The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh

by Bowlin, Chasity

  Cobb rose. “No, Tarley. You won’t be going to the magistrate at all. You’ll be staying right here. Get him, lads! Get him down to the cellars and tie him up right and good! He’s under the she-devil’s spell!”

  The mob of angry farmers and miners didn’t need much in the way of inducement. They charged the bar and the poor innkeeper, kicking him and slapping him as they dragged him down to the cellars.

  Cobb moved behind the bar and refilled his tankard, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath. A sound caught his attention and he looked over to see the single, harried and bullied serving girl hiding behind a cask of wine. “Are you of like mind with poor Tarley, then?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I heard what you said and I don’t want no truck with a witch or the devil.”

  “Then you’ll keep quiet, girl… or pay the price for it.”

  She nodded, wide eyed and terrified. “I won’t say nothing. Not a word.”

  Cobb smiled. He had a fat purse full of coins and while she wasn’t the prettiest of girls, she was clean and had a generous pair of tits. “Tell me, girlie, do you ever take on any extra duties for old Tarley?”

  She understood his meaning immediately and began to cry. “I’m a good girl. I only serve ale and food to the patrons… I’ve never done nothing like what you think! I’m not a harlot!”

  Cobb shook his head and waved his hand at her to go. He’d never much cared for crying women that hadn’t an ounce of spunk or fight in them. “Go on home to your family, girl. But breathe a word of what you heard here and it won’t just be the devil you have to fear. You ken?”

  She nodded again. “I understand.”

  Cobb watched her go, running out the door and through the narrow streets of the village. It was probably a mistake, but he reasoned that Ramsleigh hadn’t been nearly as generous as he’d expected.

  *

  Viola made her excuses after dinner rather than joining Lady Agatha and Lady Beatrice in the drawing room. She’d taken a small detour to look in on Tristan. He was sleeping soundly, no doubt still exhausted from the journey. Belinda had fared no better. The nurse was lying on a cot, snoring louder than a swarm of bees.

  After exiting the small nursery, she made her way to her room and stepped inside. She didn’t know when Nicholas would arrive, but her vanity demanded that she make some preparation. Removing her gown, she stripped down only to her chemise and then donned the dressing gown Lady Agatha had lent her. She removed the pins from her hair and brushed it till it shone, the dark waves cascading down her back and over her shoulders. Nicholas had made no secret that he admired it and it was beyond important to her that he find her pleasing.

  She was, oddly enough, more nervous about receiving him than she had been about receiving her husband on her wedding night. Of course, she had infinitely more knowledge than she had then as an innocent bride, and none of it did anything to dispel her nerves. In truth, she didn’t anticipate that welcoming Nicholas Warner into her bed would be even remotely similar to the experiences she’d had with Percival. More often than not, he’d been perfunctory. But on occasion, when he’d been too much in his cups, he’d been intentionally cruel, seeking to cause her as much pain and humiliation as possible. Even thinking of it made her hands tremble and her palms sweat.

  Forcing herself to think of anything else, Viola surveyed her reflection critically. Would he be pleased with what he saw?

  There was a soft knock upon the door and Viola’s hand flew to her heart as she bit back a nervous shriek. It appeared that while she might have succeeded in pushing thoughts of her late husband aside, she had not managed to adequately ease the fear they had elicited. Trying to calm her heart which raced for all the wrong reasons, she took one final glance at her reflection before crossing to the door.

  With a last steadying breath, she opened it and found herself face to face with the man who had created such anticipation and such turmoil in her. Nicholas had discarded his coat and his cravat. Wearing a simple waistcoat, his shirt open at the neck revealing a glimpse of bronzed skin and crisp, dark hair, and his breeches, he looked far more appealing than he should have.

  “Are you going to invite me in?” he asked.

  Realizing that she’d stood there, gawking at him, for far longer than was either necessary or appropriate, Viola stepped back. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  He entered the room and seated himself on the small settee at the foot of the bed. “You invited me to your room, ostensibly to become your lover. But nothing will happen here tonight that you do not wish for. This goes only as far as you want it to.”

  “And if I don’t know the answer to that?” Viola challenged. “What I think I want and what my overactive nerves will permit may be very different.”

  “You have only to say stop and I will. I am not your late husband, Viola. If you cannot trust that, then I should not be here,” he replied.

  “I do not in any way see you as being remotely similar to Percival. But the fear I have isn’t a rational thing… my mind says one thing and yet my body responds in an entirely different manner. Even now, my pulse is pounding and I want to run.”

  “To me or away from me?” The question was voiced gently, but there was a challenge in his voice despite the mild tone.

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Is it very unfair of me to say both?”

  He held out his hand to her, a simple gesture of invitation. “Then let us start with something simple… let us begin with a kiss. Then you may decide.”

  Nervously, Viola moved toward him, allowed him to take her hand. But he didn’t simply pull her close. Instead, he tugged her down so that she sprawled on his lap and could feel the hard press of his chest against her as his strong arms enveloped her completely. Strangely, she did not feel confined or trapped, but sheltered.

  She wasn’t caught unawares by the kiss as she had been on the terrace. The memory of that kiss had nearly driven her mad. But she knew what to expect, could anticipate the rush of sensation and yearning that would follow in its wake. As his lips moved over hers, commanding but gentle, fierce and yet achingly tender, she found that her fears were simply melting away. Never was she more aware of how different he was from her late husband than when he touched her—even more so, she became aware of one undeniable fact. She was different with him. Tension and anxiety melted away. With him, she felt normal, as if all the ugliness of her past had not occurred.

  Her body grew lax, molding to his, as she returned his kiss. Savoring the scrape of his whiskers against her skin, the gentle nips of his teeth at her lower lip, she felt the heat spark within her, fanning out until every limb was suffused with it.

  As his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging her head back to deepen the kiss, Viola shivered, but not with fear. It was glorious anticipation. The fear had been beaten back by curiosity. If he could create such a feeling with only a kiss, what on earth would it be like when he did even more?

  He pulled his lips from hers, skimming them along the line of her jaw and then the curve where her neck and shoulder met. As he bit her there, his teeth gently scraped over her skin in such a way that she couldn’t hold back the soft moan that built within her.

  “I doubt I’ll be changing my mind,” she admitted, breathlessly.

  “I had really hoped you would say that,” he answered.

  Before Viola could say anything, he’d risen with her in his arms and turned to place her on the bed. Spread out before him, her hair mussed and her gown askew, she knew precisely what she looked like. Wanton, wild, wicked. And she found that she reveled in it. It was so much better than being timid and afraid.

  “I’ve never been one for flowery praise, but then I don’t need to tell you that you’re beautiful,” Nicholas stated. “You know that. What I can tell you is that, beautiful as you are, it’s the least captivating thing about you.”

  Viola had been complimented on her looks since birth. With her b
lack hair and her violet eyes, the striking combination had always invited comment. It was a heady thing not only to be recognized for something else but also valued for it.

  “Be very careful, Dr. Warner, or you will turn my head,” she said coyly.

  He reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, releasing them one at a time until the garment fell loose about him and was shrugged off with ease. “I intend to turn a great deal more than that, my dear.”

  *

  Nicholas watched the blush creep over her cheeks. From the heat in her gaze, he knew it was more than embarrassment or shyness. She wanted him, just as he wanted her. That a woman married for so many years could still be so innocent of lovemaking and yet so versed in the cruelty of men was both a crime and a shame. But he intended to rectify both, to teach her not only the ways of passion, but that a man was capable of tenderness.

  He also had no intention of taking all that she offered. The desire was there, of course. He wanted her more desperately than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life. But for that night, he wanted only to show her pleasure, to let her reach those soaring heights without taking anything for himself. Part of that was to build trust between them, another part of it was that he wanted her to yearn for him just a bit more, he wanted her to reach such a state of desire that fear never entered the equation. For him, it was about evening the pitch a bit. It was a terrifying thing to recognize in himself, that for the first time in his life, he was in the presence of a woman he could not simply walk away from.

  Viola, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, had been something unknown to him. There was a connection between them, an intimacy that went beyond simply physical and had been there from the start.

  Reaching out, he touched the delicately embroidered hem of her nightrail before allowing his hand to slip beneath it. His fingertips skimmed over the delicate bones of her ankle, along the silken skin of her calf, up to the tender curve at the back of her knee. She shivered then and he felt the gooseflesh on her as every nerve in her body heightened to a point of aching awareness. He knew it, because it was what he felt himself. Anticipation was its own kind of torment.

  “Is this what it’s like for others?” Viola queried.

  “How do you mean?” Even as he urged her to explain, his hands were drifting further, coasting along her thighs and pushing the fabric of her nightrail upward until it bunched at her waist and barely concealed the tantalizing flesh at the juncture of her thighs.

  “This slow and deliberate seduction… I always imagined that this is what it would feel like. Tremulous, to be sure, but not at all lacking in certainty,” she admitted.

  “If not, it should be.” No longer content to simply stand beside the bed and tease her, Nicholas hastily removed his boots and then climbed onto the bed beside her. He kissed her then, covering her softly-parted lips with his own. The taste of her was as intoxicating as the strong rum that had been swilled in great quantities while he’d lived in Jamaica.

  Mapping every curve and contour of her lips, nipping gently at the fullest part of her lower lip, he was rewarded when she opened for him, inviting him inside. Nicholas didn’t crow with triumph but the urge was there. Instead, he doubled his efforts in kissing her so intently and so passionately that she would lose all sense of reason and, with it, any lingering fears she might have.

  Her hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding over them not to push him away but to cup the back of his neck and hold him close. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her lips moving against his, her tongue sliding against his own in an intricate and sensual dance.

  They kissed until they were both breathless, until she was pressing herself against him with abandon. But when the kiss broke and he eased back, he saw doubt in her gaze.

  “You aren’t fearful of me or what will pass between us. So, what is it that holds you so completely in its sway, Viola?”

  The question hung between them, weighted and heavy as it seemed to rob them both of air. She looked away from him, her gaze fixating on a point beyond his shoulder. “I haven’t lied to you, but I haven’t been entirely truthful either.”

  “Does continuing our planned activities for this evening necessitate you telling the whole truth?” Nicholas asked. “Because you must know that nothing you could say or confess will change my feelings or my desire for you.”

  She looked back to him, her violet eyes filled with an agony that nearly undid him. “I told you that Tristan was a Grantham. And he is. But he is not Percival’s son… Randall is his father.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t draw back from her or accuse. Instead, he kissed her cheek softly. “He is Tristan’s father, but he was not your lover. Was he, Viola? He was simply another element of your husband’s cruelty.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Viola had thought the shame of that admission would break her, and yet it didn’t. It was his tender kiss and the softly voiced question that showed her how much he understood of her life at Ramsgate Hall. Battling back the tears that threatened to consume her, she pushed him away and rose from the bed. Crossing to the window, she peered out into the darkness. “I had thought it didn’t matter. That I could simply set it aside and pretend it had never happened… that was what Percival planned to do, you see? He’d never conceived a child. Not with either of his previous wives and after three years together, I’d also failed to conceive. In spite of his tremendous conceit, even he had to acknowledge, at that point, that the failure was likely his own.”

  “And he wanted Randall to step into his shoes, as it were,” Nicholas surmised.

  “Something to that effect. Naturally, I refused. Then I learned in a very difficult and humiliating manner that refusal was not an option for me.”

  He was silent for the longest time. So long, that Viola was afraid to look back at him, afraid to see the disgust on his face or, worse, to see the door closing on his departing back. What man would want her after such an admission, after all? Randall was the most despicable of men and he’d used and abused her horrendously, not simply with her husband’s consent but at his behest.

  “How many times?”

  Dropping her chin to her chest, Viola closed her eyes tightly. “Does it matter? Whether it was one or a dozen… how could it possible matter?”

  “Because I’d like to know how many times I must beat him to the point of death, allow him to recover, and then repeat the process. I won’t kill him. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hanging for it… but I will see that he pays.”

  She shook her head. “To what end? It won’t undo what was done to me. It will not change Tristan’s true parentage and, in truth, would only make people question it. I cannot afford to antagonize Randall and have him announce to the world that the child I bore while in exile was not my husband’s but his! Tristan’s future depends on it… I suppose I ought to feel somewhat guilty. I am perpetuating the lie only to take back the estate. But it was what Percival had planned all along, after all! If I had to suffer for it, then I’d rather it not be all for naught.”

  “Why did you run? If Percival had gone to such lengths to have an heir, then while you were carrying his child… you should have been safer than ever before,” Nicholas pointed out. “What other secrets are you keeping, Viola?”

  “I had conceived once before… of course, it was Randall’s child. When it became known, within days, I suffered a terrible accident—a tumble down the stairs. I lay there at the foot of them, bleeding, knowing that my child was dying within me. And I knew something else… Randall had done it. I could see him standing at the top of the landing, looking down on me. Then I saw him walk away. He was perfectly willing to play stud at his uncle’s behest, but he would never let the child be born. To do so would have been to seal his own fate as the poor relation.”

  She’d never been able to prove it. Even when she’d tearfully confessed it all to Percival, he’d dismissed it as feminine hysterics. It hadn’t been his unwavering faith in Randall that had prompte
d his denial. It had been his own ego, his own belief that no one would dare defy him.

  Only Belinda knew the truth, only her maid who’d helped her, nursed her afterward, had been privy to the ugly details. Having finally given voice to it, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her. But she also knew the admission might cost her. Disclosing such things, her own slightly warped morality in passing off Randall’s illegitimate child as the heir, the depth of the depravity that she’d been forced to endure—any of those things could change the way he looked at her. But it was better, she thought, to have the entirety of the ugliness out there now than to give herself to him completely and then have him turn from her. The very thought of it was unbearable.

  Continuing her tale, she added, “When I discovered that I was once more with child, I knew what I had to do. As terrifying as it was, and with all it might cost me, escape was the only option.”

  She heard the rustling of fabric as he rose from the bed, the soft footfalls as he walked toward her. When his hands closed over her upper arms and pulled her back to rest her head against the firm wall of his chest, she wanted to weep.

  “I’m sorry, Viola.”

  “I understand, Nicholas,” she whispered.

  She felt him smile, felt the curving of his lips against the top of her head where he placed a gentle kiss. “I’m not leaving, you halfwit.”

  “Halfwit?” The word squeaked out of her, her tone sharp with annoyance.

  “Yes,” he said. “Halfwitted if you think telling me how badly you were abused at the hands of the monster your parents sold you to—and that’s what it was, no better or worse than the slave trade I witnessed while in the West Indies—would make you less desirable to me! Nothing, Viola, could change what I feel for you… or how much I want you.”

  She swallowed convulsively. “What is it that you feel for me then?”

  “More than I care to admit and far more than you are ready to hear,” he answered.