by Lavinia Kent
"Then do not leave me alone."
What did he mean by that? Annie raised her head and dared a glance at her husband. It was hard to tell from his tired features whether he meant simply that he wished her to remain seated with him – or perhaps something more.
#
Why had he said that? He would be better off alone with only the bottle of whiskey for company. His emotions were a muddle. The early stoicism had fled and now his mind leaped from fury at everything to sorrow for all the pain he had caused – to desire. Was that natural? He shoved it all away. It was easier not to feel.
He knew his wife was staring at him and he wished he had more to say, but then he'd longed for years that he had more to say. Their conversation this evening reminded him both of how much he'd enjoyed her sweet adoration and how he'd never forgotten her face when she'd found out about Coquette. He'd always assumed that she'd known he kept a mistress. It wasn't an unusual occurrence among men of his class – in fact, it was almost strange not to have one. And he'd been little more than a boy himself, a boy enjoying all the joys – and pleasures – suddenly available too him.
God, why was he thinking of this now? He knew the answer to that. It was easier to think about the past than to think about Hargrove – to remember that he no longer had a brother, to feel this mess of emotions.
He wished he could sleep for a month and just let the world pass by.
He released a long, tired sigh and sank back into his chair.
"I will stay as long as you need." Georgianna's soft voice interrupted his thoughts, reminding him of how he used to turn to her for comfort and relief from the rest of life. Those first few months of their marriage had been magical.
"Thank you." Had he ever said thank you to her before? He could not remember.
They sat then in silence, staring at the flames of the ebbing fire. There were a few logs beside the hearth and he debated if he should call to have another added – or simply do it himself. It must be late. Perhaps he should head up to bed, allow Georgianna her rest even if he knew he would not sleep this night.
Even now, even as he sat here in pleasant silence, he knew that once he shut his eyes it would be Hargrove's bloodstained body that he saw before him, Paul's body. He could still hear the gurgle of air and fluid leaking from his lungs, feel the stickiness of blood soaked cloth, smell the edge of copper in the air.
"You should sleep." Her quiet voice interrupted his troubled thoughts. "Tomorrow will be no easier than today – perhaps less so."
He looked across at her, feeling more linked to her than he ever had before. "I don't think sleep will come. I would rather sit here than stare at the canopy of my bed, or worse, at the inside of my eyelids."
Silence reigned again for a moment, but not an awkward silence that demanded words, rather one that simply filled the space, quiet and warm.
#
Quiet could be a tangibly soothing thing.
Impulsively, Annie leaned forward and took Richard's hand in her own. His fingers were chilled. She did not ever remember a time when his palm had not been much hotter than her own. At one point she'd believed that he burned with energy. That was not the man who sat beside her. She placed her other hand upon his and rubbed. "You are cold."
"Am I?" He did not turn to look at her.
"Should I have the fire tended?"
"No. I do not think that would help. Perhaps another whiskey?"
She set his hand upon her lap and filled his glass again. She'd been right before. She handed him the glass and watched as he downed it in a single gulp before handing it back. She refilled it, keeping her questions to herself.
He took it again, but this time only sipped. "Do you think I could drink myself to oblivion?"
"I am sure you could – although that is one vice I've never seen you indulge in."
"And what vices have you seen me indulge in?" Did his lip actually curl up at the edge? Was she reaching through this wall that seemed to rise and fall between them?
She was silent. She pushed all thought of his mistress from her mind – she'd never actually seen them together. In truth she'd never seen anything worse than his tendency to let the world clean up after him, but then he'd been followed about by one servant or another since he began to toddle. Did that count as sloth? He wasn't lazy, just untrained. "I've heard talk."
The half-smile left his lips. He clearly thought she was talking about Coquette.
Annie wished she could pull the words back into her mouth. "I didn't mean it in that fashion. "
Almost as if reading her mind his eyes dropped to her mouth, tension rose between them.
"It does not really matter what you meant.” There was a sharp edge to his voice.
"I am sorry. Perhaps we should retire. It would not do to have cloudy heads on the morrow." She tried to pull the lightness back.
"No, it would not. But, I must get through the night before I can worry about the morrow.” His tone still held the edge – but then his glance dropped lower, settled just below her chin – the touch of anger turning to something else. He squeezed her knee lightly with the hand that still rested upon her lap. "Would you sleep with me this night, help me find my rest?"
Had he really just asked that?
Annie almost took the glass from his hand and downed it herself. She blinked, but he continued to stare at her, calm and steady. What really hid behind those dark eyes? "You want me to come to your bed? You want to . . ?"
His eyes flickered even lower, but then returned to hers. "I only meant to sleep. I remember well how deeply I slept in your arms in those early days."
"So you just want to sleep? You want me to sleep in your bed? Only sleep?" Could he hear the quaver in her voice, tell how nervous his words made her?
"Yes. No. When I asked I meant only sleep, but I must admit that more was on the edge of my mind. There is no sweeter oblivion to be found." His voice was teasing, but there was something else there as well.
The man had always had a way with words. Did he really mean what he said, or was she just a convenient body – a way to escape what had happened? Her head spun with thoughts and desires – and fear. She could never again risk being hurt as she had the last time. "Let me walk you up."
"Then you . . .” For a moment it looked as if a light had grown in his eyes, but it must have been a trick of the candles.
Biting down hard on her lip, Annie stood and shook out her skirt before holding out her hand. Could they really be discussing this with such – politeness? Civility? Would it always come back to this between them? "I am not sure what I mean. It has been a trying day for me, as well. I am sure that sitting in a chair all night will not help you on the morrow any more than finishing the whiskey."
"You are right. You do have an annoying habit of being so." For once Richard did not sound like he resented the fact. He took her hand and let her lead him up the stairs.
The house echoed quiet about them. Annie was sure the servants were still about, hiding behind closed doors, but there was not the slightest sound.
Step by step she led him, unsure what awaited her – or him – when they reached their destination.
Chapter Three
What the hell happened now? Richard stared about his chamber with eyes only slightly blurred by whiskey. He avoided staring at his wife, who stood only a foot away, their hands still clasped.
He felt strangely calm, but the anger still burned deep within – and something else. The desire he'd felt earlier flared to life as he looked at his wife. It seemed out of place on this day, but it was there – and growing by the instant. He tried to suppress it.
The fire burned low on the hearth. Georgianna must have directed that all the fires be lit. It was the sort of thing she did – always thinking of the small things. A long sigh escaped as he stared at the flickering flames. The disbelief over his brother's death was fading to numbness. Tomorrow the pain would be back, but for now all he wanted was to forget it all.
&n
bsp; Suddenly the escape to desire made sense.
He turned then, and studied his wife.
He had spoken true earlier. There was no better oblivion than that found in a woman's arms.
But Georgianna was not just any woman. She was his wife.
And no matter what had been said earlier, he had loved her once.
Not, perhaps, in the way she had wanted to be loved, but he had loved her sweetness, her innocence.
And her body.
What man would not love those full round breasts, the soft belly and thighs, the endless creamy skin? His groin tightened at the thought.
He could imagine no greater pleasure at this moment than to bury his face between those breasts and let the world fade away. It would be so simple.
If only she were a man . . . No, that was not what he meant at all. If only she thought as a man. Understood these things as a man. A man would understand that tonight was tonight and tomorrow was tomorrow. A man would understand that tonight's kisses did not translate to longing looks over tomorrow's eggs and kippers.
His eyes shifted downward and settled on the deep cleavage between her breasts. He felt his body stir further – with memory and knowledge.
Her hand began to pull from his. "I should go. Should let you rest." Her voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper.
"Is that what you want? I was wishing you would stay." He kept his own voice just as soft. He would not betray his rising passion when he wasn't sure what he wanted himself. Surely he could just rest his cheek upon those breasts and let the beckoning arms of sleep find him. That was what a decent man would do.
The thought did not even fool him for a moment.
He knew what would happen – what was going to happen.
He waited for her reply.
Her fingers curled within his palm, quivering like a small bird uncertain whether to stay or flee.
She turned her face toward the door, the soft flicker of the candles dancing over the curve of her cheek.
His grasp tightened about her hand. Her chest rose, caught – and then fell.
Turning back, she raised her eyes to his. He expected uncertainty and instead saw calm.
"I will stay if you wish. Should I call for my maid or will you unlace me?
Once she would not have needed to ask. Once it would have been certain that he would undress her, certain that morning light would reveal a scattering of clothing all about the room, his, hers, intermingled.
"I think I can still handle it," he answered.
She stiffened, her fingers growing still within his hand. He cursed his words. Did she think he meant he'd kept in practice? If only she knew how rarely that had been the case. He couldn't say there'd never been another woman since Georgianna had left his bed, but they'd been very few.
He'd said good-bye to Coquette within the first month and since her . . .
The youthful pleasures he'd left Georgianna for had been so empty – so purposeless.
He did not release her hand, but spun her until her back was to him. He did let her go then, but only so that he could move his fingers to the back of her neck, resting them lightly at the nape. The escaping wisps of curls brushed against his knuckles.
It felt almost like the first time, like their wedding night.
No, he had not been this nervous then. Then he had believed with all the blindness of his twenty years that nothing could go wrong. He had been prepared to be slow, to be patient, but he had never considered that there would be anything except smiles in the morning.
And he'd been right. It had been one of the most glorious mornings of his life.
One more debt he owed to his brother.
His chest caught with the pain of that thought.
With a sigh, he let his hands fall to his sides. Perhaps he should tell her to go.
Before he could speak she turned and with no words let her head rest upon his chest, her hands encircling his waist, but loosely, offering comfort not capture.
Almost without thought, his hands came up her back, loosening the laces of her gown and corset until her dress fell quietly from her shoulders to catch upon their crossed arms.
She stepped slightly back from him – his body missed her warmth – and letting her gown and chemise fall to the floor, turned to the great bed. The thick coverlet had been turned down, and the crisp white sheets glowed in warm beckoning.
Without glancing back at him, she walked to the bed and slid between the sheets, and then over to the far side, to her side. They'd slept together for such a brief time, but even so she'd had her side and he'd had his – although they most often met in the middle.
He quickly doffed his own clothing, leaving it piled on the floor beside hers, and slipped into the bed beside her. The linen sheets were cool against his skin as he pulled the covers high.
He rested his head back against his pillow and waited – for what, he was not quite sure.
#
What now? Annie wasn't sure whether to say something – or do something. She lay on her back, head cushioned on the overly filled down pillows and stared at the canopy. Richard had always taken the lead, in every aspect of their relationship. He'd led her out to the garden on their third meeting and had been leading her ever since.
Well, not ever since, she'd definitely broken free after she'd found out the truth of why he'd married her. She'd pulled free and returned to Harsgate that very day. Her heart twinged at the very thought. She'd been so frozen – and so resolved to have nothing more to do with him.
And yet here she was.
Turning her head, she stared across the wide expanse of the bed at him. His eyes were focused on the canopy. He didn't turn to look at her, although he must have felt her shift upon the bed.
"I have birds embroidered above my bed." The words slipped from her lips.
"What?"
"I wanted something to stare at as I fell asleep at night. I thought about stars but I thought they might make me feel lonely, so I had the seamstress embroider birds, dozens of them – of all varieties. I fall asleep thinking about how sweet they will sound when I awake."
He did not answer and for a moment Annie worried that he found her silly or inane. She turned back and stared at the plain velvet cloth above.
"Were you lonely?" His voice was low.
It was such a simple question, but she didn't know how to answer. What was lonely? Could you be lonely while holding your dear child in your arms? Could you be lonely when surrounded by servants? When every woman for miles about called in weekly? Could you be lonely when it was the life you had chosen?
"Yes. I was lonely.” Her gaze stayed fastened on the canopy.
"I have been, too."
"How could you be lonely? You were in London surrounded by people, by friends. You had your brother and friends – and your mistress."
"I got rid of the mistress after you left – and never took another."
Her chest loosened at his words, as if a tight tie and been released about her lungs. But what was there to say? And did it even matter? And that was assuming she believed him – that she would ever believe him again. And what exactly did he mean by never? A thousand questions formed in her mind, but she held them back, refused to let them out. A lady did not ask such questions, not even of her husband.
"Do you have no reply?"
She turned her face back toward him, staring through the darkness. "What do you want me to say?"
"Something. Anything. Anything, but quiet."
With careful fingers she reached across the wide space between them and laid her palm down upon his chest. He had not bothered with a nightshirt and she almost pulled back as his warm flesh met her touch, the soft hairs brushing lightly against her skin.
Before she could move, his hand came down and rested atop hers, holding it still. "I missed your touch. You always slept with some part of you reaching for me. I can remember waking with your hair wrapped all about me, your breath caressing my cheek."
He sounded as if he missed those mornings, a forlorn note to his voice. But he had been the one to ruin it, to end it. She had fought hard to make peace with what had happened between them, but his few words left cracks in her carefully built facade.
Fighting against the memories his words called forth required more energy than she had within her at this moment. It was impossible not to be swept back to waking as dawn's first light eased across the bed, lighting his sleeping features with a gentleness they never showed when he was awake, not to remember reaching for him just to feel his warmth, to feel the security and happiness this presence brought. She'd never been happier than she had been on those early mornings when at her softest touch he would sweep her into his arms and hold her tight – and so much more.
She remembered his lips upon her neck, a rain of kisses moving up to her lips, his hands upon her breasts, stroking, squeezing . . .
It was good that the room was so dark or Richard would have seen the flush of color rising on her cheeks. He was grieving. He needed comfort not . . . although the truth was she didn't know what he needed.
And then suddenly she did know. "Do you remember the first time that we met? I was only a little over eight. I can remember my excitement that I was finally going to meet my future husband. I had a picture of him in my mind, tall and handsome, and so very kind. I knew I'd met him before, but I'd been only a baby then. This was the first time I was really going to meet him. I was so excited. My mother even let me twist my hair up, nothing fancy, but I felt so mature. He was going to be swept away by my charms."