to be bedded by you?”
He blinked, utterly astonished. “The same. It matters not.”
“It remains I am still your wife.”
“But in name only, Fee.” He grabbed up his robe from the floor and strode for the door. “In name only.”
****
The next morning, he rose from the bed in which he’d tossed and turned the whole night through. Finding the innkeeper, he told the man to take a hot bowl of porridge and a pot of tea up to his wife’s room. Then he bid the man send a runner to the ferryman with the message that they would not sail to Jersey for their honeymoon. Adam bid the bewildered man to go to the livery, too, and hire two carriages to take him and his wife back to London. Felice could ride in her own carriage. Adam would not presume to burden her with his presence after he had abandoned her last night.
Coward.
Aye, he was. He liked his wife. More than liked her, admired her. Wanted her. Wished her to be happy. But if he never became a cabinet minister, how could he affect change? Alone with a few colleagues, he might do a bit of good here and there. But his marks would be few. Without a wife, he could never gain the prime minister’s post. Without Fee, he couldn’t manage. He couldn’t pass laws to change child labor. And repeal taxation. He couldn’t improve the welfare of men in the Army. He doubted he could accomplish any of it. He had to have her with him, by his side. It was what they had agreed to.
So he took the stairs up to her room like an old man burdened with infirmities of body.
When he opened the door, he frowned. Her bed was made, her trunk and valise gone. He grimaced at his foolishness—to have married her for reasons of state and for his unreasonable fear of a curse. He had truly become an older man filled with the insecurities of his poor judgments.
She was gone.
He had hurt her. Sweet, shy Fee. And thus had he taken the first step toward their mutual destruction.
She had taken the second step. She had fled him.
And so the curse was now really upon them both.
Chapter Three
The stationers’ bill came first. Well, that Adam could understand. Felice was a celebrated author of epic poetry. He had never asked her how much paper she used, but by Jove from the size of this bill, she must scribble all day on the very best parchment. Without quarrel, he summarily paid the man.
Two weeks later came the bookshops’ invoices. Two of them. For more than twenty pounds each. How quickly did the new Mrs. Stanhope read? Adam tapped his fingers on his desk and idly wondered, too, what she read. No matter. Not his affair. He paid the owners the sums in full.
A month later came a bill from a milliner. The amount was small. Adam wondered what she’d ordered. A hat to wear to tea? A feathery thing for a dinner party?
And where the hell was she living anyway? Not at her own small cottage in Kent. For certain, he knew that. He had charged Reggie to check when his friend went down last week to visit his uncle in Canterbury. The place was boarded up tight as a drum.
No one in Kent hinted wh
ere Felice might be. He did not inquire of anyone else in London. Too risky. He’d appear desperate. Was he? No, no, absolutely not. But from the invoices, he had to conclude she was in town. Somewhere. With her cousin, Lady Dunwitty? Or her friends, the Baron Jasper Elgin and his wife, Annabelle? Respectable people even though his cousin, the hideous Drayton Howell, had begun that horrible scandal sheet, The TellTale.
But a fortnight later, Adam sat in his library and glared at the newest bill. He read the address of the dressmaker and concluded that wherever the hell Felice had taken refuge, she evidently needed quite a few new clothes. A whole damn closet full. He cursed roundly. What in the world was she thinking? Would she brave society by herself?
He did not know. But he worried.
He paid the dressmaker but demanded from the proprietor a complete listing of every item Mrs. Stanhope had purchased. Two days later, he sat scanning the Frenchwoman’s descriptions of them. Incensed at Fee’s audacity, he shot up from his desk and strode to the window overlooking Berkeley Square. She had purchased day dresses, riding clothes, walking ensembles and four ball gowns. Four! Where the hell was she going?
Without him? Dear god. What had gotten into her?
He’d be damned if he ever asked her.
Three weeks later, the whispers began. The second Mrs. Stanhope had taken the waters at Bath. She called on her elderly uncle and aunt alone. She took tea with the reverend who had once served in her parish in Kent and now lived in a retirement home in Lambeth. The TellTale reported that a certain Mrs. S had dined on the fourth with that literary sponsor, the Earl of Hargrave and his wife. If this was his Mrs. S., Adam wondered what she discussed. If she spoke of him. Thought of him. Hated him.
Soon after came two more pieces of rough news.
The first came in the form of a second installment of a short story by a self-styled political observer. This pseudonymous Miss Proper published her fiction in the TellTale and in this episode, the main character, a certain member of Parliament named Alfonse Stanhope had forsaken his wife on the pretext of a family curse. His lady wife, said the hideous tale, considered divorcing her husband. Desertion was her justification.
The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances Page 2
