by Louise Clark
“Surely, Miss Strand will have an opinion!” Franny said.
Mary Elizabeth blushed as everyone turned to her. Her voice was composed though, as she said, “My father has made all of the arrangements to ensure this marriage comes to pass. I believe he will continue to do so.”
“Do you feel you have no say in the matter?” Ronald Aiken asked. Of those at the table, only Lady Elizabeth reacted with any dismay. Aiken was known to be a radical in his thinking. No one was surprised by his outspokenness.
Lady Elizabeth glared at him. “Sir! You are impertinent.”
Ron smiled, not in the least put out.
Mary Elizabeth said slowly, “I agreed to the marriage, though it is closer to my father’s heart than mine.”
“This is the new world!” Reverend Turner said. “Such old-fashioned ideas do not belong here. Miss Strand, if you are not agreeable to this marriage, you must say so!”
“Dear Reverend Turner,” she said, smiling. “Your kindness on my behalf warms me, truly it does. I believe I have as fine a champion in you as any woman could wish. Rest assured, I would call upon you if I felt I needed to, but…” She looked down at her half-eaten dessert for a moment, then she raised her gaze to the assembled group once more. “Events have already been put into motion. I do not think you need to brave my father’s wrath for me.”
“I would do it,” the reverend said stoutly.
“And I would support him,” Mrs. Turner said, nodding.
The others at the table murmured agreement. Andrew remained silent. He knew Lady Elizabeth would focus on him if he joined in and she would be even more vigilant about keeping them apart during the evening. He had plans to talk to Mary Elizabeth privately, and he wasn’t going to risk losing the opportunity by blurting out his support of Mary Elizabeth.
It appeared, though, that his caution would be wasted. Lady Elizabeth set her spoon down and pushed back her chair. Her expression was as cold as any Andrew had ever seen. She was about to bolt, taking Mary Elizabeth with her. He mentally cursed Ron Aiken’s determination to stir the pot.
After a hasty glance at her mother, Mary Elizabeth said, “I am deeply touched by the affection all of you have shown for me. Thank you.” She turned to her mother. Putting her hand over Lady Elizabeth’s she said gently, “Mama, we have made true friends in this community. I am grateful for that. The decision is made. Let us enjoy the rest of our time here.”
Lady Elizabeth looked at her daughter and the anger in her expression melted. She took a deep breath, then nodded. The awkward moment passed and the evening continued with tea and coffee being served in the parlor.
As they moved from the dining room to the parlor, the Reverend Turner engaged Lady Elizabeth in conversation. That provided Andrew with the opportunity to speak to Mary Elizabeth. “We must talk. Come with me into the garden. We can be private there.”
“Until Mama comes to drag me back into the house. No, Andrew, come to my house tonight. Mama will go to bed not long after we return. She is no longer locking me in my room, so I will be able to slip out to meet you. Can you do this?”
His heart soared. “I can.”
She nodded agreement, blessed him with a tiny, intimate smile, then nodded toward her mother, at the head of their small procession with the minister on one side and Maurice Hodder on the other. “I must ensure my mother is not suspicious. Approach me in the parlor, but do not be daunted by what I say!” When he nodded, she hurried ahead so that Lady Elizabeth would not realize that she and Andrew had spoken.
Andrew slowed his pace. His heart was pounding with excitement, for he was sure—though not completely certain—that Mary Elizabeth would agree to elope with him. To separate herself from her family by such an act was a momentous decision for a woman to make, and he knew she could not do it lightly. He would treasure and protect her for the rest of her life once she did, but the choice and the spoken decision must be hers to make.
When he entered the parlor no one was yet seated. Mary Elizabeth stood by the tall French doors that led out to the terrace behind the house, talking to Fanny Hodder. Maurice Hodder was chatting with Lady Elizabeth as he led her to the sofa, which was positioned so that there was a good view of the outside through the leaded glass in the French doors.
No time like the present, Andrew thought. He ambled over to the French doors, deliberately trying to appear unthreatening, knowing that everyone in the room would see through his subterfuge immediately. He smiled at the two women. “My dear Fanny, may I steal Miss Strand from you for a moment?”
Fanny frowned as her shrewd blue eyes scanned his face. “Andrew, I don’t think that would be a good idea…”
Mary Elizabeth flipped open her fan and said loudly, “Mr. Byrne, I am a betrothed lady. You know I cannot speak with you privately.”
Fanny’s eyes widened, then narrowed, speculation in their depths. She moved a little closer to Mary Elizabeth. “My dear, I’m sure he meant nothing untoward.”
Playing along, Andrew bowed. “My apologies, Miss Strand. I overstepped.”
“Indeed, you did, sir.” She turned, apparently to face Fanny more directly, but in reality, to wink at Andrew. “I think it best if I join my mother on the sofa. You do understand, Mrs. Hodder?”
“Of course,” Fanny said. She shot Andrew a disapproving look for all the room to see, then, her arm linked with Mary Elizabeth’s, she bustled over to the seating area near the fire to join the others.
Andrew had to struggle to keep his face grave, but he managed it. The play-acting had been effective. Lady Elizabeth was nodding approvingly at her daughter, her earlier wariness assuaged by Mary Elizabeth’s apparent compliance. As the evening continued, all he could think about was meeting Mary Elizabeth tonight. In the moonlight. Privately, where he would finally gain her agreement for their runaway marriage.
Chapter 11
The carriage ride back to Strand Manor should have been a strain on Mary Elizabeth’s fraught nerves. Her mother spent the whole drive complaining. Not about the meal, or their hosts, or most of the other guests, no, her focus was on Andrew and by extension his friend, Mr. Ronald Aiken. Lady Elizabeth saw both men as examples of the dangers of extremism and said more than once that she could not understand why the Hodders would condescend to associate with either one of them.
Since Mary Elizabeth had plans for the remainder of the evening, plans she didn’t want her mother to know, she was careful not to say anything that would cause Lady Elizabeth to consider her to be as rebellious as Andrew and Ron Aiken. As she was certain her mother would expect her to champion her American friends, at least in some small way, she took a moment to deliberately point out that Mr. Aiken was a blood relative to Mrs. Hodder and therefore someone she would find difficulty shunning. When Lady Elizabeth waved her perfectly good objection away with one elegant flick of her wrist and said, “Nonsense! Everyone has unacceptable relatives. One simply learns to avoid them and they go away over time,” she knew she had hit just the right note.
Personally, Mary Elizabeth thought Franny Hodder actually supported her brother Ron. She doubted the woman wanted him to go anywhere. She didn’t voice that thought to her mother, of course. It wasn’t part of her strategy. She wanted Lady Elizabeth to feel comfortable retiring for the night at her normal time. She didn’t want her fussing and worrying about the outcome of the evening and staying up late. So, she listened to her mother grumble, interjected a comment here and there when she thought it would seem odd if she didn’t speak, and for the most part held her tongue.
Once they reached Strand Manor, Lady Elizabeth spent a half hour planning the next day’s meals with their housekeeper, then discussing the activities she and Mary Elizabeth were committed to, before she followed her usual pattern and retired to her bedchamber for the night. Mary Elizabeth went up at the same time, kissed her mother good night and retreated to her room where she made ready for bed.
As the maid she shared with her mother unfastened her stays,
then brushed out her long hair and braided it, she fought to keep her nerves steady. Tonight, she would meet with an unmarried man unchaperoned, in the darkness of the night. If the maid had even the slightest inkling of her plans, it would be her duty to inform Lady Elizabeth. It was important, then, that she not allow any of the building excitement and fear to show, for she did not want anyone to stand in the way of her rendezvous with Andrew.
Finally, the woman finished. Mary Elizabeth bid her good night, climbing into bed as she spoke, following her usual evening routine as closely as possible, even to the point of taking a book to bed with her. When the door closed, Mary Elizabeth leaned back against the pillows, the book unopened on her lap. She made her plans while she listened as the house quieted for the night.
She sat for a very long time before she slipped out of bed. Clad only in her white linen nightgown, she picked up her candle, and went to stand in front of the window. The garment was voluminous, long and shapeless, but she knew the pale color combined with the candlelight, would ensure she was seen by anyone outside, watching. After a minute or two, she deliberately blew out the candle. But still she stood, sure her form would be visible even in the darkness. Then she moved back into the room, to the wardrobe. She reached up to the high shelf where a spare blanket was stored for cold nights. She had to stand on her tiptoes, for she wasn’t a tall woman, but her fingers caught the edge of the wool fabric and she tugged, pulling the bulky folds down into her arms.
Clutching the blanket to her breasts, she breathed deeply, calming the butterflies in her stomach. What she was about to do was an act of defiance so outrageous that it was unprecedented in her life. It was the right thing to do, but oh, how nervous she was. She folded the blanket and set it on the bed so she could don her night-rail, a lovely silk garment that was a deep, sapphire blue. It was tied at the waist with a sash, which she knotted with great care, then she pushed her feet into slippers, picked up the blanket, and crept to her door.
She cracked it open and listened. The house was quiet. Clutching the blanket to her chest with one hand, she carefully closed the door, ensuring that it was on the latch before she hurried toward the stairs.
She left the house through the tall French windows in her father’s study. They opened out onto the terrace that faced the back garden. Beyond the formal walkways and plant beds was a forested area, which her mother liked to call her wilderness. It was not, of course. The grounds at Strand Manor had all been manicured to mimic those on a proper English estate. The real forest had been cleared, with the deadwood hauled away and the undergrowth removed. Still, the trees would provide shelter and privacy for her meeting with Andrew.
She flitted down the steps from the terrace, onto the graveled path below, then hurried toward the woodlands. As she ran, her feet crunched loudly on the gravel. Her heart pounded and she glanced over her shoulder, fearing discovery. Then she saw a figure step from the sheltering trees and her heart leapt.
Andrew! He had come as he promised he would. One part of her soared at the knowledge, while another shuddered at the enormity of what she was about to do. Her breath caught and panic hovered, then she was wrapped snuggly in Andrew’s embrace, the blanket falling to the ground as she threw her arms around his neck.
He drew her into the shadow of the trees, then he kissed her with all the pent-up emotion she knew he must be feeling. His mouth was rough on hers, his tongue pushing aggressively at the seam of her lips so that she opened to him. He thrust deeply, and she thought she heard him groan. With pleasure? She was too inexperienced to know what the sound meant, but she did know that after she settled from the shock of that invasion, the kiss was doing things to her senses she had never expected. Tentatively she rubbed her tongue against his, hoping that she was doing the right thing and Andrew would enjoy her touch.
At her action, Andrew’s body went still. His kiss eased, the roughness turning into coaxing. His tongue retreated. Hers followed, sliding delicately over the top of his. He chuckled—chuckled! What did that mean? —and moved his lips seductively over hers as he touched the tip of his tongue against hers, then caressed it. His hands slid down her back to cup her behind, then he pressed her forward so that her belly and hips pressed against his body. She realized what the groan and chuckle meant. Andrew desired her. The evidence was there, pressing hard against her soft flesh.
The kiss seemed to go on forever and as Andrew caressed her, her body warmed, then heated with desires she didn’t know existed, much less know how to manage. Her senses were aflame, each one bombarding her with impressions. The rustle of the leaves emphasized the soft caress of the warm breeze, and filled her nostrils with the scent of pine and roses. In the trees, the darkness was profound. She had had a fleeting glimpse of Andrew in the moonlight before he drew her into the shadows and she sensed he was dressed as he had been at the dinner. He must have come straight here after the party, to be with her. Her heart soared with the reassuring thought.
When Andrew eased away, leaving her lips parted, wanting more, she whispered his name.
He dropped a light, caressing kiss on the corner of her mouth, then another on the edge of her jaw. From there he moved down to her throat where her pulse beat strongly. The kiss sent a jolt of feeling through her body. Her eyes slid closed to allow her to better savor the sensations he was creating and she arched against him. This time when he groaned, elation and a primitive feminine power rushed through her.
He drew a deep breath. “Before Colonel Bradley arrived in Lexington, I asked you to marry me, Mary Elizabeth.”
“Yes,” she whispered. He’d stopped kissing her, so she opened her eyes. Gazing up into his, she saw that his expression was serious. She pulled her scattered senses together and did her best to concentrate.
“You said yes.” He shifted his hips. Pleasure flashed through the tender core of her that was already pulsing with heat.
“Yes! I still say yes.” She moved against him, meeting the pressure from his body with hers.
Even in the dim light she could see that desire flared in his eyes, but he said, “Stop, love. I want you so badly I fear I will not be able to control myself if we continue this play much longer.”
She shifted so that her body made full contact with his, crushing her breasts against his chest and grinding her most private area against the bulge in his breeches. “I don’t want to stop.” She eased her fingers into his dark hair and pulled his head down so they could resume their kiss. The wonton statement echoed in her mind, sounding just right to the emotional, physical part of her, but shocking the properly brought up granddaughter of an earl. It was the loving part that won out, for being with Andrew this way felt so right, so exactly what she wanted, that the respectable young lady surrendered without a fight.
Andrew, though, might be a more difficult foe to conquer.
For a minute she thought she had succeeded in convincing him. She took the initiative this time, drawing her tongue over his lips in a teasing caress that had him groaning again and opening to her. She slipped inside, glorying in the taste of him and the way she could feel his body tremble from her touch.
He pulled away too soon. “Mary Elizabeth. Miss Strand! We must stop.”
“I brought a blanket,” she said, rather breathlessly. Admitting she was prepared for what was to come, had even been planning it, made her heart race.
He stepped back, a hint of a frown between his eyes. “A blanket? Miss Strand—”
“Call me by my name, Mary Elizabeth. We are to be married, are we not?”
He nodded, his expression still serious and reserved.
She reached for him. “Andrew,” she said. But he did not move back into her arms. Her hand dropped to the tie on her night-rail. She pulled it loose.
This was it, the true moment when she committed herself to Andrew, tonight and forever. One day they would say their vows in a church, before the congregation and God, but tonight she would say her vows to him, and him alone. For her, the words were
as binding as any spoken in a church. “I agreed to be your wife. From that day forward I have believed myself to be bound to you. I do not care what my father wants of me. I am yours, Andrew.”
The sash fell away. The garment opened, exposing the thin linen nightgown beneath. His breath caught. She said, “If you want me.”
His breath hissed out. “God, Mary Elizabeth. Want you? You have no idea how much I want you, on how many levels.”
She stepped closer, her head tilted up so that she could look into his eyes. “Tell me then,” she whispered. As she spoke, she reached back and pulled the braid over her shoulder. She tugged the ribbon, untying it, then slowly, deliberately, loosened the braid. All the time she watched his face. His gaze was fixed on her, and once he moistened his lips and swallowed hard. When the braid was undone, she shook her head and the waving locks tumbled over her shoulders.
Andrew reached up with both hands to slide the tangled locks through his fingers. In a low voice, he said, “I want you to be the woman who is with me every day for the rest of our lives. The one who shares my dreams and my triumphs, bears my children, accepts me as the man I am. I ache to become your lover, to be the one who brings you the pleasure of the marriage bed. I want to be your friend, to support you in all you dream of for your future. I need a partner in my life, Mary Elizabeth, equal and valued and desired.”
As he spoke, she shrugged the wrapper off her shoulders, so that only her elbows held it up. By the time he finished his voice was hoarse. She had the sense that he was holding on to his self-control by an increasingly thin thread. She straightened her arms and let the garment fall, so that it pooled on the ground around her feet.
His eyes followed its descent, then travelled back up slowly. The linen of her nightshirt was very fine, so fine that it was almost translucent. She knew he could see the dark curls at her core, the swell of her breasts, and the dark puckers of her nipples. “Andrew,” she whispered.