by Mary Balogh
She ached for him, throbbed for him, was ready to explode for him. She resolutely closed her mind to all the reasons she had for fighting her feelings. This was her wedding day and her wedding bed. She settled her back against a cool sheet and a firm mattress as he laid her down on it. Her husband was going to make love to her and she to him. That was all that mattered. She watched him with half-closed eyes as he undressed.
She was wet. She could feel that and hear it as soon as his fingers touched and teased and probed. But she had learned at Penhallow that wetness was not embarrassing but an erotic accompaniment to passion. When he mounted her, he would slide inside without pain to her or impediment to himself. She closed her eyes and spread her arms and legs wide, setting her hands palm down on the mattress.
Come to me, she begged him silently, though she did not open her eyes. Love me. Kiss me. Please kiss me.
It was a posture of passive surrender. But he wanted her too fiercely to feel more than a momentary stab of sadness. It would be all right. Once he could explain everything to her, she would come to him with love, not just with desire and wifely submission.
He loved her. He wanted to tell her so as he lowered his body onto hers, her silky, shapely warmth beneath him. He wanted to say the words into her open mouth as he entered her body. He wanted their eyes open and their mouths wide and their tongues at play while he worked in her. But he must not ask too much. He had her physical consent. That must be enough for now.
He positioned himself between her spread thighs and pushed upward into the heat and the wetness of her. He could feel and hear her draw a slow breath and found himself doing the same. He buried his face in her hair and felt her cheek against his ear. He began to move with slow rhythm, listening to the suck and pull of their coupling, knowing that he could not prolong it for nearly as long as he would wish. Her knees were hugging his waist. One of her hands was in his hair, the other spread on his back.
Her eyes were very tightly closed. She was biting her lower lip. Every muscle in her body was clenched, every particle of her being focused at the point of his deepest and repeated penetration. There was soreness there and resistance and the knowledge of glory to come—but glory not easily won.
She recognized the workings of his body, knew the familiar riding rhythm and the subtle changes that took them upward from one stage of passion to another. Her body knew that soon the relentless thrusting would slow and deepen still further, that there would be a slight pause between thrust and withdrawal and that that pause would set the whirlpool slowly but irreversibly in motion until sensation spread outward from that central point and whirled beyond her control and hurled her into glory.
He had learned her body during those brief weeks at Penhallow. He knew that there came a time after the sheer pleasure of the early stages of the act when her body would stop riding with his rhythm and prepare itself in intense stillness for climax. He had learned how to bring on that climax with slow deep strokes. He had learned that by knowing her body and its rhythms and satisfying its needs he could also satisfy his own. He had learned to anticipate the moment of her climax, and the expectation of it inevitably brought on his own. Peace and joy came from releasing into the relaxed center of her shuddering ecstasy.
And so they came together, tension shattering into momentary oblivion, their sighs of satisfaction, unheard by either, spoken together.
She was lying on her side, her head on his arm, her face against his chest, breathing in the familiar and quite distinctive scent of him. They must have been sleeping, she thought. At least, she seemed to have lost track of time after he had withdrawn from her body and moved to her side. But they had rolled into their usual positions for sleep—usual during their brief first marriage and usual during their even briefer liaison at Penhallow—which were familiar and comfortable. She could very easily slip back into sleep.
She tried to lay claim to reality. Somewhere out there, beyond the window, Christina was walking in the parks with John and Nancy. She could hear the ever-present crowds outside the hotel. They were already gathering, she guessed, to watch the Tsar and his sister leave for the dinner at Carlton House later. Word had it that the Regent was sending his state coach for them. Somewhere out there Manley was about the day’s business, as were Martin and her father. Somewhere in here, in her womb, her new child—hers and Christopher’s—was growing to birth.
Perhaps he was sorry, she thought. Perhaps if she asked him, he would tell her how bitterly over the years he had regretted his former way of life. And she would be able to tell him how equally bitterly she regretted the cruel punishment she had meted out. Perhaps they would be able to look deeply into each other’s eyes as they had always looked at Penhallow.
“Christopher,” she whispered, drawing her head back to look into his face. It was without expression. She could see no deeper into his eyes than the blue color. He must have been awake and still and silent for a while.
“Yes?" he said.
“You have consummated the marriage,” she said. “You must be satisfied that I am yours again and that you now have more authority over our children than I have. I cannot now refuse to allow Christina to come here this evening, can I?”
She waited to see hurt in his eyes or anger. She hoped to see hurt so that she could rush on into saying what she had planned to say in the first place. His expression did not change.
“Do you want to?” he asked. “Stop her from coming here, I mean?”
She shook her head. “She belongs to you as much as to me,” she said. “I think you love her as much as I do.” It was a strange thought, but true. She knew it was true.
They looked into each other’s eyes, though neither could see beyond the barriers.
“So,” she said, “you mean me to be your wife in every sense of the word, Christopher? We are to struggle on with an imperfect marriage?”
“I think we have both grown up enough this time, Elizabeth,” he said, “to know that there is no such thing as a perfect marriage. Yes, we are to struggle on. Perhaps it will become easier. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will have something to tell you that will make some difference. But it will never be easy. No marriage ever could be.”
“What will you have to tell me?” She tried to see what was behind his eyes.
He shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said.
She wondered when he would get out of bed or when she should. Perhaps John and Nancy would be back soon. She should be home soon to begin the hours of preparation for the evening’s entertainment—she felt a deep repugnance at the thought of it. Her wedding day was at an end. She closed her eyes and turned her face in to his shoulder. It had been a strange and imperfect wedding day. But she did not want it to end. She wanted to stay with him. Forever and ever she wanted to stay. She would send a message to Manley, she thought. But she could not be so cruel. She could not jilt him on this of all days.
“I should he going,” she said.
“Yes.”
But they lay quietly in each other’s arms until he lifted her upper leg over his hip, nestled her into position, and mounted her again. It was a sex position they had never used before. It felt good—comfortable, cozy, warmly intimate. She closed her eyes and worked with him, slowly, almost lazily, without passion. It was wonderful. Warm and wonderful marital intimacy. She was very aware, as she had not been the first time, of their child in her womb.
When it was over, they held each other, not disengaging. Neither slept though they did not talk at all.
And then it was time to get up and to dress—in silence. And to feel relief that John and Nancy returned soon after to fill the silence. Relief and embarrassment at Nancy’s blushes and John’s affectionate grin.
John escorted her home. Her husband did not even kiss her when she left, though John kissed Nancy.
The wedding day was over. There was a reception and a presentation to the queen to prepare for.
An hour later Christopher and John were on their way to keep th
eir appointment with Powers. Christopher tried to pretend that the whole of his future happiness might not rest on what Powers had to say—if he was in his office this time.
But he was. It seemed that his clerk had convinced him that they were two wealthy and fashionable gentlemen intending to use his services. He had left instructions that they were to be shown in to his inner sanctum as soon as they arrived, and he rose importantly to greet them, a large and greasy-looking man with glistening bald head and a gold tooth that gleamed when he smiled.
“Colonel Lord Aston and the Earl of Trevelyan?” he repeated after John had presented them. “Have a seat, do, my lords. How may I be of service to you?” His eyes darted from one to the other. Their names seemed to mean nothing to him.
“We need information about a past client of yours,” Christopher said.
“Ah, my lord.” Mr. Powers held up a ringed hand, palm out. “I am sure you understand that all business I conduct is entirely confidential.”
“We are prepared to pay a sizable fee,” John said.
Mr. Powers looked shrewdly at him. “Well, I tell you what, my lord,” he said. “You tell me what the problem is and what you need to know, and I will decide what I can tell you without violating a client’s trust. Is that agreeable?”
“You paid the rent on the rooms occupied by a Mrs. Lucy Fenwick,” Christopher said, “for several months seven years ago. You also arranged passage for her and her daughter to America.” He was guessing on the latter point. He kept his eyes steadily on Mr. Powers, but the man was experienced enough at his job to show nothing but a polite interest.
“Seven years ago, my lord,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “It is a long time. I conduct such business for many clients. It is impossible to recall such trivial and routine matters from so long ago.”
“I believe this must have been a memorable piece of business,” Christopher said. “The lady was involved in a divorce case. She was the other woman, so to speak.”
“Dear me,” Mr. Powers said. “I did hear of that divorce, my lord. The Duke of Chicheley’s daughter was the aggrieved wife, I believe? I had nothing whatever to do with that case, though. I would be sure to remember that.”
“There are those who can identify you as the man who paid the rent,” Christopher said.
Mr. Powers shrugged.
“I wonder how much your client paid you,” John said. “I wonder what double that figure would amount to. Not to a sum that would be beyond the means of Lord Trevelyan and myself, I would wager, Mr. Powers.”
“I wish I could help you, my lord,” Mr. Powers said. “As a businessman of course I am interested in making money. But I have nothing I am able to tell you.”
It was as he had feared, Christopher thought. The man was guilty as sin. But fear was stronger in him than greed. Fear of Martin, perhaps? Fear of Chicheley if the truth came out and his part in it? Fear of scandal and the loss of his living?
“Name your price,” John said quietly. “Lord Trevelyan and I will undertake not to divulge the source of our information.”
“On the contrary,” Christopher said, “I believe it is in the interest of all honest citizens who are in search of an equally honest man of business to know that in coming to you, sir, they would be dealing with a man who helps underage clients conduct shady dealings.”
For the first time Mr. Powers’s calm was shaken. “I did not know he was underage, my lord,” he said. “I swear it. He looked older.”
“And paid well,” Christopher said. “And so you paid the rent and the sizable salary of a woman you doubtless believed to be the doxy of a minor.”
“I did not, my lord,” Mr. Powers said, running one finger beneath the neck of his cravat. “He assured me that she was a destitute relative for whose well-being he felt responsible.”
“I suppose,” Christopher said, “that we can allow the public to judge the truth of your story for themselves. It is possible, I suppose, that an eighteen-year-old boy would be so affected with concern for a destitute relative that he would pay both her and you a small fortune, for her upkeep and then pay her passage to America. People might believe it is true—unless his stepbrother saw fit to deny the existence of such a relative, of course.” He indicated John.
“I acted in good faith, my lord,” Mr. Powers said.
“People can sometimes be generous in their judgment of others,” Christopher said, “when presented with the facts. Perhaps they will be generous with you, sir. Perhaps your business will not be affected.”
Mr. Powers turned one of the rings imbedded on his fingers. He licked his lips. “If I can have your word as gentlemen, my lords,” he said, “that the source of your information will never be known to more than the two of you, perhaps I can see fit to whisper a name to you. Perhaps for five hundred guineas? I cannot violate a sacred trust for less.” He looked at John.
Christopher got to his feet and set ten guineas on the table before laying his hand flat on top of them. “Ten rather than five hundred,” he said. “Handsome payment for the use of fifteen minutes of your time, I believe, sir. The name, if you please?”
“I cannot—” Mr. Powers began.
“The name?”
Mr. Powers’s eyes darted from one to the other of them and down to the guineas visible beneath Christopher’s hand. “Mr. Martin Honywood,” he said, “as you knew all along, my lord.”
Christopher raised his hand. “As I knew all along,” he said. “Thank you for your time and information, Mr. Powers. John?”
They were standing on the pavement outside the office one minute later.
“Devil take it!” John said. “I was quite prepared to hand over the five hundred guineas and think we had got off lightly. Is this how you conducted business in Canada?”
“One learns something of human nature and economy,” Christopher said. “For ten more guineas he will give us something in writing if it becomes necessary—and think that he has got off lightly.”
“It is beyond doubt now, isn’t it?,” John said. “Martin is a consummate villain. Will you kill him or will I? I beg for the first chance.” His usual light humor had completely deserted him. Christopher guessed that the grim man before him was the lieutenant-colonel his men knew during battle.
“We will deal with him tonight,” Christopher said. “You are still ready to follow my plan?”
“Now more than ever,” John said. “Especially since the only possible danger will be to the two of us. Christina will be safe with Nancy at the Pulteney.”
“And Elizabeth will not be frightened when she finds her gone,” Christopher said. “I got her to agree to allow Christina to spend the night with Nancy and me. Provided Christina can keep secrets, Martin should be none the wiser.”
“Good,” John said grimly as they got into their waiting carriage. “We can decide later who is to kill him, Christopher. Or perhaps we can devise a way to do it together.”
“I just want to see him stripped of his smile and his charm,” Christopher said. “I want to see Elizabeth finally free of his clutches. And I want to see him squirm. Oh, yes, I want to see that too.”
Chapter 29
MARTIN’S plans were all proceeding far more smoothly than he had anticipated. Both Trevelyan and Poole were jumping like puppets on a string. And now Christina, the one link in the chain he had worried most about, was proving surprisingly docile. As soon as he had suggested to her that she might enjoy a night at the Pulteney with her new acquaintances there, she had run to pack a small bag. He had not even needed the arsenal of persuasions with which he had come prepared. She had seemed not to notice as they left the nursery that her nurse was already nodding in her chair, the cup of tea Martin had brought her empty on a table beside her.
When they reached Christopher’s suite at the Pulteney, Martin knocked on the door and waited. Christina was bouncing at his side as if she were expecting the greatest adventure of her life. Perhaps that was what she was about to get, Martin thought,
though not in the way she expected.
Lady Nancy’s maid opened the door—the little slut he had had at Penhallow. Her eyes widened. Christina darted past her into the sitting room and Martin could hear her excited child’s voice.
“Here I am!” she shrieked. “I am going to stay all night. Where shall I put my bag? Has the Tsar left yet? I want to see him getting into the coach. There is ever such a big crowd outside. Uncle Martin could hardly get past.”
Trevelyan’s voice answered her, pitched low.
By the time Martin entered the sitting room, Christopher was there alone, looking tense and excited. “I have sent Christina into the other room,” he said, gesturing with one hand. “She is with Nancy. I have ordered the carriage for half an hour’s time. By then the crowds outside should have dispersed. Elizabeth did not see you or suspect anything, Martin?”
“No,” Martin said, allowing himself to look agitated and unhappy. “But devil take it, Trevelyan, I had a hard time going through with it. She is going to be distraught. Promise me that you will take care of Christina on the way to Devonshire? I will never forgive myself if anything happens to her.”
“She is my daughter,” Christopher said. “I will guard her with my life. You are sure Elizabeth will follow, Martin? You think I will be able to win her back this way?”
Martin nodded slowly. “She will be angry and tearful,” he said. “But she will see that you did it out of love, Trevelyan. She will melt. I know Lizzie. Do you have the note ready?”
Christopher reached into an inner pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. “It was the most difficult letter of my life to write,” he said. “I wanted to pour out all my feelings, but I forced myself to keep it terse. Time enough for the feelings later.” He smiled, but the expression was more grimace than smile.
Martin took the note and patted Christopher reassuringly on the shoulder. “It will all work out, you will see,” he said. “A few more days and you will be able to start living happily ever after. I’ll speak up in your defense as I have always done. But Lizzie will not need my words, only the urgings of her own heart.”
