“I believe it is going to storm,” she remarked to Mr. Collins before the concert came to an end. The air was still and heavy. Ominously so.
“I do concede you may be right, ma’am,” he said, looking up at the sky, dark and invisible beyond the light of the colored lanterns that lit the boxes and hung from the trees. “We will have to hope that it does not break before we return home.”
“Yes,” she said. Rachel would have to sleep in her room with her. It would be some comfort to have her maid there, though not nearly as satisfactory as a man’s arms. Marcus had always come when there was a storm brewing, and he had always stayed with her until it was safely past. She returned her attention to the music of Mr. Handel.
It was very obvious to her that a storm was approaching, though no one else seemed at all concerned about it. Rather, everyone appeared to be enjoying the unusual warmth and stillness of the evening. And Mary did not know whether to be impatient to be gone and home to the relative safety of her house or to be glad that she was in company with seven other people and surrounded by dozens of others. But then, of course, she had been surrounded by many thousands of other people in Spain. Numbers did not ensure safety against lightning.
Penelope and her husband got to their feet when the concert was over and suggested a stroll along the lantern-lit paths of the gardens.
“It is such a beautifully warm evening,” Penelope said.
“It is going to storm,” Mary said.
“Do you think so?” Penelope, too, looked up to the invisible sky.
“Good,” Mr. Hubbard said. “A storm will clear the air. It has been very hot and muggy for two days now.”
“But let it wait another hour or two yet,” Mr. Collins said, also getting to his feet and offering his arm to Mrs. Rutherford on his other side.
The four of them went off walking. Mary glanced at the other three occupants of the box. They were arguing with great animation over something, and Miss Wetherald was doing a great deal of laughing. Without at all meaning to, Mary caught Lord Edmond’s eye and he got to his feet.
“Ma’am?” he said, reaching out a hand for hers. “Would you care for a stroll?”
She certainly did not care for any such thing. Not with him, at any rate. But how could she refuse without seeming thoroughly rag-mannered? She could not.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling and taking his hand so that he might help her to her feet.
He was a handsome man in a way, she supposed. He was tall, perhaps a trifle too thin, though he had an athletic body for a man who must be in his mid-thirties. His dark hair was thick, not thinning at all, his face narrow with a prominent aquiline nose, rather thin lips, and eyes of a curious pale blue. Many women would find him attractive and undoubtedly did. She did not. She took his offered arm.
“Tell me how you enjoyed the concert,” he said. It seemed more command than question.
“Very well,” she said.
“You like Handel’s music, then?” he asked. “I prefer Bach myself.”
“Do you?” she said. “Each has his merits, I suppose.”
They lapsed into silence. It was not a very promising beginning, the brief conversation they had had having been anything but profound and neither seeming willing to defend a preference.
“You still have all those literary gatherings at your house?” he asked. “Brough attends most of them, does he not? He likes that sort of thing. He tells me that your salon always attracts the best talent.”
“That is very obliging of him,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Brough is a regular visitor to my salon. I have a gathering there most weeks.”
“Poets and such?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “and artists and politicians and people who just simply enjoy an intelligent conversation.”
“Ah,” he said, and they lapsed into silence again.
Goodness, Mary thought, she was strolling in Vauxhall Gardens with Lord Edmond Waite. She could not quite believe that she had sunk so low. She wished that they would catch up to Penelope and the others, but they must have taken a different path. There was no sign of her friends ahead of them.
“It is going to storm,” she said. There was a breeze swaying the upper branches of the trees, making a swishing sound. On the ground the air was still very close.
“Probably,” he said. “It will not be a bad thing. It will clear the air.”
“Yes,” she said.
She wanted to be back at the boxes, where there was the deceptive safety of numbers. She wanted to be at home, where she could hide beneath the relative safety of her blankets, Rachel sleeping in a truckle bed close by. She wanted to be mistaken about the storm. Perhaps it would just rain.
“Perhaps there will just be a good rain,” she said.
“Perhaps.” He looked up to the sky, still invisible beyond the lantern light. “Though I doubt it. I believe we will have a good fireworks display before morning. But not yet, I think.”
It seemed to Mary that she was the only person at Vauxhall concerned about the approach of the storm. But perhaps not. As they walked on, they met fewer and fewer people. Was it just because they were moving away from the crowded area around the boxes? Or were other people being wiser and leaving while there was still time?
“Perhaps it would be wise to turn back,” she said. “It would not be pleasant to be caught in a storm.”
He smiled down at her. “Could it be that you are afraid of storms, Lady Mornington?” he asked. “Or is it my person that makes you uneasy? You may relax, ma’am. I do not make a practice of ravishing unwilling females.”
Mary set her teeth together. She would not answer such words. Oh, she would not so demean herself. How dare he! He was more vulgar even than she had expected.
“If you wish to turn back,” he said, “we will do so.”
The path was deserted suddenly. There was no one else either ahead of them or behind them. And the trees were rustling in the growing wind. Of course they must turn back. Some heavenly fury was about to be unleashed, even though there had been no distant flashes to warn of an approaching storm.
“I am quite happy to walk on,” she said. She would be damned before she would admit fear of any sort to the likes of Lord Edmond Waite.
He chuckled. “I fear you are right, though,” he said. “The storm is much closer than estimated. It is these lanterns. They make it impossible to see if the sky is clear or cloudy. I believe we had better return. We seem not to have a great deal in common conversationally anyway, do we?”
Mary turned back with an inward sigh of relief. But as she did so, a large spot of rain splattered on her nose and then another against one eye.
“Damnation,” her companion said. “The heavens are about to open. We are going to get soaked.”
“We will have to run,” she said as two cold spots landed on her shoulders and then more continued to come at her, too numerous to count. The wind was suddenly sweeping through the trees.
“Not back to the boxes,” he said, releasing her arm and taking her firmly by the hand. “This way.”
And he drew her at a run along one of the darker, narrower paths through the trees, the wind moaning through the branches, the rain lashing down on them, until they reached one of the rustic shelters that were dispersed at intervals through the gardens. He pulled her inside.
“Blast!” he said, shaking rain from his hair and brushing ineffectually at his damp coat. “We will probably be stuck here for an hour or more. I hope we can find some topic of mutual interest on which to converse.”
Mary dried her arms with her hands. She felt uncomfortably chilly suddenly. “I think perhaps I was right about one thing at least,” she said. “It is just going to be a good rain. There will be no storm.”
“I would not count on it,” he said, turning to push the wooden table against the inner wall so that they would have more protection from the rain. The shelter was walled on only three sides. Fortunately the wind was blowing against the b
ack wall, so that almost no rain was coming in at them.
And sure enough, even as he spoke, the first flash lit up the sky. Mary sat carefully on the wooden bench that was attached to the table. She folded her hands in her lap. The thunder came a long time after. Perhaps it would not come close, she thought. Perhaps they were just on the fringe of the storm.
“Now, then,” he said, seating himself beside her, “what shall we talk about? Your late husband was a colonel with the cavalry, was he not? And you were in the Peninsula with him? Tell me about it. What was the life like? Or does it pain you to talk about it?”
“It was a long time ago,” she said. “The pain has dulled.”
“You were fond of him?” he asked.
“I loved him.”
“Ah,” he said. “Love.”
There was another flash, brighter and longer than the first. The rain was sheeting down beyond the shelter. The wind was howling around them.
“The autumn rains were the worst,” she said. “Or perhaps the heat of summer. When it was hot and dry, we longed for the rains, and then when it rained, we wished and wished that we could have the heat and sunshine back.”
The crash of thunder was a little louder and more prolonged.
“I have heard,” he said, “that conditions were quite intolerable, that men died of the heat and died facedown in the mud. It amazes me that Colonel Lord Mornington would have voluntarily taken a woman there.”
“It was not voluntary,” she said. “I insisted on going. And I am glad I did. Our two years there were the only time we had together. I would not be without those two years.”
“Love indeed,” he said.
“It was love,” she said quietly, “despite your tone of sarcasm. There is such an emotion, such a commitment, my lord, even though many poor people choose to heap scorn on the very idea.”
“Ah,” he said, “I detect a setdown. I am one of your ‘poor people,’ Lady Mornington?”
“Yes,” she said. “I would guess that you have never known love.”
He chuckled. “And so you comforted your grieving heart after your colonel’s demise with Clifton,” he said.
With Marcus. The Earl of Clifton. Lord Edmond’s tone made her relationship with him sound sordid. It had not been sordid, though for six years she had been the close friend of a married man. It had not been sordid. But she would be damned before she would justify herself to anyone, least of all to her present companion.
“That is my own affair, my lord,” she said, and then she was furious with herself for her choice of word as he chuckled again.
Lord Edmund Waite clearly had a sordid mind.
And then suddenly and quite unexpectedly the storm was close. They could actually see the lightning fork above the trees, and the thunder crashed only moments afterward.
“And they said there would be no fireworks at Vauxhall tonight,” Lord Edmond said.
Mary clasped her hands very tightly in her lap, tried to impose calm on her mind, and failed miserably. At the very next flash she launched herself against her companion’s shoulder, wailing horribly. Her terrified mind could form no words.
“What is it?” He laughed and set one arm about her shoulders. “It was not my person after all, then? You are afraid of storms? It is a good thing you had no children, Lady Mornington. Who would comfort whom?”
The thunder rocked their shelter. Mary clawed at his shoulders and burrowed her head against his chest, wailing out her hysteria.
“Hey,” he said, the amusement gone from his voice. “Hey.” She was almost unaware of the fact that he slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted her onto his lap. He opened his coat and wrapped it about her as best he could. “By Jove, you really are frightened, aren’t you?”
“Hold me,” she babbled at him as the storm reached a rapid crescendo. “Hold me.”
“I have you close.” His voice was quiet and quite serious now. His arms were tight about her, his cheek against the top of her head. “I have you safe, Mary. It is Mary, is it not?”
But she could not get close enough to him. She wanted to crawl inside his clothes, inside his body. They were so very exposed, in an open shelter and among trees. And the storm was directly overhead.
“Hold me!” she commanded him, her face hidden against his neck. “Oh, God. Please. Oh, please.”
She resisted as one hand lifted her head away from its hiding place. She clawed at his wrist. And then her face was hidden again—against his. His mouth was warm and wide over hers.
“You will be quite safe,” he murmured into her mouth. “I have you safe, Mary.”
She clung to him for the next several minutes as he alternately kissed her and murmured to her. There was some comfort. If only she could have him closer. Her back felt so very exposed to danger despite the strength of his arms about her. But there was some comfort. She opened her mouth to his tongue, which came warm and firm right into her mouth and stroked her own tongue.
“I have you safe,” he told her as he laid her head against his shoulder eventually and held it there with a warm and steady hand as the storm receded somewhat. The rain, too, had eased a little, though it was still falling far too heavily to permit them to venture out in it.
Some sanity began to return. She knew that she was on Lord Edmond Waite’s lap, her head cradled on his shoulder, held there with one hand that played gently with her short curls. His other arm was protectively about her. She knew that he had been kissing her and putting his tongue into her mouth—something Lawrence had never done. It was perhaps what one might expect of a libertine. She closed her eyes and relaxed. The storm would be over soon.
“Have you always been like this?” he asked her.
“Four men from my husband’s regiment were killed by lightning one night in the very next tent to ours,” she said. She swallowed. “There was the smell of scorched flesh.”
“Ah,” he said. “You have every right to be afraid, then. It is almost over.”
“Yes,” she said. But she did not move. She felt safe where she was. “Thank you.”
He chuckled. “No need, ma’am,” he said. “There are compensations for offering comfort to a frightened lady.”
Such ungentlemanly and ungallant words should have infuriated her. But if she were furious, she would have to lift her head and remove herself from his lap. It was safer and more comfortable to let the words pass.
And then it was obvious that the storm was coming back.
“Oh, no,” she moaned, and her head burrowed against his neck again. His hand stroked over her head and shoulder.
“It will pass again,” he said.
“Please,” she said as the thunder cracked only moments after the lightning. “Oh, please.”
After that the sounds she made became less coherent. She was unaware of the fact that he shrugged awkwardly out of his coat and wrapped it about her. She burrowed inside it. There was a little more warmth at her back, but still terror was there. She expected at any moment the unknown pain that lightning would bring as it struck. She tried again to climb inside him.
And then he stood up with her in his arms and turned so that his own back was to the open side of the shelter rather than hers. The tabletop was hard against her back, but enormously comforting. She reached for him blindly while he raised her gown to her waist and loosened his own clothing.
And then the blessed comfort of his weight was on her, the hardness of the table beneath, and she felt shielded from the terror. Her mouth found his and opened to it. And then he was between her thighs and pushing up inside her, hard and warm, and he came reassuringly deep. She felt almost safe.
“Hush,” he said against her mouth, and she realized that she was still wailing and obeyed his command.
The simultaneous flash of lightning and crack of thunder shook the earth, or so it seemed. But he was moving in her with slow deep strokes and his weight was so heavy on her and the wooden top of the table so unyielding that she could scarcely dr
aw breath. She felt as if she had finally succeeded in crawling inside him, and she felt almost safe. She heard someone whimpering and forced herself to be quiet again.
“It will be all right, Mary,” he said against her mouth. “It will pass again.”
“Yes,” she said. Yes, it was going to be all right. There was an ache—an ache that made her clench inner muscles and that rose into her throat so that breathing became even more difficult. Yes, it would be all right. He was going to take her into himself, and she would be safe. “Oh, please,” she pleaded into his mouth.
“God!” he said suddenly. “Oh, God, woman.”
And he drove into her, bringing her an agony of pain as he pounded her against the hard wooden surface, a glory of ecstasy. She cried out, and he thrust once more very deeply into her and relaxed his weight on her.
The storm moved gradually off again.
The removal of his weight woke her. The air was chill. His coat was spread beneath her, her thin evening gown bunched above her waist. She pushed it down as he stood with his back to her, adjusting his clothing while he stared out into the rain.
“Will it come back again?” she asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “I have not had much luck in predicting this night’s events.”
She sat up on the edge of the table and wondered when embarrassment and horror—all the normal feelings—would return. At that moment all she could feel was gratitude. Gratitude that Lord Edmond Waite had taken possession of her body!
“How long has it been?” she asked. “An hour?”
“About that, I suppose,” he said. “I wonder how many other people ignored all the signs as we did and are trapped somewhere about the gardens.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
He laughed. “All sorts of interesting things might have been happening hereabouts,” he said. “This is far more exciting than the usual fireworks display, is it not?”
There it was again—his vulgarity. She wished he had said nothing, had merely stood silent while staring out into the darkness. She did not want to be reminded just yet of exactly whom she had been stranded with and what she had forced him into doing. And not in her wildest imaginings would she ever be able to persuade herself that she had been the victim and he the aggressor.
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