The Veil of Night

by Lydia Joyce

  But the tension was back—in the stiff way she held herself, in the knotted muscles in her jaw, in the tightness around her mouth. What did she want? What did she fear? The thought was not without exasperation.

  She met Byron's gaze in the candlelight and held it with her own, searching his face. She seemed to be trying to peel away his skin, invade and examine every private corner of his mind. Byron knew his bland expression had turned to a scowl, but he didn't seem to be able to stop himself.

  "What do you think you see when you look at me like that?" she asked suddenly, her voice tinged with defensiveness.

  Byron regained his impassive mask and gave a glib answer. "I see what I always have, a desirable woman who has cheated herself of half her life." Her face closed in on itself suddenly, like the collapse of a wall, and the natural mirror of her question rose in his mind. "And what do you see, when you look at yourself?"

  The question seemed to take her by surprise, but she answered promptly. "A simpleton who ages in years but gains no wisdom." She turned her head away from him, but not before he saw her grimace as if in pain.

  She was still regretting the confession he'd wrung from her that afternoon, he realized abruptly. He had wanted to know her secrets from the moment he'd set eyes on her, but he'd never imagined that it might cost her to tell him—nor thought he'd care if she were hurt.

  Why should it hurt her, though? Even if she had been a virgin when she arrived, she was not one now, so the entire story seemed almost trivial. But he had the sudden revelation that it was not the story itself but the sharing that made her so vulnerable, so open to even the most unintentional wounds.

  He thought of his own weakness, how it had hurt to confess it into the ear he'd thought the most sympathetic in the world—with what halting, labored words!—and then find himself reviled for his confession. Now, Victoria was braced for the rejection Byron had never anticipated.

  Which he had no intention of delivering.

  He took her chin in his hand and turned her gently back to face him. Her eyes stayed fixed on a point in the center of his chest for a long moment, and it seemed to take her a wrenching effort to raise them to his face. He could see the strain as she tried to maintain a neutral mask, but the pain in her eyes alone twisted something inside him. Gently, now, he cautioned himself. If he responded too quickly to her need and not her words, she might flee from him into some inner recesses of her mind where he could never reach her again.

  He could no longer deny that the threat of losing her mattered, so he chose his next words carefully.

  "You are wise enough to realize the errors of your past, which is far wiser than many of us ever manage to become."

  Her smile was so faint as to be nearly imperceptible, but some of the tension eased from her face. "And you?"

  "I like to think that I am wise. Though I know it is a delusion, it's precious enough to me that I pretend to believe it." And now for the heart of it. "Come, Circe. Do not scowl so. Your secret is safe with me, and I find it unfortunate, not contemptible. We are all fools when it comes to the heart." He paused, seeking to smooth away the hurt in her eyes and the furrow between her brows. "A story for a story. I once fancied myself desperately in love with the rector's daughter and behaved most ridiculously on her account. I was older than you when you committed your folly—older in years than your would-be husband, too, I am ashamed to admit, but younger in experience, I'm sure, for I had rarely gone beyond the bounds of my parents' estate. And so, at twenty-two, I was far more a boy than a man, and a fetching black-haired girl with pretty ways and a sweet smile reduced me to a poetry-singing, letter-writing fool."

  Victoria's expression eased into a genuine, if small, smile. "I can't imagine it."

  "Nor could I, if I couldn't remember it so well." He trailed into silence, and for a moment, the memory of another voice rang in his ears, another laugh, another sigh. Charlotte Littlewood had been good-natured, sweet, and honest, if sheltered and not especially clever. A good match for the boy he had been, though the man he was now would have found her insipid.

  "And what became of your raven-haired muse?"

  Victoria's question brought him abruptly back to the present. "Her father disapproved because he could not imagine that a future duke would have noble intentions with a rector's daughter—though I assure you, they could not have been nobler—but that wouldn't have stopped me if she'd returned my affections." His smile was bitter. "However, she did not. I could have lived on her smile, but it was never directed at me. I frightened her, and so she could not love me. I left her there when she become betrothed to another man and found my amusement as I could in London." That was true enough, but what it left out… He had seen how Charlotte was swayed by his pursuit, how her initial chariness had faded to reserved curiosity, open and ready to be persuaded, if only he'd had the strength to make his confession.

  But no, he thought darkly as an even older memory eclipsed the image of her face. He'd made that mistake once, a decade before he had he begun to woo the rector's black-eyed daughter. Once was more than enough. Byron could have lived with her waning interest, with another swain winning her hand and taking her to the altar and out of his reach forever, if only that swain hadn't been the one who had humiliated Byron in the first place. Will Whitford had waltzed back into Merritonshire society with his university degree and charming manners and had swept the simple country girl off her feet. Two thefts, of his pride and the woman he pursued, had been far too much to bear, and Byron had fled to dissipation in London and never looked back, except for the few nights when he had recklessly sunk too deep into his cups.

  After a long moment of silence, 'Victoria took a deep breath, and Byron heard the catch in it. "Thank you for telling me—for giving me something in return." She sighed. "I may indeed be a fool, but if I cannot be otherwise, then I suppose it is as a fool that I believe you. You will not deceive me in this or hate me for it."

  Byron smiled, letting the reality of the woman before him chase away the specters of the past. "Believe me however you will, so long as you do believe." And he tilted her chin up with a finger again, but this time it was to meet his kiss.

  Her lips were soft and giving under his, eager enough to take his breath away and perhaps just a little desperate, not for the touch itself but for the reassurance that touch brings.

  When they separated, she moved her mouth downward, across his throat, as she began unbuttoning his shirt. Her lips traced her fingers' progression, across the fabric of his undershirt, until the last button came free.

  She tugged up his undershirt and slid her hands against his body, her palms smooth and cool. Pulling it higher, she ducked her head to bring her lips against his bare skin. She teased her way upward, across the sparse hair of his belly to his chest. Byron held himself still under her hands, but his breathing slid out of his control, quickening and taking on a ragged edge, and she redoubled her assault.

  He pushed her back mutely, shaking his head. He unfastened his cuffs and stripped in two quick movements, first the braces and shirt, then the undershirt. Victoria reached for his waistband, but he pushed her hands away and tugged her chemise over her head instead. He started to untie her pantaloons, but she stopped him.

  "Yours first," she said firmly.

  He made a sound of disgust. "Only if those boots of yours come off, too."

  "Agreed." Victoria worked at the buttons at her ankles as he stood and stripped off the rest of his clothes. She slipped her second boot off as he tossed aside his drawers and looked up.

  And froze. It took Byron a moment to realize that she was staring at his erection, directly at her eye level.

  "You can't claim you haven't seen one before," he remarked.

  Victoria gave him a brief, flat look. "Never so close." She paused. "I should think it ugly, by all rights, but I don't. It's… fascinating."

  Byron smiled despite himself. "I have heard it called many things, but never that."

  She reach
ed out and encircling it tentatively with her fingers. Byron inhaled sharply at the jolt that went through him at her touch.

  Victoria's expression turned speculative, almost coy. "Unexpected?"

  "My dear Victoria, I have learned that the only thing I can expect from you is the unexpected," he replied through clenched teeth.

  She grasped his erection more firmly and slid her hand along its length. He made a strangled sound as the skin beneath her hand slid over the head, sending a surge of heat through him.

  Muttering a curse, Byron caught her wrist. "I'd welcome this some other time, my wicked Circe, but tonight, this will be finished another way." He pulled her to her feet and tugged her pantaloons down with the same motion. Two more tugs, and her stockings joined them, and he lifted her up and deposited her neatly onto the pillows.

  "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Giving you your just desserts."

  Byron sat down directly above her head, out of her range of sight, and retrieved the crumble dish from its corner by the stove and uncovered it. He took a fork and speared a single peach slice on the end, then brought it down to Victoria's mouth.

  She started when the fruit first entered her range of vision, but her mouth was open by the time it reached her lips. From his angle, her eyes were invisible, only the faintest fringe of blonde eyelashes peeking beyond the curve of her brow. Now they were aimed downward, at the fruit, as her teeth closed around it and plucked it off the tines of the fork. He watched her jaw work once, twice—then a tightening of a swallow. There was something erotic in each movement, something seductive in her simple act of eating. It went beyond deliberate titillation to a deeper level, to the structure of her bones, the blush of her skin, the way the left side of her mouth opened fractionally before the right side. Half-mesmerized, he fed her another bite, and again, she took the peach mutely between her delicately bowed lips, again she chewed and swallowed. Byron speared a third slice, then hesitated a moment before grasping it between his own front teeth instead. He set down the fork and leaned over her, bringing the peach to her lips with his own mouth. Victoria emitted a small sigh, and a moment later, he felt a faint tug as her teeth closed around it. Then her hands clasped his head and pulled it down, and he was caught in an upside-down kiss, sweet and warm, luscious enough to make him drunk, teasing enough to make him crawl half-involuntarily around until he was lying over her, his hips clasped between her willing thighs.

  Finally, they separated, and Byron reached once more for the crumble. This time, though, he did not reach for the fork but filled the serving spoon with syrup.

  "Raeburn, what are you doing?" Victoria blurted when he brought the spoon within her line of sight. For once, perhaps for the first time since he'd met her, she looked completely uncertain, and the defenselessness of the expression sent a wave of desire through him so strong that he had to grit his teeth to keep from plunging into her right then.

  He didn't answer but tipped the spoon so that a thin line of syrup poured down her throat and swirled across her breasts. She gasped as it touched her skin, and her pale eyes widened even more a second later, when it must have occurred to her what he intended to do. Her nipples grew impossibly tight as the line of syrup grew closer and closer on each pass, then finally drowned them in its golden warmth. He filled another spoonful and tipped it to drizzle slowly across her belly, then her thighs, held open by his hips.

  Victoria made a stuttering noise, and Byron looked up to meet her gaze. Her hands were bunched around fistfuls of pillow, her eyes disbelievingly wide.

  "You're not—" she started. She tried again. "You aren't going to?…"

  Byron smiled. "Oh, but I am." Her legs tightened around his hips as he reached between them, but his body kept them wedged apart. Slowly, he ran a finger of his free hand in a line from the start of her curls until he found the folds and the opening between. Her wetness slicked his fingers as he parted them, and her breathing grew more rapid. "You can't tell me you don't like the idea."

  "Not…dislike, exactly…" The words were almost gasped.

  Byron tilted the spoon, and the last of the syrup rolled off the end, across the separated folds. Victoria inhaled sharply, going rigid, but he was not finished. He turned the spoon on its side and smoothed the line of syrup, first one side, then the other. Victoria's hips tilted toward him, but he set the spoon aside and dipped into the crumble with his fingers, fishing out a single peach slice.

  "Don't move," he murmured.

  "I wouldn't dream of it." Victoria's laugh came out breathy and strained.

  He placed the slice in the hollow of her throat, then others in a line between her breasts until the last lay nestled on top of her curls. Or rather, the second to last. He took one final piece, still warm from the dish.

  "Don't!" Victoria said.

  Byron looked up to find her watching him down the trail of fruit. "Why not?"

  As incongruous as it was, he could have sworn that she blushed, and for a moment, was even at a loss for words.

  Byron smothered a smile. "Do you trust me?"

  "Should I?" Her expression was unconvinced.

  "I promise on my word as a gentleman that nothing will get stuck," he intoned. He paused. "Unless, of course, you're frightened?"

  Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Of course not." The glint in her eyes died as she realized that he was goading her. She smiled slightly. "On this, I suppose I trust you."

  "Good," he said, and he guided the last slice between her legs so that it was cradled in her opening. Victoria made a choked sound and arched against the pillows.

  "And that, dear Circe, is only the beginning."

  And with that, he leaned over her and plucked the fruit from the hollow of her neck with his teeth, licking the pool of syrup clean where it had lain.

  The cooling peach slices were cinnamon-rich, but richer was her skin, both firm and soft like the flesh of the fruit itself. He moved erratically across her body, taking up a slice here, kissing away a line of syrup there, reveling in every shudder and tremor that he caused. Some of the pieces he ate. Others, he fed to her with his own mouth—and those were the sweetest, for then the taste of her lingered on his tongue, the feel of her lips burned into his. He took possession of her body with his mouth, laying claim to each flushed inch until she pressed against him, moaning as her hands begged him for satiation. And all the while, his own need thrummed hot and hard in his veins, demanding the release that he could give them both.

  When he bent his head to the jointure of her legs and plucked out the last peach slice, she arched her hips hard toward him.

  "Now," she said. "I'm ready for you now."

  I was born ready for you, he thought fervently, but all he said was, "In a moment. Just one moment longer." And then he bent his head a final time to lick the last of the syrup away.

  Victoria lay rigid for the space of one, two, three breaths. Then she sat up, using her hands on his shoulders to push him back onto his heels in the same motion. Before he knew what she was going to do, she was straddling his lap and sliding onto his erection, and it was all he could do to keep from losing himself with the first thrust of penetration.

  Her weight on her knees on either side of him, Victoria began to move herself up and down his length, her face a mask of concentrated pleasure. Her hands moved along his back, feeling each rib and muscle, arousing his need as she filled her own. She was perfect like that, in the utter unself-consciousness of ecstasy, with her slick heat embracing him and her breasts rubbing against his chest with each movement. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold on. They moved together, breath spiraling into gasps and gulps as she pushed them nearer, nearer the edge.

  God, she was perfect—except for her gaze, which was growing distant, and except for her hands, whose strokes were becoming mechanical as she drew away from him, to some inner place.

  "Don't you date shut me out now, Victoria Wakefield," he ground out.

  "Lord spare me—" she
gasped, her blue eyes boring suddenly into his face. "I can't!"

  And with that, the heat surged up to overwhelm them, and they fell gaze-locked together for a brief moment that stretched into eternity.

  In the half-blind aftermath, when Victoria lay limp and panting against his chest, still joined to him for a few breaths longer, he heard her whisper in a voice that was so piteous he could hardly believe it was hers—"Don't leave me alone."

  "I won't," he promised, cradling her with his face buried in her lavender and cinnamon scented hair. "Not now. Not tonight."

  Not ever.

  He rejected the thought—wherever it had come from, it was not his. It must belong to some boyish corner of his mind, still full of the romanticism confused with concupiscence that he thought he'd expelled long ago. Yet another failing, he told himself: the inability to uproot the last dreamings of gormless youth. He was not that boy, he told himself, no more than Victoria was another Charlotte. Yet when he finally disengaged himself from Victoria, it was with the poignant taste of regret rising like bile in his throat.

  Victoria woke to darkness and a stirring beside her. She thought she heard a voice—a word or a brief phrase—but it was too soft and fleeting for her sleep-fogged mind to absorb.

  "Raeburn?" she asked.

  "Who else?" he replied immediately, a hint of humor coloring his voice. She felt his breath, warm and soft, against her cheek, and his hand brushed against her face as he pushed her hair away.

  "No one. I didn't know if you were awake—or if you were going back to your chamber."

  "Not yet. Not while there's still night left."

  Of course, Victoria thought. In the morning, the tower room would be full of light, and Raeburn would slink off into the depths of the manor house, away from it. But why? What was wrong with him?