The air between them seemed thick with unspoken meaning. And promise. Faith swallowed and put her hand to her throat as if her lace collar were suddenly too tight.
His admiration was too much. But he’d not act on it. She strained to see the sincerity in his eyes and was rewarded with it a hundred-fold. Why did he not see the need to hide his feelings as she did?
“I’m sorry, Miss Montague, but it’s time to submerge yourself, once again.”
Faith put her hand in his palm as he helped her into the bath. It was a curiously intimate gesture, and she imagined herself suddenly stepping into a bath as most ladies did, without clothing. Did he, also? Is that why he blushed?
She hadn’t meant to immerse herself so quickly that her skirts skimmed up to her thighs before she was able to smooth them.
Lady Vernon would have been pleased to have caught the flare of desire in his bright, blue eyes, but it was not what Faith sought right now. Not now that she’d sworn off the plan.
The plan.
What should she do? What could she do? She caught Lady Vernon’s eagle eyes upon her and said, “Is this the effect you were hoping to achieve, Mr Westaway? Will you want me to wear this dress tomorrow?” She smiled up at him. “Did you choose it?”
“There was a certain stiffness to your previous attire that did not accord with the vision I had in mind.”
“So, you did choose it!” She sounded as delighted as she felt, even though she knew it was unwise.
“I went into the village and sought the offices of a dressmaker who knew exactly what I was talking about. She also happens to be a proponent of the Arts and Crafts movement, and she had a loose-flowing gown she’d made for herself that just fitted the bill. I’m delighted it suits you so well.”
“And I’m delighted you have such a good eye, Mr Westaway.”
He smiled warmly. “I’ve always spied out quality, Miss Montague.”
“And where is Lord Delmore today?” she asked as Mr Westaway slid behind his easel and picked up his paintbrushes.
“Do you miss him?”
She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Should I? I thought he was being instructed by you in the art of painting; that he was thinking of dabbling in painting himself and that was why he was always with you.”
“I think you misunderstand his motives, Miss Montague. Now, if you could stretch your neck a little. Yes, that’s right, you have a very beautiful neck, and the dress shows that to perfection.”
“Does that mean you’ll have to start the painting again?”
“Only in the close-up of you and it won’t take too long to alter. I’ll be finished by the deadline in three days.” He paused. “I will need you to suffer spending a little longer in the bath today, though. I hope you won’t be too cramped. I promise I’ll work as quickly as I can.”
“Of course.” Faith stretched her limbs and pointed her toes. The iron tub was enormous, and she could float freely. It was quite liberating, though she’d have enjoyed it more if the water were a little warmer.
“Lady Vernon, are the candles lit beneath? It’s a little cold.”
Lady Vernon did not seem impressed. “There are five candles burning, Faith. Please don’t complain. Mr Westaway has work to do, and you mustn’t keep interrupting.” She rose. “This is no place for an old woman with arthritic limbs. I shall fetch Molly to sit in.”
Mr Westaway didn’t try to fill the silence when she’d gone. Nor did he seem to notice that Molly had not come to take Lady Vernon’s place. He seemed intent on his painting, the brush moving rapidly now, his face with a mask of concentration.
The minutes ticked by leaden and slow for Faith, who was feeling the cold seep into her bones and feared asking Mr Westaway to relight the candles which had gone out some time ago.
She shivered, and her teeth chattered.
Surely, he’d notice and come to her rescue.
The light began to fade outside casting long, gloomy shadows across the room.
Still Mr Westaway worked, completely absorbed. In fact, never had Faith seen him so animated as his brush flew across the canvas. She dared not interrupt.
In the depths of the house, the grandfather clock struck seven o’ clock. Faith had been in the bath for two hours. She tried to breathe, but was shivering too much.
She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
If was as if her body were caving in on itself suddenly. It had happened so gradually, but now the impact was swift. She didn’t know if she had the strength to ever move again. She was going to drown all over again but on the inside.
Perhaps she gave a soft moan for Mr Westaway looked up suddenly, and as his eyes locked with hers, it was as if he were only seeing her, the person, for the first time in all his frenzied painting, for he dropped his brush and strode forward, crouching by the side of the bath.
“Miss Montague?” He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge him. Perhaps he saw that she was incapable. Certainly, the speed with which he rose and whisked her out of the bath and against him belonged to a man motivated by urgency.
She was shivering so hard now she couldn’t speak. Her teeth chattered, and her body convulsed.
“Dear God, what have I done to you?” Seizing a towel, he wrapped her in it, squeezing the water out of her skirts so that it puddled on the floor and down his trouser legs. He paused, cradling her against him. She had her eyes shut, so she didn’t see what expressions crossed his face, but the next moment, he’d hoisted her into his arms and was striding out of the bathroom and along the corridor to the servants’ stairs, his footsteps echoing on the bare boards. This was not a part of the house frequented by the likes of Mr Westaway, yet it appeared they met no one. Not that Faith cared too much.
She was going to die of cold. Her bones ached to the very marrow, and her head ached. How had it happened so fast? Why had she let it happen? Her thoughts had wandered so very far away. Away to what freedom might feel like if she ever got out of the prison of her making. Of Mrs Gedge’s making.
She felt his hand on her as he lay her on something that yielded slightly. A bed.
The ceiling was dark and unfamiliar. Not her room. Not a room a gentleman would inhabit, she realised vaguely. The servants’ attics or a musty room somewhere else.
“It was the closest.” She felt his warm breath against her forehead.
The bathroom was tacked onto a little-used part of the house; she knew that. Knew also that he was not going to strip her naked and have his way with her when she was vulnerable. Yes, cold she might be, but she was not insensible. A girl who traded on her wits and who didn’t intend landing in the gutter couldn’t afford not to have a semblance of consciousness of what was going on around her.
But she was so cold. The spasm that tore through her and his hesitancy following the light hand on her chest, not her breasts for he was a gentleman and would remain one, she was certain of that, banished his diffidence.
He began to work the row of tiny buttons at the front of her gown quickly, stripping her dress over her shoulders and down to her waist while she wriggled to help him. For the gown was like an icy mantle, and she was desperate to get warm. Desperate to feel warmth against her frozen skin.
His warmth.
Reaching out, she closed her hands about his wrists, and he stopped.
“Make me warm.” Her hands found his thighs, the rough fabric of his trousers. Wet. Like the rest of him as he’d held her, dripping against him.
It was only reasonable he get warm and dry too. She didn’t say it, but her seeking hands and the expression she levelled at him made her thoughts clear.
She reached out her arms for him, and one glance at her face was enough, for then he was tearing at his necktie, unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat, stripping off his trousers.
All with the urgency and attention to what came next that she required.
The thought of skin to skin contact was like a burning obsession, although only conceived of in the minutes
she’d spent conjuring them up while lying on the bed.
Before, it had been a necessary precursor to her freedom.
Now it was a raging want, and as he lowered himself into her arms and his hard, naked chest pressed against her breasts, she thought she would die of desire.
Warmth sizzled between them, his heated skin instantly communicating to her everything she needed, whipping up sensations she had no idea were possible in her carefully controlled human sphere.
“Hold me,” she whispered, wrapping her arms and legs about him and pulling him tight. “Please.”
He was as naked as she, and the searing contact lit a fire within her belly.
Desire? Is this what it felt like? She, who’d imagined she was immune was now as desperate as any common doxy to fuel the fires of the man in her embrace for her own ends. She wanted love; she wanted passion; she wanted human connection.
Sliding beneath the covers, they curled into each other, his warmth heating her all over, his erection pressing into her belly; strengthening her from within. Powerful. She felt it of her own accord and because of his worship, for that’s what it felt like. As if he were imbuing her with a strength she could only experience through honouring this connection between them.
His lips found hers, lighting her up from inside, thrilling her with sensations she’d not thought possible.
She rolled on top of him, straddling him as she cupped his face, kissing him back with passion. What did it matter that the motion came naturally, observed during her time at Madame Chambon’s though never acted upon until now. It gave her power and negated any gentlemanly requirement to question her desire to proceed.
She could no more have halted the escalation of raging need to take this to its culmination than tell him she never wanted to see him again.
For she wanted to see him…be with him…now…forever.
In all her life, Faith had never craved physical contact with another person for any length of time. Her body had never reacted to another human being as it did now. Conscious thought disappeared; instinct took over, and it was the most fulfilling, liberating moment of her life when he rolled her beneath him, and his mouth found her breast.
“Oh!” she cried, desperate for what she did not know. Only that the suckling of her nipple was the most delicious torment she’d ever experienced. Meanwhile, her seeking hands liked what they found. His young body was strong, hard and…responsive.
She pushed back the hair that flopped over his forehead, and her eyes caught his as he positioned himself at her entrance.
Oh, she was more than ready. She was more than wanting.
She sucked in a breath, and a small smile was all he needed to continue with what could never have been stopped with all the will in the world.
He slid into her, eliciting a brief jerk of surprised pain that was quickly subsumed by all the delicious sensations that followed.
This was nothing like she’d expected. And so much more than she’d ever hoped for, when hope was something that seemed reserved for other people.
She clung to him and moved with him, loving the knowledge that he was in another sphere, and that she’d taken him to pleasures unknown. That’s what it felt like, with his breathing fast and shallow and his sighs responsive to her slightest movement.
His body spoke to hers as if they were made for one another. Sweat slicked her once-icy skin. Sizzling sensation tore across her nerve endings. Inside, her body was experiencing a firestorm of its own; a raging conflagration divorced from the pleasure that flooded her mind.
With a cry, he thrust into her one final time, flinging his arm about her and pulling her tightly against his chest before, panting, he lay on his back, eyes closed, face raised to the ceiling.
Faith curled into him; her free hand stroking his chest, lingering over his nipples, making him jerk and smile as she toyed with him.
“My darling,” he muttered, opening one eye and staring down at her.
She didn’t pretend to be coy or shy away from him. She had bled, and thank God he need have no doubts that he had indeed taken a virgin.
But that was academic. Faith wasn’t going to let him go.
Not now, not ever.
* * *
Crispin was infused with new genius. His paintbrush had acquired magical powers. A life of its own. In the early morning, with the light as sharp as could be achieved on another gloomy day, he painted the glorious creature who floated in the bath and who gazed up at him through lazy, half-lidded eyes.
The water was comfortably warm, and the candles would continue to be refreshed. He wasn’t about to lose her to some foolish preoccupation with his art though, lord, he wasn’t sorry by what had precipitated this descent into madness.
It was madness, but he wasn’t about to call it out for what it was and deny the possibilities that lay before them.
Them. He was not a young man to downplay what was real. Denial had been hard won during the drawn-out process accepting her as the helpmate of his future.
She’d arrived too early in his life, but he recognised her for what she was—the wife he’d spend his life looking for if he didn’t claim her now.
And he’d claimed her as surely and effectively as a man of his moral code could.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Montague?” he said above the clicking of Lady Vernon’s knitting needles.
“Quite, thank you, Mr Westaway.” She flicked a covert, meaning-laden smile at him, managed through half an open eye, and he was satisfied. Their communication was as subtle as needed to be with a chaperone on standby, and as satisfying as any lust-craven gentleman could want.
Having sinned once, there would be no impediments to strengthening the precious, fragile bond through further sinning.
He would wed her, there was no doubt of that, and in the process, restore her immortal soul.
The precious enigma that she was would be in no doubt that his intentions, when all was said and done, were honourable. And by making that clear, she’d dispense with the inhibitions that, extraordinarily, had not been in evidence when they’d sinned the first time.
No, she was pure, that was not in doubt, yet he’d unleashed in her a primal desire that surely every man would ache to have as the essential makeup of the woman to whom God had joined and no man must put asunder.
“The water is not too cool for you, Miss Montague?”
“Slightly, Mr Westaway, but your painting must come first before I warm myself.”
And that, you will not do without my help, Miss Montague, he thought, though his glance made that clear enough for she slanted a secret smile at him, instantly regaining her former gravitas when Lady Vernon dropped her knitting and stared for a long moment between the two of them.
But the old woman did not suspect. How could she? She was a dried-up husk of a creature with no understanding of human passion.
Miss Montague reared up before him, water dripping from her hair and dress, spattering the floor as she reached for linen with which to dry herself.
“Forgive me, I suddenly couldn’t stay there a moment longer.”
“Faith, you were not given permission!” Her chaperone was angry, and Crispin enjoyed seeing the flint in his beloved’s eye as she stood her ground, pretending she didn’t care that her actions compromised Crispin’s ability to paint the picture that would earn him his place in the world.
There was no doubt this was a masterpiece in the making. She was his inspiration, his muse, and another night in her arms would solidify the power of creation, of genius, that would elevate this painting above the rest.
“The cold has a habit of seizing one suddenly. Taking one captive, Lady Vernon,” he soothed. “Let Faith leave now if she must.”
The old lady was not pleased, it amused him to see. It amused him even more to see how well Faith played the pliant schoolgirl with the invisible armour that suddenly sprouted metal spikes when her ire was aroused. He wondered what words were exchanged when the two of t
hem were alone and Miss Westaway was defending her need to break what Lady Vernon surmised was the contract between them.
The contract that had been rewritten.
Chapter 18
The words that were in fact exchanged between Faith and her chaperone of course bore no resemblance to any he might have surmised.
“You can’t behave like a prima donna or you’ll never get his measure.”
“You think I haven’t already?” Faith glared, wanting to taunt Lady Vernon and keep her wondering, yet wanting her to know that Faith had succeeded so beautifully already.
But caution and the long game stilled her tongue, so she merely looked enigmatic when Lady Vernon demanded to know what she meant.
“You have three days, Faith. Three days to enslave him, torture him.” Lady Vernon’s nostrils flared. “Ruin him.” The old lady stared out of the window as she toyed with the brush she was about to use on Faith’s tangled tresses. “And then it will be time to live your own dreams.” She looked so enraptured by this thought that Faith could have imagined she was living Faith’s life in her own mind.
Faith sat down on a wooden chair in the centre of the room and held her head erect, waiting for Lady Vernon to play servant. How she did enjoy that. The old woman was a parasite; a cosseted creature born to a life of leisure, but too unattractive to snare the attention of a protector, so that as she aged, she had nothing but her own resources to draw upon.
Faith didn’t need a protector. She was too clever. And, unlike Lady Vernon, she had multiple resources to draw upon: youth, beauty, wit, intellect, education.
Mrs Gedge had equipped her with the tools to exact the other woman’s evil revenge, but Faith would turn the tables with a pure heart.
It strengthened Faith to know that her vitriol had a pure edge. She wasn’t truly bad, as she’d once believed. Love had freed her, cleansed her. Her words and actions towards Mr Westaway were motivated now by truth and honesty; honesty in that she feigned nothing of her feelings.
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