His mouth tightened. “Lyndhurst.”
“Yes. That was madness. We didn’t have time for—niceties. I touched him and it was like a fever. It was that way for him too. We couldn’t stop ourselves, especially in the latter days. We came together, and our insanity was escalating. We affected people around us and we gloried in what we were doing. Apart, we had flashes of understanding, but it never lasted, because the longing would return. And towards the end it grew worse.” She buried her head in his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
He slipped his finger under her chin, urging her to lift it again. “I understand. You continued it, but the affair didn’t give you time. I’m glad. It means this state isn’t carried over to us.” He laughed softly. “We are like this because of us, not because of some outside force.”
“But you’re Vulcan and I’m Venus. We have a history.”
“Of a kind. Not a proper one. If we concentrate on Virginie and Harry, then we might do better.”
She kissed his shoulder, his hard flesh hot under her lips. “We can’t deny who we are.”
“No, we cannot. But we have others who have shown us the way. They accept what happened to them, and they are making their own future. Some echoes from the past returned for them, but not all. Just as we’ve come together. There was a woman in legend called Rhea, did you know that?”
She shook her head. She hadn’t read much about the legends, afraid to learn more of the cruelty of the goddess whose attributes she’d inherited. Rhea, who had died. Rhea, whom she shouldn’t feel jealous of, but she did. It haunted her, the feelings she should not have. She still had remnants of desire for Marcus, still felt shades of longing for him. He was close, she knew that, only a few streets away, and the knowledge soothed her. But she should not feel like that.
Rhea had won.
“What did she do?”
“She died. The same as in this case. She had twin sons she claimed Mars had fathered, and died. The sons grew up to be Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome.”
“Goodness! So what will those two do?”
“Whatever they want to do,” he said. “They shouldn’t be bound by their birth. Lyndhurst has changed the pattern already by taking the children in, instead of repudiating them and leaving them to be raised by wolves.”
He was right. Marcus was honourable—at least he was normally, when not taken by the madness of lust. “Recently Marcus said things, did things that I don’t think are natural to him. My recklessness, that wasn’t like me.”
“From what you’ve told me, it appears not.” He hugged her closer. “I presumed that you had taken lovers, especially after your husband’s death. Why did you not?”
She laughed. “Because people expected me to. They asked and assumed. I let them think what they wanted to. It was fashionable to take lovers, but I didn’t want any of them. I led some on, played flirtation games, but did nothing else.”
How to tell him about her marriage without betraying her husband? Harry was her husband now, but she doubted he would appreciate her discussing their private lives. On the other hand, she had to tell him something. He deserved to know.
“My mother persuaded the Duc de Clermont-Ferand to marry me when I was eighteen. To tell the truth, he did not take much persuasion. He was seventy.” Harry shuddered. “He was a good seventy, as the saying goes. Not tall, but healthy in most respects. As an older man, though, his prowess in bed was not—great. He wanted me more as a trophy than for use. He had no children, but he had heirs, so I didn’t need to give him any. The times he came to my bed”—she repressed her own shudder—“were not pleasant. But he was kind to me, and generous. I had everything I wanted.”
“Except a young man in your bed.” He held her gently but firmly. She loved his hold, the way he almost cherished her. “So that gave you a poor opinion of the act of love?”
She nodded. Her late husband had on occasion bestowed cruder names on the act. Her reading had given her the names of others, but she liked the way Harry described it. That set the emotions apart, on a level of their own. Still trying to work out what had happened to her, she could cope if she put this in a separate compartment in her mind and kept it safe.
“I didn’t want to actually go through with it again. I found it tiring and disturbingly personal. With—” She broke off.
“Go on,” he said firmly.
After snatching a glance at his face, she ventured to tell him more. But not everything. That wasn’t his business to know. “With Marcus, we were too frantic to concern ourselves with anything more. At first I thought it was love. Right until that last evening at the theatre.”
“Did something happen that night?”
She nodded. “You were there, were you not?”
“I was. With d’Argento and Kentmere. D’Argento had called him to try to break the enchantment and me because of who I was.”
“Some semblance of reason penetrated through to me that night. I ignored it. At the time I thought Marcus and I would marry, and continue. We might make enough power to use against the Titans. But it was the wrong kind of power, I see that now. It would have fed them rather than stopped them.”
“What do you mean?”
She tried to translate her instinctive feeling into thought. “We might call it good and evil, but I think it is slightly different. There is a power that adds to things, that improves, and the kind that drains. Do you see what I mean?”
He frowned. “I think so. But I’m not sure about all this. I’m not used to thinking in this way. I like what I can touch and see, and feel, not what might or might not hang in the air.”
She understood that well enough. “You’re a practical man.”
“Yes, I am.” He turned to her, rolled her onto her back and leaned over her. “Which means I should be leaving you alone, urging you to sleep because we have to rise early in the morning. But you can sleep in the coach.”
She hadn’t felt so light-hearted in years. “So I can.” She reached for him, the shadows in her mind gone.
Unfortunately, at the first inn on the road, the landlord had made an error with the bedrooms. Harry and Virginie were forced into separate rooms, so that Virginie could share with her mother. Harry occupied the servant’s room the innkeepers had somehow booked for Deirdre, thinking she was a domestic, but Harry would have none of that.
He missed sleeping with his wife. Although their rising in the morning had been necessarily hurried, he’d enjoyed waking with her. Her halting confession that this was the first time she’d spent the whole night with a man delighted him. He vowed that it wouldn’t be the last. He’d waited until she rose and went into her dressing room before he got out of bed. He wasn’t ready to reveal all his secrets, not yet.
It took three days of speedy and often uncomfortable travel to reach his home in Cheshire. That was because he ordered frequent changes of horses and a punishing pace. After the first night Mrs. Davenport slept with his wife. He wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her if they were together. In the inns, with their paper-thin walls and rickety furniture, he didn’t want to risk embarrassing her.
She screamed when she came. He wanted her to scream herself hoarse the next time he had her under him. And not in a country inn. His homing instincts took him flying towards his house. That analogy put him in mind of the pigeons d’Argento had sent with him. A clever idea, that. The army used them to pass messages quickly, and it made sense. D’Argento, the messenger of the gods, could travel quickly, but he couldn’t be in more than one place at the same time. He wanted to stay in London, to watch Lyndhurst and ensure he was safe.
There was more to come, he’d told Harry. Perhaps marital life, by which he meant bedroom activities, would help Virginie shake off the last of the addiction. He’d made Harry promise to keep a close watch on her for the first few weeks.
The way he was feeling, she’d be close to him for more than a few weeks.
His restless energy drove him to ride for several leg
s of the journey. Not the carriage horses, of course, but he hired hacks at the inns where they made the change. He hoped Virginie understood. Whether she did or not, he couldn’t stay cramped in that coach with her scent in his nostrils. The occasional touch of her skin teased and reminded him of their time together. Alone, he’d have had much more satisfying ways of passing the journey. Why had he not thought to put Deirdre on an earlier coach, found a reason to stay in London for an extra day? That way he would have had his wife to himself.
His horse stumbled on the uneven surface. They’d just passed Liverpool, at last in Cheshire. They would reach his home by tonight. He would be a brute to force Virginie into bed so soon, but he was afraid he might be crossing into brute territory. Unless she said no.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind. Was he affected by the spell? Was this longing to plunge inside his wife’s beautiful body once more a result of the potent arrow Eros had driven into her?
He couldn’t know. But he never felt anything but himself when he was with her. He didn’t feel the need to do something he wouldn’t generally want to do. He must go on his rusty and little used instincts.
The horse was definitely getting tired. So was he. At the next stage he left the horse to be rested and taken back to where it belonged, and joined the ladies in the carriage.
Deirdre was making something with thread and a little shuttle. While he admired the craftsmanship, the technique appeared fairly simple, just something to pass the time. He could think of better ways. Sighing, he settled in the corner opposite his wife and spent the remainder of the journey watching her. That pleased him. After all, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
Would she like his home? If she didn’t, he had others. Or he’d build her one if she wanted something he didn’t have. Perhaps she’d prefer the gentler climate in Devonshire or the dramatic Derbyshire countryside. Cheshire had keen winds and green fields. There were some breath-taking places, and the company was genteel, if she wanted to mix.
It was so unlike him to worry about such matters. What was he thinking? She was his wife. Which was why it was so important to him to please her.
Would she like it?
Virginie had a headache. Her mother had been using that infernal shuttle—tatting a collar edging, she said—and talking non-stop about the change in their fortunes. Virginie hadn’t slept well since her wedding night. Strange and lumpy beds, plus the presence of her mother. She’d woken up in the night, transported to a different time, when they’d had no choice but to share a bed. Even housekeepers had limited accommodation, especially in the modest establishments Deirdre used so she could avoid the Duke of Boscobel.
At least her husband had deigned to share the coach for the last part of the journey. She understood his reasons for riding. If she hadn’t sent her riding dress ahead with the bulk of her luggage, she’d have joined him, just for the exercise. And the fascination of being with this man. She had never met anyone quite like him. Were they all like this in Cheshire? She was about to find out.
Excitement built as they approached the house. A swathe of green park and two well-kept lodges framed the entrance. The massive iron gates were open, the drive when they swung on to it smoother than the road. Harry didn’t look out the window. He watched her. She offered a tentative smile. His was broader.
“Look,” he said. “Your home.” He courteously extended the sentiments to her mother. “Yours too, madam.”
The sun beamed down on the grass and the lush trees. When she’d thought about the north of England, she imagined mountains and lakes, not this expanse of smooth parkland.
“I thought of having a man to see to it,” Harry said, “but I like it as it is.”
“Creating landscapes is all the rage,” Deirdre remarked. “But I doubt anything could better this.”
“We are lucky here,” he said. “The estate is relatively small. Twenty miles away are my coal mines. Some of them. This part of the countryside is rife with them, but they do not occupy every acre. We have our sheep farmers and our coastal towns with fishing ports. Liverpool is fast growing as a port of importance. It will rival Bristol and London soon.” He spoke with pride, and the trace of an accent Virginie hadn’t noticed in London.
The coach took a curve and Virginie got her first sight of the house. She stared, frozen, the sense of coming home foreign to her. It didn’t make sense. She’d never been here before. But the house, built in grey stone with huge windows on three storeys, seemed to welcome her.
She wanted it too much. That was the truth. She was the mistress of this place. She’d seen houses more fashionable, larger, with more impressive facades, but not one she’d immediately taken to so strongly. Her houses in France were elegant, light, fashionable, but this place breathed history.
“Hawthorne Hall was built in the later years of Elizabeth’s reign,” Harry began, only for Deirdre to interrupt him.
“My lord, you sound like a guide book! Do you know all the history of the place?”
“I grew up here,” he said. “My mother will be waiting for us.”
The coach drew up outside the house, and Virginie tried hard not to sigh in relief. No more travelling. Such a tedious occupation didn’t suit her in the least. When she’d first arrived back in England, in Dover, she’d been in the worst of ill tempers. It was then she’d begun the events that had led to her infatuation with Marcus almost without thought.
All done now. While she and Eros would never be bosom friends, she had reconciled herself to him. Especially since Susanna had not chosen the fate Virginie had wished on her. She wanted to find her own husband, she’d said, her eyes firmly fixed on another immortal. Let her try. She would find her task difficult, but Virginie wished her well with it. She’d have offered to enchant them, but they’d caused enough trouble with that particular spell recently. She didn’t want to test Fate.
Outside the house a single man stood waiting. As Harry alighted and helped first Deirdre and then herself to climb down, the man bowed. He was dressed in a plain brown coat and breeches, so not a liveried servant.
He came forward. Instead of nodding to him, Harry wrung his hand. “Good afternoon, Daldry. I never thought to see you here. Is there any trouble?”
“None at all,” the man said. He was tall, not as tall as Harry, and a lot thinner, but then, most men were. “I came over to greet you.”
“And to meet my bride, I’ll be bound. How many people has my mother told?”
Daldry smiled, the severe lines of his face softening. “A very few. She probably hopes—” He broke off, as if cutting off unfortunate words, and bowed to Virginie.
“May I present my manager, Frederick Daldry?” Harry said. “Frederick is a cousin, and he manages the mines. You will see something of him, as I invite him to dinner at least once a month.”
She curtseyed and offered her hand. Frederick had a slight resemblance to Harry in his grey eyes and the dark hair that he wore naturally and tied back. Would Harry look this way without the presence of his god? Virginie resembled her mother only slightly, so perhaps not.
Frederick lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the air above them in the approved manner. “We’re not entirely uncivilised here, countess. Harry flatters me. I am but a second cousin, born as poor as a church mouse, which is appropriate since my father was a vicar. But when my father died, Harry’s mother took me into the house as companionship for him, so I received an education wildly above my station.”
“And helped me with my homework,” Harry said, smiling. Friends, then. Virginie liked what she saw of Frederick, but she was too experienced in the kind of subterfuge and cunning common in France to take anything for granted. King Louis fostered dislike and rivalry, saw it as a way for him to keep the throne. A kind of French tradition, since his grandfather had instigated it.
But here, in Cheshire, matters were probably simpler.
Harry offered his arm and led her indoors. They climbed a straight flight of
shallow steps bordered by a fine stone baluster to reach the front door. Both of the wide doors were open, welcoming them.
It took her no time at all to accustom herself to the light inside. Sunshine streamed through the large windows, lending the space an airy appeal. The walls were bristling with weapons arranged in elaborate patterns, circles of swords, pyramids of helmets. All old, by the look of them. “We were loyal in the Scottish claim to the throne,” Harry said, “but many families around here are Catholic and stood with the Pretender. Before that, we had wars with the Scots and the Welsh. But this was never a stronghold.”
“Why all the weapons?”
He grinned. “Captured. The spoils of war. I doubt any of them are useful. The swords will be blunt and the pistols badly in need of cleaning. I wouldn’t wonder if the big blunderbusses blew up in one’s face rather than shot outwards.”
Virginie shuddered theatrically. “Then never try to fire one.”
“I can promise that without hesitation,” he said.
“Although not when he was a child,” Frederick said. He’d offered his arm to Deirdre, and she had laid her hand on it graciously.
“It has a charming aspect,” Virginie’s mother said. She sounded stiff, but then she usually sounded like that. She might be wondering where she would sleep. She should not. Even if Harry hadn’t shown her every courtesy, Virginie would have ensured she was treated with every consideration due her mother.
The sense of irritation that had been building throughout the journey dissipated a little as she walked through the great house. Harry didn’t show them the whole, but offered to have the housekeeper do so the next day. He squeezed Virginie’s hand in a private message. Maybe he would ensure she didn’t have an opportunity to see it, or maybe he wanted to show her himself.
Upstairs, Harry led them through a series of gracious chambers to a smaller room, where his mother waited for them.
She was a small woman, with her grey hair fastened back into a smooth, neat knot at the back of her head and her lace edged cap firmly in place. She wore a carefully judged smile on her face. A woman used to the ways of society, then. She was about four inches shorter than Virginie’s five feet six, maybe more. Her diminutive stature was more than made up for by the sheer power of her presence.
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 15