Upon their return to London, Ellie had found herself happily occupying a place in it beside Ashberry. And while the boudoir had been comfortable, Ellie much preferred the current arrangement. At Ashberry Park, Ashberry had made it unquestionably clear to Ellie that while he would not interfere in her management of their houses and other interests, she was his without fail whenever he wished. Their presence in London had not altered his views in the least. He had no wish to patronize the soirees and ballrooms of Society and every desire to indulge his senses in the silken luster of his wife. Once dinner was finished, once whatever relations invited for the evening returned home or made their way to a patroness’ event, Ashberry would take Ellie by the hand, his claim on her accepted by them both, and whether he led them to the drawing room or up to the privacy of their apartments was his decision.
Not that daylight had ever deterred Ashberry, Ellie remembered in a rush, a vision in her mind of the couple urgently seeking each other in a secluded clearing on Ashberry Park land. Regardless of the dangers of being stumbled upon by locals, regardless of the flutter in her heart and on her lips, Ashberry had stripped every stitch of clothing from her and taken an eternity to kiss every square inch of her skin in the sunlight.
Ellie caught her breath when, without speaking, he jerked off his boots and with stocking feet, tread silently through the room. At each window, he opened wide the drapes so that the sunlight filtered through the thin white sheers and flooded the room with light. “Now?” she asked quietly, her words a silver question in the air. Not objecting, just assuring.
“Now,” he grunted, taking one of her gloved hands and guiding it to the front of his breeches. Beneath her fingers, he throbbed, already heavy with desire for her. Ellie felt her blood surge in the quiet of the room, inflamed by his transparent need. Silently, she stepped back and removed her gloves, laying them aside as he dispensed with his own. Neither one broke eye contact as they undressed themselves. Ellie’s new dress of cool yellow muslin was left on the carpet and her petticoats quickly followed it, then her slippers. Already naked, Ashberry dispensed with the corset when she turned her back—he unlaced it, took it from her, and dropped it uncaringly to the floor.
Surprised by his intensity, by his need to have her again after their late night romp the evening before, Ellie began to lift her chemise over her head. He shook his head, leading her instead to one of the low armchairs, which he turned so that its back faced one of the large windows. Bathed in sunlight, he pushed down his breeches while she lovingly opened his shirt, her fingers running gently over the skin and hair of his chest.
When it hung open, and when his aroused manhood was flagrantly exposed from beneath the shirt’s hem, he sat down in the chair, drawing her first between his knees. As if enthralled by the rays from the sun that shone on her face, Ashberry lifted her hands to her hair, sliding his own down her neck and to her shoulders only when Ellie released her curls from beneath her small cap. It fell to the floor, unheeded, as Ellie’s hair tumbled around her shoulders and pins scattered over the carpet.
Ellie began to lower her hands but Ashberry shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No?” she whispered, her heart thudding heavily. Tentatively, her hands returned to tangle in her hair, lifting her breasts higher, the submissiveness in her face contrasting sharply with her wanton stance.
The sight intoxicated Ashberry more than he could have imagined. “Leave them,” he insisted quietly, sliding his index fingers over the wispy shoulders of her chemise. His hands traced its edging, as if gauging the weight of the fabric and she watched his fingers, fascinated, as they slipped inside it to fondle the rising swell of her breasts. Almost before she knew what he was about, he grasped the fabric and ripped it open, from her breasts down to her belly, then lower to reveal her feminine curls and the tight garters wound around her thighs.
Lower, below the hem, her legs shimmered in the sunlight. Even covered in the transparent silk, they would be the honey that surrounded him, that urged him deeper.
Ellie was hardly thinking at all when he guided her to his lap, arranging her so that she straddled his frame, kneeling with her buttocks resting on his knees. Her arms grasped his shoulders as support, and she needed it, while she settled herself but she returned them to her hair at his muttered encouragement. Her head tilted back achingly when his hands splayed over her stomach, reverently tracing her scars, then lower to rip open the remainder of the shift. He bent his head to nuzzle her throat even as two of his fingers made their way deeper, seeking entrance to her steaming cavern.
Her head spinning, Ellie couldn’t fathom how powerful the pull between them had become, how she literally ached for his touch, how she would hurt until he was inside her. Partially dressed, having her chemise removed so decisively, having her stockings rubbing against his legs, having displayed herself so flagrantly with her hands behind her neck—all the sensuality of Ashberry’s voice, hands, and mouth in combination with these sent Ellie flying out of any orbit Ashberry had yet introduced to her.
She rocked on his lap as his fingers entered her, tempting her eager flesh there while his other hand moved to cup one breast, his thumb flicking the nipple until she shuddered and moaned. “I adore it when you make that noise,” he murmured against her ripe skin before his lips caught the other teat. He laved it roughly even as she moaned again, her head spinning.
“Stephen,” she begged helplessly, but his fingers did not relent. They only exerted a nominal pressure inside her, enough to send her into frenzy but without the power to shatter her senses. Against her thigh, his erection pressed urgently, eagerly and Ellie arched in return, trying to edge closer.
“Not yet,” he chided softly, his mouth still against her throbbing nipple. “Not yet.”
Ellie, too impatient to wait for him to end the torment, took matters into her own hands. Literally. Ashberry nearly cursed when her hands curled around him, held him, silently urged him. “Yes,” she said, uncompromising.
She had touched him before, he told himself ruthlessly, trying to distance his mind from his body by fixating on the lush wet heat of her against his fingers. The reminder didn’t work—she had never touched him like this: insistent, hungry, as demanding as he sometimes felt.
Her fingers had been soft, gentle, soothing, painfully enticing and adorably naive—at least until now. Now he added disorienting and rapacious to his list as he wondered dizzily when he had taught her, even unintentionally, how her touch affected him.
Ashberry endured the frenzy for a few moments but he had little control and knew it. Ruthlessly, his hand left her breast and settled beneath her buttocks, lifting her higher. No longer sitting on his knees, she came up, kneeling in the chair, her hands forced to release him or cause pain even as his mouth left her breast to take hot kisses from the gentle slopes around her navel. Her hands grasped his hair, lifting his lips again, until she was able to practically thrust one of her nipples against his mouth.
Her frantic need astounded him, spiraled through his system. “Ellie,” he groaned, “Dear God, Ellie.” He took his fingers from her sex, dragging the clinging wetness of her over her stomach and up her torso until he cradled one of her breasts in his palm.
She shuddered in his hands. “I need you, Stephen,” she pleaded, the words so frank and hoarse that his blood drummed against his temples. Unable to hold off savoring her more, he adjusted their position slightly, moving forward a few inches. He pushed against the entrance to her womb, until she lowered herself inch by inch. When she knelt on his lap again, when he filled the abyss of her heart and body, she uttered a sob of relief, her fingers frantically smoothing his hair and cheeks.
“Now you have to do the work, love,” he moaned achingly, his hands guiding her to slide up and closer against him, creating the friction between their bodies—stomach to belly, male to female. She did so, her eyes wide at first until she learned she controlled the tempo, until it was Ashberry whose blood boiled.
Even through the h
aze of passion, Ashberry remained focused on the sunlight against her face, shoulders and breasts as it shone on her from behind him, reminding him of a glorious angel, a redeemer for all his faults. When heaven reached them, Ashberry grasped her hips and thrust upward, every ounce of his energy rising into her, blossoming inside of her until Ellie’s cry echoed in the room.
Afterwards, he carried her to the bed, unfastening her garters and releasing the silk from her legs before helping her shrug off the demolished shift. He tucked her beneath the coverlet even as she slept, weary to the world and spent several minutes lightly caressing her cheeks and ears, assuring himself that she was indeed safe, and his. His face was drawn from the energy they had devoted to each other, but Ashberry knew he would not rest beside her.
Quite deliberately, he gathered her stockings and the ruined shift before retreating to his dressing room, where he dropped the telltale garments outside the chamber door. Griffin, he knew, would take the hint and leave the room and its occupant undisturbed. Quickly, he dressed himself, donning breeches and boots. Ashberry needed a ride to clear his head, even if it was an odd time of day.
Edward, he guessed, would come before Ellie awoke, for his wife was exhausted, sleeping as soundly as she would all night. It was just as well. Ellie certainly didn’t need to stumble onto such a conversation.
* * * *
“Mother, I think,” Edward mused, “would have known if Father had a mistress, even here in London.”
“Are you sure she didn’t?” Ashberry asked frankly. “It’s not the thing one usually discusses with one’s children.”
“I suppose it would be in terrible taste to ask her directly,” Edward sighed. “Really, the implication is too, absolutely too, terrible to contemplate, Ashberry.” In the library, Ellie stilled. It was late, the house dark and she had not lit a candle. She had slept nearly all through the evening, waking to her maid with a dinner tray. She had eaten it obediently while she remained in bed, accepting Wendy’s knowing gaze with determined aplomb. Not that it wasn’t obvious—Ashberry’s clothes and some of her own were still scattered all over the carpet and Ellie was unfailingly nude beneath the coverlet and sheets.
Ellie bathed and read while she waited for Ashberry to return to their rooms, but when he didn’t, she had finally dismissed Wendy and donned her velvet peignoir. The house was dark, the servants withdrawn to their own world, but Ellie knew this world now and did not fear her quiet pilgrimage through the inky blackness. She had thought to surprise Ashberry in his study, to see his tired smile when he greeted her, feel his lips against hers, to settle into an armchair while he worked. Yet here she was, frozen near the entrance of the library, where she was following the low light of a burning lamp in the study. Around the corner, the doors between Ashberry’s study and the library were open, allowing the conversation to flit through.
If Edward’s first comment had shocked the woman, the next nearly made her knees buckle. “What possible connection could Father’s mistress, assuming she was his mistress as she claims, have to do with the bastard that attacked Ellie?” He made a disgusted noise in his throat. “If Father had anything to do with this, I swear to both of us, Ashberry, I’ll see him hang for it if I have to follow him to China and back again.”
Ashberry’s voice was grim. “I have no evidence, Edward, that your father engineered it. How could he have known Ellie would be in the garden that morning? But I do think that perhaps he knew more about her attacker than he’s said—at least after Ellie described him to your family, I think he knew more. What I want to know is, if he did know, why he didn’t pursue the matter to its end—or why did he not tell you that he had? Why did he not chase the bloody bastard to hell and back in vengeance? That is what we must find out, Edward, before we condemn your father.”
Ellie, her expression pallid, slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Edward’s voice drifted to her again, louder this time. He must have turned away from Ashberry, Ellie thought through the din in her brain. “This woman, she’s agreed to meet us? Tell us what she knows of Father?”
“Anonymously, of course. She’ll ‘accidentally’ bump into us—gently, she even told Riley—at Covent Garden one night next week during intermission and we’ll kindly escort her outside for a breath of fresh air.” Ellie heard Ashberry take a deep breath. “We simply have to arrange which night and make it worth her time—Riley will take care of her price.”
“With both us in tow, it won’t be as scandalous.”
“We are brothers-in-law,” Ashberry said dryly. “Not even the ton would fathom anything other than feigned politeness on our parts, particularly if we return to the theatre after and she leaves before the thing is finished, as she plans.”
“I foresee only one minor, no major, problem.”
“Charlotte and Ellie?” Ashberry replied. Ellie heard him pacing, closed her eyes as he crossed the hearth and returned. “Not that Ellie would be upset if I simply announced I was going to White’s for a few hours one evening, but it would be quite unusual for me.” She could almost see him shake his head. “And God knows what we would say if anyone who knows Aunt Lucy or our wives happened to mention our little outing in a drawing room.”
Edward’s voice was morose. “I only left the house tonight because Charlotte knew I was coming here, and I promised it would not take long.” He sighed. “I didn’t foresee this, I thought you wanted to see me about the Jamaican ventures, or perhaps because of Charlotte’s little temper tantrum today in the ladies’ sewing circle.”
Ashberry’s voice was practically a growl. “That sister of mine needs to be locked in her room occasionally, Edward, and don’t forget it. For her own safety, and your sanity.”
Ellie swallowed hard. She was eavesdropping, but her limbs felt too heavy to move. Her head dropped to her knees as she began to pick up the edges of her sanity, to gather her strength. “We’ll have to tell them eventually, you know,” Edward mused.
Closing her eyes as she lifted her head, Ellie’s heart nearly stopped at Ashberry’s icy answer. “Why?” He paused. “She doesn’t need to know the details of how I plan to dispose of the rodent when I find him, or what Whitney might have been trying to hide. And I’ll sleep much better at night knowing he can’t harm her or anyone else ever again.”
“You know I’ll gladly help you finish the bastard off,” Edward answered dryly. “And dig the damned grave when you’re finished.”
A long silence ensued, while Ellie rose shakily to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. Ashberry’s words indicated the discussion was at an end. “I am not sure that he deserves the honor of a grave yet. As it is, you’d better find your way home.”
“And how much of this nightmare do I tell Charlotte?” Edward sighed.
Ellie didn’t wait to hear the answer. She slipped away, as silently as she had come.
When Ashberry slid into bed, Ellie stirred beside him. He drew her close, as he always did, surprised that her fingers and toes were frigidly cold and her limbs stiff, despite the warmth of the room and the blankets covering the bed. She whimpered a little and he set about warming her in his customary fashion, fastening her hands against his chest and trapping her feet between his own.
The gesture was sweet, the token of a man who protected his wife even in her sleep, and so Ellie didn’t cry. At least not then. He slept long before she did, though she knew he believed her to be deep in her dreams. When the tears came, they were grief, amazement, shock and love melded together, so intertwined that Ellie could not have said which tear was which emotion. Her hands clutched against Ashberry tightly, for even in his slumbering presence beside her he was her rock, her support.
And she wasn’t about to let him murder anyone, not even the nameless angst of her past.
She was up before dawn the next day, a situation Ashberry sleepily assumed was the result of her long nap and restful night. In any event, he remained in bed while she bathed, dressed and repaired to her sitting room. Diligently
, ruthlessly, she examined all the facts she could ascertain. First, that Ashberry suspected her attacker had somehow known, or at least known of, her father. Second, that the connection could be made through an ex-mistress of her father’s, whom Edward and Ashberry secretly planned to meet. Third, that Ashberry and Edward had every intention of pursuing revenge if they could locate the man. And fourth, that her husband had absolutely no intention of informing her of any of the facts, at least not until he was well on his way to the gallows.
Ellie desperately wondered what angel, or demon, had kept his temper under rein for so many months. She had wondered about his reserve, his unfailing patience in her presence. Now she shuddered at her newfound knowledge and was forced to consider the notion that he had bottled up his anger for her attacker far too long.
How her father fit into the picture was not clear to Ellie, but she suspected Ashberry was correct. He could not have predicted her trip to the gardens that morning—it wasn’t sensible to arrange such a thing. Ellie hoped against hope that Ashberry was wrong even about the less offensive part of it—but a nagging doubt in her heart suggested to her that she should be prepared for the worst.
Once she had organized the thoughts in her head, Ellie began to make decisions. She knew without a doubt that she could not allow Ashberry to know all she’d heard—he’d simply steal away from her and conduct his business elsewhere. Worse still, Ellie’s mind imagined, he could send her away under full escort until it was finished. For him, Ellie guessed, one facet of loving her meant shielding her from any tarnish on the world that might disturb her, no matter what the cost. Ellie knew she would need to carefully execute whatever campaign she chose, for she was unwilling in this matter to be managed by her husband, and both knew he was an expert at bending her to his will without her even realizing it.
She contemplated whether Ashberry would sacrifice even his welcome and their trust if he deemed it necessary for her mental or physical health, but concluded it wasn’t worth the risk. If she used their bed as a weapon and failed, she would cause herself as much pain and loneliness as she did him. The savagery in his voice when he had spoken of the ‘rodent’ indicated that he would not tolerate interference from anyone, even someone he treasured as openly as he did Ellie. And, she knew, he was edging Edward down that same path—one fraught with sexism and danger even under the best of intentions.
Embracing Ashberry Page 29
