“Jane, don’t,” he said, his voice straining, his pain clear.
But she was already turning, she was already ascending the final steps. Even though each step was a fresh stab, even though when she reached the top, she felt gutted. She wouldn’t let herself look back at him.
Stephen knew what true misery was. He’d thought it had been living with a woman who’d only married him for his title. He’d been dead wrong. True misery was the woman he loved not wanting to be with him because he’d betrayed her.
God, what a fool he was! He remembered that conversation with his father, so vividly. He remembered how each word his father spoke had made him angrier and angrier, and how instead of speaking, he’d taken refuge in silence. At the time, he’d justified his actions—or non-action: Jane would never know, and his father’s opinion had no bearing on their relationship, so if he wanted to say hateful things, let him say them. What was his father’s vitriol to him, a man in love?
And what did it matter if he went along with his father’s insidious little plan? He wanted to marry Jane anyway.
But seeing the incident through Jane’s eyes heaped fresh shame upon him. Instead of seeing a man who turned the other cheek out of benevolence, he saw a man who wouldn’t stand up to his father because he never had before, and he didn’t know how, and he was afraid his protests wouldn’t matter anyway. He saw a man who had hurt his wife deeply, unforgivably, with his own cowardice.
Or, more apt, he saw a boy whose father’s approval meant too much. A boy who hadn’t learned to be strong on his own yet.
Still, though he knew what he’d done was unforgivable, he hoped Jane would forgive him. He had her for another week, so he made the most of his week. He traveled outside of London to pick a bouquet of wildflowers for her each day, simply because he knew she preferred wildflowers to hothouse ones. He went with her on her daily walk. He gave her gifts—not jewels, which she didn’t have much use for, but books on animals and sketchings he’d done of her at Goodview House. He even thought about writing a love poem for her, but he’d never been very good with words, and he assumed any attempt on his part would probably just make her sadder.
He did his best, but nothing he did broke down the wall of polite distance she’d erected between them.
There was only one thing left for him to try. One thing he should have done long ago, and that still made fear swell in his chest when he thought of it.
But in the end, fear was eclipsed by a greater, deeper, starker terror. Odd, that his strength should be borne from fear. But he supposed strength was only measured by how much one was willing to lose before they took a stand. Before they reached the one thing they wouldn’t give up for anybody.
Chapter Five
Jane was bombarded with memories. This was her second Midsummer Night’s Ball. The first had marked a beginning and this one marked an ending.
Their carriage rolled up to the front of Hadley House, a structure with a white façade and two large wings branching out from either side. They walked to the front door between tall, fluted columns decorating the portico.
Potted trees wrapped in garlands of wildflowers lined the entrance hall, and lush garlands of ivy and flowers were draped along the walls. They were indoors, but it smelled and looked like a summer night. She remembered walking into the ballroom with her parents, unaware her life was about to change forever.
Now a year had passed. Now the topic of the night was Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, and now Stephen was beside her. She glanced at him when he squeezed her hand. He was staring toward the windows that opened to the balcony, seemingly unaware that his grip had tightened.
She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What is it?”
“I’ll return shortly,” he said.
Without another word, he strode away briskly. Jane occupied herself by looking at the paintings along the walls of the ballroom—erotically charged depictions based off scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her eyes traced the uncovered breasts and hips of Titania, goddess of the fairies.
After a moment, she straightened, hoping no one had seen her studying the painting so aptly. In truth, she wasn’t even paying much attention to the painting, she was wondering where in the world her husband had rushed off to in such a hurry.
Well, she thought, squaring her shoulders. She might as well find out. It wasn’t as though things between them could deteriorate any further. It took her a minute to move around the dancers, who were in the midst of a vigorous quadrille, but eventually she reached the windows. She remembered how the summer breeze had touched her before, had drawn her forward, out onto the balcony.
It drew her forward again.
“Father,” Stephen said, finding him alone on the far corner of the balcony. He’d seen the earl surreptitiously light a cheroot from one of the candles in a gold wall sconce before slipping out into the night. His father had a taste for fine tobacco and often escaped to smoke at some point during the evening.
“Stephen.” The earl nodded.
Stephen gathered his strength around him, and all the while his heart was hammering in his chest like a bird trying to escape a cage. He glanced at the cheroot. “Will you put that out?”
His father stared at him. “I just lit it,” he said, as though Stephen were an imbecile.
“I know,” Stephen replied. “But I want you to go back inside with me.”
“Why?”
He stood up taller. “I want you to apologize to my wife.” He was pleased when the tremor in his body didn’t translate to his voice. He sounded steady. He sounded sure.
The earl laughed. “Whatever for?”
“For the things you said, the day of the wedding.”
His father let the hand with the cheroot in it fall. “What did I say?”
He didn’t even remember what he’d said? How could that be? Every awful word was drilled into Stephen’s soul. And every awful silence. “You called her vulgar.”
His father looked at him coolly. “Stephen, she is vulgar.”
In the face of his father’s disdain, his cold certainty, Stephen wanted to quail. To nod. To say, very well, Father, whatever you say. Except that was exactly what he’d done last time. And he wouldn’t cause the pain he’d seen in his wife’s eyes again for anything.
She deserved better. She deserved more.
His hand curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. The bite of it braced him, pushed him to say what needed to be said.
“No.”
His father dropped his cheroot where it lay, smoking, on stone. “No?”
Such a wonderful word. How had Stephen not realized this before? One little syllable opened an entire universe, a new, exhilarating world—it broke his restraint. It broke years of silently begging for his father’s approval. No, he didn’t need his father’s approval. No, he wouldn’t beg and crawl and scrabble for it. Not now. Not ever again.
“No,” he repeated, his voice cracking like a whip. “I don’t care what you think. I wanted to marry her all along. I don’t find her vulgar…I think she’s beautiful, and I like that she takes in unwanted animals. She has a kind heart, a good heart, too good to leave any creature in distress. And, and she doesn’t smell like the stables! She smells wonderful. Like grass and sunlight. And damn you, and damn me, for making her feel inferior for one second. She is inferior to no one, you…you bloody great bastard!”
A long, strained silence followed the end of his speech. Judging by his father’s mottled skin and agape mouth, Stephen guessed he’d never been called a bloody great bastard before in his life. Well, it was high time someone said it.
“I want you to apologize to her,” he said. “Now. Or I swear I’ll knock you flat.”
His father breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. “Stephen,” he said, almost weakly.
But at the same time, another
voice said his name, more quietly, but that was the voice he heard the most clearly. He turned to find Jane standing behind him. Her face was pale except for two red spots on her cheeks, and silent tears spilled from her eyes.
“Jane,” he breathed.
He was so startled when she flung herself against him that he nearly stumbled, but then her arms were around his neck and his were around her waist and she was crying into his neck and he was holding onto her tightly, feeling a little bit like crying himself.
He kissed the crown of her head, smoothed down her hair simply because he wanted to touch the fiery locks. When Jane drew back, Stephen kept his arm around her waist, unwilling to part with her completely. But there was still one more thing he needed to say. He turned to face his father, who was crunching the fallen cheroot under the heel of his shoe, looking a little embarrassed.
“I’m not George,” Stephen said quietly. “I never will be. And I’m done feeling like I should apologize for it.”
At the mention of his eldest, the earl’s face seemed to tighten. He half-turned, as though shielding a blow. Jane settled her hand on Stephen’s, where it gripped her waist. She squeezed gently, giving him strength with her presence alone.
“I’m your son, too,” he finished. A physical weight seemed to lift from his chest with those final words. He’d told his father everything he felt—there was nothing more to say.
He waited for his father’s response, hoping for the best, but knowing, as he hadn’t known before, that even if it was the worst, he would survive it.
He waited for so long he thought he’d be waiting for ever, but then his father said, “George’s death affected all of us. You are not him, but nor should I expect you to be.” The earl started to walk past, without looking at them, but he stopped when they were level. He glanced at Jane and nodded once, stiffly. “I apologize if I’ve given offense, Lady Somerby.”
He disappeared into the ballroom.
Jane and Stephen stared at each other. “That wasn’t much of an apology,” Stephen began, but at the same time, his wife said, sounding affronted, “What did he mean—You aren’t him?”
They stopped, and then laughed.
“Well,” Jane said. “I suppose he’s not used to examining his emotions. And I didn’t expect any sort of apology at all. All that really matters to me is what you said.”
Stephen put his hands on Jane’s shoulders, turning her to face him. “You’re not leaving tomorrow?” he asked, trepidation tightening his stomach.
She shook her head. “Not unless you’re with me. What you said to him…that was the loveliest thing anyone has ever said about me.” She paused, searching his face. “I know it took courage.”
“All it really took was love,” he said. “I meant every word, Jane.”
She smiled. “I know you did.”
He couldn’t contain his searing joy anymore, couldn’t remain gentlemanly. He knew they were on the balcony and at any moment someone could walk out and discover them, but he kissed her anyway.
By the time he drew back, she looked a little dazed. “I have quite missed that,” she said, laughing under her breath. Her eyes sparkled as she looked out toward the gardens, catching the light from the torches bordering the balcony. She grabbed his hand suddenly, pulling him behind her. “Come with me.”
Didn’t she know he would follow her anywhere?
They walked past a fountain and the cool sound of trickling water. They walked past marble busts of Greek gods underneath flickering candles. They took a few random turns, moving deeper into the fairyland on a nearly unused grass walkway that became narrower and narrower until it seemed to disappear. But then, when they pushed on through the brush for a few more feet, a small, empty alcove opened in the shelter of the trees. There were a few more candles here, dangling from the tree branches, casting a moving light over the alcove.
From further away, they could hear the faint, haunting sounds of a violin playing Beethoven.
Jane turned. “Untie my dress,” she whispered.
He wanted her, but he was hesitant. It seemed their first real time together should be on a feather mattress, in the privacy of their home, where he could spend hours learning her, hours making up for the pain he’d caused. “Here? Are you certain?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything. I want this. I want you.”
His fingers touched her waist. “I hurt you,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow.
“And I held onto my pride to protect myself. I turned cold toward you for months. I hurt you in return,” she said softly. “We have to forgive each other before we can move forward. We have to make a new start.” She turned her head to glance at him over her shoulder. “I want to do it here, where we first met.”
He kissed the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. Breathed her in. Grass and sunshine. The scent spoke to a place deep within him. Yes, they’d hurt each other, but he thought they had more than enough capacity to forgive.
Jane held her breath as her husband unlaced the back of her silk gown. When the dress pooled at her feet, and she stepped out of the cloth, she breathed deeply as though she’d escaped a constraint. This…this was right…the touch of night air on her bare arms and shoulders…Stephen dragging his fingertips across her nape.
She’d thought it was indecent when she had seen that man and woman a year ago doing more or less the same thing she and Stephen were about to do. But it wasn’t indecent.
It was pure and elemental. Everything she’d dreamed of.
He unlaced her stays and discarded them, and then, with a touch of daring, she grasped the skirt of her chemise in her hands and pulled it over her head, leaving her bare from her head to mid-thigh, where her stockings started.
Stephen sucked in a breath. He hadn’t seen her naked from the back, she realized. His fingers traced each ridge of her spine carefully, lovingly. He pressed fluttering kisses to the wings of her shoulders, touched his palms to the downy hair at the hollow of her back, swept downward to follow the shape of her buttocks and upper thighs.
He kissed the place where her shoulder and throat met and then he curled his arm around her, drawing her back along his front, one hand splayed across her stomach. The fine wool of his coat whispered across her bare skin.
As he kissed the side of her throat, he let his hand slide lower, down to her sex, where he touched her exactly the way she’d shown him.
Her head fell back against his shoulder as he played with her, as his fingers delved and teased, pressed and withdrew, gave and took. Eventually, the crescendo built within, but it was too soon. She desperately wanted him inside her. She turned in his arms and kissed him, letting the throbbing between her legs settle to a more manageable ache.
He touched her nipples with wet fingers and her hips jerked almost of their own accord. Well, two could play at this game. She was his wife, wasn’t she? She pressed her hand against his breeches, touched the hard ridge. When he gasped, she took it as encouragement and rubbed her palm along his length in one firm, slow glide.
He broke away from her, chest heaving, his eyes heavy lidded.
The intensity of his gaze left her mouth dry. She licked her lips and his eyes traced the movement. “Take off your clothes, Stephen,” she whispered.
She spread out her chemise and then sat on it, removing shoes and stockings and garters. The thought crossed her mind that they were in the Duke and Duchess of Milton’s garden and someone might inadvertently come across them. If that happened, it would be much better if they were at least partially clothed.
But then Stephen was taking off his spectacles and shrugging out of his coat, and she was too caught up in the fascination of watching him to remember her worries. Witnessing her husband unbutton his waistcoat, unknot his cravat, was oddly intimate. She’d missed it the first time—this time, she was determined to keep her eyes open.
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She lay back against the chemise as he walked toward her, his erection jutting out from his body.
“It looks a bit unwieldy,” she commented. “Popping out at odd moments and what not.”
He laughed. “Yes, well, it serves its purpose.”
She remembered the way he’d felt inside her, and a smile curved her lips. “Indeed.”
His laughter faded as she drew him down on top of her. For a moment, he simply looked down at her, cradled between her open legs. He smoothed a loose tendril of her hair between his fingers. “Your hair reminds me of a sunset. I thought that the first time I saw you.”
He took her thigh in his hand, moving her leg to accommodate him. And as he pushed into her body, he groaned. “Don’t ever think I don’t love you.”
She angled her hips to take him, to draw him deep, exactly where he belonged. “Or I you,” she whispered.
The tree branches swayed above them. Candle flame flickered like stars. The violin’s song floated on the breeze, mingling with the trill of a nightingale, and grass prickled against the back of her neck. But overpowering all of these impressions was Stephen—his eyes, the angles of a face she’d first thought plain, and now thought lovely, his breath against her ear. He became a part of herself.
“You’re everything to me,” he said. “Everything.”
He thrust faster and her knees dug into his waist. She smoothed her hands over his chest, following the smattering of hair that went down the center of it. She whimpered as he reached between them with one hand and touched her.
“When I see you, I think of light.”
Her body began to tremble, and though she’d vowed to keep her eyes open the entire time, they shut at the last moment, just as she hit the peak, just as time seemed to stop around them. But against the darkness, she felt her husband, warm and strong, and he felt like light.
Somehow, they managed to right themselves and not look like they’d just had a tumble in the grass. Or at least not entirely. Jane could tell her hair was a bit mussed, and Stephen’s lips looked bruised. But hopefully no one would notice.
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