by Robyn DeHart
If that were the case, if his wife had left him, then he’d merely go back to his life as it had been before their union. He had his work to do, his investments. His mother had rekindled her romance, and he suspected she would wed any time now. He’d been a selfish bastard, and it had cost him the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
The clock on the mantel struck the hour. He swore. He was officially late to Benedict’s for their meeting. He grabbed his sketchbook and pencil and left for the club. Thankfully, tonight was business and he could go in the back door, thus preventing him from having to engage with anyone save Benedict himself.
Quarter of an hour later, he had already poured himself a drink and was waiting for Benedict to enter his office. Oliver tossed back his drink, then slammed it on the table.
“What has you so tied in knots?” Benedict asked as he came into the room. “Marital bliss not so blissful?”
“Go to the devil,” Oliver said. He eyed the glass in front of him, noting the large crack that appeared at the base. “I’ll buy you another.”
Benedict laughed and poured Oliver another two fingers of Scotch in a new glass.
He slid over the drawing he’d done for the expansion. “I can’t seem to get the slope of the ceiling right.”
Benedict glanced over the sketch, then shrugged. “Looks perfect as usual.”
“I think I could fashion a hidden panel on that wall there that would allow you access to the front room without going around,” Oliver said.
Benedict eyed the part of the wall in question. “I suppose, but eventually someone would see me coming out and then they would know where I hide most of the time.” They sat in silence for a few moments, simply drinking. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or just glower at me? Because if it is the latter, I can return to the main room and endure Lord Crawford’s drunken rant for another half hour.” Benedict shook his head. “That man cannot hold his liquor nor play a game of chance worth a damn.”
“Sounds like my father,” Oliver said.
“Your father was a selfish bastard. That has already been established.”
Oliver glared at his friend.
He held up a hand to prevent Oliver from arguing. “Before you try to lie about what this is about, let me remind you I’ve known you your entire life. I know you.”
Oliver exhaled and cursed his friend. But the man was right. “Harriet is unhappy.” He left out the part about her having left. It was in his nature to go after her. Pursue her until she was in his arms again. But his impulsive and demanding nature is what had gotten them into this mess to begin with.
“Did you try buying her a present?” Benedict took a sip. “I hear women enjoy those sorts of things.”
“She has usage of funds to buy herself whatever she desires,” Oliver said. “Additionally, I don’t think that would win her over. It certainly didn’t help with the courtship.”
“What did you do while at Brookhaven?” Benedict closed his eyes and shook his head. “Please leave out the finer details. I’ll use my imagination.”
“That was all. I worked on my sketches during the day; I suppose she worked with the servants to better acquaint herself with the workings of the estate. At night I would find her,” Oliver said.
“You did not take her on picnics or walks, or read poetry to each other?” Benedict asked.
“Damnation, man, is that what you believe marriage to be?” He paused. “My parents had a terrible marriage, so I suppose I don’t have any reliable source of information for the way the relationship should go.”
“But you did spend time with her, other than when plowing into her, I’m assuming?”
Oliver took a deep breath. He’d wanted to, but no, he hadn’t. He shook his head, unable to form the words.
“You avoided her?”
“I did.”
Benedict swore.
Oliver scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d forced her into a marriage despite her repeatedly telling him no, then he’d brought her to the country where he’d left her with strangers until the black of the night when he’d slaked himself on her body. He’d given her pleasure, too, he knew that. But it obviously hadn’t been enough. In truth, it wasn’t enough for him, either, that’s what was so damned troubling. “If I gave in to my desires, I’d be with the woman all day and all night. I crave her nearness like some kind of addiction.”
Benedict merely nodded as if he completely understood the notion.
“It scares the hell out of me.”
“I know that bitch, Catherine, changed how you felt about love and marriage. You can see now that things aren’t quite so black and white?” Benedict asked.
He never thought he’d find a woman who would love him. He’d given up that idea the moment Catherine had turned her back on him and walked away. He wasn’t a whole man; he was broken and therefore unlovable, and she’d told him as much before she’d left. Harriet loved him. Had told him so. Only the one time, but he knew it to be true. She had left, too.
“You need to tell her,” Benedict said, his voice low.
“Tell her what?”
“Tell Harriet you love her. Women need to hear the actual words.”
Did he love her? Was he even capable of such a thing? He’d thought he was at one point, but then everything had changed. He felt something for Harriet, something beyond lust. He wasn’t so ignorant as to not recognize that. But love? He still wasn’t certain he was capable of such an emotion. And if he was, would it be the kind of love she deserved?
“Since when are you an expert on all things love?” Oliver asked.
Benedict pointed at him and smiled. “You don’t disagree with me, do you?”
“Even if it were true, it matters not. She has left me.”
“Then go after her. You’ve never been one to sit back on your laurels and ignore something you want.”
Oliver made no move to leave.
“Seriously, man, why are you here with me when you could be chasing down the woman you love?”
Son of a bitch. It was true. He had fallen in love with his wife. Now he had to find the perfect way to tell her.
…
Harriet had sent the request for a meeting with Lady X. She’d asked that the mysterious woman join her at the Garner townhome. It was the perfect place, because she had access to weapons, should they become necessary, and it offered privacy which would hopefully lure the woman in.
For the last half hour, Harriet had paced the darkened corridor waiting for a knock at the front door. But nothing had come. She’d spent the time thinking about Oliver’s admission. He had to care something for her to make such an apology, to recognize that he didn’t want to see her unhappy. When she returned home, she’d have to tell him again how she felt. Make certain he understood that, for now, she had enough love for both of them.
A scraping sound came from above her. Was someone upstairs? Perhaps Lady X had come early and was lurking about trying to find additional information to use against the Ladies of Virtue.
That wouldn’t happen. Harriet grabbed a small lady’s cane that hid a delicate but lethal blade inside and quietly climbed the stairs. She’d never had need to use such a weapon before. Her great skill that she brought to the Ladies of Virtue had been her keen observation. She’d been able to step into a home and tell immediately if one of the servants was stealing. Still she did not know what to expect from such an adversary and she should be prepared.
She reached the top of the stairs, turned, and lost her footing. She grasped at the air, but caught nothing and instead fell, headfirst, down the long flight of stairs.
…
When Oliver hadn’t found Harriet at either their townhome or her brother’s, he went to the Garner to see if she and Agnes were practicing. Perhaps she had decided to move in there for the time being, until she decided what to do about their failed marriage. It was late, well past midnight, and the house was dark, but still he stepped into the foyer.
His heart stopped. Harriet lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the massive staircase. He moved as quickly as his damned leg would allow him to reach her and fell to his knees, despite the nearly crushing pain that seared through his knee and up his hip.
She was still breathing, which reminded him to do the same. He gasped for air. Her face was bruised and swollen, and one of her legs twisted, her ankle already discolored and twice its normal size. Oh God, no, not his Harriet.
While he’d never wish his constant pain and limitations on anyone, having to see his beloved Harriet struggle with such a thing would destroy him. He had to get her to safety. Get a doctor. Damned if he couldn’t even pick her up himself and carry her to safety.
He was worthless.
He hobbled himself to the door and called out. A young man passing by started and nearly ran off. But Oliver called him over, handed him a coin, and told him he’d double it if he went to his townhome and got several servants to come quickly. The boy rushed off in the direction of Oliver’s townhome. Thankfully it was only a block away.
It was an eternity, waiting for someone to come and rescue his wife. He’d been such a selfish bastard trapping her in a marriage with him. She merited someone who could at least protect her. A man who was whole, not him and his broken body and sad excuse for a heart. Even if he could offer her his love, what he had would never be enough to give her everything she deserved.
As if that had called it to life, the thump in his chest sped and tightened. He held her hand tightly and sent a prayer up to whoever was listening that she be safe, that nothing be too damaged. If she survived this, he’d set her free if that was what she wanted.
It seemed an eternity for the footmen to arrive and get her situated in her bed. The doctor had been in the room with her for nearly half an hour, and still Oliver knew nothing. Pacing was not an easy feat with a cane; it was loud and clumsy and painful, still he could not sit still. Finally, the doctor came out of the room.
Oliver held his breath.
“She is fine,” the doctor said. He wiped his hands on his apron. “I gave her some laudanum for the pain.”
“Her leg?” Panic ate at his insides.
“Sprained.”
Relief washed over him so strongly, he had to lean against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor.
“She should stay off it for a few days,” the doctor continued, “but there should be no lasting effects. The rest of her is bruised, but considering the fall she took, it could have been a lot worse. She’s fortunate you found her when you did.”
Oliver swallowed. “Can I see her?”
“She’s resting, but yes, you can. Don’t expect her to be too lucid until the laudanum wears off. I’ve left a bottle on the bedside table should she require additional pain relief.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I’ll come back in a couple of days to check on her.”
Oliver stepped inside Harriet’s bedchamber and took in the sight of her. She looked so small tucked into the bedcovers that way. Her pale blond curls hovered across her pillow, a perfect halo. His beautiful, sweet wife. He needed to think of a way to convince her to stay, something that would prove to her he loved her and always would.
His heart thumped again. He needed to touch her, remind himself she was still here with him.
He climbed into the bed next to her, careful not to disturb her. He rolled to his side; he needed to be near her, to be close in case she needed him, to watch the even breaths she took as her chest rose and fell. What would he have done if he’d lost her? A wave of nausea rolled through him. She was everything to him now. As soon as he could figure out how, he’d show her precisely that.
…
Harriet woke up to a myriad of sensations, the first being the warm, solid band wrapped around her waist. Pain radiated from her ankle, and she shifted, bringing her further into contact with the solid wall behind her.
The wall that was her husband. She had dreamed that he sat at her bedside, looking haggard and worried. Then another dream of pressing kisses to her face. She’d considered them an effect of the laudanum the doctor had given her. But he was here, in the bed with her. It was the first time he’d ever stayed through the night.
His lips brushed against her ear. “How is your pain this morning?”
Was it morning? Darkness still permeated the room, and she saw no sign of the sun rising at the edges of the closed drapes.
“Bearable,” she said. It was likely the laudanum, but she’d slept better last night than she had in weeks. And to have awoken with her husband wrapped around her, she couldn’t prevent the slow smile if she tried.
“Christ, Harriet, when I found you at the bottom of the stairs”—his voice trembled—“I was terrified. I thought I’d lost you and then…” He nuzzled her neck. “I worried that your leg, that you would—”
“I know.” He had worried she’d be permanently injured the way he was. “Will you tell me about how that happened?”
He was quiet for several moments before he finally spoke. “After my father died, the solicitor came and spoke to me. We had lost everything. More than that, we owed so many people.” His hot breath feathered against her neck. “My father’s failed investments had taken from other families as well. It was up to me to put everything back to right.”
She wanted to correct him, to remind him that his father’s sins were not his own, but she didn’t want him to stop talking.
“I sold everything. Everything save Brookhaven. That I couldn’t bear to part with. I used the monies from the rest of the sales to pay off our debts, invested a portion, and used the rest to begin repairing the estate. It was in shambles. The roof leaked, the rooms were drafty and damp.” He moved his hand idly over her hip and thigh. “I was up on scaffolding, repairing a leak, and I fell.”
She gasped. She knew it was coming, knew something dreadful had happened, but having been to Brookhaven and seeing how high the ceilings were… It was a mercy he hadn’t been killed. “Oliver, you could have died.”
“I broke my femur, and the doctor couldn’t set it correctly. He said I should be thankful that I hadn’t broken my spine, that I’d eventually be able to walk, but I’d be limited with that leg.” He hugged her tightly. “My sweet Harriet, when I saw you lying in a heap at the bottom of those stairs…”
She lifted his hand to her lips.
He kissed the back of her neck, moved his other hand up to cup her breast, knead the tender flesh.
She pushed herself back into him, his hardened length pressed against her bottom. He reached between her thighs, slipped a finger inside her.
Yes, this was how he knew to love her. She didn’t need the words, she told herself. She could love enough for them both, as long as he stayed by her side and made her feel such pleasure.
“Shift yourself this way for me, love.” He moved her top leg over so it bent slightly and pressed into the mattress. Then he slid himself inside her. She cried out.
“You’re so deep,” she said.
“Too much?”
“No, ’tis good. Just unexpected.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your ankle.” He kissed her neck, nibbled on her shoulders. “From this position, I can touch you everywhere.” He proved it by flicking his finger across her nipple. She hissed between her teeth and ground herself against him.
He picked up speed, thrusting into her faster, harder. She reached behind her and put her hand on his thigh, reveling in the muscles that played beneath her palm as he pumped their bodies.
His fingers brushed against her center, reaching the tight bundle of nerves hidden within her folds. On the second touch, she splintered, pleasure washing over her. He climaxed a second later, pulling her tight against him as they rode the waves together.
…
The next time she woke up, she was alone. She hated the emptiness the feeling left her with. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, leaned against the pillows at the ba
ck of the bed. Then she rang the bell that sat on the bedside table.
The maid popped her head in with a smile at the ready. She bobbed. “Yes, my lady?”
“I think I should like some breakfast.”
The girl nodded, then disappeared.
The doctor had instructed Harriet to stay off her ankle as much as possible over the next few days so that it healed more quickly. She shifted her ankle some to see which direction hurt most when she moved it. Her body ached in other places, too; ugly bruises likely marred her pale skin, but the ankle was the worst.
The door opened again, but this time Oliver came in, carrying a tray laden with breakfast foods. He brought it over and set it on the bed next to her. The spot where he’d slept, at least most of the night.
He smiled at her before plucking a berry off the plate and holding it to her mouth.
“How is your pain now, wife?”
“Tolerable. I don’t want to take any more laudanum unless I absolutely have to. I loathe the way it makes me feel.”
He nodded. “That is understandable. I cannot even bide the smell anymore.” He pointed to the tray. “Eat.”
She did as he bade, enjoying every morsel he’d brought her.
“When you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to take you somewhere. I want to show you something.”
She bit into her last berry. “Please, I would love to go somewhere, but I believe the doctor wants me to stay off my ankle for a few more days. Can it wait?”
“This, no, it cannot wait. I have a solution, though.” He disappeared into the hall, then came back in a moment later pushing a wheelchair. “I thought we had thrown this out after I was finished using it. But my mother saves everything, as it were.”
She sat up farther and smiled at him. Oh, how she loved him. His beautiful face and even more beautiful heart. He helped her stand on her good leg and twist so she could fall back into the chair. Then he rolled her out of her bedchamber and down the corridor.
