by Lydia Joyce
She did not know how long they sat like that, but a flicker of movement on the drive brought her back to herself. She watched a small figure toiling closer—Annie again, but this time she was not alone, for as she came more completely into the range of view offered by the slit in the curtains, Victoria realized that Andrew strode beside her.
Unease tickled her spine as she watched, for Andrew was gesturing wildly, and Annie was responding with abrupt shakes of her head.
"Raeburn, can you see this?" She motioned to the window.
She felt his movement as he shifted so that he could peer over her shoulder, but she did not take her eyes from the drama playing out silently below. More waving, more denial. Abruptly, Andrew stopped and grabbed Annie's shoulders, spinning her to face him. He talked more, and Annie continued to shake her head. Finally, he grabbed her hand and dropped to his knee. She tried to pull him up, but he remained there, his back to the window. Victoria could imagine his face—determined, pleading, hopeful.
"He's asking her to marry him!" she said in wonder.
Raeburn grunted. "She does not seem terribly enthralled with the idea. I had thought they were all but promised."
Already, Annie's headshakes were becoming less vigorous.
"Give him time."
After another moment, her protests ceased altogether. She stood still while Andrew's head bobbed on, and then slowly, she nodded.
Andrew bounded to his feet and swept her into a fierce kiss, lifting her from her feet with the force of it.
Victoria looked back at Raeburn. "I almost envy them."
"Their youth? Enthusiasm? Optimism?" He lifted an eyebrow.
"Their simplicity. Their naive courage. So much could go wrong, so much probably will go wrong, but they face it without blinking."
"Once, you did, too, at least from what you have told me."
She shook her head. "I only hope they are not forced to learn the same lessons as I."
"Why not hope that you can learn to forget?" His voice was somber.
Victoria looked back at the embracing couple and felt an answering hollowness in her gut. "If only I could, it might be worth getting hurt all over again."
When Annie arrived with their dinner, she was still blushing and smiling—the latter a rare sight, Byron realized with surprise. She set the tray on the trunk and then retreated toward the doorway, lingering there and twisting her apron in her hands.
"Yes?" Byron said, ignoring Victoria's sideways, amused look.
"Thy grace." Annie blushed harder. "Thy grace, Andrew and me are getting married." It came out in a rush, and she dropped her eyes.
"I promised him the porter's house, but not until old Silas dies," Byron said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
Annie looked up, her eyes shining. "Oh, I know, thy grace! It's just that, well, it seems that Silas is going to live forever, and Uncle Tom asked me to go to Leeds with him since after he's gone I'll not have no family here no more, so Andrew said he'd be my family." She thrust her chin outward in a display of more spirit than Byron had ever seen. "I hope we'll have your blessing—that we can keep working for you, even though we'll be married. Uncle Tom will let us buy his house in the village, and it shan't be such a terrible walk every day."
Byron looked at her for a long moment before nodding. "You are welcome to stay, Annie—you and Andrew both. And you may have the hundred quid I promised."
"Thank you, thy grace!" Annie beamed. Then she dipped her hand into her apron, looking tentative again. "Afore he died, his grace thy great-uncle gave me this." She held out her hand, upon which rested a long string of pearls with a jeweled pendant and clasp. "He said—he said it was part of what went to the duchesses, but since he'd had no duchess, he couldn't see what was so wrong in giving me one piece to do with as I liked." Her words came faster, tripping over each other. "I didn't take it, understand, he gave it to me. And I've kept it until now, but I don't know what good jewels would do a girl like me—"
"I believe you, Annie," Byron interrupted before she worked herself into a fit of hysterics.
"Thank thee, thy grace." Annie looked relieved. "I want to sell it—not that I don't like it, but I've no use for jewels like this. But I don't know how," she finished lamely.
Byron held out his hand. "If you will give it over to my trust, I will have it appraised by a jeweler and will offer you a fair price."
Annie's face split in a grin. "Many thanks, thy grace!" She handed him the necklace without hesitation and turned away before pausing at the door for a second time. "I almost forgot! This came for you today, your ladyship." She produced a letter from her pocket, set it on the edge of the dinner tray, and left, the door swinging shut after her.
"Mother again," Victoria said, holding her hand out for the letter. Byron gave it to her, but she paused before she looked at it. "That was very kind of you."
He shrugged uncomfortably. "I'd think you'd deem it only approaching justice. She is my cousin, according to you."
"Yes. But most men wouldn't care. I'm glad you do." And with that, she started to open the letter, but she frowned when she saw the handwriting of the direction.
"Is there something wrong?" Byron asked.
"It's from my brother. Jack never writes me." Forehead creased, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Her frown grew deeper, then her expression froze, and she sat there staring at the letter for far longer than it would take to read the single sheet of paper.
"What is it?" Byron demanded.
Wordlessly, she handed it to him, and he read.
Victoria,
I know you are certainly engaged in the most delicate negotiations on my behalf, and I assure you that I would not have written except in the most extreme need. Our mother seems to be suffering from attacks of some kind—her hands are unsteady, her speech slurred, and now she seems to be sometimes slipping into dementia. It started the evening you left, and at first, we did not realize it was more than her usual dramatics.
The doctor says that she might yet regain her former abilities, but it is too soon to tell if this is a temporary illness or the sign of a final, precipitous decline. She is asking for you almost every hour
now, and the possibility that this might be her last wish is not one Father dares ignore. He has asked me to request that you return immediately, and for once, I agree with him.
Please hurry,
Jack
"You must go, then," Byron said, ignoring the sudden fist around his lungs, squeezing the air out of them.
"Yes," Victoria agreed, her voice dead.
"Tomorrow morning—"
She laughed suddenly, cutting him off. "What a waste! I break my ankle and cause you to be injured only to default on the last day of our agreement!"
Byron looked at her, and any last lingering desire to embarrass her family melted away. "Tear up our contract," he said softly. "I will not persecute your brother."
Victoria looked up at him, dampness welling suddenly in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "I never expected you to be so kind. I have done nothing to deserve it."
"You didn't need to." He sat beside her again, wrapping his arms around her thin shoulders. "God, did you think I could be so rancorous now, knowing that I would hurt you?"
She rested her head limply against his shoulder. "I didn't want to think." A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek.
"You will be back in Rushworth tomorrow if you take the early train. It shall be less than three days since the letter was written. Surely your mother can't worsen too much before then."
Victoria laughed again. "Oh, I am a horrible person, aren't I? I should be crying for my mother—and I am—but I'm crying for me at least as much."
"You cried last night, too." He carefully did not put a question into his tone.
. She didn't look at him. "I thought you were asleep. I hoped you were asleep."
He wiped the tear from her cheek and kissed the dampness from his hand. "I saw the tracks this m
orning. Why?"
Victoria bit her lip. "You were hurt, and it was my fault. And my ankle was aching, too. And I—I didn't want to think about leaving when I was suddenly so happy."
Byron stared down at her, bewildered. "You were crying because you were happy?"
"I was crying because I knew it wouldn't last." She looked up at him them, her eyes so full of grief and—dare he believe it?—tenderness that he felt the breath snatched from his lungs and his stomach twisted in bittersweet joy.
Victoria was injured and so was he, but suddenly, he didn't care. He couldn't care, not if it would be the death of him. He put his arms on her shoulders and turned her toward him. "Then let us make tonight last the worth of thousands." And he pulled her against him madly, heedlessly, and buried the regrets of the last thirty years in her kiss.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
"I wish I could touch your face," Victoria said wistfully, twining her fingers in the longer waves of hair at the back of Raeburn's neck. They were lying on her bed, naked save for her bandaged ankle. The first fury of their lovemaking had been spent—and the second. Their supper dishes lay on the night table beside the flickering candle; Raeburn had ordered Annie to leave the tray outside the door and had brought it in himself so they had no need to dress.
Raeburn captured her hand and brought it to his lips. "You can."
She made a noise of exasperation. "You know mat's not what I meant."
"In square inches, I am more accessible than you are right now." He waved to her leg.
"But who wants to touch an ankle?" Victoria returned.
Raeburn rolled over suddenly, pinning her to the bed beneath him. His skin was warmer and coarser than hers, and the short hairs of his chest tickled her nipples as he planted his elbows on either side of her head. "Perhaps I do. Perhaps I want to touch every inch of your body tonight and I resent the interference of such things as broken ankles." Against her leg, his member stirred, and a responding heat wound in her belly and trickled up her spine.
"You're a fool." Victoria meant it to be crushing, but his sharp hazel gaze made her dizzy and the words came out with a breathless edge.
"Very likely," he agreed, bending down to tease her lips with his. Foolish or not, Victoria shivered against his mouth. She lifted her head to catch his kiss, but he pulled back, keeping his touch barely firmer than a breath. "Every inch," he repeated, and after a moment more of resistance, she surrendered and tipped back her head as he continued the featherlight caresses down her throat, brushing her skin with every word. "Every fiber, every hair, every freckle"—he kissed the one that hid under her chin—"every scar. I want to mark you, claim you, possess all of you."
"And what do I get in return, your grace? The pleasure of your company?" The words tried to skitter from her thoughts before she could string them together into a coherent sentence, but she chased them down and forced them out.
"And my memory to keep you warm at night." He firmed the pressure of his lips, nibbling the hollow of her collarbone, and she gasped as her too-sensitive skin sent a tremor of sensation across her body. His touch irritated her, thrilled her, made her itch and burn for him at once. She wished he would stop, that he would never stop this slow, torturous covering of her body.
She seized his head between her hands, pulling his mouth up to hers as she trapped his body between her thighs and tilted her hips in blatant invitation. He groaned as his lips met hers, bent his head so the blistered tip of his nose would not brush her cheek, and took every advantage of the welcome of her mouth. Even his tongue was hot, coaxing, insisting, promising, and his manhood pulsed against her entrance, but he did not plunge in to meet her.
It was a repetition of their first nights together, she realized—the teasing, the subtle manipulation, the negotiation of power—but suddenly, she wanted no part of it. Victoria reversed her hold on his shoulders and pushed him away.
"Can't you cease your games just for one minute—for one hour?" The question came out halfway between an order and plea.
The momentum of her shove brought him upright, and he sat there, glowering down at her from the peeling mask of his face. "I thought you enjoyed it." The words were rough with umbrage.
Ay well they should be, Victoria thought, ashamed of her outburst. "I did—I do—but not now. I can't be transported back to the day I arrived like nothing has happened between us. Maybe if there was tomorrow I wouldn't mind, maybe I would welcome it, but this love play now I cannot abide."
"Then what do you want?" The words came out a demand, but to Victoria's relief, the spark of anger in his eyes died without a flicker. "If it is within my power—"
"It is. All I want is you. All of you." She smiled in gentle ruefulness at the echo of his words, and he smiled back, shaking his head.
"Then you ask no small thing."
"We have all night." She reached her hands out to him, imploring, and with a sigh, he slid back between her thighs. He shifted and bumped her ankle, and she could not help but wince as a dart of pain shot up her leg.
He stopped abruptly. "That has been a nuisance all day," he growled, and before she could say anything, he pulled back and hooked his arms under her knees, guiding them onto his shoulders so that her ankle hung free of danger behind his back. Then he moved to close the space between them again.
Her body pulled taut in expectation, every nerve humming, wanting. He was true to his word; he did not make her wait but entered her in a slow, even thrust. A twist low. in her belly welcomed that first stroke, slick dampness sending a wave of prickling heat across her skin. He pulled back and thrust again, and she emitted a strangled hiss as the movement woke new nerves into trembling awareness, her hands tightening reflexively into fists.
He paused, his expression concerned. "Good?"
"So good," she agreed thickly, a shaky laugh tumbling from her lips.
His eyes darkened. "I'm glad," he said with a force that stole her bream, but she did not respond, for with that word, he picked up his rhythm and her entire body seemed to clench around him. She caught his shoulders again, matching his strokes with her hips. Her body sang with his, a hot pulse that coursed through her, small, promising thrills that built quickly upon each other, wave after mounting wave until she hung, suspended and shuddering. Her breath hissed through her teeth as every individual hair rose across her body.
Raeburn led her, followed her, his weight pressed against her thighs as he drove deeper with each stroke. He rode with her at the edge of ecstasy, and even when her vision darkened with the surging pleasure and her ears filled with the rush of blood and her skin became insensate to the damp, wadded sheets beneath her, he was there—his rasping breath, his straining face, the hard weight of him against her body. He was there, inside her head, filling her mind as he did her body.
And she was glad.
She let go of his shoulders, splayed her hands across his chest so she could feel his heartbeat thudding hard beneath her fingers, and whispered, "Come with me."
As if waiting for those words, his rhythm changed, a deep shudder punctuating the end of each thrust, that small shift enough to send her plunging over the edge. She might have gasped, she might have cried out, but she was insensible to everything but their twining, racing heartbeats and the feel of his skin against hers. Fire tore from her center to lick across her skin; every finger and toe ached with it. Again and again they surged together, let the wave carry them until it crested and ebbed. Consciousness returned as Raeburn's strokes slowed, slowed, stopped. Victoria lay gasping as he pulled away from her. Gently, he lifted her trembling legs from his shoulders and set them on either side of him. Then, still breathless, he slid up beside her and pulled her head against his chest. The bump on her head twinged slightly as it came up against his arm, but she ignored it, laying her head against the solidness of him.
"Is that enough of me?" he murmured into her hair.
"It is a start." She wriggled one arm underneath him and draped t
he other across his torso.
He sighed, and for a long moment, they just lay there in each other's loose embrace. Victoria emptied her mind and let it drift, only feeling.
Finally, Raeburn stirred. "I'm sorry, but I must .wash my face. The sweat—it's burning a bit."
Victoria pulled away immediately. "You should have said. I don't expect you to hurt for my sake—"
He shook his head as he stood and crossed the room. "It was my pride, not you, that kept me silent."
"If you won't be more careful for your own sake, then, remember that I blame myself for any pain you feel."
"You weren't supposed to know that I still felt any." He ducked his head over the basin, splashing water over his face.
The muscles in his back were thrown into sharp definition by the angle of the candlelight, and Victoria couldn't help but notice once again what a magnificent man he was. He turned back to face her, and he must have caught the admiring look on her face because he gave a rueful laugh.
"You shall have to wait a breath or two if you want more, Circe. I am not the youth of eighteen I once was."
"Which is a good thing, for if we had met when you were eighteen, I would have been even younger than you and both of us, I fear, dreadfully shallow." She peered at his face, trying to see if it was any more inflamed than before. "We needn't do anything at all. I'm content just to have you here with me."
"And all this time I thought you were enjoying yourself." He softened as he joined her on the bed, "No, Victoria, I am not so debilitated as you seem to fear." He shook his head. "Was I ever eighteen, or was that another boy whose memories have been transplanted into my hoary head?"
"You were quite the rakehell, if your reputation has any merit."
Raeburn tilted his head to look at her, drawing her against his side. "I did not begin to earn that reputation until I was three and twenty. But earn it I did. I am only lucky that I wasn't struck with half a dozen unspeakable diseases or had my throat cut in one of the seedy judy-houses we used to patronize."