by Eloisa James
He didn’t move. Couldn’t move, pinned to the bed by the delicate flutter of her fingers, touching him where no woman had ever touched him, except in an abandoned frenzy. Her hum had deepened, grown more desirous to his mind. She was caressing him. The sheet fell back, onto his legs. Did she really think he was still asleep? She couldn’t.
In one lithe, sweeping move he turned about, had her body in his arms, pinned her to the bed, his hard body not languid, not sleeping, fitting perfectly between her sweet thighs—and he drank her startled cry, kissed her so fiercely that she reared up against him, seeking him, quivering, crying—
Sure hands pushed her legs apart, and his hand was there—
A small scream broke from her lips, and she arched into his hand, soft, swollen, and wet, all that he could ever wish for. Ready.
“Tess,” he said, and plunged into her warmth.
She looked up at him, dazed. All that sleepy warmth had transformed into hard muscle, braced above her, shoulders rigid, his weight turned from sleepy male to—to—he surged forward again, and she lost her thought, clutching his shoulders.
It was all too fast…she would never be able to—to—whatever it was called. She hadn’t brushed her teeth. She hadn’t washed! Anxiety poured over her even as her legs pulsed with a lick of fire.
“Tess,” he whispered. She turned her mouth away. Her breath must be awful.
“I need to get up,” she said, the sentence ending in a squeak as he rode higher and a fiery wave threatened to suck her under.
He was kissing her jawline, his body still, almost still, except every part of her noticed that he had moved—moved a bit.
She clutched his shoulders, let her hands trace an unsteady path down his chest and then said, “I must—”
“Now I need you,” he said into her ear. His voice had none of the suave polish of its everyday lilt. He sounded hoarse.
Fire burst down her legs. He was moving again, hot against her, and it was clouding her brain, making her feel scorched, as if she were too close to some enormous fire.
“Don’t stop, Tess. Don’t leave.” His voice was hoarse, dark with need.
She couldn’t seem to get purchase in a spinning world. He pulled back, and she instinctively bent her legs and tried to follow him, up, up—Then he was gripping her about the waist, and she forgot about her teeth, about her breath, about washing, about anything but Lucius’s dark eyes and the way every move of his hips made her—
Sent her—
She rolled her head, frantic, meeting his every stroke, her eyes dark with desire and lust.
Lucius looked down, and in the very, very small portion of his brain that wasn’t given over to pure desire, thought: “Damn. I’ve fallen in love with my wife.”
But then her fingers slid down his back and fastened on his bottom and Lucius Felton—who never liked it when a woman touched him intimately—shuddered all over and lost every vestige of control, taking his wife with him, hard and fast, until she cried out—
And he cried out—
And fell on top of her—
And thought, I love you. But didn’t say it.
Chapter
35
October 10
Maitland House
Dearest Tess,
I am so sorry to tell you that Imogen is not yet ready for a reconciliation with you, her dearest sister. Lady Clarice has inadvertently worsened the situation (not, of course, having any idea of Imogen’s sense of guilt) by telling her that she chose Miss Pythian-Adams as a bride for her son precisely because Miss Pythian-Adams dislikes horses and presumably would keep Draven from the stables. Imogen now believes that if she had truly loved Draven, she would have allowed him to marry Miss Pythian-Adams, thereby saving his life. The lack of logic in this argument makes it hard to counter. Frankly, I’m worried about her. She does not seem fully to understand that Draven is gone, and sometimes talks as if she thinks he is merely out of sight, or traveling. She still does not sleep at night, but has taken to walking about the chambers they shared, talking to her husband (or rather, to his spirit, I suppose). She will not allow the bedding to be changed, nor his clothing to be removed. I am quite certain that she would refuse to move to your house, Tess, so I’m afraid we should give up our initial plan for the moment.
I think it would be best for Imogen if you continued to London with your husband rather than take us with you. Josie is well settled with her governess at Rafe’s house; Lady Griselda has declared an intention to stay with them as long as she is needed. I am here with Imogen, and while I maintain a hope that I shall join you in London once the season begins, I certainly cannot leave Imogen at this time.
I know I will see you tomorrow at the burial, but I thought it best if you understood how it is with Imogen. I know it will give you pain if she is cold; please understand that she has only a frail command of her true circumstances at this moment.
Yours with all love,
Annabel
THE SILCHESTER DAILY TIMES
Six outriders accompanied the hearse, blazoned with escutcheons of the Maitland family. Fourteen mourning coaches followed, every horse caparisoned in black velvet, bearing the arms of the Maitlands. Lord Maitland’s lovely young wife and mother followed the deceased in the first mourning carriage; general distress was expressed by those who witnessed Lord Maitland’s young bride enter St. Andrew’s church for the burial. Some thirty private carriages followed the cavalcade. Among the mourners were the Duke of Holbrook, the Earl of Mayne, Earl Hawarden, and Sir Fibulous Hervey.
Burials of the very young are, by definition, heart-wrenching affairs. Tess couldn’t help comparing Draven Maitland’s funeral to that of her father. By the time her father died, he had had a full life with a wife, children, great successes, huge mistakes…Draven had only Imogen, and she had had him for under a month. Moreover, in the case of her father, those who loved him had accustomed themselves to the idea of his death.
She knew why Imogen refused to believe that Draven was dead. One moment her husband was there, and the next he was gone. Gone. Tess held Lucius’s hand very tightly as she stared at the altar.
A bishop officiated, along with a dean and three or four priests. It was all very much grander than when Papa was buried; and yet it was all the same. They were both good-byes.
She glanced sideways at her husband. Lucius didn’t really understand. He had never lost anyone; his friends were well and healthy, and his parents were alive.
That was one thing she understood, and he did not. If he did not reconcile with his mother before she died—and Lady Clarice had said she was ill—his good-bye would be terrible indeed. Imogen was distraught because she felt guilt. Imagine the guilt that Lucius must suffer if his mother died, longing to see him, and he had not entertained her wish.
He had to overcome his pride.
She glanced at the line of his jaw, at his shadowed eyes. He would never overcome his pride.
She had to do it for him. She made it into a silent vow, spoken in her heart and sealed with a press on her husband’s hand. She would effect a reconciliation between her husband and his parents, if it was the only good thing she did in her life. She would not allow him to be driven mad by guilt the way Imogen was.
The service passed like a miserable dream, broken only by the sound of sobs from about the church. There was no sound at all from the pew before Tess: Imogen and Lady Clarice now possessed precisely the same rigid, frozen silence.
The wind was cutting as they gathered around the door to the Maitland tomb. Tess could hardly hear; her black bonnet flapped around her face. There was a sudden break in the wind, and she heard the bishop say, “henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit: for they rest from their labors.”
It was hard to imagine Lord Maitland resting. He never rested: always rushing somewhere, in speech if not on his feet.
Tess swallowed and leaned against Lucius. He bent down and murmured in her ear, “Are yo
u feeling faint? Would you like to walk to the side for a moment?
There was no particular reason she should remain at the grave. Imogen was holding Lady Clarice’s arm. They were both staring at Draven’s coffin. It was impossible to read their faces. Tess couldn’t help Imogen; she couldn’t help either of them.
She nodded to Lucius, and they slipped to the side, walking down a path through the small graveyard and stopping at an old stone bench. They sat down, and Lucius tucked the fold of his greatcoat around Tess, pulling her snugly against his body.
“A handkerchief?” he offered her.
“No,” and then, because she had to say it aloud, “I feel dreadful for Imogen, and for his mother…but…” That was a tear running down her cheek, for all she had sworn not to cry ever again.
“I know,” he said. “The grief for you is to be cast out by your sister.”
She swallowed hard. “I just don’t see why she doesn’t need me,” she whispered finally, her voice strangled in the back of her throat. “Why she doesn’t—doesn’t love me anymore. I didn’t have anything to do with her husband’s death!”
“I know,” he said. “I know. Imogen will come about, Tess.”
Lucius tucked her even closer under his arm as if she were a baby bird and he the mother. Then he bent his head and brushed a kiss on her lips. There was something infinitely sustaining about his touch.
“May I admit to being very happy that you are with me?” he said. He put a finger on her lips. “I know you wish you could be with your little sister, but Tess, I am glad you are with me instead.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. He was so dear, trying to make her believe that she was necessary to him, when she knew perfectly well that Lucius was self-sustaining. He was peaceful in his solitude and happy in his study. He didn’t need her. But it was perfectly dear of him to say so.
She leaned her head against his arm and watched a sparrow hop across the flagstones.
She could do that one thing for Lucius, the one thing that would make his solitude less stark. That would give him his own family portraits for the walls, and his own family around the table. He was only pretending to need her, but in fact he did need her. He needed her to give him his family back.
“Shall we go to London soon?” she asked.
“I do need to travel there, perhaps tomorrow,” he said. “I dislike leaving you right now, but you needn’t come with me if you don’t wish it.”
“I do wish it,” she said.
They sat there together, she wrapped in the fold of his greatcoat, and he holding an unused linen handkerchief, until the bells of St. Andrew’s began tolling again: one ring for each year of Draven’s short life.
Chapter
36
Tess did not crane her head down St. James’s Street when the carriage pulled to a halt. There was nothing to be gained from Lucius knowing of her curiosity about his parents’ establishment; she had to be subtle about the whole business of family reunification. Lucius had that uncanny ability to close himself off so that she couldn’t read what he was thinking at all. And Tess had an uneasy feeling that if he had the slightest idea what she had in mind, he would drive her out to whichever of his five houses was the farthest from London and leave her there.
She had asked whether he had sent word to his parents that they had married. And Lucius had said, “I am quite certain that my mother knew of our marriage before the ink was dry on the special license.”
From that, Tess guessed that his mother longed for news of her son and had all her friends writing her with every detail they knew of his life.
Poor, poor woman.
So Tess glanced down the wide street lined with stately houses, but she didn’t allow a flicker of curiosity to cross her face.
This time she wasn’t surprised to find the drawing room hung with portraits of someone’s ancestors. In place of pride over the mantelpiece was the portrait of three children Lucius had told her about. There were two girls and a boy, all dressed in the height of Elizabethan finery. The boy stood in the middle, his small hand resting on a rapier, his chin at an aggressive angle. His eyes were piggish and rather too close together. She was just as glad to know that that particular boy wasn’t an ancestor.
“The portrait is quite lovely,” she told Lucius.
But he knew her better now. He stood, eyes narrowed. “You don’t like it, do you?” he asked.
“That boy is rather piggish,” she said. “I’m glad he’s not your great-grandfather, Lucius. Just imagine—” But the color surged into her face, and she fell silent.
He laughed. “You wouldn’t want those eyes to show up in our children, is that it?”
“Naturally not,” Tess said with dignity. “But anyone would come to the conclusion that these children are ancestors of yours, Lucius. Your family, to be exact.”
“They’re not ancestors,” he said. “They’re investments.”
Tess managed not to roll her eyes. “Shall we have some tea?” she asked. “I declare, I am quite parched by the journey. And I should like to see my chambers, if you please.”
The thought of showing Tess her new chambers distracted him.
His smile made her cheeks flush to an even deeper rose. That made him laugh. He walked over and tipped up her chin. “I seem to relinquish all claims to sane behavior around you.”
“Are you saying that I bring out your worst?” Tess asked.
“Haven’t you noticed men turning to satyrs in your presence before?”
“Is that what you meant?” A tiny smile curved her mouth. “Then, no. Around Annabel, of course. Everyone falls into love with Annabel. Papa was forever removing servants. Even the vicar had to be sent off to a faraway parish. But no one ever fell in love with me.”
Everything Lucius could think of to say was too revealing. So he said nothing, and if Tess’s face fell a little at his silence, he didn’t notice because he was too busy sorting through the huge mound of invitations that Smiley brought in on a silver platter. “Of course, we can’t do much until you are properly dressed,” he said absently.
“I have the gowns we ordered in Silchester,” Tess murmured.
“And I think we ought to get you a proper lady’s maid as well.”
Tess touched the nest of curls that Gussie had managed to put together that morning. It was true that Gussie wasn’t the best lady’s maid, but she would feel so—
Lucius caught her look. “We’ll get you a dresser,” he said. “Gussie? Is that her name?” And at Tess’s nod: “Gussie can continue as your lady’s maid.”
Tess had discovered Lucius’s response to any given problem was to hire a person to help. He seemed to think his house—houses, rather—could only be improved by hiring more and more servants.
“I would rather not hire a dresser,” she stated. “Gussie’s skills are improving.”
He bowed. “As you wish. I must meet my secretary now, but I shall ask Madame Carême to visit you at her nearest convenience. Lady Griselda informs me that she is the modiste of choice at the moment. Will you find the time tedious if I retire to my study?”
Tess nodded. “Please don’t give me a second thought, Lucius. I shall spend the morning with your housekeeper.”
“Our housekeeper,” he corrected her, coming over and putting his arms around her. “And as for telling me not to think of you”—he paused and gave her a swift, fierce kiss—“that’s impossible, my dear.”
A second later he was gone, while she stared at the closed door in a flush of dumbfound happiness.
“Mrs. Taine is ever so much nicer than Mrs. Gabthorne,” Gussie reported that evening, dragging the brush through Tess’s hair with rather more speed than kindness. “And I think she’s a better housekeeper for it. She hasn’t a mean thing to say of anyone, except the masters’ parents. She was that kind when the third footman hadn’t the time to sweep the front steps. Mrs. Gabthorne would have worked herself into a perfect frenzy, but Mrs. Taine just told him t
o make a point of it tomorrow.”
“And what did she say about the master’s parents?” Tess asked, pitching her voice to a casual key.
“Oh, Mrs. Felton is a bit of a tartar, by some accounts.” Gussie put down the brush. “Would you like to bathe before bed, or shall I lay out a nightrail?”
But Tess picked up the brush and handed it back to her. “My nanny always said that one should brush one’s hair five hundred times,” she said. It was a bit of a fib, given their lack of a nanny, but Annabel had read the precept in a ladies’magazine.
“Oh,” Gussie said, obviously taken aback. But she started vigorously brushing Tess’s hair again.
“Mrs. Taine said?” Tess asked invitingly.
Gussie’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “I’m not supposed to gossip. She made that quite clear to all of us.”
“You’re not gossiping,” Tess said. “I am the mistress of the house.” Never mind the fact that gossip was gossip, no matter who received it.
“Well,” Gussie said happily. “Mrs. Felton as lives two doors down suffers fearfully from megrims, or so the second housemaid Emma says. Emma is stepping out with the head groom over there. Mrs. Felton had a terrible attack when she heard of our master’s marriage.”
“Did she weep?” Tess asked, her heart wringing at the very thought.
“Now that I don’t know,” Gussie said, giving the matter some thought. “Emma said that she was frisking about the house like a whirlwind: those were her exact words.”
“She must have been distraught. Utterly distraught.”
“But from what I’ve heard, madam, you’re well shot of her. Emma says that she’s up to her elbows in complaints, and even the shoeblack comes in for his share.”
“Now that is gossip,” Tess said. “The poor woman lives without a glimpse of her only son, other than what she can gather from acquaintances. I’m sure the pain of it must occasionally make her irritable.”