Finally he ceased teasing and settled into a rhythm that stole her breath. She climbed fast toward the peak. Then his touch changed, slowed. She writhed in frustration. “Please.”
“Please what? Open the window? Put out the light? You’ll have to be more specific.”
She whimpered. “Please.”
He laughed. “You don’t know what it’s called, do you?”
She blushed. He had his hand between her legs and he was pleasuring her with practiced skill, but only now did she blush and turn away.
“The French call it the little death, la petit mort. The Spanish say they are going to run, correr. The Romans used to say they were hastening, festinus, to the finish. But in English, we say we will come. Come for me now, Kate.”
She did.
When her body started to calm, when the thud of her heart in her chest was finally louder than her ragged breathing, her eyes fluttered open to find Tremayne looking down at her, swallowing hard.
He’d loosened the flap on his breeches. Her eyes widened. She’d never seen one before, had not expected the sight to make her feel…hungry…thirsty…ravenous.
“I want to see all of you,” she said, realizing he remained clothed out of deference to her innocence. He hesitated, but she was struggling out of her chemise and the sight seemed to snap his control. He shucked his clothing quickly, and Kate stared in wonder at the glory of his body. He was broad-shouldered, flat-stomached, and narrow-hipped, like a statue of a Greek god in one of Mr. Du Simitière’s engraving books. Except for the scars. Not just his wounds from Mercer, but others as well. He was beautiful, but he had led a soldier’s life, and she should not be here with him.
She might have turned skittish, might have bolted, if he had not settled his body over hers at that moment, and threaded the fingers of his left hand with her own. His right hand, she could feel spreading her. Then he was poised at her entrance, and with the gentlest nudge, he slipped inside, and she was lost.
Her hips surged to meet him, to engulf him, but he drew back, just out of reach. Then he dipped back inside her, and she was running, hastening, on the verge of dying once more, but the contact she needed remained out of reach.
“Peter,” she said. “Please.”
He groaned. “Slow and gentle, my love. Trust me.”
She didn’t want slow and gentle anymore. She wanted all of him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, dug her heels into the small of his back, and rose to meet him.
* * *
He had not anticipated seducing her. If he’d thought ahead to what might happen at the cottage, he imagined himself kissing her farewell before she stepped into the boat with Arthur Grey.
But they were maddeningly proud and stubborn, father and daughter, and she did not board the boat.
He ought to have returned to the house and taken her on the floor of the parlor when she offered. Should have used her fast and hard with no regard for her innocence, and bundled her tearful and torn into the waiting shallop. Instead, he had taken her hand and talked of lovemaking.
There was no other word for it, this shared journey. He’d been nervous, leading her up the stairs, afraid he would hurt her or, much worse, disappoint her. He ought to have seduced her, courted her pleasure with a rake’s tricks and driven her before him to climax, if he wanted to make her pliant. But he could not bear to insult her that way. They must go together, he realized, or not at all.
Her boldness had delighted him, stirred him to a degree he scarcely remembered feeling since he and Bay were teenagers, set loose on London with too much money and too little sense. His determination to go slowly with her had proved the right course. She responded so artlessly and honestly, he needed no further stimulation than the sight of her, head thrown back, hips pumping, to bring him to aching hardness.
He’d stopped twice after entering her shallowly to prolong his erection. He had promised her he would not spill inside her, and he was determined to bring her to pleasure again before he spent outside her body.
She surged up, her wet warmth engulfed him, and he froze. He retained control, but only barely. Her eyes were wide with pain.
“Kate,” he said, “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I wanted to remember this. Always.”
When her grip on him slackened, he began to move again, and said, “You will. I promise.”
Then there were no more words for some time, until she had run, hastened, died, and come for him again, and lay tangled between Tremayne and the bedclothes.
He’d done everything in his power to stay hard but not come with her, and now he faced a dilemma. He was still sheathed in her, still painfully erect. To thrust inside her while she lay nearly insensate seemed caddish, and also dangerous. He did not think he would have sufficient warning—or will—to pull out. But to withdraw from her body and groan and stroke himself in front of her seemed awkward, out of the question. He must turn away and finish into the bedclothes, silently.
He withdrew from her as gently as possible, but a tremor of aftermath shook her small frame, and her eyes fluttered open to hold his. Before he had a chance to move, she reached out and took him in her hand.
He was slick with their mating, and shocked when she displayed no distaste. Her fingers closed around him and stroked. A lush, liquid sound. Her hand felt scorching hot, her touch artless and devastating. He would, at that moment, have done anything for her.
“Harder,” he begged, ashamed and exhilarated by his capitulation. She tightened her grip, stroked again, then once more, and he came, crying out and spurting into her hand and onto her pale belly.
He’d been neither discreet nor silent. He had no idea what to do next, but she was smiling up at him, her fingers playing over his still-twitching length, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to collapse on his back beside her and laugh.
“Dear God. Where did you learn that? Angela Ferrers again?”
She turned her head on the pillow and kissed him, openmouthed and as generous with her tongue as she had been with her hand. “No,” she said, pulling away with laughter in her eyes. “Pure instinct. Was it correct?”
“I’m not sure I have words for what that was.”
She looked sidelong at him. “Is it always like this?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s usually enjoyable, but not like this.” This, he realized, had been more than enjoyable. It had been important. And it could not, must not, be the last time.
He rolled to face her. “I’m sorry about that,” he said of his seed on her stomach. “Rest here a moment and I’ll bring a cloth.”
There was a washstand with a full basin, courtesy of Bachmann, who had clearly planned for all eventualities. Tremayne washed himself, then dampened a cloth and returned to the bed. “In case Angela Ferrers did not inform you, it’s terribly discourteous for a gentleman to come on a lady.”
“But they like to,” she observed shrewdly.
“Yes, we do. I suppose it’s like an animal marking his territory: this is mine.”
But she was not his. Not yet.
They lay drowsing on the soft down mattress, curled on their sides facing each other.
“I like this room,” she said, running her fingers through the fringe on the bed curtains. “Whoever lived here must miss it. I don’t think you could be unhappy in a house like this.”
He’d noted the toys beside the dressing table, the penmanship samples on the wall. “It feels like a home,” he replied. “Sancreed was too grand to have rooms like this. Too formal. I can’t imagine my mother hanging my penmanship samples on the wall.”
“Was your handwriting so poor?” she teased.
He laughed. “Perhaps. But I will wager yours was no better. I saw no proud examples of your accomplishments hanging on the walls at Grey Farm. And I looked, I assure you.”
She groaned. “That is because I have no accomplishments. I was a failure at drawing, painting, and needlework. Music is my only talent, I’m afraid.
”
“And tactics,” he reminded her. “If battlefield strategy was an after-supper entertainment for ladies I am certain you would excel. In any case, I would love to hear you play. I noticed the harpsichord at Grey Farm. I had always thought Quakers rejected worldly pleasures like music.”
“Not all Quakers. It is a matter of individual conscience. My mother taught me to play. My father taught me to sing.”
“They enjoyed music together, then.”
“That, and reading. My father liked to read to my mother. Sometimes he came to the table early for meals so he could read to her while she cooked. You should know you were accorded very special treatment, taking dinner in the dining room at Grey Farm. We usually eat in the kitchen.”
Her stomach growled, and she laughed. “I’m sorry. It must be all this talk of cooking.”
“Bachmann thoughtfully brought a hamper. If I can find something to read to you, will you prepare us something to eat?”
They searched the rooms for books and descended to the kitchen like children let to play in an empty house, she in her shift and stays and he in his shirt and breeches, and dove into the hamper Bachmann had left for them.
“This is butter,” she said, with something halfway between suspicion and delight. “And it is fresh. How did you come by fresh butter? The navy ships aren’t even unloaded yet. Nothing has gotten through the blockade for weeks. Even the Valbys are cooking with tallow these days.”
“I am as surprised as you. But Sergeant Bachmann is an old campaigner. He forages with preternatural skill. I hope you are not too patriotic to share it with me?”
“My stomach has no scruples, I’m afraid.”
“What else is there?” he asked, imagining with a growing appetite the things fresh butter could complement.
“There are potatoes. And some ripe cheese. A package of salt.” Then she plucked out a string of sausages and examined them suspiciously. “Even the joints that reach Howe’s table are tainted. You will pardon me if I will not trust sausages.”
Tremayne laughed. “Our Hessian allies hardly recognize meat unless it is ground and stuffed into a casing. But of that humble form, they are connoisseurs. If Bachmann acquired them, they are quite safe, I promise you.”
“Very well. Now then, what have you found to read to me?”
“Our unwitting hosts have catholic tastes. We have here A Dissertation Concerning the Nature of True Virtue—”
“Not the best choice, considering I’ve but lately surrendered mine.”
“Regrets?” he asked.
She stood on tiptoes to kiss him, soft and fleeting. “No.”
Thank God.
“What else is there?” she asked.
“Novels.” Tremayne sorted through the small stack. “We have The Castle of Otranto—”
“What’s that one about?”
“Young ladies being stalked by dangerous gentlemen through a dark old house.”
She stopped, potato in hand, mid-peel, and raised a plucked eyebrow. “Perhaps a little too close to my current predicament as well.”
“I suspect our hosts took their favorite books with them. We have here the dregs of their library,” he informed her. “Your choices are sermons, ghosts, or three-month-old copies of the Gazette.”
“The Gazette,” she said, pushing a pile of cubed potatoes to the side and beginning to slice sausages. “Advertisements, please.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a story?”
“Oh, there are stories in the advertisements. If you know how to read them.”
She was right. “‘Mr. James Wheelright,’” he read aloud, “‘farmer, begs assistance in apprehending his wife, who ran away, a month ago, on his mare. He very generously offers that she will be restored to his affections once more, if she will only bring back the horse.’ Do you always practice divorce by newspaper here?” he asked, incredulous.
“Only when circumstances warrant. The Marriage Act has been rather slow to reach the hinterlands. Has the wife responded? Check the next day’s paper.”
Tremayne scanned the next day’s edition, then the next, then found what he was looking for. “Indeed. The lady responded three days later. The horse, apparently, came with her into the marriage, and she feels it is only right that it carry her out of the marriage.”
Intrigued now, he paused and scanned farther down the page. “It seems his wife has gotten the better part of the bargain in keeping the horse. Mr. Wheelright is also advertising for the return of a bondservant, a girl of fourteen years, at least six months pregnant—no doubt courtesy of her employer—believed to have run away to the city.”
“I wish Mrs. Wheelright joy with the horse,” Kate said dryly.
“Would you like to hear about Dr. Kelley’s most efficacious cures for venereal diseases?”
“Is it likely I will be needing them?” she asked.
“Good Lord, no. I haven’t been a saint, but I have been careful. You need have no worries on that score.”
“Thank goodness. You wouldn’t like me to tell you about Mrs. Ferrers’ prescriptions. Not before we eat.” She paused, considering. “Or ever, really. Should I be jealous of these paramours you were so careful with?” She said it casually, but he hoped the answer mattered to her as much as it did to him.
“There is no one else but you, Kate.”
She smiled, and kissed him once more on her way to the hearth. He watched her tie the hem of her chemise up and then wet it down. She blew the dust out of a pan, set it on a stand, and kindled a small fire from the waiting coals. Everything she did was deft and efficient.
He wondered how long it had been since she’d done something as homely as cook. The sausages sizzled when she dropped them into the hot pan, the potatoes likewise when they followed a few minutes later. It was deeply satisfying to sit at the table and watch her, to know that he was going to enjoy a meal prepared by her hands.
He imagined her in the kitchen of the little cottage at Sancreed where his father had kept his mistress. Before they were old enough to understand the role of the quiet widow who lived in the gatehouse, he and Bay used to slip off to visit her. Alice made treats for them, buttered muffins and toast smothered with blackberry jam. It was warm and wonderful and a world removed from the bustling, businesslike kitchens at the main house. Those were the domain of the servants, ruled over by a tyrannical cook who knew her place in the hierarchy, and that of the young masters. He and Bay were not welcome there.
But Alice had welcomed them. Sometimes they went fishing and brought her their catch, or hunting and brought back a brace of game. She was always home, it seemed, and only shooed them out if they lingered too long into the evening, when they knew Tremayne’s father came to visit, although they did not understand, until they were older, why.
And by that time Tremayne understood the distance between his parents, knew something of what had happened to his mother. He’d stopped visiting Alice, but he had seen them together, his mother and his father’s mistress, sitting in companionable silence in the cottage garden, neither woman entitled to a whole happiness.
And he knew all at once that he did not want that for Kate. He didn’t want her in that cottage, a swift gallop away, with a wife, or anyone else, to come between them. Nor could he imagine her tucked away in a discreet house in London. She was not his social equal, but as Donop had pointed out, what was the point in having money and power if a man could not have what he really wanted?
And this, what they were sharing here, now, was what he wanted.
He caught her up in his arms as she crossed from the hearth to the press cupboard, and pulled her laughing into his lap.
There was an obvious solution to their difficulties.
“Marry me.”
Fourteen
She slid from his lap. It was like leaving a warm bed on a cold morning: wrenching, but necessary.
“No.”
She had no regard for hereditary privilege, but he had been raised with it.
He was offering to lay aside the prejudices of a lifetime. There is no one else but you, Kate. Her chest constricted with grief, as she had felt when her mother died, for this future that would never be theirs. She held his gaze. “You do me a great honor. It is not every day that a viscount proposes to a farm girl. But marriage between us is impossible.”
“You have never been just an ordinary farm girl. Even in Orchard Valley, you were already more than that. Are you so afraid of John André? His silence can be bought.”
“For how long? He could dangle a noose over our heads for the rest of our lives. There might be no end to his blackmail.”
“Marriage would put an end to it. I am the principal witness to your actions at Grey Farm. If we married, I could not be called to testify against you.”
“I have been living under a false name since I came to Philadelphia. Everyone in your world knows me as Lydia Dare. If we married, it would be a union built on lies.” And she could barely stand the ones she was living with already.
She retreated to the safety of the hearth, but he got up from the table and followed her there.
“Do you need to hear the words? I’ve never said them to anyone before. I love you. I desire you. I want you for my wife. There has to be a way.”
There was. A way for them to marry without lies. “Come with me to the Continental lines.” There, she’d said it.
“Kate, you know I cannot.”
Of course he couldn’t. It gave her a little strength, this limitation of his; enough to push him away. “Then you do not love me enough.”
“You ask too much.”
“You ask no less. To give up everything.”
“It is not the same, Kate. You’re a woman. Marriage to a man with a title and fortune elevates you. But if I were to run away and play at rebellion with you, I would be dragged down. My lands and titles would be stripped from me.”
“You would still be the man whom I loved. But the reverse would not be true if I went to England and lived a lie with you. I would not be the woman you fell in love with. I’m sorry, Peter, but tonight is all we will ever have.”
The Turncoat Page 21