by Sophia James
He felt her hand threading through his hair, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you messy,’ she laughed softly at his ear. ‘Your shirt’s untucked, your trousers askew, your hair mussed.’
‘If I’m a mess, it’s all your doing, minx.’ Inigo teased, pressing a kiss to her throat.
Her arms wound around his neck. ‘I like you messy, imperfect. It proves that Inigo Vellanoweth is human after all.’ She smiled at him and he thought about the possibility of never leaving these woods. What he would give to stay here in this moment for ever.
He kissed her one last time, letting her taste reluctance on his tongue. ‘Come, the horses will be waiting.’ Then he took her by the hand and led her from the woods.
* * *
A walk in the bracing autumn air, and rather vigorous activity involving an oak tree combined with the rocking motion of the coach lulled Audevere to sleep before they’d gone far. But Inigo’s mind was too awake to sleep, filled with the rash promises he’d made.
I will protect her. I will keep her safe. She is mine now.
Inigo looked down at the blonde head resting against his shoulder. He’d meant all of it. But how to deal with Brenley?
By now, Brenley would be home from Dover. He would have read the letter. Brenley would have understood the implications of moving against him, which meant Brenley would have come up with options. The man’s business dealings were hydra-like. When one avenue was shut down, he merely found another until he got what he wanted. It was that tenacity which made Inigo’s plan dangerous. Would Brenley come after him directly? Inigo thought of the duelling pistols beneath the seat. He was ready should that be the case. Would Brenley come after him indirectly? More hired thugs on a dark road? He was ready for that, too. Or was there another option that he’d yet to consider?
He didn’t dare discuss it with Audevere. The more she had to worry about, the more likely it was she would try to run. ‘I want to burn like the leaves before I die.’ She’d meant before she took a new name and disappeared from this life as she knew it. And she would definitely disappear if she thought resolving the situation with her father involved a duel. No argument he could make would be able to persuade her. Yet he would face that deadly risk for her. He could not lose her now. He’d taken her to bed, shown them both what could come of their passion and nothing he’d ever experienced with a lover came close to rivalling it. To lose her now would be to lose a part of himself.
Then what? How do you propose to keep her? The question was whispered. Do you intend to marry her? What will your family think? What will your friends think? What will Cassian think when he comes home and sees that you’ve married his dead brother’s fiancée?
Cassian would come around as Vennor had, he told himself fiercely. As for what happened when they arrived at Boscastle, his family would give her sanctuary because he asked it of them. But in his heart, he knew their acceptance of her was important to him. They were his family, the people he loved and cared for most in this world. Surely they would see the woman he saw when he looked at her?
Audevere shifted against him. Perhaps the real reason he wanted their acceptance of her was that he wanted to give Audevere a family to replace to the one she’d never had. He could see her with them now like a Wilson landscape, four figures walking along the cliff path at Boscastle, little Ben holding her hand, the girls laughing. How long could such a vision last? He could give her that illusion of family for a few weeks, a few months, even as long as Christmas. Holidays at Boscastle were splendid, a celebration of family and love. But there would be questions as to the reasons she was there, scepticism from those who knew her history, perhaps even scandal. A man did not bring a woman home to the family pile, unchaperoned, without it meaning something; a visit home would be seen as a prelude to a proposal.
Of course he would ask. He would ask now if he thought there was any chance of her accepting. What happened if she still refused his proposal after being welcomed by his family? She might not wish to belong to any man after having just won her freedom from her father.
How could he dishonour her by keeping her as his mistress? It was protection of a sort, but he could not bring such a woman home to his family, could not offer anything more substantial beyond the sanctuary of the Devonshire cottage. His father would be furious with him for introducing her to the girls, for seating her at the same table as his sainted mother. And rightly so. He’d learned honour from his father. He did not want to have to choose between Audevere and his family. He wanted them to be one and the same.
His arm tightened around her at the thought of losing her. To keep her by marriage or to lose her for ever. Those seemed his only two choices and both of them tore at his heart. It seemed there were no easy choices. Was this how Cassian and Eaton had felt when they’d fallen in love with their wives? Had their minds been pits of turmoil, too? Had they seen what they wanted and then been hindered in the getting of it? He thought of some of the harsh, blunt advice he’d given them and now regretted it.
Audevere woke as the coach pulled into the inn. The last of the sun slanted in through the coach window, burnishing her hair to a platinum sheen, highlighting the pale perfection of her profile, and when she lifted those aventurine eyes, she stole his breath. Was there a more beautiful woman than Audevere?
She smiled self-consciously at his scrutiny. She raised a hand to her hair. ‘I must look a fright, my hair is so tangled and my face is full of sleep.’ She rubbed her cheek where his coat had left a crease on her skin.
‘Not at all. I think you look quite wonderful.’ Wonderfully ravished, if truth be told. He wasn’t sure he wanted the taproom to get a look at her like this. ‘Wait here for me while I see to our lodgings.’ He opened the door and felt her hand at his sleeve, her voice low, private, just for him.
‘Inigo, don’t waste money on two rooms tonight.’
* * *
She was playing a dangerous game with herself. She knew very well that her reasons for indulging in this mad passion were not the same as Inigo’s. She indulged because it couldn’t last. But his honour would demand more than a three-day fling on the Great South-west Road. He would want to make good on those promises he whispered so intently in her ear as they made love—promises of protection, promises of a new life without giving up the old. And he would die for them if she stayed. How did she make him see that the threat of death was not an idle one? How did she make him see that he could not win this battle of wills with her father?
Audevere repinned her hair, each tangle reminding her of what had transpired beneath the autumn canopy in the woods. The mysterious, quiet, Inigo Vellanoweth of her youth was indeed a powder keg of a lover. It was a heady and addictive experience, one she would be loath to give up when the time came. He’d rescued her; he’d believed in her. He deserved more from her than to have his kindness repaid with death. He did not deserve to die for her any more than Collin had.
She was in over her head. This was not supposed to have happened. She had not counted on this depth of feeling on her part and certainly not on his when she’d asked for his help. She’d counted on his honour overriding his dislike. She’d not counted on his dislike being a ruse for his deeper desire. Nor had she counted on his kisses lighting her up like Vauxhall fireworks, leaving her breathless and wanting more. She’d thought she was done with men, that she’d had her fill, that she knew all there was to know about them. But she’d been wrong. There was one man she’d not known.
That man loves you. That man has waited all these years for you, battled his personal demons for you. He will not let you go so easily. He will want to fight for you because he thinks you’re worth it. Her conscience whispered the awful truth. You have to tell him you’re not. Tell him the truth about your birth.
Audevere pressed her hand to the pocket of her skirt, feeling the small, hard shapes she carried inside. In case she’d had to leave her valise behind in her
attempt to escape the house, she’d wanted these two things with her. She’d not been willing to leave without them. She should show him, tell him the great secret that had kept her tethered to her father these past years and the secret that would ensure Inigo would let her disappear. It would show him how impossible any other option was.
The coach door opened, a gust of cold air blowing in with it. ‘I’ve got our room, Mrs Vellanoweth.’ Inigo’s eyes held hers in meaningful congress that sent a rush of warm pleasure through her darker thoughts. Dear lord, he was irresistible, all commanding presence and elegance even after two days in the same clothes. She made the devil’s own deal with herself. She would play his wife. She could have tonight and tomorrow. They would make no difference in the long run. But she promised herself she would tell him before they reached Boscastle and then she would leave, completing her escape alone if necessary, because she suspected she loved him too much not to.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Love was a strong word, an intense word, for a strong and intense man. But she could think of no word that served better to describe the emotions Inigo raised in her. From the least of his actions to the most intimate, she was falling in love with him. This was yet another unlooked-for consequence of this mad decision of hers to run away, Audevere thought as she studied her pretend husband in the carriage on the third day of their journey. She’d not expected to fall in love or even to establish an attachment. She’d warned herself against it that night at cards when the first threads of wanting had started to wind themselves tight about her. This was not the time.
That argument had not lasted long. This was exactly the time. She was about to disappear, to become someone else. Her virginity was of no consequence in that new life and her old life and old acquaintances would cease to matter.
She hazarded another glance at Inigo over the rim of her book. An affair was not as simply managed as she’d thought. Indulging in physical passion was one thing, something easily walked away from when the indulgence was over. But she was discovering that indulging in love was quite another. Love was not so easily walked away from.
‘Is your book good?’ Inigo drawled, looking up from his own reading. He caught her eyes and she saw in his gaze the echoes of a morning spent abed longer than usual. As a result, they had made a late start of it, promising themselves they would not stop for lunch in order to make Exeter by nightfall.
‘Yes,’ she offered the little lie and Inigo laughed.
‘You promised me honesty, Aud. You haven’t turned a single page since you started reading.’
She closed the book, marking her place with a finger. ‘The book might be good. I just happened to find something else more interesting at the moment.’ She gave him a saucy grin. ‘Why would I want to read a book, when I could read you?’ She set the book aside altogether now that she had his attention. Their time was so short. Tonight would be their last night on the road, in this beautiful time between where they answered to no one but themselves. They would have most of tomorrow in the carriage, but she knew by then the real world would start to intrude. Their thoughts would be occupied by their arrival and their reception. What would greet them at the end of this journey? Until then, she wanted to keep Inigo to herself a while longer, to learn as much as she could of this extraordinary man.
‘Teach me a game, Inigo. What did you boys do to pass the time when you travelled to school?’ She loved his stories, each one offering new insights into who he was and what had made him.
‘All right.’ Inigo grinned, something he’d done far more of on this trip than at any other time she’d known him. ‘I will teach you to play pockets. It’s a game the four of us made up. But,’ he cautioned with mock sternness, ‘you have to be honest and you cannot renege. There is no substitution for the truth. Here’s how it works. I pick something from your pocket and you have to tell the story behind it. Then you can pick something from my pocket and I have to tell you.’
‘You’re assuming I have pockets, or that anything is in them,’ Audevere prevaricated. She liked the idea of this game less when she thought about what she had in her skirt pocket. She wanted one last night before she told him her last and most damning secret.
‘You do, I noticed them on your carriage ensemble this morning. You won’t get out of this, Aud,’ he teased and then softened his tone, reassuring her as always that he would protect her. ‘It’s just the two of us. No one needs to know what we say to one another in here.’ He gestured to the confines of the carriage. ‘This is our world for now. You are safe here.’ His eyes dropped to her hip, to the pocket in her skirt where a soft impression was outlined. Inigo coaxed her with a slow, winning smile, ‘Show me.’
Audevere drew out a packet of white tissue paper. She unwrapped it to reveal a length of wide, pink, silk ribbon, carefully folded and pressed. ‘There’s yards of it.’ She held up an end where the ribbon had been cut. ‘I left some of it for my maid, along with a note from me, thanking her for her service. I wish I could have left her more. I am sure she’ll need money, but I had none to give her. My father will probably turn her out without a reference. He’ll blame her even though she’s entirely innocent.’ She pleated the ribbon between her fingers. ‘I left him to free myself from his dirty work and to save Tremblay the way I could not save Collin. But it still seems others will suffer, perhaps others who are less able to fend for themselves like Patsy.’ She sighed. ‘I just want it to end.’
Inigo reached across the carriage for her hand. ‘It will. Soon all this will be over.’
Yes, it would be. But perhaps not in the way Inigo imagined.
‘Why is it in your pocket?’ Inigo prompted, returning them to the game.
‘The ribbon is pretty and I like pretty things.’ Audevere gave a soft laugh. ‘I imagine I will have few pretty things in my future. This ribbon will remind me of what I gave up in order to be free, as well as the corruption that allowed me those luxuries, that my comfort was built on someone else’s discomfort.’
‘Where did it come from?’ Inigo asked as she wrapped it up and returned it to her pocket.
‘A dressmaker’s box.’ She blushed. The memory seemed silly now in light of all that had happened. ‘It came with the gown I wore to the Bradfords’ ball, the first night we talked. I was excited when the box came. But my father was quick to tell me the gown was meant to entice the Viscount back into our clutches. He’d meant for me to wear it for the announcement of my engagement. He did not shy away from letting me know I’d failed in that regard.’ The ribbon was another symbol of why her escape was worth all the sacrifice, even the sacrifice of Inigo. She wrapped it up in the paper and slid it back into her pocket as if she could slide the memories back in there as well. Out of sight, out of mind. ‘Your turn, Inigo. What’s in your pocket? Although it hardly seems fair. You have so many pockets to choose from.’
He did. There were the deep pockets of his greatcoat, the small, narrow pockets of his waistcoat, the inner pockets of his jacket. ‘I wish women’s clothes had as many pockets as men’s.’ She tossed her head. ‘It’s a form of oppression, you know. This is one of the subtle ways men keep women down. Pockets make your life portable. You can carry a pocket watch and all nature of useful items, all of them easily accessible on your person without the need to be hampered by a reticule. Between a reticule and managing one’s skirts, it’s no wonder we have to constantly take a man’s arm while you have your hands free all the time.’
‘The better to defend you with, my dear.’ Inigo laughed at her spirited dissertation. ‘How could I draw my sword or my pistol if I had a reticule of my own?’
‘Precisely! What if I want to defend myself? How shall I draw my sword? My gun? My knife?’
‘Have you ever needed to, Aud?’ Inigo’s teasing had faded to instant seriousness.
‘There have been times when I’ve wanted to, even at the risk of earning my father’s displeasure,’ she
said quietly. Some women made the argument about pockets as part of the new theories of feminism. But she made the argument for very practical reasons.
‘Your father’s men.’ Inigo’s tone was deadly. She watched his hand flex at his side.
‘Yes. There was one man in particular I wouldn’t have minded slicing. I did not think I was in any real danger. He’d brought me a box of bon-bons that evening. He strolled the room with me after dinner while the others played cards. I didn’t think I was in any danger. But then we found ourselves in an alcove and he’d drawn the curtain.’
She didn’t like remembering it. He’d kissed her there, by force after she’d declined. ‘He said I owed him. He’d brought me gifts; surely I didn’t think they came without expectations.’ He’d done more than kiss her. He’d asked her to take down her dress and when she’d refused he’d ripped it. ‘It was the first time I really saw how my father was using me. Before, I had not made the connection between the little favours and flattery. There’d only been a few harmless kisses at that point. I was too naive to see the connection.’ She looked at Inigo. His features were drawn tight and he bristled on her behalf.
‘Perhaps you should start a new fashion for ladies,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘You should have gowns with holsters built into them for those times when a man is not a gentleman, although I wish those times didn’t exist, that such things were not needed.’ They sat in silence, listening to the road, each reflecting on her story. ‘Aud, you are safe with me. I would never make presumptions on your person.’
She smiled and said simply, ‘I know.’ He was careful with her in all ways: careful to leave her as he climaxed, careful to take his cues for lovemaking from her, letting her initiate, although he took over once she made her desire known. A man like Inigo could never relinquish control for long, which made his efforts all the more dear to her.