Engraved (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  A wife was merely an accessory one acquired like any other piece of furniture, and he’d selected Miss Hawkesworth for several reasons, none having anything to do with expectations in the bedroom. She’d been absent from his mind these past eight or nine hours, and he wished she’d stay absent another ten at least. He realized his teeth hurt because he’d been grinding his jaw too hard.

  “I suppose you must do what you think is best,” he muttered.

  “I always do.”

  He took another swig from the jug of ale, his gaze still fixed on Lina in her semi-transparent linen.

  “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

  “I’m admiring your perfect structure,” he answered cheekily.

  A little flush colored her face. “Hardly perfect.”

  “Yes it is. It’s beyond the skill of man.”

  “Not beyond you.” She teased lightly, “The most promising architect in Britain. Isn’t that what they’re calling you?”

  “Your perfection is beyond even me.” He gave her a sly grin that licked up one side of her body and down the other, slowly, so she would feel it. “Even me. Talented as I am.”

  She laughed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Now shall we go back to bed?” she asked as if offering a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich with the crust cut off.

  He lifted the oil lamp and she moved to follow him, but he stopped, setting it down, along with the ale jug, on the wooden draining board beside the sink. “No need,” he said, his voice low. Only those few who knew him well would know that he spoke too steadily and what that signified. “Bend over the table.”

  * * * *

  She yelped as he entered her roughly from behind, his hands on her hips, his fingers gripping the gathered folds of her chemise. His trousers had crumpled to his knees and then his ankles as he rocked her against the table, his legs slightly bent, her thighs clasped tight between his. This time she had no control, and at first she thought she should object, but that idea died away as he plumbed her ever deeper, thrusting so hard that the table legs squealed across the flagged floor in protest.

  There was no breath to catch, it was all pushed out of her and replaced with the vibrations of his wild grunting. She wanted to spread her legs and gain greater purchase, but he kept her thighs clamped, ensuring she remained slightly off balance, tipped over the unsteady table, her toes barely touching the cold stone, her body a vessel to be filled at his pleasure. He was the conquering knight claiming his war prize, making his mark on her.

  Something she’d said had induced him to this zealous rutting. She wished she knew what it was. Might be handy for later, should his energy start to wane.

  Burying her head in her arms, thick, tangled hair spilling over the table, Evangeline smiled wickedly in secret, relishing every divine parry of her knight’s incredible lance. For as long as she had it.

  She needn’t have worried about his energy level. Adam serviced her that night, not only in the kitchen, but in the parlor, in the larder, in the hallway, even in the scullery, perhaps the least comfortable of places. But comfort was the last thing on her mind by then. He could have mounted her in the coal cellar and she wouldn’t have object.

  At one point, he stopped to ask her what time she thought it was. He’d left his pocket watch upstairs with his other clothes. “You’ve no clock anywhere,” he remarked, looking around.

  She slid her arms over his shoulders and replied, “Since there are no clocks, we can make it any time we like.”

  They were both trying to ignore the graying of the night’s sky and the gradual fading of the stars.

  He held her waist and drew her up for a kiss. “Then let it be noon yesterday.”

  With that thought in mind, he carried her up to bed and they began all over again.

  Chapter Six

  She woke slowly, greeted by birdsong through her open window. A gentle breeze lifted the lace panels and carried the scent of honeysuckle up from the garden trellis below. The sun was high, and she could hear the muted, tuneless singing of Mary at work in the kitchen.

  Rolling over, blinking sleepily, she found the other pillow empty. Not even an indent to show where he’d laid his head, but his scent remained. She took a few deep breaths of it to remind herself. Rosemary and orange oil. Bitter sweet.

  A hollow ache began somewhere under her ribcage.

  Well, she couldn’t lie about all day, no matter how sore and tired she might be. It just wouldn’t do. Sitting up slowly, she stretched, yawning. What must she look like this morning? She almost dare not look, but when she gathered the courage to check her appearance in the cheval mirror, she was amazed to see fresh color on her cheeks, sparkling eyes that seemed wide awake, and a lazy, rather naughty, self-indulgent smile that lifted her face when it ought to be sagging, weary, and depressed.

  For a woman who’d just succumbed to sin with a reckless, devilish boy, she looked remarkably well, positively rude with health. She could detect not the slightest taint of guilt.

  Her gaze drifted down to a small, folded note on the dresser propped up beside a bottle of violet perfume.

  Lina.

  His letters leaned recklessly, the too-tall ‘L’ with its curling tip and the extra long upward slash at the end of the ‘a’, were typical for his character. It made her smile. He was certainly an excellent finisher with fine attention to detail.

  Really, she wouldn’t expect him to bother leaving her a note to say goodbye. Apparently he thought it necessary.

  She shouldn’t open it. She should take it downstairs and discreetly dispose of it in the parlor fire, which Mary would have lit by now.

  Disregarding the ‘shoulds’, she opened it and her gaze traveled speedily over the two lines he’d penned on her notepaper.

  Come to the Grange when you can. Mrs. Murray will keep the painting aside for you.

  So there was no ‘Goodbye’, strictly speaking. Funnily enough, she’d almost forgotten about the painting.

  Well, first things first. She’d need a bath today before she went anywhere. Ought to wash her hair, too, since the weather was fine.

  The hollow ache was getting worse. Breakfast would help, of course.

  But she didn’t have much appetite this morning. In fact, her stomach was unsettled, knotted with nerves.

  Pacing at the foot of the rumpled bed, she cast her restless eyes about the room and spied a gleam of gold on the bedside table. He’d left his pocket watch behind.

  She mused scathingly, What on earth would he do without that? Marching around the bed, she snatched it up and thought about tossing it out the window. Instead, her fingers closed around it and brought it to her face. Again, his scent.

  Suddenly she wished she had something new to wear. It was the sort of day for new things. Spring was all around her, verdant and gleaming. It danced in through her open window, thick, warm scents and merry sounds filling the small room. Color dappled the walls, shining emerald playing over dashes of broken sunlight like a stream bubbling over nuggets of gold.

  There was no denying it. She was a ruined woman thanks to Adam Blackwood. How could she now be expected to marry again and live without passion?

  Deep inside she’d always known the danger. The moment she saw him she felt the pull, recognized what trouble he would bring to her.

  He was a man who would never settle down, never be faithful, never give his heart to one woman. He was reckless, thoughtless, domineering.

  He was everything Evangeline Phillips, respectable widow determined to take control of her wicked yearnings, didn’t need.

  But her body cried out for him, and now, too, her soul.

  * * * *

  He went out for a long ride, reveling in the glorious morning, not in the least tired. The grass thundered away beneath his horse, air whipping through his hair. He could still smell her fragrance on his skin, a teasing, lingering sweetness he refused to wash off. Mrs. Murray had advised against riding without a coat, but he was too warm to pay heed
and wore only his shirt, the sleeves rolled up so he could feel the breeze on his forearms.

  The powerful horse under him stretched out its muscles and galloped hard, enjoying the spring air and the exercise. A hedge was in view, tall and overgrown. It might have caused a more timid horse and rider to turn off and find a gate. Not this pair. A canticle of joyous music ringing through his blood, Adam set the horse for the jump and together they took flight.

  Breath scorched in his lungs, his shirt clung to his torso as the wind rattled through the fine linen. He set his jaw and lifted in the stirrups. It was good. It was a fine sensation.

  But it wasn’t Lina.

  At last he drew the horse to a halt on the peak of a lush green hill, looking down at his father’s house with its soot-blackened chimneys, wandering gravel path, and sprawling, unkempt grounds.

  On the other side of the hill over his shoulder, lay East Lofton. The twenty or so cottages clustered around a church spire and a public house. On that spring day the beauty of the countryside seemed, to Adam, especially evident. Fertile earth and dewy grass breathed lustily under them and his horse waited for direction.

  * * * *

  Mary was polishing the silver, seated on a stool in the open doorway, looking out on the back garden. Hearing Evangeline’s steps, she turned to look over her shoulder.

  “Oh, you’re up. I thought you’d stay abed awhile yet, ma’am.” There was a sly look about the girl, her round, shiny face always impertinent, mouth frequently sulking. If she didn’t know Mary’s family relied on her wage, Evangeline would have dismissed the girl by now. Since her husband died, she had no real need for a maid.

  “Why would I stay in bed on such a day?” she demanded.

  Mary nodded her head at a small folded square of notepaper on the table. “He said you needed the rest, ma’am.”

  She drew a startled breath. “He?”

  “The gentleman who left the note, ma’am.”

  Fury shook her like an angry mother’s hard hands. She never should have trusted him to be discreet. What had he done now? This, too, was a sheet of her notepaper, taken from the bureau in her room. Alarmed, she hoped he hadn’t gone searching far through her bureau, or else he might have found the newspaper clipping she’d stupidly kept about his latest triumph in London. It would only go to his head, no doubt, if he knew she’d saved it.

  With Mary watching her, she opened his note and read.

  Your mistress should not be disturbed this morning. She needs her rest.

  Horrified, she ripped it up and quickly threw the pieces into the range. What was she going to tell Mary? In a matter of hours, it would be all over the village.

  She thought quickly, frantically. “My headache got worse yesterday after you left. I sent for the doctor.”

  “The new doctor?”

  “Of course. Who else?”

  There was a slight pause and then Mary said, “But it wasn’t the new village doctor, ma’am. I know, because I’ve seen the new doctor moving his furniture in at the cottage next door to Mrs. Clark. He’s shorter than me and has bowed legs that wouldn’t stop a pig in a passage. The man that left here this morning was young and right handsome.”

  “Yes. It was the doctor from Middleton. That was what I meant to say.”

  The maid’s eyes narrowed. “All the way from Middleton, ma’am?”

  Evangeline straightened her spine. “That’s right. I didn’t want to bother the new village doctor before he had a chance to settle in.” She cleared her throat and wiped her hands on her skirt as if they were suddenly dirty.

  “Who did you send to Middleton, ma’am, to fetch the doctor?”

  “Peter from the tavern.” She knew Mary disliked Peter and would never dare question him. Just to be sure, she would give Peter a few extra coins and a quiet word when he came later with her winnings.

  “You’re feeling better now, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Much better. The doctor gave me a potion for my headaches.”

  The maid’s lips tightened, puckering like a pulled stitch, and her mean, little eyes gleamed. “He must work miracles, ma’am. You look like a new woman this morning.”

  “Do I?” She touched her hair.

  “Can I try some of that potion for my ma?” the girl asked, her tone saucy. “She gets dreadful headaches.”

  Evangeline sniffed. “Your mother’s headaches could be cured if she cut out her nightly ration of gin.”

  “Aye. Well, we all have our vices, don’t we, ma’am?”

  The doorbell clanged, relieving the thick tension. She would have gone herself to answer it; but, feeling the need to put Mary in her place, sent her instead. There was no fear it might be Adam. She never expected to see him again now that he’d had what he wanted from her.

  And it wasn’t Adam.

  Mary sauntered back into the kitchen. “’Tis Mr. Carbury to see you. I sent him through to the parlor. He’s brung you flowers.”

  “Brought,” she corrected tetchily, thin-skinned now and decidedly less dreamy than she was when she first woke.

  This was all she needed. One of her ardent suitors with spring in his bones.

  There was no point delaying. Leaving Mary with her polishing, she went into the parlor and put on her best smile for Mr. Jonas Carbury, owner of the Carbury Hotel on the north road. A man of responsibility, property, and quiet ambition. He was just the sort she should encourage and seriously consider.

  But her heart wasn’t in it, especially not today. Already her smile was strained and she was thinking how quickly she could get away to fetch her painting from The Grange. It was a lengthy walk, but she wouldn’t mind it on a day like this. In fact, the sooner she got out of that stifling little cottage the better.

  However, on second thought, she realized it might be best to wait a day or two. To be sure Adam was gone. She couldn’t risk seeing him again, and she would give herself that time to recover. Mrs. Murray would keep her painting for her and the sale of the house contents couldn’t take place for at least a few days. She would hear of it and then go up to the house as if to watch the auction. No one would suspect.

  As long as she never saw Adam again. Because if she did, she might just run into his arms and make an outrageous fool of herself.

  Jonas kissed her hand. A fine, handsome man with a sprinkling of silver threads through his hair and piercing blue eyes, he was certainly not difficult to look at, or be kissed by. She should be flattered by his attention and count her blessings that he’d waited so patiently all the months of her mourning. Few men would be as kind and gentle, yet still remain determined. He’d already let her know his intentions and she faced the possibility of his proposal with a lurching, guilty dread. It could come any day, now that she’d finally put away her widow’s black.

  “Mr. Carbury, what beautiful flowers.” She held them to her face and inhaled, but could smell only Adam’s masculine spice on her hands. Even the beauty of spring flowers paled in comparison to the allure of that man. He got inside her body and now he wouldn’t leave. His name was traced on her thoughts, in extravagantly looping letters with silly curlicues, like the doodlings of a love-sick schoolgirl. Yesterday when she saw him on her doorstep bold as brass, his presence irked her, provoked her temper. Today his absence squeezed around her heart ruthlessly, tried reducing her to pointless tears. She must be rid of it. She must think practically and stop this foolish dreaming. He was unsuitable. They were completely wrong for each other. In any case, he had probably forgotten her by now and was halfway back to his busy, successful, feted life in London. Love was a foreign language to a man like him, and she knew better now than to wait for anything like that.

  “You put my flowers in the shade, Mrs. Phillips. Dear God,” her suitor muttered fervently, “each time I see you, your beauty leaves me bewildered.” He teased her, “I think you have bewitched me.”

  She swallowed, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t dissolve.

  Jonas Carbury once again presse
d his lips to her clenched fingers and then her arm, taking advantage of her sob-choked silence to make her aware that he wouldn’t wait much longer. If he noticed the damp glimmer in her eyes, he would mistake it for the delicate tears of a widow struggling to move on. Through the parlor window she saw his neat, little curricle waiting, the wheels clean and shining, the top open on such a fine day.

  In her apron pocket, Adam’s gold watch lay, pressing slightly on her thigh.

  “Mr Carbury,” she said, “would you take me into Middleton today? I have a small errand to take care of.”

  He eagerly agreed to take her in his curricle because he didn’t know her errand was for another man. She ought to be ashamed of herself.

  She wasn’t.

  * * * *

  “Staying, Mr. Adam?” The housekeeper trotted after him as he strode into the library, his riding boots leaving a trail of mud across the Indian rug. “But I thought—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Murray.” He swung around to beam at her. “I’ve decided to stay on a while. It won’t put you out, will it?”