by Anne O'Brien
‘I think that we might.’ Still buried deep within her, his weight still holding her, his face turned into the pillow. ‘When my powers of thought and movement have returned. They appear to have deserted me.’
‘Your powers were amazing.’ The faintest chuckle.
‘I might have hoped for more finesse. You robbed me of any skill I lay claim to.’
‘You were magnificent.’ Thea knew he was smiling in smug satisfaction, much as she was. Her hands smoothed over sweat-slicked muscle and hard flesh. She stretched luxuriously beneath him. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Overwhelming. Devastating.’ She nudged him when he did not reply. ‘Are you sleeping, my lord? I shall flatter you no longer if your intent is to ignore me. Now that you no longer have need of me!’ She carefully placed a row of kisses along his shoulder and back again. ‘But is it always like this?’
‘It can be.’ Nicholas lifted his head now to reply with all seriousness. Had he ever known it like this? Where control was at its thinnest, stretched beyond bearing, beyond thought, until he had no choice but to empty himself into her glorious body? No. He thought that he had never known such an unleashed hunger. ‘Perhaps it is not always so … mindless,’ he offered. Because he knew that the craving had driven him to be careless with her. Selfish, if he admitted the truth. She had given herself to him, but he had not brought her to her own complete enjoyment. He felt himself harden again in sharp anticipation at the prospect of doing exactly that. ‘It can be better—and you deserve that it should.’
‘How can it be?’ A little frown touched her smooth brow. ‘You have given me such pleasure. Is the fault mine?’
‘How foolish you are, my dear love.’ He had to kiss her into silence. ‘There is no fault with you. How could there be? But I can give you more.’ He withdrew from her to stretch beside her, still hard. ‘Hold me.’ He took her hand. Both request and demand.
With growing confidence Thea enclosed him to explore the smooth hardness, enjoying his sharp intake of breath as she stroked and touched and heat built beneath her hand. She gave a soft purr, deep in her throat, as the heavy pulse began to beat.
He caught a glint of mischief in her eyes.
‘Well?’
‘It seems that I am not powerless here, my lord.’
‘No.’ He clenched his teeth on a groan. ‘And you once begged me to have mercy! I believe that you did warn me that you learnt quickly.’
‘So I do. Does it please you?’
‘Yes. As I can please you.’ Sensing the end of control under that alluring caress, he pushed her back on to the pillows. ‘Like this.’ With lips and a slow drift of hands he set himself to pleasure and to soothe, to awaken every nerve ending—and then to arouse again with tongue and teeth. ‘Like this.’ He closed his mouth over her breast, then the other, as the bright wedge of sunshine crept round to illuminate them in a wash of gold. ‘And this and this.’ A ruthlessly, exquisitely gentle campaign until he had driven her to the very edge of madness. But not quite beyond. Not yet. Slowly. So slowly. A steady relentless burn rather than a fiery heat, he built it layer upon layer, flame upon flame, until she was engulfed. Refusing to release her, even when she pleaded in desperation against the intensity of the sensations, until he knew that she could stand no more. Lifting her hips, he slid within her, so easily within that silken heat, now all gilded beauty, to finally drive her over that precipitate edge. When she cried out in shocked amazement, he followed, to fall with her into oblivion. Just as mindlessly, he realised, as before.
Much later awareness returned. Thea lay against him, content to allow her thoughts to drift, her heart to settle back to its usual steady beat. But perhaps it never would. It seemed to her at that moment that life would never be the same. Her heart was no longer in her possession, yet she was quite content that it should be in the keeping of the man whose arms still held her so securely. How splendid he was, how completely magnificent. She shuddered a little at the memory of his determination to reduce her to boneless delight. His ultimate and sensational triumph.
‘Nicholas?’
‘My lady?’ His fingers drifted lazily along her spine, setting up little shivers along its length.
‘I did not believe you. That I could experience more, that there were sensations and emotions to be explored more wonderful than I had ever imagined.’ Her breathing still compromised, she rested her cheek on his chest, against his thundering heart. And smiled in utter contentment. ‘But it is true.’
Lord Nicholas sat at his desk in the library at Aymestry, reluctant but resigned. However delightful, however necessary for his happiness it might have become to spend time with Theodora, duty and work called loudly this morning. Some documents pertaining to the Burford Estate had arrived for his attention from Mr Hoskins, the London-based lawyer, and needed a rapid reply. Furthermore, there was an unexpected packet of correspondence from New York. The one that caught his eye was in Nell’s hand, which surprised him. He picked it up, tapped it thoughtfully on the desk. Now, why should Nell write to him? And, considering the thickness of the missive, at some length.
He spread the sheets on the desk and began to read, first letting his eye travel quickly down the pages. Until picking out one name. Halted. Nicholas’s fingers tightened on the paper, much as invisible hands seemed to be tightening around his chest. Returning to the beginning, he began to read more slowly, perhaps hoping that there might be some mistake that could be remedied by careful perusal of Nell’s neat script. It began with personal, family affairs. Normal and comforting, reassuring that all was well. But then she reached the bitter purpose of the letter and all Nicholas’s comfort fled, to leave a gaping hole of pain and disillusion.
Eventually he finished it, taking only seconds to realise its import, not the endless hours it seemed. Pushed himself to his feet to go and stand by the window, as if the light flooding into the room would offer more illumination to the content.
Surely Nell’s information was wrong. Surely it was all some dreadful mistake. But Nell had written of Sarah, who would undoubtedly know the truth … His eyes focused once again on the chilling words before him.
My mama has recently written that whilst in London you have made the acquaintance of a Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux. That you have been attracted to her. I pray that you will forgive my interference in so personal a matter, dear Nick, but Sarah and I have decided—and Henry, too—that you must be told. Or perhaps by now the lady herself has told you the truth of her birth. Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux is sister to Lady Mary Baxendale, the now deceased mother of Sarah and Edward. The child whom you now know as Theodora was the child of Lady Mary and her husband, but was taken by Lady Drusilla soon after her birth and brought up as her own when the Baxendale circumstances became difficult. Thus Theodora’s true name is Sophia Mary Baxendale. She is sister to Sarah and Edward.
We do not know if there is any understanding between you and the lady, but we believe that you should be made aware that the lady’s name is Baxendale. We fear that it is not beyond belief that she is in touch with Edward. You should have a care, dear Nick. It may be that the Baxendale desire for revenge against the Faringdon family is not dead as we had believed, and that the lady is either a willing participant or a helpless pawn in Edward’s vile games. I know the anguish and despair that this can cause. I would not wish for you to be dragged into a plot, leading to heartbreak and recrimination. Miss Wooton-Devereux, I would advise you most strongly, may not be as innocent as she might appear.
I am sorry if this will cause problems between you. Perhaps I should pray that when this letter finally reaches you, your association with the lady has come to a natural end and she is looking elsewhere for a husband.
Nicholas simply stood, staring unseeingly at the dramatic prospect of open parkland and sunlit, mature oaks before him. For some reason his mind seemed unable to function with its usual sharp perception. Could not take in the full detail of Nell’s warni
ng words. Thea was a Baxendale. This was the only thought that hammered in his brain, over and over again. Sister of Edward Baxendale. No—it must not be so! But if Sarah had told Eleanor that Theodora was indeed her sister, then it must be so.
What in God’s name did he feel about this?
Disbelief, primarily. Then a desperately piercing anxiety that it might just be true. And beneath that emotion, a terrible burning anger and an all-consuming fear that it might indeed be all part of a further plot as Nell had hinted, concocted in Edward Baxendale’s corrupt mind, to hurt the Faringdons. To hurt him! Was it the plan to drag him into a marriage with Thea, the lure of a lovely face and pleasing manners, and then extort money by some means into Edward’s greedy pockets? Or simply humiliate him when he discovered that he, Lord Nicholas Faringdon, had taken a Baxendale bride against either his knowledge or his wishes.
But the reasons behind the charade did not matter. Theodora’s possible involvement was the weapon that sliced at his heart. He loved her. He had accepted without question that she loved him. He had taken her to his bed, asked her to marry him, believing that their love was a substantial thing, of mutual satisfaction and heart-wrenching beauty. Had he been so wrong? But he must accept that he was now faced with evidence of her perfidy, that such a beautiful face could hide such deceit. But of course he knew that she had been hiding something from him, had known it since the early days in London. Was this it? Her involvement, willing or otherwise, with her brother’s scheming?
All he knew was that it was imperative that he talk to Theodora. And guard his emotions when doing so. Because if she was innocent of all involvement with her brother, as he hoped and prayed, why had she not told him that by birth she was a Baxendale?
Love? Ha! He crumpled Nell’s letter in a furious fist. If love did exist, and he seriously doubted it after the revelations of the past hour, it must not be allowed to blind him to realities.
As Nicholas stalked to the library door, intent on running Theodora to ground and requesting—demanding—an explanation, it opened. Thea stood there. Her face immediately lit with an inner glow at the sight of her lover. Stretching out her hands, she would have covered the Aubusson carpet between them with the lightest of steps to kiss him in greeting, with no intimation of the disaster which awaited her in that pleasant, book-filled room. A lethal sword of Damocles, shrouded in the form of Edward Baxendale, to destroy all her new-found love and happiness.
But she immediately sensed the tension in Nicholas’s body, saw his spine held rigid, his shoulders braced, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The lines between nose and mouth were starkly engraved. And his eyes? Usually so intensely blue and smiling when they lighted on her, or burning with passion and desire—now they were the dense, flat grey of glacial ice. Thea came to a halt as if a wall had been thrown up between them.
‘What is it, Nicholas?’ She saw the pages scattered on the desk. ‘Have you had bad news? Is it your family in New York? Eleanor …?’
‘Why did you not tell me, Thea?’
His voice was soft, apparently unthreatening, but held a quality that she had never before heard. It froze the very marrow in her bones.
‘What is it that I should have told you? What can have disturbed you so?’ She tried to keep her tone light, but a sharp finger of warning traced its insidious path along her backbone. She could think of only one cause for this latent hostility, and did not have long to wait to learn the truth.
‘That your name is Baxendale. Sophia Mary Baxendale, to be exact. And that you are sister to Sir Edward Baxendale.’
‘I—’ She buried her teeth in her lip, as a bottomless crevasse opened before her unwary feet. Her worst fears had just been realised, announced in one brusque statement by the man whom she loved more than life itself, in a voice that cut with rapier sharpness to her heart. What could she say? A terrible premonition enfolded her as she read the condemnation in Nicholas’s face.
‘I see that you do not bother to deny it.’
She found, of necessity, her voice. ‘No. For it is true.’
‘Why did you not tell me? What can possibly have been your motive in not telling me?’
The simmering anger in his voice, the deadly repetition of the accusation stirred her into a response. Taking a deep breath, she willed the quivering nerves in her stomach to quieten. She would not feel guilt or shame over a situation that was not her fault, over which she had no control. She met his cold eyes squarely.
‘I thought it would cause dissension between us. And I see that I was right.’
‘So you would have kept the information from me for ever?’ Now the softness was layered with a thick coating of derision. ‘Even if we had married? An unlikely scenario, Thea, even you must accept.’
Which Thea silently had to admit the truth of. ‘Who told you? Who told you the truth of my birth?’
‘Eleanor. Who had the interesting details of your little masquerade from your sister, Sarah.’
‘From Sarah?’ Thea attempted to separate the strands of knowledge that were being hurled at her by the man she loved. ‘I did not know that my sister was in communication with Eleanor. Is she then in New York?’
‘What is the possible relevance of that? Suffice to say that Sarah informed Eleanor of your Baxendale connection.’ Nicholas waited a brief, tense moment as Theodora remained silent. ‘You have remarkably little to say about it, considering the depths of your deception.’
Which spurred her into reply. ‘I do not see that my connection to the Baxendale family has any bearing on what lies between us.’ But I do. I should have told you. Forgive me, Nicholas, forgive me. She kept her lips pressed firmly together, her head high.
‘No? When you must be aware to some degree at least of the damaging scandal that struck my family nearly three years ago at the hands of Edward Baxendale. And yet you thought that it had no bearing?’ His brows rose beautifully in arrogant disbelief. ‘I cannot believe that you were not aware of the gossip. Certainly I cannot believe that Judith has been silent about it.’
Thea shook her head, panic rising at the unexpected viciouness of the attack. ‘Judith refused to discuss the matter, claiming that it was not her secret to tell. She was very discreet.’ She tried to keep calm, to breathe deeply. How could Nicholas, her love, accuse her of such perfidy?
‘Then, if that is so, it must be for the first time in her life.’ Nicholas was clearly sceptical of Judith’s self-control. ‘Tell me, then, Theodora, are you in communication with your brother?’
‘I have never met Edward Baxendale.’
‘Really? I find that also difficult to believe.’ His lip curled in contempt and harsh mockery.
‘I do not know him.’ She resisted the urge to lift her hands, to plead her innocence. ‘I do not lie.’
‘Your brother was a past master at the art of deception. Perhaps you, too, have the skill. You were certainly able to take me in with your winning ways and your lovely face.’
‘And so you would suspect me of similar sins to those of my brother, simply because we share a blood relationship?’ Thea marvelled at her ability to reply with such care when all her instincts were to succumb to the intimations of disaster, which drew the colour from her fair skin.
Nicholas shrugged. The nasty little gesture was as wounding as his words. And Thea, who had been inclined to explain her total innocence, her ignorance of any family connection until only the previous month, decided that she would not. If Nicholas was not prepared to believe her, to accept her word, what point in dragging her family complications into the open? He would take her on trust or not at all.
‘I have never met Edward or Sarah Baxendale,’ was all that she would say in explanation.
‘But you knew of the connection.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you saw fit not to break the interesting news to me. I wish you had told me. Why did you not—if you were innocent of all involvement with your brother?’
‘I feared to do so.�
�� Theodora discovered that her control of her emotions was slipping increasingly on a knife edge. ‘For so many reasons. Not least that you would reject me if you knew the truth. I tried to end the … the growing closeness between us in London, if you remember. Indeed I did, when I realised that I might be falling in love with you. I thought it best if I could create a distance between us, so that love could never bloom. So that we should never find ourselves in this impossbile situation.’ She found a need to dash a stray tear from her cheek with an impatient hand. ‘I think I succeeded very well. But then fate brought us together again. I knew beyond doubt that I loved you … And I feared to tell you the truth.’
Nicholas swung away, to prowl to the sideboard, as dangerous and highly tuned as a hunting cat, to pour a glass of brandy, take a long swallow, presenting his back to Thea. The silence stretched between them until she could stand it no longer.
‘What did Edward do, Nicholas? Was it so bad, so unforgivable, that it will stand between us for all time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? What happened? No one who knows the true facts will tell me.’
‘It is in the past and not something I care to contemplate. Certainly not something I wish to discuss with you.’
‘But not sufficiently in the past that it can be forgotten.’
‘No. It can never be forgotten.’
So there was the barrier between them. Solid. Bitter. Impossible, Thea realised, to breach.
‘So all that we meant to each other is worth nothing in the balance with Edward’s sins.’
He turned his head to look at her now. ‘Tell me this, Thea. Are you part of a new Baxendale plot? You and your brother working together against us?’
‘Of course not.’ Seeing the abyss at her feet widen even further, Thea whispered her reply. ‘But you do not trust me, do you?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps I do not know you as well as I believed.’ Blazing anger suddenly sprang into life between them and engulfed the cold. ‘If you are an innocent party to this, you would have not left me in ignorance. Have you and Edward rejoiced together over your successes?’ The thought fed the flames of his anger with dry tinder. ‘Have you and Edward exchanged to your mutual delight the methods by which you might have entrapped me into marriage? What did you hope for, Thea? A financial settlement for yourself, which would benefit your brother? Or merely the pleasure of seeing me wed unknowingly to a Baxendale, perhaps with a suitable and expensive settlement to allow me to escape from such an alliance?’