by TYNER, LIZ
‘William often confided to me he expected never to marry,’ he said, ‘and part of that was because he wished never to have the worries of children. When I heard you were trained as a governess, the marriage made sense. A woman experienced in care for little ones. William has said to me many times that he managed his sisters and he does not wish to become a parent again. After Harriet got lost in the woods, I heard his recriminations to himself. When Sophia noted how dashing the foxed soldier was and thought he might need a wife to write to, William rushed straight to Mother to get her help. He now has enlisted her assistance on getting the other two wed also. Said she had had good luck with Sophia’s marriage.’
She could not follow his conversation well because her mind had fixed on the first part of it. ‘I don’t think that my training as a governess mattered.’
‘I would not bet the stables on that. Not that I do not think any man would find you appealing for a wife.’ His cheeks reddened. ‘But William was sincere in his intention not to wed. But I can see—’ His face brightened more and he reached for the glass nearest and gulped down some of the lemon drink. Made a face and looked at the glass and swallowed as if trying to get the last vestiges from his taste. ‘A governess. A person to care for the children. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes. But, he is close to his sisters.’
‘In a distant way. He is nearer Sophia now that she has married and has a husband to care for her. If you’ll note, even the horses, Marvel and Ivory, were at his father’s home. William prefers a wide swathe around him.’
‘Thank you for keeping your cousin’s confidences.’
‘I have,’ he said, leaving and tossing a wink her way. ‘With family.’
He moved to the outer doors where William now stood and both began talking.
She didn’t doubt a word Sylvester said. William had put some distance between himself and everyone else. It could have started when his mother died, or when he realised she was sick. Or earlier. It didn’t matter.
Isabel took the lemon drink, finished it and noted the punch with reluctance. She was not sure how it had been mixed. She had heard the drinks ladies mixed for themselves often had more strength than what might be found in the men’s glasses.
Isabel reached for a drink. The punch had its use. She was stranded in a sea of jewellery and wanted something to float about on.
On her first day at what she’d then called Madame Dubois’s School for Abandoned Young Ladies, her parents had done exactly the same. They had introduced her, smiled all around and then she’d been on her own.
Her mother had made her leave her doll at home, telling her that she was all grown up. She didn’t know what had happened to that plaything, but it would be nice to have her now, except, she supposed, the punch was the more mature version.
The liquid slid into her stomach, marking progress with heat. No, she’d never had any drink mixed quite so liberally. Putting the rim of the glass to her lips, she took an even tinier sip than before. Oh, she could quite shake the jewellery if she wished to.
More dancing. The music was quite good. The dancers were quite accomplished. The world was quite perfect around her. Just like the first day of school. Society, even a children’s one, didn’t allow cowering in the corner. Sipping very, very slowly, she examined the room, ignoring the glittery baubles.
This event was to set the stage for the rest of her life. She smiled and replaced the glass, reminding herself that no one could see beyond a confident smile into quivering insides.
Something bumped her from behind and she turned, a turban brushing her face. White hair straggled from the head-covering and one eye had a milky frost and the other a clear chill.
‘Pardon.’ The woman spoke. ‘I have no time for proper introductions. One of my many faults. Not that I have many.’ She looked to her right. ‘You’re not dancing. You should, you know. Does wonders for the complexion. I swear by it.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m at least eighty and I don’t look a day over seventy-eight.’
‘I would agree.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Isabel Balfour. I am married to the Viscount’s son. He is—’
‘Wait.’ The woman raised a hand, stopping the words. Her gloves swallowed her thin arms. ‘You may call me Lady Howell. If you forget, just think of a dog and its bark and then its howl at the moon.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘That’s how I remember it.’
She looked at Isabel’s stomach. ‘And are you increasing?’
‘No. No.’ Isabel narrowed her eyes, whispering.
‘Well, you better get your mind to it,’ the older woman said, voice strident. ‘That’s your duty now. Heirs.’ She put a gnarled finger out. ‘I had six in the first six years of marriage. Not many can carry that feat off. The trick is that the first one was very early—very early.’ She leaned in and grinned. ‘The second—I wasted no time.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Three and four, twins. Five, well, what can I say, I had too much wine in celebration of finding a wet nurse for the twins. By six I put my foot down and said, I’d done my duty. I told Lord Howell to keep his distance. He howled.’ She patted Isabel’s arm. ‘My favourite thing to tell people is how Howell howled. He never recovered fully.’
‘I do think it would be nice to have children.’
The woman’s lips tightened and her lower jaw jutted forward as she appraised Isabel. ‘I recommend you stop at three. By the fourth child, they tend to put a strain on your temper.’ She turned away.
Isabel heard her mumble as she left. ‘The little chit cannot carry on a conversation.’
Then Lady Howell walked up to another sea of jewellery. The music ended and words jumped out from within the room. ‘William Balfour’s wife doesn’t know her place in society.’ All the faces turned Isabel’s way.
The musicians even stared at her. How could they know who the woman spoke of? But apparently they did. They’d probably played at many soirées for the same people. This world was no bigger than a teacup and she was being examined as a speck in the bottom of the cup.
William stepped to her elbow and took her hand to pull it to his lips, then tuck it at his arm. ‘Yes, she does know her place, Lady Howell. It is at my side.’ He shot a look at the musicians and the next song began softly, easing the silence. ‘Now we must be leaving, Lady Howell. Duties await us.’
*
He stood by his bed, hand on the post. He hadn’t known the right words to say in the carriage and he suspected there weren’t any. At least not that he could think of.
Leaving her alone at the soirée had been a mistake, but he’d been trying to get those horses—which could have waited.
He wanted to make it up to her. Neither of them deserved what had happened. At least she didn’t. Society was not always easy for women who didn’t live in it from birth.
Isabel shouldn’t be belittled, except perhaps for keeping that ridiculously small bed.
Ridiculously small.
Somehow it had become a battlement. A territorial stake of some sort that he didn’t understand. Why, the whole house was hers to command. Everything but his personal effects. And the valet. And the butler. But he wasn’t certain she quite understood about the butler.
He pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. His boots were already put away. Reaching for his dressing gown, he placed it over the back of a chair and moved to the hallway.
‘Isabel…’ he opened the door and stuck his head in, inhaling the scent of roses and soaps ‘…it’s too early to sleep.’
‘No it’s not. Not for me. Go away.’ She rolled, putting her back to him. ‘I have a headache that starts at my feet and goes straight to my forehead. The slippers were too tight.’
He left the door open. Moving to a chair, he picked it up and placed it closer to the bed. He sat, clasped his fingers lightly and stretched his legs, one foot moving to her counterpane. His heel rested at a covered mound which hid her leg.
‘I know you’re here for your duty,’ she
said.
‘If I must, I must.’
He moved his feet to the floor, scooted his chair closer and pulled the cover from her foot and took it in his hands. Warm and delicate. She slid her foot aside, but he caught it. Covering her foot with his grasp, he kneaded the bottom with both thumbs. Her foot tilted towards him.
He pressed against each muscle, easing away tension, rubbing over the skin, soothing it.
‘That is better than a warm bath,’ she said.
He reached out, caressing the other toes with the same care. ‘Is your headache any better?’
‘I had thought not to wear those slippers again, but I do like the colour and if you could do this afterwards, I might keep them. Would save you the cost of another pair.’
‘But is your headache any better?’
‘I am not sure.’
He continued, sweeping his hands to ankles, kneading and rubbing. ‘I suppose it will take me a while to get there, but I shall.’ He continued sweeping his hands just above her heels. ‘But not in that bed.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘You will not do your duty while I am in this bed.’
He nudged her foot. ‘Duty. That word is hideous.’ He stood. ‘Move over.’
‘I thought you said…’
‘Duty has nothing to do with it. Share the mattress.’
‘There is not room in this bed for two people. It only holds me.’
‘I noticed. Give me some room.’ One knee on the bed, he wedged himself in beside her, tossing the covers away and rolling her to face him. ‘See, it holds two people, except for my feet.’ He moved one leg up and draped it over her thigh and adjusted close. The same delicate scent he’d noticed when he’d walked into the room engulfed him. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the soirée. I didn’t either.’
‘I thought Lady Howell’s invitation sincere.’
‘It was—for her. If it makes you feel better, she has called me a tosspot and I believe she called my father a lovestruck chit.’
‘It doesn’t. Now I feel sad for you and your father. Well, for your father.’ She snuggled. ‘Are you a tosspot?’
‘Who knows?’ He shrugged.
Chapter Eleven
Arms tightened around her, embracing her so completely she could feel nothing but maleness and heartbeats. A wall of strength caressing her with the lightest touch. She’d never felt so safe.
Her hand clasped his side, over the cloth of his shirt, and her fingertips brushed back and forth, the friction the cloth created under her hand bringing his skin alive to her touch. ‘Do you think you are a tosspot?’
‘You are intent on that question.’
‘And you do not wish to answer.’
His chest moved with a slow intake of breath, giving her room to get closer and yet, when he breathed out, she remained burrowed against him. ‘I drink more than many, but not as much as I did. Several years ago, I noticed my friends were sotted every night and I was there as often as not.’
The room was silent before he continued, his words pulling her inside his thoughts. ‘I wondered if I could go a fortnight without drink. On the sixth day, I was at the club and the scent of spirits lingered in the air so much I could think of nothing else. I was surrounded by desire for it. I ached for it.’
He stopped speaking. She pressed at his side. ‘Well?’
‘Sylvester put a drink in front of me and I sat with it for hours. But I refused. I went to Sophia’s and slept a few hours until morning and then drank chocolate while I waited for her to wake. I drank possibly three glasses in three hours of waiting for my sister who’d decided to sleep in. Luckily, her cook makes very good chocolate.’
‘I didn’t like it so well as what the cook makes here. Your sister’s burns the mouth.’
‘Ah, yes. It’s very good.’
‘Did you finish the fortnight?’
‘Of course. I didn’t doubt it. I refused to let my want for it overcome what I truly desired and my biggest want was to be in control of the liquid. I didn’t have to drink. Since then I have not felt as if it matters so much whether I have drink or not. On occasion, I even have a child’s drink called milk. I have also discovered that one of my servants can take a jug to a home just outside of town and find water that tastes wondrous and refreshes my thirst better than anything. It is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’ He laughed. ‘I can be as particular about the water I drink as some men are about their brandy. Makes all the difference. Even the tea is better.’
His hand ran the length of her back stopping as it slid to her hip. His face moved closer and his kiss barely brushed her lips. Tremors raced in her body. ‘The best thing I’ve tasted, except for one other thing.’
His kiss didn’t have the hint of brandy, or anything but the freshness of him. ‘That is much better than any drink.’
She hugged him tight, the length of his body pressing hers. The bed could have been half the size and they both would have fit. She could feel nothing in the world but him and it was the best feeling she’d ever had.
He pulled back, leaving one whisper of his lips against hers before breaking contact, and leaving her dazed with the loss.
‘Isabel. I may not have been entirely honest with you.’ He sat up, moving from the bed and reaching back to scoop her up into his arms. ‘I will do my duty.’
She gasped, but her arms slipped around his neck. He moved, widening his stance, maintaining his balance.
‘I am not at all concerned about the duty to the title,’ he said. ‘I am concerned about my duty to you. I simply cannot leave you in such a small bed. I cannot.’
‘I am happy with it.’ She put her arm around his neck. ‘I mean that.’
‘Well, you must give my bed one more chance.’ Their faces close, he took her out the door. ‘But do not destroy my manly pride.’
When they reached his bedchamber, she noticed the light flowing through the doorway. ‘You left the door open. You planned this.’
He took her inside and the scent of shaving soap lingered in the air. ‘I said I was a tosspot, not a fool.’ He stopped in mid-stride. ‘I must tell you that tonight—’ His face rested near her ear. ‘I would have built scaffolding to your window to hold you in my arms.’
A burst of warmth hit her when his nose nuzzled at her ear, his voice barely aloud. ‘And it would have been worth it.’
He turned so she could see his bed. ‘We need more than that little pillow of a mattress you sleep on.’
With a sweep of his arms, he tossed her on to the bed and then he followed, landing around her, his weight cushioned by his arms.
‘How is your headache?’ He ran his fingers over her cheek, leaving warm rivulets larger than the path of his touch.
‘It is completely gone.’ She put one hand up, feeling the tendrils where his hair brushed his collar.
‘Now,’ he said, enfolding her in his arms, ‘let me tell you how sorry I am that you had a bad experience tonight.’ He squeezed lightly. ‘But it’s over.’
He’d just hugged her.
‘That did make me feel better.’ She reached out, clasped the front of his shirt and tugged.
He chuckled and squeezed her again and again and again, each time almost taking her breath away. ‘Even better now?’ The laughter in his voice, along with the hug, accepted her.
‘Don’t squash me in two pieces.’ She lay in the crook of his arm.
‘I wouldn’t want to squash you in one piece.’ He put a hand at her stomach. Waves of something delicious reverberated within her. ‘Although in that tiny bed you have… See how much nicer this is.’
‘I don’t see that I have that much more room in it.’ She wriggled against him. ‘I can’t even reach out my arm.’
He rolled her so that they lay facing each other, side by side. ‘Oh, by all means, reach out your arms all you wish, as long as it is in this direction.’
She pretended to push at his chest. He didn’t move. She pushed. He still didn’t move. He studied her, squint
ing. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
Reversing the direction, she tugged at his side. He tumbled against her. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, breathing the words into her ear. She moved her head so their lips could meet and he pressed against her. Hunger grew inside her. She could not get close enough.
He tugged his shirt aside, moving apart long enough to pull it over his head.
Without her moving, his mouth found hers and he grasped the ties of her chemise, his fingers smoothing them, reaching to the very last of the ribbons, straightening, bringing the skin beneath the fastening to life before he slipped the knot loose.
He touched the chemise, his hands smoothing over the skin underneath while the garment moved up with each caress.
His legs brushed hers. A rough texture against the softness of her skin. Pleasure tingled from each movement.
He lifted the garment over her head and, as he pulled it up, his skin replaced where the fabric had touched. He could not possibly be surrounding her as closely as the clothing, but he did. She couldn’t feel any other sensation of the bed, or time or presence except him.
‘Songbird,’ he whispered in her ear, the words hitting her in the way of music, a music shared by their bodies.
He cupped the underside of her breast and his face moved over it, the sensation of the roughened chin and smooth lips interspersing one with the other.
His hand at her thigh caused her to writhe towards him, but he held her back, using touch to bring her to a crescendo of sensations, overpowering her with gentleness.
Then he moved his body close, sliding above her, his eyes holding her, until he shifted, enveloping her with their joining.
His shoulders held his chest above her and she pulled, but William’s strength kept his weight from crushing down and her body moved up to meet his.
Their breathing increased, until the pause, and her heart stilled.
Neither moved, savouring one last second of togetherness, before he rolled to clasp her close at his side.
*
William stared overhead, Isabel nestled in the crook of his arms and her fingers swirled over his chest. She felt more comfortable against him than his own heartbeats felt in his body.
