by Nicole Byrd
But she had no choice—she could hardly back out now.
When he put one strong hand on the small of her back, she quivered.
He bent to speak into her ear. “Shall we go up?”
Was it polite for a host to retire with a few guests still downstairs? She supposed he was leaving his brother to bid the last guests a final good-night.
So she nodded. Her throat seemed closed. His nearness spoke to her in so many ways, it was hard to maintain a ladylike facade; all her years of training in propriety and ladylike behavior, and now, now it seemed to strip away. She wanted to put her arms about him and pull him to the floor and tear his clothes aside and attack him as she had done last night.
And, no, she must not do that again! He would think her demented, insane, without any scruples whatsoever.
So steeling herself to keep her raging hungers under control, Lauryn pressed her lips together and, chin held high, walked up the staircase to the earl’s bedchamber, with the bearing of some tragic French aristocrat going to face the guillotine, instead of a lover going to a delightful tryst.
His room was as welcoming as it had been the night before, a fire burning on the hearth, the bed turned down, the curtains drawn over the windows against the dark outside. With difficulty, she tore her gaze away from the bed, hesitated for one moment on the threshold, then stepped over and went instead toward the fireside, warming her hands for a moment before the flames. For some reason, she felt cold, despite the heat that coursed through her. Why did her emotions change so quickly moment to moment?
She wished he would come and sweep her up and throw her upon the bed, and be the one tonight to rip off her clothes…and yet, she could not meet his eye, and something held her back, even as she longed for the feel of his hands on her body, for more than his hands, for all of him against her, inside her….
She could feel him watching her, but for a long minute, the earl was silent. Then he walked across to the bureau, and to her surprise, she heard a tune play. She turned to see.
He had lifted the lid of a small gold-embossed box, and a swan circled as a fragment of music played over and over. It was a music box, she realized. Lauryn came close to look as he held it out for her to see.
“It was my mother’s,” Sutton told her. “One of her favorite possessions, and I keep it to remember the pleasure it gave her. You wind it up at the back with a key, and the music plays and the swan circles when the lid to the box is raised. It has clockwork mechanisms inside it. You may have seen the like.”
She nodded. “It’s lovely.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “it’s a well-made piece.” They both watched as the swan slowed and the music ran down, then he closed the lid and placed the music box once more onto the top of his bureau.
“Mrs. Smith,” he said, running one finger over the top of the delicately crafted box before he turned to face her, “I do realize that you are a living being, you know, not a clockwork piece, to be wound up and run on order.”
“What?” She looked at him in surprise.
“I just wanted you to know”—now he looked at her, and his dark eyes were serious—“you are a beautiful woman, and, of course, I desire you. But you seem—conflicted. I simply want you to know that if you feel unwell, if you have other reflections on your mind—despite our—our arrangement, you do not have to come to my bed every night. You are a person with thoughts and opinions, and I will respect that. I’m not a monster.”
“Oh!” she said, blinking hard for an instant. It was more consideration than she suspected many “patrons” would have shown, in such cases as theirs. “You are indeed an honorable man, my lord.”
He shook his head. “Only thinking what is best for both of us, in the long term. I would not have you come to hate me, my dear.”
Surely he didn’t think there would be any “long term” for them? Lauryn pushed the thought away as too far-fetched and almost missed his next comment.
“Shall I walk you back to your own chamber and leave you to rest tonight?”
He would do it, too, she thought, marveling, even though she could tell that he was holding himself back, that he wanted to reach out and touch her, that he was controlling his natural inclinations.
What did she want? She hungered for him, and yet, the memories of her husband, the lingering feelings of guilt—it was easy for the contessa to say to put those reflections behind her—but it was all so confusing…
Impulsively, she put one hand on the earl’s arm.
It was like touching liquid fire.
The sensual need that he had contained ran through her and released her own need, and suddenly she was aware of him, twice fold, his dark hair, the lock that fell over his forehead and the sun-bronzed skin, the strong nose, the intense dark eyes that looked into her own and seemed to see all the way to her soul. His arms corded with muscle that could lift her into bed and caress her with such strength and command and gather her close to him—and yes, yes, that was what she wanted.
She looked up at him now, and without a word, told him what she wanted. He bent over her and pulled her to him with a grip that was almost savage—as if they had both waited overlong, and now restraint had melted away and, almost, civility with it.
Lauryn didn’t care. She met his kiss as forcefully as he gave it, pushing back against his lips, meeting the hard thrust of his tongue with joyous abandon, her own hands pushing his tight-fitting evening jacket back and off his shoulders even as he did the same for her low-cut gown. She heard buttons pop in the back—he had not taken the time to undo them properly—they were both too impatient—and there was still the damned corset but later, later—the fevered kiss grew harder and deeper.
Lauryn was barely aware of anything except his hands and his lips and his tongue, and all the places he could use them to such aching and delicious advantage.
She was filled with heat, and his hands were hot on her skin…touching her neck, his lips kissing the underside of her jaw, where the skin was so tender and so sensitive that she felt her heart leap, the blood pulse inside her, and again her need surged, always to a higher level, and she pulled him closer…she pushed her skirt down, and the petticoat followed….
Presently she found herself clad only in her corset, breasts peeping out atop where he could nibble the delicate skin and tantalize as much of the sensitive area as he could reach, while she sat once more atop him, moving vigorously as he held her hips so that he could position himself to reach high inside her, thrusting deeply and sending her gasping and rising with him in wonderful rhythm.
The pleasure was exquisite…mindless, all encompassing, it rolled through her body, flashing in waves across her skin, wringing her inside out, releasing her from any thought, any grip of remorse…no thoughts now, no memories…don’t think, she commanded her innermost self, don’t, don’t, just feel, just be…
When he spasmed and pulled her even closer to him, she allowed herself to float into joyful release. Nothing had ever been so perfect, she thought. But again, the joy of the moment almost at the same instant curled back on itself into guilt and shadowed her pleasure.
Oh, God, why could she not simply take the good and let the other darker reflections fade away? The contessa could live for the moment, why could Lauryn not do the same?
Yes, but the contessa had not loved her husband, Lauryn thought, a trifle bitterly.
She became aware that Sutton was watching her, his gaze disquieted. “My dear, tell me what concerns you.”
“This was wondrous,” she said instead, her tone low. “You are a marvelous lover, my lord, truly.”
But she could not meet his glance, and instead of lying back inside his arms, she scrambled up from the bed.
“Do you not want to lie together for awhile?” He didn’t try to stop her, but he frowned, pushing himself up on one elbow as she hastily gathered up her discarded clothing.
“Forgive me, not tonight,” she muttered. Again, she could not look him in the eye. With
only a quick look first to check the hallway, she ran to her own bedroom, locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed.
Tonight, she was dry eyed, at least, but her heart was still heavy, and she did not know what to think, what to feel.
“I am not married,” she told herself, like a child trying to learn a lesson by rote. “I am no longer married. Any vicar would say so, even if he would not sanction exactly what I am doing. But I am not being unfaithful to my husband.”
So why did she still feel that she was? Why did it feel so wrong when the earl made her so happy?
It wasn’t as if she would have this chance forever! Why could she not enjoy it? She was being a fool to chastise herself for disloyalty, but even knowing it did not seem to release her. She felt like some fairy-tale princess trying to find the right words to undo a wicked spell.
Just to feel in her heart what she knew in her head—that by sharing this incredible, amazing lovemaking with the earl, she was not harming her husband’s memory…why was that so hard to believe?
She had to find the key to freedom from her senseless guilt, and soon, or even the earl, as forbearing as he had shown himself, would lose patience and show her to the door.
He should have slept. His body was sated, but his mind was not. Marcus lay awake for a time and watched the fire burn itself into coals. Why would she not lie beside him? What was holding her back? He had seen women pretend oft enough, even though he seldom had reluctant lovers, and he would bet his whole inheritance that she genuinely lusted for him—the fervor that she showed when they came together was not assumed, or she was a better actress than any he had seen tread the boards in London or Paris.
No, he was sure that she brought a genuine passion into his arms. He would never have forced her into bed; he hoped that his eponymous Mrs. Smith believed what he had said to her about that. But he wanted it to be of her own free will, and always of her own choosing. He thought of the small noises she made as her passion rose, of the faint color in her cheeks as she grew excited, and how her body arched as she came into her climax, and he found his manhood hardening once more, just thinking about her delightful qualities—
“No, you fool, she’s not even here,” he told himself. “Would you wake her from her sleep?” Perhaps sated, then, was not the right term. He’d be happy to start again. She was a woman one could make love to again and again, and never tire of…. And yet it was even more than that. He wanted to know her as a person, get past this silly masquerade, find out what she thought, who she was beneath the surface, who she was—good lord, if she was the squire’s wife, he would be in a pickle!
A coal popped on the hearth, and the room seemed darker than usual for a long moment. He blinked against the darkness.
And why was that, you fool?
He paused in his line of thought, feeling a sudden cold wash over him. Surely, he wasn’t thinking of marrying a woman who had walked into his home and offered herself as a prostitute? No, of course not, that was preposterous….
Except that was not who she was, he was certain of it. Yes, she had a capacity for deep passion at her core, but she was not practiced at it, he had known that at once—she was too surprised and delighted by what she had found with him…and every night brought her new experiences to marvel over—it was easy enough to tell. He felt it with every ounce of his body, saw it and felt it in every reaction she gave him when they came together.
She was always genuine in her open-natured and generous responses to him, never holding back, never pretending. Sometimes he saw her eyes widen in surprise or pleasure, and he tried every night to find new ways to please her; it was becoming his particular joy. He did not recall ever enjoying sharing love with anyone else as much as he did with this lady.
Nor did he have any doubts that she was, indeed, well born, truly a lady.
Why would she not tell him the truth? And how could he persuade her to do so? And why in the bloody hell was she not curled up against him in his bed now, instead of spending the night alone in another bedroom?
With an inarticulate growl, he tossed a pillow against the far wall of his bedroom so hard that a handful of feathers spilled into the air.
When a maid tapped on her door, Lauryn blinked and rubbed her eyes. It seemed very early. Yawning, she stumbled out of bed and went to unlock the door. If the maid wondered that Lauryn had turned the lock on the door, the servant didn’t remark upon it.
The girl placed the breakfast tray on the table, then went back outside to bring in an ewer of warm water. “The earl has ordered your bags to be made ready, ma’am. ’E wants to go see about one of ’is ships. ’E says you should be ready to leave in an ’our.”
“What?” Still half asleep, Lauryn tried to make sense of this. “Where are we going?”
The maid repeated her comment, pouring a cup of tea as she did so. Lauryn sat down and ate some toast and marmalade and drank some tea while she tried to get her thoughts in order.
Had the earl decided he must inspect the salvaged cargo, too? What was the great mystery about this ship, Lauryn wondered, while the maid packed a carpetbag for her.
“Which gowns would you wish to take, ma’am?” the servant asked.
As she had only a couple more new gowns on hand, that was easy to decide. Perhaps by the time she returned, the rest of the dressmaker’s assortment would arrive, she thought.
The maid picked up the dress she had worn last night to hang up in the clothespress and shook her head. “You’ve pulled out some buttons in the back, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll sew these back for you.”
“Thank you, that would be appreciated,” Lauryn told her.
While the maid packed her things, she washed and dressed quickly in her new travel suit, glad that the maids had brushed it out for her and hung it neatly in the clothespress. She brushed her hair and put it up into a simple knot at the back of her head, put her bonnet on top, and was ready by the time she heard the earl’s usual quiet knock at her door. Her bag had already been taken down.
She opened the door herself.
“Good morning,” he said. Looking as strikingly handsome as always, today he wore riding clothes, and his expression was stern. Was he concerned about the ship, or could he be unhappy about her conduct last night?
Lauryn curtsied and tried to give a polite smile. He hadn’t exactly given her a choice about going along on this trip, but in fact, she was not unhappy about leaving the houseguests behind for a time.
“How far are we going, my lord?” She asked as they walked together down the hall and descended the great stairwell.
Lauryn wondered if the contessa knew that they were slipping away, or if his half brother Carter had been told. They encountered no one else in the hallway, and they did not stop in the dining room to chat with any early risers.
“We should be in Skegness by early evening,” he told her, holding her hand and helping her himself into the carriage, which waited outside the front entrance. This time, he did not seem to be taking his valet with him.
She settled into the comfortable seat and looked out the window of the vehicle. They had not bothered to say good-bye to anyone. Of course, Carter was rarely up early. The earl did not seem to consider anyone else’s opinions overmuch when he made up his mind to a course of action.
The coachman slapped the reins and the carriage lurched into motion. The gentle swing of the vehicle was soothing, as long as the road was good, and Lauryn found her eyelids wanting to close. After watching for a time as the earl rode slightly in front of the carriage, she allowed herself to doze.
When she woke, they seemed to have made little progress. The flat countryside of the Fens had little variety to catch one’s eye. Mile after mile of flat green marshland, the occasional canal, a few birds soaring in the endless blue sky—Lauryn watched it move around them, and at times wondered if they had made any progress at all, or perhaps they were caught in one of those glass balls made for children, where small figures were caught forev
er frozen in midstep. Then she would nod off again.
At midday, they came through a village and stopped at an inn to change horses and have food and drink themselves. The earl ordered a private parlor, and she was shown up to a room on an upper floor.
The day was warm and the air heavy, so she was glad to remove her cape and wash her face and hands. Then she returned and sat down with the earl. The meal was simple but well cooked, and just to have the privacy of sitting alone with him, with no other guests to observe them, no one to gossip or guess at their motives, was a delight.
He lifted her hand and kissed one finger, then another. “What makes your eyes sparkle so, Mrs. Smith? I refuse to believe it is merely the strawberry tart and clotted cream, excellently made though it is.”
She laughed. “No, although it is delicious. I admit I was thinking that it is refreshing to have this time with just the two of us.”
He smiled at her, and his glance also seemed very telling. “I agree, utterly and completely.” He lifted her hand to kiss it lightly, then surrendered it, but only, he told her, to allow her to eat the strawberry tart.
Laughing, she complied, offering him a bite of the dessert from her spoon, and kissing a trace of the cream off his lips. He kissed her back very warmly. It was with some regret that eventually she allowed him to escort her back to the carriage.
The afternoon was much the same as the morning: a long uneventful drive, again with little to see except miles of green, flat land, expanses of blue sky, occasionally farmers in the marshy fields bending over to harvest whatever it was that they grew there—she would have to ask the earl.
By the time the sun was dropping like a great golden ball to the west, Lauryn was conscious of considerable fatigue, simply from the jostling of the carriage, which did eventually wear upon one.
But instead of driving into a town, they turned into a side road, and the next time the carriage stopped, she found that they had come to a tall stone wall surrounding a small house set in a copse of trees on a windy heath, with a distant view of the coast. The coachman blew his horn, and a servant came out of the house and opened the gate to let them in.