Once a Fallen Lady

by Pendle, Eve

  She nodded. “Matilda told our parents I had died in childbirth, and the babe with me. It was the best decision I ever made. Lydia Taylor filled the gap. Widow, respectable, quiet.” Scared, she didn’t say. But that was true too. Worried about being revealed as a fraud. “We invented Captain Taylor entirely, complete with a gory death. Matilda found a way to send me money from her allowance of pin money.”

  “That was kind of her,” he murmured.

  “It wasn’t much, but it was enough.” She nodded. “The amount of money we both used to spend on dresses and ribbons had to cover all my expenses. Matilda arranged the marriage certificate, and Annie was christened right here in Elmswell.”

  “You miss her.” He squeezed her hand and the sensation of it rippled up her arm and over her torso.

  “She’s my truest and best friend.” Though looking at Alfred, his eyes gentle with sympathy, she wasn’t sure whether she meant was or is. Matilda had been her best friend ten years ago, and for many years since. Since she’d met him, Alfred had taken up a position on the edge of her heart. Then bit by bit, absence in the center and cracks around the edge had drawn him in, until he was firmly there, the center of her love. His little presents and his understanding and protective instincts toward her had tightened up her affection for him.

  “You must miss your parents too.”

  “I.” She did. But she had a life here now, and much as she missed them, she wouldn’t crawl back. Lost in her thoughts, she allowed herself to brush against him. Shock skittered down her side.

  She lurched away from him, and into the brambles, but the path was muddy and damp. Her foot slipped. She fell backwards, helpless, her arms thrown down to try to catch herself.

  Then she was in his arms. Upright, but his hand braced across her back and her chest held to his.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmured.

  He was strong, holding her as if her weight were nothing. His hands were firm on her and the warmth she could feel must be imaginary through his gloves and her mantle, thin though it was, and her woolen dress. It was right being close to him, blissful in his embrace. He was smiling down at her.

  She blinked and his gaze was still intent on her as if he was waiting for her nod to kiss her. She loved him. He was a kind, thoughtful, brilliant man and she loved him. Her heart was so full it was painful.

  “We should return.” Keeping her eyes averted, she steadied herself on her feet. Gradually she eased away, putting her weight back onto her feet and smoothing down her skirt.

  On the way back, she didn’t accept his proffered hand at the stile. She couldn’t indulge in this nonsense.

  * * *

  Thinking she’d been widowed with a young child had roused Alfred’s protective instincts. He’d understood why she found trust difficult. The truth was so much more complicated.

  As they returned from their walk, he’d been desperate to grab Lydia’s hand, pull her to him, kiss her, and tell her nothing she’d said made a whit of difference to how he saw her. Lydia’s gaze darting to the children playing in the street had stopped him. He walked from Lydia’s house quicker than he’d have liked, but there were prying eyes of young girls and boys playing and he mustn’t be seen to linger. He’d promised Lydia that no one would know of their courtship. And whatever she thought after she’d told him about her past, that was still what was happening. A courtship.

  Their excursion hadn’t quelled his need to spend time with her. Tomorrow he would do the same, and the next day. He cared for the Taylors, both of them. He couldn’t stay away, even if he really ought to. He’d go back to his lodgings immediately. He’d distract himself with his nearly complete list of all the rents paid by the residents of Elmswell or have dinner with Father Didcot rather than taking a tray in his room.

  “Mr. Lowe!”

  He looked up to see Sir Thomas.

  “You’re not an attentive student, Mr. Lowe,” Sir Thomas laughed jovially at his own witticism. “I called and called, and you didn’t hear.”

  “Sir Thomas. My apologies, the wind must have taken your voice.” He would not admit he was distracted, thinking about Lydia. He gave a slight bow.

  “Business in the village?”

  Alfred gritted his teeth. “Indeed. I was visiting Mrs. Taylor.”

  Sir Thomas raised his eyebrows. “I heard Annie Taylor was getting better?”

  Ah. That was true, Annie was improving. Hence, they’d gone out walking. But if he wasn’t seeing Mrs. Taylor because her daughter was ill, and he couldn’t tell anyone he was courting her because he’d promised Lydia, what was he doing? He went rigid with indecision.

  “Annie’s still gravely ill,” Alfred lied. Better than saying the truth: he couldn’t stay away from a beautiful woman who kissed him like breath was optional, but life wasn’t. He couldn’t justify to himself what he really meant by these visits given she seemed absolutely against marriage. All he knew was he’d continue to visit if she’d allow him.

  Sir Thomas continued to look skeptical.

  “She’s taken a sudden turn for the worse.” Anything to take suspicion off Lydia. “Mrs. Taylor is concerned she might not make it.” He was digging this hole deeper and deeper. But Annie could have another miraculous recovery tomorrow.

  Sir Thomas’ eyebrows shot together. “Mrs. Taylor’s worried she might die?”

  Alfred made a sideways head and hand gesture that indicated, ‘it’s in the hands of God’.

  “Awful, I didn’t think the situation was so grave,” Sir Thomas muttered to himself. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” He clapped Alfred on the arm. “You keep visiting. I know a compassionate man such as yourself will be a comfort to Mrs. Taylor, whatever happens.”

  He didn’t know what he was to Mrs. Taylor, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t a comfort.

  “Well, I must be off.” Sir Thomas nodded and rubbed his hands with finality. “Is the Post Office still open?”

  “I believe it’s usually open until six, yes.” Apparently, he was the educator of Sir Thomas as well as all the children. “Sir Thomas, I wanted to ask you something,” Alfred continued.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Sir Thomas said, apparently not hearing Alfred’s entreaty. “Good day.” Sir Thomas ambled away.

  For someone who’d teased Alfred about not listening, Sir Thomas had little moral authority on this topic. Never mind. There’d be other opportunities to speak to him about the rents. It would be better if he could persuade Mrs. Taylor to accompany him and corroborate his evidence. He strode toward the vicarage. He wanted the subterfuge to be over. He needed Annie to be well again. And he must fix the excessive rents paid by the tenants of Elmswell. He just didn’t know how to do any of those things.

  He’d visit Lydia again tomorrow. He could no more stay away than he could cut out his own heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alfred held out the pink campions flowers to her. He’d made his way around the village, paint and sandpaper in hand and scrubbed off or painted over every despicable, judgmental sentiment. The cheerful pink flowers had called to him and the way back he’d gathered a large bunch from the verges, thinking of Lydia and how the flowers would look next to the pink of her cheeks. His customary visit to Mrs. Dhesi before visiting Lydia had yielded pork pie and toffees, which were in his pockets.

  If possible, Lydia looked even more puzzled than when he’d arrived after she’d told him she wouldn’t marry him. Her blue gaze darted side to side, checking none of the neighbors were watching, but when her check revealed what he already knew, that the street behind him was quiet, she tentatively accepted the flowers. Her face relaxed into admiration as she stepped back to allow him inside.

  He closed the door behind them, blocking out the world. The hallway was lit from sunshine refracted from rooms to either side. It was also small enough that they were close together.

  Lydia held the flowers to her chest, her chin tilted down. “Thank you.”

  He ducked down so his face was
level with hers. “They suit you.” The pink was just right near her blue dress and blue eyes. She was too pretty not to kiss.

  Slowly, so slowly, he brought up his hand to her cheek. She didn’t move away. The moment his fingers touched her jaw, she lifted her gaze to his. Her mouth was a little open, her pupils dilated. Her breath was shallow and fast.

  “Yes?” he asked as he leaned in, waiting for her answer with his mouth half an inch from hers. He stroked his thumb across her chin, the merest suggestion of encouragement.

  She answered him by putting aside the flowers and closing the gap between their mouths in a feather soft kiss. Their lips caressed one another’s delicately, as if this were the first tentative moment of contact, rather than a prelude or a postscript to passion. It was a sweet kiss, the brush of lip against lip, his fingers skimming her smooth cheek.

  He held himself back, allowing her to prescribe the duration and intensity of the kiss, serene even as it continued to be as ethereal and airy as a summer breeze. Minutes elapsed while he explored her face with trembling fingertips, their mouths alternately firm and easy. It might have been a tender kiss, but she was lush and gorgeous, and his body responded. Then his loins demanded. He wanted her. She was his future wife, he was sure, and intimacy was natural.

  Their passion rose together. Her fingers gripped into his bicep and she made throaty sounds of need. Without his volition his hand went up to her breast. Oh, he’d never felt anything so perfect, even through her corset. He stroked his thumb over the peak and her moan sent another rush of arousal through him. The tension in his muscles ached as much as his rock-solid member with the restraint. His body demanded a joining that would satisfy them both and his heart insisted on an act to make her his for now and always. Even though his body was fogged with pent-up longing, he knew his heart was lying to him.

  But now Lydia was in his arms, he couldn’t let go. Not yet.

  Holding her to him, he pressed her into the alcove of the porch. They bumped into a waist-height shelf, but crucially, they were screened from both the stairs and windows. A place for her to sit had potential, his mind whispered to him. He wrapped his arms tight around her and lifted. She let out a squeak of surprise muffled by his mouth on hers. As he settled her on the mercifully resilient shelf, their lips were still together, tongues entangled.

  Then he eased back, stroking his hand down her face and neck. “Lydia,” he breathed and sank to his knees.

  “Alfred? What are you doing?” she whispered.

  One day she’d trust him implicitly and she’d know what it meant when he knelt before her. He stroked her ankle through her dress.

  “Something that’ll be a first for me, and perhaps for you too,” he murmured. He stroked up her dangling leg underneath her layers of petticoats. “I’d like to kiss you in your most sensitive place. I want to lick you until your head falls back in ecstasy and your eyes cross. You’ll cling to me as you quake with pleasure. I’ll revel in the taste and wetness of your quim, until it’s all over my face and indelibly in my memory.”

  She let out a soft whimper.

  “Say yes.” He slid his hand higher, bringing her skirts as well. She was wearing wool stockings and he longed to feel her skin. “This once. Let me do this for you.”

  “I…” Her breath came light and quick.

  “Please.” He held his breath, his palm motionless.

  “Yes.”

  The single word shot to his core, further hardening his member. He bunched her petticoats higher. When he’d said this would be new to him, he’d been truthful. He’d only read about such activities in books. Descriptions of men pleasing their women by oral worship. That had been arousing in the abstract, but with Lydia it made him lightheaded. He was salivating.

  Pushing her skirts to the top of her thighs so they stayed, he was too distracted by the contrast between the tops of her stockings and her skin to notice whether she was holding her dress. He caressed her enticingly generous bare thighs revealed by her drawers. His mouth followed across her smooth skin. The intoxicating scent of her womanhood reached him, and he breathed in deeply. He took his time exploring every pane and dip, circling ever closer to her mons. The center of her called to him. He needed to taste her.

  She parted her legs for him when he nudged her with his fingers. The silky hair between her legs tickled his nose as he finally ran his lips over her split. Wetness caught on his bottom lip and jerked him with need. Guided by instinct and naughty books he pressed his mouth to her soaking quim and extended his tongue.

  Her gasp told him he’d done right. He licked her again, then again. He listened for her delicate sighs and moans, the miniscule catches of breath. Her scent enveloped him, focusing the world to the two of them and the necessity to give her pleasure.

  She grasped his shoulders, balancing herself with him. He continued to lick, concentrating on the bud he’d heard so much about that swelled under his ministrations just as his cock did. The tightening of her fingertips into his skin that told him she was rising toward a peak. He pushed his tongue over her in a firm rhythm.

  “Alfred,” she panted.

  He indulged in a glance up. Her head was tilted, her breasts luscious from this perspective. “You’re heaven. You’re delicious.”

  Her noise of incoherent need made him smile as he put his mouth on her again. This time he was more insistent.

  She didn’t cry out when he tipped her over, but he knew. He felt her stiffen and tremble under his mouth and hands, and her breath go ragged then erratic. She pulsed under his tongue and it spiked a furious pride in him. He was hers and she was his. They might not have formalized their union, but as he gentled his movements and kissed a spiral back away from between her legs, he felt the primal satisfaction at having brought her to that pinnacle.

  Her breath calmed and deepened.

  He eased back and smoothed her skirts down as he stood. Grasping her waist, he helped her onto her feet. He held her until he was sure she was steady, and even then found himself reluctant to let her go.

  “Have you thought at all about what we discussed the other day?” He looked into her eyes and hoped all his reasons and desires were comprehensible in his own, because he had no words to explain.

  “I’ve thought of little else.” Her expression was one of such longing for an open second that he felt like he had opened a window into her, the light of her being flowing out like summer sunshine.

  “And?” He held his breath. She might say, yes.

  “It’s not possible.” She looked down and the sunshine shut off like a tap and she slipped from his embrace. “There’s no certificate. You’ll change your mind. I’m not worthy, you know I’m not.”

  “It’s not about worthiness.” He shook his head. “Love is just love. My heart doesn’t care for details about your past. All I want is your future.”

  “I don’t know.”

  For the first time, he realized viscerally that although she’d said this was all about her doubt of his faithfulness and her past and the absence of a piece of paper, it wasn’t. A horrible man had stolen all Lydia’s ability to feel loveable. Her expression echoed her past distress. Alfred’s palms itched to take her hand again, to offer what token of consolation he could. He ached to reach back years and remove her uncertainty and fear. Instead, he reached into her pocket for the slab of toffee in a paper bag and the customary pork pie.

  “I can wait.” He pressed the food into her hands. She mustn’t go without. “I love you, and I’ll wait.”

  She wanted to believe, he could see it in her eyes. But she couldn’t. Yet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Is that a carriage?” Annie was lying in bed but furrowed her brow as the sound of a hooves and wheels came from the window behind her head, to the front of the house.

  “Maybe.” Alfred hid his smile. “Who do you think it is?” He closed the volume of Wordsworth he had been reading from. It was another purchase for the Taylors that he’d bought since the
day he’d proposed to Lydia a week ago. The paper he’d ordered had arrived and he’d not been able to resist making another order for more books. Poetry this time.

  Annie shuffled up in bed to peek over the windowsill and into the street. Annie was still tired, but she’d gained back some of her natural curiosity.

  “There’s a very fine-looking lady and gentleman. They’ve got out of a carriage.” Annie rested her chin on her hands.

  Alfred smiled in wry defeat and went over to the window. Annie was right. They were a handsome couple. The man was tall, with blond hair beneath his hat and a muted blue waistcoat and tan lounge suit in the fashionable country style. She wore a bright violet dress covered in ruffles and a tiny hat adorned with dyed feathers.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” Annie slumped back into bed, apparently exhausted from her effort.

  Just then, the couple turned and started walking towards them.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” Lydia bustled into the room followed by Nurse Elizabeth, and immediately straightened the bed sheets, tucking her daughter back in. Elizabeth took a seat and picked up the Wordsworth.

  “Some fancy people in the village.” Alfred turned back to the window. The couple had stopped to discuss something.

  “Look at her dress, Mama.” Annie paused to cough. “It’s like a frilly plum.”

  “Probably they’re lost and stopping for directions at the Inn.” They did look very affluent. Alfred straightened his own collar. Not fashionable, but practical and suitable, he told himself.

  A little choking sound came from Lydia.

  He turned to see her staring out of the window over his shoulder, the color drained from her face.

  “What is it?” But he knew as soon as he said the words. Her expression told him she knew this couple and their arrival was no accident.

  “He’s here.” Lydia looked around in little twitches, like a frightened deer. “He’s here.”

  “Lydia.” He grabbed her hand in his.