Because of You

by Cathy Maxwell

  Before the words could come out of her mouth, he said outrageously, “Yes, we are.” He threw a careless arm over Samantha’s shoulder and gave her a warning squeeze.

  “That is so romantic,” Marion said. Again, tears of happiness welled in her eyes.

  Samantha drained her glass of wine.

  The chimes of the mantel clock struck ten.

  Marion shook her head. “Look at me, I’m prattling on and you are both probably fatigued unto death. Come, I’ll show you your rooms. Mrs. Witchell has had time to ready them.”

  “Who is Mrs. Witchell?” Yale said, as they followed Marion out of the room.

  “The housekeeper.”

  “What happened to Mrs. Limkin?”

  “She suffered from apoplexy about five years ago. She didn’t last long after that, poor thing.” Marion led them up the stairs. “I’m putting the two of you in the set of rooms Uncle Roscoe and Aunt Louise used. I had them completely redone after they died.”

  Yale stopped on the stairs. “They’re dead?” There was a quietness in his voice that caught Samantha’s attention.

  “Years and years ago,” Marion said. “Shortly after you left, Roscoe started wasting away. The doctors didn’t know what ailed him and could do nothing to cure him. It was very sad. One night he quietly passed away. Louise didn’t last more than a year after that.” She glanced at Samantha. “Listen to us, with all this talk of death. They were in their seventies, Samantha, and such lovebirds, even at their age. I believe Louise died of a broken heart.”

  She turned and climbed the last few steps to a corridor running the length of the house. The hall was lit by candles in brass wall sconces. The fact the duke could burn as many candles as he wished impressed Samantha more than the thick carpets and painted ceilings.

  Even the doors were special in this house. Scrolls to match the plaster ceiling had been carved into them, and the handles appeared to be made of gold featuring the same design work.

  She’d heard that the duke’s Northumberland estate, Braehall, was even more magnificent.

  “Wayland and I wanted to model our marriage on their example,” Marion was saying softly to her brother-in-law.

  “Instead of Father’s,” he answered.

  She nodded sadly. “Unfortunately, your father was not a happy man. Our marriage was arranged, but we have been blessed. I fell in love with Wayland almost the moment I clapped eyes on him.” She smiled at the memory. “You have not asked about your sister,” she said, smoothly changing the subject.

  “Oh, yes, how is she?” he asked, without enthusiasm.

  Marion laughed. “She hasn’t changed much over the years.” She dipped her head low to Samantha. “Twyla has very strong opinions and doesn’t hesitate to express them. I will send a note to her first thing in the morning. I’m not going to shock her with your presence the way Wayland did me. He probably anticipated my reaction all the way from Sproule. He loves to catch me off guard.”

  She stopped in front of a door. Before opening it, she said, “What we should do is have a small family dinner tomorrow evening to introduce Samantha to everyone. What do you think, Yale?”

  He shifted, obviously ill-at-ease. “Whatever you wish.”

  “Good, then we shall do that,” Marion said, and opened the door.

  Inside was a bedroom decorated in peacock blue and peach. Candles were already lit, and a fire burned in the hearth. Samantha walked across the carpet. It was so deep and rich, she wanted to take off her shoes and stockings and feel her bare feet against it. The bed with its silk curtains was large enough for four people. “This room is gorgeous.”

  She glanced up at the ceiling. To her relief, the painting was of ancient goddesses lounging in the setting sun.

  “More temperate, is it not?” Marion said, guessing Samantha’s thoughts.

  “I prefer it to the others I’ve seen.”

  “I thought you would,” Marion agreed with a smile. “The room has a private bath over there.” She nodded to a door between a heavy carved wardrobe and the bed. “And there is a sitting room that connects this room with Yale’s.”

  She opened the sitting room door to reveal a connecting room with a high-backed settee, a table in front of it, and two upholstered chairs. They all looked quite comfortable.

  Marion pointed to the window. “The window overlooks the garden. It’s not a large room and there is no fire, but it is very cozy and quite private. Let me show you your room, Yale.”

  On the other side of the sitting room, she opened a door that was directly opposite Samantha’s.

  Samantha couldn’t resist following. Yale’s room was much the same as hers—the heavy four-postered bed and curtains, the wardrobe and a desk and chair—only blue silk was the predominant color. Across his ceiling, fat, lazy satyrs lounged beneath branching trees.

  “How appropriate,” Samantha murmured under her breath, but he’d heard her.

  His eyes sparkled. “I shall accept that as a compliment.”

  Before she could rally an answer, Wayland tapped on the hallway door and entered without waiting for admittance. “Is everything fine?”

  “Yes, very good,” Yale said.

  Wayland went directly to his wife’s side. They didn’t touch, but Samantha sensed they didn’t need to. There was something about the way their gazes met. Something special and exciting. Something that made her feel as if she intruded.

  She glanced at Yale, wondering if he had noticed the same thing.

  He wasn’t paying attention but yawned.

  A yawn she immediately echoed.

  “Did you see Charles?” Marion asked.

  “Yes,” Wayland said pleased. “When he heard the sound of my voice, he woke up and gave his papa a big smile. I didn’t find him fussy at all.”

  “Wayland, you promised not to wake him.”

  “I didn’t. He woke on his own.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she answered, but there was no heat in her words. She reached up and brushed a strand of her husband’s hair back in place. “Did you put him back down?”

  “Poor tyke,” Wayland said. “It wasn’t his teeth at all. One touch from me and he went right to sleep.”

  “Wayland, he’s a baby,” Yale said, interrupting their private conversation. “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He knows me.”

  Yale snorted his opinion of that. “Babies don’t have the brains to know one adult from another.”

  Even as Marion exclaimed that it wasn’t true, Wayland said proudly, “All my sons knew me from the beginning.”

  Yale shook his head. “You’re going daft, brother. Babies are babies. I daresay I could pick up your Charlie, coo at him a bit, and he’d call me Papa as well as you.”

  Marion bristled at the thought but Wayland silenced her with a hand on her arm. “Don’t argue with him, my love. We will leave it to Samantha to show him the error of his ways. Mark my word, he’ll be as giddy and proud over the birth of his first child as I was.”

  He nudged his wife toward the door. “But we should go and give these two their peace.” He paused in front of Samantha and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Welcome to Penhurst…sister,” he whispered for her ears alone. He gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek.

  Sister.

  She hungered for what he offered. The children, the companionship of a family. A husband.

  “The maid and valet will be here shortly,” Marion called out from the hall. “They’ve probably gone to fetch water. The kitchen is a bit of distance from the bedrooms. If you need anything, you have only to ring or come to our rooms. They are the last ones down this hall on the right. The nursery is across from it.”

  “Thank you,” Samantha managed to say, just before Wayland decisively closed the door and she and Yale were alone.

  Alone in his bedroom.

  For a second, they stared at each other.

  Then Yale said, “What did my brother say to you?”
>
  His question startled her. Her mind went blank. She sensed he would not appreciate Wayland’s meddling.

  “He wished us welcome to Penhurst.” Her face flushed with heat. She knew what Wayland had really meant. He’d been reminding of her duty to the family. Of her responsibility to persuade Yale to stay in England.

  He hummed his doubts.

  “You do not believe me?” She edged her way to the sitting room door.

  “You have a tendency to blush when you feel guilty.”

  Samantha covered her cheeks with her hands. “It’s the fire. This room is unusually warm.”

  The corners of his mouth curved into a smile that let her know he thought she was stalling.

  “Well, I think I’ll go to bed.” She moved into the sitting room.

  He followed.

  “Good night,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, but picked up a green glass paperweight from the table in front of the settee. “I’d forgotten about this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It belonged to my Uncle Roscoe. When I was about John’s age, he told me there were pixies trapped inside it and it was very special. He always used pixies as the excuse for anything untoward that happened. And he’d make me blow on it and rub it for luck whenever I was intimidated or needed a boost of courage.” He ran his finger over the smooth green glass. “I believed his pixie stories.” He grinned up at her. “I blamed them a time or two myself. Once when I’d broken Mother’s favorite vase and another when I let the hunting dogs into the sitting room at Braehall because I feared they were too wet and cold to leave outside. Both times, Mother was furious, but once I told her about the pixies, she let me by without a well-deserved punishment.”

  He looked around the room. “This is all so strange. I feel like I’m in the same house, and yet it isn’t. I expect everything to be the way it was eleven years ago, and it is…but then again, it’s not quite.”

  “Eleven years is a long time to be gone.”

  “Yes. But I don’t feel as if I’ve changed. Everyone else has. I had assumed they wouldn’t, that I could return and Roscoe would be here with Louise.” He shook his head. “And who would have thought my brother would be so silly about his children?”

  “Silly? I think it is a delight to see a man take so much pride in his sons.”

  He set the paperweight back down on the table. “Sam, I’d like to be with you tonight.”

  For a heart-splitting second, she wasn’t sure she understood him correctly. “Why?” It was the only word her voice could croak out.

  He gave her a crooked, self-conscious smile. “Because.”

  Her knees felt suddenly shaky. She gripped the door handle to her bedroom for balance. “I don’t believe you are talking about sleeping on the floor, are you?” Thank God, her voice didn’t tremble.

  He crossed to where she stood. “No, I wasn’t.”

  Samantha leaned back.

  He rested one arm above her head against the door. “Returning here has brought back so many memories.” She could feel his breath on the skin of her neck. “I feel the need to be with someone tonight. Is that wrong of me?”

  No.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice had gone breathless. She couldn’t think clearly when he was this close to her. Her reflection was mirrored in his dark eyes. He wet his lips and she realized he was going to kiss her. It was so tempting, and yet—

  She ducked under his arm, slipped into her room, and closed the door before he could so much as move.

  Leaning her back against the door, she held her breath. Her heart pounded in her chest. What would he do next?

  She listened…and after several minutes, heard the door to his bedroom close.

  He’d done nothing.

  She felt equally disappointed and reprieved.

  The knock on her bedroom door sounded like gunshot. Samantha jumped and then chastised herself for being so foolish. It was her maid, Emily, a gentle, matronly woman carrying a pitcher of warm water.

  Samantha used the water to wash her face. She wished she could bathe away her troubles as easily.

  “You look tense, my lady,” Emily said. “Come sit on this bench and let me brush your hair.”

  Her ministrations were exactly what Samantha needed. Slowly the tension ebbed from her shoulders.

  “That was wonderful, Emily. Thank you.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid helped her dress in her faded flannel nightdress and Samantha crawled into bed. She’d hoped to fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but she didn’t.

  Instead, she lay wide awake long after Emily left, staring at the peach silk canopy over the bed. She wondered if Yale slept. Probably. He never seemed bothered by an overstrong conscience.

  The lonely minutes ticked by, dragging like hours.

  Why hadn’t she let Yale into her bed? It was what Wayland wanted. It was her duty as Yale’s wife.

  It hadn’t bothered her to keep him out their nights at the inns, so what was different now? Why did she feel so guilty?

  Because it was what she wanted…but for all the wrong reasons.

  She wanted a family. Seeing Wayland and his sons made her ache for children. It came on her in that moment. Before, she’d envied those whose babies she had helped bring into the world. But now she wanted one of her own. Now, it was a possibility. She could even be with child…although she didn’t feel any different than she had before her marriage.

  She recognized her yearning as the emptiness that had been inside her for so long. The emptiness she hadn’t known how to describe.

  She wanted love.

  But Yale did not love her. He would leave her.

  But once he left, she would have his baby to love. Furthermore, Wayland and his family could not turn their backs on her if she was the mother of Yale’s child.

  Still, her conscience bothered her. It seemed cold-blooded. Wicked, even…especially when a part of her body grew hot and anxious at the thought of his touch.

  His kisses.

  The feeling of him inside of her.

  She rose from the bed and padded to the door on silent feet. She opened it and slipped into the sitting room. The curtains were back, and moonlight spread across the settee and shone on the green paperweight.

  Pixies. Perhaps they were responsible for the sudden madness she felt.

  This was wrong, terribly wrong—and yet she could not turn away.

  She approached his door.

  For a second, she debated knocking, and then discarded the idea. What if he was asleep?

  She would not wake him. Not for this. If he was awake, fine…if he slept, she would return to her room.

  Gingerly, as if it was a hot iron, she placed her hand on the door handle and slowly turned it.

  The door didn’t make a sound as it swung open.

  Here too the drapes were hung back. This room was darker than hers because of the blue walls and curtains, yet the edge of the bed could be seen plainly in the moonlight.

  The fire in his hearth was almost out. A whiff of cold air skipped across the floor and tickled her ankles.

  She listened, expecting to hear his steady, even breathing.

  “Sam?”

  His voice came from the shadows of the bed. He sat up, the moonlight catching on the hard planes of his chest, his face still hidden by darkness.

  “Sam, what are you doing here?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the words froze in her throat.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked. His leg moved as he prepared to get out of bed.

  Samantha didn’t know what to do. And because she’d gone too far to turn back now, because she’d gambled on fate and fate had made its choice, she reached down, lifted the hem of her nightdress, and pulled it over her head. She tossed it aside and stood naked before him. Her body tensed in the cool night air and she shivered, vulnerable…and fearful of her own audacity.

  There was a heartbeat of silence.


  Then his deep voice said, “Come here.”

  Chapter 13

  The first step was the hardest. Samantha’s feet seemed to have turned into anvils, heavy, clumsy, numb.

  Yale’s face was hidden in shadow, except for the gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

  Her knees bumped into the edge of the bed before she realized she’d reached it. She almost lost her balance but caught herself in time from pitching forward onto the bed.

  There she stood, in indecision.

  Yale’s hand moved. He flipped the bedcovers, indicating a space beside him. He was naked. She could see the length of his bare thigh and her mind fantasized the rest. Her mouth went dry.

  When she didn’t move, Yale moved over to her side of the bed and into the moonlight. The covers slipped away, revealing that he was already hard and ready for her.

  The intent expression on his face held her spellbound as he reached out and placed his hand against the side of her breast. His thumb touched her nipple. It puckered and hardened in response.

  She lowered her gaze to where he touched her, his tan skin dark compared to the whiteness of her breast. The room seemed to turn hot and close around her. She stopped breathing, waiting for what he would do next.

  He surprised her with a question.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She blinked and lifted her gaze up to his face. He watched her.

  Her mind scrambled for an answer. Why was she here?

  “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  Her words astonished her with their honesty. She felt she stood before him, completely defenseless.

  His answer was a low, deep groan. He came up out of the bed and embraced her. The length of him pressed against her stomach and he raised her up, his hands cupping her buttocks, to let her feel his need for her. His lips came down on hers, the kiss fierce, hungry, as if he’d held himself at bay for too long and could no longer.

  He lay Samantha on the bed, her head on the pillow.

  His lips left hers and came down to cover one taut nipple. She gasped, burying her fingers in his hair and feeling the pull and tug of his mouth deep inside her.