What a Lady Demands

by Ashlyn Macnamara

“Yes, the incident with his daughters.”

  Her fingers traced an idle pattern across his chest. “There was that, too. I also had something to prove there. He reacted very badly—as anyone would expect—but he was harsh enough to me that I wanted to get away. And then I thought, I can show him I’m better than that. But if Eversham digs the old scandal up again… ”

  “Your brother knows enough now not to listen to anything Eversham says. We discussed it during your marriage settlement. Eversham cannot hold the information over your head if you let those who are important to you know.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Alexander suspects something happened while he was away, but please tell me you didn’t give him the details. He’d never understand.”

  Lind allowed himself a smile. “I did not, but if he knew, he might help me kill Eversham.”

  She raised her head, suddenly serious. “Please reassure me you’re only speaking figuratively when you say you want to kill him.”

  “Yes, in the main, although I’ll admit I wouldn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse should the man meet with an unfortunate accident.”

  “No, no. He must not. He must be made to go away—but please, I don’t…” She ducked her head, and he suddenly saw the shy young girl she’d once been—when she was fifteen and trailed after him at house parties. “I don’t want to lose you, and if you go to prison—”

  He cut her off by tucking his fingers beneath her chin and raising her lips to his. “I am not planning on going to prison,” he said once he broke off. “I’ve lived in my own version for far too long.”

  At the admission, she gasped, and his own heart jolted. He didn’t even know where that had come from. But as she climbed up his body, to press her naked form fully to his and kiss him senseless, he realized the truth of the words. He’d shut himself off from the world, here on his estate. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was time he started letting a few, well-chosen people back into his life.

  He could start by truly making amends with Sanford. That relationship, at least, was still salvageable. Lind’s efforts, so far, had been halfhearted, and geared toward keeping Sanford out of Battencliffe’s camp, but in marrying his sister, Lind had raised himself somewhat in Sanford’s eyes.

  You could prove yourself the better man. Somewhat, but not totally.

  Battencliffe, on the other hand, was a lost cause. Even if Lind did feel like forgiving the bastard at some point in the future, his plan had passed the point of no return. Or so he reckoned Boff would inform him on his return from London.

  —

  Lind lay awake, contemplating the beams in the ceiling, long after Cecelia’s breathing had grown deep and even. Ironic, that. Lydia used to chide him for wanting to drowse the moment he’d finished, and now he could not sleep after yet another vigorous tumble.

  His leg throbbed from his efforts at drawing out the pleasure for both of them. If Cecelia’s cries were any indication, though, he’d succeeded. The rhythmic twinge in his thigh now served as an agreeable reminder of all that had transpired over the past few hours.

  Cecelia’s hair spread in a dark cloud across the pillows. He reached for a hank and wound it about his wrist, breathing in the lingering scent of citrus. The curly strands flowed through his fingers like silk. His touch strayed to her cheekbone, the translucent skin at her temple, the bridge of her nose.

  If he wasn’t careful, he’d wake her and—what? Take her again? She’d be willing, no doubt. Since they’d embarked on this affair, she’d responded to his advances with all the enthusiasm of a courtesan, yet there was nothing artificial or practiced in her kiss. She wanted him freely and with joy, with boundless energy and generosity.

  She’d given her entire being to him at every encounter. Body and soul. With Cecelia, those were more than words. More than a meaningless idiom. In bed, she lived those words. She embodied them.

  And now, in marrying him, she was entrusting him with her life.

  How was he ever to merit such a gift?

  At the thought, something stirred deep inside him. Oh, not his cock. God only knew that bit of him ought to be sated for at least the next hour or so.

  No, whatever stirred was lodged considerably higher, and the sensation that infused him was closer to warmth than heat. It ought to comfort him. It did anything but.

  Wife or no, Cecelia had no business making him feel…well, anything at all. Only Lydia had that right. And Cecelia had made him experience an entire gamut of emotions from tenderness to anger and everything in between.

  Lind’s hand strayed to Cecelia’s back, his fingers tripping down the bumps of her spine, the pale skin over the bone impossibly soft and smooth.

  Tenderness. That was what this warmth was. He’d nearly forgotten such a delicate thing as tenderness. He hated the way it opened the cracks in his armor. Imperceptibly, yes, but the warmth flowed in just as insidiously as water infiltrating rock and freezing. With each successive thaw, the fissures widened until granite was reduced to powder. Lind felt just as powerless as the rock to halt the slow wearing of the years.

  Oh, God, Lydia. What have I done?

  The words rattled around his brain, like a single gem in a jewelry box. He waited for a reply, anything. Half of him expected her voice to echo through his mind, berating him for betraying her memory. Remarrying. Enjoying bedding his new wife.

  He wasn’t completely certain why he felt this way when she had trod this same path before him, but every time he thought of it, a voice echoed through his mind. You left her first. You left her open, vulnerable. You let Battencliffe in to seduce her.

  The only real sounds he heard were the night silence and Cecelia’s even breathing. He could barely remember the sound of his first wife’s voice.

  A sudden chill settled in the pit of his belly. Lydia had left him.

  She left you years ago. You never truly possessed her.

  She was gone, but part of him still held on to her memory. To what might have been.

  Tossing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His walking stick stood propped by the headboard, waiting for him. He took it up, along with his breeches and a shirt, lying discarded on the floor in a tangle with Cecelia’s shift and stays. He dressed quickly and quietly before passing through the wardrobe to the door that connected his bedchamber with Lydia’s.

  Moonlight shone through the window, casting an otherworldly glow over the room, so he didn’t need a candle to find his way. The room was kept the same as the day Lydia departed this life, every dainty piece of furniture, every ornate knickknack, every nook familiar. If her presence was anywhere in this house still, it would be here, among her things.

  He crossed to her dressing table and picked up a miniature in a gilded frame. The shadows hid the portrait, but he needed no light to call the image to mind. Lydia, blond, young, beautiful, happy. The bloom of pink roses in her cheeks. A hint of laughter in her smile. A spark in her blue eyes. The artist had captured her essence on that tiny canvas.

  With the tip of his finger, he traced the relief of the carved frame, the wood a poor substitute for living flesh and blood.

  You have a flesh-and-blood wife. She’s waiting for you in the other room. In your bed.

  Damned annoying voice in his head. And where had it come from? Somehow it sounded like Sanford.

  He touched the portrait again, paint and canvas. Not cold, precisely, but certainly not warm, for all the artist’s talent.

  “Do you love me, Lydia?” he murmured.

  He awaited the reply. In his mind, he heard her assurances, the way she always voiced them. Yet another unsatisfactory substitute, but it was all he’d ever have. No more than an echo of the past.

  In its wake, he heard yet another echo—Sanford once again. You are the most stiff-necked, mulish bugger I’ve ever met. Yes, and wasn’t he? He’d held fast to the past for nearly four years.

  Perhaps it was time he started prying his fingers away, one at a time. If only he coul
d find the strength.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cecelia stretched on the sheets and breathed in the musk of joining, Lind’s and her own. It permeated the room, and no wonder. They’d celebrated their wedding night in grand style, and she finally understood what it meant to feel not just filled, but fulfilled.

  Every touch, every caress, every lick, every whispered word had sunk into an empty space inside her and swelled to fill the void. She felt complete and beautiful in a way none of her previous encounters had left her. And such a feeling begged to be shared and returned and multiplied—if not with words, with action.

  Smiling, she rolled over and reached for her husband, but only crisp linen met her touch. Crisp and cool, which could only mean Lind had already arisen. Some of the buoyancy seeped away, like air from a balloon with a slow leak. Not enough to leave her completely sad and limp, but sufficient that the fullness inside lost some of its shape.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and reached for her discarded chemise. Thankfully the servants had strict orders not to disturb them, but that meant the fireplace was cold. She shivered, and hugged herself, longing for a pair of masculine arms to perform the task. Longing for Lind to come back and set the sheets ablaze. And where could he have gone so blasted early the day after his wedding?

  She threw open the curtains to realize it wasn’t quite as blasted early as she’d thought. Only dashed early judging by the angle of the sun. In another hour, it might even be simply morning, time for Jeremy to be abroad and looking for his riding lesson. She’d have to dress soon, and she’d need to summon a maid since Lind wasn’t about to help tighten her stays—even if he would much rather loosen them, and even if he did insist on tickling whenever possible. No matter, she could wrap her body in his banyan, surrounding herself with his crisp, clean scent for the moment.

  The door to his dressing room stood ajar. No, their dressing room. The maids had moved her meager collection of dresses to his quarters in anticipation of the wedding.

  That thought reminded her of her resolve last night, one she’d forgotten in the flurry of passion. The impending conversation let a little more air out of her sails, but it must be done. Begin as you intend to continue, she reminded herself, and padded to the dressing room.

  She stared at the door on the opposite wall that connected to Lydia’s room, recalling the night she’d sneaked into that particular chamber. Lind had still been awake then. How often did he enter that room?

  As if in answer to her internal question, a noise, the slightest of rustling, sounded from the opposite side of the panel. Good heavens, was he in there even now, after he’d spent the night with her?

  She might have deflated altogether; only the air inside her changed, heated, and with the heat expanded into something resembling annoyance. Any reluctance to broach a sensitive subject faded. Oh, yes, they were going to have the conversation, whether he was ready to face it or not.

  Straightening her spine, she yanked the door open.

  On her entrance, Lind glanced up, expression unreadable. He sat at a small table, one where Lydia’s maid had likely brushed out her long hair and helped with her coiffure. He ran his finger along a length of pink ribbon, tender as any caress he’d honored her flesh with in the night.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked at last.

  She crossed her arms. “I might ask you the same question.”

  With something resembling reverence, he laid the ribbon on the table, before standing and taking his walking stick, which he’d leaned against the wall. “How silly of me. I was under the impression this was my house, and I had the right to enter any room I chose.”

  She nodded at that. “Forgive me. It’s only…Well, it’s rather unnerving for me, as your wife, to enter this chamber, and find you here. Especially when…”

  She made a show of studying the space. Just as she’d suspected, the room still bore the traces of its previous occupant. Pale blue paper patterned with pink flowers and green vines covered the walls. The curtains at the windows and on the bed were velvet, their color emphasized the hue of a summer sky, rather than the heaviness of the fabric. Every available surface dripped with delicate lace. Even the woodwork was the color of new cream.

  “Especially when one gets the impression nothing about this room has been changed in years. And yet there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. All that’s missing are a few votive candles.”

  “And you mean to claim your space, now, don’t you?” His voice was tight, as if he was holding a firm rein on his control.

  The notion sent a shiver through her. She hadn’t entered this chamber with the express intent of angering him.

  “It had occurred to me to wonder whether my living quarters might change. But if you prefer, I can continue to occupy your bedchamber.” She’d never intended to make that concession, but now she found herself doing so. “I suppose your answer will determine our future relationship.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’ve married me, and you must allow me my place. Simply inviting me into your bed is not sufficient.”

  He cast a wild glance about the room, while his fingers reached out to grip the ribbon, his knuckles white. Had he even realized he’d made the gesture? “But…”

  His mouth worked soundlessly, almost as if his throat had closed.

  “I will not insist on moving into this chamber today, or even begin plans to redecorate, but if you intend for me to truly become your wife, you will have to permit me my proper place, eventually. Or is ours to be a marriage in name only?”

  “No…” He scrubbed a hand down his chin. “I don’t know.”

  Heavens, had he ever in his life been at such a loss for words? She’d blindsided him. He hadn’t been prepared to face this, and she could understand that. Until she came into his life, he hadn’t expected to remarry, perhaps ever.

  “You do not have to give me an answer now. Think on it. I am willing to be your wife in every sense of the word, but only if you hand me the full role. I will not perform parts of it while not taking my full place at your side.”

  He studied her, then slowly peered about the room once again. At her entrance, he’d been about to work himself into a high dudgeon, but now he seemed to deflate, just as she had earlier. He sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

  After a moment, he raised his eyes, the fine lines of his face rearranging themselves into something bleak. “Sometimes I think I’m betraying Lydia.”

  Oh dear. She wanted to reach out to him, take him in her arms and comfort him. He looked so lost, and in that expression she could imagine the boy he’d been. But if he thought he was betraying his wife, he probably would not take to a show of affection, especially in this bedchamber. So she settled for words.

  “Tell me about Lydia.” She was taking a chance either way. Her question was just as likely to anger him as to conjure fond memories of a woman she might never measure up to. And he had the luxury of only recalling her best qualities if he wished. Whatever her trespasses had been while he was away at war, he seemed to have forgiven her.

  “I do not wish to speak of her.” Anger it was, then. Anger and denial. He’d much rather keep his feelings and memories private than share them with her.

  “I know that, but I wish you would. As a concession of sorts to me. I wish to see her through your eyes.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “You wish to take the measure of my grief.”

  “I already know it runs deep.” She gestured to the chamber about her, the airy blue walls, dappled with yellow sunbeams, the dusted woodwork, the neat lace-trimmed coverlet on the bed. “So deep you’ve preserved her chamber as if she’s only gone away on a visit. As if you expect her to return home tonight and sleep in this bed.”

  Daring, she marched to the dressing room and threw open the doors. As she suspected, rows and rows of gowns in varied colors, some for morning, some for the theater, some for balls, hung in order
ed ranks, as precise as any troop of soldiers on parade. Slippers, shoes, and half boots stood beneath the gowns, while plumed bonnets lined shelves extending to the ceiling. All of it in pristine condition, just like the gown she’d borrowed for dinner.

  “As if you expect her to come in with her maid and decide what she’ll need to wear for the day’s activities. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a saint’s reliquary so well preserved.” And wasn’t that an ironic thought, when the lady had made a cuckold of him? But Cecelia knew better than to point out such a thing. Doubtless Lind realized. He just preferred to brush that small matter aside like a scrap of used paper. Scoop up the inconvenient fact, toss it out the window, and it never existed—the same as he preferred to ignore Jeremy as much as he could.

  “I know she’s not coming back.” His voice was hard, yet somewhere under that hardness it shook. “I just can’t bring myself to get rid of any of this. If you must know, I never come in here. I only did so today because I thought it was time I steeled myself to the task.”

  Cecelia crossed to him and put a hand on his forearm. “You do not have to face it at all if you don’t wish to.”

  “I think I owe her that much.”

  “Why?” She shouldn’t have phrased that so starkly but the word simply popped out. “What of what she owed you? She made you vows.”

  “She was the one waiting at home for me, not knowing.” Gaze distant, he crossed to the window to stare over the grounds. “Never knowing. Lord knows I wrote to her when I could, but I couldn’t always trust the vagaries of the post. Do you understand she thought I was dead? She told me as much. Later.”

  “If she thought you were dead…” No, Cecelia couldn’t go on. She couldn’t fling Battencliffe in his face. But if he could forgive Lydia because she thought herself a widow, why did he blame his old friend by the same turn?

  “You have to understand. She changed me. She made me a better person. When I was with her, I became more.” A pause. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow. “And I destroyed her.”