by Jane Feather
There was a low-voiced consultation, then Paget, with a smile of excuse to the ladies on either side, rose, paused to say something in Major Ferguson’s ear and again in Lord Dawson’s. The three men went into the hall.
“Something unprecedented has occurred,” Bryony stated matter-of-factly. “I don’t remember a time when my father has left his own dinner table with such lack of ceremony.”
“Wars tend to cause people to behave in unfamiliar fashion,” said Benedict, equally prosaic, but Bryony could feel the tension in the muscle-hard thigh against her own. The buzz of voices around the table increased in volume as excited speculation rose, transcending the rules of civilized social congress. Interest in food waned as interest in the contents of the wineglasses waxed; eager anticipation of some momentous news hovered over the group.
The three men came back to the dining room, the solemnity graven on their features belied by the springing step, the sparkling eyes, the joyous air of messengers with portentous news.
Bryony felt Ben relax, leaning back in his chair, his fingers now loose on the stem of his glass, twirling it idly, his breathing slow and even. How did she know that the pose was requiring a supreme effort, that he was somehow preparing himself for the worst, ensuring that he would evince no visible effects of whatever this news was?
“My friends.” It was her father speaking, his eyes alight. “You will excuse this interruption of our dinner, but I feel sure you would not wish me to waste an instant in imparting to you the news that has just reached us.” He paused, smiling down the long table in the expectant hush. “My friends, Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis have taken Charleston, and General Lincoln’s entire defending force is captured. Finally, victory over those damn traitorous rebels is in our hands!”
The room exploded in laughter and cheering, and Benedict Clare sat smiling quietly in the midst of the joyful throng. He glanced sideways at his host’s daughter and, with a mocking lift of one eyebrow, raised his glass in silent toast.
You don’t seem in the least concerned.” Bryony sat on her bed, hugging her drawn-up knees beneath the demure white nightgown, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and around her face as she looked in intent puzzlement at the insouciant visitor to her bedchamber.
Benedict chuckled. “I have other things on my mind at present, lass. Much pleasanter matters.” Leaning over, he twisted a lock of hair around his finger as he brought his mouth to hers. Bryony resisted, pummeling his chest, trying to turn her head away from the capturing mouth. Ben laughed, his warm breath mingling with hers. Taking her face between both his hands, he held her still, her fists imprisoned between their bodies, until he had finished what he had started.
“But I want to know what you are going to do!” Bryony gasped breathlessly, fighting the insidious surge of desire creeping up from somewhere in the region of her toes.
“I will tell you what I shall do if you don’t decide to be a little more accommodating,” he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt. “I did not climb that creeper at great risk to life, limb, and honor simply to discuss a turn of events over which, at present, I have no control.”
“But why are you not upset?”
“Persistent creature!” He swooped down on her, catching her beneath the knees and toppling her backward on the bed. “When will you learn to accept the inevitable?”
Bryony’s indignant squawk was reduced to a snuffle as her legs were doubled over her head, and she struggled vainly to pull down her nightgown to achieve some degree of modesty, a condition that Ben seemed determined to deny her. It was at this interesting point that there came a soft but determined knock upon the door. Ben released his hold, and Bryony’s legs swung down to the bed. She looked up at him, pink-cheeked and disheveled, her eyes bright with the promise that had been on the verge of fulfillment.
The latch on the door rattled. “Bryony? Are you asleep, child? Why have you locked the door?” It was Eliza—and a most insistent-sounding Eliza, at that.
“It may smack of farce, but sometimes the old ways are the best ways.” Ben dived for the floor, rolling beneath the bed to keep company with the dust balls and the chamber pot.
A bubble of almost hysterical laughter welled in Bryony’s chest. She mumbled something that would hopefully reach her mother through the door and stumbled off the bed, kicking Ben’s shoes beneath it as she ran to the door.
“I beg your pardon, Mama. I must have been asleep.” Bryony rubbed her eyes vigorously with the heels of her hands in an effort to appear red-eyed and drowsy. “What is it?”
“You must have fallen asleep with the lamp burning.” Eliza in nightgown and cap bustled into the room. “Your father noticed the light beneath your door when he came up to bed and wished to be sure that you were not unwell.”
Bryony sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, afraid to put her full weight on the mattress lest the bed ropes sag onto the flattened figure beneath. “I’m quite well, Mama. Just very tired. It’s been a fatiguing evening, after all.” She offered a tentative smile, but Eliza did not respond. She was frowning deeply.
“Why was your door locked, child? You can have no secrets, surely?”
She had committed a cardinal sin, Bryony knew. Privacy was a rare condition, the desire for it most unusual, and the right to it unheard of. Only mischief could be taking place behind a locked door. Her eyes dropped to her lap, and she played restlessly with her fingers. “Forgive me, Mama. I know it’s silly, but … but I have had such a fear since … since that night last summer.” She did not dare look up to see how her confession was affecting Eliza and continued in the same hesitant little voice. “Supposing I had walked in my sleep? It could happen again.”
“Oh, my poor child.” The bed ropes creaked in protest as Eliza sat stoutly on the bed beside her, wrapping her in her arms. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? I will have someone sleep in here with you.”
Sweet heaven! thought Bryony as that dreadful bubble of laughter threatened to explode with devastating consequences. If you only knew! “No, please, Mama, that is not necessary. I can’t sleep with a bedfellow, you know that.”
Eliza patted her daughter’s back and said diffidently, “You will have to become accustomed to it, dearest. There must be no parting of beds in marriage.”
Bryony wondered desperately if this was really happening. Beneath the bed lay Benedict Clare, spy in her father’s house and seducer of her father’s daughter. While upon the bed, her mother seemed settling in for a maternal exposition of the facts of connubial life.
“It will be different then, Mama,” she managed in a choked whisper. “I do understand that.” A prodigious yawn engulfed the words and she allowed her head to fall heavily upon Eliza’s shoulder.
“Well, we will talk a little more about it another time,” Eliza stated, rising. “It’s time you were in bed, Bryony. We have another full day tomorrow with the picnic, and the men will have so much to prepare for now that the war, thank God, is so nearly finished. One final effort, your papa says, and it will all be over.” This last was said in tones of complete confidence.
Bryony, making no response beyond a weary smile, allowed herself to be tucked beneath the covers, but when her mother bent to kiss her, she put her arms around Eliza’s neck and hugged her tightly, wishing that the absurd charade did not have to be played, that they could behave in a fashion that more accurately expressed their relationship than this socially dictated mother/daughter inequality that they both knew was not really applicable to their situation. Eliza returned the hug, blew out the lamp, and left the chamber, adjuring Bryony to be sure to sleep soundly.
Total stillness and silence reigned in the moonlit room for long minutes, neither of its occupants daring to make a premature move. Then Bryony hopped out of bed, relit the lamp, and ran to the door, once again turning the key. She stood still, curious as to why Benedict did not reappear, and for one dreadful moment wondered if he had suffocated under the weight of the bedropes and th
e clouds of dust. “Ben?” She tiptoed back to the bed and then yelped in shock as her ankle was suddenly grabbed.
Ben dragged himself out of hiding, hauling on her ankle as he did so, and lay on his back, laughing up at her. “It seems I have occasion to scold you yet again for a lamentable lack of respect to your mother,” he said. “What a disgraceful pack of lies! Sleepwalking, indeed!”
“What would you have had me say?” she demanded, laughing with him, although she felt a little quavery quite suddenly as the fearful tension dissipated.
“Not the truth, I grant you. Come down here.” A swift jerk unbalanced her, and she toppled onto him, lying along his length, relaxing against him as his arms encircled her, holding her tightly as if he understood that the last minutes had been no real laughing matter.
He ran his hands through the fragrant mass of her hair, drawing it forward to enclose them both in a dark silken tent as his lips sought hers in a kiss of searing sweetness that for the moment contained no passion, and she drew hungrily at the well of comfort and reassurance, feeling his heart beat steadily against her breast, seeming to calm by example her own tumultuous pulse. When he felt the peace enter her, Ben spread his hands over her back and rolled sideways, turning her to feel the rich carpet beneath her shoulder blades. Propping himself on one elbow, he leaned over her, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her brow, tracing the delicate planes of her face with one long finger.
Bryony lay still, waiting for him to articulate the thought that she could sense forming behind his pensive midnight-dark eyes. When he remained silent, she extended her own hand and ran a fingertip over his lips. “What are you thinking?”
He smiled, nipping her finger. “A thought that I had best keep to myself, lass.”
“You have so many secrets,” Bryony said in a fierce whisper, surprising herself with the force of an anger that had arisen unbidden and without warning. “I don’t understand why I am not to be trusted. What have I done to deserve your mistrust? I cannot help who I am, but I have never—”
“Hush!” He spoke sharply. “It’s not a question of trust, as I said to you once before. If I did not trust you implicitly, would I be here at all? Running the risk of a noose around my neck, or worse?”
“You are here because you have a task to perform and this is the best place to perform it,” she said dully. “My presence, I assume, is simply a bonus. And you must take some considerable satisfaction out of hoodwinking so dramatically and completely a man you hold in such enmity.”
Silence wreathed them; stillness held them. Bryony, unable to meet his steady gaze, turned her head on the rug and wished she had not said those words. What good did it do to wish for more than one could have? It just created this sourness that curdled the sweetness and left a bitter void. She waited for him to get up and leave her, back through the window and into the darkness.
Then Ben spoke very softly. “I was thinking that I loved you.”
She turned her head again to look up at him, wonder shining with the tears in her eyes. “I love you, too. Why would you not tell me?”
He sighed. “It is not a fact that can profit either of us, lass, and is best left unacknowledged.”
The words of denial rose to her lips, but by some stroke of witchcraft they were stillborn. The answer to Bryony was so simple, so obvious that she could not imagine why Ben did not see it, but some saving grace warned her that now was neither the time nor the place. “Love me,” she commanded, drawing his head down to her bosom. “Love me now, Ben.”
“So importunate,” he murmured, unfastening the tiny pearl buttons of her bodice, parting the sides to bare her breasts. “Will you be had on the floor, sweeting, or shall we repair to the softness of feathers?” His breath whispered across her skin as he pushed the nightgown off her shoulders, his palms cupping their soft roundness. The urgent arching of her body was sufficient answer, and he slipped the garment down to her waist, kneeling astride her as he played with the creamy, lamp-lit swell of her breasts, smiling as the deep languid glow of desire built in her eyes. The raven’s-wing hair, spread out in startling contrast to the gold and ivory tones of the rug, shimmered against her skin. A skin like mother-of-pearl in the lamplight, he thought, needing suddenly to see the rest of her, to have her laid out before him in all her glorious wanton nakedness.
Slipping a hand beneath her, he raised her hips, drawing the wadded material of her gown from under her, holding for a minute the warm roundness of her buttocks on the shelf of his palm. He could feel the wire-sprung tautness as her muscles tensed in anticipation of what she knew was to come; the banked fires in her eyes flared as, still holding her up, he bent his head to stroke her stomach with his moist tongue. Her hips arched in involuntary invitation, her thighs falling open to the dewy caress.
“I want you,” Ben stated, softly, definitely. “I want all of you, my Bryony.” His tongue darted, flicked, probed with deep eroticism until she could no longer hold back the soft moans of submission to the joy he was bringing as she yielded her self.
The lamp burned low during the long hours of play, and Bryony, aware that Ben wanted her passivity tonight, her total acceptance of his loving, gave herself unreservedly to that loving. He turned her, positioned her as the fancy took him, possessed himself of every millimeter of skin, every pulse, every vibrant nerve center until Bryony ceased to belong to herself, to exist in any universe but this one, where the heady scent of her own arousal filled the soft night air, where the hands on her body were not her own, yet were inextricable from herself, where her skin and the rich texture of the carpet were enmeshed.
Ben gazed down at her, ivory and pearl, the blue-black triangle at the apex of her thighs matched by the fanned mass spread, as abandoned as her body, across the carpet. He wondered how he would manage to leave her, to face the life that stretched ahead without her. His clothes had been shed long since, and now, with fierce urgency, he knelt between her widespread thighs, drew her legs onto his shoulders and drove deep into her center.
Bryony gasped as her body stretched to receive his length, felt the throbbing press of him filling her more completely than ever before. He held her hips high as with each thrust she took him into herself, bound him in the silken toils of her body, and watched his face melt in joy, glorying in her turn in the power of the pleasure giver, possessing him in joy as he had possessed her. And then, even while she thought she was in control of her thoughts, draining the last dregs of conscious delight from the observation of her lover’s pleasure, the wave of her own satisfaction engulfed her. So intent had she been on Ben that the slow, seeping sweetness had crept insidiously upon her, now to burst in full flower.
As before, Ben stopped her climactic cry with his mouth, gathering her tightly to him even as he withdrew from her body the instant before they fell from the heights, the world settling again on its axis.
“No, don’t leave me.” As he moved infinitesimally, preparing to roll onto the carpet beside her, she ran her hands over his back, every ridge now familiar to her fingertips, the scars intrinsic to the beloved body.
Weary with the night’s exertions, he kissed the corner of her mouth and lay heavily atop her as her slow caresses continued, and the couple drifted in peaceful, fulfilled languor until the flickering lamp finally guttered. They lingered on the moon-washed carpet, readying themselves for the now unavoidable moment of separation.
“Sweeting, I must leave you,” Ben groaned, “if I am to touch ground before the break of dawn.” Kneeling, he took her hands and hauled her into a sitting position. “Come, into bed with you.” He stood up, drawing her upright, toppling her onto the bed.
“Stay with me.” The plea encompassed much more than the immediacy of the moment, but if Benedict realized, he gave no sign.
“Do not be foolish,” he chided with a teasing smile, tucking the covers around her. “I cannot spend the entire day in hiding beneath the bed! And I shall not succeed in escaping unseen down the creepers once the househol
d is up and about.”
For the moment, she would accept his inevitable loss. Bryony met and matched the lingering touch of his lips in farewell, then watched as he dressed, then swung himself with an agile twist through the casement. The right moment would come to bring him to an understanding of the realities and the possibilities, and she would begin preparing the groundwork in the morning.
Bryony wasted no time. Her plan required Francis’s cooperation, and as soon as breakfast was over, she followed him out of the dining room, catching him in the hall. “Francis, I would speak with you for a minute.”
He turned, looking at her with surprise at the whispered urgency of her tone. “Speak away.”
“Not here,” Bryony said, glancing around the thronged hall. “In private.”
“Now?”
“It may as well be now as later.” She turned toward the door leading to the rear terrace.
“I give you good day, Miss Paget.” Benedict strolled across the terrace from the garden. “It is a beautiful morning, is it not?”
“Delightful, sir,” she agreed, somewhat distracted as memories of the night flooded back to mingle awkwardly with the need to avoid his company for the next few minutes as naturally as possible. “Mr. Cullum and I are going to walk down to the landing stage before Reverend Elstree conducts Sunday prayers.” The absence of invitation to join them was glaringly obvious, and with Francis standing beside her, smiling blandly, Benedict could hardly invite himself.