‘I don’t.’ He didn’t want to think of her with any other man, but he knew that was wrong. ‘Kate, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’
‘I’m not crying,’ she said, scrubbing at her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Virgil pulled out his kerchief and dabbed at her cheeks. ‘I just want you to be happy.’
‘I don’t need a man to make me happy, any more than you need a woman.’ Kate sniffed. ‘You are right, I should not have come here today.’
‘Don’t say that. Kate, I just— I want— Oh, hell, Kate don’t cry. Don’t go. Not like this.’ He didn’t mean to but he couldn’t not. His arms went around her. He dragged her hard, tight up against him, and he kissed her.
If she had not kissed him back. If she had not been so upset. If she had not thrown all those things at him that he didn’t want to hear, he wouldn’t have had to block them out. If she hadn’t looked so tragic and so brave at the same time. If he hadn’t been thinking of her day and night since he left her. Then…then he would have been able to stop.
But she did kiss him back. And she made that little noise that sent the blood rushing to his groin. And her kisses were so angry and so hungry, just exactly like his own. She savaged him with her mouth and he thrust his tongue into hers. She arched against him; he pushed her up against the door, the better to mould her to him. She said his name, the way no one else said his name, and he said hers, the name which could only be hers. Passion consumed them. He hadn’t thought it was possible to burn so hot and so high so quickly. There was no gentle build, no slow burn, but a white-hot searing which made him achingly hard and had her panting, her fingers clutching at him, tugging at his clothes without any sort of finesse.
‘We can’t, not here,’ he said, at the same time as he pulled her clear of the door only to ram a wooden chair under the handle.
‘Albert could walk in at any time,’ Kate agreed, as she unbuttoned his waistcoat and yanked it with his coat down over his arms.
They staggered, entwined and kissing frantically, towards the table. Virgil lifted her onto it. Her dress buttoned up the front. Tiny buttons. He tried to undo them, but they defeated him and so he pulled at the fabric, scattering jet buttons across the floor. Her corsets underneath were black silk. ‘Sweet heaven, Kate. If anyone knew how you look underneath. Have you any idea what it does to me?’ He breathed in the sweet scent of her, kissing her throat, and down, to the mound of her breasts. Her skin was flushed. He could feel her heart hammering. Same as his own.
Kate moaned. She yanked at Virgil’s shirt. ‘Take this off. I want to see you. Take it off.’
He pulled it quickly over his head and tossed it over his shoulder. The action drew in his abdomen, making his chest expand. She could count the muscles. He was like velvet. Every time she saw his skin that’s what she thought of. Dark, luscious velvet that cried out to be touched. His muscles weren’t sinewy but round and hard. She hadn’t ever seen muscles like that. She was so tense she thought she might break. Hot and shivery. Throbbing and fluttering.
He pulled her back to him, to the edge of the table, and kissed her again. Her hands stroked and plucked at his skin, his shoulders, his chest, his nipples, the shadow of his rib cage. She didn’t have enough hands. His lips were hot on hers, and hard. He rucked up her dress. ‘Black,’ he said, looking at her stockings with satisfaction. ‘I knew they would be black.’
His hands stroked up to the flesh at the top of her stockings, then hovered over her sex. ‘I don’t want you, Virgil,’ Kate said, digging her nails into his shoulders. Still he hovered. ‘I don’t need you,’ she said.
With his other hand, he pushed her skirts higher. ‘You don’t need any man,’ he agreed, stroking her.
‘No.’ It was a struggle to keep her eyes open, but she managed it, holding his gaze, tawny rimmed with gold. He had hardly touched her, but she was struggling to contain her release. ‘I don’t.’
‘You don’t,’ Virgil agreed.
He kissed her mouth hard. Then he tipped her, suddenly, back onto the table, and dropped down to his knees before her, and licked into her. She cried out as his tongue flicked over her sensitive flesh. She could have sworn he made sparks shoot out. It felt like all her blood rushed to that single spot as he licked and sucked, and she tumbled, headlong and out of control, shoving her fist into her mouth to stop herself from screaming.
Virgil pulled her towards him, sliding his finger inside her, feeling the clenching of her climax around him. She pulled at his wrist, put his finger in her mouth, then kissed him, mingling the taste of them, the essence of her. He thought he would explode, the way she did it. Deliberate. Challenging.
‘I don’t need you,’ she said, her voice husky with sex.
He needed to be inside her. Urgently. ‘No more than I need you,’ Virgil said, unfastening his buckskins, pulling her to the very edge of the table, wrapping her legs around his thighs, and entering her, pushing right into her, into the sleek, slick heat of her, in one thrust.
Her eyes darkened. She said his name. Urgent, just as he felt. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She tightened her ankles around his waist and tilted so that he pushed higher inside her.
Her eyes were fixed on his. She clenched around him, holding him completely still. He let her, for a moment. Then he moved and her eyes widened. He slipped his hands under her bottom to lift her, and thrust. Her hands were icy on his neck. He thrust again, and felt the delicious eddy of her climax. Another thrust, and she gave a muffled groan, and it was like being caught in a maelstrom inside her. He was whipped up, tossed high, pounded, helpless. He lost control, thrusting into her again and again until it took him, too, and at that moment he would have given anything to be able to spill himself into her. But he pulled himself free just in time, and afterwards, as he held her, clutched tight around him, he had never felt emptier.
* * *
Kate sat on the edge of the table, stunned by what had happened. Virgil was pulling on his clothes. She tried to fasten her gown, but half the buttons seemed to be missing. It didn’t matter, she could button her pelisse over it. She couldn’t believe what they’d just done, in Albert Moffat’s best parlour. If she was a different kind of woman she would be ashamed of herself. If Virgil was a different kind of man…
If he was a different man, he wouldn’t be Virgil. She retied one of her garters and made a vague attempt to pat her hair into order. She most likely looked as if she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She dragged her pelisse over her dress and fastened it.
This time, she had no doubt it was goodbye. At the Dower House, she realised, she’d still had some hope. She had none now, but still she felt a sadistic urge just to make sure. ‘It is impossible, isn’t it?’
Virgil had been looking out of the window while she dressed, but he turned now, and came to stand beside her, taking her hands. He held them against his chest, bracing her. She didn’t want him to brace her; it meant he thought she was going to be hurt. ‘Don’t answer that,’ Kate said hurriedly. ‘I know the answer.’
‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you, Kate?’
She nodded. ‘And you.’ She pinned a smile to her face. ‘I will see myself out. Don’t watch me go. I won’t look back.’
She thought he would kiss her again. She thought it was something akin to pain she saw in his eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure. ‘Goodbye, Kate.’
‘Goodbye, Virgil.’
He pulled the chair away from the door and opened it for her. Kate made her way down the stairs of the inn, feeling as though she were descending into Hades. She didn’t look back.
* * *
She did not remember the walk back to Castonbury. In her bedchamber, she rang the bell for Polly and a bath, then sank down on the window seat as the tub was filled. She was aware of Polly casting her anxious looks, and thankful that she said nothing until the bath was ready, the screens draped with towels se
t up by the fire.
For once, she allowed Polly to help her undress. ‘What happened to your gown? You look as if you’ve been in a fight.’
Kate shook her head, biting her lip. Tears again. What was the point in tears? She had nothing at all to cry about. ‘Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.’ She sank gratefully into the depths of the lavender-scented water.
‘I heard Mr Jackson was still at the inn. Snow, I heard, though it’s to clear by the morning.’
Kate said nothing.
‘John Coachman said you didn’t take the gig. He said you went walking instead. Did you see him? Mr Jackson, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ Kate said with a sigh. ‘I did. I wanted to say goodbye.’
‘You didn’t— I hope you were careful, my lady. There’s ways and means if you weren’t, but they’re not pleasant and they don’t always work.’
She considered pretending ignorance, but Polly was too perceptive and Kate was a terrible liar. ‘There’s no need to worry. Virgil was—was careful.’
Polly nodded. ‘He’s a good man, but it wouldn’t have done, my lady. They would never have tolerated it.’
‘There was never any question of that, Polly. It was just—we were just— I am not in love with him, and he’s certainly not in love with me. It was just—what did you call it? A fling. And now it’s over, and I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.’
‘Of course you are, my lady. You don’t need him. You don’t need any man.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Kate said. Her lip quivered. It was ironic that the only person in the world—in her world—who knew her well enough to see beyond her words was a woman who had spent the better part of her life selling her body on the streets of London. She burst into tears.
* * *
Kate spent the following days keeping extremely busy, ensuring that Alicia was comfortable in the Dower House, taking her and the child on short drives around the countryside when the weather permitted, keeping out of Aunt Wilhelmina’s way and reviewing her plans for extending the Castonbury school. She did not think, would not let herself think, about Virgil, in the daylight hours. She was bright and cheerful and useful, and that was enough, she told herself. At night it was a different matter. She did not cry, but she ached. Under cover of darkness she could admit that she missed him, but that was as far as she would go. She would not hope or even dream. There was no point and no need. She was lonely here at Castonbury, but she had always been lonely. It was just she hadn’t noticed before.
In Scotland, Virgil emerged from the noise of the mill house at New Lanark in much the same frame of mind. Three waterwheels and thousands of spindles worked by over five hundred people made it a noisy place, no matter how light and clean it was in comparison to other mills. Walking down the main thoroughfare of the model village, he passed the other two mill buildings and headed towards the school which formed the kernel of Owen’s Institute for the Formation of Character. There were aspects of his host’s philosophy with which Virgil disagreed, but he was awed by the man’s vision and utterly convinced by his arguments that education was fundamental to social reform. This visit had given him ideas enough to last him decades.
Through the windows of the school, he could see the little ones at their desks, their faces rapt with attention as James Buchanan, weaver turned teacher, told them a story. He had intended going in to take more notes, but a restlessness kept him going down the cobbled road towards the majestic Falls of Clyde, thinking for the thousandth time how much Kate would have enjoyed this visit. It wasn’t that he missed her so much as that he regretted the missed opportunity. He would have liked to have seen her reaction to it all, heard her opinions of it—which would be bound not to be anything like he imagined. Without her, the experience was somehow less than he expected.
Autumn was almost over this far north. The trees which bordered the falls were bereft of leaves. There was a decided nip to the air. The cascade which frothed and thundered over the river on its way down to propel the water wheels which powered the mills was mesmerising. The spray was icy. It made him think of the lake at Castonbury. The lake made him think of Kate, though not even she would consider swimming in water this cold. Kate, nymph-like and naked, her wet skin gleaming. Kate kissing him. Kate, hot and damp for him. Kate’s climax, the look of shocked delight on her face. The jolting pleasure of his own release.
Virgil swore, and began the by now tried and tested process of forgetting about Kate by thinking of other things. He had plans now, thanks to Robert Owen, not for just one village but for a whole string of institutes and schools.
How much would ever be enough? Kate’s question haunted him. This was what he’d worked for so tirelessly these past eleven years. This was what would start to make good some of his guilt for what he had done to Millie. So why was he feeling so down? Not just down, but tired, worn out, his energy sapped. The future he had worked so hard for, the castle he had built in the air which was now within his reach, they had lost their appeal. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it all, the schools and all the rest of it, but he did keep wondering, damn it, if he could ever do enough.
He was tired of carrying the burden of guilt around with him, but he couldn’t see it ever easing. Why was he so tired? Was he being punished for having broken faith with his celibacy? Until he met Kate, it was a pact he had never thought of breaking. Well, Kate was in the past now, and so he would have no trouble keeping to it again. He wouldn’t ever hold her again. Or kiss her. Or hear her laugh. Or…
Virgil jumped to his feet with an exclamation of disgust. What he had to do was get on with his life. He would go to Glasgow tomorrow. He would put his past to rest. And today, he would write to Kate and tell her all about New Lanark. He owed her that much.
Chapter Eleven
The grey December sky reflected Kate’s mood. It was not raining but the air was damp and it was cold. It looked like it might rain, it looked as if it might clear up, it couldn’t make up its mind. Ambivalent. Could weather be ambivalent? More like confused, she thought, that’s what she was. She was sitting in the dining room drinking a cup of cold coffee when Lumsden informed her that Giles wished to see her as soon as conveniently possible.
Thinking that her aunt must have lodged another complaint, Kate made her way to her brother’s private study with a heavy heart.
‘You look tired,’ Giles said.
‘Can’t sleep,’ Kate replied, in quite his own terse style.
Giles grinned. ‘Mind my own business, you mean. Well, I will, since I’ve a hundred other things to think about, provided you can assure me you’ve done nothing new to set our aunt off.’
‘She seems quite taken up with little Crispin,’ Kate said, dodging the question.
Her brother gave her one of his searching looks, but Kate returned it blandly, and he shrugged. ‘We’ve had a letter from Harry,’ he said. ‘He sent it from Madrid. It’s—well, interesting. Here, read it for yourself.’
Kate unfolded the missive. Harry’s scrawl, unusually for a man who most often considered three or four lines sufficient, covered the entire sheet of paper, leaving barely enough room for his signature. The contents were, as Giles had said, interesting. ‘So there’s hope, then, that he might get the evidence he needs to prove Jamie’s death?’
‘Looks like it. If he does, at least it means we’ll be able to access the funds.’
‘And you may be a step closer to marrying Lily.’
‘I wish it were more than a step. This waiting is the very devil,’ Giles said grimly. ‘Let us not talk about my affairs, it is frankly too painful. I haven’t told Father about the letter. His health is still so frail. If Harry can’t track down this chap in Seville, if it proves another false lead, then we’re back to where we started. I haven’t said anything to our aunt either.’
‘Quite right. Aunt Wilhelmina wouldn’t be able to resist telling Papa. It’s best to keep this to ourselves until we have more certain news.’
‘Good. I’m gl
ad you agree with me, I was pretty sure you would.’ Giles folded the letter up and tucked it into a drawer in his desk under a pile of other papers. ‘What about the widow though? I don’t feel right keeping it from her. Apart from anything else, if Harry can talk to this chap, the one who was with Jamie at the end, it may well be that it helps her cause. He’d have been bound to mention his marriage, wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think, are you still sceptical of her claim?’
‘Honestly?’ Giles locked the drawer. ‘She seems genuine. She’s not a money-grabber, though she’s protective of the boy’s rights, and that’s natural enough. I could wish she did not allow him so often in the company of our father, but I can’t deny it gives him pleasure. But honestly, Kate? I just can’t get rid of the feeling that there’s something—I don’t know, something not right about Jamie’s death. If we could just get the full story—but I won’t count on it, not until we hear from Harry again.’
‘Nor I.’ Kate touched his hand briefly in sympathy. They were not a demonstrative family; this was the nearest she could imagine to hugging Giles. She hadn’t noticed, not until she met Virgil, how little physical contact she had with anyone. ‘We’ll just have to bide our time and hope that Harry comes through, one way or another. In the meantime, do you wish me to tell Alicia the news?’
‘If you would. It will be better coming from a woman.’
‘Which means it will save you the bother of coping with her tears,’ Kate said, laughing. ‘Tell me, Giles, do you run the other way when Lily cries?’
‘No, I try to make damn sure she has no cause to,’ her brother retorted.
* * *
She almost ran into Aunt Wilhelmina on the staircase. ‘I am going to Buxton with your sister-in-law,’ Mrs Landes-Fraser, who had thawed enough since Alicia’s arrival to address Kate directly once more, informed her. ‘His Grace has commented several times now on the dowdiness of her wardrobe, and whether she proves to be an imposter or not, we cannot have it said that we dressed the woman in rags. I shall stop at Ripley and Hall in the village to select some silks, then we shall go on to Buxton to have them made up. We shall take the landau and shall be gone the better part of the day. I would ask you to accompany us, but she won’t go without the boy, and you would be quite cramped. If you are in need of occupation I suggest that you turn your hand to the pile of sheets which you removed from the Dower House. Such common work should not be beyond your rather meagre skills. Your sister-in-law sets a surprisingly beautiful stitch.’
The Lady Who Broke the Rules Page 19