She explored his body with curiosity – as best as she could manage between kisses. She seemed particularly troubled by the old wounds that she found on his shoulders and back. She said nothing, but she ran her fingers over the scars again and again.
“They are nothing, Kate,” he said gently.
“They must have hurt.” She turned wide blue eyes on him. She brought his face down to hers, but did not kiss him. Her expression was grave. “Did they? Hurt?”
“You make me hurt, my love,” Jocelyn replied, removing her hands from his face. “My heart pains me. I—”
He stopped. He had been about to tell her that he loved her.
It would not be fair, he thought. I’m going away.
Instead, he kissed her again. “This is all of me, Countess,” he murmured. “This is what I am, wounds, scars, everything.”
He was beginning to lose his concentration. He wanted her so much that he felt the edges of his mind slipping into fog. He was giddy from the feeling of the soft feminine curves under his fingertips, from the feeling of loving a golden-haired countess. He began to kiss her with renewed intensity, heard the catch in her breathing. He had been preoccupied with making this first time easier for her, less unpleasant. But he could not keep his head much longer.
She clearly did not expect his attentions – she seemed almost perplexed. This made him happy, and he pleasured her until she began to gasp. She reached down to grasp at his shoulders, and he paused momentarily. He looked up. She opened her eyes. Their gazes locked. He thought her lips quivered, trembled as if she were about to cry.
“Kate?” he said, confused.
She drew him up. “I want you, Jocelyn,” she whispered.
He hesitated. There was something akin to fear on her face – desperation, perhaps. Was she afraid? “I am sorry,” he said. “I will try not to hurt you.” But he had misunderstood.
For it was then he discovered that she was not a virgin.
She was not afraid of pain. Rather, she was afraid of his reaction to the truth.
He was startled at first, but soon lost all ability to think. He only knew that he wanted to be closer, closer, closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pressed his cheek to hers. He tried to say her name, but could only gasp.
For all the anticipation, the actual climax was brief. They clung together, panting.
He leant over her on his elbows, making sure not to crush her or to put pressure on her bad leg. He put his head in his hands and tried to ease his breathing.
He heard her sobbing.
“My love,” he whispered. He gathered her in his arms, smoothed the damp golden hair. “My love. Dearest love.”
But he was furious. Yes, he was angry. He’d been tricked, and he wanted to know by whom.
Who is it? His mind raced. Who is her lover?
Now he considered it, he supposed it likely she had had a lover or two; someone like the Lady Catherine Claverton might have been so bold, so daring. It should not have bothered him in the slightest, under the circumstances.
But he knew she had something to hide, so he hated that man – whoever he was.
Because he loved her.
But as he lay there, his heart sinking, he realised that he knew exactly who it was. He knew it was Sir Lyle. And he wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill him – and her too for trying to make a fool out of him.
Why hadn’t she just married Sir Lyle? He had a title, status, wealth. Why would she not prefer him to a sea captain with a questionable background? Had he refused? Was he too much a man of the world to bother with marriage? Why had he told Jocelyn to marry her? What kind of insane plot had he and Catherine put together?
But it made no difference. He was in love with her, God help him. But he wanted nothing more than to give her the damned child that she wanted so badly, and then to flee, go back to the wide blue sea, the closeness of his cabin, the rocking gentleness of the ship on a hot wind from the south. To blessed solitude.
* * *
They made love again. Catherine was glad of the fading summer light. Not only was she feeling distinctly unglamorous, but she was eager to avoid Jocelyn’s gaze. His face was shadowed, and she hoped her own was as well.
His lovemaking was as gentle as his spirit. When he began to kiss her anew, she prepared herself for punishment. Surely he now knew that she was no virgin. She was afraid that perhaps his manner would change.
It did. But not in the way she had feared.
He was unhappy.
She could tell that he was unhappy even as he pleasured her, and unhappy as he took his own pleasure.
Is it me? She wanted to ask, to speak, to admit her sins. But she was terrified of his response. What if he abandoned her before she could conceive?
Is it that you wish to return to sea? Is there some other unhappiness in your life?
He was a man of the world, a sailor. He surely could not be brooding over her.
She ran her fingers over his chest. He still wore the silver locket, and she smoothed its chain over his collarbone. He put his hand gently over hers, but did not speak.
She could not let anything deter her from the mission of bearing an heir and re-establishing the St Clair line. If she told him the truth, she would be risking her future: he would, perhaps, no longer want to have anything to do with her, and then she would be doomed.
So she hoped he did not care his bride was no virgin – and said nothing.
Chapter 23
They were at Albrook for ten days. They were congenial, but in a different way to their times together in the fields at Wansdyke. There was that far-off misery in his eyes; the sadness that she had always seen there had gone deeper. He was pleasant, always unfailingly polite. The old stick-in-the-muds of the ton who attended the late earl’s funeral seemed to approve, although some were outspokenly horrified that a Claverton had married a sailor of no particular note. Most of them, however, seemed relieved that the earl’s crippled daughter was not going to be living a life of questionable propriety alone on the outskirts of Bath.
Catherine wanted nothing from Albrook. She wanted Beaseley to sell all that remained in the Claverton name after all disbursements had been made, but Jocelyn calmed her down and suggested that it was too soon to make such a decision. It would take quite a long time, perhaps more than a year, for Beaseley to get all the paperwork for the estate in order. He was also, at Catherine’s request, exploiting every possible contact at the Admiralty to find a new command for her husband.
Some time after they returned to Wansdyke, Melinda arrived for a visit.
“I did not expect to find you deeply mourning your father, God rest his soul. But married! And enjoying your honeymoon here at Wansdyke! Catherine, what has happened?”
“I am happy, Melinda,” Catherine said. “Will you not be happy for me?”
“But it is all so sudden!”
“It was not all that sudden,” Catherine said, her irritation rising. “I met Avebury in the spring, when he first arrived in Bath. And we wanted to marry before mourning made it impossible.”
“I cannot believe you have gone into mourning at all: I did not think you would care to,” Melinda said.
“I suppose I do not,” Catherine admitted. “But still, here I am in my weeds.” She gestured at her dress. “Is it so odd?”
“Of course not,” Melinda said reluctantly. “And the captain is very charming. I just worry about you, Catherine. You are so impulsive. First it was Sir Lyle, and then it was Captain Avebury—”
“Sir Lyle?” Catherine’s voice changed. Melinda looked at her curiously.
“Yes, Sir Lyle. He is a close friend of my brother. He led me to believe that I might expect happy news this summer. But I expected quite a different announcement!”
“Yes, of course,” Catherine said quickly. “Ah, Avebury, come take tea with my dearest friend.” Jocelyn had just entered the drawing room.
“If I am interrupting—”
“Not at all.”
“We were just talking about Sir Lyle,” Melinda said. She looked shrewdly at Jocelyn. “I know him well – he is a friend of my brother.”
“Indeed?” Jocelyn glanced in Catherine’s direction, but she had suddenly found several loose threads on her skirt and was not attending. “A very decent fellow, to be sure.”
“Yes, certainly. He has a lot in common with you, Captain Avebury.”
The comment achieved its apparent purpose. Jocelyn turned his keen blue gaze upon Melinda and waited expectantly. “His ships, I mean. I believe he is only recently returned from— Where is it from, Catherine?”
“I’m sure I do not know.” Catherine rose and limped over to the open French doors leading out to the formal gardens. She stood for a moment at the door, squaring her shoulders, before she said without turning, “Jocelyn, will you fetch my shawl? I think I shall walk a while.”
“Of course.” Jocelyn placed the shawl about her shoulders. “Are you sure you are feeling well enough—?”
“You ridiculous man,” Catherine said affectionately. She reached out to pat his cheek. “I am perfectly fine.”
Melinda half rose in her seat. “Catherine! Is it possible … are you …?”
Catherine turned. “Oh, Melinda. It is nothing. Do not let this dear man frighten you.”
“I am not frightened, not exactly, but …” Melinda stammered. “Catherine, you are my dearest friend in the world, and …” She sank back into her chair, her confusion embarrassing her.
“Then do not think of it. Avebury is just very solicitous of my – my general good health, are you not, dear one?” Jocelyn bowed slightly and stepped back, watching her as she descended into the garden below.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The breeze of summer was warm, and it fluttered curtains, but did very little to heat the cold stone of Wansdyke.
“Captain Avebury,” Melinda said. “Is she—”
“Perhaps.”
“Good God!”
Jocelyn turned to her. For a moment, his cool gaze bored into her, and she blinked. Then he looked away.
“Captain Avebury,” Melinda said. She leant forward. “You must know that I wish Catherine only the best. But she is more delicate than she seems. Having a child could prove more than she can bear.”
Jocelyn said nothing. He took up a position near the French doors whence he could watch Catherine as she vanished into the shrubbery, the shawl shimmering in the sunlight.
“I worry about her. She only discovered her St Clair title very recently. And since then she has been so … different. Angry, almost. She wants to punish everyone who ever thought that she would not be able to carry on after her father’s death.”
Jocelyn inclined his head. He spoke softly. “Perhaps it is fitting for her to feel that way.”
“But to live for revenge? That is not the way, Captain Avebury. It is not the way to happiness.”
“What is the way to happiness, then?”
Melinda struggled to find words. “To live with … dignity. With grace. Not anger.”
Jocelyn surprised her by grinning. She watched as he went to pull one curtain partially over the doors, preventing the strong afternoon sun from entering and spoiling the carpets. He positioned himself against one door, his watchful eye still on Catherine, who had made her slow and halting way over to a stone bench. The exertion had apparently made her hot: she sank down onto the seat, then loosened the shawl a little so that it draped down her back.
“Tell me, Miss Carlyle. Is Sir Lyle a frequent visitor to Wansdyke?”
Melinda shrugged her slim shoulders. “He is a very old acquaintance of Catherine’s. Perhaps. I don’t believe he has been back in England for long. He has not been in Bath for many months, in any case. He has been away at sea.”
Jocelyn did not take his eyes from Catherine’s form, silhouetted in the sunlight. “He is very wealthy, I understand?”
“Oh, very. Shockingly so. I daresay he is almost as wealthy as Catherine.” Melinda laughed at her own joke. “But he does not care to be tied down – he wanders hither and thither. His mother lives just outside Bath and he visits her now and again, but he is not someone who would find happiness in one place.” She watched Catherine as the shawl slipped further down her back. “She ought to fix her shawl,” she murmured to herself.
“When he is not in Bath, where is he?”
“Mmm? Sir Lyle, you mean? Oh, in London. I believe he is quite a notorious rake. He is not motivated by money, it seems, since he has so much. But he enjoys risk. He likes hunting, cards, his ships – things of that sort. Women.” Melinda put her hand over her mouth, embarrassed at her own audacity. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I have been quite unmannerly.” She rose.
“Stay, Miss Carlyle,” Jocelyn protested. “I apologise for asking you such questions. I am new in Bath and merely wish to know Kate’s friends better.”
“You call her Kate?” Melinda was amused. “She must love you indeed, to allow you to be so familiar. I doubt very much most men would have had the courage to address her so. Even after marriage.” She picked her reticule up from the table beside her. “I will join Catherine in the shrubbery. Will you come?”
“No, not at the moment,” Jocelyn replied. “I will join you shortly.”
He watched as Melinda descended the stairs and walked quickly across the lawn, calling to her friend. Catherine turned. For a moment, his heart leapt and seemed to stop; the pink-and-white glow of her complexion radiated happiness and good health, and he fought the urge to dash down the stairs and enfold her in his arms. Her hair had the lustre of the gold thread that Indian women used in their saris. The edges of her shawl slipped off her shoulders as she reached out to welcome her friend. For some unspeakable, unknowable reason, Jocelyn felt his throat catch. He turned away.
Never in his life had he imagined that someone so beautiful, so brave, could love him. And love him she did. He knew she did. He wished he could tell her that she had crept into his heart, that she had insinuated herself into his mind, into his life, and that he would never forget her. He wished he could tell her that sometimes, at the height of passion, he wished he didn’t have to leave.
But it was vital he leave such thoughts unspoken. It would never do for her to suspect that she meant as much as she did to him. Because he would leave. And when he did, it would be forever.
Chapter 24
When Sir Lyle arrived some weeks later to offer his congratulations, Catherine was indisposed. Her child was expected in the early spring.
She had objected to being sent to bed merely to recover from a slight dizzy spell. Lydia Barrow had overruled her, as had Jocelyn, and she pouted.
“I cannot sit here in bed until March,” she grumbled. But she was delighted, and it showed. She asked Lydia to send Clara out for skeins of wool. She was hoping to knit a blanket for the nursery. Lydia obliged, although she confided to Jocelyn that Catherine had never knitted anything in her life and her sewing was frightful.
Jocelyn was both touched and terrified. The thought of his seed growing inside her filled him with a sort of confused panic. He wondered if he would be able to sail before the birth. He didn’t think he could stand to actually see his child, to know that he was visiting upon the poor soul not only the sins of a father but also those of a grandfather.
Sir Lyle was waiting when Jocelyn entered the drawing room. “I offer my congratulations, Captain Avebury!” he said in a jolly tone. “What, is the countess not receiving guests?”
“She is indisposed, unfortunately. She sends her apologies.”
“Ah?” Sir Lyle leant back in his seat, a biscuit dangling from his fingertips. “Indisposed?”
“Yes.” Jocelyn offered no further comment.
Sir Lyle bit into the biscuit, chewing contemplatively.
“Well done,” he murmured. He glanced at Jocelyn. “I assume that I should offer you congratulations on the impending birth.”
“I did not say anything
to suggest it,” Jocelyn returned.
“Only one thing would be serious enough to keep Catherine Claverton in bed on a sunny summer afternoon.” Something in Jocelyn’s expression caused him to pause, and then to say mildly, “I say, Captain Avebury. I came to extend my warmest felicitations on the occasion of your marriage. Not to quarrel with you.”
He dug around in a pocket, and produced a folded sheet of paper. Jocelyn looked at it.
“What is it?” he said flatly, without making a move toward the paper.
“It’s for you.”
Jocelyn shrugged. “Do me the kindness of telling me what it is, Sir Lyle. I have no wish to play any games.”
“And neither have I. Although I am mystified as to why you would suppose that I have such intentions.”
“I’m not a fool.”
Sir Lyle raised his eyebrows. “I never thought that you were.” He returned the paper to his pocket. “But, since you apparently do not wish to deal with me, I will confine my comments to the following. Lieutenant Stephen Bright told the Admiralty of matters they felt compelled to investigate. But happenstance decreed he should drop dead before he could be called upon to substantiate his claims.” He patted his pocket. “I was simply going to show you the transcript of his testimony.”
“Bright is dead?” The words scraped uncomfortably in Jocelyn’s throat. He stared at Sir Lyle’s hand, still on the pocket.
“He will not trouble you further.” Sir Lyle looked at him curiously. “Why, the news distresses you! Let me pour you some wine.”
“No! No, thank you very much.” Jocelyn sat limply. He looked up at Sir Lyle. “What happened? How did he die? Good God, he was younger than I! He could not have been ill …”
Sir Lyle shrugged. He walked over to serve himself more tea. “A complete mystery, to be sure. But who can tell about these things.”
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