But he knew he couldn’t take her like that, and he pulled her toward him onto her side, watching her eyes open. Their gazes locked, he pressed his hips closer to hers, and when the tip of his penis touched her, she sucked in her breath.
“It’ll be all right,” he promised her. “It won’t hurt.”
He slid his penis between her thighs, easing through the opening in her drawers, and watched her eyes widen in alarm. Her nostrils flared in fear. Her lips parted, quivering. “Say my name,” he said.
“Stuart.”
He nudged forward, entering her. “Oh, God,” he groaned, and closed his eyes, pleasure shuddering through his body. He knew he ought to ask if he should stop, but he didn’t. All the primal needs he’d been fighting so hard to contain surged up within him. He slid his hand to her buttock for leverage, and eased a little more into her.
She sucked in her breath, a shuddering gasp, and he prayed like hell she didn’t decide to say stop. He waited, rigid, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she wriggled her hips as if trying to draw him deeper.
He sucked in his breath. “Oh, God, Edie. Oh, God.”
That was all he could manage, and then, he just couldn’t wait anymore. He rolled her on her back, moving with her, gathering her to him as he pressed kisses to her face, her hair, her cheek, anywhere he could. Though his blood was roaring in his ears, he heard her say his name. She did not say stop. She did not say no.
He thrust into her, entering her fully. She cried out, and so did he, an exchange of names. He thrust again. He was in her to the hilt, they were as close as two people could be, and yet, he wanted her closer. His arms tightened beneath her back, he buried his face against the side of her neck, and he moved in her, each thrust quicker, harder, taking him higher and higher until he reached the peak. He came in a wave of pure sensation, a climax so strong, that it flooded every cell in his body with pleasure. It was so luscious and so sweet, he tried to hang on to it, thrusting into her again, then again, but at last, he collapsed on top of her, panting against her neck.
“Edie.” Her name seemed to echo in the hush of afternoon. And then, he frowned, with a sudden, keen awareness that something was terribly wrong.
A feeling he hadn’t had in six months shimmered through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. With dread in his guts, he lifted his head to look into her face, and what he saw confirmed his worst fear. Her eyes were tight shut, her face pinched and wet with tears. He watched another slide between her closed lids and down her cheek, and it burned his chest, like acid thrown on his heart.
“Is it over?” she whispered without opening her eyes.
The question shredded him to ribbons, and he felt an utter dog. “Edie,” he said, and kissed her tear.
She flinched, not much, but enough that it made him flinch, too. Her hands were on his shoulders, and she pushed to dislodge him.
He didn’t move. “Edie, open your eyes, look at me.”
She complied, but there was a blankness in her tear-streaked face that was more wrenching than her tears. She was looking straight at him, and she didn’t see him. “Please, get off me,” she whispered, pushing at him again. “Please, please. I can’t breathe.”
There was panic in her voice, he heard it, and helpless, sick with dismay, he rolled away from her and onto his back, staring up at the wooden ceiling of the feather house. Only a short while ago, they’d been laughing together, and now . . . oh, God. He rubbed his hands over his face, fearing ruin.
He wondered if she’d said no, and he hadn’t heard it. He wondered if she’d cried out, “Stop,” and he’d imagined it was his name.
Stuart buttoned his trousers. Guilt pressed him down, down, into the feathers, and he wanted to keep going, all the way down into the pit of hell, to burn. He’d made her cry. He wanted to cut his heart out.
Anguished, he closed his eyes, listening in agony to the rustle of fabric as she adjusted her linen and pulled down her skirts. Then she was crawling away, moving toward the side of the pen, and he knew they couldn’t leave it like this. “Edie, wait,” he said and sat up. “Don’t go.”
The anguish he felt must have been in his voice, because she paused by the side of the pen. “It’s not your fault, Stuart,” she said over her shoulder, but she didn’t look at him as she said it. “It’s not your fault. I . . .” She paused and drew a deep, shaky breath. “I never told you to stop.”
That seemed no consolation, not when he could see the mark of tears on her cheek. She turned and climbed out of the pen, moving awkwardly in her skirts as she slid down the other side. She picked up her hat, but he spoke before she could depart.
“Edie, wait. Please, look at me.”
She squared her shoulders as if it would be difficult, lifted her face, and turned, looking into his eyes. “I’m all right, Stuart,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”
It was the qualification, the subtle change of wording in her second reassurance that hurt him the most, piercing straight through him like an arrow, and he could only watch helplessly as the woman he wanted more than life itself turned her back and walked away.
Chapter 19
STUART LINGERED IN the feathers long after she was gone, wishing he could go back, do it all again a different way, but he couldn’t. At last, he climbed out of the pen, brushed down from his clothes, and left the feather house.
Edie was long gone, of course, and she’d taken Snuffles with her, so he walked back to the house alone. His pace was slow, not because of the pain in his leg but because of the dread in his guts and the ache in his heart and the guilt that lay heavy on his soul.
He entered the house, but he paused by the stairs, looking up the curved, wrought-iron-and-marble staircase, knowing he had to go up, see Edie, talk to her. This had to be faced, discussed, dealt with, though what that meant, he didn’t quite know. Hold her, though he doubted she’d let him. Comfort her, though he had no idea how. At this moment, navigating the Congo or facing a snarling lioness seemed far less daunting. If he made her cry again, he feared it would annihilate him.
“Your Grace?”
He turned, almost relieved by the postponement, however brief, of going upstairs. He turned to find the first footman standing there.
“Yes, Edward? What is it?”
“This came for you.” The footman held out a tray on which reposed a folded slip of paper. “Telegram.”
Stuart took it and unfolded it as the footman stepped back, waiting to see if he might need anything in response. Good man, Edward, he thought absently, and turned his attention to the message in his hands.
EAGER TO HELP STOP HAVE IDEAS STOP LETTER TO COME WITH MORE DETAILS STOP WILL SEND ANY FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE TO WHITE’S AS REQUESTED STOP GLAD YOU GOT SENSE AND CAME HOME TO MY GIRL STOP ARTHUR JEWELL
Stuart stared at the telegram, feeling slightly relieved by the fact that he had an additional ally, but not enough to take away the dread of going up to Edie. He’d come home to Arthur’s daughter, true enough, but didn’t seem to be doing too well at making her happy. He shoved the telegram in his pocket and turned to the footman.
“Edward?”
The servant once again stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Stuart tilted his head, looking the fellow over. Edward was a bit younger than himself but far more tidy than he was. The footman’s livery was smoothly in place, his shoes were polished to a high shine, his hair was neatly combed, and his tie was a perfect bow. “Edward . . . Brown, is it?”
“Brownley, Your Grace.”
“Of course. Brownley. Forgive me.” He paused, considered a moment longer, and made his decision. “How would you like to become a valet, Mr. Brownley?”
The footman stared at him in astonishment. “Your Grace?”
“I presume you’ve been the one starching my shirts and pressing my suits since I’ve been
home?” When the footman nodded, he went on, “And I believe you’ve valeted before, when occasion warranted it?”
“Yes, Your Grace. When male guests stay at Highclyffe who’ve brought no valet along, I have sometimes had the honor of serving them.”
“Excellent. I warn you, I won’t be easy to manage. I hate high collars, I’m forever undoing my ties and losing collar studs, and my leg gives me no end of trouble. Also, I’ve only ever had one valet. He died.”
“Mr. Jones. Yes, Your Grace. He was a good man, I hear.”
“Yes. He was.” Stuart paused. “You’ll travel in my service,” he went on after a moment. “London in the season. Trips to Italy or France when my wife and I take a holiday—that sort of thing. But I won’t ever cart you away from England for long. Would you like the job?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.”
“Well, that’s settled then. You may start by determining what I need in the way of clothes, for I’m quite sure my wardrobe is hopelessly outdated. And tell Wellesley he’ll have to find a new first footman. You may go.”
The servant bowed and departed for the servants’ hall, and Stuart knew he couldn’t stay down here, postponing the inevitable any longer. He turned and went up the stairs.
At his wife’s door, he knocked. “Edie? May I come in?”
There was no answer. He waited a moment, then lifted his hand to knock again, but then the door opened, and he found Reeves standing there. She didn’t open it wider for him to enter. Instead, with a quick glance over her shoulder, she slipped out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.
“Is she . . .” He paused, took a deep breath. “How is she?”
“Well enough.” She looked up into his face, and she must have seen something of what he felt, for her usual stiff, respectful rectitude softened. “She’ll be all right, Your Grace. She’s a bit upset, is all.”
“May I see her?”
The maid hesitated. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think that would be wise. She’s . . . having a bath at the moment, you see.”
The sort of thing anyone might do after intercourse. With any other woman, it wouldn’t mean a thing. But with Edie, he had the feeling she was washing away far more than the traces of lovemaking. She was washing away the memory. Of the other man, or of him?
He stepped back, leaning against the wall opposite the door.
“You mustn’t blame yourself.” The maid’s voice was gentle with understanding. “It’s not your fault what happened to her.”
He looked up, staring at the servant in astonishment. “You know.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Yes.”
“Did she . . . did she tell you?”
Reeves gave him a pitying look. “I’ve been her maid since she first put up her hair. I’ve always known.” She paused. “Did she tell you, Your Grace?”
There was a hint of surprise in her voice as she asked. Stuart shook his head. “I . . . guessed. But she confirmed it.” He lifted a hand helplessly. “What can I do?” he asked, and despair hit him squarely in the chest. “Reeves, what can I do?”
“Give her time, sir. She’s distraught, but she’ll be all right. She just needs a bit of time alone, and she’ll get past it.”
“Will she?” It didn’t seem likely. He shook his head, looking away. “Will she?”
“You’ve only been home a little over a week. She just needs a bit of breathing room, so to speak.”
“Of course.” He considered. “I’ll go back to London for a bit,” he said after a moment. “I have business to finish there, but it will take about a week to complete. Is that long enough?”
“I think so.” She smiled a little. “Just don’t stay away five years this time.”
He attempted a smile in return. “I shall be lucky if I manage to stay away from her for five days.”
The maid nodded, seeming pleased. “Good. Because she needs you.” Reeves paused, hesitating as if she wanted to say more, then apparently decided she did. “She’s always needed you.”
Oddly, he was not surprised to hear it. An image of the girl in the ballroom at Hanford House came into his mind. “I’ve always sensed that,” he said slowly. “I suppose I just wasn’t ready to be needed. Until now.”
He drew a deep breath and straightened away from the wall. “I’ll be at my club. Take care of her, Reeves, until I return.”
“I will, Your Grace. I always do.”
He turned to start down the corridor to his own rooms, but he stopped again before he’d taken a step. “And Reeves?”
The maid paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Your Grace?”
He bent his head, staring at the floor. The ten days would be over before he came back. She hadn’t kissed him. He’d only kissed her, and as she’d rightly pointed out, that didn’t count. His right hand clenched tight around his walking stick, the fist of his left hand pressed to his mouth as he worked to say one more thing. Finally, he lowered his hand, looked at the maid over his shoulder, and spoke. “Don’t let her leave me. No matter what you have to do, don’t let her run off and leave me. That’s an order.”
It was an impossible order to fulfill. He knew that. If Edie wanted to leave him, her maid could hardly do anything about it, but he was desperate.
“I’ll do my best to convince her otherwise, Your Grace, if she does want to go. But . . .” She paused a moment. “But I don’t think she’ll run away.”
“I hope not, Reeves. I need her, too, you see.” Stuart walked away, knowing he’d have to leave it at that, at least for now.
IT WAS JUST on ten o’clock that evening when he and his new valet arrived in town and settled into rooms at his club. The next morning, he dispatched a new slew of letters to his friends, suggesting an evening at White’s five days hence for a reunion, judging that Pinkerton’s would have a fairly comprehensive dossier on Van Hausen ready for him by then.
In the meantime, Stuart knew he had to keep busy. Dragging Edward along, he visited various tailors, bootmakers, and haberdashers. Having been responsible for Stuart’s laundry since his return, his new valet proved knowledgeable enough about his present wardrobe to know what he needed. He also possessed excellent taste in clothing and good judgment about fabrics. He wasn’t Jones, but Stuart decided he’d do.
Stuart also went to Park Lane and inspected Margrave House, but it proved a completely unnecessary task. Though closed up at the moment, with everything swathed in dustcovers, he was able to determine that his London residence was shipshape and Bristol fashion. Not for the first time, he appreciated the fact that Edie had done quite well with his estates while he’d been away. But as he walked through the rooms, he hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t ever have to live in them without her.
He attended a meeting of the London Geographical Society, where the members in attendance promptly gave him a standing ovation for his explorations in the Congo, which he found painfully embarrassing.
He visited the British Museum and saw his butterfly. While there, he introduced himself to the curator for scientific exhibits, and it rather tickled him that the fellow seemed to think he’d done something important. Somehow, compared to making things right for Edie, a new species of butterfly seemed terribly insignificant.
The tenth day of their bet came and went, and he wondered what she intended to do. He wondered if perhaps he’d made a mistake by leaving without using every moment of the precious time he’d had left. He tried to tell himself two days didn’t matter, and it was just a silly bet anyway. He tried to convince himself that even though she hadn’t kissed him, even though he’d pushed her too hard too fast, she’d stay. He tried to believe that.
He strove not to think about her too much, but that proved a futile effort. Having tea at the Savoy reminded him. A girl in Hyde Park with red-gold hair reminded him. And anything white,
anywhere . . . well . . . he was doomed there, too. Lying in bed was the worst, enfolded in white sheets, feather pillows, and memories of the first time he kissed her and how he’d lain awake all night reliving that kiss over and over.
He wanted to write to her, ask if there was anything she needed, but of course, he didn’t. If room to breathe was what she needed, if time and distance would help him keep her, he had to give them to her. He hoped she’d write, ask him to come home, but though he checked for his letters twice a day, none appeared with the Duchess of Margrave’s coronet.
The letters he did receive lifted his spirits a bit. His friends confirmed the engagement for Friday night at the club. Pinkerton’s informed him they had a dossier. And Arthur Jewell sent him a detailed outline of the various ways Frederick Van Hausen might be vulnerable. His father-in-law suggested they decide on a suitable plan when he came to England for his usual Christmas visit. Stuart wrote back his agreement with that plan, and he could only hope Edie was still with him at Christmas.
He engaged a private dining room at White’s for Friday night, and when his friends began arriving, there was a fine single-malt whisky on the table, a menu ordered for dinner, and all the information he had on Van Hausen in a dispatch case beside his chair.
The Marquess of Trubridge was the first to appear. “How’s the leg?” he asked, accepting a drink from his friend and taking the chair opposite Stuart’s at the round dining table.
“You were right,” Stuart admitted. “Your Dr. Cahill is a marvel.”
Nick grinned. “Told you he was. Denys is right behind me, by the way. We came up from Kent together. He’s paying off the hansom.”
Denys, Viscount Somerton, walked in at just that moment, proving the truth of Nick’s words, but he had barely greeted Stuart with a handshake and a slap on the back and accepted a drink before the door opened again, and the Earl of Hayward came in.
“Pongo!” the other three men said at once, a greeting that made the earl grimace. Lord Hayward, son of the Marquess of Wetherford, had been christened as James, but he was called Pongo by his close friends for some childhood reason none of them could actually remember, and it was a nickname he hated. “Call me by my name, you bastards, or damn this reunion and damn all of you.” He glanced up and down Stuart as he accepted a drink. “How’s the leg, old son?”
How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days Page 27
