Much Ado About Jack

by Christy English

  “That’s the bastard who has ruined me,” Angelique answered.

  “He hasn’t reckoned on me.”

  Thirty-four

  Angelique walked to her cottage hand in hand with James Montgomery. Sam kept pace behind them, watching their backs as if the Duke of Hawthorne or his minions might spring out of the dark. No one followed them, though, and no assailant appeared. They entered her silent garden, the sliver of a moon bright overhead. The night wind shifted the roses in their bower so that Angelique caught their scent. Their sweet perfume seemed to reach out to draw her in, and James Montgomery with her.

  She knew that she was being fanciful, but she still did not let go of his hand.

  Sam took a long look at his mistress with her lover, and sighed. “If you are both well settled here, I’ll take myself back to the village tavern for a pint.”

  Angelique forced herself not to look at the man beside her. She nodded, her lips forming an absent smile. “Thank you, Sam. I will see you in the morning for the walk to church.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He doffed his cap to her and bowed, nodding to James before he walked away, closing the garden gate behind him.

  “You’re going to church tomorrow? It’s a Saturday.”

  “Tomorrow is Arabella’s wedding day.”

  “I would have wished her happy had I known. But that brings up another thing I want to talk to you about.”

  Angelique felt her heart accelerate, and she did not look at him.

  “Come upstairs with me,” she said. “Let’s leave all talk for tomorrow.”

  The silence stretched between them, unfurling like a long, endless banner, a scarf to wrap around them both, cocooning them from the world. Angelique knew that this was an illusion.

  “Marry me,” James said.

  Angelique’s heart stopped abruptly, as did her breath.

  “What?”

  “Marry me,” he said again. “I’ll protect you from Hawthorne.”

  “I don’t need protecting.”

  “Your man Smythe seems to think you do.”

  She felt a frisson of anger and tamped it down. “You spoke with Smythe?”

  “I did. He’s at his wits’ end.”

  “He knows better than to speak to anyone about my business affairs, ever.”

  “I’m not anyone, Angelique. I’m the man you’re going to marry.”

  “No.”

  To her surprise, he did not keep sparring with her. Nor did he stop and woo her, drawing her down to sit on the bench beneath the maple tree. Nor did he bring her into the apple orchard where the flowers had just begun to fall. He took her one inexorable step at a time into the small stable where her four grays kept company.

  Her horses were asleep, all but for the lead gelding, which stared at them from behind the door of his stall and blew at them hopefully, asking for a treat.

  Angelique knew where Sam kept the dried apples, but before she could reach into the barrel, James pulled her to him, backing her against the stable wall.

  “Is there a groom asleep in one of these stalls?” he asked.

  “No. Bart sleeps in the attic. Sam looks after the horses at night.”

  “He’s the one who went down to the pub?”

  “Yes.”

  Angelique was breathless, taking in the scent of bay rum and cedar on his skin. Her anger had fled, along with the dirty feeling she had gotten from fighting with Hawthorne on the village green. Standing alone with James, she felt clean. A light-headed giddiness rose in her, as if she were intoxicated, though she had not so much as a glass of wine since dinner.

  James did not speak again but pressed close, his lips on hers. She felt him taste her cheek, her temple, moving down to her throat until he reached the low neck of her gown. He unlaced the gown and made short work of the stays, not asking permission this time, but freeing her so that both gown and stays fell away. She stood in just her shift, backed against the wall of her rented stable, her horses awake now and watching them.

  “Captain Montgomery.”

  He did not answer. Indeed, it was as if he could not hear her. His eyes were fastened on the generous rise of her breasts where they pressed against the fine linen of her shift. The hand he still kept behind her bunched the material in the center of her back, so that the thin linen was drawn tight against her breasts. He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, his lips and tongue playing over her flesh, wetting the soft shift between them.

  She moaned and pressed closer in spite of herself.

  “James,” she said. “I have not said yes.”

  He drew back and met her eyes.

  “Are you saying no?”

  The heat in his blue gaze was like a scorching brand, a fire so hot, it seemed as if it would never go out.

  She pressed herself against him, taking his head between her two hands, drawing his lips up to meet hers. He did not hesitate then, but unfastened his breeches with one hand as the hand behind her drew up her shift, sliding beneath the smooth skin of her bottom. His erection freed, he lifted her with both hands, using the wall behind them to brace himself as he plunged up and into her.

  It had been only a couple of weeks, but it seemed like so much longer. She had dreamed of him, and now her flesh sang at the familiar feel of his body against hers, her body welcoming him in as if it were she who was coming home. The feeling overwhelmed her even as the pleasure did, rising to swamp her so that she cried out. James did not silence her this time, but groaned himself, the air echoing with their cries, startling the horses. She could hear the grays shifting in their stalls, so that even as tears came down her cheeks, she laughed a little.

  That was what life was, she supposed. Moments of laughter and tears mixed together, if one was lucky.

  James withdrew from her but held her close still, suddenly gentle. He stroked her hair, which had fallen from its pins and now drifted past her shoulders in a curtain of midnight curls. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head, swallowing her pain. “I am all right.”

  But she could not stop crying. It was as if a dam had broken. She had shed few tears over Anthony. After the first few days, she had locked her pain away, tamped it down, and gone on with her life. But now, in the arms of this man, it was as if all the pain of her life rose to fill her at once, her father’s death, her mother’s loss, her aborted marriage, her buried daughter, Anthony’s betrayal, and now the loss of her livelihood. She did not know how she would solve her current problems, how she would mend her fate. Time and again she had risen from the ashes, but this time, she just didn’t know how she could.

  James drew her down onto a bale of straw, careful to keep her soft flesh from the prickly golden mass. He held her on his lap, stroking and soothing her, murmuring to her, saying nothing and everything, offering comfort, offering the first sense of peace she had ever known.

  Angelique stopped crying. She knew her face must be swollen like uncooked mutton. She moved to wipe her eyes, but James offered her a large handkerchief that smelled like him. She breathed that scent in deeply, until it almost made her weep again. She stopped herself and blew her nose, wiping the last of her tears away.

  “I do not cry,” she said.

  “No? My sisters always do. They say it does them good.”

  His voice was calm, as if they were discussing the weather. His tone held no judgment, nor did he seem to think her weak. He was matter-of-fact, as he was about so many things.

  She felt the temptation to be ashamed slide away. She wriggled down from his lap and gathered up her stays and gown. She did not bother with the stays, but she drew the gown back over her head and tied it loosely, so that she might make it back to the house without it falling off.

  “We are not done, Angelique.”

  They stood together in the light of the night lamp. The horses w
atched them, chewing their oats, a rapt audience to their drama.

  She rubbed her hand over her eyes but forced herself to look at him. “I am done for the night, James. Come up upstairs with me and sleep.”

  “I won’t sleep in your bed until you agree to marry me.”

  She laughed, the last of her tears wiped away. “Are you serious? Is this Lysistrata in reverse?”

  James smiled then, but the set of his eyes was serious. “I’ll make love to you wherever and whenever I can. But we won’t settle into the luxury of your bed until you wear my ring.”

  “You’ll give in,” she said.

  “No.” He smiled, as if he had all the time in the world. “You will.”

  His dark auburn hair was mussed from where her fingers had woven themselves into it. His ribbon was lost somewhere in the woods, and now his hair fell around his broad shoulders like a highland warrior’s.

  She could still taste him on her tongue. A part of her wanted to agree to anything he asked, if he would just come upstairs and make love to her again.

  “I’ll say good night,” she whispered.

  “Good night, Angelique. I’ll see you at the church tomorrow. Think on what I’ve said.”

  “There’s no need to think,” she answered. “I’m not the marrying kind.”

  But her own thoughts of marriage pressed in on her. She remembered the paperwork she had perused just that day, letting Arabella keep her money even after she wed. She and James might draw up similar paperwork, if she could figure out a way to save her sinking ship, if she could find a way to shield his family from Hawthorne’s wrath.

  As if he could read her mind, James drew her close and pressed his lips to her brow, just above her eyes. “We’ll talk tomorrow. We’ll deal with Hawthorne together. Sleep tonight, and dream of me.”

  His words gave her comfort, though she had no idea why. She went upstairs alone. She thought she would miss him in her bed, and she did, but not as she had when he was away at sea. Something real lay unfinished between them, and she knew it.

  Something had changed inside her. Some great boulder had shifted; some heaviness had lifted from her heart since she had cried in his arms. He had held her while she wept, and not mocked her, and now she was a different woman. The world was a different place.

  But she could not face that now. It would be dawn in a few hours. She knew that she must sleep so that her looks would not frighten the whole village when she stood up with Arabella on the morrow.

  She slept deep and dreamed of James.

  Thirty-five

  James stood waiting for Angelique at the church door. He had not been to a service since Christmas. His mother always made him attend with the rest of the family when he was home in Aberdeen, sitting in the Montgomery pew, his sisters chastened into stillness and silence for fear of his mother’s wrath. Once the matter of marrying him was settled with Angelique, he needed to take her home to meet the rest of his family. He had been too long away.

  He did not wear his Navy uniform, as that would draw too much focus from the bride. He wore a simple dove gray coat and waistcoat, his black breeches neatly tucked into his boots. He had not slept the night before but had called for wash water early and had bathed and combed himself into civility. He had been waiting at the church door for an hour already, getting to the chapel even before the curate came out of his parish.

  The round, small man smiled at James but asked no questions, simply passing through the church door to prepare for the service. James did not move but waited for Angelique.

  As the morning wore on, James began to feel like a misplaced usher. He nodded to people he did not know as they passed him on their way to claiming a seat within. He watched as Lisette stepped into the church on Sam’s arm. The Frenchwoman winked at him, and he could not help but smile at her. If Sam and Lisette were here, Angelique could not be far behind.

  Sara came finally, and Angelique with her. The young girl was dressed in a sprigged muslin gown and bonnet trimmed in silk roses. James bowed to her and offered her his arm before he turned to take in the woman he had come for.

  Angelique stood swathed head to toe in midnight blue silk. The indigo silk was so dark, it was almost black, but the severity of its color was relieved by its cut. The silk was draped over her soft curves as if her body were a package wrapped especially for him. The low-cut gown made his hands itch. Had they been anywhere else, he would have ripped it off her.

  He took a deep breath, raising his gaze to her eyes in an effort to get control of his breathing. But even then, he failed, for she stared back at him, not the lacquered, shielded woman he had first met in London, but the woman who had wept in his arms in the dark of the night. He wanted to reach for her now, to shield her from the burdens she carried, to shield her for the rest of her life.

  James forced himself to breathe again and to smile at her. He could not propose to her again here on the church steps before the duchess’s wedding. He must hold his tongue and bide his time. The next time he asked her, she would no doubt refuse him. Not that her refusal would signify. He would simply ask her again.

  Sara tugged at his arm, so with a bow, he left Angelique standing with the bride, whom he did not spare a glance. Sara led him gently down the aisle to a pew on the bride’s side of the church. James sighed, waiting with impatience for Angelique to reappear. Music rose from the church organ, and before long the bride came down the aisle and Angelique followed.

  The duchess had dismissed the need for maids to follow her with flowers but had wanted a friend to stand up with her instead. Where she had gotten this mad notion, James could not guess, but the people of the village seemed to like it, just as the few guests from London sneered down their noses.

  James barely noticed the murmurs of the nobility or the Duchess of Hawthorne. All he could see was Angelique. All he could think of was how beautiful her midnight hair looked caught in the sunlight streaming in from the windows behind the altar.

  He did not hear a word of the ceremony, though Sara was so moved by it that she had to borrow his handkerchief to dab at her eyes. He did not take his gaze from Angelique. Toward the end of the service, Angelique turned to walk behind the bride and groom out of the church. Finally, only then, did she look at him and smile.

  ***

  Angelique stayed at the wedding-breakfast-turned-garden-party until midafternoon, and James Montgomery stayed with her. Arabella was radiant in her happiness, speaking to all, nobles from London, actors, and villagers alike. Everyone was welcome at the great feast Pembroke had planned. All the locals seemed to take satisfaction in the union, pleased to see their lord happy at last.

  Angelique had slipped into Pembroke House to get a moment’s peace when James came up behind her.

  “You won’t escape me that easily,” he said.

  “I wasn’t trying to escape you.”

  “Weren’t you just?”

  He drew her into a small sitting room tucked behind the back stairs. No doubt it was the housekeeper’s room, though that good lady was too busy with the wedding breakfast to take her leisure.

  James closed the door behind them and turned the key.

  “Do you think to ravish me in the housekeeper’s parlor?” Angelique asked, raising one brow.

  “Have I ever needed to ravish you anywhere?”

  James smiled, and the glint in his blue eyes made her blood heat. She felt her heartbeat skip in time to her breath, and she started to back away.

  When she did not answer him, he moved closer. “I like a willing partner.”

  “And I am that? It’s the middle of the afternoon in the middle of my best friend’s wedding.”

  “What better time for a bit of delight, then?”

  The lilt in his voice made her hands shake. She wanted to touch him so badly she thought she might swallow her tongue. She tucked her hands beh
ind her and stopped, finding herself against the white plaster wall.

  “We’ve been here before,” James said.

  “In a housekeeper’s parlor?”

  “With you up against a wall.”

  He kissed her, plunging in as into a deep pool on a hot summer day. Her lips opened beneath his even as he wrapped his arms around her and drew her clasped hands out from behind her. He raised them up and over her head, wedging one large thigh between both of hers.

  She shuddered at the pleasure of the heat of her center touching the heat of his flesh through his wool worsted trousers. She writhed against him, unable to stop herself. When she drew back to see if he was enjoying her surrender, she saw no mockery or self-satisfied expression on his face. Only lust.

  “I love you, Angelique.”

  His lips were hot on hers, trailing down her throat. His thigh moved between her legs, and she shuddered with pleasure. He did not stop his relentless motion, even as she writhed on top of his thigh, shaking, trembling, as he lifted her to the tips of her toes, driving into her.

  She spiraled so quickly, she had no time to think, no time to do anything but feel. She was up and over the precipice of her own pleasure before she took her next breath, and still he pressed his thigh into the heated core of her, rubbing her, letting her pleasure spiral out, until it was spent, as she was.

  “Dear God,” she said.

  “No,” he answered. “Just James.”

  She did not have any particular belief anymore, but she swatted him for his blasphemy anyway. Of course, there was not much force behind her hand, and her palm glanced off his shoulder without making much of an impression on him. He drew back then and grinned down at her.

  “Wouldn’t this be more fun in a bed?” he asked.

  She slapped at him again, and this time, her palm connected with his shoulder with more force. He did not seem to feel it but kept smiling down on her like a man who knew that, in the end, he would get what he wanted.

  He kissed her again before drawing back and helping to right her clothes. She felt as limp as a cut flower. She found herself leaning on his arm as they went to Pembroke and Arabella to say their good-byes.