Her Convenient Husband's Return

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘Shhh.’ His finger had touched her lips. She’d stepped back, stumbling, and he had released her arm so that she fell to the ground. She had landed heavily, the breath pushed from her body.

  For a second, she hadn’t been able to move. She heard him step closer. Panicked, she’d tried to scramble backwards. She’d heard him laugh, a low chuckle.

  Then Arnold had come, his firm tread and booming country voice bringing with it sense and normalcy.

  ‘Your mother sent me out to fetch you, miss.’

  ‘Over here, my good man. Miss Elizabeth had a stumble and I am just helping her up,’ the Duke had said.

  Beth had gone home and wondered if she’d imagined a monster or been saved from the devil.

  The devil, she was certain now.

  Ren could not give his land to such a man. The reasons against it lined up in her mind like so many dominoes. She tossed to the other side of the bed.

  But were her objections even about the tenants? Or was she a fraud? Was it more about her own abject fear than the tenants’ suffering? She did not want him as their nearest neighbour.

  The cold clamminess dissipated into sweaty heat. Beth sat up. She could not remain in bed. She could not toss and turn with this incessant circling of thoughts. She needed to move. She needed to breathe cool air. She needed to free herself from the sheets which swaddled her, impeding movement so that she was suffocating within her own bedclothes.

  Perhaps she should tell Ren about those moments. Maybe that would deter him? But how could she ask him to do something that he saw as dishonourable to allay her own fears? Or had she already done so?

  Swinging her feet on to the floor, she stood. The wood was cool against her bare toes. The sheets fell away. She stretched, enjoying the freedom of movement. Stooping, she picked up her cane, carefully stepping from the floorboards on to the thickness of the rug.

  She crossed to the window and, with a whisper of relief, laid her hot forehead against the glass.

  Her comfort was short lived and her need to get outside continued. Outside, she’d hear the sounds of life. There would be newsboys and milkmen and scullery maids. She would hear the clank of pails, shouts or maybe a lad’s whistle, proof of the existence of life, however muted.

  With the wall to guide her, she made her way to the door and then stepped out into the passage. The air felt chilled, the floor boards even colder under her feet. She stood, uncertain, trying to remember the balcony’s location. Moving carefully, she swung her cane like a pendulum as she stepped along the passage.

  A clock chimed from somewhere within the building’s interior. Simultaneously, a door opened. She felt the breeze of its movement.

  She turned. ‘Allie?’

  ‘No,’ Ren said.

  Chapter Twelve

  A single wall sconce lit the narrow hallway, casting elongated shadows. Beth stood attired only in her nightgown. Her hair hung in a single braid down her back like a rope of molten gold. The white cotton of her gown was cut low, her nipples visible, dark circles pushing against the cloth. His gaze was drawn to the cleft between her full breasts, a darkly shadowed ‘V.’

  ‘Ren?’ Her free hand reached forward, outstretched, as though to orientate herself in space.

  He took her fingers. He felt their tremble. ‘You are cold,’ he said.

  In that moment, he was aware of their isolation, of her uneven exhalations, the thinness of the fabric, the dark areolas pressing against the cloth. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should go back to bed,’ he said, aware that the words came out jerkily.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was going to the balcony.’

  She made no move and stood quite close. He still held her fingers and she did not pull them free. He could feel the cloth of her nightdress against his arm. Her hair touched his chin. It smelled of lemons.

  ‘Ren, I think I may not have been entirely honest with myself or you. I thought I was worried for the tenants, but now I realise I do not want the Duke to have any reason to spend more time near to us.’

  ‘I do not want that either.’

  ‘I fear him,’ she said. Her lashes lay against her cheek, casting long intriguing shadows, her features just discernible in the low light.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I wanted to be honest,’ she said.

  Slowly, he bent towards her. With his free hand, he ran his fingers against her chin, angling it upwards.

  ‘You are the most honest person I know.’ He touched her lips with his own, gently. She didn’t retreat. A slight rosiness touched her cheeks. Her lips parted, moist.

  ‘Beth.’ He caught her lips again, no longer tentative.

  His hands went to her shoulders. Her nightgown was loose so that it fell off her shoulder, exposing her pale skin, gleaming in the lamplight.

  ‘You are so beautiful, so perfect.’ His thumb grazed her chin as his other hand slid down her spine. She stepped into his embrace.

  His kiss hardened, his need grew. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her against him. He wanted her to feel, to know.

  His bedchamber door was ajar, opening inwards. He stepped backwards, opening it with his body and half-carrying her inwards. She held him tightly as the door shut. He could feel her warmth and the soft yielding of her body against his own. The room was dark, save for the amber glimmer from the fire. Very gently, he placed his fingers against her face, tracing her lips, her jaw line, the place at the base of her neck where her pulse beat.

  ‘Is it dark?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are seeing with your hands.’

  He bent, his lips following his hands. He felt her tremble. ‘Hmm... I think I’d like to see some more,’ he muttered.

  Scooping her into his arms, he laid her on the huge four-poster bed. Her hair had loosened from its braid. It tumbled in a wild blonde mass, just visible within the low light. The cloth of her nightgown had ridden up her legs so that he could see the gleam of her skin. He lay beside her. He kissed her neck, trailing his lips to the pale, soft skin of her chest and the nipples puckering under the cloth. He pushed under the lace at the neckline, feeling the cloth lower as his fingers cupped her breasts.

  She groaned, arching up to him.

  ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  His hand touched her knee, pushing her nightdress further up to reveal more of her long, slim legs.

  She showed no embarrassment, no reluctance. Her hands reached under the cloth of his own nightclothes. Her fingers traced his muscles, his chest, back and shoulders.

  He shifted. ‘Beth,’ his voice rasped, low and strained. ‘You’re sure?’

  She smiled. Her hands traced the line of his ribs.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her touch was sensitive, inquisitive, but without artifice, and it made his blood roar. Need flared.

  He wanted this. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone. He needed her more than he had ever needed anyone.

  Almost roughly he pushed the neckline of her nightgown lower so that the fabric ripped. The noise both shocked and excited him. He tried to be slow. He was a man who valued control and had made loving a woman into a tantalising art form.

  Except with Beth it was different. His desire was too great. His restraint, his control slipped. It felt as though this need had been pent up in him for years.

  No longer slow, but with an urgency greater than any he had experienced, he kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts, her nipples. Then he slipped between her thighs and, pushing against her, took her fully and completely.

  * * *

  Beth woke the next morning. For a confused moment, she felt disorientated, aware that the bed was not her own. Then she remembered.

  She had slept with Ren.

  As she moved, she felt his warm bo
dy at her spine. She had slept with Ren. Her lips twisted upwards. She had slept with Ren and it had been wonderful. Her body felt languid, sated.

  She smiled, allowing her lids to close. Just for the moment, she wouldn’t worry about what would happen next. She wouldn’t concern herself with his mistresses. She wouldn’t think about how she was not the type of wife he needed. Or that he might feel tied to her or obligated.

  She wouldn’t worry.

  Ren stirred beside her. ‘You look very beautiful in the morning,’ he whispered. His breath felt warm and tickled her cheek.

  She turned towards him, raising herself on to her elbow and placed her head on his chest so that she could better listen to his breath and the steady rhythmic thump of his heart.

  Her world was one experienced through sound and touch, but she had never experienced something so intense as making love with Ren. She had never felt so overcome with sensation that sight or lack thereof was immaterial.

  ‘Any regrets?’ he asked.

  She lifted her head.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  She explored his face with her hands. His skin was rough. She could discern the prickle of stubble under her fingertips. He had always been freshly shaven in her presence and there was an intimacy to this early morning stubble.

  Later, she might have regrets. Later, she’d force herself to deconstruct that small, irrational part of herself that was already building happy endings. They could not have a happy ending. Indeed, it would be even harder to turn from him after this physical experience and the depth of feeling it had engendered.

  But to live without knowing such sensation existed...

  She explored his face, the line of his chin, his lips and cheek. ‘You’re smiling. And the muscles in your cheeks are not tight. Nor is your expression grim. Do you know how unusual that is?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I am quite certain that last night’s activities helped on both counts. Indeed, with a little more of such treatment, no doubt I shall be positively grinning and euphoric.’

  She giggled as he raised himself, flopping her on to her back and shifting his body so that he was poised over her. She felt his weight. She felt his leg move between her own. He kissed her neck, her chin, her nose, the tips of her ears and her lips. A tingling, sizzling trail of sensation engulfed her.

  ‘I... Ren—We...’ she whispered as he lowered himself more fully on to her.

  She wanted to say how this would be the second time and Miss Pollard had not said anything about the second time. She wanted to say that she could not risk being with child, she could not risk tying him to her, she could not risk...

  But her thoughts and even her power of speech dissolved into heat and need.

  * * *

  Beth was still asleep when Ren woke again. He sat up, conscious that the stark light of day had brought with it harsh reality. He stared at the crumpled sheets and the petite woman with her blonde hair tumbling over the pillow. The grey morning light enhanced her beauty, emphasising her fragility, the fine bone structure and her skin, both pale and luminous. There was a perfection to her that was not entirely of this world.

  Most men might feel some level of guilt after sleeping with a mistress. Few, he thought, would feel guilt after sleeping with a wife.

  He pushed his hand through his hair and stood, moving with care and slipping into his dressing room so he would not wake her. He went to the window, placing his hands against the ledge and staring outwards into the dull London morning.

  Beth was everything that was good and pure and trusting. He’d had no right to touch her, to seduce her and take her to his bed. She’d been vulnerable. She’d been distressed by her encounter with the Duke. Or perhaps she’d been over-excited by the late night and unfamiliar surroundings. He should have ordered her hot milk. Or given her a warm brick for her feet or summoned Allie. There were any number of suitable, caring and appropriate actions which did not involve taking her to his bed.

  He’d married her to save her from the Duke who was a rake and a cad. But he was no better. Good Lord, he still had Celeste in her apartment across town and prior to Celeste there’d been others. He drank too much. He gambled too much. He raced horses too much. He was illegitimate. He had no place or role in Allington or Graham Hill. He could not live there and she could not live here.

  She’d wanted an annulment.

  But now what was the honourable action? He could hardly take a woman’s virginity and then send her back to the country as though nothing had happened. Yet for Beth to remain in London would expose her to snide comments, the taunts of the society, references to his mistresses and infidelities. Even more important than any of this, she was unfamiliar with this house. Her reliance on servants would be so much greater. She would not enjoy the same level of independence that was so dear to her.

  But was he already sacrificing her independence for his honour? If he gave Graham Hill to the Duke, as was honourable, that man would be Beth’s nearest neighbour. What if he chose to spend more time at the estate? Would she ever feel comfortable again, even in her own home? He remembered her confession last night, the way her lips had trembled slightly: I fear him.

  The Duke was a predator. London was rife with rumours. The Duke’s mistresses were not sophisticated courtesans. He did not set them up in lavish apartments, as was typical of the ton. He went to brothels and chose the youngest prostitutes, girls who were little more than children.

  No, it could not be honourable to give Graham Hill to this man. It could not be honourable to put Beth and the tenants into his orbit.

  But neither could it be honourable to keep the land his father had driven him from.

  With a muttered curse, Ren sent for his man. He would go riding. He would gallop until his thoughts cleared and calmed the awful restlessness which, all too often, took over his soul.

  * * *

  An hour later, Ren rode down Rotten Row. Tallon’s hooves thundered across the turf as Ren hunkered low over the animal’s back. He loved the wild, obliterating thunder of hooves. He loved the power and strength and speed which made his heart race. As with high-stakes gambling, fast riding served to block out his thoughts and to focus his entire attention on the animal’s movement, the wild drumming of hooves and the cool damp breeze biting at his cheeks.

  At last, reluctantly, he slowed them to a steady, rhythmic walk. Tallon was spent and needed rest. Bending forward, he stroked his hand over the animal’s sweaty flank. Several other riders passed by, also exercising their horses. Most greeted him, touching their crops to their hats. He might not be welcome in their drawing rooms, but he had too much money to be long ignored.

  That would change, he supposed, if he were to follow Beth’s suggestion. Gambling and whoring were largely acceptable, but giving away land would seem foolish at best, revolutionary at worst.

  For a brief moment, he remembered the schoolboy taunts. He remembered the water going up his nose and into his eyes as he was thrust under the water pump, unable to breathe or see. His hand went to his eyebrow, touching the tiny scar that still remained.

  He turned Tallon towards the stable, his gaze roaming across the other riders. They were disparate: older gentlemen from the country, likely in town to please their wives, French roués reliving past glories and young bucks with their fashionably high collars and perfectly tailored jackets. For a moment, he allowed himself to study the different groups. He smiled grimly. The young bucks were watching him also with sly, sidewise glances.

  Their mothers might despise him, but the sons did not.

  So was he the rebel? Or was he, in fact, still currying favour with schoolboy bullies? Or compensating for his illegitimate birth by being a better gambler, a better drinker, a better whorer? And was he here at Rotten Row to enjoy the morning and the time spent with a fine animal or was his sole purpose to outrun his own thoughts?

 
Escaping was not living.

  These last few days with Beth—now that had been living. His smile broadened as he remembered her tasting the strawberries, placing the ripe fruit between her lips and savouring each bite. And at the opera, he recalled the way she’d focused only on the music, leaning forward and swaying slightly. Then last night...his heart squeezed in his chest as he remembered how she had arched under him, wanton and eager.

  A bubbling euphoria pulsed through him. He reached the stable and dismounted.

  ‘Cool him off,’ he directed, handing his reins to the groom.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And get my curricle. Today is a good day to change the world.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Beth awoke, the bed was empty. She stretched tentatively, but the sheets were cold and she could hear no movement in the chamber. Outside, the birds were already loud so it must be morning and possibly late.

  Sitting up abruptly, she tried to remember the layout of Ren’s bedchamber. The cool morning air touched her bare skin. Rising, she fumbled through the blankets until she found her nightdress. She pulled it over her head, clutching nervously at the frayed edges of the torn neckline.

  Grabbing her cane, she stepped towards the room’s exit, striking her hip against the nightstand.

  ‘Bother,’ she muttered.

  Moving with greater care, she crossed to her own bedchamber, exhaling with some relief that she encountered no servants in the corridor.

  ‘Good morning, my lady,’ Allie said.

  Beth jumped, jerking around. ‘Allie?’ Her voice squeaked in surprise, even though her maid had been greeting her in the exact same way for the last ten years.

  ‘I—’ A wave of heat washed over her face as she clutched her nightgown more tightly.

  ‘Sorry to make you jump. You must not have heard me in the dressing room. Shall I give you your chocolate?’ Allie asked, as she had also done every day for the last ten years.

  ‘Yes, absolutely, um—thank you.’