“It always matters what you desire.”
She began to butter her bread to avoid having to look into his penetrating stare. It did not matter that her bread had already received one coat of butter.
“How simple for you,” she stated. “No doubt in your world men and women should behave on their impulses alone with no regard for courtesy or convention.”
“I think you would find it liberating.”
“Perhaps I would, but that is no way for polite society to conduct itself.”
“You prefer that we swallow the truth of our emotions and feign falsehoods for the sake of convention?”
“That is hardly what I said! I merely stated…”
She saw the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He was playing with her.
“Would you care for more bread with your butter, Countess?” inquired Barclay.
Gertie glanced down at her bread, now top heavy with coats of butter. She felt her flush deepen and was grateful for the shadows cast by the fireplace. Perhaps he would not notice how much he tested her.
“No, thank you,” she replied, taking a bite of her butter, then drenching it away with wine. “I was merely trying to thank you for your service, but if you’ve no wish for the recognition, I will gladly withdraw my gratitude.”
“I never said I did not wish for it. Indeed, for the likes of me to receive thanks from you, Countess, is a rare and special occasion. But when I said that you’ve no need to thank me, I had hoped to relieve you from an awkward obligation.”
“If I am awkward, it is only because of you,” she retorted, setting aside her bread permanently in favor of her wine glass. “You hardly make it easy for me, sir. And I’ve no doubt you behave in such vexing fashion on purpose.”
Finishing the contents, she refilled her glass.
“My apologies, Lady Lowry,” he said. “It is not my intention to vex you always.”
“Now you are the one with pretenses, Lord Barclay. I am convinced it is always your intention to vex me or you would not have…”
He raised his eyebrows, but she could finish her sentence. Instead she took another sip of wine.
“Kissed you?” he finished.
She took another sip to calm her irritation. She had decided it was best to ignore what had happened at Vauxhall, especially when it became clear that they would have to suffer each other’s company for some time. It had seemed he might have even forgotten what had happened. But, fool that she was, she had made mention of what happened that night.
“You were wrong to have been so forward,” she told him. “I am not my sister-in-law.”
“That, my lady, is evident,” he responded wryly.
She narrowed her eyes. Did he mean to imply that she was not as pretty as Sarah, or as pleasurable and engaging?
“I have not her loose…disposition,” she informed.
“Why not?”
She stared in disbelief. “Why not? Do you ask such a question in earnest?”
“Dead earnest.”
Her heartbeat quickened, sensing the impending danger of such dialogue.
“A man of your morals would not understand,” she evaded.
“What is there to understand, Countess? Conventions? Courtesies?”
“Yes!” she snapped, finishing the rest of her wine.
He sat back in thought. “What would become of your conventions and courtesies if you indulged in loose…desires?”
“Then we should become a society filled with persons like you!”
“A very distressing thought,” he agreed.
She stared at her wine glass, regretting that she had drank her fill so quickly.
“But truth be told,” he continued, “you could never become the likes of me—or your sister-in-law—for you’ve too much courtesy, too much regard for others.”
She looked at him in surprise through her haze. Did he mean that as a compliment?
“So I ask once more: why not indulge yourself, Countess?”
“Indulge in what?”
“Anything you wish. Fine clothing, amusement, a paramour of your own…”
“I’ve no need for such things.”
“We all have a need for love. We are creatures of emotion.”
Gertie bristled. “And what sort of love do you find in these things? You clothe yourself in fineries and amuse yourself with games of seduction—have you found love?”
“No,” he said gravely.
She knit her brows. Then why did he…? She was having difficulty following his logic.
“But,” he added. “I have not closed myself from the possibility of it, as you have.”
“I am married,” she reminded him.
“And that is your defense? Forgive me if I find it a poor excuse.”
Her jaw dropped. “Of course. Matrimony means nothing to a man of your sort.”
She wanted to storm away from the table. Her heart was beating faster than before, but she needed a moment to focus, to stop the room from wobbling.
“Have you love in your marriage then?”
“You are impertinent, sir!”
“You did not answer affirmatively.”
Her heart pounded painfully against her chest now. She could not take a comfortable breath.
“It is none of your affair,” she said and moved her reluctant body to its feet.
“You may deny me the truth, but I hope you do not deny yourself, Countess.”
The softness of his tone made tears leap to her eyes. She should not have consumed that wine. Gripping the table, she turned to him.
“For what purpose do you engage in such discussions with me?” she threw at him, trembling with anger. “Why do you persist in—in—asking me questions—in vexing me?”
“Because I pity you.”
She stood in stunned silence, then felt a violent urge to scream and toss the bottle of wine at his head.
“Sod off!” she swore. “I’ve no need for your bloody pity.”
“You’ve a need for it and more, Countess.”
“Is that why you kissed me? Because you pitied me?” she cried. The realization filled her with rage and sorrow. To prevent herself from crying, she reached for the bottle of wine, but he was upon his feet, catching her arm in midair. He took the bottle from her with his free hand. She cried out in anguish as she attempted to jerk herself free from his grasp.
“You are the most atrocious…” she spat, desperate to contain the tears that threatened to slip down her face. “I wish I had never set eyes upon you! I wish you had never returned to England!”
“If you allowed yourself half the passion with which you hate and despise me–”
He struggled to make her look at him.
“You know nothing of me or my passion, you arrogant bastard!”
“I know yours is a loveless marriage. I know because Alexander is incapable of love. I know you suffer yourself to be a martyr of some sort, denying yourself the pleasure of love and flesh while your husband treats his mistress with more regard–”
“Damn you. Damn your insolence!”
She tore herself successfully from his grasp, but stumbled to the ground from her own exertion. Free of him, the tears began slipping from her eyes.
“Gertie–”
She sensed him kneeling behind her, felt his hand upon her shoulder, but she swung at his arm, catching him on the jaw with the back of her hand. He pressed his lips into a firm line, then reached for the back of her head and pulled her to him, crushing his lips to her mouth. Her body, already warm from the emotions coursing through her, flared like fire.
The kiss felt bruising and punishing. Unlike the kiss at Vauxhall, this one seemed intended to suffocate her. She could not breathe. What little air she could take in through her nostrils was filled with the scent of him. She could not determine if it was the wine that he had imbibed or her own that she tasted. She pushed, pulled, and swatted at him, but her arms might have been the leaves of flowers for all their effectiv
eness. He held her fast, his mouth cemented to hers. She would have cried out from the pressure had she possession of her own mouth.
And then she surrendered. Surrendered to the fury of emotions raging inside her. Surrendered to the heat and power of him.
She returned his kiss every bit as fiercely. The world about her rocked with the violence of a ship tossed by a stormy sea. Grasping his waistcoat, her knuckles white, she held onto him for dear life. She pulled him to her and pushed her lips up at him. His mouth covered hers as if he meant to swallow her whole. She tasted his lips with the desperation of a wanderer in the desert seeking to extract the last drops of dew. Her body burned with longing, seeking to become one with him through their mouths.
“Would my lord and lady care for–”
Gertie pulled herself from Barclay at the entry of the innkeeper. She scrambled to her feet, her cheeks burning, and stumbled from
the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE INNKEEPER CLEARED his throat uncomfortably as Lord Barclay’s nostrils flared. It was not the fault of the innkeeper, but Phineas could have killed the man. He rose to his feet and sauntered to the table with more calm than he felt.
“Would—would my lord care for some sherry?” Mr. Pettigrew stuttered. “Or a pudding? The missus bakes a mighty fine…”
“No,” Phineas replied.
Nodding, the innkeeper scurried away. Alone, Phineas sat down and retrieved his snuffbox. He sighed through his nose. The snuff was a poor substitute for the intoxication of Lady Lowry’s lips. After inhaling a dose of the tobacco, he turned to stare into the fire. His body needed time to cool. The blood drained slowly from his engorged shaft.
The Countess had consumed her wine too fast. He could see the glazed look in her eyes and the uncertainty of her movements. He could not know how much of her kiss was the effect of the wine, and he should be glad for the interruption of the innkeeper. Not that he had allowed a woman’s drunken state to stop him before, but he suspected Gertie was not practiced in holding her wine, and he would not take advantage of a vulnerability induced by wine.
God help him. He needed no wine. He was consumed by her. Even now, he could feel the softness of her lips upon his own, smell her scent upon him. Deprived of her presence, his body tortured itself with longing.
He would hardly have considered himself a romantic, but the firelight dancing upon her visage, stoking the glow in her eyes, had entranced him. Even the way her wet hair had became undone in the fury of their kiss he found appealing. A single rivulet of water had wound its way from her neck and down over the top of a breast. He wanted nothing but to crush her body to his, to feel those heavy orbs pressing against his chest.
He could hardly believe his luck when he had come upon her in the rain looking a miserable creature covered in mud. He knew few women who would have braved the dirt to fix the wheel of a carriage in drenching rain. He had shaken his head for once again she traveled without servants. Such a stubborn, self-sacrificing, selfless…admirable woman. He regretted having criticized her riding habit that day they rode back from the orphan asylum. Lady Lowry may have lacked any talent in the realm of fashion, but her attentions were more properly placed than many a fine dressed person. If only she would consider herself a more fitting priority.
Rising to his feet, he picked up the guilty bottle of burgundy and poured himself a glass. He thought about Gertie in her room. What would she think of him when she came to her senses? Might she abhor him more because this time she had returned his kiss? The blood coursed more strongly through him at the memory. His desire to devour her had overcome him. He could not endure her tears—tears that he had caused. He wanted her to surrender to her desires, to stop denying herself passion and happiness. He wanted to stamp out all the misery her marriage and the Farringtons had impressed upon her.
The Countess was capable of much passion. He had suspected it for some time, but the fervor with which she had kissed him tonight confirmed it. She hid that flame deep inside of her, and he wished to unearth it. No woman had ever sparked such curiosity in him, and he would never have guessed to find himself so taken by a woman as outwardly uninspiring as Gertie. There lay a greater mystery in the Countess of Lowry, and he intended to discover it.
* * * * *
Laying with his arms crossed behind his head in bed, Phineas had thought the Countess to be sleeping off the effects of the wine when a knock at his door prompted him from his bed. He pulled on his banyan. Opening the door, he expected to find one of the innkeeper’s maids, who had been casting demure smiles at him all evening as she cleared the dining table. He was surprised to see Gertie, dressed only in her night shift and stays, a flimsy shawl wrapped about her shoulders.
“Lady Lowry, is something wrong?” he inquired.
“I saw a light from your door,” she said. “May I—may I come in?”
Surprised by the request, he stepped aside to allow her entrance. She made her way to a chair and sat down. She drew her shawl more tightly about her.
“I will wake my valet to start a fire,” he offered.
“That won’t be necessary.”
The candle beside his bed remained lit. The light was enough for him to see the shadow of her body through her gown. Her hair fell in curls down her shoulders. He liked the way she looked with her hair down. Walking to the writing desk, he lit another candle to divert his attentions away from her. His body had been primed by their earlier kiss, and he should have masturbated to ease the tension. Now it was too late. He would have to take care of himself after she had left.
“How may I be of service, Countess?” he asked as he leaned against the writing desk, forcing his gaze to her face and away from the soft glow of her bosom. Though the look of her mouth—the supple lips hanging like ripe berries for the picking—did not aid his state.
She seemed disappointed by his question and faltered. She studied her worn slippers. He, too, glanced at her slippers. How he wanted to take her in his arms once more! But instead, he waited with a patience he never knew existed and an uncertainty he had never experienced. He knew his women, could anticipate their actions and reactions—and oftentimes it mattered not what they were for his pursuit would overcome any resistance. With the Countess of Lowry, he was tentative. Perhaps Lady Athena had dealt his confidence a blow earlier, but he knew that to be far too convenient a pretext.
“I have judged you harshly,” she said at last. “I should not have.”
She came to his room to tell him that? he wondered skeptically. It was no small matter for a woman to knock upon the door of a man in the dead of night.
“They believe us to be husband and wife,” she explained as if reading his thoughts.
“And you did not dissuade them from their assumption?” he inquired.
“I had not the opportunity. I had started to with Mrs. Pettigrew, but perhaps it is just as well they presume us to be married. Yes, it is best. It would be otherwise difficult to explain to Mr. Pettigrew…”
Her cheeks grew red referencing their kiss.
“Your secret is safe with me, madam.”
“Thank you. I know you not to be without some sense of decency, though my words might lead you to deduce that I think you a worthless wanton when the truth of the matter is—that is, I do not mean to cast aspersions on your character. I do not condone what you do, but you are not immoral for indulging in the—the pleasures of the flesh.”
The last words tumbled from her mouth quickly, and she took in a deep breath. He studied her with interest, wondering where her words were intended to lead.
“We are all of us fallible,” she continued. “And the, er, pleasures of the flesh is hardly the worst of sins. At least not in my regard. Quite the contrary. I think it a relatively harmless sin compared to greed or a disregard for the fellow man. Or one of the other seven deadly sins, though I cannot think what they are at present.”
Phineas curled his fingers around the edge of the writing desk. If she
did not reach her conclusion soon, she may not have the opportunity—for a man could only be well-behaved for so long when faced with a half-dressed woman in his room.
“I have not been without sin—that is, I…” She stared once again towards the floor. “I hope you will pardon the disparaging remarks I have made. I am not in the main so critical, but you seem to try my nerves such that I am beside myself. But I—I hope you will pardon me and—and kiss me again.”
He nearly slid from the table. She glanced up at him, and he could no sooner deny her than he could the earnest faces of the girls at the asylum even if he did not already have the desire to do just as she wished.
“Are you sure that is what you want, Countess?”
Silence settled between them and he regretted his question and the opportunity he had given her to reconsider her request.
“I wish for you to kiss me,” she pronounced more firmly.
Spoken without hesitation, it was almost a command. The blood surged in his groin. He went to stand before her. Taking her hands in his, he lifted her to her feet. He cupped her face, tilted her mouth towards his, and took a deep breath of the nectar he was about to drink. His mouth hovered above hers as he soaked in the anticipation. Then he brushed his lips to hers. Her eyelids flickered and he sensed a sigh from her.
How sweet these lips! Supple as a ripe summer fruit, sweet as the purest Caribbean sugar. He moved his lips deliberately over hers, patiently plumbing the depths of her mouth, his probing tongue leaving no spot unturned. She attempted to return his kiss at first but soon conceded the effort to his mastery. This kiss was his to command. His to lead. She need only succumb.
When he had sufficiently worked her mouth, leaving her wet and breathless, he swept her into his arms and carried her to his bed. There he continued the kiss, less tenderly and more forcefully this time. He trailed his mouth along her jaw, then to the soft area beneath it. Her back arched in response, pushing her bosom against his chest. He kissed and sucked the top of her neck, just below the ear. She let out a lilting gasp. Playfully he nipped her earlobe before digging his mouth down the side of her neck and tonguing the length of her collar bone. He tossed aside her shawl and pulled down the flimsy fabric of her gown to reveal her breast.
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