“Ah.” There was a short silence. “Yes, I knew that. I just hoped it was not true. I lashed out at you from my pain and guilt. And then, when you left and everything else started to happen, I convinced myself that you must truly have been guilty. At least I convinced a part of myself.”
“It is old history,” Lord Edmond said. “It is best forgotten.”
“No.” His father sounded sad. “I have ruined your life, my boy. I have known it all these years, although perversely I have only railed against you and half believed my own condemnations. Too much time has passed. Too much wrong has been done. How can I ever ask forgiveness for the enormous wrongs I have done you? I am sorry, my boy. I will have to go away from here tomorrow and leave you to what I can only hope will be a happier future.”
Lord Edmond turned to look at him. “Tell me what you said at the beginning of this conversation,” he said. “Say it again.”
“That I have never stopped loving you?” The duke looked into his son’s eyes. “You want my love, Edmond? After all I have done to you?”
“I want it.” Lord Edmond’s eyes were intense.
“I love you,” his father said. “You are my son. Can you ever forgive me?”
Lord Edmond swore. He stared at his father for a few moments, hesitated, and then drew him into a hug even more bruisingly hard than that he had exchanged with his brother the day before. For perhaps a minute both were oblivious of the people who strolled about them, and of Anne, who appeared briefly in the doorway of the pavilion and then disappeared again.
“You must come home,” the duke said at last. “You must come back home, my boy. You have been too long away.”
Lord Edmond smiled. “I am going home, Papa,” he said. “To Willow Court. I am in the process of learning what it means to be a landowner. But yes, I will come to stay with you and with Wally and Anne and my nephews and niece. Perhaps for Christmas.” He laughed. “Or perhaps you can all come to me. Is this really happening?”
The duke looked up at the sky. “It is indeed, my boy,” he said. “And the storm is about to happen, too. Those clouds are moving faster than I expected. Did you hear that thunder?”
They walked back to the pavilion, looking at each other in some wonder when they stepped inside to the brighter candlelight, and smiling rather self-consciously.
“I knew when Anne got you and Wallace together yesterday,” the duke said with a chuckle, “that my turn would come today. I have a gem of a daughter-in-law, Edmond. Perhaps I will have another eventually?”
“Perhaps,” Lord Edmond said evasively.
But they were separated at that moment when Lady Cathcart called to His Grace to make up a hand of cards while the younger people danced.
“It looks as if we might have a long night of it,” Lady Eleanor said to Lord Edmond. Predictably she looked thoroughly pleased by the possibility. “Doris is already circulating with the proud tidings that she has been right all along. Will the storm be bad, do you suppose?”
Lord Edmond looked about the room after she had wafted off to talk with someone else. The Ormsbys were dancing. They had gone walking with Mary and Goodrich. Stephanie had been one of the group, too, if he was not mistaken. She was sitting with her mama at the other side of the room. There was no sign of Mary or Goodrich. And he could hear rain against the long windows.
Damn Goodrich! He hoped at least that they were inside a folly and not sheltering beneath a tree. Surely they could not be that foolish.
And then he breathed a great sigh of relief. He caught sight of the viscount close to the doors, brushing raindrops from the sleeves of his coat. They had returned just in time, too. The rain outside was becoming a deluge, so that many of the guests stopped what they were doing in order to look toward the windows. There was a buzz of excitement at a flash of lightning.
Lord Edmond wondered if Mary would be frightened in the midst of a crowd. He looked for her. But she was nowhere in sight. He looked more carefully.
He strolled toward the viscount, who was laughing at something Mrs. Bigsby-Gore was saying. “Where is Mary?” he asked, interrupting their conversation without preamble.
“Lady Mornington?” The viscount looked at him haughtily. “Somewhere in the house, I would imagine.”
“The house?” Lord Edmond frowned. “The house as opposed to the pavilion? What is she doing there?”
“How would I know?” the viscount said. “I am here, as you see. And I imagine that Lady Mornington’s movements are none of your business anyway, Waite. Ma’am, will you dance?” He turned back to Mrs. Bigsby-Gore.
But Lord Edmond clamped a hand onto his arm. “Is she alone there?” he asked. “Did you leave her alone to return here?”
Lord Goodrich looked pointedly at the hand on his arm. “The house is full of servants,” he said.
“She is terrified of storms,” Lord Edmond said, his eyes narrowing. “With very good reason. You knew that.”
“Childish nonsense!” the viscount said. “If you would be so kind as to remove your hand from my arm, Waite, I can lead the lady into the dance.”
“You left her,” Lord Edmond said, his voice tight with fury, “knowing that.” He lifted his hand away from Lord Goodrich’s sleeve as if it had burned him. “Your own betrothed.”
“Lady Mornington is nothing to me,” the viscount said, and he turned away as thunder rumbled in the not-so-far distance.
Lord Edmond strode across the room, but a hand on his sleeve stayed him as he was about to open the door.
“Edmond?” his aunt said, laughing. “You cannot go out there, dear. I fear we are stuck here for many hours to come. Is it not dreadful?” She smiled cheerfully.
“I have to go back to the house,” he said. “Mary is there alone.”
“At the house?” She frowned. “But Lord Goodrich is here.”
“The bastard left her there alone, knowing her terror of storms,” he said.
“Oh!” She looked shocked, though not, apparently, at his choice of words. She lifted her hand from his arm. “Go, then, Edmond. Go quickly, dear. And don’t try to come back.”
He was gone without another word, shutting the door firmly behind him. Lady Eleanor enjoyed a private smile at the closed door before turning back to her guests.
18
SHE LICKED DRY LIPS WITH A DRY TONGUE AS SHE paced. She glanced several times at the bell rope, one tug on which would bring her maid in just a few minutes. But she did not pull it. It was merely a matter of waiting out the storm, she told herself. Storms did not last forever, and usually they were directly overhead for no longer than a few minutes. And storms did not strike large stone mansions or harm the people safely lodged inside them.
She tried to remember how she had used to feel about storms as a child. But she could remember only Lawrence’s voice muttering more to himself than to her in their tent in Spain that someone was surely going to get it. And the terrified screaming of horses. And then … the rest of it.
She rubbed her hands against the sides of her dress. Moist palms. And a dry mouth. Lightning flashed and she counted only to eight before the thunder followed. She looked at the bell rope again.
And then she swung around toward the door, relief flooding her. Her maid had come without being summoned. Somehow she must have heard that her mistress was at home. The door opened after a quick tapping.
“Oh,” she said, and the relief was still there—and something else, too. “You look like a drowned rat.” She laughed, the sound nervous and almost hysterical to her own ears.
“Hm,” he said. “You are supposed to gasp out something like ‘My hero!’ and rush into my arms.”
“Am I?” she said, and bit her lip and smiled at him a little uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”
“Dripping onto your carpet,” he said, looking down.
She swallowed. “Did you come because of me?” she asked.
“I seemed to recall that you are susceptible to seduction during thunderst
orms,” he said. “Of course, I came because of you, Mary.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t use that voice. It is the one that comes with your mask.”
“Mask?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, Edmond,” she said, “do go and change. You will catch your death.”
But a particularly loud clap of thunder had her scurrying a few steps toward him before stopping. She licked her lips again.
He dragged off his coat, grimacing as he did so from the wetness of it. He pulled free his neckcloth and began to unbutton his shirt.
“By the time I go to my room and change and comb my hair in a fashion that suits it when wet, and don a few jewels to impress you,” he said, pulling his shirt free of his pantaloons and drawing it off over his head, “the storm will be over and I will have lost my chance with you, Mary. Besides, by that time you will probably be a blithering idiot.” He grinned at her. “It is going to be overhead soon. I think my arms had better be dry and available for you when that happens. Your teeth are beginning to chatter.”
She clamped them firmly together, swallowed as he pulled off his Hessians and moved his hands to the buttons of his pantaloons, and turned jerkily away.
“I shall fetch you some towels from the dressing room,” she said. But another flash rooted her to the spot.
“No need,” he said. “A blanket from the bed should do. I will be able to cover myself quite decently, I do assure you. If you do not want to watch the next installment, Mary, you had better turn away again for a moment.”
She did, and crossed the few feet to the bed to pull free one blanket. He took it from her hand before she turned back to him, and had wrapped himself in it by the time she did.
“Come a little nearer,” he said as the storm grew closer and louder and more intense. “But I have had second thoughts about these dry arms holding you, Mary. All this stripping off to the skin and talking of seductions has made me dangerous. Not to mention certain delicious memories of the last storm. Just stand close and we will talk our way through the height of the storm.”
She moved closer and curled her hands into fists at her sides.
“Don’t you think I should have a laurel wreath for my hair, and perhaps rope sandals for my feet?” he said. “Is that what the ancient Romans wore on their feet? I think this blanket looks distinctly like a toga, don’t you, Mary? How did they fasten the things about them? Do you know? They surely did not stride about the streets of Rome clutching them as I am forced to do. How would they shake hands with anyone? Did the Romans shake hands? And what if a particularly nasty gust of wind came along? It could all be a trifle embarrassing, don’t you think? You are not being fair, you know, Mary. I have asked enough questions to form the basis for a fifteen-minute discussion, and you have answered none of them. Help me out. It is your turn.”
“You were a classics scholar,” she said. “You must know all the answers.”
“I merely follow the methods of Socrates,” he said. “He never told his pupils anything. He merely asked endless questions. Yes, it is close, is it not?” he said as she cringed. “Must I hold you? Don’t trust me, Mary. I don’t trust myself.”
His pale blue eyes gazed intently back into hers when she raised them to him. She was almost past reason.
“I have been trying so hard,” she said. “I know it is something I must conquer.”
But the lightning and thunder happened simultaneously even as she finished speaking, and she found herself being drawn against warm and naked safety. Strong arms came about her, enclosing her in the blanket. She buried her face against warm chest hair and rested her hands against it, too.
“It is all right, Mary,” he was murmuring, his cheek against the top of her head. “I have you safe, love. Nothing is going to hurt you.”
He rocked her in his arms during the five minutes or so that the storm was overhead. She listened to the rain lashing the windows and to the strong steady beat of his heart. And the terror was suddenly all gone. She could almost enjoy the fury of the elements while she relaxed in her warm and living cocoon.
She drew back her head and looked up at him.
“No,” he said. “A big mistake, Mary.” And he set one hand behind her head and drew it none too gently against his chest again. “Don’t look at me. If you don’t look at me, I can pretend you are a frightened maid or my niece or my sister-in-law or some elderly dowager. If you don’t look at me, I have a chance.”
“Edmond,” she said.
“Christ!” he said. “And that was no blasphemy, Mary. That was a fervent prayer. What has happened to ‘my lord’? Call me ‘my lord.’ ”
Through the thin muslin of her dress she could feel the stirrings of his arousal. And she could feel a tightening in her own breasts. Edmond! She kept very still.
“Whose idea was this blanket, anyway?” he said. “What I should have done, Mary—but hindsight is always pointless—was take you along to my room and stand you with your back to me while I changed into dry clothes … into decent armor. You know enough about human anatomy to know very well what is going on here, I suppose? No, don’t answer that. You might try to be tactful and say no, you had not noticed, and that would be a dreadful blow to my masculine pride. Why am I the only one babbling?”
“Edmond?” She raised her head again and looked up into his eyes.
He sighed. “You will have no respect for my title, then?” he said. “Listen, Mary, if you do not want what is about to happen to happen, you had better drag up some courage from somewhere and remove yourself from this blanket. And I mean now, or preferably five minutes ago. The storm is moving off, I do believe. Devil take it, woman, I am only human. Too damned human, I’m afraid.”
“So am I,” she said. “Too damned human.”
“Such language,” he said, and his head moved down to hers and his eyes closed and he spoke against her lips. “God, Mary, I have not wanted this to happen. Not any longer. I have been trying to do something decent at last. But it seems one cannot change oneself after all when one has lived a selfish and self-indulgent life for years.”
“Then let it be said that I have seduced you,” she said, her arms going up about his neck. “You are merely my victim.”
He groaned. “There is only one thing more exciting than your naked body against mine, Mary,” he said. “I have just discovered it. It is your clothed body against my nakedness. I don’t have a chance, woman. I swear I don’t.”
“I know,” she said, and she angled her head and opened her mouth wider, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
He accepted the invitation without hesitation, widening his mouth over hers, teasing his tongue over her lips, up behind them so that she shivered with a sharp ache, and into her mouth, sliding over surfaces, circling her tongue, and finally beginning a firm rhythm of thrust and withdrawal in promise of things to come.
“I have always loved long hair on women,” he said against her throat, pushing the fingers of one hand into her hair. “Hair to wrap about the breasts and waist. But your short curls drive me wild, Mary. Don’t ever grow them out.”
His hands roamed over her, finding the hardened nipples of her breasts, fitting themselves to her small waist, spreading over her hips. And her own hands followed suit. She felt the muscles of his shoulders, the rippling muscles of his back, the narrow waist and hips, the firm, hard buttocks.
“I suppose,” he said, “I had better make the ultimate admission of defeat and undress you and lay you on that bed, had I not?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You are no help at all, Mary,” he said, feathering kisses over her face.
“No.”
“So be it, then,” he said, and he slipped his hands beneath her dress and shift at the shoulders and slowly drew them down over her arms until, loosened about the waist, they fell away to the floor.
“Ah,” he said, drawing her against him again, speaking against her mouth. “Maybe I had better take that back about clothed bodi
es after all, Mary.” The blanket was also in a heap at their feet.
She drew breath slowly. She was far more aware of what was happening than she had been on the Vauxhall night. She could feel him with every part of her body. He was all hard muscle and warm flesh and hair. He was magnificent. And she loved him. She rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Edmond,” she said against his mouth.
“You have me persuaded,” he said. “You do not need to say more. Onto the bed, love.”
She wondered as he turned back the bedcovers and she lay obediently on the bed if he realized what he was calling her. She reveled in the endearment. Even if it were only the occasion that was provoking it, it was enough. The occasion was enough.
“Mary.” He came immediately on top of her, his hands moving down her sides, his mouth finding hers. “I don’t want to wait any longer. Do you? Say no.”
“No,” she said.
“Good girl,” he said. “I like obedient women. Have I told you how much I like you?”
Like! She smiled ruefully against his mouth. But her body was on fire for him, and her love needed to be fed by him in this physical way—just one more time. One more time would be enough.
“This much,” he said, parting her legs with his knees, pushing them wide. “This much.” He positioned himself at the entrance to her so that she could hear her own heart beating. “This much, Mary.” He came into her, stopping only when he was deeply embedded in her. “I like you this much. Do you like me? Just a little? Tell me you like me just a little. You would not allow this otherwise, would you?”
Light blue eyes looked down into hers in the candlelight. There was a hint of anxiety behind the passion in them.
“I like you.” She smiled at him. “This much.” She lifted her legs from the bed and twined them about his. “And this much.” She pressed her hips into the mattress, tilting herself to him so that he was deeper in her. “And this much.” She tightened inner muscles, drawing him deeper still.
“God in his sweet heaven, woman,” he said, burying his face in her curls. “Are you trying to prove that I can still perform like a gauche schoolboy? Let me take a few minutes over this, will you?”
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