by Sara Bennett
Since Patrick’s death, her brother had been most attentive. Martin seemed to think her incapable of attending to her late husband’s affairs by herself, and it was true that in the beginning she had found it difficult. Now she was beginning to think she would like to be more involved in those financial dealings, but Martin was not eager to hand them over to her. He always had some excuse or other as to why it wasn’t necessary or even sensible to alter their arrangement.
She had hoped, after the theatre tonight, they might finally come to some agreement. She would pin him down to a time when he could sit down with her and they could talk. Only now he wasn’t coming. It crossed her mind to wonder if maybe that was why, because he didn’t want her interfering in what he saw as a perfectly satisfactory arrangement, but dismissed it. Martin had been nothing but helpful since Patrick’s death, and even when he had come to the hospital, and told her what Sebastian had done, and she had been so upset . . . She could not blame him for that.
Martin had acted honourably and in her best interests, and Lavinia trusted him.
The play was about to begin.
Lavinia smiled as Margaret commented on how much she was looking forward to the evening. “I am saving up all of my good memories so that I can take them out and mull over them when I am home again.”
“That sounds very bleak,” Lavinia replied with a frown. “Are you really going home soon?”
“Yes, I am, and it is bleak,” Margaret sighed. “My father’s requests for me to return have turned into demands and although Olivia insists she will hide me in a cupboard somewhere, I can’t hide forever. My parents want me home. And then there is the curate . . .”
“You don’t have to marry him! Just because your parents think you should, does not mean you must.” Even as she spoke the words, Lavinia wondered at herself. Hadn’t she married a man chosen by her parents? And yet here she was advocating rebellion.
Margaret looked away and her sadness was palpable. “My father is a bully but he is my father, and I know from experience he will get his way in the end. I cannot expect Olivia to support me for much longer and I have no money of my own.” She grimaced, her pretty face downcast. “Eventually I will marry the curate and live the sort of life they want for me.”
“Oh Margaret, there must be something I can do.”
Margaret straightened her shoulders as if about to go into battle. “I fear there is not but thank you just the same.”
Lavinia bit her lip on further protests. Margaret was right; marriage to please family was a woman’s lot. Being a widow had given her a great deal more freedom, or it would do once she had put her mourning completely behind her. She had a niggling suspicion that soon Martin would be coming to her with the names of possible husbands. She would resist, of course she would. It was time she took control of her own life and her own future, whatever Martin might think.
Poor Margaret did not have her advantages however. Her friend would marry a man she did not love, just as Lavinia had married Patrick. She wanted to say that there was comfort in such a marriage, even if the passion was missing. Perhaps Margaret did not know what passion was? And perhaps that was a good thing, because Lavinia often wondered whether she could have married Patrick Richmond at all if she had met Sebastian first.
Just at that moment Lavinia’s gaze slipped past her friend to the adjacent box. And she froze.
Broad shoulders filling out a dark evening jacket, dark hair above a white neckcloth, and a ruggedly handsome profile. She would recognise him anywhere. Sebastian Longhurst. The part of her brain that had not gone into shock told her that he must have just arrived, because he was standing, waiting for his companion to be seated first.
It was only then that her gaze moved to the woman at his side. Fair haired and beautiful, her mouth tilted up as Sebastian said something to her. “How clever of you!” she overheard the blonde woman say. She received a soft chuckle in response.
“Lady Richmond?” Margaret’s voice finally penetrated the fog that had gathered around her. “Lavinia?” Her friend was also looking over at the other box. “Isn’t that Captain Longhurst?” she whispered. “Should we acknowledge him?”
Lavinia found a smile from somewhere, turning her full attention back to Margaret. “I don’t think so. He seems rather busy.”
Margaret’s own smile was uncertain, and Lavinia noticed her eyes lingering on the other couple. She was relieved when a moment later the curtain rose and she was able to try to focus her attention on the stage.
She had been so looking forward to this outing, but now she found herself struggling to maintain her interest. Her heart was beating fast and her throat was dry. Her thoughts were spinning like a whirlpool. When Margaret offered a comment in a hushed voice, Lavinia didn’t hear what she said or know what she was talking about, and she was too distracted to do more than nod.
Sebastian, her Sebastian, was seated opposite her with another woman and Lavinia’s pleasure in this long anticipated evening was completely ruined.
Mrs Chandler dimpled at Sebastian, waving her fan languidly back and forth. Her fingers were heavy with rings, and the ruby pendant resting between her breasts looked as if it had cost as much as a small country. If Mark was right, then it probably did.
This evening was part of a strategy he and Mark had discussed long into the night. At first Sebastian hadn’t wanted his brother involved but Mark had insisted and in the end he had been grateful for that. He’d been too much alone recently, shouldering all of his burdens, and he was tired of his solitary life. The meeting with Lavinia might have proved to him that she no longer wanted anything to do with him, but despite that he felt he had a duty.
He and Patrick had been close friends. And then there was Oliver. Sebastian had an obligation to both Patrick and the child that the world believed was the Richmond heir.
By now the curtain had risen on the play. Mrs Chandler reached over and placed her hand on his thigh, pressing meaningfully against the hard muscle beneath his black trousers. He resisted the urge to push her away. Once upon a time he would have welcomed her attention and tried his luck with her, even though he knew that financially he wasn’t in the league of the men who kept her.
He smiled at her as if he was relishing their evening together—after the play he’d arranged for an intimate supper. But it was an act. Mrs Chandler was a practised courtesan, and beautiful and charming as she was, there was only one woman who was occupying his thoughts tonight. She rejected him in the most heartless manner and still he couldn’t forget her.
As Mrs Chandler turned back to the stage, he allowed his gaze to sweep over the dimly lit theatre, taking in the rapt faces of the occupants of the other boxes and the crowded stalls below. And that was when he saw her. There was no mistaking her perfect profile, or the mouth he had kissed over and over again.
Lavinia.
She was seated in the box directly beside him and he wondered why he hadn’t seen her immediately. Her dark hair was dressed on top of her head, with loose curls lying against one bare shoulder. Diamond earrings dangled from her ears—he recognised them from the dinners he had shared with Patrick and her in the old days. When she was still his friend’s wife and not his widow. When she was everything he had ever wanted and desired.
Inside his chest his heart was aching. Hurt, betrayal, regret . . . far too many emotions for him to begin to unravel, even if he wanted to. And he really didn’t need this complication tonight, and likely she didn’t want it either. Because he was certain that Lavinia had already seen him. Her rigid pose was a dead giveaway, as was the nervous flick of her fan.
A hot burst of anger made his mouth tighten into a hard line as he asked himself why the very sight of him should cause her to pretend he wasn’t there. At Monkstead’s, when she’d shown she wasn’t interested in rehashing the past, he had played the perfect gentleman, making polite enquiries, and then walking away from her.
And yet now here she was, pretending he didn’t exist.
Was he being unfair? He knew their shared past made any exchange between them awkward. All the more reason to be polite strangers. Indifferent strangers. She’d treated him like that stranger at Monkstead’s, so why wasn’t she able to do so now?
It occurred to him that maybe Lavinia was not quite as unaffected as she was pretending.
The temptation was strong. To force her to acknowledge him. To make her look at him, really look at him. Would he be able to battle past the Ice Maiden and uncover the hot passionate woman he remembered? Or was that woman gone forever?
Just at that moment Lavinia turned her head and stared straight back at him.
The shock of their eyes meeting was quite profound.
As if from a distance he could hear the play continuing, and a ripple of laughter from the crowd, but all his focus was on Lavinia. A fist closed around his chest, tightening, making it difficult for him to breathe.
Because what he saw in Lavinia’s dark eyes was not ice, not cold indifference. What he saw was the past.
Five
Two years earlier
It was the same house. They were to meet at two o’clock in the afternoon and the more Lavinia thought about it the more nervous she became. She hadn’t expected to feel like this. She’d preferred to think of her meeting with Captain Longhurst as something that was a necessary evil in order to achieve her heart’s desire, and Patrick had assured her of his friend’s trustworthiness.
“Sebastian is a gentleman and he will never disclose our secret. You haven’t changed your mind, Lavinia? I need a child, an heir, but if you have changed your mind . . . ?”
She’d said she hadn’t and she wanted this too and really, she wasn’t concerned with the mechanics of it. But it was a lie. Although it was true that she wanted a child, and she wanted to please Patrick, the mechanics of achieving their wish were very much on her mind. Pretending otherwise required a great deal of icy self-control and it was as if that self-control was beginning to fray around the edges.
Lavinia felt anxious in a way she could not remember ever feeling before, as if she was anticipating their meeting for reasons other than the stated purpose. Sometimes she found herself daydreaming about the last time they met, when Sebastian had kissed her. He’d told her he would need to kiss her if he was to take her as a man takes a woman, that he would need to touch her. Before that she had not thought it would be necessary. That he could perform the act quickly and without emotion, with barely a glance, and that would be that.
Her marriage to Patrick was friendly and comfortable, but recently she could probably count on one hand the number of times he had visited her bed. His spirit had been willing but his body was unable to complete the task he set it, and after some embarrassing fumbling, he had stopped visiting her. Lavinia considered herself a virtuous wife, one willing to do her duty. Her marriage bed gave her a sense of companionship and warmth; a closeness to the man who was her husband. She missed that. But could she say she enjoyed the act itself? No, she couldn’t, and she did not expect to.
From an early age, her mother had lectured her that ladies did not delight in such things. A wife’s duty was to make children and run the household and behave in a manner appropriate to her place in Society.
There had certainly been no mention of kissing and touching!
Lavinia told herself on the way to her two o’clock appointment that she would simply have to bear it. A momentary discomfort, a brief awkwardness, and then she could go home. With luck, there would be no need for more of these uneasy assignations with Captain Longhurst. She could move on to the next phase of her life and put all of that behind her.
But when she arrived it wasn’t as she’d expected.
Captain Longhurst was waiting for her in the bed chamber, and he had opened a bottle of wine.
She was taken by surprise and without a clue what to do. Walk out? Change her mind? Tell him this was inappropriate and to recork the bottle? Automatically she began to take off her bonnet and outer clothing, setting them carefully aside while she considered her next step. When she looked at him again, he had poured her a glass and was holding it out to her.
“I don’t—” she began.
“It will help you to relax,” he said, and after a pause she took it.
He sipped his own. As if she couldn’t help it, her gaze slid over him. He was in his shirt sleeves, the neckcloth at his throat undone and showing a triangle of browned skin. His breeches clung to his thick thighs in a way she was sure Patrick’s never did. And he was watching her too. She could feel the nerves jumping under her skin. There were other feelings too, feelings unfamiliar to her. Her breasts felt heavy, sensitive, and there was an ache low in her belly. This wasn’t right, surely?
Lavinia swallowed and found her voice. “Should I?” she gestured at the bed, needing it to be over and done with so that she could become herself again. Because right now she felt very unlike Lady Lavinia Richmond.
Slowly he shook his head and there was something in his hooded eyes, a heat that caused her hands to tremble. She put the glass down in case she spilled the wine.
“No, not yet,” he said. “I want to undress you.” His gaze met hers. “If that is acceptable to you?”
Was it acceptable? She was no longer sure. The way he was looking at her made her want to turn and run, but her feet seemed to be fixed to the floor and she couldn’t move. Because at the same time she wanted to stay.
He unpinned her hair, allowing the heavy tresses to fall about her shoulders, and then he ran his fingers through them and pressed his nose to the silken strands. As if he wanted to familiarise himself with her scent. Still she stood, motionless and wary, not knowing what to do.
It will be just the once, she reminded herself. One time and then you can forget all about it.
Sebastian was kissing her neck, his lips trailing up to her jaw and then he took her mouth. It was as if a flash of molten heat poured into her. She gasped against his lips and felt him smile. He leaned back, still so close that she could barely breathe, and said, “Now I will undress you.”
He was practised with buttons and hooks and ribbons, although he seemed in no hurry. Leisurely he removed her gown and then her chemise, and then he looked at her. Awkwardly she waited for him to finish, to get to the reason they were here. Had he forgotten this was a business transaction between them? Perhaps he had, for the way he stared at her, as if she was a gift he had been waiting all his life to unwrap . . . it made her heart thump hard in her breast, like a caged bird trying to get out.
Sebastian reached out and brushed his fingers against the peak of her breast, and something in the tension in his jaw and around his eyes made her think he was enjoying this far too much. Her own eyes threatened to flutter closed but she forced them to remain open.
“Captain Longhurst, I think we should do what we came here to do.” Her voice was breathless.
He looked at her, his striking eyes smoky with what could only be desire. Whatever he saw in her face brought him to his senses—thank God! He stepped back from his ardour and she tried not to feel regret.
“Of course,” he said quietly. He began to undress himself, with the quick practised movements of a soldier.
She supposed she should turn her back but she didn’t seem able to. Her eyes were locked on him as he stripped off his shirt, revealing a chest that was quite unlike anything she had ever seen before. Hard and muscular, with a dusting of dark brown hair the same colour as that on his head. Her breath caught as he reached for the buttons on his breeches and undid them.
Suddenly what had seemed like a cold and impersonal transaction had become hot and sweaty and all very real.
He paused, as if sensing her discomfort. His breeches were loose about his hips but he hadn’t pulled them down yet. She swallowed and her eyes skittered away from the evidence of his desire. Silence, and then gently he reached out and took her hand in his. His fingers were calloused and warm, and she could feel the heat radiated
by his big body now so close to hers. And she could smell him—a masculine smell that was unfamiliar and yet she knew it. Craved it.
Her head was beginning to spin. This wasn’t how she had expected it to be.
“Come,” he said, his voice husky and deep, sending ripples over her naked skin, and led her to the bed. He pulled back the covers and she hastily climbed in. She drew them up to her chin and closed her eyes, like a frightened child, even as she asked herself what there was to be frightened of.
This is a mistake, a voice in her head warned her. She could leave now, dress herself hastily and tell him she had changed her mind. She could do that, she could, she . . .
The mattress dipped. He was lying on the other side, and again she felt the heat of his body. He didn’t move, as if he was waiting for her to grow accustomed to his presence. For what seemed an age but must only have been a few minutes they lay side by side, staring up at the canopy. She chewed on her lip, wondering where her icy reserve had gone and fighting to restore it. She could still leave, she told herself, but she had come this far.
It will be over soon, she soothed herself. All over.
That was when he turned to her, reaching out to slide his arm about her waist and roll her toward him, pulling her close. She had one glimpse of his blue eyes and rumpled hair, and then he began to kiss her.
His mouth on hers was warm, searching, discovering. She fell into the kiss as if he had cast a spell on her. The taste of him was . . . well she couldn’t get enough of him, it seemed, because now she was pressing closer. Then she realised that his kiss was distracting her from what his hands were doing, which was caressing her skin, cupping her breasts, where her nipples butted against his palms in a manner that seemed quite brazen and beyond her control.
His lips found her jaw, and then made their leisurely way down her neck, finding places that sent tingles through her body. There was a throb between her legs, and now his hand was skimming down over her stomach, as if seeking to assuage the ache. She tried not to stiffen in dismay and embarrassment, because she wanted him there, she wanted him with a hot and desperate need that had taken her completely by surprise.
