Mrs. Sartin's Secretary

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

  She grasped his buttocks and arched to meet his thrust, fully sheathing him. Her body ceded, yielding softness to his hard heat. His eyes went wide—awe with a touch of shock.

  Charming…and irresistible.

  He withdrew and she urged him back, helping him find the rhythm he instinctively knew he needed, but had yet to learn. Their gazes held in the flickering lamplight—every raw, wordless emotion exposed.

  “That’s it,” she whispered.

  Sweat beaded at his temple as he increased his pace. He swiveled his hips; she groaned. With a half-smile, he repeated the motion, sending shivers of pleasure up her spine.

  She savored this Bellamy—a man pushed outside the confines of everything he understood—and still, as ever, driven to please. She was drunk with him—dazed.

  She raked her nails down his back; He lost control.

  His eyes glimmered. His nostrils flared. Again, and again he drove into her very center, until the panting repetition drove her to weightlessness. He filled her. Claimed her. Made her his. And she didn’t care about anything else in the world.

  They were no longer employer and employed—they were simply a man and a woman, fatefully and beautifully joined.

  When he thrust his deepest and held, fingers digging into her sides, she was so lost in her own implosion, she barely heard his guttural cry.

  Chapter Nine

  WAS THIS HOW EVERY MAN FELT after shaking the proverbial sheets for the first time? Impossible. Because the expansive, ocean-like adoration drifting in Matthew’s chest had to be specific to Amelia—the woman he loved.

  The woman who meant everything to him.

  He hadn’t any way to describe that moment—the moment of release. Ecstasy, perhaps? Rapture? In any case, his trance-like state had yet to lift. Clearly, his feelings for her had acquired a new aspect.

  Part of him lay on his back, aware of a beautiful woman—his beautiful woman—draped across his chest. She was heavy, but her cherished weight could never be a burden. He stroked her back—the softest thing he’d ever touched. Yet, softness and weight only described the sensations experienced by his physical body.

  Another part of him floated in a realm both above, beneath, and within the tangible world. Not through the air, mind you, but through a magical dimension. A spiritual dimension.

  Corporeal Matthew snorted.

  Had one coupling with Amelia turned him into a mystic?

  She stirred, easily changing positions as if lying beside a naked man was perfectly normal. Maybe—he inhaled sharply—such a thing was perfectly normal between wedded couples.

  Her breasts skimmed his torso. What a feeling! What a damned delight! He almost chuckled. Why hadn’t he wooed her before? Why hadn’t he wed her before?

  She sat her fist atop his rips and rested her chin against her hand. Her blond curls spilled around her face. Lamplight illuminated fine wrinkles running outward from the edges of her eyes. Laugh lines. Adorable.

  He liked when she smiled.

  She frowned. “What are you thinking?”

  The truth? Nothing. Also the truth? Everything.

  “I only wish,” a near-drunken slur softened his vowels, “I was able to form a single, coherent thought.”

  His answer made her shoulders doughy and pliant once again. Good.

  “Are you floating, too?” Everything was just so dream-like.

  “No.” She chuckled. “Not anymore.”

  He attempted to sit up.

  “No, no, no.” She pushed him back down. “You don’t have to move. I’m content.” She splayed her hand over his heart and rested her cheek against his muscle. “Happy, even.”

  “Good,” he repeated, this time, aloud. Amelia. Happy. Like a newly cut quill, shiny and smooth. All he could want, really.

  “Night two,” she exhaled heavily, “halfway through the magic.”

  Now that couldn’t be right. Absently, he wound one of her curls around his finger. The magic between them was endless. Without limits. Didn’t she understand? He’d just been inside of her, for goodness sake.

  Inside.

  How strange a thought. His face relaxed. His lips turned up. How wonderful an adventure.

  She giggled. “Now what are you thinking?”

  Inquisitive little thing, his sweet. His thoughts weren’t the kind of thoughts capable of being tied up in letters, pinned down and wrestled into vowels and consonants. His thoughts were amorphous ideas, and they were multiplying like bubbles, enclosing the very air in shimmering iridescence.

  “If two can become one.” He brushed his knuckle up her back. “Two can become anything.”

  Her breath tickled his throat. “Is that so?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. Behind his lids, circles broke into circles broke into circles, froth enough to prove his point, if only she could see them, too. Two into one…and then one into infinity… And suddenly he was thinking of planets. Of vast distances. Of mysteries and mortality.

  He tightened his hold on her shoulder and then rolled his head toward her ear. “I have a secret.”

  Only silence answered—a special sort of silence, though. Silence awash in effervescence…in hope. And, his thoughts found the perfect words. The only possible words.

  “I love you.” He sighed. “I want to marry you.”

  There. He’d said it. All the parted feather barbs in the universe reknitted, their veins once again smooth, everything properly ordered and ready to take flight. Only…

  “Amelia?”

  Silence again. This time not so bubbly.

  He lifted his laden lids.

  Well, something had gone wrong. Her lashes were damp and pink veins branched into the whites around her iris.

  “Amelia—are you? Is everything?” He wasn’t sure what he should be asking.

  “Shh.” She kissed one of his eyes closed. “Sleep.” She kissed the other.

  He tried—and failed—to reopen his eyes.

  When an angel said sleep, you slept…especially, an angel of light.

  Of love.

  He surrendered to sleep, remembering nothing more.

  By the time the morning sun spilled through the skylight, Amelia was already awake. Awake and thinking about the look in Matthews eyes the moment he’d released his seed.

  She did not believe herself to be a vain woman, but Matthew’s intent, near-tearful gaze had made her feel beyond beautiful… ravishing, in fact. His gaze had promised she was his answer, not just to a prayer he’d once uttered, but to every prayer—the sum of a lifetime of his desires.

  She tucked away the memory for the lonely nights to come.

  His reaction had been an aberration, of course. She’d heard about men who turned tender and affectionate after their little death. Caught in the post copulation haze, they spouted eternal devotion.

  Matthew’s words of love had seemed sincere, but, without him having any prior experience, how could she trust that he had been serious?

  Imagine. He’d never been with a woman before.

  She shook her head, still both a little flattered, and a little stunned, to have been Matthew’s first. Her first time had been her wedding night with George, and she, too, had ended the night more than a little weepy. She’d wanted to cling to George, certain she’d never again feel such exquisite kinship, such flawless, physical trust.

  She’d been wrong.

  Her marriage had been a font of sensual pleasure—of loving union. And the act hadn’t brought her to tears again.

  Not until tonight.

  She imagined—just for a moment—she could become Matthew’s wife, that they could spiral through the rest of her days as one, loving and learning together, taking life’s inevitable bumps in stride.

  She’d told Matthew he was a fine man. Truth was, he was the best. She never imagined she’d love again. Never. Yet, here she was, heart spilling out all over the rumpled sheets of his impossibly small bed, spinning
mad dreams through the foggy blur of tears.

  Mrs. Matthew Bellamy.

  How utterly perfect—for her.

  But for him?

  Matthew deserved so much more. The children she’d be unlikely to bear, for instance. The place in Society she could never help him achieve. If she truly cared for him, she’d leave, no matter how much she wished she could stay.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, and then down the sharp angle of his dear, sweet, cheek. “Matthew,” she whispered, “I have to go.”

  He groaned, eyes closed.

  “Matthew…”

  He raised one lid. He squeezed her shoulder. “No.”

  Sadness weighted her smile. “I have to leave.”

  He tensed. “Do you?”

  Her gaze slipped away. “I promised to meet Constance.”

  He relaxed. “But you’ll return.”

  She couldn’t return.

  Could she?

  Right now, she was a flat rock skipping across the surface of a pond. Soon—much too soon—she would sink. She’d fall into the thick, airless depths. Tangled in weeds. Unable to breathe…

  “What happens next?” he asked, fully awake now.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Between us.” He frowned. “What happens next?”

  “The ball is over.” She moved out of his circle of warmth. “We go back to our lives.”

  “You”—His voice cracked. He cleared his throat—“You promised me one more night.”

  She shook her head no. “The game has become too dangerous.”

  “Game?” His voice sharpened, discharging shards. “You can’t mean you’re leaving for good.”

  She didn’t answer. How could she answer when her cracking heart rendered her mute?

  “We had,” he growled, “an agreement.”

  Anger. She swallowed. Anger was better than hurt. Anger she could survive.

  She pulled her shift over her head. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  She’d intended to follow her declaration with something equally flippant—something that would conceal how much she cared. But she couldn’t breathe. So instead, she wrapped her dress and tied the lacing tight.

  “Stay with me.” A command, not a plea.

  She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Where the devil were her stockings? She pressed a hand to her forehead as she swiveled around. Where?

  “Please stay.”

  Heavens. How much was she supposed to bear?

  She spotted one stocking draped over the back of the headboard and snatched it against her chest. Then, she spotted the other at the foot of the bed. They turned toward one another at the same time, then they both dove for the stocking in unison.

  Matthew was bigger. He got there first and then he hid her stocking behind his back.

  She held out her hand. “Give me my stocking.”

  “Not until you tell me why you are leaving. And this time, I want the truth.”

  “I want to stay but I can’t.” She made a sound of frustration. “It’s impossible. We’re impossible. This cannot last.”

  “Marry me and I’ll prove you wrong. I will make it last, I swear.”

  “Matthew! Must you make me point out the obvious?” She sunk down onto the mattress, her hard gaze on her stupid, aging hands. “I’m old. You aren’t.”

  “Old? You can’t be more than ten years my senior.”

  She sent him a narrow, side-eyed glance. “It’s insulting to state a lady’s age.”

  “You’re the one who brought up the topic. I certainly never would.” Confusion ruffled his brow. “Is thirty-seven so old?”

  “The Duchess of Devonshire died at forty-five.”

  He exhaled slowly. “And so did Mr. Sartin.”

  She chewed her lip, nodding reluctantly. “And so did George.”

  The ghost of George Sartin drifted between them. But no matter how real the ache in her heart, the ‘ghost’ was nothing more than a figment born of her own guilt and fear. If George could communicate anything, she’d no doubt he would tell her he wanted her to be happy. And, George had loved Matthew.

  “There isn’t any rhyme nor reason to the length of time we’re given.” Matthew touched her hair. “And no guarantees.”

  She looked up into his eyes. She wished she could hand him the burden of this decision, let him sweep aside her concerns and take charge.

  A wish unfair to them both.

  He hadn’t any different answers than she had. They were both beings suspended in an experience they could never fully comprehend—just like every other person who’d ever lived. With no easy answers, no Society-approved path, neither of them could know, really know, how best to proceed.

  He placed her other stocking in her hands, pressed her palms together, and then held them between his own. A lock of soft brown hair cascaded over his forehead, making her long to brush it back into place.

  “Go if you must.” Hurt shone in his eyes. “But go knowing I love you, and I will be waiting for you to return. I know my mind. I thought you knew yours.”

  Chapter Ten

  AMELIA STROLLED ALONG THE SERPENTINE beside Lady Constance for their habitual Sunday afternoon outing. Constance regaled Amelia with every on dit she’d missed by not attending the musicale at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Shepthorpe the prior night. As usual, Constance required little commentary, which, this time, suited Amelia just fine.

  I love you.

  She still couldn’t believe Matthew had uttered the words. Twice.

  Of course, the first time he’d been exhausted and well on his way to slumber’s oblivion. Which was understandable. A man didn’t lose his virginity every day.

  And she’d been enthusiastic…right up to his final confession.

  How could she not?

  Matthew Bellamy was...

  He was…

  Matchless. Irreplaceable.

  Which was why she could not return to his bed.

  She could not give him another night. She’d already given him her heart—not that she had any intention of letting him know.

  If she were young, she’d make him her own. But she was not young.

  No matter what he said now, he’d regret missing out on the opportunity to have children, she was sure. More importantly, were they to wed, anyone associated with Sartin Trading Company, from the suppliers to the customers to the investors, would naturally be appalled.

  Suspicious, too.

  She’d probably have to face scores of clerks demanding to check Matthew’s books. She couldn’t put George’s legacy at risk. And Jeremy—good lord—Jeremy would never understand.

  “Amelia!”

  She halted. “Yes?”

  “You weren’t listening. Again.” Constance frowned. “Should I be concerned?”

  “I’m not feeling myself today.”

  “Only today? Less than a fortnight ago, you disappeared from Lady Darlington’s soiree without a word, and then, you declined an invitation to the duchess’s musicale. You’ve been entirely too distracted.” She lifted a brow. “I’ve told you my mouse story three times in the last three weeks—adding impossible details each time—and you haven’t noticed.”

  She frowned. “I noticed.”

  “You could have fooled me.” She lowered her voice. “Is this about Markham and his rumored engagement? Because I heard there is trouble in paradise…you may have another chance with him yet.”

  “Trouble? Between Lord Markham and Lady Clarissa?” So much for her fairy godmother credentials. “I am sincerely sorry to hear that. They appeared to be besotted with one another.”

  Constance smirked. “You cannot convince me you were cheering on your former lover’s betrothal.”

  “I was, in fact. Why would I begrudge a young person an excellent match?” She thought of Matthew. “Especially one I admire.”

  To her horror, tears clogged her throat, fountaining up until they spilled onto her cheeks. Amelia retrieved a handkerchie
f and pressed it to her face. Constance simply blinked.

  Well, she’d finally been reduced to a weeping mess—awash in the kind of frantic confusion she would have once attributed to her courses. But this was no moon-inspired madness. This was just one, very sad truth.

  She’d been in love once. And she’d fallen in love again.

  Love was rare. Precious.

  And she wasn’t only resisting the emotion because she thought Matthew could find better. Nor did she truly care what proof of her past integrity her investors might want her to provide, or whether or not Jeremy would be offended.

  She was resisting because she didn’t have the courage to face heartbreak and grief again.

  She sobbed.

  “Good heavens, Amelia. What’s gotten into you?” Constance whipped her arm beneath Amelia’s, called to her servant for a parasol and, when said parasol arrived, hid them both under the broad canopy as she marched straight back to the carriage.

  “I apologize.” Amelia hiccupped. “I didn’t mean to embarrass—”

  “Shush. I’m not embarrassed, but you can’t go bursting into tears in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. Why, you’re considered a tower of strength. It just wouldn’t do to have people second guess!”

  Tower of strength? Pfft.

  Constance bundled Amelia inside and then quickly drew the curtains.

  “Now,” she said, “what in heavens name is going on?”

  Amelia rubbed the handkerchief beneath her nose. “I cannot tell you.”

  “Me? But I’m your closest friend.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you, Constance?”

  Constance’s jaw dropped.

  “I mean,” Amelia continued, “I appreciate you lowering yourself enough to be seen with a woman of trade, but we aren’t truly friends, are we?”

  Constance made a frightening noise in the back of her throat. “Whyever would you say such a thing?”

  “You distain trade. My living is trade.”

  Constance blinked. “True.”

  “Constance.”

  “I need a moment to think, thank you.” Constance straightened. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. I’m terribly high in the instep, aren’t I? Quite the Lady Catherine, through and through.” She closed one eye. “Must I change?”