Boundless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

  So as always, he took the offensive. “Don’t distress yourself. If you’d prefer to take Sir Jeffrey, then you must tell me. I want no unwilling wife in my bed.”

  As she jerked back her gasp echoed against the walls of this small room. “No! I mean I did not intend that at all. Please let me explain.” A nervous glance at the door followed, before she went on. “But not here.”

  “And not now,” he said firmly. “Let me take you up to your room. Your maid can get you into some dry clothes and find you something hot to drink.”

  “Tea.” She sighed, and the lines around her mouth relaxed. “But I should tell you.” She bit her lip, as if doubtful.

  Sliding his arm around her waist, Adrian guided her firmly toward the door. “Come.”

  At least he had the pleasure of her company as far as her bedroom, where he delivered her to her harsh-faced maid who glared at him as if he had kept Livia out too long. “The weather has turned bad again,” she said, glancing at where sleet was sliding down the windows. “You should never have gone out, ma’am.” She took control of her mistress, guiding her into the room.

  Adrian turned away, but halted when he heard her voice calling his name. She came out to him, and led him to the window, where the perceptive maid could not hear them. “Come here tonight,” she said. “At midnight. I’ll be waiting.”

  Before he could reply, she scurried back into the room and closed the door.

  Of all things, Adrian had not expected a clandestine tryst. He would attend this one in a far different mood to his usual appointments in great country houses with beautiful women.

  Chapter 13

  If she told him everything, he might insist on going away. Livia strode up and down before the fire, unable to relax. She had been jittery all through dinner, something that had not escaped her mother’s notice. Or her twin’s. Drusilla would arrive before Christmas and then she would have two sisters on her tail as well as her mother. Her brothers, the two that were here, had noticed something but she had not given them the chance to get close.

  She couldn’t go on in this way. Two days into her visit to her home, and she was walking on upright pins. Mincing as if any false move would betray her. At least Jeffrey didn’t come to dinner tonight, and neither did the local gentry. She could be thankful for that. Last night old Miss Denning had even treated her with kind condescension, welcoming her into the ranks of the unmarried lady. “It is not as thankless as people suppose,” she’d confided from behind her fan, her stiffly ordered curls bouncing as she turned to Livia. “We have plenty to keep us amused. My dearest brother has cared for me all his life, and I am sure your family will treasure you too.” Miss Denning, who had spent her life caring for children not her own, an unpaid companion and nurse.

  At least Livia would not do that. Her dowry would provide her with the means to buy a small house somewhere and live quietly, if she wanted to. Probably with her cousin Poppy, who was heading for such a fate, if her mother was to be believed.

  A lonely existence. Clasping her cream silk robe around her Livia took another turn on the Persian carpet. It was a wonder she had not worn a track in it by now.

  Jeffrey would give her the life she’d always thought she wanted. Contentment, living with a husband she’d known most of her life, who she could discuss local affairs with. High society had never suited her. All those balls, and extravagant clothes, all the discussions on the affairs of the day wearied her. Or so she’d always thought.

  Although Jeffrey had entered Parliament, he did not have a parliamentary turn of mind. He would do what the local grandee, in this case her father, told him to. The appointment came as prestige to him and his family, making his mother proud, and giving him a reason to visit London when he wished. If she married him, Livia would bear him children, and make her life in a part of the world that she loved and knew well.

  Her life would be set on a course she had longed for ten years ago. Before the baby. Before the man who said he adored her had abandoned her for another woman and a life in the army.

  Then there was Adrian. Livia halted and closed her eyes, feeling again his arms around her, his mouth on hers, the gentle kisses she hadn’t believed a man like that was even capable of delivering. And the passionate ones that exposed his vast experience. The stories about him grew fiercer and more scandalous every year, and yet he could still enter any ballroom in London.

  A man set in the mold of her brothers, who loved with all their hearts and souls. But Adrian had not offered her that. He’d given her a way out of a scandal she would never recover from. That was all. She doubted he wanted to go ahead with the wedding, and she certainly should not. How could she?

  But she could not marry him. She had a son somewhere in the world, if he had not perished. Not knowing was its own particular torture, but she felt, in her heart, that the boy lived.

  Livia wrung her hands and forced back her tears. She could not think of the child’s death without that happening. Ten years had not dulled her grief. She could not lose another child like that, could not feel so helpless ever again. And if she allowed Adrian access to her body, surely he would know she had given birth.

  And yet every part of her yearned for more. Wanted to feel him against her without the encumbrance of clothes, to experience his kisses all over her body, to have some of that legendary loving for herself. Before she reconciled herself to the life of a loveless spinster, which she had always known would belong to her.

  Someone scratched at her door. Servants often did that, rather than knock, as the sound was deemed less intrusive. Picking up the skirts of her robe she positively ran there and lifted the latch.

  Outside, dressed in a banyan easily as magnificent as a Turkish robe, stood the Duke of Preston.

  Hastily, stumbling on the fabric trailing under her feet, she stepped back and let him in. He entered, strolling in as if entering a society gathering. “You’ve done this before,” she said, unable to control her wayward tongue.

  “Indeed I have.” He turned, closing the door so softly nobody could possibly hear it. “More times than I care to remember.” He spoke in a quiet, intimate murmur as he turned back to her, his gentle smile firmly in place. But his eyes blazed. “Would you like me to tell you about them?”

  “No.” Most assuredly she did not. “But this is new to me.”

  “Not entirely.” Without hesitation, as if used to seeing her with her hair down and her body unburdened by stays and hoops, he took her hands and drew her forward. As if they were married in truth. But he did not tug her into his arms, merely secured her so she could not turn away from him. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  That was why she had asked him. Strangely grateful to him for approaching the truth without equivocation, she nodded. “Shall we sit?”

  Releasing one of his hands, she led him to the window seat. When they were settled, she folded her hands in her lap, staring at them. “We were very young.”

  “Your parents should not have allowed Sir Jeffrey such access to you.”

  She started, her eyes widening as she lifted her gaze to his face. “You know who did it?”

  “It would be hard for me not to. He has behaved toward you as if he owns you. Standing over you as if he had a right to do so. He has taunted me since he knew I had an interest in you.”

  “Oh!” Except for the duel that had forced their betrothal she hadn’t known that, but yes, she could imagine Jeffrey doing such a thing. “He was always competitive.” In truth, she was not surprised Adrian had worked out who had taken her virginity all those years ago.

  “Marriage is not a competition.” He leaned against the window frame, his arms folded over his multicolored, flamboyant robe.

  Suspicion edged into her mind. “Did anyone see you come here?”

  Supremely confident, he shook his head. “Of course not. As I told you, I’m used to such
trysts. Where is your maid?” He glanced at the door leading to the powder room. Maids generally slept near their mistress, in case she should want them. And to keep her safe.

  “I sent her to bed. She does not sleep near me in the country. I prefer to have my solitude.”

  “You do not have it now.” He raised his voice to a normal pitch. “I shall leave you if you wish.”

  “No, I need to tell you. You know I am not a virgin. That is why I have never married.”

  “Just that?” His incredulity was emphasized when he raised both brows. A smile flirted with his mouth.

  Could she tell him about the baby? Her heart failed her. If she let him do what she longed for him to do, if they made love, he’d see the marks childbirth had left on her body. Then he’d know. So many years of not telling anyone had built a barrier around her. She didn’t know how to tell anyone, or where to begin. If he saw, and yet said nothing, perhaps she could accept that he understood.

  For all her longing to see her child, all her searches had led to nothing. One way or another, the boy had gone, and she had to find a way to accept that. Let him assume the baby had died, once he saw the marks.

  “It may be nothing to you, but it is vitally important to me.”

  He brushed her concerns aside with an elegant sweep of one hand. “Your position in society makes that a trivial matter. I suspect you have allowed your single state to become a habit. You are already making plans for your life as a spinster. Are you not?”

  Damn him, yes. “What other choice do I have?”

  “You have a choice now.” Leaning forward, he caught her hands in his before she could pull them back. He moved so quickly and silently when he wanted to. “You can marry me.”

  “But that was a mere subterfuge. You were kindly helping me escape total social ostracism.”

  “Was I?” He smiled. Too warmly, too intimately. When she tried to draw her hands away, he tightened his hold. “Are you sure?”

  The air around them pulled tight. Of course she was. If she had thought otherwise, she wouldn’t have invited him here tonight. Would she? She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  “You’re not, are you?” If he’d sounded in the least triumphant she would have asked him to leave. But he was too old a hand at this game. He kept his voice low and unthreatening. Although she knew what he was doing, talking to her as if she were a scared kitten, she found his approach irresistible.

  He watched her when she wet her lips, his eyes those of a predator waiting to pounce. Observant, desire banked but definitely there. “Of course not,” she said crossly. “You’re one of the best lovers in London. Everybody says so.”

  “Do they now?” A smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Now why would you say that?”

  “I only say what everybody else does. Even—single ladies, even if they are not virgins, hear gossip.” This was far too comfortable. She didn’t want to sink into this discussion. Wrenching her hands away from him, she stood and took a few paces into the room. The candlelight from the two sconces on the wall and the two set on the bedhead glowed brightly, making the silk of her robe glimmer as she moved. “I have the most notorious man in London in my bedroom.” Turning, she let her skirts swish around her before she spoke again. “In his undress.”

  Although that magnificent banyan, a rich blue embellished with heavy gold thread embroidery could hardly be described as such. But it wasn’t the formal coat men had to wear. Under it, his legs were bare, his feet shoved into soft leather slippers. Was he naked? Men frequently changed into the softer banyans in their homes, but they only took off their coats to do so, not everything.

  He crossed his legs, letting the garment fall open from his knees. He knew she was watching. Hairy, powerful, his calves taut with muscle. The thought of rubbing her legs against them made her lose concentration. Tonight she meant to have everything she shouldn’t have. He was experienced, so he would know these things.

  “Adrian…”

  His eyes sparkled when she said his name and his expression softened. “Ask me.” He spoke so quietly, but in a low tone that rumbled through her.

  “Do you know how to make love without—consequences?”

  “Without the deed resulting in a pregnancy, you mean?”

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  “Yes, but there is always a risk. It’s possible to reduce it, but not to eliminate it completely.” Smoothly he got to his feet and came to her, towering over her. “Tell me why you want to know, Livia.”

  She sucked in a breath and used it to steel herself. If she did not ask she would regret the opportunity for the rest of her life. She knew so much about making love, had even done it, but she had never understood what it was that enticed people to risk their reputations, their lives, everything they had to get it.

  No hiding now. No equivocation. “Because I want to know what it’s like. I want to know what it feels like when an experienced man makes love to a woman. But I can’t risk children.”

  That wasn’t all she wanted. If he made love to her, he’d see the evidence of childbirth. Perhaps he’d feel it. Did a woman who had borne a child feel different inside? She’d always assumed so, though she could hardly ask anyone.

  Then she wouldn’t have to tell him. He would know, and he could make his decision. She still couldn’t work out how to tell him in words. This was the best way.

  He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. But he didn’t appear angry. Then he spoke. “A man can withdraw and spend his seed outside the woman’s body. In that case, the risk is that he does not do it in time, or that he releases early. The lady may insert a small sponge into her body, soaked with something like lemon juice or brandy. Something acidic. Nobody knows why that works, but if she leaves it in place until the next day, it is reasonably effective. She may insert half a lemon, the insides scooped out, and cover the tiny opening inside with it. There are other methods, herbs and such, but I wouldn’t recommend those. Some are ineffective, some can cause damage to the body. You will not do that.”

  “Oh.” Her body heated. She had never discussed anything so—personal with anyone before, much less someone of the male sex. “I—I wanted to be sure. It sounds so—cold, so calculated.” But he knew how to prevent conception. That was good enough for her.

  “It is anything but that.”

  Her hasty nod loosened one of the ties fastening her nighttime braids. She’d coiled them up on top of her head, trying for something less—young, but now they came loose and swung around her face.

  “You look adorably confused.” Amusement colored his voice.

  “I am. I have never…”

  “But you had the courage to ask. The least I could do is answer you straightly. Are you satisfied?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, Livia, if you want to do this, I have two conditions,” he continued.

  She swallowed, her throat dry. “What are those?”

  He clasped her upper arms, holding her in place. “That you do this with nobody else but me.”

  Her answer came before she thought it through. “I don’t want to do it with anybody else but you.”

  Tilting his chin, he raised a brow. “You don’t?”

  When she shook her head something changed in his expression, his eyes warming once more and his mouth losing that tight look. “I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.” That didn’t sound like the cynical Duke of Preston at all. But she had not thought of him like that in some time. She’d discovered a man of far more integrity than she had expected. At several points in their relationship he could have taken her, seduced or even taken her by force, and he would have faced few consequences. Once she had all but offered herself, and he’d refused her.

  “I don’t mean to trap you,” she said. “I just wanted to know. I won’t tell anyone, and I sent Finch away. She said she should
stay tonight to ensure I had not taken a chill, but I assured her I had not.”

  His hold on her softened, his hands moving up her arms to cup her shoulders gently. “Were you telling the truth?”

  She nodded. “I was cold and wet, but I have taken no lasting damage.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not made of paper. I can stand a little rain without collapsing.”

  That smile should be outlawed. “Good. Because I would probably call your maid myself if that were the case.” Moving to her braids, he took the end of one between his thumb and forefinger. The twist of thread fastening it came loose and fell away. The braid began to unravel. He helped it.

  “But then they’d know, if you called Finch. About you being here, I mean.” She would never move again if only he left his hands on her, warming her all the way through. He finished unfastening one braid and moved to the other. She’d rarely had her hair loose. It was the regulation length of three fingers, perhaps a little more since Finch had not trimmed it lately. He sifted his fingers through the mass as he undid it, concentrating on his self-imposed task. The action felt more intimate than it should.

  “Better that than have you suffer,” he said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Touched by his concern, she nodded. She had more to discuss with him but having him so close scattered her wits. She had not meant to ask him so soon. And he’d said two conditions?

  He kept his attention on her braid. “Are you sure you want me to make love to you?” At last she heard something. A slight tremor in his voice, soon suppressed.

  “I want it, yes.”

  “And the consequences?” He touched her chin with his thumb.

  “You said you could…” She didn’t have the courage to say it again. She had shot her bolt, as the saying went, and she could not say more.

  “Yes, I did, but I also warned you that nothing is certain.”

  “Then yes, I can take the consequences. Whatever they are.” She had been through that before, but this time she was in a position to care for her child herself, to ensure it had a good upbringing. She had heard of ladies adopting “foster children.” She could do that, and damn the people who speculated. If she was past marriageable age, why should she care?