Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  “I find myself murderous with the thought of anyone hurting you. Think, my love. Can you remember nothing else?”

  She shook her head. “It’s gone.”

  “Papa, who’s that pretty lady?” Whipped cream wreathed Emily’s delicately pursed mouth.

  “Emily,” he murmured, “don’t speak with food in your—”

  Then he fell silent; his tan paled. Rachel stared at the woman in the doorway. Dressed in an exquisite, emerald green silk, she’d forgone the convention of a wig. Red hair had been powdered and artfully arranged, and the eyes that scanned the room were as green as her dress and highlighted with makeup. Her skin was pale and translucent, her lips complacent. She knew all eyes were focused on her, and she commanded their reaction to her bold, classic beauty. Beside her stood a vaguely familiar man, and Rachel placed him after a moment as the man to whom Grey had introduced her at the racetrack: Peyton Randolph.

  “Dear God,” he whispered. “It’s Letitia.”

  But she had known. She’d seen it in his stricken expression.

  “Have the carriage summoned. And take Emily home.” Without further explanation he left them.

  She gave Emily a vague answer to whatever she’d asked, watching Grey approach his wife. He bent low over her hand, and Rachel saw anticipation in her eyes. She stretched her fingertips along his arm in a sensuous, possessive gesture as Grey escorted her into another room.

  Resentment knotted in Rachel, and it had nothing to do with Grey’s careless dismissal of his daughter and her. The fiery spirit in the green eyes of his wife, the slow curve of her mouth as Grey approached her, were the features of a woman who appreciated the pure male appeal of her husband—and who fully planned to enjoy it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Grey silently bore the thundering in his head. Over the past hour, his wife’s perfume had battered his senses until he no longer smelled it. And that was the most tolerable part of her.

  Her cat’s eyes glittered as she flirted outrageously with him. As they danced, she removed a glove and let her bare hand drift over his knuckles in blatant temptation. As he introduced her to others, she stroked his arm with knowing possessiveness that truth to tell frightened him a bit.

  Rachel smelled of lilacs, the aroma of the French soap she liked. When she looked at him, it was with veiled yearning, and she touched him as if he were a gift she savored unwrapping.

  Yes, Letitia suffered by comparison.

  What in hell was she doing here? The acrid memory of hastily sending Rachel away shamed him. Her regard for him had been bruised mightily enough already; this was atrocious, and she would assume the worst.

  Then, as if conjured from Grey’s deepest childhood wish, another guest arrived to soothe his chagrin. He found the task he’d once anticipated had lost much of its appeal in the past seven years. Nonetheless, he welcomed the distraction of introducing his wife to her father-in-law.

  Thomas bowed over her hand. “A pleasure to know you at last, Letitia. I understand you’re Peyton’s cousin. How did you ever win such a comely young bride, Grey?”

  A flat smile hooked the corners of Grey’s mouth. “Our marriage was arranged by a woman I met only as an adult. Perhaps you remember Philippa Huntington?”

  Thomas’s genial gaze narrowed. “Yes. Your grandmother.”

  Grey patted Letitia’s arm. “He forgets because it’s been so long since he gave much thought to the Huntingtons. You see, he was separated rather abruptly from my mother, many years ago.”

  “Yes, Grey,” Thomas said evenly. “It was many years ago.”

  “Of course, Mother passed away. And he’s since remarried.”

  Did you even think of Lucy Trelawney before you made your vows to Jennie Dandridge? Did you consider you might still be a married man, or did you know—did you care—that my mother lay in a pauper’s grave?

  But such sentiments were unseemly at such a gay party as the Byrds’, and he confined them to his own heart.

  “I was but a lad when your mother and I married, Grey.”

  Rage burned in Grey’s gut. Damn the man! To take his mother from a life of ease to a miserable existence that would kill her, then dismiss his deeds as too frivolous to recall. But then, had he expected anything else? So many years later, Thomas still didn’t care; and so many years later, that still enraged Grey.

  He had heard of forgiveness and mercy, and had given it many times in his life, to those deserving of it, those who had asked for it. He had yet to learn the paradox that forgiveness releases the giver from the wrong, enlarges his heart, lightens his step—even when the forgiven is unaware of their sin.

  “Dear husband, you’re quite mauling me!”

  He hadn’t noticed how tightly his hand gripped Letitia’s forearm, and he hastily loosed her. When he met her gaze in startled apology, he felt only annoyance at the sudden desire that flashed in the light green eyes. His shoulders slumped.

  “My apologies. Sir, we’ll leave you to your diversions.”

  As they moved away, her hand smoothed possessively over his forearm. “Your strength quite bewitches me, my lord.”

  Revulsion swept him as he examined a vase of flowers on a table. “I assure you, it was not meant to.”

  And she insipidly ignored him. After another hour, she pleaded a headache, and he felt one coming on as well. They made their farewells and left Westover in her cousin’s carriage, since Grey had conveniently dispatched his own to sequester Rachel and Emily.

  “Why are you here, Letitia?” His mouth was unsmiling as he stared out the window. “You have free command of my purse, so it cannot be money.”

  She smiled, removing her gloves. “Money, my dearest? Is that what you think I want?”

  “It cannot be excitement. You’ll find none at Rosalie.” It was a warning, not a commentary on the countryside.

  “You wound me. I am not the thoughtless girl I once was. I am a gentlewoman who missed her husband.”

  Even watching her was a purposeful, self-inflicted injury. The mind said Look away! while the eyes remained transfixed. Why again had he married this woman?

  Her talons moved over his chest. He did not miss her attempt at subtlety, and he couldn’t help comparing her touch with Rachel’s ingenuous explorations. “Surely you’ve missed me, Grey.”

  And been a happier man for it, he thought. “What are you about, with this?”

  “I mean to prove my love for you.”

  He resisted the urge to laugh. “And your daughter?”

  A pause. “I … shall learn to be a proper mother for the child.”

  So Emily had slipped her mind. Did she remember her name?

  “There’s no need. I’ll escort you to Norfolk tomorrow. A ship should be bound for London within a few days, and you can entertain the Royal Navy in the meantime.”

  She ceded the argument. “My headache is truly shattering. Perhaps I can persuade you of my devotion in the morning.”

  As they approached the plantation, Rachel’s face floated in his memory. Dear God, what must she be thinking by now? He handed Letitia down from the coach and escorted her inside, noticing the pall that had fallen over the servants with her return.

  When she was settled, he retired to his room, relieved to be rid of her. Stripping off his clothes, he poured water into the basin and washed, trying to scrub away the smell of her. He splashed water over his head, and that helped a little. Rubbing his head with a towel, he drew back the bed curtains and climbed into the bed—and the thought of Rachel. He propped a pillow beneath his head, closing his eyes and savoring the memory. What an array of lovely memories he had of her in relation to the short time he’d known her. He succumbed to the seductive innocence of the images; her mouth upon his, her hands lightly exploring him—and his body hardened.

  His door silently opened and closed. He sat upright in bed, wary. Why didn’t I lock the door? he thought.

  Letitia’s hair hung loose and unbrushed, and he noticed the dull mess
of it, guessing she hadn’t washed it in many days. Once, such a thing wouldn’t have bothered him, but he’d grown spoiled by Rachel’s finicky cleanliness. Her insistence on daily baths was famous at Rosalie for its peculiarity. Unwillingly, he forced his attention back to Letitia.

  She wore only a lacy night shift which displayed the angular, muscular body. Her small breasts were visible through the scanty nightgown, and Grey’s gaze narrowed in dismay. Her ruse of reform had been a flimsy one.

  She moved to the bed with a complacent, satisfied smirk. “I could not sleep either,” she murmured. Her hands moved over his bare chest as she rested beside him, scoring him with her nails.

  “I am tired and not in the mood.”

  “Not in the mood?” Her gaze darted down the sheet draped over him. “On the contrary. You’ve been thinking of me, haven’t you?” Her hand dropped with knowing ease to his groin. “Yes.”

  He grabbed her wrist. She raised an eyebrow, her breath shallow. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp, straddling his thighs. “Think, dearest. Just remember how very good it was.”

  It was never good.

  Slowly, deliberately, she removed her lace belt. Separating it into two long scarves, she let one fall to his bare chest. The other, she tied at a bedpost.

  Out of patience, he flung her hands away from him. “Remove yourself from this bed this instant, or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?”

  His eyes were cold. “I’ll petition Parliament for the divorce I am due.”

  At last the insipid flirtation in her face was replaced by frosty indifference. “Is it true what they say, my lord? That you prefer men?”

  An assortment of retorts crossed his mind, but he let them go. “Good night.”

  Her eyes skimmed over him, and she slowly shook her head. “You’ll change your mind, dearest. I shall see to that.”

  When she was gone, he rose from the bed, feeling the need for a bath. The lace scarf was still dangling from his bedpost, and he ripped it off, flinging it aside. What the hell was her purpose here? He pulled on a dressing gown and started down the hall, intent on the liquor cabinet in his study. As he passed Rachel’s room, he hesitated. The hallway was dark on either end.

  He only wanted to check on her, he told himself, to make sure she was safe. Succumbing to his worst impulses, he opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it silently behind him. The sight of her instantly soothed him, and he knew he’d ventured into her room for one reason: to remove the lewd memory of his wife. Just standing in the same room with Rachel imbued him with peace.

  Now leave.

  Ignoring himself, he moved forward to stand beside her bed.

  She lay curled in the bed, her hand tucked under her cheek, her face illuminated softly by a candle she’d left burning. He approached the bed and leaned against a post at the foot of the bed, captivated. The light played over her face with golden tones, glistening in the curls that spilled about her pillows like a halo. How could one woman have come to mean the world to him so quickly?

  He lowered himself to the edge of the bed, letting his knuckle brush her cheek. An almost imperceptible smile curved her lips, and he wondered who she dreamt of.

  Let it be this poor fool of a man.

  He leaned over intending to snuff out the candle, but his gaze caught on something on the nightstand; a gazette of some sort. He grasped it, curious about what interested her.

  What on earth?

  He blinked at the remarkable realism in the sketch of the three children. Unlike the paintings and drawings he had seen in his lifetime, where children seemed to be miniature adults, these children were bafflingly realistic, perfectly proportioned. And the shadows and nuances of the world around them were captured in its minutiae. The oldest child regarded him with fearful bravery, holding the newborn tightly to her, bending her head over the head of the middle sister as if to protect her.

  Presently his attention was distracted by something familiar in the eyes of the eldest child—and the locket that hung around her neck, the same locket Rachel had given Emily. Then he read the report accompanying the drawing. Pathos and anger melded within his heart—Rachel’s parents? Who would do such a crime?

  She stirred, and he hastily put the newspaper aside, troubled. He toyed with a strand of hair that had fallen over her face and brushed his lips against her cheek, intoxicated by the aroma of her. “Sweet dreams, my darling.”

  Then he snuffed the candle and rose from the bed. As his hand rested over the doorknob, Rachel’s sleep grew fitful. She gave an unintelligible, frightened murmur, and Grey returned to the bed, touching her shoulders. “Rachel.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Dear heart. Rachel.”

  “Daddy, I can’t see you!”

  He fetched a candle from the hall and placed it on the night stand. “Rachel. Wake up.”

  When she opened her eyes and recognized him, her arms banded about his neck. Pulling him close, she buried her face against his throat. He shifted in the bed, cradling her in his arms, soothing her quietly. Her hands loosened on him, trailing down to his chest.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you feared the dark.”

  “It isn’t me. It’s …”

  “What?”

  “My sister. My sister was afraid of the dark.”

  As awakening slowly came to Rachel, she grew aware of his solid warmth underneath her hands. Her fingers moved curiously over his chest, feeling the sweetly coarse silk, and she let one hand curve around the nape of his neck. “Grey—”

  His eyes were the color of summer rain, and they were troubled as they traveled over her. “Imagine the paradox. A man at odds with honor. Confronted with one he is obligated to—” She pushed at his shoulders, but he held her fast. “And offered hope and new life in a woman like none he’s ever known. A woman whose injured heart he wishes to heal—not break.”

  “Grey—”

  “The paradox of knowing that this woman rouses within me things I once saw as foolish dreaming. That happiness lies within a fingertip’s grasp—and to reach out for that hand that offers it, I must dishonor her. And then what? Can there be happiness for us, Rachel? Can there be happiness indeed, without honor?

  “For my part, there can be no happiness in my life, without you. And dishonor is all I’ll ever have to offer you. You, who would open your heart to a child who’s never known a woman’s love. While the woman who bore her has forgotten her existence.”

  She was stung by the reminder of his wife, and though his melancholy pierced her, she turned away. “Leave me alone.”

  “I will not. I saw something in your eyes just then. What was it?”

  “Nothing. I’m tired.”

  He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His frown blurred as she stared, and then his expression softened. He traced her trembling lip, then the corner of her eye, where the tear fell. “Do you have tender feelings for me?”

  “Why should I care for a man—who has so little respect for humanity?” Her voice caught with the pain of it. “And who belongs to another woman.”

  “Because he’s only a man, with a man’s failings.”

  It was true. She loved him despite it.

  “And if I put away that sin you despise, Rachel—were my heart and hand free to give you—would you love me then?”

  His plea fell on a soft place in Rachel’s heart.

  I love you now.

  She looked into his eyes, releasing the bitterness that clouded her gaze, giving him that love the only way she knew how.

  His mouth settled over hers, delving within her in gentle question, in knowing answer. She tasted his soft sigh as his fingers threaded into her hair, as his lips parted and his tongue found hers. Her hands slid upward underneath the silk robe, grazing the hard chest, the corded muscles at his neck, the taut strength of his shoulders.

  He pulled gently at the sheet covering her, and his breath left him in a sudden rush. “Sweet Christ.”
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  His shock blazed into desire as he realized she was naked beneath the sheet. Darkened gray eyes moved over her bare breasts, and his appreciative scrutiny enflamed her. No man had ever seen her so—and she was glad.

  A seductive murmur of pleasure came from him as he cupped her breast, and his palm skimmed over the blushing nipple that rose to welcome his touch. Her fingers threaded through the softness of his hair, instinctively urging him to—what?

  His thumb rotated her nipple, and she saw the desire in his silver eyes just before he lowered his head. Closing his eyes, he let his lips part and took her nipple into his mouth, his tongue stroking with enticing seduction, rocking her with pleasure. Gentle, roughened fingers shaped her other breast, and then his mouth explored there, too. His teeth nibbled with playful abandon, and her fingers threaded through his hair, boldly pulling him closer. Her encouragement enflamed him, and his soft murmur of satisfaction hummed against her nipple.

  Rachel pushed hastily at his robe, and it fell about him as her hands smoothed over the nape of his neck. Her gaze traveled the breadth of his chest, a thing of beauty—as if each hair had been placed by a divine artist. When he raised his head, kissing her in hungry need, her hands roamed over his back, anticipating the smooth warmth of him. She stopped, distracted by the faint ridges across his back. Her mouth stilled under his, and he raised his head slightly. “What’s wrong, my darling?”

  “What—what is this?”

  “Nothing.”

  His head lowered once more, but she hesitated. Her gaze moved over him with shy appreciation of his male beauty; the robe was loosened and hung about his shoulders. The hard strength of his body was only haphazardly veiled from her seeking gaze, and she wanted to see every last bit of it. But her concentration was broken, now focused on what she’d touched.

  “They’re scars,” she said, her voice breaking. “The scars of a whip.”

  His face went taut as he awkwardly withdrew. “Yes,” he muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. Long, muscular thighs, sprinkled with black hair, were revealed for only a moment before he straightened the robe. “They’re scars.”