by Sophia James
She wanted to heal him, make him whole, for tonight his strength and honour had been easy to see, the power of him not in entitlement or possessions, but in intelligence and honesty.
He was like no one else she had ever met and yet he was a stranger, drawn in outline, waiting to be filled in. Her husband by law, but unfamiliar in every other single way that mattered.
Deepening the kiss, he came in at another angle, searching, telling her wordlessly of all that he wanted. Her breath shivered and another wave of craving sent her spinning into his centre, no space between them, no hidden and veiled purpose.
Only him. Only her. Fused by longing. His hands captured her hair and pulled her back, tasting her throat now and the skin above the lace in her low bodice. No quiet savouring, either, but a fervent and fierce proximity making her nipples harden.
He was a master at sensation, neither green fumbling boy nor arrogant lord, but masculine and true and heart wrenching. She felt his thumb there, felt the discovery and then the consequence.
Heaven. Breathless. Drawn in. Like iron filings to a magnet, his power both nameless and sightless, though shock engulfed her as the driver called the horses to a halt and the light from the street lamp in front of his town house flooded inside the carriage.
Exposed. Caught in disbelief. Her lips felt wet, swollen and bruised even as she wiped them. How could he do this as easily as he had done last time? It was as if he touched her and her wits deserted her, the woman who remained one she had no familiarity with. Even now she wanted him, with a brutal and wild intensity.
Her shaking fingers caught her hair and twisted it back into the collar of her cloak, anchoring the errant curls even as he swore.
‘Damn.’
Only that word in the silence of the night, no explanation of what any of this meant. For them.
* * *
Inside the town house, Simeon asked her if she would join him in the front salon. Unable to refuse, she followed him in and watched as he shut the door. He stood by the window, looking out at the street as he often did. It had begun to rain and the glass was blurred, but the evening was still warm despite the early autumn.
‘This marriage of ours…’ he stated at last as he turned and then stopped as if fighting to find the right words. ‘What is it exactly you want from me, Adelia?’
A baldly stated question full of frustration and accusation. There was nothing in his tone that suggested reconciliation or appeasement or any of the emotions she’d felt a few moments earlier. It was as if the kiss between them had only angered him further, heightening differences, widening contrasts.
‘You insisted on a contract of marriage that was false and you sealed it publicly with your lies. Yet now…’ He compressed his lips tightly and laid his hands on the mantel behind him, body bent. ‘The kiss in the carriage, was that just a pretence, too?’
She shook her head because she could not speak.
‘Then who is the Honourable Alexander Thompson? To you?’
Her world caved in, like a pack of cards badly formed, falling, falling until there was nothing left.
‘He is only a friend.’
‘A friend who loves you? A friend who is more than a friend? A friend who you pay handsomely for “labour” as seen in the ledgers Peter Shelman shows me?’
Shock made it hard to breathe.
‘How did you know about him…?’ She realised that was the wrong question to ask the minute she had done so.
‘So you don’t deny it? You stand there with his heart in your hands and dare to kiss me?’
‘No. It is not like that at all.’
‘Then how is it? Tell me how it is, Adelia. Help me to understand.’
‘He was just a friend who taught me things.’
‘Things like who to marry in order to continue a relationship with him? If that is the case, you picked the wrong man in me and I hope like hell that you know it.’
The dizzying horror made her feel sick. All he said was the truth in the way that he would interpret it.
‘Ever since you came into my life you have lied and deceived me and cheated to get what you wanted. You have shown me you are a woman who is every bit as devious as her father.’
She tried to slap him then, in her distress, and felt his hand tighten on her own in response.
‘Don’t make me hate you again, Adelia. Not after tonight.’
The ground was torn out from beneath her feet. If she had been braver, she might have spoken up for the kiss, for the dance, for the safety. But her courage had completely deserted her and lay shattered at her feet in tiny bits of shame. She stayed quiet because any admission would undo her.
‘I think that you are a woman who clings to the best chance for herself and is able to turn facts on their heads with an ease that is disturbing. I also think you could probably give the best courtesans in London a run for their money with your expertise in kissing.’
She blushed and hated herself for doing so.
‘Then if pretence is a skill, Mr Morgan, you are equally as good in the art as I am.’
He moved at that. ‘Really?’ One finger carefully traced its way down her cheek across her throat and on to the flesh above her bodice. She felt her skin raise in response. ‘In my experience, pretence does not usually look like this.’
He brushed his hand across her lips like a feather, barely there. Breathing out, she tipped her head back and waited and when his lips came down across her own she shut her eyes and only felt, shock burning its way through her body, warming all the coldness that had been there for ever.
She couldn’t stop him even despite the words, the accusations, the anger. This was more than all of that put together and if lust could make her feel complete then who was she to bring it to a halt? Simeon would never love her, she knew that, or trust her, but this was another language entirely and one which, apparently, they both could speak fluently.
Her hand cradled his neck and she leant in, wanting what he offered with every fibre of her being. She knew that she had him when his breath hitched in surrender, only the two of them in a world of silence.
It was unlike any kiss he had given her before because this one held an element of desperation, an anchor offering a safe harbour for this small piece of time, caught to each other by consequence just before a storm.
He did not hold back as he pushed her up against the wall, his tongue searching her mouth and widening the kiss, a yearning rolling across her in a rhythm that was as old as time.
Love me. Want me. Hold me. Know me.
His knee came in hard between her legs, only the silk of her dress a flimsy barrier. A new assault that conjured up other feelings, stronger ones even as he broke away and laid his forehead against her own, breathing with difficulty, panting in want, hands splayed on each side of her, pushed to the limit.
‘This is not a pretence, Adelia. At least admit that.’
‘Not a…pretence.’
It was all she could say as the tears began to roll down her cheeks, splattering against the coffee-coloured silk and darkening the fabric.
If he had wanted her again, he could have simply leant in and she would have followed him anywhere.
But he didn’t.
Stepping away, he stayed still, the air that had been warm between them becoming colder.
‘When the truth is something that you might like to give me, then I will be here to listen.’
Then he was gone.
Immobile, she balanced herself against the wall, finding her equilibrium again in all that had been lost. And yet in what had been lost there was also that which had been gained. Knowledge. Understanding. When Alexander had kissed her all she had felt was the wrongness of it and in the wandering hands of other suitors all she remembered feeling was distaste.
Simeon’s caresses were totally different,
the heat inside her still clenching in waves around her body. She wanted what she imagined might come next; she wanted a true intimacy and all the hours in the world to discover his body. She wanted him to carry her to his bed and show her that which he had learnt in a lifetime encompassing both the easy and the hard.
She wondered who had told him of her friendship with Alexander and hoped with all her heart that it was not her mother who had betrayed her. She cursed the money she had allowed him out of guilt and concern and vowed there would be no more.
If she could save this marriage, she would be lucky. If she couldn’t, she did not quite know what might happen to her.
* * *
Simeon pulled off his necktie and flicked off his boots. His jacket and waistcoat came next. Without the restriction of these things he began to move more easily, the choking feeling in his throat reducing back into a shadow.
He wanted her. He wanted Adelia Hermione Josephine Bennett Morgan with an ache that utterly consumed him. He wanted to kiss her and undress her and bring her to his bed where he could enjoy her for the whole night piece by little piece. He was not a refined lord who might take a small offering, though. No, he desired her wholeness in a raw and visceral way. Just one simple kiss had left him stunned and confounded and at odds with what to do next.
He should send her back to Athelridge Hall on the morrow and depart for the north, but he knew that he would not. He cursed ever hearing the name of Alexander Thompson and he cursed Theodora Wainwright for placing the doubt into his head in the first place.
Adelia’s reaction to hearing the gossip about her and Thompson had not been quite the one he’d expected. The blood had drained from her face and her hands had been shaking.
Everything had changed on him. Work. Home. Life. It had all been upended in a startling and unsettling way, the quiet certainty of his future worn down by ambiguity.
For so long now he had beaten the path of great ambition and never stopped, venturing always onwards and upwards just as his mother’s uncle had directed him.
James Morgan. His saviour.
He shook his head and refused the pain that always came at the thought of his great-uncle’s death. The only adult in his life who had ever cared for him and had showed it day after day, year after year. Not for profit or evil, not for duty either, but only for love.
His true father had frequently bashed him up, his other ‘fathers’ had wanted darker, painful things from him, but Jamie Morgan had only ever wanted what was best for him.
Crossing the room, he looked into the mirror at himself. Did he appear different after kissing his wife? Did the hope show in his eyes or on his lips? Did the disappointment knowing about Alexander Thompson lay scrawled in places anyone might notice?
Tomorrow Flora and her new governess would be back in London after an overnight stay with Catherine’s sister. Even though she’d never live with her aunt, Simeon had wanted Flora to feel connected to her only relative and Catherine’s sister had finally agreed to a short visit. Would Adelia be appalled to have the child of her father’s mistress in residence? He hoped she had no knowledge of the liaison, but a sixth sense told him she probably did. She did not act like a woman who missed much.
He sat down and laid his head back against the headrest of the chair by the window. From here he could see trees and beautiful buildings, a far cry from the squalid shambles of his boyhood.
He thought of his confession to Adelia at the dinner about selling all the railway routes he now owned. He wanted a simpler life. He wanted to build on the river at Richmond and just stop. He wanted to smell the flowers and hear the birdsong and know the peace of a house that would be his for ever.
For ever.
Two words that hadn’t been part of any vocabulary of his until now.
Another change. A further difference she’d made to him.
He needed to get to know Adelia properly, without judgement from anyone else and without discrimination. She was his wife. She was also the only woman he had ever kissed who made him feel…right.
His secrets were a thousand times worse than anything he had discovered about her past, so why could he not put it behind him and move forward?
That reflection was comforting, as was the thought of her being here, in his house, in the yellow room upstairs overlooking the street. She was safe and cared for, she was warm and protected and just for this moment it was enough.
CHAPTER NINE
The voice of a small child brought Adelia downstairs around mid-morning to find the same little girl standing in the entrance hall who she had seen the first time she had come here.
‘Hello.’
Dark eyes turned towards Adelia and the girl frowned.
‘I know you, from before?’
‘You do. My name is Adelia and I am married to Mr Morgan.’
‘His wife?’ Worry puckered her mouth. ‘But…’
She had no time to say more as another woman joined them, a young plump woman with kind eyes.
‘I wondered where you had gone, Miss Flora, until I heard you speaking.’
Giving the same introduction as she had to the child, Adelia waited.
‘I am Maureen Brown, Miss Flora’s governess, ma’am. We have arrived from the south of London just now after a night with Flora’s aunt. But it is good to be home again. Shall we find your family, Miss Flora, and see what they have all been doing while we were away?’
Her family? Home? Here?
She’d woken this morning with the worry of being sent away summarily, only to find her husband had gone out and would not be back again until after luncheon. Was this child his? She wanted to kneel down and ask just who the little girl’s mother was, but of course she could not do that.
Instead, she straightened and watched as they disappeared into the large sprawling house, wondering if perhaps Simeon had slipped back unnoticed and was in his library or office, keeping well out of her way.
She caught her reflection in the mirror as she turned. There were large dark circles beneath her eyes from a lack of sleep and she looked far from her best. She had dragged on an old dress from her meagre belongings and she now tried to smooth down the creases, but the mid-blue fabric seemed to have a mind of its own and bounced back into wrinkles. Even the governess she had just met looked more fashionable than she did.
This marriage was turning out exactly opposite to the way she had imagined it would. She’d thought that they would barely see each other and instead had been thrown into an emotional turmoil, one she was struggling to understand.
The trouble was she genuinely liked him, liked talking to him, liked his strength and honesty, liked the way he moved in society with such ease. He was not petty or bitter or resentful even though she had given him reason to be.
As she was thinking this Simeon walked in the front door. Unlike her, his clothes today were well ironed, and if his night had been restless there was no sign of it at all.
‘I am glad to see you here, Adelia, because I need to talk to you. In the library, if you do not mind.’
She followed him in a new direction and to a part of the house she had not yet seen. His library was at the back of the property, its ceiling high and a set of doors running off into a surprisingly verdant garden.
‘Take a seat.’ He appeared distracted.
She chose an upright chair upholstered in plush red velvet.
‘I take it you have met Miss Flora Rountree?’
‘The little girl with the long dark hair? Yes. Though I met her the first time I came to your house, as well. She had a black eye then.’
‘Which is precisely why I fired her first governess and employed a new one. I have also taken steps to ensure the unsuitable Mrs Wade will never look after another child.’
‘She is your daughter?’
He shook his head. ‘Her mother, Mrs Cathe
rine Rountree, was a friend of mine and she entrusted Flora into my care after her death.’
‘Mrs Catherine Rountree?’ Adelia said the name out loud and knew suddenly why it was familiar.
‘I see you know the name?’ His tone held a question.
‘She was my father’s mistress.’
‘He was also the one who killed her. Did you know that, as well? There was an accident a few months ago. Lionel Worthington was drunk and in a high temper and, after crashing their carriage, he left the scene, not even tarrying to see if Catherine was still alive. Which she wasn’t.’
‘And the child?’
‘Was not with them, which was incredibly lucky, though I imagine she has heard things about what happened. She is a sullen little girl and inclined to melancholy.’
‘And that is why she has been to stay with her aunt?’
He poured a drink for himself and offered her one. When she shook her head, he sat and took a sip of his own.
‘I’d hoped her aunt might be persuaded to take an interest in Flora’s welfare, but it seems she has enough children of her own to deal with and so has no inclination for such a task.’
‘Which leaves you.’
‘I have the space and the capital and the new governess, Miss Brown, seems amiable. It is only…’ He stopped and looked at her.
‘Last night you helped me at the dinner and I was more than grateful. I know it was not easy for either of us in the end, but I would like to put that behind us and move on. Are you agreeable to such a suggestion?’
‘I am.’
‘Then might I ask you for another favour, Adelia?’
She nodded.
‘Could you be kind to the child and take her under your wing? She needs someone more permanent, I think, and as my wife…’
He left the rest unsaid, lying there exposed.
Permanent. When she had expected this morning to be packed up summarily and sent back to Athelridge Hall.
‘I know as a man that I can never be exactly what a little girl might need.’
‘The child’s mother knew you could be trusted. She knew you were a man who always kept your word. She knew you were not someone who would let her down. That is enough in my book.’