by Anita Mills
She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Please—"
He tipped her over onto the grass and lay beside her. His gray eyes were like silver in the moonlight. A slow, sensuous smile curved his mouth as he watched her. "I know how to please you—I'll make it good."
She turned her head, torn between physical wanting and the certainty that she did not, could not love him. It would be so easy to let him slake her desire, to feed the need within her, to close her eyes and pretend that once again it was Luce that held her, but she knew she couldn't, that it had to be Longford or none.
"No."
"I'm as good as Longford, Elinor—and I want to wed with you."
His hands were warm where they touched her cold flesh, and for a moment, she was still torn. But as his mouth possessed hers, she began shaking uncontrollably.
He did not doubt his ultimate ability to persuade her, but he wanted more than that. As long as he'd waited for her, he wanted it all—he wanted her to love him body, heart, and soul. Reluctantly, he stopped trying to kiss her, and just held her. "It's all right. I love you, you know." When she did not stop shivering, he rolled to sit. "I don't guess it has to be tonight. I can wait a bit longer."
And it was as though something inside her broke. Tears welled in her eyes and her chin quivered. "Bell, I cannot," she whispered desperately. "If I did, it would be because I am lonely—because I would be held—not because I loved you."
"You think me a frippery fellow, don't you?" he said finally.
"No. It's that—"
"I'm not old like Kingsley—nor faithless like Longford, Elinor. I won't look at another." He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "My salad days were good ones, but they are over."
"I—I'm sorry."
"Here—I didn't mean to make you cry." This time, when he drew her into his arms, he felt an aching emptiness rather than passion. "I guess what you would tell me is that it's still Longford, isn't it?"
"Yes. Always."
"Did I ever have a chance?" he asked bleakly.
She shook her head against him. "I have dreamed of him since I was fifteen, Bell."
Her words hurt, but he supposed it was a bitter sort of justice. And while he could not be happy with it, he supposed he deserved it. His arms tightened around her as he let her weep against his shoulder.
"And if he does not come home, I shall die!" she wailed.
"He'll come home," he murmured, smoothing the satin of her hair. "He'd be a fool not to."
She pulled away and sat back, wiping her eyes sheepishly. "I am not usually a watering pot," she apologized.
"And I am not usually a loser—not with a lady, anyway."
"I'm truly sorry."
"It's all right. I wouldn't want a woman who wanted someone else, who had to pretend she wanted me." He rose, pulling her up. "You won't have any difficulty making Luce come up to scratch when he gets home, Elinor. You are not the sort of female a man can easily forget."
"He doesn't love me. But I—I cannot help it—I'd still have him, Bell."
He caught her hand and started back down the path. "You know," he told her, "you're the first woman I ever brought back in tears. Usually we're both a great deal happier than this."
"You'll find someone." She forced a watery smile. "You are far too handsome and far too accomplished not to."
"No. You behold a fellow who will go on as I have always done—until duty makes me settle for someone who can pass on my name." He looked down at her and his mouth twisted. "Grand passions can be deuced painful, you know. I'm not sure I should wish to try this again."
CHAPTER 37
September 17, 1814
All summer she had waited, and then she knew. He wasn't coming home. He didn't care about her. Every letter he'd written had been about Elizabeth, not her, and the last one had said that his company would be staying in France as part of the occupation, that he did not know when he'd be home. And that had been more than a month before.
Now as autumn was upon them again, as her birthday had come again, her loneliness was almost desperate. Never again was anyone going to hold her, never again was anyone going to love her. It was almost enough to make her wish she had taken Bellamy Townsend. But not quite.
Every day that she looked in her child's face, she saw Lucien, for it was as though her daughter had gotten nothing of her. The child, now weaned, was already beautiful, a curse Elinor could not wish on her. But as the babe squealed and toddled unsteadily about Stoneleigh, everyone—the lowest footman, the kitchen maids, the tweenies—even Daggett and the Peakes—adored her. It was a wonder she walked at all, for there was always someone eager to carry her.
This day, it looked as though it could rain, making Elinor even more restless, so much so that even the child could not divert her. Finally, as Mary laid Elizabeth down for her nap, Elinor decided to ride. Perhaps the wildness of the wind in her face, of the sea air blowing in across the cliffs would exhilarate her, would make her care that she turned twenty-two, that she still had a long life ahead of her.
Mary looked up, seeing her mistress take out her new green habit. Now that nearly two years of mourning, first for Charles Kingsley, then for his grandfather, were over, she could wear anything she liked. But poor Lady Kingsley, for all that Arthur had left her, was lonely for the company of a man, she told Jeremy. And now that Lord Townsend had left Cornwall—Mary'd heard from one of the grooms that his groom had said they were going to India, of all places—there was only Lord Leighton. And for all that he had was reasonably handsome and exceedingly kind, Mary did not think he was suited to Lady Kingsley.
"It's going ter rain."
"I don't care."
"Ye will if ye catch yer death."
"I won't. I'm never ill."
"Ye going ter take a groom wi'ye?"
"No. The neighbors are used to my peculiar ways. 'The eccentric Lady Kingsley,' " she murmured, mimicking Eliza Thurstan. "It's almost amusing—while an unmarried female or a wife is quite constrained, no one seems to give a fig about the behavior of widows."
"Well, if any was ter inquire, where might I say ye've gone?"
"I thought perhaps I might ride over and ask George if he would come to sup tomorrow night. We've postponed my birthday dinner, anyway."
"Humph! One o' these days, there's going ter be talk," Mary predicted direly. "Even widows oughter not call on bachelor gentlemen unattended."
"George?" Elinor laughed. "Nonsense. He is kind-nothing more."
As she rode over to Leighton's, she could not help thinking that it was exactly two years to the day since she'd gone so shamelessly to Longford's. Two years to the day since she'd thoroughly, completely discovered the pleasures of passion—before she discovered the price.
But now that passion was but a haunting memory. After more than a year of waiting and hoping, she had finally come to realize that he did not mean to come home to her. The dreams that once sustained her, that heated her body at night, were forcefully buried by the realization that if he ever did come back, it would be to see Elizabeth, not her. It was the blood, Mary had said. He couldn't be blamed for being like Mad Jack.
George seemed surprised to see her. "My dear Lady Kingsley, I had expected you to be home today."
"Why? Because it's going to rain?"
"No." He took both her hands and kissed them gallantly. "Did you not hear from Lucien?"
Her breath caught, and she could scarce breathe. Somehow she managed to recover, to respond casually, "No, but I collect he is still in France." But it hurt to think that he'd written to George since his last letter to her. "Did he have any news for you?"
He recovered also. "No—nothing of import."
"Then let us not think of Luce." She flashed him her most dazzling smile. "In fact, I have come to invite you to sup with us tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Well, today is my birthday, but the apricots did not arrive, so the cook promises the tarts for tomorrow," she explained.
"I am two and twenty, George, so there is no need to make it sound as though I am in my dotage."
"Ah. The sharp tongue," he teased. "And just when I thought you'd come to cast out lures to me."
"Stuff. You are the only friend left to me, and you know it. I should not want to ruin that with a romantical attachment."
"I'll drink to that one. Ratafia?" But even as he said it she made a face.
"For my birthday?"
"Madeira? Port? Hock? Brandy?"
"A small bit of madeira, then I'll have to go before the sky pours." She followed him inside, and her gaze traveled up the portraits that lined the wide staircase. "Distinguished ancestors," she murmured, "particularly the one in the Elizabethan ruff."
"Oh, they're not mine." He grinned apologetically. "Belonged to the last fellow before he lost the place, but they looked better than a bunch of fierce, half-savage Maxwell Scots, so I left them up there."
"Half-savage? Looking at you, I'd not believe it."
"You have not seen me angered, have you?"
"No," she admitted. Then, "Do you never miss Scotland?"
He considered for a moment before nodding. "Yes, but not in the fall or winter."
He opened the front saloon door for her, then walked to pour two glasses from the madeira decanter. Holding one out to her, he offered, "To friends. Or as Luce would have said, 'May there always be truth between friends.' "
Once Longford had used those very same words to her. Her hand shook, nearly spilling the wine. "I—I cannot."
"Sorry. To a brighter day than this one, then."
She sighed. "As the clouds are everywhere, it's not difficult to drink to that." She sipped from the glass, then set it down. "And by the looks of them, I'd best go."
"It's odd—I'd thought you would have been the first he'd written," he murmured. "Perhaps it got lost."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Then I would you did not say it." She looked out the window, seeing that the wind blew harder. "You know, it might be better if I waited it out."
"You've got time," he assured her.
"One would think you wished to be rid of me," she observed.
"Not at all—just think you ought to go home, that's all. Always glad to have you, but if the storm worsened, if you had to spend the night—"
"My rep's in shreds, anyway," she reminded him. "It would merely be said I am a lonely widow."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"If I thought I could make you forget Luce, I should be tempted, my dear. But I am not the fool that Bell was."
She stood on tiptoe and brushed a light kiss against his cheek. "Sometimes, George, I wish you were. You are the most comfortable man I know. But you are quite right, as always."
He watched from the window as one of his ostlers mounted her, then he smiled. She was going to be mad as fire when she got home soaked and found Lucien there. Perhaps he ought to have told her, but he didn't think it was his place.
He let the drapery drop, and sighed regretfully. She was a lovely creature, and there was not a man in the neighborhood who did not envy him for her friendship— nor a woman who did not suspect it. And the only difference between him and Bell was that he'd always known he could not beat out Longford. Besides, he was not at all certain he wanted to be merely a "comfortable fellow."
The clouds rolled in from the sea more quickly than she'd expected, and before long the sky would pour. Already the lightning along the horizon was making Mignon skittish, and in a sidesaddle that could be hazardous. She'd reached the road between Bude and Langston Park, much the same place as that fateful day two years before. A low rumble of thunder decided her. Reluctantly, she turned toward the Park.
The cottage was still there. But she did not know why that surprised her, for it had stood long before she'd been born and no doubt would be there long after she was gone. The first spray of rain came through the autumn leaves, rattling them. Drawn, she dismounted, tied her mare to the post, and tried the door. It swung inward, creaking on its hinges, as she went inside.
It was musty, as though no one had been there in years. For a long time, she stood in the center of the room, her eyes moving to the bed where she'd probably conceived Elizabeth, and the memories that flooded over her made her throat ache until she could scarce swallow. And there was her chair—the rough rug before the empty fireplace. As she looked around, it seemed as though everything was in its place, reminding her that they'd lain together nearly everywhere—in the bed, before the fire, in the big chair... And suddenly she was stifled by ail of it, choked, and she had to get out.
But when she opened the door again, the rain came down in a solid sheet. Now she wished devoutly she'd not come. Moving back to the empty fireplace, she picked up several hands full of kindling and a ball of lint from the box. The wood ought to be dry after having been there so long. She unfastened her Hussar shako and removed it from her head that it would not fall into the fire, then loosened the braided frogs that closed her jacket, and removed it, exposing the pleated lawn waist. Bending over, she piled wood loosely over the lint and kindling, then searched for the sparker. The flint was still good in it. She squeezed it, striking the flint several times, until the lint finally caught.
It seemed like it took forever to coax the rest of it to catch and she had to keep adding lint. She was so absorbed in the task that she heard nothing until the chill, wet wind swept in the door, and then she supposed she'd not closed it properly. She rose and half-turned, thinking to shut it, and it was as though her heart paused, as though time itself stood silent.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him, throwing the bar, filling the room. Beads of water clung to his scarlet coat. Her gaze traveled upward from the bright brass buttons to the shiny gorget at his neck and then to his face. The faint scar she'd given him was still there, crossing his nose and cheek, but otherwise he appeared whole—and every bit as handsome as she remembered him. She swallowed hard and waited for him to say something.
He drank in the sight of her. Nothing in his memory could compare with her in the flesh, with that copper hair, the amber eyes, the perfect skin. Finally, his mouth curved into the familiar crooked smile.
"I collect you did not get my letter?"
Her whole body shook, as though she'd taken a chill. "No. I thought you still in Paris."
"Until Monday, I was."
"You missed the grand celebration here," she said foolishly, thinking he'd come home a stranger.
He made a face at that. "I heard Prinny made a fool of himself and that the day was Alexander's."
"I did not go." She dared to briefly meet his eyes. "I collect you have come to see Elizabeth."
"I've seen her—I just came from Stoneleigh, then from George's. I'd begun to despair of finding you until I saw the smoke. But you were right in your letters, Nell—she is definitely a beauty."
"I cannot take credit for that, Luce. She looks like you."
It was as though an abyss separated them. For the first time in his life, it seemed as though he had to struggle for the right words. The speech he'd memorized between the Park and Stoneleigh had fled, leaving him to try it from the heart.
"I've a fair notion now of what Arthur told you," he began finally.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Luce. You don't have to explain. That was a long time ago." But as she spoke, she wiped damp palms against her skirt, for she really did want him to say it. Even though she knew, she wanted to hear it.
"Yes, it does. I promised you the truth, always the truth, and you shall have it. After that, the choice is yours." He sucked in his breath, and let it out slowly. "All he ever did, Nell, was plant the seed in my mind, and I let it grow until I could think of nothing else. But it wasn't Arthur in the beginning—I wanted you before that. It was that he gave me permission, that somehow it did not seem quite so wrong. But the fault was mine, Nell, for I d
id not count the cost to you."
She held her breath and said nothing, letting him go on.
His mouth twisted again. "You know you've given me my soul, Nell—you've proven I'm not like Mad Jack. I don't want anybody but you." He moved closer, closing the gap between them. "I love you, Nell—more than anybody, more than anything, and all I could think of as we fought our way up and down the Pyrenees was that I had to live, that I had to come home to you and our daughter." He reached a hand to cup her chin and looked into her eyes. "I want to wed with you, Nell—and if you'd have me, I'd wait no longer." Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as his other arm encircled her, drawing her close. "There's no one else but you for me, Nell."
"Oh—Luce!" She turned her head into his shoulder, smelling the rain and the wet wool, thinking that surely her heart would burst from what she felt for him. "There's never been anyone but you," she whispered.
His arms closed around her, and he buried his face in the crown of her bright hair, smelling the scent of lavender. "God, Nell, but I've waited too long for this," he whispered.
For answer, she lifted parted lips to his, and he forgot all else. His mouth came down on hers eagerly, hungrily, sending the heat coursing through her, leaving her breathless as she clung to him like life itself. He was there, he was hers, and he was going to love her. His hands left her hair to move possessively over her body, eliciting a desire that was as intense as anything of her memory. She was hot, wanting, and she did not care about anything beyond what he would do to her. Finally, she broke away.
Slowly, while he watched her, his breath catching in his throat, she bent to remove her boots, then stood again to undo the waist and the zona beneath, baring fuller breasts than he remembered. Then she unhooked her skirt and pushed it and her petticoat down, letting them fall to the floor beside the boots. She stood before him naked and beautiful.
"You don't need to wait any longer, Luce," she said softly, daring to meet his eyes.
Wordlessly, he stripped, nearly tearing the metal gorget from his neck, then he walked to her. This time, when he kissed her, her hands stroked the bare skin of his back and hips eagerly, urging him to take her. Holding her, he backed to the bed, then carried her down with him, falling into the depths of the feather mattress. He rolled her onto her back, then lay there for a moment looking at her as her arms reached to encircle his neck.