He saw her eyes widen in surprise, a brief flicker of discomfort. He stopped, impaled by contradictory needs. Every muscle in his body trembled with restraint and hunger. Then her arms pulled him in and her teeth were sinking eagerly into his shoulder, and he knew with sudden awed certainty that Cat wanted this, too.
He drove deeply, slowly, within the tight, velvety embrace, joyfully aware that her small fear had died before it had fully lived.
He felt the thickening pleasure of it, the erotic pumping, the thrust and retreat. Grinding his teeth together, he felt her legs strain about his hips, taking them both to the flash point. He lifted his head, baring his teeth with the exquisite, driving sensuality of it. And so, his body pulsing, his thrusts culminating in a shattering release, finding he could not lose himself while making love to Cat, Thomas finally found himself.
Chapter 31
And you shall allow me to turn the library into a sumptuous Oriental pagoda,” Cat said, catching Thomas’s hand in hers. “I will strew the floors with pillows, and hang stuffed, gilded cranes from the ceiling. I’ll have Bob affect a pigtail. Or maybe you.” She was flirting outrageously, a saucy gleam in her eye as she tugged at Thomas’s long hair.
As usual, he was confounded by the response her slightest touch elicited from him. Even here, in the circumspect confines of a fabric broker, in the full light of day, he felt his attraction grow. Gently, he replaced her hand on his forearm, safely adding the barrier of shirt and coat material between their skin At least, it should have been safe.
Cat frowned, disappointed he wouldn’t join in her play, hurt for a moment by the gentle, unvoiced rebuke before leaving him to join the Brighton merchant in exclaiming over his tables of brocade, satins, and silks.
Thomas felt like a satyr.
He had spent their wedding night cradling her love-dampened body close, watching her as she fell into deep, exhausted slumber. He had let his hand flow over her recumbent form, savoring the luxury of being able to do so, telling himself it was enough. Liar, his conscience had whispered, as excitement exploded amidst simple appreciation.
Thomas had thought he knew how keen a blade desire was. But this cut deeply and mercilessly, paring away the veneer of discipline he struggled to maintain. And he could not control it, could not bring peace to the hunger that burned in him. God knows, he tried. For the past ten days he had tried.
For, he told himself, though he had wed Cat, he had yet to win her. Promising himself he would woo her tenderly, he set out to gain her trust, her respect, and ultimately her love. He had to. Having given his own heart absolutely, he could be satisfied with nothing less in return.
He escorted her to the various places he thought would interest her. They discussed Mr. Coke’s progressive land practices, politics, economics. And during the day Thomas managed to disguise his craving, proving to himself he could be an undemanding suitor.
It was a temporary reprieve.
He appalled himself with his need of her. He would force himself to leave her after dinner, stalking the darkened streets of Brighton for an hour, an hour and a half, two hours, before he would allow himself to return to her, striding with unseemly haste to her door, holding his breath as he waited. Would she welcome him as she had before? Would she greet him with that joyous smile, the shimmering, fully aware gaze of a lover? Could it happen again?
And each night had been a gift. Throughout the insufficient hours of darkness, Thomas made Cat burn for him as he burned for her, using every bit of his expertise to ignite within her the flames with which she so effortlessly seared him.
Cat strode back to him, a victorious expression on her face. “The shopkeeper has promised delivery within a fortnight. At my prices.”
“As always, m’dear, you drive a hard bargain,” Thomas replied, opening the door to the street and bowing politely as she passed, giving the gossip mongers no cause to turn their avid gaze on his self-possessed manner toward her. He could give Cat the days, as long as she allowed him the nights.
Cat twirled slowly in front of the mirror. Her new French maid, Annette, stood behind her, thin hands clasped, a smile of approval on her sharp-featured face.
“Madame looks most ravishing!”
“You think so?”
A soft rap alerted her to Thomas’s presence at the door between their rooms. He had made arrangements for the adjoining suites the day after their wedding. Cat had been delighted, eager to experience all the familiarities of marriage. She wanted to be allowed the intimacy of waking up and finding Thomas beside her, his long hair rumpled, the bleached white of the bed linen contrasting with the dark tan of his strong body.
Each night he came to her and she felt she would expire in his embrace. He called forth from her body a pleasure that was devastating in its intensity.
The hours became a timeless maelstrom of explicit gratification. And each culmination was only a precursor to the next until, tender and swollen with his possession, her muscles exhausted with tension and release, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
But each morning she awoke to find Thomas had left while she slept. Then, shortly after Annette had arrived to dress her, he would appear at her door, knocking softly, asking politely if he might enter. Thus began their days.
It was as though she had wed two different men. The daytime Thomas was controlled, amusing, reserved; the midnight Thomas was a hot-eyed lover who impelled her along the rapier-sharp crest of pleasure, demanding and spurring her to erotic action.
She had thought she knew Thomas. But in his role as her husband, he was nearly unrecognizable. And she felt awkward. She had always taken pride in her unblushing pragmatism, her hardheaded logic. But now she felt vulnerable. She was confused by his attitude and unwilling to broach the subject of his demeanor, at least until she felt surer of his feelings.
That he wanted her body was obvious. But did he love her?
Cat wanted that. She wanted that hot-eyed lover to come to her door in the day, convention be damned. She was certain that none of his other lovers had made Thomas forget himself, had been able to push him past his perfect self-containment. Cat wanted to do that, too. For, as much as she gloried in his body’s possession, she wanted his heart.
Just once she wished he would look at her with something other than considerate attention—damn society’s eye—and kiss her. Indeed, right now she’d be happy if he just would forswear knocking on the drat door every time he was about to enter.
She toyed with the idea of allowing him to stand there until he got tired enough to enter without asking her permission. Abandoning the notion, she sighed and called for him to come in.
She smiled in greeting until she saw his startled expression. “What is wrong?”
“Your outfit, m’dear,” Thomas said, “it is most… youthful.”
Doubtfully, Cat looked down at the heavy flounces of white muslin gathered in tiny satin rosettes. The high, conspicuously modest bodice was inset with a pristine section of palest pink lace. Long sleeves ended in the same. Rosebuds peeked out of her carefully controlled coiffure.
“You don’t like it.”
“It is very ingenuous.”
Cat wrinkled her nose. “In other words, you feel as though the curate’s lady has shown up in place of your wife.”
Thomas grinned.
“You are right, Thomas,” Cat said, answering his thoughts as accurately as if he’d spoken aloud, “We have given society enough entertainment without now offering them a comedy.” She turned to Annette. “I am sure your intentions are most laudable, Annette, but I am a married lady and cannot suddenly appear in a debutante’s getup. It would only excite untoward comment. The bottle green dress, please.”
Cat started to loosen the fastening at her neck.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No. I mean, ’tisn’t necessary. I will go behind the screen.”
Wonderful test of my self-restraint, mused Thomas, to be privy to a view of Cat’s charms under
the interested gaze of the dragon-like Annette. The Frenchwoman regarded him suspiciously, as though he were some half-tamed beast about to launch himself at her mistress. She may well be right.
“Thomas,” Cat called from behind the screen, “a footman brought up a note for you. It’s on the mantel.”
He picked up the envelope, glad of something to distract him from Cat’s dishabille or even imagining her dishabille. He scanned the letter before crumpling it in his fist.
Damn! He must learn to avoid Brighton in the future. Each time he was in residence, Seward managed to run him to ground. The note was a request for a meeting.
He considered denying the colonel before remembering that it was Seward’s timely intervention that had led Thomas to Cat in Paris. Thomas always paid his debts. Besides, Giles Dalton was apparently going to tag along on the interview.
“Cat, I have some business to attend to this afternoon.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you might take Annette and find a way to amuse yourself? The circulating library, Fisher’s, is reputed to be well stocked.”
Cat’s head peeped out from the side of the elaborately carved screen. Her face was puzzled. “Yes, of course, Thomas. I shall spend my luncheon with Marcus. He leaves for Bellingcourt this afternoon.”
“Good. You’ll have a pleasant time without me. I doubt your brother will ever forgive me the irregularity of our wedding.”
“I begin to fear you are right.” Cat emerged from behind the screen in a fashionable gown. Its low, square neck was unadorned except for the creamy white swells of her bosom.
Control, Thomas abjured himself sternly, offering her his arm and a polite smile. “But how shall we spend the morning?”
Chapter 32
Seward and Strand arrived just before noon, well ahead of their proposed schedule. Giles looked tired. Seward, slender and unbending, appeared as he always did, remote and inhuman.
Strand stepped forward, extending his hand. “My congratulations on your marriage, Thomas.”
A wry smile tilted one corner of Thomas’s mouth. “Thank you, Giles.”
Seward only nodded, keeping the distance that had always been between him and Thomas a physical one. “I would like to add my sentiments to those of Lord Strand.”
Thomas looked from one to the other. Both men seemed uneasy. Strand shifted on his feet. Seward became, if possible, even more rigidly upright.
“I suspect congratulations are not the only reason for your visit.” He motioned the two men to take seats before the table. It was still littered with the leavings of his morning tea. Cat’s reticule lay abandoned on the floor. He smiled at this physical reminder of her reality in his life.
“No. I wish it were.”
“Napoleon is on the march,” Seward said without preamble. “Lord Strand gathered some information before leaving France that suggested Napoleon would be satisfied to retake Paris. That is why he was able to return to England so quickly. We thought the situation would remain static for a while.
“But now things have changed. We have learned that Napoleon is seeking to use the present discontent amongst the allies to his advantage and gather a force while Wellington is in Brussels.”
“And what has this to do with me?”
“The men we will be able to muster to meet this challenge are not seasoned veterans. Our troops in France are merely ceremonial ones. Even the allied forces are green, the soldiers who fought in the Peninsula having disbanded with Napoleon’s removal to Elba.”
Thomas nodded without saying a word.
“We have few qualified men available on such short notice. We need experienced campaigners to command the men,” Seward said.
“You must be thankful to have Strand here,” Thomas said sardonically.
“Pretty damn quick to throw me to the wolves, aren’t you, Thomas?”
“Not as quick as you, apparently,” Thomas replied obliquely and a dusky-hued color flooded Strand’s clear complexion.
Seward cleared his throat. “Enlisting you was my idea, Thomas. I asked Strand the favor of using whatever influence he might have.”
“I believe Wellington might be able to rout a few Frenchmen without my aid,” Thomas said.
“That’s just it, Thomas,” said Strand. “They are not ‘a few Frenchmen.’ Reports come in daily that Napoleon is mustering a large force. The Royalist Fifth vacillated all of twenty minutes before swearing renewed allegiance to him at Grenoble.”
“Damn, you say!”
“Lord Strand is correct,” said the colonel. “Our need for leaders is pressing. In your own way, you command as much respect amongst the enlisted men under you as Wellington.”
“Being part and parcel of their untitled ranks?”
“As you say,” Seward agreed smoothly. “We might spend hours sitting here evaluating the merits of your reinstatement as captain. But you already know all the reasons you should accept. It only remains to be seen if you will.”
There was a long moment of silence. Duty, clinging jade that she was, would not be gainsaid. Thomas was not vain enough to judge himself more qualified to lead than others. He assumed he was merely one of the few left to lead. Added to which, he was all too familiar with Napoleon’s tactics and the feints, shifts, and thrusts of his military campaigns. If Thomas did not go, he would certainly be responsible for avoidable deaths.
How could he hope to win Cat’s love if he had no respect for himself? But to leave her! To make the grim wager he would return to her unscathed, whole of limb and mind?
What choice did he have? If he stayed, he would be consigned to offer Cat a pitiful excuse for a man. “Yes.”
The two men were too well bred to be visibly pleased, but there was a lessening of tension in their stances.
“You might try to curb your rather indelicate and offensive relief,” Thomas said.
“How will you tell Cat?” Strand asked.
“I shall lay the fault at your door, Strand.”
Seward cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the two friends. “I must leave forthwith for the Continent. I wish to express my recognition of the sacrifice you make on behalf of your country, Montrose.”
It was clearly a difficult thing for Seward to say, a tentative step toward breaching the chasm between them. Thomas found himself nodding, not yet willing to embrace the overture, but not totally discounting it.
“I am hoping to learn to accept that the worth of a man is not predestined by his social circumstances. My own included. Your servant, Montrose, Lord Strand.” Seward made a sharply correct bow and left.
“The colonel had best watch these suspicious tendencies toward introspection,” murmured Thomas, “or he might yet discover he’s human.”
“You might be misjudging him, Thomas,” Giles said.
“Misjudging him? He is so often already there, ahead of us all, misjudging others. Though honesty compels me to admit, he had my measure.”
“He just knew what salt to use in what wound.”
Thomas laughed. “Strand, your steadfastness is one of your few truly sterling qualities.”
“And you have always had a conceited view of your own shortcomings.”
“No,” said Thomas, suddenly quieting. “I know myself well. As does the colonel. He had the right of it, Strand. All his speculation was founded on fact. I did enter his service for the most repellent of reasons. I was bored.”
“You were of service to your country, Thomas.”
“I was of service to myself. I know there were men who were willing to tolerate the excesses, the subterfuge, for a piece of potentially pertinent information. These men were motivated by patriotism, loyalty, and conviction… I was not one of their number.
“But my greatest sin was taking so long to appreciate that fact. Even an addiction would be preferable to what motivated me. For I was compelled simply by the thrill of it. When I finally awoke to what I had become it was too late to get out. Too much depended on m
y continued services. On my usefulness.
“God!” swore Thomas. “How I grew to loathe it! The dirty convenience of it. The necessary evil. How many did I cajole, threaten, browbeat, seduce, into betraying themselves and their country? How many people believed my lies?” he asked, knowing there would be no answer.
“It’s an occupation that licks away at a man’s self-respect, Strand, until one’s very soul becomes a wound abraded by the rough tongue of deceit.” Recalling himself, Thomas smiled apologetically. “Forgive my histrionics. I fear I judged Seward too harshly. If he is discovering his humanity, it is no less than I hope for myself. Can that be so bad?”
Strand shrugged. “Seward has spent thirty years trying to disprove the fact that he is a man much like other men, given to the same weaknesses, bigotries, and failings. It must be deuced uncomfortable to find one has a heart after so many years of failing to recognize it.”
Thomas shot a sharp look at Strand.
“You needn’t be concerned, Thomas. I shall not pant after your wife, trying to lure her behind the potted ferns to steal a kiss.”
“It doesn’t worry me in the least, Giles.”
“My! You have an overblown notion of my integrity. I don’t know if I would be so trusting were the roles reversed.” There was the faintest tinge of bitterness in Strand’s well-modulated tones.
Thomas smiled. “First, while I do trust you, it is only so far as not to make an ass of yourself. It is Cat who is incapable of nefarious activity. You would find yourself fondling the fern and nothing more. Second, if by some chance the roles were reversed, I would not hesitate to pursue Cat relentlessly, everywhere and at all times.
“She doesn’t love you, you see.” Thomas’s tone was not unkind. “And the barest possibility that she might come to love me would be impetus enough to send me in pursuit of her, regardless of any sanctions state or church or society has devised.”
Promise Me Heaven Page 27