by Eva Leigh
“I wasn’t alarmed.” He stepped nearer and looped his arms around her, drawing her close. “But I wakened hoping to share with my wife the delights of a morning abed.”
He bent down and kissed her with an erotic intensity that made her blood heat. She clung to him, her mind spinning from the pressure of maintaining her deception while her body hummed with arousal from his seduction.
“We could return to bed,” she suggested when she surfaced.
“We’ll save our energies for an afternoon nap,” he said with a wicked smile. “But let’s begin our day now that we’re both up and dressed. Or somewhat dressed,” he added on a laugh when she looked at his unfastened waistcoat. “I have plans for us today.”
Her heart squeezed with bittersweet happiness. He continually sought to give her pleasure, and she deceived him under his own roof. “More boating?”
“This will be a city outing,” he allowed.
She tilted her head. “You won’t tell me where we’re going? Like you did with the sailing?”
He grinned. “I do like surprising you.” Reaching down to take hold of her hand, he said with mock solemnity. “Before we can have our adventure, we must break our fast and fortify ourselves. Though,” he added, his look scorching, “you may have changed my mind about returning to bed. You’d make for a delectable breakfast.”
“There’s no limit to your appetites,” she noted, warming from the candid sensuality of his gaze and words.
He walked backward, leading her toward the stairs up to the bedroom. “I can do without food if I have to. But I’m learning that when it comes to my hunger for you, I can’t be sated.”
Her soul withered even as happiness made her glow. She had entered into this marriage for purely mercenary reasons, and now that she and Kit shared a bond, she was being made to pay the price.
With rising excitement—and growing trepidation—Kit watched through the carriage window as they crossed over the Thames to the south bank. When he’d planned on telling her about the pleasure garden, he hadn’t anticipated it would follow their first night together. But she’d given him so much happiness, he wanted to share everything with her. That included revealing his long-cherished wish with her.
Yet, he realized, he’d given little thought to the pleasure garden when he was with her. Watching her laugh and cry at the theater, seeing her pleasure in good whisky and better company, her freedom and exhilaration on the water—these things had made him happy because she was happy. He wanted to give her that. Again and again until they were old and dozing side by side in front of the fire.
He was close, so very close, to having his heart’s every desire. All he had to do was convince Tamsyn that his plan for a pleasure garden was a good one, and worth the exorbitant cost.
She would love his dream as he did. He knew it. And they would spend the rest of their lives bringing each other joy.
My God, I think I’ve fallen in love with my wife.
She caught him looking at her and gave him a warm smile, as if she could hear this revelation.
Tonight—or perhaps later today—he’d make love to her again. And as they lay together, he would tell her of his feelings. Then he would work very hard to make certain that he deserved her.
Damn, but he’d been a fortunate bastard to find her.
By the time the carriage came to a stop, he was grinning. Once the footman opened the door, Kit sprang out, then reached in to help Tamsyn down.
They would have the pleasure garden, and each other. It would be perfect.
He held on to her hand once she’d alighted, and together, they walked to the edge of a large, empty plot of land.
Tamsyn looked confused but interested as she took in the property. It covered roughly an acre, with a few stands of scrubby trees dotting the dusty parcel. The remains of a shack crouched toward one end, its timbers waiting for a determined breeze to knock it over.
“Was this a farm?” She shaded her eyes against the day’s brightness.
“Years ago,” he answered, walking them farther into the plot. “The tenant couldn’t keep up with the rent and moved out about a decade past. It’s stood vacant ever since.”
“It’s very . . . open,” she said brightly.
He grinned at her attempt to find something commendable about the property. “Precisely.” Letting go of her hand, he walked backward, his arms open wide. “You are looking at the future home of the Greenwood Pleasure Garden. Imagine, if you will, a lantern-covered pergola that stretches from where you are standing to a terrace surrounded by topiary.” He waved to the invisible pergola. “At dusk, the Chinese lanterns will be lit, dazzling the eye.”
He walked quickly to the area reserved for the terrace. “Tables will be arrayed here for al fresco dining on wine-poached fish and fruit grown in the Greenwood’s own glasshouse.” He turned in a circle, envisioning a multitude of guests seated or strolling as they enjoyed the fine evening.
“And here,” he continued, striding farther into the area, “will stand an elegant, open pavilion where musicians from the Continent play the very latest musical compositions. Sopranos from Italy will sing from a gilded balcony. Or acrobats will tumble and walk on tightropes while juggling flaming torches.”
Tamsyn walked slowly down the future site of the pergola, her eyes bright as he described the rest of the pleasure garden.
“Beyond the pavilion,” Kit went on, “will be the gardens themselves, full of wild roses and mazes for moonlight assignations. An artificial stream will run the length of the property, and guests will be encouraged to purchase little paper boats to float down the stream in daily regattas.
“And every night at midnight,” he said excitedly, “fireworks shall brighten the sky as the musicians play in accompaniment.” He wouldn’t mind the sound of the explosions—their loudness would chase away the booming echoes of cannon fire.
His breath came quickly and his heartbeat throbbed with exhilaration. He felt the smile stretching his face as he strode quickly to Tamsyn.
“It sounds marvelous,” she said appreciatively.
“It will be,” he said with conviction. “The culmination of many years’ planning and consideration.”
“When will construction begin?”
He took hold of both her hands and wondered if she could feel the excited trembling in his. “As soon as you give me the nine thousand pounds the project requires.”
Her face went blank. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nine thousand is the initial estimate,” he explained. “More costs will likely be incurred, but for now, the amount will be sufficient to begin. A manager will need to be hired, of course, and someone to plan the gardens, plus somebody else to take charge of the entertainment such as the musicians, singers, and acrobats. Lady Marwood might be able to offer some recommendations, as well, since she knows the theatrical world so well. There’s also—”
“No.”
“—the kitchens where the suppers will be prepared, so a person will be hired to get provisions, and—” He stopped abruptly. “What was that?”
“No,” she repeated. Her heart was a cannon in her ears.
He frowned. “I don’t understand. ‘No’ what?”
“I mean,” she said, sliding her hands out of his, an agonized expression on her face, “that I can’t give you the money. I’m sorry, Kit, but this is a dreadful idea.”
“You just said it sounded marvelous,” he pointed out.
“For someone else to build. Someone who doesn’t care if they lose such a vast sum of money.” She shook her head. “Now is a terrible time to build a new pleasure garden. The country’s economic status is in shambles. We haven’t recovered from the War. There’s famine and crop failures and . . .” She took a breath. “I truly wish I could agree to this, but I just can’t, Kit.”
Everything she said was true. But most of all, she needed that money. To buy Chei Owr and keep the village alive.
Kit looked as though someone had
plowed a fist into his stomach. His lips moved as though trying to find words but no sound came out.
Finally, he spoke in a dazed voice. “All those years I was fighting, trying to survive another day, eating rotten meat and watching the deaths of men who trusted me.” He looked down at the tops of his boots, which had collected dust as he’d walked through the vacant parcel of land.
“I didn’t have a sweetheart to write me letters of hope,” he said, his flat voice a sharp contrast to painful words. “The only thing I had to keep me sane was . . . this.”
He looked around at the empty tract, as though trying to conjure up what he’d needed for so long. “This dream of a place where there was no suffering, no death. Only joy and pleasure.”
She swallowed hard around the ache in her throat. He wanted this so much—and she had to deny him. She wished she had the resources to see his dream come to fruition and to protect the people of Newcombe, but she couldn’t do both. Guilt racked her. It was his money, and yet she needed it desperately to keep the village alive.
It felt as though some creature wanted to claw its way out of her chest, leaving her a mass of bloody pulp.
“Is there anything else?” she asked desperately. “Some other dream we can fulfill?”
“There is nothing else,” he answered without inflection.
Almost frantic, she glanced around at the land. “A little park, perhaps, for veterans?” That, they could afford.
“Greenwood was to be for them.” His voice was wooden. “Any man who could prove his past military service would be admitted for free.” He looked out over the property, which would always be an empty lot.
He glanced around with a stunned, devastated expression. She was the author of that devastation, and it shattered her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, misery heavy in her words.
“Yes, you’ve said.” Dazedly, he moved past her, heading toward the waiting carriage. “Well, that’s it. Just an empty plot of land. We can go home.”
He reached the carriage and got inside. She followed on legs made weighty by unhappiness. The footman helped her in, and when she settled she saw Kit staring sightlessly. When he didn’t move, she knocked on the roof, and in a moment, they were heading back across the river.
“Kit.” She reached out and tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away. It felt like a slap.
His silence gnawed at her, but in that quiet, her mind replayed the scene at the parcel of land. His eagerness, and how certain he had been that she would agree to finance the whole scheme. Why would he tell her about the pleasure garden today? Why hadn’t he mentioned it sooner? What had changed?
Her thoughts turned toward one conclusion—and every time they did, she wanted to reel away in horror.
Oh, please. No.
Yet it made sense. Horrible, agonizing sense.
“You knew how I felt about extravagant spending,” she said, her words cutting her like steel. “You knew I would refuse to fund Greenwood. So you set about ensuring that I wouldn’t say no.”
Please let me be wrong.
His gaze lifted to hers, and she saw in it the truth.
The heartbreak she had felt at denying him his happiness shifted into a new kind of pain. It leveled everything in its path, leaving her a devastated ruin. She fought the urge to curl in on herself and groan in agony.
“You believed I’d fall into your hand,” she said through lips that had gone numb from anger and hurt, “and play the nice, lovesick wife who throws money at you because you deigned to throw crumbs of attention in my direction.”
He had the grace to look away. “That’s not what happened.”
“Isn’t it?” She leaned closer to him. “Bring me to the theater, arrange for a tasting at Lord Marwood’s house, take me sailing. There’s the necklace, too. And,” she added, hurt outrage choking her words, “finagling me into your bed. All for your benefit, to make me pliant to your demands.”
“You make it sound as though I timed it,” he said tautly. “Fuck you, and then get my nine thousand pounds.”
“Isn’t that what happened?” she retorted.
“No.”
“How can I believe you, when you just admitted to wooing me for the sake of money?”
“It wasn’t about money,” he answered, but he still refused to gaze at her. “I’d dreamed of Greenwood. Hoping but never believing that it could ever be mine.” Finally, he looked at her, his eyes showing desperate yearning. “Lord Somerby’s fortune was going to change all that. It would chase the darkness away.”
“Did it never occur to you to simply ask me rather than go through this pantomime of affection?” she fired at him.
“Would you have said yes?” he shot back.
She had no answer.
His mouth twisted into something bitter and cold, and he spread his hands. “So here we are.”
Yes. Here we are. I believed you cared for me, and I have to deceive you. No one wins.
Her mind firmed on a resolution. She would get the smuggled goods to Mr. Jayne as soon as possible. “I have business to attend to tomorrow,” she said into the frigidness between her and Kit. “When that’s settled, I’m leaving for Cornwall.” Once back home, she’d buy Chei Owr and secure the village’s welfare. Lord Somerby had intended that money to be shared between them, but she couldn’t give it to Kit. She shoved away her aching conscience.
“We are still married,” he pointed out.
“I’m well aware of that,” she answered flatly. “Don’t worry, your lordship. I’ll return to London eventually, and we’ll get to the business of impregnating me. But without further sham displays of affection. You see,” she said with a hard little smile, “I’m finally learning the ways of you city aristocrats. I can be heartless, too.”
Chapter 21
Rolling moors evolved into rugged coastline, and the landscape became more recognizable with each passing mile.
The carriage had already gone through the village of Newcombe, where villagers had come out of their homes to watch the elegant, crested vehicle go by. She’d waved at a few people, though she’d felt shy at returning with her new title of countess. Nessa had gotten out of the carriage to return to her own home, as well as distribute the profits from the sale to Mr. Jayne. As Tamsyn had driven away, she saw Nessa swarmed with villagers all eager to hear stories about London and receive their portion of the earnings.
Newcombe was a collection of neat, whitewashed buildings that clung to a slope descending to the water. The village fronted a beach with a pier where the familiar sight of fishing ships bobbing on the water made Tamsyn smile with fondness. To reach Chei Owr, one had to take a steep road that climbed a line of cliffs. The manor house itself was situated at the top of a bluff, with views of the ocean from the west-facing windows. A cove belonging to the estate lay at the bottom of the cliff.
As the carriage wound its way up the steep cliff, a longing for home rose up like a wave. She’d missed this place so much—the open wildness and the crashing, foaming surf.
She’d journeyed for five days, stopping at inns overnight to rest the horses, and weariness pulsed in her bones despite nearing her destination. It hadn’t helped that between lumpy mattresses and her own tormenting thoughts she hadn’t been able to cobble together a decent sleep. Memories of Kit tormented her.
Five days ago, he had stood outside their home on Bruton Street, his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching with a carefully blank expression as her trunks had been lashed to the roof of the carriage.
“When will you be back?” he had asked impassively.
“I can’t say,” she had answered. “But I made sure to leave you extra funds during my absence.”
She had hoped that he might press her for more details, or try to argue her out of going, but all he had done was nod wearily. He’d helped her into the carriage, yet he hadn’t waved goodbye as she drove away. His lone watching figure had lingered on the curb until the carriage turned a corner,
and he’d disappeared.
Was there any part of him that truly cared about her—as she had developed feelings for him? Her chest ached at the thought. Yet everything was a hopeless tangle.
Time and distance were required before she could move forward. She needed to return to Cornwall to purchase Chei Owr, but her own need for breathing space from Kit made the journey that much more necessary.
She didn’t know what she would expect upon her return. Chei Owr had once been her home, but for the past ten years, it was her uncle’s possession. Still, for all the unhappiness she’d experienced here, as the carriage wound up the lane that led to Chei Owr, some of the layers of her sorrow peeled away. London’s soot-stained melancholy couldn’t compete with Cornwall’s rugged grace. Here, she no longer had to pretend to be anything—all she had to be was herself.
The carriage came to a stop outside the front door. No surprise that neither Gwen nor Jory stood to meet her, even though an approaching carriage could be seen from the house’s main south-facing rooms, and the sound of wooden wheels on the rocky drive easily disturbed the silence.
Maybe it was better this way.
But the moment her feet touched on the gravel, Gwen and Jory emerged from the house.
They appeared the same since she had been in London. Jory’s snowy hair was still worn in an old-fashioned queue, and white stubble sprouted on his lean cheeks. He shared her father’s angled jaw, and his eyes were also deeply set. Jory’s resemblance to Tamsyn’s father never failed to provoke a sense of loss and disappointment.
Gwen had retained her youthful looks well into middle age, which was a continual source of pride for her. She kept most of her blond hair tucked into a cap, and her fichu ensured that her décolletage never saw the light of day.
“Got your note that you were coming back,” Jory said without interest.
“Thought once you’d gotten yourself a husband,” Gwen added, “you’d stay in London.” Her normally bored expression shifted into one of jealousy. Her aunt always spoke of the city as though it was a paradise she’d been denied.