by Linda Jones
"Nothing,” she lied.
"Really? I could have sworn I heard your good friend Victor Chadwick mention the Indigo Blade."
Her lips parted slightly, her chin quivered, and Max responded with a smile. Penelope had been caught in her lie, and she knew it.
"Don't tell me,” he whispered with a smile. “You and your chum have the same fate planned for the Indigo Blade as you served up to poor Heath Lowry."
Anger flashed in her normally placid eyes. “I thought you had no concern or patience for politics."
"Intrigue is always interesting,” he said blandly. “Back stabbing, treachery, the machinations of a devious mind. Lud, m'dear, when I married you I had no idea you were so deliciously cunning."
She said nothing, but stared up at him with accusing eyes. His wife was usually such a good little actress, but tonight her talent failed her. He could see the anger in her eyes and in the set of her lush mouth. “Remind me why I married you,” she whispered hoarsely. “At the moment I can't recall."
"Faith,” he said without missing a beat. “I'm moneyed, I'm not horribly ugly, and I'm witty and entertaining. What woman wouldn't marry me?"
She lowered her eyes to his chest and kept her gaze there for the remainder of the dance. So, he thought as he studied the top of her head, Chadwick was soliciting her to help him find the Indigo Blade. If he'd been closer he would have heard more—if he'd been stronger he would have waited a moment longer to hear her answer.
Would his lovely wife send him to the gallows? Judging by her history and the spark of fury in her eyes at the moment, the answer was an unqualified yes.
It seemed the minuet would never end.
Penelope closed her eyes and tried to ignore her husband's mindless chatter as the carriage traveled slowly toward home. Maximillian talked nonstop about a new tailor he needed to visit, a boot maker who was supposedly divine, and a scandalous bit of gossip he'd heard.
It took all her willpower not to turn to him and scream for silence.
For all the lovely trappings of her life, she had nothing. No love, no happiness, no joy. And there was none forthcoming, it seemed, as Maximillian seemed perfectly content in this pretext of a marriage. She had but one thing in life to look forward to. Children.
If only the wedding night had resulted in a pregnancy. She would find contentment in bearing and raising a child; she knew it with all her heart. Having a baby would make her days worthwhile, give her life purpose. She'd be a good mother, she swore it. A devoted and loving parent. And Maximillian? She studied his fine profile through hooded eyes, as he chattered on about a stallion Mr. Huntland had recently acquired.
Maximillian was too selfish to be a good husband, and there wasn't enough love within him to make a good father. She'd believed differently, once. How had she allowed herself to see more than there was in his eyes? To feel love in his touch? What a fool she'd been.
But Maximillian was her husband, and if she was to have the children she wanted so badly, he would father them. That meant he would have to visit her bed on occasion.
The wedding night had been wonderful, and she'd thought it just the beginning. She'd never known such heat and passion and pleasure existed, she'd never known she could feel so much a part of another person, not just in body but in spirit and heart. She'd thought those feelings would continue and even grow, but now she wasn't even sure that what she'd experienced was real. Maximillian certainly hadn't felt the same way.
Perhaps she'd done something wrong. Perhaps she simply wasn't good enough.
If she wanted children, he would have to lie with her again, and she had a notion that if she waited, for Maximillian to come to her, she'd die a lonely, old, and childless woman.
Gathering her courage, she scooted across the seat to sit close to her husband. Apparently startled by her move, he raised fine eyebrows and set dubious gray-green eyes on her. “Are you cold, m'dear?” he asked as she snuggled against his side.
"A little."
"Ah,” he said simply, turning away from her to look out the window.
He was warm but unyielding, “Would you put your arm around me?” she whispered. “I'm still chilly."
With apparent reluctance, he did as she asked. “Lud, I'll likely wrinkle this jacket."
He was not making this easy, with his head turned away and his arm stiffly around her. There had been a time when he'd touched her easily. A hand over hers, a gentle kiss that touched her so deeply the memory still shook her. Now, he acted as if he'd rather not touch her at all.
Penelope placed her hand on Maximillian's thigh, and he practically jumped out of his skin. She didn't move her hand away, but very gently stroked his hard thigh through heavy silk. She wondered if he could feel her hand tremble, if it mattered at all that this was difficult for her.
When he looked down at her she met his gaze squarely, and with a subtle shifting of her body she raised up and placed her lips against his.
His lips were cold and still, and she quickly drew away.
"Faith, m'dear,” he said huskily, “I don't think you're chilly at all."
"No,” she whispered. “I'm not."
He brought his mouth to hers and kissed her, a very reluctant and tentative caress. You'd think they were strangers who had never touched before, the way he so warily kissed her. His entire body was rigid, his mouth hesitant and stubborn against hers.
"Would you like me to come to your bed tonight?” he asked as he broke the awkward contact.
"Yes."
In the semi-dark, she could not identify the expression that flashed across his face, but it seemed to be, in the dim light, a mirror of the anger and confusion she herself felt. For a moment he was silent, and she thought he would refuse her.
If he refused her now, if he rejected her overture, there was no hope for them—no hope at all. His rejection would condemn her to a lifetime of loneliness, and she held her breath as she waited.
"You need but to ask,” he said in a buoyant voice that did not match his somber facial cast. “We'll soon be home. Retire to your bedchamber and prepare yourself, and I'll be along shortly."
He lifted and removed his arm, then, and returned his attention to the passing landscape.
The ensuing silence was so dismal, Penelope wished for more inane chatter.
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Chapter Twelve
A waiting Helen had silently helped Penelope out of her gown and into a demure nightdress. Together they went through the motions of their nightly ritual without a word or a smile.
Penelope had tried to befriend Helen early on, but without success. Helen did her job, was always there when Penelope needed her, but she didn't like her mistress or her position, of that Penelope was certain.
She no longer cared, any more than she cared that the other servants in the household evidently found her repulsive. At the moment, she had only one care on her mind and in her heart.
Tonight her husband would come to her bed. She thought again of the wedding night and how remarkable it had been, and wondered if perhaps Maximillian could summon some of that desire for her, even now. Perhaps in the bedroom he would shed his coolness. Perhaps here she could close her eyes and pretend he loved her.
Helen was dismissed, and Penelope paced her chamber by the light of a single candle. A baby. She reminded herself of what she wished so desperately for as she waited. A baby to heap love upon and to love her in return. A smiling face, outstretched arms, someone to hold. A child would need her. This house would not be so horribly empty if it was filled with children, their laughter and their tears.
The blaze in the fireplace had been low to begin with, and as she waited, it died to nothing more than glowing embers. As the candle burned and the minutes passed, she decided Maximillian had changed his mind. He wasn't coming. Perhaps he'd never intended to come to her tonight, but had promised only to appease her for the moment. Was she such an inadequate wife that he couldn't bear to pass a single night
in her bed?
She stood at the window and looked out over the garden that was drenched in nightfall. This was a prison as surely as Victor's would have been. Her escape, her supposed rescue from an unwanted marriage, had trapped her just as surely and unpleasantly as marriage to Victor would have. This was worse, in fact. She'd never thought herself in love with Victor, and so he didn't have the power to hurt her this way.
"And what do you see, m'dear?"
She turned to find her husband lounging in the open doorway, a bottle of brandy in one hand, a half-empty drinking glass in the other.
"I didn't hear the door,” she whispered.
Maximillian brought a finger of the hand that grasped the bottle to his lips. “Shhhh. I am like a ghost, moving silently through the house and haunting those in it. Do I haunt you, m'dear?” His words slurred slightly.
"You're drunk,” Penelope said.
"I'm afraid not, dear wife, though I will admit I did my best.” Maximillian stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him. Penelope jumped at the resounding thud. “Did you hear that, m'dear? I wouldn't want to be accused of sneaking about my own house, now would I?"
This wasn't at all what she'd had in mind. Maximillian was so different, so unlike the man she knew, that he frightened her. His anger was usually masked in coldness and sarcasm, but tonight she could see the fury that waited just beneath the surface. Could she bear for this man to touch her?
"Perhaps this is not the best night..."
"But it is.” Maximillian turned the near-empty liquor bottle up and refilled his glass, and then he set the bottle atop the dresser, precariously close to the edge. But for the slight slurring of his words, the brandy had little effect on him. He stood quite steadily, and was still as finely dressed and well-groomed as he'd been all evening. “You might as well shed that dreadful shift before we get started."
There was no great anticipation, as there had been on her wedding night. Just an apprehension, a confusion, and a reaffirmation of her resolve. If she could have nothing else, she would have babies. She removed the nightdress and placed it across the armchair before her dresser, and walked slowly to the bed. Maximillian still had his back to her. Was he allowing her modesty, or did he simply not care to look at her?
He didn't turn around until she sat on the side of the bed, and when he did he studied her as he might an inanimate object, head cocked to one side and eyes scrutinizing. “You are likely the most superb woman I have ever seen,” he said softly and without emotion. “Perfect in proportion and face.” He came toward her. “Flawless beauty."
Maximillian sat beside her, his glass of brandy dangling from one hand while he reached out to touch her breast with the other. “Flawless,” he repeated.
She could not breathe.
His fingers danced over one breast and then the other, more gentle than his words or his eyes. There was no anger in his touch. “Lie back,” he ordered, and with a long expelled breath, she did.
He brought his mouth to her throat and kissed her tenderly, and Penelope closed her eyes. Yes, she remembered this. The softening of her entire body, the tingle that began and grew so quickly. The pleasant tension. Warm and gentle lips caressed the column of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, until she felt herself melting.
Maximillian pulled slowly away, and Penelope watched as he dipped a finger into the brandy and brought it to the tip of her breast. A single drop fell, and he lowered his mouth to lick away the liquor, to draw the nipple deep into his mouth with a gentle breath. She felt herself relenting, giving in to the rippling sensations and the growing tautness. Yes, she remembered this. Her body rose to meet his mouth, her back arching of its own will. With every stroke of his tongue, her body awakened a bit more.
He repeated the process, dribbling a single drop of brandy onto her other breast, spreading the cool liquid with a circling and lazy finger, and then lowering his head to take the nipple into his mouth. He kissed that sensitive flesh, lavished caresses upon her, until she forgot everything but the sensations that were coursing through her body.
"You like this, do you?” he asked as he trailed a brandy-dampened finger from the valley of her breasts to her navel.
"Yes,” she whispered.
His mouth followed the trail of dampness, slowly, intimately, almost lovingly, and Penelope closed her eyes and reveled in her body's response. The warmth was intense, the touch of his mouth against her skin as intoxicating as any wine. And then he trailed a coolly moist finger across her flat belly, from the navel downward.
"Maximillian!” she tried to sit up but with a gentle hand he forced her back down. “You can't."
"Trust me, m'dear?” he asked huskily.
Penelope closed her eyes as he continued to rake his fingers across her flesh. Trust him? How could she? He'd played false with her, pretending to love her, pretending to offer happiness and adoration and then changing overnight into a stranger. He'd changed into a man with cold, lying eyes she could not read. He'd become a husband she did not know at all. Trust him? “Yes,” she whispered, not sure why that answer came to her lips.
He laid his mouth on her belly, kissed the skin so passionately she knew at that moment that he had to love her, even if it was in his own, distant way.
By the time he left the bed to kneel before her, she was no longer capable of protest. Her body was practically screaming for him, and she waited impatiently for him to shed his own clothes, to come to her, to touch and fill her. Instead, he trailed a bit of brandy on her inner thigh and kissed it away, and then he laid his mouth on her in a shockingly intimate way.
"Max ... Maximillian,” she whispered, but he didn't stop. He pulled her closer, tenderly forced her legs further apart, and continued, his tongue dancing over her flesh slowly and then fast, gently and then hard.
She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry—but her body wanted exactly what Maximillian was giving her. He did not relent, and Penelope found she could voice no more protest. She rocked gently, closed her eyes, and was lost in a haze of sensations so unexpectedly powerful they ruled her body and her mind.
She was lost, lost and loved and cherished, until every fiber of her being exploded in a response more potent than she'd imagined possible. Maximillian held her as she lurched and moaned, and caressed her inner thigh as the impossible pleasure faded away and left her with her own harsh reality.
Her breath would hardly come to her, as Maximillian rose slowly to tower above her. “Happy now?” he asked coldly.
He hadn't put down his drinking glass, and as she watched, he lifted it to his lips for a long swig. He was completely and neatly dressed, his jacket was straight, his cravat was perfection. There wasn't so much as a hair on his head out of place.
"Well good night, m'dear. My duty's done, I'd say.” He collected the bottle from the dresser and sauntered toward the door, not even bothering to turn and face her as he reached it.
"Aren't you going to stay?” Penelope felt remarkably vulnerable, hot, disheveled, and she was still quaking from the incredible and shocking experience.
"Whatever for?"
As he opened the door and offered a distant “sweet dreams,” Penelope realized that her husband had not once kissed her on the mouth, had not once told her he loved her, had not once shown the slightest desire to be with her. And as she listened to Maximillian walk slowly down the passageway to his own bedchamber, hot tears came to her eyes.
Max made his way through the passage in the dark, every step and every breath an effort. The distance between his bedchamber and Penelope's had never seemed so great.
Once he was in his own chamber, he didn't bother to light a candle or a lamp or a fire, but took comfort in the black shadows that surrounded him. He didn't sit on the bed or in the armchair near the window, but paced slowly.
He was hiding as surely as Penelope was, in the dark, in the bottle, in his own righteousness.
Everything he was and ever had been ached, his body and his hea
rt, with a pain as sharp and cutting as the most finely honed blade. He'd lived his twenty-eight years proving again and again that no one had the power to hurt him—not his father, nor the older brothers who'd openly despised his very presence. Not the women who were more than happy to meet with him in secret, though they acted in public as if they did not know the earl's bastard. Death was a game. Love was a promise. All lies, and he couldn't hide from that truth no matter how dark the room.
Penelope was his wife, and yet he couldn't lay with her no matter how much his body ached. He knew it, had sworn to himself that he would not. If the shields came down, if he allowed himself to reveal how much he wanted her, tragedy would certainly follow. He would either kill her with his bare hands or be forced to admit to himself that he still loved her.
He finished off the last of the brandy and stripped off his cravat and silk jacket as he paced the unlit room. Love her? No. Surely not. How could he love a woman who was capable of such cold betrayal? A woman who showed one face to the world and another, darker face, when it suited her. He couldn't possibly love her.
God help him, he could deny it all he wanted, in the dark, by the light of day, to her face ... but he did love his wife with all his heart. If he didn't love her, the betrayal wouldn't hurt so much. If he didn't love her, he might have accepted the fact that she would send a boy to his death without a second thought, that she allied herself with a cruel man like Victor Chadwick.
If he didn't love her.
He'd thought love a blessing, once, but now he knew it was a curse, and the crudest punishment of all. It fogged his mind, it ruled his body and his heart, it permeated his every waking moment.
He was out of his room and in the passageway before he had time to think about his actions. The distance did not seem so great, this time. He was standing in Penelope's open doorway before he allowed himself a second thought.
She was lying sideways across the bed, as he'd left her, but she had wrapped the gold satin coverlet around her body. She clutched it tightly, grasping the satin desperately. The candle on her bedside table burned low, casting a soft light over the forlorn face she turned to him. Her eyes shone bright, much too bright. He would have thought them tears in her eyes, but he didn't believe Penelope was capable of shedding tears like a normal woman.