by Mary Balogh
He was in no hurry. This was not about release. It rarely was. He had promised her a night of pleasure she would not regret, and he would give her just that. Not five minutes, ten, or half an hour, but a whole night. He had rarely looked forward to a night of sex with such anticipation. Perhaps because he suspected she was not vastly experienced, as most of his women were. Strange thought when she must have been married for more than twenty years. He wondered if there had ever been anyone else in addition to Riverdale, but doubted it. Which led to the question, Why him? Just because of this strange set of circumstances? Because she saw this as a sort of time away from reality, outside the normal realm of her moral standards?
It was not that she was unaware of his reputation, of the fact that he had few scruples and no heart. He had nothing to give, in fact, except his body and his expertise in bed. Was that enough for her? But if it was not, that was her problem, not his. He had given her enough chance, after all, to choose differently.
He drew back his head and looked into her eyes—dreamy with desire and blue even in the shadows cast by the candle. “You are sure, Viola?” he asked. What the devil was this?
“Yes,” she said.
They were the only words they spoke in the first hour of that night, apart from some indecipherable murmurings as they coupled. They were on the bed by then, the bedcovers pushed to the foot, the candle still burning, her nightgown and his dressing gown in a heap on the floor.
She was hot. Eager and uninhibited. Having made her decision, she gave herself with abandon and demanded pleasure in return. He slowed her down, showing her that the pleasure given and taken with hands and fingertips and mouth and tongue and even teeth was as sexual as the final feast. And seeking out pleasure points on her body and guiding her to pleasure points on his.
When he finally mounted her, turning her onto her back first and coming between her thighs as he covered her, she was slick and ready and he was hard and eager. But even then he slowed them, thrusting with measured strokes, avoiding too great a depth until the final moments, sliding his hands beneath her as she lifted herself toward him and matched his rhythm.
And then the final drive toward the shared and ultimate pleasure of release and the little oblivion that always followed upon the best of couplings.
This was surely the very best.
He lay on her for several moments, his weight pressing her to the mattress while his heartbeat slowed and consciousness returned. She was warm and relaxed and sweaty beneath him. He moved off her and reached down for the covers before settling beside her and sliding an arm beneath her neck.
The Countess of Riverdale. Viola Kingsley. He still could not quite believe it. She had been worth the fourteen-year wait. Not that he would have had her this way back then even if she had been willing. She had been a married lady—apparently married, that was.
She was asleep. Her hair was untidy, her face flushed, her lips slightly parted. She had drawn the sheet up to cover her breasts in a belated nod to modesty. Beneath the covers her naked body touched his from bosom to ankles. She was beautiful in every way it was possible for a woman to be beautiful. Fourteen years had not robbed her of any of her allure. They had merely added to it.
What strange fate had thrown them together here, one of his hired horses having acquired a loose shoe, her hired carriage having developed a cracked axle? He still did not know the name of either the village or the inn. But he did not believe in fate or coincidence. It had happened and they had made the most of it—were making. The night was far from over. It was probably not even midnight yet.
There was still much pleasure to be had.
The noisy revelries were still continuing downstairs.
And there was no hurry.
* * *
• • •
Viola did not sleep deeply, though she did perhaps drift for a few minutes, exhausted and satiated. It had been so very long, and never like this. Oh, never even close. It would be laughable even to try comparing.
She knew beyond a doubt that she had made a grave mistake. For she had allowed something vivid into her life, something . . . joyful, and she would never, ever be able to forget. For a while perhaps she would not want to, but eventually she surely would. For vivid living and joy were not for her. Any possibility of either had been killed in her when she was seventeen and married Humphrey, and there was no changing the world and the persona she had created for herself since then.
Her life would become dull and decorous and blameless again tomorrow and for all her tomorrows after that. She had run from Bath in a sort of panicked attempt to escape all that had happened during the past two years, when it had all accumulated in her spirit and become too much for her. Perhaps she had wanted to escape everything that had happened before that too. Perhaps she had wanted to escape from the whole of her life, even from herself. And something—call it fate?—had arranged all this. She had run far from her usual reality this afternoon when she went to the village fair with a known libertine and enjoyed every single vivid moment of it. She had run further yet tonight when she had waltzed with him on the village green and kissed him on the riverbank and left her door unlocked. But if it was fate that had set up today, she was not at all sure it had been kind to her. Perhaps it had not intended to be. Perhaps it had intended to teach her a harsh lesson. For there was no permanent escape. Ultimately she must take herself with her wherever she went, and there was no changing herself except during brief, wistful, defiant moments.
But oh—she was not sorry.
Not yet. And why anticipate sorrow and guilt?
She must have drifted again. She awoke to the touch of his hand moving featherlight up her body, between her breasts, over one of them, beneath it. He set the pad of his thumb over her nipple and rubbed so lightly that she felt the effect more than the touch. Desire stabbed down inside her and upward so that both her womb and her throat ached.
She turned her head on his arm and saw the hard, austere, cynical, silver-templed Mr. Lamarr, with whom no woman of sense would allow herself to become personally involved. But almost in the same moment she saw Marcel, the lover in whom she had found escape and delight and no peril at all. Except that there was the certain knowledge of a bleaker-than-ever future.
And the rest of tonight.
She realized suddenly that the inn had fallen silent and there was no further sound of music coming from outside. She must have dozed for longer than she thought. Time was passing. This night was passing.
He kissed her.
And again she marveled that kisses and touches could be so light, so seemingly lazy and yet so purposeful too. For there was no doubt in her mind that every touch of his—of palm and fingertips and lips and tongue—was knowledgeable and deliberate and designed to bring her to full readiness again. Not that that was going to be a hard task. She turned onto her side and touched him, one of her hands spreading over his chest with its light dusting of hair, while the other moved over him, feeling the hardness of muscles, the pulsing warmth within. She had never touched a man’s body . . .
“Viola,” he murmured against her lips, and he took her hand by the wrist and moved it low between them. She first balked at the very idea, then touched him lightly, and then closed her hand about him. Long, thick, hard. But she had known that. She had had him inside her. It was different to touch him with her hand, though. With her thumb she stroked the tip, and he inhaled slowly and audibly and moved his mouth to her throat and slid his hand between her thighs to work magic with his fingers there.
He lifted her on top of him this time and slid his hands down her thighs to grasp her behind the knees and bring them up to hug his hips. She knelt above him and spread her hands over his chest and looked down at him. The candle was still burning on the dresser. He gazed back at her, his eyes dark and hooded, and she was fully aware for the first time that she was naked and unembarrassed. She ought to be
. She hated to be seen naked, even by her maid. Indeed, no one else had seen her unclothed since she was a child. And she was no longer young.
He was perfect physically. It seemed unfair. But she was unembarrassed by her own imperfections. After tomorrow she would probably never see him again, and she doubted he would remember this or her for long. She had no illusions about that. Unlike her. She would always remember. It did not matter. She had made her decision quite knowingly and without any coercion on his part. Quite the contrary.
And she was not sorry. She would not be sorry.
“Mount me,” he said softly. “Ride me, Viola. Ride me to a standstill.”
Even the words were deliberately chosen, deliberately spoken. For desire, already roiling in her, surged. Her nipples tightened and so did her inner muscles against the ache of wanting. And it did not matter that she was sore so soon after the last time, or that it had never occurred to her that the woman could take the lead in a sexual encounter. She lowered herself until she could feel him, and she circled about him until he was there at her opening, and she lowered herself onto him, slowly, savoring every moment, every sensation, until she was filled. She clenched her muscles about him, reveling in the hiss of his inward breath.
“Witch,” he whispered.
And she rode while he lay quite still. And rode and rode, her eyes closed, her hands braced on his chest, all her concentration there where exquisite pleasure built to exquisite pain. She made circular motions with her hips, grinding about him as she rode, until she thought she must surely go mad and it seemed he must be made of granite—
Until it was clear he was not. His hands came to her hips and pulled hard downward, holding her still while he pressed deeper than it seemed possible to come and the pain burst into something that would surely be unbearable until . . . it was not. Her mind had a vivid image of a rose bursting open in the sunlight to reveal all the glory of its inner beauty, and then the image was gone with every other coherent thought.
He relaxed beneath her, his chest damp with sweat, his breathing ragged and audible. He was looking up at her with lazy eyes. “The magnificent Lady Riverdale,” he murmured.
The dangerous Mr. Lamarr. But she did not speak the words aloud or correct him for wrongly naming her. She stretched out on him, turning her head on his shoulder while he hooked the bedcovers with one foot and brought them back up over them. They were still coupled.
How strange that life could be this way and she had never known it. Not really. She had imagined, perhaps, what passion must be like, but imagination was inadequate. One had to experience it. Did some people live all their lives like this? Alive? Did he? A night like this one must, of course, be not very different for him. There must be nothing so very unusual about it. It was just a part of his normal way of being.
But she did not want to dwell upon that. It was not as if she had not known. There was no point now in lamenting the fact that she had got herself involved with a man who would never be involved with her.
But she would never forget. Even when she wanted to, she never would.
* * *
• • •
They loved the night away. She tested his stamina, as he did hers, but they both lived up to the challenge. Tomorrow was moving inexorably toward them, however. Indeed, tomorrow was already today. Hardly had he noticed that the candle had burned itself out than he was aware of dawn graying the window behind the curtains and then of daylight illumining the room.
It was a damnable apology for an inn room. The wallpaper was faded almost to extinction, and there were indeed cracks on the ceiling—cracks involving only the paint up there and not the structure, he hoped. The room smelled faintly of oldness. And less faintly of sex.
It had been good. Very good indeed. Perhaps the best. He had had no more than a couple of winks of sleep. Why waste a night that had offered—and delivered—such pleasure? She was inexperienced, he had discovered early. There was no real surprise there. She was also without inhibition. That had been a bit more of a surprise when he had sometimes thought of her—after her rejection and rather spitefully, he had to confess—as an ice queen. But of course he had often wondered if her unfailingly cool dignity was a mere veil over a powder keg of passion.
It was.
She was curled onto her side, facing away from him, and he turned too and curled about her, spoon fashion, with one arm over her waist. She had slept more than he had.
Today they would go their separate ways. And next spring, more than likely, he was going to have Estelle in town with him making her come-out during the Season. And if Estelle was going to be there, then so—perish the thought—was Jane Morrow as her official sponsor and chaperon. He was going to have to be far more circumspect about his own behavior. He would not be able to continue his accustomed way of living when it might affect his daughter’s chances of making a good marriage.
Viola would not even be in town next spring. Through no fault of her own she had fallen out of favor with some members of the ton and was no longer accepted as unconditionally as the Countess of Riverdale had been. She had not been seen in town since soon after the death of Riverdale, or, if she had, he had not heard of it. She was unlikely to return.
So there was no chance of an ongoing affair with her. Perhaps it was just as well, however. He doubted she knew the unwritten rules of dalliance. Its inevitable ending might be messy. And to be quite honest with himself, he was not sure he could treat an affair with her as lightly as he did with other women. He was not sure what he meant by that, and he was certainly not going to puzzle over it at this precise moment.
She drew a deep breath and let it out on a low, self-satisfied sigh. Her hand came over his about her waist.
“Daylight,” she muttered a few moments later. She did not sound too pleased.
“It is an abomination, is it not?” he agreed.
She turned to lie on her back the better to look at him. “How are you going to get home?” she asked.
“Ah, we are looking ahead to the day, are we?” he said. “I have no idea, but I very much doubt I will be stranded here for the rest of my natural-born days, attractive as the prospect might be if I could have a fellow strandee of my own choosing. That is unlikely, however. I took a stroll out into the yard yesterday while waiting for a certain lady to get ready to go dancing. The coachman of that dreadful hired vehicle was confident that it would be ready to proceed by the middle of this morning. You will be home before nightfall.”
“Provided a couple of wheels do not fall off,” she said.
“Do you look forward to being at home?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, and looked unutterably bleak.
“And who is awaiting you there?” he asked.
“No one,” she said. “Only peace and quiet. I left behind all my family in Bath—except my son, who recently returned to the Peninsula to rejoin his regiment. I left behind my daughters and my son-in-law and grandchildren. I left my mother and my brother and his wife. I left all the Westcotts, who came for the christening of my newest grandchild. I had to get away.”
Had to?
“Too much family?” he asked. “I know the feeling.”
“It sounds so very ungrateful put that way,” she said. “I love my children and grandchildren dearly, and everyone else too. The Westcotts in particular have been unwaveringly supportive and kind since the discovery that I am not really one of them after all. But . . . I had to get away.”
“In a hired carriage,” he said. “Did no one offer a private one for your use? And servants to accompany you?” They sounded like a grim lot, her family.
“I had my own carriage with me,” she explained. “I left it for Abigail, my younger daughter. She lives with me at Hinsford. I was offered the loan of several others. I believe I even hurt a few feelings by refusing, but . . . I had to get away.”
He was be
ginning to understand yesterday afternoon a little better. And last night. It sounded to him as though, surrounded by her loving, concerned family, she had cracked.
He knew all about that—cracking, that was.
“Are you looking forward to going home?” she asked.
“It is full of . . . people,” he said. “Family. All of whom need to be sorted out and put in their place. By me. I have a severe aversion to being forced to exert myself in domestic matters.”
“It is all quite sufficient to make one want to run away and hide, is it not?” she said with a smile.
Ah, that smile. So rare with her.
“It is indeed,” he agreed.
He kissed her and wondered if they could or should have sex again. How many times would that make? Five? Six?
Did it matter? The night was all but over, and there would be no other. Not with her, anyway. There was something melancholy in the thought, though melancholia was not something he was in the habit of indulging.
They made love again.
Six
Viola was seated in the dining room again, eating breakfast. The carriage was indeed ready to resume the journey. She would be home well before nightfall, barring any further accident. One of her eggs was too soft, the other too hard. The toast was dry, the coffee too bitter. Or was it all just her? Was there in fact nothing wrong with the food? Her stomach felt a bit queasy. She ate only because she believed she ought to before embarking upon a longish journey.
And perhaps to prove to herself that she was fine, that she had had a bad few days followed by an unexpectedly pleasant day and night and was now cheerfully back to normal. Perhaps she would be better able to convince herself once she was actually on her way. She did not know if she would see him again before she left. He had gone from her room an hour ago without giving any indication of whether he intended seeing her on her way or not. She would not press the issue. She would not linger in the hope that he would come down, and she would not knock on his door. When she was ready to leave, she would simply go.