by Anne O'Brien
‘That you love me. I think … I think I might be difficult to live with. I like my own way.’ Now she looked up into his face as she confessed. ‘You may have noticed.’
‘I would never have guessed it! But I think I am no easier.’
‘But when we argue—will you not call me a scheming Baxendale?’
‘Never!’
‘Good. I would not like it.’ The sparkle in her eyes was a delight to him.
‘As long a you do not insist on referring to me as one of those damned arrogant Faringdons.’
Laughter sprang between them at the lessening of tension, to cauterise the wounds of the past, even though both realised and accepted that they would undoubtedly find space for disagreement. Both were too strong willed to make for a placid relationship. Somehow, it no longer mattered as long as they were together.
‘Besides,’ Nicholas reassured his love, ‘you will no longer be a Baxendale. You will be a Faringdon. Will that be acceptable to you, my lady?’
‘Most acceptable, my lord. I think that I have loved you for ever—since the day I struck at you with my riding whip.’ Confession came easily, she decided, as she touched his hand where the old scar had long since faded into less than a shadow.
‘The scar has gone from my hand, but if you had refused me, my heart would have been scarred for ever.’ Meshing his fingers with hers, Nicholas brought their joined hands together against his chest.
‘I thought I had ruined everything … And Edward told me such lies. So that when we met at Judith’s …’ Thea shook her head. That image still had the power to wound her. ‘Can you truly love me in spite of all the hurt and malice of the past?’
‘Let me show you how much I can love you. Come, my affianced wife.’ Only then did Nicholas allow distance between them, but he kept her hand firmly in his as he led her to the door. ‘Let me show you the depths of my love.’
The splendour of Nicholas’s sumptuous room at Burford Hall became witness to this most private of moments. They stood in the centre, making no overt move, a little shy of each other. The tension in the air sparkled as if an entity in itself, much like the brooch, which now lay forgotten in the breakfast parlour. The rift between them had been so wide and vicious, words spoken so accusing and bitter. But now it was in their power to set all aside and become free of the past. Nicholas took his love’s hands in his, the first step to renewing his knowledge of her, to renewing his promises and avowals of love, which had been so cruelly broken.
Her eyes were captured and held in his, in the dark fire. She knew him now. She understood him so much better now, what had driven him to judge and condemn. And she had forgiven. She would trust this man with her life. He had saved her from harm, had given her comfort. He had rescued her from possible death. He loved her. She closed her hands tightly around his wrists, bonds of love and trust. Now she must convince him that the past was indeed dead and would cast no long shadows unless they allowed it.
As he must convince her.
Nicholas wanted nothing more then to take her, to love her. The bed was there, beckoning with its cool sheets and soft pillows. Such a little distance. There was nothing now to separate them, nothing to prevent them reaffirming the love that had been strong enough to withstand impossible strains. But Lord Nicholas Faringdon, for once, was uncertain, his confidence undermined. He knew that he must have a care of her after the pain and hurt of the past weeks. Guilt and self-disgust slicked his skin. The beautiful woman who stood before him, encircling his wrists with silken chains, willing to giver her heart into his keeping, had every reason to turn her back and marry her Earl with her parent’s blessing. But she would not. She would not leave him and wed another. She had said that she loved him. She would trust him. And Theodora was not a woman to break her word—or give it lightly. It was more than he could have hoped for. Now he acknowledged in his heart and soul a need to heal the hurt he had caused and to rebuild the trust before they could look to a future together.
So he set himself to woo her again, without words, but with every muscle and sinew of his body, as if he had no knowledge of her nor she of him and it was all new discovery. As indeed it was. As if she were an untried virgin again, who needed—and deserved—the most exquisite care and cherishing at his hands. Which was not so. But Thea, aware of her lover’s torment, allowed him with joy the luxury of the tender seduction.
Gilded by evening sun, stroked by its warmth, he set his mind to control the urgings of his body. Dedicated every skilful touch of mouth and hands to create a delight and a pleasure for her. Lovingly. Tenderly. Yet claiming her as his own. For she must be left in no doubt of the strength of his need for her. His unshakable faith in her. His love for her.
Thea stretched and arched languorously beneath this relentless assault, absorbing the weight and fluent power of her lover. Admiring the controlled restraint even as she fought against it. Clever hands and skilful mouth, rediscovering the secrets and textures, the satin sweep of breast and waist and thigh. The perfumed invitation of softest skin. All thoughts were obliterated in that delicate, sensual onslaught.
For Nicholas it was in the way of a promise that nothing should stand between them. Never again. He had allowed fear and suspicion, arrogance and hatred to separate and wound. He shuddered at the memory of it as he traced the line of her ribs with heated kisses, smoothed the warm skin with a slow trail of fingers. Lingering as she gasped on an intake of breath. And poured all the love of which he was capable into that magnificent courtship as he covered her body with his own.
Thea had read her lord well. The depth of hurt and regret. The need to make restitution. So she allowed him the dominance and the freedom to make amends in his own way, seeing his need to do so, as she took on her own delicious role to soothe and reassure. Following the paths he took, the slow, thorough awakening of every nerve, of every desire, she responded to every demand. The choices were his. Yet it was no hardship for her to follow. Or to use her own experience with him to tease and arouse with a delicious sense of power. Passion was built on passion, layer on enticing layer, until Thea’s heart raced and her breath sobbed, the heat built her body crying out with desire for fulfilment. She placed a palm against Nickolas’s chest, fingers spread where his heart was as tumultuous as hers. Tears sparkled on her lashes.
‘Don’t cry, Thea. It breaks my heart.’
‘They are tears of joy. I do not regret them.’
He dried them with gentle lips, cradling her against his heart.
‘I will not break, Nicholas.’
‘No. You will not.’
Silent, they smiled, lost in each other in that instant of perfect stillness, the air around them heavy with emotion, knowing at last that the future was theirs to make of it what they would. And then, only then did Nicholas allow the pace to explode into brilliant heat. Patience was abandoned. He claimed the authority for himself, giving Theodora no choice but to allow herself to be swept along on the storm waves of impossible longings. His mouth took and took. She gave all.
With her name on his lips, did he allow his mind to be flooded, erasing all thought but of her, to thrust deep, sheathing himself within her and claiming her for ever, taking her with him as he drove them both to shuddering delight and ultimate release.
Epilogue
New York
In the intervening weeks since she had received her mother’s letter, Eleanor’s boudoir and bedchamber had lost the intense smell of newly sawn wood, the spicy tang of resin, and gained a certain sophistication, particularly in the way of new furnishings. The lengthy discussions between Eleanor and Sarah, the apparently endless choosing and discarding of fabrics and patterns, had resulted in tasteful curtains at the windows with matching hangings for the bed. It was now a haven of tranquillity in shades of blue and cream, always Eleanor’s preferred hues. The deeply cushioned chairs and window seats invited and encouraged one to sit at ease.
But now the bedchamber held an even more recent item of furniture.<
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‘D’you like it, Mama?’ Tom traced the intricate carving along the foot with a grubby finger.
‘Of course I do.’ Eleanor, newly returned to her previously slim figure and her easy tolerance of the heat, smiled at her elder son. Perhaps she looked a little tired, her fine skin pale against the lace of her wrapper as she rested back against the banked pillows, but her eyes glowed with amethyst fire, heralding both pride and achievement. And a fierce love. ‘It is quite beautiful. You are such a clever boy, Tom. How could you guess what I would exactly like?’ She leaned to smooth the palm of her hand over the rounded edges of the cradle. Its occupant, astonishingly new to the world, slept on, unimpressed with the surroundings, the admiration or the company.
‘We guessed.’ Tom shrugged his nonchalance, a miniature copy of a gesture that Eleanor had seen so often in Henry and now made her laugh softly. ‘Papa said you like plants … and things.’ Tom followed the outline of what might have been a daisy. ‘Like this.’ The cradle was made from cedar and polished to enhance the grain, the decoration at head and foot a riot of deeply incised leaves and flowers, more to do with enthusiasm than elegant taste, but still a work of love and therefore of delight. ‘I chose the flowers,’ Tom confided, shuffling impatient feet in pleasure at the success of the gift.
‘And you made it? All by yourself?’
‘Well …’ Honesty got the better of him. ‘Papa helped. A bit. D’you think the baby likes it?’
‘I am certain.’ Eleanor kept her solemnity in place as she pushed the black hair from Tom’s forehead. The honesty had cost him! ‘Look how well he sleeps. It must be so comfortable for him. I think he looks very pleased to be here.’
‘I suppose.’ Tom peered in with a frown. One baby, after all, looked much like another.
But not to Eleanor. She was aware only of the dark hair, the straight nose. And she knew that this time their child’s eyes were blue, dark as the columns of delphinium that graced the flower borders at Burford Hall. Another Faringdon. Another son.
‘I have to go.’ Tom abandoned his brother without shame. ‘I haven’t seen my pony today. He’ll be missing me.’ He came to a sudden halt at the doorway and turned back. ‘The baby won’t be able to ride yet, will he?’ The anxiety of personal ownership was written across his face, a burning concern. He looked to Henry, a silent and amused observer of the previous interchange, who saw and understood.
‘No,’ he answered his son’s unspoken concern plainly enough. ‘He is far too small. The pony is yours, Tom. When the little one is older, we shall buy another for him.’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’ Life was as simple as that. Tom took himself down the stairs with a rush and slide of feet on the polished treads. Eleanor did not bother to tell him not to run.
‘I fear a pony holds more attraction for our son than a baby.’ Henry pushed himself upright from where he had been half-sitting against the open window frame, arms folded, to stride across the room with his habitual long-limbed grace. Moved to sit on the edge of the bed, where he took Eleanor’s hands in his, raising first one and then the other to his lips. ‘He is very fine, Nell. Was Tom like this when he was born?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Eleanor tightened her clasp in instant sympathy and a sharp twist of grief to put an edge on her happiness, surprised by a sudden desire to weep. Of course. Hal had missed all the early promise and progress of his firstborn son, but could now relive it through the first weeks and months of the life of this new child.
The baby snuffled in his sleep and yawned, but did not wake.
Henry grinned at the innocent gesture as he bent his head and kissed the palm of Eleanor’s hand. ‘Richard, then. Are we agreed?’ And, when she nodded her compliance, ‘We are indeed blessed,’ on a little sigh now that the pain and his fears for her safety through the dangers of childbirth were past.
‘I would wish the same for Nicholas. And perhaps even the unknown Miss Wooton-Devereux—if he truly loves her.’ Eleanor fretted a little at their enforced ignorance. ‘We know so little of what is between them now. Do you suppose that she was indeed in league with Edward Baxendale? I hope that she hasn’t quite broken Nicholas’s heart.’
‘I don’t know.’ Henry continued to hold his wife’s hands enclosed in his, as if he feared that she might still be snatched away from him. ‘But Sarah will write when she can. All you need is patience, my wife. And confidence in Nick’s good sense!’
‘Where a lovely woman is concerned?’ Eleanor’s tone spoke her scepticism of all men in such circumstances.
Henry lifted his hand, palm up in the formal gesture of a swordsman, in acknowledgement of the accurate hit.
‘Touché. I have never had any sense where you are concerned! But Nicholas has a strong will and a liking for going his own way. He always had. Perhaps he was a little overshadowed as a boy because he was the quietest of the three of us, but his calm acceptance of life disguised a determination to achieve his goals in the way that best suited him.’ Henry’s mouth curved, his eyes softened at the memories of a happy boyhood at Burford. ‘Before you knew what he was about, he had done it—whether it was to persuade our far-from-indulgent father that he could not survive without a new horse, or to charm the affections of one of the maids at the inn in Burford. Whatever the future, Nick will work out his own salvation, with or without the débutante.’
‘Well, I am sure that you read your brother correctly. I just hope that the lady is innocent of all subterfuge and that Nick loses his heart to her and has to kneel at her feet. I think it will do him good not to get his own way quite so much!’ And then, ‘I miss Sarah.’
‘I know. But she has her own life to live, and that of John to consider, and it was her decision to make. I do not think that she made it lightly.’
‘No.’ Eleanor remembered the final leave-taking when Sarah had wept. ‘But still she believed that to return to England was necessary to meet with her sister.’ Whether Sarah would remain in London—or return again to New York—only time would tell. Eleanor set her teeth. Again a matter for patience! Her somewhat melancholy mood was interrupted by a shout of laughter from below the window as Tom indulged in some childhood pastime. Then the sound of running feet, followed by a distant shriek of joy.
Her face lit, the sadness swept away. ‘Tom never told me, you know.’ Eleanor smiled into Henry’s eyes. ‘Your secret. Sometimes I thought he would burst with the overpowering desire to do so.’ As a smug smile was all the answer she received from her lord, her expression became suspicious and not a little stern. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I think it would not be honourable for me to divulge my methods to my wife,’ Henry replied in all seriousness. ‘Not in so vital a matter between a man and his son.’
‘So it involved money!’
‘You have no confidence in my powers of persuasion, Nell!’
‘Oh, Hal. Bribery!’
Henry laughed at her affronted, yet still amused expression. ‘What else? It was in an excellent cause.’
‘And it is a splendid cradle.’
‘As is the child. Both of them.’ The pride in Hal’s face made her catch her breath. ‘Thank you, Nell. Dear Nell. I shall be always in your debt.’ He slid his arm around her shoulders to pull her close as he leaned to touch the infant’s clenched fingers which flexed in response—tiny fists and perfect nails. ‘What a clever girl you are, my love.’
‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ For a moment she turned her face against his shoulder.
‘Is it very terrible?’
‘No. Just that I wanted a daughter.’ She felt him smile against her hair. ‘But I have decided that Richard is quite perfect and I find that it no longer matters.’ She lifted her face. ‘And he is so like you, Hal.’
‘Perhaps next time.’ Henry folded his arms around her, touched his lips to hers in the tenderest of caresses. ‘We will make a good life here, Nell. Whatever the future holds for us.’
‘I have no doubt of it.’ Eleanor leaned h
er head against him and smiled her perfect contentment.
Some months later, far from New York in Herefordshire, Nicholas was indeed working out his own salvation in his own way. Now Nicholas took the steps at a run and strode into the entrance hall at Aymestry Manor, a man at ease in his surroundings and with the life that he had chosen for himself. It was clear that his involvement in that life was complete. His hair was ruffled from physical exertion, his shirt sleeves rolled up, cravat loosened, boots and breeches covered with straw.
Thea?’ No reply. No sound. She could be anywhere at this time in the morning. ‘Thea!’ His voice echoed. He would have shouted again but then heard her feet, in riding boots, hurrying along the oak boards of the corridor to the head of the staircase. He would recognise the sound of her quick, light footsteps anywhere now. He stood hands on hips, head thrown back, until she came to look down over the balustraded landing above him. As full of vibrant life and as beautiful as the first day that she had struck him with her riding whip and in so doing had turned his life upside down.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you hurt?—no of course you are not! You look far too healthy.’ Smiling down at him, she was aware of the tingle in every nerve ending as his smile banished the austere lines from his face, the warmth in her blood when his eyes swept over her, even after six months of marriage. He still had the power to make her want him, to need him. To feel herself at one with him, body and soul. And, it appeared—she flushed with delight at the realisation of the miracle—he needed and wanted her just as much.
‘Come down!’
She did.
‘You are very dirty, my lord.’
‘And you are very smart, my lady. I like the riding rig.’
‘I like the boots and breeches better.’ Her smile was openly teasing. ‘But this is more appropriate! I am going to see Mrs Calke at Burford and I must not shock the tenants!’ The velvet of the long skirt and closely fitted jacket was in her favourite deep blue. Her eyes reflected its depth of colour and her hair, worn a little longer these days, was a rich gold. Nicholas could not resist sliding his arms round her slim waist, pulling her close, regardless of the dusty state of his clothes. And since she did not object over much—indeed, she wound her arms around his neck and tilted up her face in blatant invitation—he kissed her, hard and fierce.