by Jane Lark
His hand dropping, as though a lead-weight hung from it, he answered, “I am not like them, Ellen. Have I treated you like them? I am offering you my name and my home if you marry me. Gainsborough cannot reach you then. No man can have a hold over you ever again if that is what you wish. How you live afterwards can be your choice. I’ll claim no right over you.”
His eyes fell away from her vivid gaze, which assessed him so acutely. “If you don’t agree to my offer, you may stay here as long as you wish. I will ask for nothing in return, ever, whether you accept my offer or not. Your future is in your hands either way, Ellen. Do as you wish and I’ll abide by your decision.”
Her mouth had fallen open as she listened to him, her palm pressing to the expanse of bare flesh at her chest, index finger and thumb resting along her collar bone, as though controlling her quickening breaths.
When she made no effort to speak, “Ellen?” he pushed her, meeting her gaze again, impatient to know his sentence. If he was to be cast aside into purgatory he wished to know it. When still she merely stood staring at him, he pressed again, unable to keep the anguished croak from his voice. “For God’s sake, Ellen, put me out of my misery. I feel as though I have just lain my head beneath the guillotine. Aye or nay? A false marriage, a true marriage or nothing at all?”
Her eyes suddenly sparkled like fine diamonds, glinting with the light from the candles in the wall sconces, and tears. Her silk glove coated fingers touched his cheek, the pad of her thumb falling on his lip. “You misunderstood me, Edward. I love you. I want to be with you. But marriage? It’s such a big step to make, and, and I am not the sort of woman a mother would wish a man to wed. Won’t your brother disapprove? What if he were to disown you? What then? What if all your friends and family turn their backs on you? It is not just me I’m thinking of.”
His fingers captured hers, drawing them away, as his thumb brushed across the fabric covering her palm.
“Ellen, I cannot offer you the opulence of an address like this, nor do I have Gainsborough’s money to put you up in a smart townhouse, but I have run Robert’s estates for years, I can take a steward’s post, we will have accommodation and no one will know of your past. If my friends and family cannot see the good I see in you, Ellen, then let it be so.” He must have said something right for she rose up on to her toes and kissed him on the cheek tenderly.
“You would give up your family for me?”
“I will give up everything if I must. You and John will be my family. I swear to you I will treat him as my own son.” His hands spanning her tiny waist, he continued. “Ellen Harding, I love you, become my wife and you will make me the happiest man.” His lips descending to hers, he kissed her, trying to show her how he felt.
She broke it. “Yes.” The single word was breathless, barely a whisper against his lips.
Pulling away, his gaze met hers. He saw surprise, relief and joy, in her face.
Opening her lips, she laughed, as though she astonished herself. “My answer is, yes, Edward. I will marry you. But not tomorrow, the banns have to be read.”
Picking her up by a tight grip on her waist, while her fingers gripped his shoulders, he twirled her once before setting her back onto her feet with a delighted laugh. “There, my dear, is where you are wrong. I obtained a special licence when I asked you before in the sincere hope you would say, yes, and leave with me then. I have it still. We will be wed tomorrow.”
Her fingers framing his face, she said, “You are mad, and the most gallant man I have ever met. What did I do to deserve you? I have no idea. This is foolish. But if you are truly happy to have me as your wife I will not say, no, again.” Her touch lingering on his skin, her eyes sparkling with a hope he’d never seen there before, he felt the warmth inside him surge, the heat that was pure love and naught to do with sex.
But when you had one, why not take the other?
Kissing her deeply, he tasted salt on her lips; joyful tears.
He was nothing without her, he knew it. Together they made a whole. Their wedding would be no more than a certificate.
“Come to my room,” he whispered across her parted lips, and then felt her mouth break into a smile beneath his, before she slipped beneath his arm and out of his reach. The smile still toying with her lips, she was the Ellen of those carefree days in London.
“No, my Lord, I think such a thing would be terribly bad luck. You must wait until your wedding night.”
Edward laughed as she ran from the room, revelling in her joy as the years slipped away from her again. He liked seeing her smile. He wanted to make her smile every day for the rest of her life.
Chapter Eight
Ellen stood before the altar in the little church, beside Edward. He’d tossed her life up in the air and caught it in his steady, sensitive hands.
John was in the narrow box pew to her left with the Earl of Barrington’s butler, Mr Davis, and his housekeeper, Mrs Barclay. The servants had attended to bear witness.
Ellen’s first wedding had been a similarly fast affair. A long ride to the Scottish border and vows shared over an iron anvil, but the time she’d had with Paul had been golden to her. She remembered it with a dreamlike distance. She’d been innocent, a virgin, beholding Paul with glowing expectation and no fear of fate. This time she was neither innocent of life or death, and she was afraid of fate.
‘It is how it is,’ her father had once told her. ‘What will be, will be; we must just make the best of it,’ she had often heard Paul say.
Still, she’d always wished she could divine the future and know what faced them on the road ahead, beyond the next brow of life’s journey. She wanted to have choice, to be happy. This morning, when she’d woken at first light, she’d risen and gone to the window, drawing back the heavy curtains. The first rays of the rising sun had caught the veil of white frost covering the ground, casting diamonds, like seeds, beneath her window. It felt like a gift from God, a peace offering. The morning chorus, resounding across the pleasure gardens below, a serenade to the dawn, had felt like it was sung for her. Her heart full to the brim, she’d looked to the distance and clutched her hands together, taking hold of all her hopes and protecting them.
No one knew as well as she did, how hopes could turn to ashes in your hands. She knew the force of the demons chasing her. Edward did not. They’d damned her to hell before. She prayed Edward would have the strength to fight them off, urging herself to have faith in him. She was building castles in the air, marrying him—writing her own fairy tale. But life was not like fairy tales. Life did not play fairly—evil won. And fending off Gainsborough was one thing—fending off her father was entirely different.
She looked up at Edward. He was watching her, tenderness in his eyes. He had the strength, goodness and courage to care. She loved him and he loved her. She’d disbelieved him once, he’d proved her wrong. Edward Marlow was her saviour and her hero. All her faith was thrown into the pot. Win or lose, this was her choice—her gamble. Just as it had been with her first husband Paul, only then fate had dealt her a bad hand. Now she hoped, she prayed, here, before God, that her luck would change.
Tears in her eyes, she said, “I will,” and Edward took up her left hand to slip a narrow gold ring onto her finger.
“I give thee…”
She had John, and she had Edward. She would not think of anything else, not yet, not until the moment came when she must. Until then she would take every chance of happiness life gave her. Her eyes took in the glinting light from the tall plain glass windows which shone down on Edward’s hair, reflecting back like a halo.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” The vicar’s sharp, shrill, words rang out against the bare stone of the small parish church and rising to her toes she wrapped her arms around Edward’s neck, hugging him tightly, wordlessly begging him to never let her go.
“I love you,” he whispered into her hair and as she lifted her head to answer he kissed her.
“And I you, husband,”
she spoke against his mouth, close to crying. Blinking back the tears, she smiled, laughing at their folly. “Marrying me is madness, but I love you more for it.”
“Mama!” John came rushing to her side, barrelling into her and wrapping his arms about her waist, hugging her tightly as Edward released her.
“And now Lord and Lady Edward we must sign the register. If you will come this way?” the vicar said, shepherding them to the vestry. Edward signed first, before taking John’s hand from her so she could sit before the broad record book. While Edward spoke to the vicar she quickly wrote her father’s name, sans title and signed her own. The witnesses then made their mark, while she watched, hoping neither would recognise her father’s name, neither appeared to. Feeling Edward’s fingers slide into her own she turned, forcing a smile, though it was not hard to do as she met his.
“Husband,” she whispered up to him and squeezed his hand. It was not a word she’d thought she would ever say again.
“Wife,” he answered, his fingers tightening around hers, as his lips parted more broadly, clearly indulging her, his eyes shining.
A small part of her felt a nagging twinge of guilt. Was this wrong, to accept his offer of security when he didn’t know the truth? If only he’d not sought to persuade her, but everything about Edward was persuasive. He had offered, she had accepted, and that was that. She had committed far worse sins than telling half the truth. She hoped he would never know the rest.
“Come then, on to our wedding breakfast.” He began walking backwards, his grip on her hand pulling her with him.
Ellen laughed; all they had awaiting them was a very normal luncheon, just the three of them.
“Am I to call you Papa now?” John asked, gripping Edward’s other hand, as they turned to leave the church by the small porch.
“You may call me what you wish, John. If you like it can be, Papa, or if not then it shall be Edward.”
The boy smiled up at him. “I would like to have a Papa, I cannot remember mine.” Ellen’s teeth caught her lower lip.
“Then you have a Papa now, John.” Edward’s hand slipped from John’s and instead rested on John’s shoulder and pulled John to his side. They were a family in every appearance, Ellen thought, as they followed the path from the church back to the house, the servants behind them.
“My real father fought in the war, but no one will speak of him.” John continued, with the innocently blind speech of a child.
“From what your Mama has told me, John, your father was a very brave man, who you have good reason to be proud of.”
Clutching Edward’s hand more tightly, Ellen expressed her gratitude for his consideration. In response, looking back at her, he lifted her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, as though he truly understood.
She knew he did not.
John had been brought up to ignore the existence of both his parents. How was Edward to imagine that?
“I would like to know about my real Papa, Mama. Would you tell me?” John urged.
She smiled, looking at Edward in case he would not like it, but he never flinched. Amazing man. Her gaze passed back to her son. “He was special, John, brave, and you are very like him.”
She went on to talk of nights around the campfire. Of tales Paul had told her about his battles, of how Paul had helped his wounded friends. The simple, difficult but happy life she’d known before his death. And as they walked together back to the Earl of Barrington’s country residence, she felt as though she was in that blessed place again. Only this time it felt fragile, like a bubble that would burst, or theatre, a performance in which she was merely acting. It could not be real. But as the day progressed she tentatively let belief and joy seep deeper.
Over luncheon they talked of things they would do. Edward, asking John about the things he enjoyed, promised to find the boy his own pony so they could ride together in days to come.
In the afternoon they played cards with John, using imaginary pennies as a stake, at the end of which her son was wealthier by more than a dozen promissory notes.
Later, when she walked John upstairs to the nursery for supper, Edward followed, and in the end they stayed, sharing a plate of cook’s crumpets with butter and honey instead of dining downstairs.
Afterwards, when she tucked John into bed and told him another story of his father, Edward watched, leaning against the door frame.
“He’s a good lad,” Edward told her as they left John to sleep, his hand resting on her shoulder as they turned to the stairs.
Ellen smiled. John had been her only reason for living until Edward. “I wish Paul had known him. He would have been proud. But I am grateful for your kindness towards him. You cannot know how much it means to me.”
“Ellen, no gratitude.” His hand slipping to her waist, he drew her closer as they reached the stairs and began to descend. “I promise I will treat John as my own son. Whatever I can do to heal the wound of losing his father I shall, but I don’t expect to be thanked for it.”
Stopping on the stairs Ellen hugged him. “You are too good for me, Edward Marlow. God alone knows what I did to deserve you.”
“Ellen, darling, you deserve everything good. You’ve been through enough hardship. Come, I believe it is a bridegroom’s prerogative to carry his bride across the threshold.” With that she was swept up effortlessly in his strong arms and carried to his bedchamber, while she clung to his shoulders, laughing.
“You’ve made me wait for this,” Edward spoke as he kicked his bedchamber door open and carried her into the masculine room of dark oak and royal blue hues.
“But now you have the luxury of making love to your wife,” she answered, her gaze skimming across the room. It was welcoming and warm, with a fire burning in the hearth and several candles alight.
The room was like Edward, not in the least austere.
He laughed, his voice deep and teasing. “And you were right.” He dropped her onto his bed and leaned over and kissed her, one knee beside her on the quilt, his hands on either side of her shoulders. “I will appreciate it far more.” His dark blue-black gaze sparkled with a look of adoration.
The sight of it melted her heart as her fingers worked free the buttons of his evening coat.
“And I will keep my vow. I am going to honour and worship you with my body.” His lips nipped at hers. “It will hardly be a chore.”
She smiled in answer as he allowed her to free him from his coat. And then her fingers were at the buttons of his waistcoat, and it was like the days they’d spent in London.
“Wife, give me the chance to undress my bride.”
“Husband, I will give you the opportunity, but first allow me the pleasure of viewing your glorious chest.”
“Lord, but I married a cheeky hoyden.”
Ellen felt laughter bubble from her throat. “If I desire my husband, pray tell me what is wrong with that?”
His lips brushed at hers again before she pulled his waistcoat from his arms and threw it to a chair. Then his hands were drawing her up to free the buttons at her back.
Having loosened his neckcloth, pulled it free and then thrown it to the chair too, Ellen jerked his shirt-tails from his breeches. Once she’d stripped him to the waist she traced her fingertips across the contours of his muscle. He was such a remarkable man, her Edward, hers, to have, to hold—to keep. The thought of it made her heart thunder and a delicious ache reach from her breast as he kissed it through the thin cotton of her chemise.
His fingers fumbled over the laces of her light corset at her back.
“Ellen, sit forward.” The command was a deep resonating, impatient growl, as he tugged at the stubborn knot.
A wicked streak gripping her, complying, she ran her fingertips downwards.
Edward’s responsive groan was rough and rasping as his fingers pulled loose the lacing threaded through her stays. “What are you doing?”
Ellen laughed. “I promised to have and to hold, husband. I am merely obeying.”
His kiss was deep and all consuming as his hand covered hers and gripped. Then she was full of him, gasping at his impatient onslaught.
Both her hands were captured in his and pinned above her head as his weight pressed her down thrusting through the slit in her drawers. This was what she craved whenever Edward was near.
“Will you obey me always, wife?” He spoke into her mouth.
“I will, when you ask me to do what I wish.”
His loving was playful and taunting and he smiled at her, his gaze shimmering with heat. She was smiling too, her muscle tight, her heels pressing into the mattress and her hips arched. It was sweet torture and her breathing reduced to shallow pants. He was everything to her. She wanted to grip his shoulders and hold on for dear life but he wouldn’t let her hands go.
“Ah! Edward!”
“Edward!” she was pleading now.
Then she fell from a precipice into open air, all her senses lost.
“Edward?” He’d withdrawn but only to strip her of her flimsy underwear.
She lay naked in only her stockings and garters when he returned and she would have complained about him still wearing his breeches and boots but then his lips touched her stomach.
Utterly intoxicated Ellen’s eyes were closed and her head pressed back into the pillow. “Oh, Edward!” Her fingers gripped his hair.
“Do I do you honour, wife?” The warmth of his words spun tremors through her as his fingers toyed with her stocking top, sliding in and out while his tongue played a similar game.
“You do! Edward, ah, you do!”
His answer was a very self-satisfied chuckle.
Then he was kissing a path back up her body to claim her again.