by Lavinia Kent
He leaned forward. “I am not sure it’s even about that anymore. I thought I knew you and now I find I don’t. You are not at all the woman I knew.”
Violet glared back at him. That had been her point all along. Peter didn’t know her. He knew her body, but not her mind. If he really knew her he would never have dreamed of marriage.
She sat back.
She should just tell him what she was thinking—tell him he was correct. How could he argue if she told him he was right? He would argue, though, and then she would need to defend herself.
She was tired. She didn’t want to fight anymore.
There was only one way she knew not to fight. Leaving was the only option. She pushed back her chair and turned away from him.
“Who’s the running child now? Aren’t you even going to say good night?” His taunt froze her feet to the ground.
“I haven’t been a child in many a year. I merely do not wish to continue this discussion. I do not care for argument. We are not getting anywhere. I never wanted to fight with you.” Why did she sound so hoarse?
“Then come here and tell me that.” He turned his chair from the table so that she could walk right up to him. She measured the space with her eyes. It was a dare.
She stepped forward. One step. Two.
She halted a few feet before him.
“I don’t understand the reason for this exercise, but here I am. Do you wish me to try to explain? I would try, but I am afraid I will never make you understand.”
He stood. She was left staring at the elaborate knot of his cravat. He reached out and placed a finger under her chin, raising her gaze to meet his.
“No, I don’t think anything you can say, or perhaps I should say will say, can improve the situation,” he said. “And I certainly have no wish to argue—it’s why I always leave. I refuse to fight when there can be no winner, so why do we do it?”
She stared up at him, into those clear brown eyes that should be worshipping her, not dissecting her like the fillet of trout.
She took a half step forward. “I don’t know. I think we have said all there is to say, and yet when we are near I cannot help myself.”
He tilted her chin further, then splayed his fingers across her cheek, his thumb stroking her lower lip. His eyes were no longer harsh as they followed the pattern his thumb traced.
She parted her lips. It felt so good to be touched again. She leaned her cheek into his palm, his calluses rasping against her skin. She closed her mouth slightly, the soft inner skin rubbing against his palm.
She opened and closed again, nipping.
He did not move away.
She ran her tongue along the flesh pad at the base of his thumb. His whole body tensed.
He dropped his arm. Her face felt cold without his hand.
He did not move away.
Their gazes remained locked.
She placed a hand upon his chest and pushed. He held firm, then settled back into his chair. She stepped forward, coming to stand between his hard thighs.
Her hand trailed across his chest. He was so warm beneath the linen. She caught a button, rolling it between her fingers. She slipped it open, then another.
He did not protest.
One more button and she slipped her hand under his shirt, feeling the wiry hair of his chest. She swirled her fingers through it, loving the way it sprang beneath her fingers. She caught some and pulled lightly.
His breath caught and his eyes grew even darker, black pools shimmering. She inhaled, caught up in his desire.
She pulled again, then ran her hand fully across him, the nub of his nipple poking against her palm. She circled the nipple with a finger, watching him shiver at her every touch. She pushed his shirt open wider, so that her eager eyes could see the wonder of his chest, heavy muscles, smooth skin, and the tempting sprinkling of coarse hair leading downward.
She let her hand follow the path, moving her finger in ever shrinking circles down his belly. Just as she reached his navel, he caught her hand, held it tight, almost crushing.
She thought he would stop her, but instead he yanked her forward, bringing her fully against him. He grasped the back of her scalp, moving her face to his.
The kiss was devouring. Lips pressed. Mouths fully open. Tongues battling. She was both engulfed and engulfing.
Their teeth ground. She could taste the wine he’d had with dinner, smell the smoke of his cheroot still caught in his hair.
Then she could not think, only feel—his tongue circled her teeth, darted in, darted out, but always gaining ground.
She surrendered, let him take her where he would.
His hands came around her face, held her tighter then pushed her back.
She stared at him, chest heaving, trying to find a breath. She ran her tongue over her lips, over the taste of him.
“Damn.” It sounded more a blessing than a curse as he spoke. He brought a hand to his own swollen lips. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
She could not move. He could not mean to stop.
“I—” She tried to speak.
“This can’t happen, much as I want it to.” His voice was gentle, more so than she would have expected under the circumstances. His brow was lined with strain.
She caught his hand and brought it her chest, held it there, making no demands. She brushed her other hand across his brow, easing the heavy furrows.
“Why?” she asked. “What difference does one more time make? We clearly both need it. Maybe that is why we keep fighting.” She leaned forward, her thighs pressing hard against him. She ran her hand down his face, his chest, his stomach, down to the apex of his thighs. She caressed him through his trousers, loving the hard, heavy feel of him.
He sighed as her fingers closed about him, his head falling back revealing the long, lean lines of his throat above the edge of his cravat. It was still tied. With her other hand she grabbed an end and pulled till it trailed down his chest.
“It should matter.” He sighed, but did not stop her. His legs sprawled further.
She knelt between his thighs, laying soft kisses across his chest, savoring the salty taste, then she moved lower. “Let me do this for you. It can mean whatever you want. I did not mean to hurt you. Let me do this.”
He should stop her. Peter buried his hands in Violet’s hair, ready to push her back and instead held her tighter to him. He had never been so aroused. He would die if she stopped touching him.
Her hands stopped and he heard himself moan in protest. He felt the fastenings on his trousers open and then her hands were on him, warm flesh to warm flesh, kneading, cupping, stretching.
God, he was purring. Helpless.
When her mouth moved lower he wanted to cry out his thanks. She ran her tongue along his straining arousal and his thighs clenched uncontrollably.
It was bliss. He closed his eyes and gave in, his hands still holding her head, guiding her. She circled the crown of his erection, again and again. His fingers tangled in her soft hair and he gasped as her hands cupped him from below, while her tongue worked its magic above.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her. She was fully engaged in her ministrations, but her eyes were on his face. When she saw him watching she circled him again with her tongue, her eyes full of power and mischief—and joy.
His eyes sank shut again from sheer pleasure, but the look on her face stayed with him. Joy. He’d never seen such a look of happiness and contentment about her before. It made no sense, but he was beyond thought.
Her lips closed about him, drew him deep. Warm. Soft. Moist. This was heaven. Then deeper still. He must have died. She had never done this. She didn’t do this.
She sucked harder, her intent unmistakable.
God.
Heaven.
His groans filled the room.
He gave himself over, and shattering orgasm overcame him. His mind screamed in ecstasy as he found his release.
Violet let her face fall aga
inst his thigh, wiping her damp cheek against the soft fabric of his trousers. Her body ached with unresolved passion, but she had never felt such satisfaction.
She ran a hand along his calf. His body was limp with pleasure. She laid a final soft kiss upon him and fastened his trousers. She sank back on her heels and watched.
His eyes were still closed, his breathing still uneven. It would be a few minutes before he came back to himself.
What would happen then?
Did this mean nothing? She didn’t know. She dropped her face to stare at the crumpled folds of her skirt. She felt so vulnerable. A moment ago she had been filled with joy and power.
Now, she was lost.
She had done this for him, only for him. She’d felt his need, his call, and been helpless to resist. But, now—now, she didn’t know.
She sat between his legs feeling more a child than a woman.
He moved then, his fingers sliding through her hair, caressing softly. A thumb moved across her cheek and then again.
“Why?” His word was soft.
“You needed it.”
“Yes, but why?” He would not let her evade his question.
She inhaled, trying to collect her thoughts. How could she answer when she didn’t understand? “I’ve never been the one stopping us.”
“That was not us, it was you.”
She placed her hand over his, intertwining their fingers. “I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.”
He didn’t answer, but sat up in his chair. She could see thoughts beginning to form behind his eyes. The lines of strain she had erased a moment before were deepening again on his brow.
He started to speak, but she leaned up and drew her finger across his lips, silencing him.
“Don’t talk. Just take it as a gift, something to symbolize all we have meant to each other.” She had meant to say a farewell gift, but the word had not come out.
She placed her hands upon his knees and pushed herself up. She bent and began to fasten the buttons on his shirt, retying his cravat as best as the limp linen would allow. She finger combed his hair, putting him to rights.
Then, shaking out her skirts, she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lined brow.
She turned to leave, easing the door open.
Marguerite’s maid stood on the other side, twisting her hands in clear indecision. What on earth had she heard? Or seen? The maid shuffled a bit from foot to foot. Her face flushed when she saw Violet.
“My lady, Lady Wimberley has requested your presence. I think the babe is coming. Her pain is ever increasing. I’ve sent for the physician in the village, but the rains have started again and the river…” The maid’s voice trailed off.
“Has someone sent for Tristan? He should be here,” Peter asked as he came to stand behind her.
Violet welcomed the authority of his tone and had to resist leaning back against him for support. “How is Marguerite? Does she have someone with her?”
She moved toward the stairs, fighting to overcome her own fears.
“No, my lady, I am sorry, but none of the maids know anything about confinement. They’ve mostly come from the city and Cook has several children of her own, but claims to remember little of the experience. The midwife was going to come, but it’s still supposed to be a week or more.”
Violet’s nails bit into her palms. “How can there be nobody?”
“Cook will try to help,” the maid answered. “She is a very reasonable woman and I am sure she’ll figure something out.”
Violet started up the stairs. She stopped when she realized nobody was following.
The maid stood wringing her hands; clearly she would be of no actual use. “Fetch hot water and plenty of clean sheets, also a sturdy crop—the softer the leather the better,” Violet ordered. She ignored the gasp at the last item. She glared at the maid until the poor girl hurried off to do her bidding.
She turned to Peter. He stood in the hall, hesitating, but with distinct movement toward the front door.
“I thought I could ride out and find Wimberley. He is needed here.” He stepped near to the door.
“Don’t you dare. They’ve already sent riders out. I need you here. Come, let us check on Marguerite. That silly maid should never have left her alone.”
As if echoing her sentiment, a loud a cry resounded down the stairs. Without another glance at Peter, Violet began to run.
She skidded through Marguerite’s door and rushed to the side of the bed. Marguerite lay limply back on the bed, her hair hanging in strings around her face. Her belly rose high and hard from among the tousled sheets. Marguerite must have been tying knots in them to hide her pain.
“It was not the fish,” she gasped.
Marguerite pushed her own fears aside and came to stand beside her friend. She stroked the damp hair back from her brow and smiled down at Marguerite. “Everything will be fine. You should have hours yet. The physician will come.”
“Why isn’t Tristan here? He should be here,” Marguerite screamed the last as her belly caught and moved, squeezing tight in a contortion as old as time.
“Shhh, it will all be fine. Your husband will be here soon.” Violet wished she could be as calm as she sounded. Her mind was filled with pictures of how badly this could end.
The maid came fluttering into the room past Peter, who stood beyond the door, undecided on taking the final step inside.
Violet grabbed the sheets and towels and gestured for the maid to set the water on the dresser. She clutched the towels tight, hoping they would hide how hard her hands were shaking.
Marguerite suddenly thrust forward on the bed, another contraction wracking her body. It should not have come again so quickly. They should start slow and then speed up. The midwife had explained to her all those years ago what should happen, what she should expect. Marguerite should not be progressing so quickly. Violet didn’t know what it meant.
Too early, too fast. God, please don’t let it happen again. She sent her silent prayer up as she crossed back to Marguerite and offered her the crop that had been buried in the linens. “Bite down on it when the pains come. I know it sounds strange, but it helps.”
“I still think I should try to help fetch Tristan or the physician.” Peter had made it through the door, but his eyes were focused on the far wall.
“Don’t you dare leave me alone.” Her words sounded calm, but they reflected her inner fear. She was desperate, and it was only Peter’s presence that gave her the strength to carry on, to maintain the façade of calmness.
“I’ll wait in the hall then.”
“No, you don’t. Pull up a chair. I don’t care where you look or don’t look, but we are in this together.” She wanted to threaten to leave with him, but as Marguerite began to shudder and cry again, she knew it would be an empty threat.
Peter was not yet convinced. “Maybe we should call for Cook. She’s given birth, she surely must know what to do even if she claims not to remember.”
Violet freshened the linen around Marguerite and then turned to face Peter. “That is the difference between Cook and me. I remember every moment of when my son was born. It will never fade from my memory.”
Chapter 9
“Your son?” Even the embarrassment of being in this room with Marguerite in…that…condition faded at Violet’s words. “You don’t have a son. You’ve never had a child.”
Violet turned back to the straining Marguerite, smiling down at her even when it seemed her friend would crush the hand she had grasped so tightly. “I don’t have time for this now. I had a son. He was born two days after Dratton died. I was only six months along. I labored for three days and can describe every moment of it.”
She swallowed, trying hard to concentrate only on the problems before her now. “He lived one hour and seven minutes. It was the best and worst hour of my life.
“Now wet those towels and begin wiping her face. Be sure she can get the crop between her teeth when she needs it.”
She turned back to Marguerite, patting her cheek. “You don’t mind if Peter holds your hand, do you, dear? Let him worry about the upper half and I’ll worry about the lower.” She draped the sheets about Marguerite’s knees before pushing them up and apart. She could only pray she did not see a foot or shoulder. Her son had been born feetfirst.
“I really shouldn’t be here—Tristan will—” Even as Peter spoke, he moved to take Marguerite’s hand.
“Tristan will only thank you for helping his wife. He is not the man to be concerned about anything else. He will understand the priorities.”
She saw hair. It must be too early to be able to see the head. Should she try to push it back? She remembered every moment of her own birthing, but this was clearly different.
Even as she debated what to do, Marguerite’s back arched and she strained downward. The baby’s head pushed against the opening, seeking freedom. It would arrive any second.
Only it didn’t. Again and again, Marguerite strained and the baby eased closer, but never close enough.
Minutes passed.
An hour passed.
They fell into the rhythm of deep, relaxing breaths that lasted only seconds before they again were drawn in the strain—each one of them fighting in his own way.
“You’re doing wonderfully.” Peter’s voice was soft and firm. He spoke to Marguerite, but it was Violet his eyes followed. His words kept her from giving up each time she wanted to run from the room and pronounce her ignorance.
Something had to change.
The physician should have been there, but was not.
Wimberley should have held his young wife’s hand, but he could not.
There were only Peter and Violet.
Something had to change.
This time when Marguerite arched and strained, Violet breathed deep and slid her hands between Marguerite’s legs. She ignored the blood and mess and focused on the baby—if she could just reach it, pull it.
Damn, she couldn’t get hold. She wanted to swear, to curse, but could not risk upsetting Marguerite. “Everything is going well,” was all she said.