by Juliana Gray
Imagined it, and despised herself in the cold light of morning.
No one would ever know, she thought. Tomorrow she and the other women and Philip would be off to hide in a hillside castle, and Roland would be off to Rome or Venice or somewhere equally amusing. They wouldn’t meet again for ages, if at all. He was an honorable man; he’d never tell a soul. He’d take the secret to his grave.
Why not?
He was a man. He wouldn’t refuse her.
Only God would know. And surely God would understand, would forgive her. It seemed—it almost seemed—that He had arranged this meeting, just for her.
Do it. Do it. Regret it later, if you must. But do it now, before it’s too late. Before he’s gone forever.
She lifted her hand and brushed his cheek with her fingers. “Yes. I suppose it is good-bye.”
She couldn’t see his reaction, but she felt it: a flicker of rigidity beneath her fingertips.
His hand appeared out of nowhere to cover hers. “Not good-bye,” he said. “Never good-bye, you and I.”
She was never sure, afterward, who kissed whom. One instant they were apart, his hand holding hers against his cheek, breaths mingling in the dank air, and in the next his mouth brushed her lips, gentle and tender, and his other hand cupped the curve of her head like an infant’s.
“Lilibet,” he whispered. “Oh, Lilibet.”
“Don’t say anything. Don’t say a word.”
He gathered her up and kissed her again, a lover’s kiss, working her lips apart and tasting her, his mouth like silk and champagne and every forbidden thing. She could not hold back, not any longer; she met him unstintingly, stroked his tongue with hers, spread her fingers across the sides of his face, strained her body upward into his.
They kissed for the longest time, more than six years’ worth of kisses, gentle and urgent and then gentle again: his lips sliding across her face to her ear, her jaw, her neck, and then returning to her mouth to absorb her sigh. Each movement, each tiny detail, rent a tear down some fabric at her core and sent an electric current of sensation sparking through her bones to the extreme tips of her fingers and toes and scalp. Alive, I am alive, she thought, and thrust her fingers up through the soft waves of hair at the back of his head.
His hands slipped downward. One came to rest at her waist; the other fingered the top button of her coat, inquiring.
She could not say the word yes. But she could arch her neck for his lips. She could drop her own hands to the smooth horn buttons of his coat and work them free with fingers that were no longer cold and numb, but tingling and dexterous. She could spread his unbuttoned coat apart and slide it across his broad shoulders until it hit the hay-strewn floor with a whispered plop.
Without words, he returned his hands to her coat, sliding each button out of its hole, his head bent forward and his rapid breath warming her face. Words jumbled together in her head, darling and love and please and more and oh, but she held them all in and concentrated only on Roland, on his hands uncovering her body and his face bent toward hers. Her eyes, accustomed now to the darkness, could just pick out his features in the ghostly light from the distant lanterns; she could just glimpse the way his lids half covered his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite bear to open them fully.
The last button fell free, but he didn’t remove her coat. Instead his fingers moved back to her neck, to the fastenings of her jacket, until the two sides hung apart and only her white silk shirtwaist and underclothes lay between them.
Her heart beat in a mad thumping rhythm beneath his active fingers. One by one he undid the buttons of her shirtwaist, down to her waist, his knuckles brushing her flesh, raising goose bumps.
His hand hovered. “Are you certain?” he said, in a reverent whisper.
She could not say yes. But she could grasp his hand and guide it beneath the silk of her shirtwaist; she could slide her own hands to his jacket and unbutton it, while her nerves tracked the hot touch of his fingers along the curve of her bosom and beneath the edge of her corset. She could part the edges of his jacket and tear his shirt from his trousers and slide her hands along the smooth skin at his waist, his abdomen. She could throw her head back in a silent cry as his hands—eager now, bold—freed her breasts from her stays and chemise; as he dropped to his knees before her and suckled her fiercely; as his tongue circled her nipple in languorous strokes. She could gasp as his hands found the edge of her dress and traveled up her legs, while his mouth went on caressing her breasts and her skin shivered and glowed and her thoughts blurred into kaleidoscopic joy.
His fingers plucked at the fastening of her drawers and slid the plain, practical cotton downward. Cold air swirled about the bare skin above her stockings, replaced instantly by the heat of his hands on her thighs, on her hips, in the tangle of curls at her center. His mouth had stilled upon her breast; his forehead rested against her, his breath spreading a pool of warmth about her belly. When at last his tentative finger ran along the rim of her inner flesh and dipped inside, his groan vibrated against her skin to mingle with hers.
He rose to his feet in a swift motion and buried his face in her neck. She felt the tremor in his muscles, the damp sheen of sweat on his skin. His voice came husky and beseeching: “Lilibet, my love, my life, stop me, darling, I must have you, I can’t stop . . .”
She could not say don’t stop. But she could unfasten his trousers and draw his member, hard and beautiful, between her hands. She could caress the velvety skin, the curving ridge, and stretch her face toward his; she could kiss him deeply, show him with her tongue what she wanted from him. She could fling her arms about his neck with a gasp as he lifted and swung her downward into the pile of sparse hay on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry,” and she knew what he meant.
She wanted to tell him that he had nothing to be sorry for, that these rough walls were a palace because he was there. That this haystack was a couch of velvet because he shared it with her, rose above her, parted her legs and her clothing, thrust inside her slippery body and united her to him at last.
But she couldn’t tell him that, couldn’t tell him that the memory of this instant would live sacred in her mind through all the remaining years of her life, and so she held his big body against her and wept into his shoulder while they rocked together, shuddering, fighting the urge for completion.
But the imperative could not be denied: the need curled around her womb, the friction ached between their matched bodies. At last he rose up on his elbows and began to thrust, gently at first, and then with growing strength, deep inside her, his hips grinding against hers at each plunge, reaching for more of her, all of her. She reached her hands to his face, his cheekbones, his jaw, his hair, as if touching all the precious pieces of his body would brand him on her fingers.
He is inside me, he is part of me, we are one, oh God, let it never stop, let this wave never break, let it keep on building and building forever, oh God.
The wave built and it built, and his thrusts came harder and more urgent, and release began like a slow explosion within her, spreading in long shocks down her limbs and up through her belly and breast to force a cry at last from her throat. He bent and took it into his mouth, where his own shout met hers. The jump of his body, the tremor of his climax, echoed through them both.
* * *
Roland’s mind, ordinarily a nimble and fluent instrument, seemed to have been drenched by a barrelful of treacle.
Lovely treacle, of course. Thick and dark and sweet, it spread around the folds of his brain in lazy trickles, obscuring all nimbleness and fluency. All that remained was sensation: the softness of Lilibet’s body wrapped around his; her honey-rich scent, laced with lavender, filling his nose; the gentle rush of her breath in his ear.
He attempted to lift his head, and discovered that the treacle was also heavy as t
he devil.
He kissed her ear instead. “Darling. My love, my Lilibet, you . . .”
“Shh.” She stroked his hair, his back. “Shh.”
Roland closed his eyes and obeyed her, because the treacle seemed to want him to, but after another moment of blissful lethargy he became aware of other and more uncomfortable sensations.
Namely, the hard wooden floor beneath his knees and elbows.
He lifted his head, this time with more success, and gazed at her face in adoration. In the shadows, she looked like a figure from a dream; the faint bluish light blurred her edges, hollowed out her cheeks, caught her loosened hair in a halo about her head. His angel, his love.
There would be scandal, of course. They might have to live abroad for a time; perhaps for a long time. He’d have to give up his work at the Bureau, or else take on strictly foreign assignments. There was also the small matter of Lord Somerton. Medieval sort of chap, Somerton; a duel might be involved, for formality’s sake.
But it would be worth it. Lilibet would be his at last. He pictured a cottage by a lake of some sort, snow-tipped mountains in the background, sunshine gleaming from a red-tile roof. He’d turn his hand to that poetry he’d always meant to write, and she . . . well, she’d do whatever it was women did. Read novels. Warm his bed. Raise children. A tingling feeling invaded his chest at the thought: their child growing in her belly, nursing at her breast, toddling about the cottage, all immaculate and smiling and polite and well behaved. Perhaps even another one, after a suitable interval.
Oh yes. It would be well worth it.
He kissed each of her closed eyelids. “Darling. Sweet love. You’re mine at last. Tomorrow we’ll . . .”
Her eyes flew open. “Good God!” she hissed.
“Or we can wait until I’ve paid a call on Somerton,” he added hastily, mindful of her notions of propriety. “To make things all right and tight. I’m sure he’ll give you a divorce, when I’ve explained . . .”
She pushed him away and sat upright. “A divorce! No! Good God! What . . . what are you thinking?”
Dear skittish creature. He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. “That I love you, a thousand times more than before. That the rest will take care of itself. That nothing matters except . . .”
“Except my son! Except my honor!” She shoved her breasts back into her corset and struggled with the buttons of her shirtwaist. Her eyes were wide and horrified. “Do you know what he’ll do when he finds out?”
“I daresay he’ll be rather put out, but I shall stand firm . . .”
She made a sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob. Her hands shook at the buttons. “Roland, you’re a fool. Oh, he’ll divorce me, I’m sure, if he ever finds out. But he’ll take Philip. I’ll never see my son again; he’ll make sure of that . . . Oh, these damned buttons!” She covered her face with her hands.
“Darling, darling. Calm yourself. He won’t do any such thing. Here.” He reached out with tender fingers to fasten her buttons.
“Don’t!” She brushed his hand away and stood up. “Don’t touch me! Don’t . . . Oh God, what have I done?”
He rose, found his trousers gathered rather ignominiously around his ankles, and pulled them up into decency. “You’ve done—we’ve done—what we were meant to do all along. I love you, Lilibet. I’ve loved you from the day we met, and I shall bless you forever for allowing me the chance to redeem myself.”
“Redeem yourself? Redeem yourself?” She stood there in astonishment, shirtwaist and jacket and coat still ajar, and he couldn’t help dropping his eyes to the curve of her bosom: so recently overflowing his hand, and now overflowing her corset with every indignant heave of her breath.
Not his wisest moment, by any means.
“Look at you!” she exploded. “Still ogling me, for God’s sake! You’ve no idea at all what this means!”
He stepped backward. “Of course I do! I shall marry you, Lilibet. I shall stand by you always, take the most tender care of you. I’ll be the most faithful of husbands, a loyal old hound . . .”
“Faithful!” she snapped. Her fingers resumed their buttoning in agile jerks. “This from a man who finds a new mistress every week! Who trades women with his Prince over a game of cards! Whose reputation for uselessness and moral laxity is the stuff of legend, even in London!”
His mouth opened and closed. What could he say? Oh, that. All a sham, you see. A front. To cover up my true activities as an intelligence agent for Her Majesty’s government.
No, really. All in the name of duty.
She watched him steadily, her gaze like a needle into his soul. Her fingers alone remained active, inserting each button into its proper hole, closing off her body from his sight and touch. From down the length of the stable came the sound of a horse whuffling, moving restlessly about his stall. Yes, Penhallow, it seemed to say. Tell us. We’re absolutely with child to hear you talk your way out of this one. Good old slick-tongued Penhallow.
Lilibet shook her head at his silence and glanced downward. Her coat was buttoned, her collar straightened. She plucked a strand of hay from the dark wool. “You don’t know what faithful means, Lord Roland,” she said. “You’re a child, a boy. You don’t know.”
“I know that I love you.” His voice was hoarse, petulant. “I know that you love me. That you loved me once, at least, with the kind of love I thought”—he allowed the faintest trace of bitter emphasis—“would live an eternity.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know.”
“Then why this?” He gestured angrily at the ground. “Why the bloody hell spread your legs for me on the floor of an Italian stable? Just an ordinary roll in the hay for you, was it? Virtuous Lady Somerton! If only London knew . . .”
Her hand moved like lightning, stinging across his face in a loud slap. “How dare you!” she hissed. “You alone know what this meant to me. What it cost me. And you must ruin it, mustn’t you? Soil the most precious memory of my life with your vile . . . with . . .” Her voice choked; she turned away.
“Oh, Lilibet. Darling, no . . .” He reached for her, but she was already walking down the row, toward the door. “Wait, love! Don’t leave yet!”
She broke into a run.
“Wait! Stop!” He ran after her and caught her by the arm.
“Let me go! I’ve nothing to say to you!” She struggled against his grip and kicked against his shin. Her eyes glittered in the muffled light from the dark lanterns nearby.
What had she just said? The most precious memory of my life.
He grinned with sudden confidence. “Stop it, you little hellcat. It isn’t that.”
“What, then?” She angled her head away.
“It’s just that . . . well, I’d suggest you let me help you with this hay.”
“Hay?”
“Yes. Hay. It’s all down the back of your coat.” He brushed her bottom to illustrate.
“Oh! You!” She knocked his hand away and began brushing herself, twisting left and right.
“Hold still.” He plucked and brushed with ruthless efficiency while she stood, frozen with pride, staring at the door. “All done,” he said at last, straightening.
“Thank you.” She started forward.
He caught her arm again, more gently this time, and leaned into her ear. “I will marry you, Lilibet Somerton. Mark my words.”
She shrugged off his hand and spoke in her loftiest accent. “The only chance of your marrying me, Penhallow, is if you manage to have yourself ordained to perform the office. At which point hell itself”—she stabbed his chest with her forefinger—“will have frozen over in mourning for its lost soul.”
She bolted through the door and into the rain-soaked night. He gazed at the empty space she left behind and brushed his fingertips across his cheek. Her handprint had
lost its sting, leaving only warmth behind.
* * *
Adulteress.
Lilibet hoped the rain would wash away the word, which she could almost feel on her forehead, written in bold scarlet letters, like that poor lady in the book.
What had she done?
She hadn’t. She couldn’t possibly have just spread her legs for Lord Roland Penhallow on the floor of an Italian stable. She couldn’t have held his body inside hers, couldn’t have felt the heat of his skin and his mouth on her breast.
She couldn’t have. Because if she had, everything she knew about herself—her strength, her honor, her implacable sense of duty—was wrong.
But—oh God!—how could she regret it? She loved him so. For more than six long years she’d hidden that love inside her bones, denying its existence even to herself. And the reality of it, of drawing that love from the darkness and into the sunlight at last, had been more perfect and infinite than her most secret imagination. His touch still echoed on her flesh, would echo forever. On her deathbed, she would remember it.
You’ve done—we’ve done—what we were meant to do all along.
No. A beautiful fiction, but only that: a fiction. God had meant her to marry the Earl of Somerton, to bear him a son and heir; to endure all that she could and then to retire and raise that son to manhood.
I’m sure he’ll give you a divorce, when I’ve explained.
Lilibet choked back a laugh and quickened her steps. Oh, priceless. Priceless, the expression on Somerton’s face if he were told that he, who had committed infidelities without number—infidelities of the most shocking sort, as her own eyes had witnessed—was now himself a cuckold.
Perhaps, when his rage had cooled, he might divorce her. Perhaps he wouldn’t. It hardly mattered: Either way, he would remove Philip from her care, from her sight. If he knew where she stood at this instant, he would send someone to take her son away. And though the separation would rend her apart, it was for Philip she feared most. If she had to, she could endure a lifetime of hollow existence, of the shame of divorce and abandonment, without her boy; but she could never condemn Philip to be reared according to his father’s notions of manhood.