by Mary Balogh
It seemed to go on for a very long time. But finally his movements slowed and he shuddered deep inside her. Then his full weight relaxed on top of her and he was still.
Helen continued to watch the treetops and she continued to hold her man with arms and legs. She felt very tender toward him. She loved him. She did not want him to move, ever.
Chapter 5
William Mainwaring was walking home through the woods. He did not see his surroundings. He took no conscious direction. Mere instinct took him in the direction of home. He did not know yet if he regretted what had just happened. He suspected that he would bitterly regret it once he had emerged from the state of pure feeling and rational thought took over:. But that moment had not yet come. He knew only that he had a wholly new and exhilarating sense of his own manhood.
He could not feel guilty-not yet, at all events. He had not gone there this afternoon with the sole intention of possessing Nell, though he had been fully aware lie dangers involved in seeing her. And the whole thing had come about so naturally, without any forcing of the moment. She had not been reluctant. Indeed, he had given her ample opportunity to stop what was developing. And there had been nothing the 1st bit sordid about their coupling. Though there had been no love involved, of course, there was a certain degree of tenderness and awareness of the girl as more than just a body.
He found her irresistibly attractive. As soon as he had touched her that afternoon, he knew that he did not want to stop, that he needed to take their embrace to completion. She was so beautiful despite the shabby dress and the wild, loose hair, so soft to the touch. She smelled clean and wholesome, though she wore no detectable perfume.
She had said afterward that he had not hurt her. He did not know. He had been so intent on the sensations of his own body as he entered a woman for the first time that he had not closely observed her reactions. He would not even have known for sure that she had been a virgin had he not seen the streaks of blood on her legs as he lowered her skirt when it was all over.
It had been a beautiful experience. He had never imagined that there would be such warm, moist softness and such exquisite pleasure in releasing all his manhood into a woman's body. He had certainly not dreamed for the last year that any woman could bring him that sense of release and well-being when all his love was focused on someone unattainable. It was an unexpected delight to know that despite his love, he could still live a normal, healthy life. He would always remember his little wood nymph with gratitude.
She had told him, when he asked, that he had given her pleasure. He did not know the truth of that, either. He knew nothing about pleasing a woman sexually. She had lain still for him and had opened herself fully and sweetly to his every demand. She had held him afterward until he had lifted himself away from her and lowered her skirt, and even then she had rolled onto her side and lain against him while he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep for several minutes. He had certainly not displeased her.
He had left her with reluctance a few minutes before. If he had ever imagined that sleeping with her would be like slaking a thirst, he was very mistaken. Having her once had merely awakened an appetite that he knew would continue demanding satisfaction for some time to come. He had arranged to meet her the following afternoon again. Sooner or later his conscience was going to remind him of ail the moral arguments he had used on himself earlier and of all the practical solutions he had decided upon for his own future.
But he would not think of these things before he must. He wanted Nell and she wanted him. He would carry on this affair with her as long as they both wished it. Already he could hardly wait for the next day. He wanted to make love to her more consciously. He wanted to be more aware of her reactions, more aware of her needs.
Mainwaring stopped walking. He was already at the eastern edge of the wood. He put his head back and gazed up at the branches and the sky overhead. He turned around and around until the branches swirled dizzily above his head, and laughed at the picture he must make. It was a good thing that there was no spectator close by to wonder if he was returning to his childhood. And then the toe of one boot caught against the gnarled root of an ancient tree and he fell heavily and awkwardly, his foot twisted beneath him.
He continued laughing in self-conscious embarrassment and rubbed his boot at the ankle ruefully, waiting for the sharp pain to recede. After several minutes it still had not done so, and when he raised himself to a standing position on the good leg and lowered the injured one gingerly to the ground, pain shot up his leg and set him to biting his lower lip. Dammit! It served him right for behaving like such an imbecile. However was he to walk home? There was over a mile of open country between him and the house. He hopped and hobbled for a few yards until he finally had the idea of using a fallen tree branch as a crutch.
It took him well over an hour to reach home, and another half-hour for his valet to remove his boot from a foot that had swelled alarmingly around the ankle. He was forced to agree reluctantly to sending a groom in search of the doctor. The ankle could be broken, and the sooner it was set, the better it would heal.
There was no broken bone, only a bad sprain, but before the evening was half over Mainwaring was forced to realize that he was going to be house-bound for the next few days at least. No ball at Lord Graham's tonight. No ride with Lady Melissa one morning in the near future. And no lovemaking tomorrow with Nell.
***
Helen was dancing with Oswald Pyke. It often struck her as a great blessing that she was not as smitten with him as he was with her. Even if she were head over ears in love with him, she could never bring herself to marry that name. Imagine being Mrs. Oswald Pyke. Helen Pyke. Master Egbert Pyke, Miss Georgiana Pyke. And all the little Pykes. Fortunately, it was no great sacrifice to refuse him just on the grounds of a ridiculous name. She liked the man no better.
It was not just his looks, though she found nothing attractive in his short, rather pudgy figure, his thinning fair hair, and his plump hands that always seemed to be moist. He was a bore. If it were not his hounds he was talking about, it was his crops or his new hunting jacket or some other topic of no possible interest to her. Or else he was proposing marriage to her, one of his favorite hobbies. He was doing that now, despite the fact that it was the opening set of the ball and despite the inconvenience of the fact that it was a country dance and they were frequentlyy separated by the figures of the dance. Every time they came together for a few seconds, he was at it.
"If I have a good crop of turnips this year, I shall be able to afford a new ladies' maid," he said. "She could be assigned wholly to you if you will marry me, Lady Helen."
They were separated by the dance.
"Do give me an answer," he begged the next time they came together. "Do not keep me in suspense like this."
"I have told you at least fifty times, Mr. Pyke," she replied, "-or is it fifty-one?-that I will not marry you. Or anyone else at the moment," she added when she saw his crestfallen face as he turned away to twirl with another lady belonging to their set.
She answered mechanically. One did not even have to listen to Oswald. He rarely had anything new to say. She even danced mechanically, her mind and her eyes on the doorway into the ballroom. Any second now he would appear. Already he was late. Melly was fuming on the sidelines. Anyone who did not know her might not know that she was angry, of course. She smiled with dazzling brightness and her fan was waving at a sprightly pace. One of her feet kept time to the music. But Helen knew that she was furious. She had refused more than one partner on the grounds that the set was already spoken for, and now she was left standing like a wallflower.
But Helen had little sympathy to waste on her sister. Her heart was beating like a sledgehammer on her own account and she was in danger of losing her step every time someone new appeared in the doorway. For how long after his arrival would she be able to escape his notice? On the way here in the carriage she had been cautiously hopeful. Surely if she were careful enough, she could
keep the length of a room between them for the whole night. The weather was warm. She could perhaps persuade her partners to take her walking in the garden.
But she knew it was hopeless as soon as she arrived. She had forgotten how small the Grahams' ballroom was. The man would need two cataracts not to see and recognize her even if they were squeezed into opposite corners of the room. She would try, of course, but she knew it would be no good. And she dreaded the moment when their eyes would meet and recognition would dawn in his. What would she do? Smile and wave? Blush and bite her lip? Walk over to him, hand extended in sociable greeting? Rush crying into the garden? Swoon? Well, she would soon find out, she thought gloomily as she and Oswald came together again and he renewed his persuasions.
When the set ended, Helen crossed to the French doors and stood against the heavy draperies that had been drawn back from them. If she stood very still, perhaps she could blend into the background. Her gown was not a very different shade of primrose from the curtains. She watched the doorway to the ballroom as if she expected her executioner to come through it at any moment.
She had tried to avoid the meeting. She had never been very good at faking a cough or a sneeze. She had had to use the headache story again. But no one had believed her.
"Nonsense, child," Mama had said, looking impatiently at the drooping eyes and wan expression of her youngest daughter. "It is a very strange headache that attacks only when there is some entertainment approaching. You always seem in bouncing health when you leave the house in the afternoons for one of your walks or rides."
"How strange you are, Helen," Emily had said. "Have you no interest in elevated company and superior conversation? Why must you always try to avoid any activity in which you must meet people-and the best people that this part of England has to offer, at that?"
"You are going tonight and that is that!" the earl had said, and Helen could tell by his tone that there was no point at all in trying to argue further.
She had wanted nothing more than to crawl to her room, where she might spend the evening and the night digesting what had happened that afternoon. She could not yet feel any guilt, and surely she should. All she could think of was the terrible disaster of the ball tonight that would prevent her from ever meeting her lover again and experiencing the great happiness of making love with him once more.
"Oh, yes, it would be my pleasure," she said now with a wide smile as another young man of her acquaintance bowed before her and solicted her hand for the next set. And another for the next. By the time the music began for the fifth set, the one before supper, Helen found herself tense with hope. He was not going to come! It was incredible. He must know that the evening had been arranged for his benefit, the Grahams having a marriageable daughter, whom a Season in London during the spring had not succeeded in removing from their hands. He must realize that he would be committing an unpardonable social sin in omitting to put in an appearance. Yet surely he would be here by now if he were coming at all.
It was only well after supper, when Helen was flushed and delirious with joy, dazzling her present partner with her vitality, though she did not realize the fact, that she discovered that Mr. Mainwaring had sent his apologies to his hosts early in the evening. He had a sprained ankle and was unable to walk.
"You see, child," her mother pointed out wisely during the journey home, interrupting a loud and excited monologue that Helen was delivering to no one in particular, "if you just make an effort to go out and mix with people, you find that you enjoy it. I have not seen you so happy for a long time."
"I don't know how you could have enjoyed yourself so much, Helen," Melissa complained. "I thought it a particularly insipid evening."
"Indeed, it was most disappointing to learn that Mr. Mainwaring has injured his leg," her mother agreed. "I hope it does not confine him to home for many days. His presence has certainly livened up the neighborhood in the last weeks. It will be most disagreeable to be without him."
Helen sat quietly for the remainder of the journey home and retired meekly to her room when they arrived there. The great sense of relief that had succeeded upon the realization that she was to be reprieved for that night at least was already wearing off. If it was not now, it would come later. And William was hurt. What had happened? Was he in a great deal of pain? She would be quite unable to see him or even to make inquiry about a man she was supposed not even to have met. She would have to rely solely on the chance mentions of him that her family or their acquaintances might make. And his leg might be broken, for all she knew.
William. She whispered the name. It had never been one of her favorites. She had never thought of it as a particularly romantic name, though it was shared by one of her favorite poets. But how dear the name sounded now, evoking as it did the face and figure of her lover. Helen sat cross-legged on the bed, clad in her nightgown, and allowed her thoughts to dwell fully on him, as she had not dared since she had left that afternoon.
She tried to feel shame. She told herself quite deliberately what it was she had done. She had given what no lady dare give outside her marriage bed. With a man she scarcely knew and one who did not know her true identity, she had lain in broad daylight on the grass and made love. Yes, it was an apt expression. They had made love. He had been very tender and considerate.
She remembered how he had given her a chance to stop what was happening between them before any real harm was done. And she remembered how, after it was all over, he had lain beside her, his arm beneath her head, and held her close, his free hand stroking her head until he fell asleep. And after he had dressed and prepared to leave, he had taken her into his arms and kissed her and made her promise that she would come again the following day.
Yes, of course, now that she could think about the afternoon, she could recognize that he loved her too. He had not been a man merely taking advantage of a willing wench. He loved her! She really need not be afraid to tell him who she was. How could he despise her? There had been nothing sordid in what they had done. He would realize that, would know that she was not normally loose in her morals. He would know that she had given him all merely because she loved him.
She was still thankful that he had not been at the ball. It would not have been a good setting for such a discovery. But she would tell him the next time they met. It was a great trial to know that it would not now be the next day or the day after. It might be a week or more before he was able to walk to the wood again. But he would go there as soon as he was able, she knew, and there she would tell him the truth. He possibly would be angry at her deception, and embarrassed, but all would be well. In fact, once he had got used to the idea, he would probably be glad to know that she was a girl of his own social level. They would marry.
It was a pleasant dream, one that sustained Helen through what remained of the night. She slept peacefully after ten minutes of wondering if William were in pain and unable to sleep himself.
***
William Mainwaring had, in fact, spent an almost sleepless night. He would never have guessed that a simple sprain could hurt as if it were a dozen fractures. Of one thing only he was thankful. No one knew the truth of how he had sustained the injury. He felt a prize idiot. He had been behaving like a young boy with his first infatuation. In fact, embarrassing as it was to admit even to himself, that was more or less what he was. His very retired upbringing had retarded his social progress by at least ten years. How most of his contemporaries would snicker if they knew that yesterday afternoon, at the age of one-and-thirty, he had bedded his first woman!
And now he had made very sure that the affair would not continue for at least four or five days. He ground his teeth as he was forced to accept the support of his valet down the stairs to the breakfast room. He had refused to stay in bed. The sun was shining with every bit as much force as it had the day before. He ached to be with Nell again. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to touch her warm and pliant little body again. He wanted to be inside her.
&nbs
p; He took the plate of food that the butler had heaped for him at the sideboard and turned his attention impatiently to the pile of mail at his elbow. There was no point in brooding on what could not be. But how provoking it was to think that she would probably be there waiting for him. It was unlikely that she would have heard about his mishap. Would she think that he had abandoned her, that having once tasted of her treasures he had lost interest? He would have to make it up to her when he saw her next.
His attention was arrested by a letter that had been addressed in an unmistakably feminine hand. He felt himself turn cold. What other woman could be writing to him but Elizabeth? He tore open the seal and spread the letter on the table before him, his food forgotten. Yes, it was indeed from her, he saw, glancing to the signature at the end. He had not seen her handwriting before, but he would have known that it was hers. It had all the neatness and elegance and restraint that were so much a part of her character.
They had received his letter, and it had been a relief to them to know that he had finally received one of theirs. It was an equal relief to know that he had not received any of the others. His long silence was now explained.
"I have so much wanted to write to you myself," she wrote. "I have always felt very badly about what happened a year ago, William. I am afraid I presumed too much on a friendship that I held, and still hold, very dear. I should never have agreed to marry you. Indeed, I do not believe that I would have wronged you to the extent of going through with the ceremony, even if Robert had not acted as he did. And it would have been wrong. You knew that I could not have given my heart to you, and you very much deserve to have a wife who is wholly yours. You are a very dear person, William."