She arched herself into him as one hand twined tightly in his hair and the other went up under his coat and waistcoat to the warm silk of his shirt at the back. And she held her mouth wide to the rhythm of the simulated loving of his tongue.
He was looking down at her again, his dark eyes gazing knowingly and heavy-lidded into her own. And he was turning her until their feet discovered soft grass, and lowering her down onto it, raising her muslin dress to her waist as he did so. His hands stripped her of her lower garments, removed his coat to set beneath her head, and undid the buttons of his breeches.
Was this going to happen? Was she going to allow it? It was one thing to share kisses with him in the hidden garden, however intimate, and quite another to couple with him there. Should she not put an end to the madness? She looked about her at the trees and the grass and the banked flowers spilling over the rocks. She could see the sundial behind her and the clear blue sky above. And she knew clearly what was happening and what was about to happen. She would never be able to accuse him of ravishment, she thought quite deliberately.
And yet she was like two persons. The one was detached and rational. The other ached for him and wanted him and needed him and knew that it had all been inevitable from the moment when she had read his letter asking her to come. For how could she see him again and not love him? How could she see him again and keep dormant within herself the knowledge that she had always loved him, had continued to love him even when she had hated him the most?
There was no stopping what was about to happen. And she would not stop it now, even if she could. She would think later of the shame of it, of the complications she was adding to her life, of the hell she would be facing after she had returned home, alone again.
He was beside her on the grass, pulling free the sash beneath her breasts with one hand as the other slid up her naked body beneath her clothes and covered one of her breasts. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth in a silent cry.
What he did to her breasts, to first one and then the other, was achingly familiar to her. She bit down on her lower lip and smiled with the wonder of it after all these years. Marc. She wanted to open her eyes and speak his name, but that was one thing she could not do.
And his hand moved down between her legs as he kissed her again, and began to do unfamiliar things, things that brought her desire to a boil and had her arching up against his hand, crying out into his mouth, begging for a release she had never suspected a need of before.
And then his weight was on her and his hands beneath her and his knees pushing between her own and widening them and he came up into her with one sharp thrust and something shattered inside her and inside her world so that she clung to him with her arms and legs, her body shaking out of control as he moved quickly and deeply in her to his own climax.
She was hardly aware that he moved off her almost immediately because of the hardness of the ground, taking her with him so that she lay on her side against him, her head on his arm while he lifted his coat and spread it over her. She slept almost immediately.
HE HAD GUESSED that she came to the hidden garden daily, though he had not spied upon her. And he had tried to stay away from there himself, sensing her need to have somewhere to go where she could be alone. It must be difficult for her, coming into his world at a moment’s notice and forced to remain in it for a whole month. He realized that. And difficult, too, to be forced by her love for Sophia into spending more time with him than inclination would lead her to do otherwise.
He had tried to leave her alone and had failed on this particular afternoon. The ladies were all in their rooms resting in preparation for the evening’s ball. The gentlemen were all variously employed and did not need his company. There was no work that particularly demanded his attention. And the weather was glorious—perfectly sunny and hot. It was an afternoon made for love.
And he loved her. He had never doubted it, had never even tried in all the years of their separation to stop loving her. Olivia was his wife, the woman he had chosen to spend his life with. Nothing had happened to change those facts.
He had known that he still loved her even before she arrived. What he had not expected was the force of his need for her. Not just physical need, though there was that, too, but also emotional need. He needed her companionship again, her support and respect. Her affection. He had never found a substitute for those qualities, even with Mary.
He needed her, but knew what a strain he had put on her emotions by pressuring her into playing out a charade for Sophia’s benefit. He tried very hard to keep conversation easy and light between them, to do or say nothing that would embarrass or distress her, and in some ways it had been easier than he had expected. She still had her interest in estate business and the well-being of his tenants. They were able to talk impersonally, but with genuine interest on those matters.
He tried very hard to keep anything personal out of their relationship. She had made herself very clear on that score years before and had always been quite adamant in her refusal to forgive him. He had written almost daily when he first left home. Six months had passed before he finally wrote to her to inform her that it would be the last time he would beg her forgiveness. If she refused it that time, then he would be forced to consider their marriage at an end in all but name. He would leave her alone to live her life in peace, writing to her only about business matters and matters concerning Sophia. He had informed her that he would never take Sophia from her, but would need to see their daughter with fair frequency.
He had informed her yet again that he had been unfaithful to her only that once, that there had been no repetition of the infidelity during the six months, and never would be if she would but forgive him and take him back. She had written to tell him that after deep and careful reflection she had concluded that she could never again be his friend or his wife or lover after what had happened. It would always be there to come between them. She would be grateful if he kept the promises made in his last letter. She would never deny him Sophia for visits.
He had done as she asked. And a month after her letter arrived he had set up Patty, a young dancer, as his mistress. He had found a measure of forgetfulness with her for the year after that—a very small measure. The girl had been a very experienced young courtesan. But it had not been experience he had been in search of. It had been a substitute for Livy. After a year he had paid her off and never repeated the experiment, though he had occasionally—rarely—hired a woman for a single night.
He rested his cheek against the smooth hair on top of his wife’s head and looked at the roses climbing the wall opposite. He would not sleep, explosive as their coupling had been. He wanted to smell the sweet fragrance of her hair and to feel the warmth and softness of her lower body, still unclothed, against his own. He wanted to feel the weight of her head on his arm and to listen to her even breathing.
Except that he felt rather sick. He had come to her at last, half hoping as he walked through the woods that she would not be there, but would be safely resting in her own apartments. He had come to talk with her, he had convinced himself as he entered the garden and slid home the bolt on the door behind his back. He had come to smell the flowers with her and enjoy the sunshine. He had come … because he had had to come.
He would just hold her, he had decided a few minutes after that. He would just kiss her as he had kissed her during those days of their betrothal. He would indulge in a little nostalgia. And in a little self-indulgence, too, he had decided very soon after that, using his tongue on her in the sensual, suggestive manner taught him by Patty many years before.
And then it had been too late. He closed his eyes and turned his face into her hair.
He was feeling sick and despairing. What further proof would she need that he was uncontrolled and selfish in his passions? Locking the door of the garden and taking her on the grass as if she had been any whore. As if he had come there for no other purpose.
And he was feeling sick for anothe
r reason, too. She had changed. Her body was more mature and voluptuous. That was understandable. She had been twenty-two years old the last time he had slept with her. She was thirty-six now. But that was not the difference. It was a difference in experience.
She had been an innocent when he had left her, just as he had been. She had never initiated anything in their lovemaking and had never given any signs of great physical passion. She had always enjoyed their beddings. He had known her well enough to realize that. And they had always made love in the literal meaning of the term. But he had never known her aroused beyond a hardening of her nipples and an increased warmth. Even after five years of a very intimate marriage, she had been an innocent.
The woman with whom he had just coupled was no innocent. He had been startled by her early and total arousal, by the way she had arched herself to him, explored his body with pressing palms, sucked on his tongue, moaned out her desire, and half dragged him down to the grass. She had touched him with knowing hands after he had unclothed himself and while he had touched her. And she had twined herself about him and abandoned herself to physical release at his first inward thrust into her body.
It was not the Livy he had known with whom he had coupled. It was Olivia as she had become in fourteen years. He lay on the grass, her body nestled warmly against him, and stared at the roses. He wondered who had taken her from innocence to the glorious flowering of passion and sensuality he had just been witness to.
Clarence, he supposed. Clarence almost certainly. He had been a handsome enough man and had always been her friend as much as his own. Not that he suspected even for one moment that there had been anything between the two of them before the separation. But there clearly was a great deal between them now.
There was a dull ache of despair in the pit of his stomach and a growing anger, too. An unfocused anger. Not entirely against her. He knew from experience that it was nearly impossible to remain celibate for fourteen years. And not entirely against Clarence, though at least partly so—oh, yes, at least partly. And not even entirely against himself for causing it all.
Just an anger against fate, perhaps, for bringing about this present pass. For allowing Sophia to break out with the measles just when she had, and not a day or two later. For making Livy the type of woman who would want him to go to that wedding alone because he had had his heart set on it. For making him go even though he would twenty times have preferred to remain at home with his wife and daughter. For that stupid party and his criminal weakness. For all the rest of the chain of events leading to the end of their marriage and to this bittersweet moment.
Perhaps they had loved too dearly. Had he loved her less, perhaps he could have kept quiet about his infidelity and punished only himself with it. Had she loved him less, perhaps she could eventually have forgiven him. Had he loved her less, perhaps he would have forced her to take him back and they might have eventually worked out some sort of peace. Had she loved him less …
It was all pointless thinking. Matters were as they were. And he found himself physically satisfied and mortally depressed. And disturbed by the beginnings of anger.
She was awake. He could tell by the change in her breathing and by the slight tensing of her body. He closed his eyes. If she smiled at him, he thought, then he would talk to her from the heart. He would ask her once more, after all these years, to forgive him even though there was now much more to forgive. He drew a slow breath, opened his eyes, and eased his head back to look down into her face.
She looked back at him, her eyes blank. Not the blankness of a consciousness not fully returned, but a deliberate blankness. A mask. A brick wall. There was not even the suggestion of a smile on her face.
He felt his jaw hardening as he clamped his teeth together. He eased his arm from beneath her head, sat up, and adjusted his clothing. He lowered her dress beneath the cover of his coat and then lifted the coat away and pulled it on. He got to his feet and brushed the grass from his clothing. And he turned to look down at her.
She had not moved or changed her expression or uttered a word.
“After all, Olivia,” he said, and he hardly recognized the coldness of his own voice, “you are my wife.”
Then he strode across the grass to the door, unbolted it, and let himself out, closing it firmly behind him.
8
ALL OF HER FATHER’S NEIGHBORS WERE DELIGHTED at the news of her betrothal, Sophia discovered at the ball that evening. They were equally delighted by the fact that she and her prospective husband had decided that the nuptials were to be held at their own village church.
“It must be nigh on twenty years since there was such a grand wedding in these parts,” Mr. Ormsby said. “Your mama and papa’s, my dear Lady Sophia. And a lovely one it was, too.”
“The sun was shining,” Mrs. Ormsby added, smiling and nodding toward the earl and countess, who stood next to their daughter and future son-in-law in the receiving line. “And such a beautiful bride.”
“But no lovelier than you will be, my dear,” Mr. Ormsby said before extending his hand to Lord Francis. “So you are the fortunate young man, are you?”
“The very one, sir,” Lord Francis said, bowing.
The neighbors were also pleased to see her parents together again, Sophia saw, and she glowed with hope and happiness. They looked so splendidly good together this evening, her papa in black with sparkling white linen, her mama in turquoise silk. They looked not old enough to be her parents, she thought fondly, despite Papa’s silvering hair. It only made him look more distinguished.
Sophia smiled and curtsied and turned her cheek for yet another series of kisses from beaming well-wishers.
Color glowed in her mother’s cheeks, Sophia had noticed earlier when she had called at her room so that they might come downstairs together for dinner. It was such a deep color and so perfect that at first Sophia had thought that her mama had taken to wearing cosmetics. But no, the color was natural, and had not faded at all in the course of the evening.
Her father was rather stiff and formal this evening. He had scarcely smiled, though he was treating his guests with courtesy and friendliness. But it was understandable, Sophia thought fondly, that his manner would be a little unnatural this evening. It was not every day that a gentleman held a ball in celebration of his only daughter’s betrothal.
Sophia felt a stab of guilt and darted a look up at Francis. He smiled warmly back at her and one of the Misses Girten sighed and simpered as she approached along the receiving line.
“Such a very fine-looking couple,” she commented to the earl and countess. “And clearly a love match.”
Sophia felt even more guilty. But she quelled the feeling instantly. It was all worthwhile if it would finally bring Mama and Papa together again. They so obviously belonged together.
It was a pity that Bertie and Richard and Claude were not present, the duchess said with a sigh when it appeared that all the guests had arrived and the dancing could begin. She still could not quite believe that her baby was to be married within the month. But then, she said, cheering up visibly, the boys and their wives and families would be coming to Clifton more than a week before the wedding. Soon she would have all her family about her again.
“And soon you will have another daughter-in-law to add to the flock, Rose,” the duke said, patting her hand and looking about the ballroom, which they had all just entered. “And doubtless another occupant for the nursery, too, within the year. Our boys are nothing if not prompt about such matters. They take after their father.”
“William, love!” the duchess said, embarrassed.
Lord Francis, in view of all the guests in the ballroom, smiled meltingly into Sophia’s eyes and raised her hand to his lips.
“The moment can be likened only to standing on a trapdoor, a noose about one’s neck, waiting for the door to be sprung,” he murmured fondly into her ear. “And knowing that one did not commit the crime but has cheerfully admitted to it all along on the foolish
assumption that the real culprit would come to take one’s place at the last moment.”
“How can you liken a ball to a hanging, Francis?” she said, looking about at the floral decorations that she had helped with earlier in the day. “And it is all in our honor. Was there ever a more wonderful feeling? Look.” Her hold on his arm tightened. “Papa is going across to the orchestra to instruct them to begin playing. And I believe he is going to make an announcement.”
“The trapdoor hinges are creaking,” Lord Francis said.
The Earl of Clifton raised a hand for silence. He got it easily since almost all eyes were on him and the gathered guests were eager for the ball to begin.
“Welcome to Clifton Court,” he said, looking about him at all his friends and neighbors and houseguests. “The reason for this evening’s celebration is well-known, so I do not intend to give a long speech.”
“Bravo!” a voice said from a far corner, and there was a flurry of laughter.
“This is just an official announcement of the betrothal and coming nuptials of my daughter, Sophia, and Lord Francis Sutton, youngest son of the Duke and Duchess of Weymouth,” the earl said. “They will lead the first dance, a waltz. Please feel free to lead your partners onto the floor after a few minutes, gentlemen. And enjoy the evening, ladies.”
Sophia flushed at the applause and looked anxiously up at Lord Francis as he led her to the middle of the dancing area. “Everyone is going to be watching,” she said. “I shall have two left feet, Francis.”
“You are fortunate,” he said. “I will be dancing with a noose about my neck.”
“How foolish,” she said.
“Smile,” he commanded, and she tipped her head back to show that she was already doing so, and they began to waltz.
“Oh, Francis,” she said. “This is very wonderful, is it not? I had no idea quite how it would be. I think that, after all, provided Mama and Papa remain together, and perhaps even if they do not, I will marry.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “At the village church. And make very, very sure that nothing stupid ever happens to keep me away from my husband for the better part of my life. I think I will live happily ever after.”
Mary Balogh Page 10