“I beg your pardon,” he said immediately. “Am I doing something wrong?”
“You silly man,” she said with affection. “I was going to tell you that I have never climbed a set of stairs so easily in all my life. This is far better than being carried in a chair by those foolish footmen who moan and groan and huff and puff as if I weighed twice what I do.”
“Let us see if I survive handling your weight until the top,” he said gravely. She chuckled.
“You are far stronger than they – working man that you are! They are lazy, every last one of them.” She paused, then looked up the next flight. She said, half to herself, “I am sure I would be amazed if I saw you on your ship, at sea.”
Instead of replying, Jocelyn slipped his arm about her waist once more, and they made their way up to the next landing. At the top, he hesitated, and she nodded to the left.
“My apartment is at the end of this corridor. Banishment, as it were,” she added wryly.
“Did they never think of giving you ground-floor rooms to use?” Jocelyn asked in wonder.
Catherine laughed. “You are so innocent, Jocelyn.” She began to limp toward her rooms. “Had I lived downstairs, I would have been seen by the world. My father ordered me hidden. So Nurse and I lived in that dark corner.” She paused, and looked along the hallway. “I am sincere when I say that I do not regret leaving this house forever,” she said. “I have Wansdyke. That is enough for me.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Jocelyn ventured, “Have you any interest in the property in Wales? The castle that comes to you with the title from your mother?”
“Perhaps,” Catherine said. They had reached her rooms. She put her hand on the door and turned to Jocelyn. “I have considered it. But I am told it is very nearly a ruin. Though it would be a fine thing to make it a real home, would it not?” She pushed the door open.
“Leave us, please,” she said to Clara, who was still unwrapping items taken from the trunk. “I am extremely tired and will take a few hours of rest. I may not be down for dinner – tell Cook I will send word if I wish to have a tray.” Catherine waited until Clara had left before sinking down in a chair placed in a spot of sunlight in the bay of the window.
“Come join me, sir. Do not stand there uneasy.”
“I will leave you to rest,” Jocelyn said. “You are tired.”
“Please.” Catherine passed a hand over her eyes. There was a long pause. “Please do not leave me,” she said in a small voice.
Jocelyn took her other hand and knelt before her. He kissed it. “Poor Kate. What you do not need right now is a sea captain to wait on you. You need a nap.”
“I know that I do.” Catherine gripped his hand tightly. “But stay, just for a moment – I was always so alone in these rooms.”
“Kate—” he began, but she cut him off.
“No, it is quite all right.” She dropped his hand and attempted to sound cheerful. “Of course, perhaps … perhaps you would like a few moments to yourself. I am sure this is all very daunting. And we must prepare for all the annoying people who will ask rude questions. I understand if you would rather … rather …” The last word faded away uneasily.
Jocelyn frowned at her with concern.
Acting on an impulse, she reached out to smooth the lines in his forehead, to brush back the wisps of fine brown curls. “Such a beautiful boy you must have been,” she murmured, running her hand lightly over the sandy planes of his cheek, down to his chin. Then, her heart suddenly quickening, she brushed her fingers over his lips.
She dropped her hand. “You should leave me,” she said, her throat aching. She wanted to weep. She suddenly realised that their son might be dark-haired, not the golden child she had been seeing in her dreams. This was reality. He would be their child, not her child. One conceived not out of love but out of her selfish need. Her visions were selfish. Her wants, her actions – all selfish. It was as if no one else in the world had their own wants, their own needs. She despised herself.
“I would like to kiss you.” Jocelyn inched forward a little, putting a hand on one arm of her chair. “May I?”
Catherine tried to smile. “Of course,” she said easily, leaning forward. “You are very dear to me, Jocelyn Avebury.” Jocelyn put his hands on either side of her face, steadying her as he reached up to press his lips on hers. For a quiet moment, they were locked together, warmth against warmth, their lips barely moist, their breaths light and quick.
She reached up to put her hands on his. Slowly, almost of their own accord, his hands slid with hers to her bare neck, to the top of her bosom, where they rested for a moment. She could feel her heartbeat race. Then he turned his hands over to grasp hers, and pulled back gently. He kissed first one hand, then the other, and looked up at her.
“I am putting you to bed, my love. And then I will leave you so that you can rest.” Before Catherine could speak, he had gathered her in his arms. He rose quickly and carried her over to the canopied bed. He set her down gently, removed her slippers and tossed them into a corner.
“May I loosen your gown?”
“Oh, Jocelyn.” For a moment Catherine could not speak. She swallowed hard. “You are kind to me,” she whispered. Beyond what I deserve, she thought miserably. He would not be so kind if he knew of the portrait. Oh, that cursed portrait! Perhaps … perhaps if it were to be destroyed, she would be able to start again. They would be able to start again. Until then, Jocelyn Avebury was above her reach.
He bent to kiss her. “You have a new life, Countess,” he whispered. “Live it well.”
Chapter 21
He thought that perhaps she was nearly asleep when he left. It was hard to be sure. She had been so unhappy and preoccupied, it seemed unlikely she could possibly doze off. He had loosened her gown, rubbed her hands and her temples, gently removed the pins from her hair. He marvelled at the complexities of women’s dress. He had never undressed a woman before, never taken down one’s hair – they usually arrived in his bed already undressed. And one could not compare the girls that loitered about the port towns of the Continent to an English lady.
It was tempting to make love to her, but he could not be certain that his attentions would be welcome. And, despite his own preoccupation with escape from England, he knew it would demoralise him terribly to find her a reluctant lover.
I’m being ridiculous. She wants an earl. She needs an earl. The whole point of this farce is to give her a son. There won’t be an earl unless—
He dismissed the thought from his mind and took himself down the stairs. Beaseley was still in the library.
“And how is her ladyship?”
“Resting,” Jocelyn said, shutting the door behind him. “Have all the staff left?”
“No, not all, although many have.” Beaseley stood up. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his face with his hands. “A black day, Captain Avebury. A black day indeed.”
“Yes. I am very sorry.”
“I fear Lady Catherine will need your assistance, Captain.”
“Yes,” Jocelyn said. He crossed the room to the desk. “I believe she is more troubled by her father’s passing than she will admit.”
“Yes. She is still a Claverton.” Beaseley paused, then added quietly, “I have also sent word to our friends at the Admiralty.”
Jocelyn said nothing. Beaseley looked him squarely in the eye. “I hope you will not leave at the first opportunity.”
I doubt that my departure could come soon enough for me, Jocelyn thought, but he remained silent. His mind turned to the slight form he had left in that dim corner room. He had felt the twisted, heavy, lifeless leg as he had carried her from the chair to the bed.
“We will see what result my initial questions bring.” Beaseley grimaced and rubbed at his face again. He replaced his spectacles. “I have some skill in these matters. But if you would tell me more, I could be of greater assistance, Captain Avebury!”
Jocelyn kept his gaze level. “I am und
er investigation, sir. A missed dispatch in the Indian Ocean. My ship departed port late. It is standard procedure to investigate all such mishaps.”
“And that is all?”
Jocelyn saw the doubt on his face. “That is all, sir.”
“Your papers – your entry into the service? It was all … as usual?”
Perhaps he could be rid of this burden. Rid of it now and forever. He could explain to the good man the problem of his name, his past. He could ask his help in explaining to Kate—
Explaining what, he thought dismally. Explaining that he was a fraud? That his father was executed as a traitor? That there were no Aveburys anywhere in Yorkshire because it was a name that he had invented? That even the Navy had no idea of who he really was?
“Yes, sir.” His head ached. Lies had a physically painful manifestation.
“Then we will see what we can do.” Beaseley sat down again. “I am sure something can be arranged.”
I hope you are right, Jocelyn thought. I hope indeed that you are right.
* * *
She was still awake when Jocelyn left. She had steadied her breathing so that it was deep and even, hoping to persuade him that she was asleep. It appeared to have worked. He had leant over to kiss her temple, then rose softly and left the room.
She rolled onto her back. Tears seeped from her eyelids, and she gave a little gasp of relief. Finally, she was alone, she could grieve.
Grieve for her non-existent childhood. Grieve for her youthful errors. Grieve for the aching love she felt for the captain who preferred the sea to her.
She hiccoughed and rolled over again. The pillow was fresh. She buried her cheek in it. She could almost smell the liniments and potions of the old nurse who had once looked after her in these rooms.
She dozed off, drifted into a slumber that did not seem much different from wakefulness, so she was startled when she realised that she was staring through a window at a darker sky.
Something creaked.
“Are you awake?”
Slowly, she turned her head. Jocelyn sat beside the bed, a book open on the table before him. He had shed his coat, cravat and waistcoat. His shirt gaped open at the throat, as if he had yanked at it impatiently after a long day.
“Yes,” she said. “Was I asleep?”
“You were.”
“How odd. I thought I was awake.”
Jocelyn shut his book. “Shall I send for supper?”
“Oh, no,” she said feebly. She turned her head away. The thought of food revolted her, turned her stomach. She did not know the hour, but it was likely to be cold meat or pies. She shuddered involuntarily.
“You must eat.” Jocelyn came round the bed to sit beside her, and she struggled to move closer to him.
“Eventually, I shall. Right now I just want to … to crawl away somewhere and hide.” The words startled her and she would have bitten them back if she could. She glanced warily up at Jocelyn; there was a shadow on his face and she could not read his expression. She focused on his throat. How old was he? Sitting there in shirtsleeves and breeches, he seemed very young. The skin at his neck was smooth. In the midst of the ruffles of his shirt, she could just make out something shiny at his throat. It appeared that he wore a silver locket.
Catherine reached out to touch it. It was warm. The fabric of his shirt was very thin, and she could feel his heartbeat through it.
“Your mother, perhaps?” she guessed.
“Yes.” He reached up to remove her hand. He clasped it gently in his own, but she pressed it to his chest.
“Shhh.” For a moment, they sat quietly. “I can feel your heart,” she said.
She saw the hesitation on his face. Why did he hesitate? Did he truly feel nothing, no temptation, no urge? Was she no more than his sister, his friend?
He was going to leave her. He was going to take the first opportunity to get a ship so he could forget her.
The thought made her grow cold inside. How can you? she demanded silently. How, when I love you so?
She knew she had to conceive an earl quickly – as quickly as she could. Before Beaseley was able to work his magic and get Avebury a ship.
Just once, she thought. Just once, we can pretend, you and I. We can pretend that we mean something to each other. We can pretend that our child will arrive bathed in love.
She slipped her hand inside his shirt, her slender fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. It was substantial, heavy. A man’s flesh felt so different. She did not know why she had never thought of this before, but the last time – the only time – well, she had been so angry, so hollow inside, she hadn’t thought to admire the male form. She had been selfish. And he – that man – he had been selfish, too.
Jocelyn was watching her. He understood. Quietly, he turned, and removed his shirt. He had a well-muscled back, a powerful chest. He was a man of action, for all his quiet ways. He moved to sit on the bed next to her, leant down to take her in his arms.
“Kate—” he began.
“Do not speak, please,” she whispered.
“What, you will not let me woo you with a line from that dreadful poetry book?”
“Dreadful—?” Catherine half-turned to look at the book he had put down, but he had used the opportunity to kiss her neck, to gently press her arms above her head, the weight of his body leaning into her own.
“I do not read dreadful poetry,” she murmured. He undid the last buttons on her bodice, and bent to kiss her.
“It was awful,” he whispered in reply. Gently, he pulled her skirts aside. “I would like to rip through your gown. May I?”
“What?” Catherine said, beginning to laugh. But he had freed her from the gown completely and was attending to her so well that she could not remember what had made her laugh. He lifted her gently and pulled the gown down around her ankles.
“Damn!” he said suddenly. Catherine opened her eyes in alarm.
“How many layers must you ladies wear?” he complained. He was regarding her muslin shift with irritation. “And how is this to be removed?”
Catherine struggled to sit up. “You seem eager to convince me that you have not spent much time with the fairer sex,” she said tartly.
“And a good thing that I haven’t, too,” Jocelyn retorted. “I think you would box my ears if you suspected that were the case. You ladies are dangerous.” He lifted the shift over her head. His expression softened.
“Kate, you are so very beautiful. Do you know that?”
“If you do not like my poetry, I have to question your taste. Oh!”
She said no more. Jocelyn was kissing her very slowly, exploring her body with a graceful ease. It was hard to tell whether he found her at all enticing. He handled her much as she suspected he would handle a fine wine or a valuable painting. He savoured her, but would not rush his pleasure, or hers.
She had never felt beautiful. Always, there was that crooked, shrunken leg. That, after all, had been the reason she had had the infernal portrait painted – it had been her sorry attempt to feel pretty.
But Jocelyn made her feel divinely beautiful, treasured and admired. He told her in detail what he thought and what he felt as he touched her and kissed her. She blushed and would have been mortified had she not been so eager for him to love her.
This, she realised with amazement, was what it meant to be beautiful – that her body pleased him. He worshipped her body with his own. For this she was grateful and more than a little relieved. And more.
There was the exquisiteness of his kisses, the gentleness of his touch. She wanted to weep with humiliation and ecstasy all at once. To think she had ever thought she understood physical love and the desires of the flesh! She knew nothing, had known nothing. How stupid she had been! She had faced the world, arrogant and worldly – while knowing nothing at all.
She was all the more humiliated knowing she was about to disappoint him in the biggest possible way. She felt the tension mounting in her, hoping that he would
someday find it within his heart to forgive her deception.
Because she loved him with all of her being, flawed and broken as she was, with everything that she could ever hope to be.
She brushed the brown curls out of his eyes. Unruly, unkempt curls. How could he command a ship with curls in his eyes? “Jocelyn,” she whispered.
He was lowering his head to kiss her belly, but paused. He looked up.
He looked years younger than the strained, stiff officer in uniform at the musicale so long ago. The blue-grey eyes were clear now, without any shadows. Had the shadows been caused by his trouble with the Admiralty? Had she removed them by promising he would return to the sea?
Her heart sank, and she bit her lip to prevent the tears from coming. She shook her head and tried to smile. If he was so eager to leave, she could not tell him how much she loved him.
Forgive me, she thought.
Chapter 22
She was not a virgin.
Had he not already harboured suspicions about her, he might not have cared. Anyone this beautiful, this vivacious and bold, this positive about her destiny, would certainly have engaged the attentions of a young man or two. Despite what she claimed about her lack of appeal to the men of the ton, and the crude way in which her father had attempted to isolate her from the world, she was so determined and so intelligent that Jocelyn found it hard to believe that she had allowed herself to remain on the fringes of society for so long.
He had never imagined himself married at all. But, had he imagined it, he would not have seen himself with an aristocratic young lady with pale blonde hair and the face and body of an angel. Instead, he reflected, he might have thought of a cheerful and rosy-cheeked young village girl, perhaps a bit shy but willing to learn. Buxom and dark-haired, heavy-bottomed, perhaps.
Most definitely not a golden-haired countess.
She seemed to have absolutely no knowledge of the art of lovemaking. Indeed, she was quite innocent. He found that he enjoyed taking his time with her pleasure. Clothed, she was brave and confident and somewhat brash – just as a countess should be. Proper countess behaviour. But underneath her clothes she was shy and sad.
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