by Megan Mulry
Both of the Cambury brothers were famously strong swimmers, according to Vanessa and the engraved athletic boards at Eton and Cambridge. The Cambury brothers were famously strong at everything, or so it had seemed to Archie’s young, impressionable mind. And then they had died and Vanessa had calmly informed him that he was now the marquess and he would need to be very strong and very wise like his father and his uncle had been. Vanessa explained how he would need to listen to his tutors, to observe the ways of different cultures, to empathize with the struggles of others, to investigate, to discover, to cure. In short, he needed to live a life that would honor his father’s memory, a life that would make up for his father’s tragic demise.
Over twenty years ago, a seven-year-old boy had accepted all those responsibilities—welcomed them and their weighty purpose—and lived up to them.
All of a sudden, he was unable to bear it. He didn’t want to be a paragon for another minute. He didn’t want to uphold some abstract ideal of British manhood. He wanted to taste Selina’s mouth after she had devoured him. He wanted to taste Selina’s hot center and then kiss her. He wanted to mingle every part of them, one to the other. And it was not filthy. It was glorious and perfect. In short, he wanted to marry Miss Selina Ashby, to marry himself to her in every sense of the word.
And he didn’t want to wait another moment.
Selina stayed leaning against the door and traced the edge of her lip where Constance had kissed her. A few months ago—maybe even a few days ago—she would have welcomed Constance and William’s overture; she would have seen their playful invitation to spend the night with both of them as a sweet interlude of physical satisfaction, nothing more. Constance’s coltish childhood beauty had matured into a dark feminine allure. Her skin was as luminous as the finest Limoges, and under other circumstances, Selina would have longed to kiss her neck and shoulders, to taste the essence of her particular scent at her wrists and behind her knees. Between her legs.
And even though William Stroughton struck her as more than a bit too forward, Selina had always imagined a time she would enjoy both a man and a woman, all of them in bed at the same time, satisfying one another, taking and giving pleasure in so many new and joyful ways.
Closing her eyes in dismay, Selina realized she no longer wanted that with just any man and woman. She wanted to experience it with the impossibly remote Marquess of Camburton and her beloved Beatrix. She stomped her foot in frustration. Devil take him, the man had captured far more than her imagination. She wanted to protect him from the careless, public jibes of men like Professor Stroughton, but she also wanted to ravish him in private, to tear away all the layers that made him such a slave to convention. Not (merely) to torment him or tease him, but because deep down she knew he would shine like the sun if he were finally let loose in that way.
There was a quiet knock at the door, and it vibrated through her.
“Who is it?” Selina whispered.
“Constance . . . I’m alone.”
Turning to grab the knob, Selina didn’t know whether she wanted to open the door a crack or fling it wide in welcome. If Constance was returning to speak as one old friend to another, Selina would certainly welcome her counsel. If she was back to renew some saucy sensual overture, Selina was simply not interested. Opting for a middle way, Selina opened the door enough to see Constance fully, but still blocked the entrance with her body.
“May I come in?” Constance asked softly. She had changed into her nightgown and white robe, and seemed as innocent as a fresh blanket of snow. For some reason, her appearance of innocence only exaggerated what Selina now clearly saw as the corrupt nature of her visit.
She felt the press of tears. How odd, she thought, rubbing her eyes as if she were tired, and barely grasping that the tears that threatened were those of disappointment that Archie had not been the person to knock at her door. “Yes. Of course. Come sit down and we can visit.”
When they’d been out under the stars earlier in the evening, they’d lain on the cold grass and held hands like girls—excited by the mystery of night, thrilled by the expanse of the universe, and sharing in all that childlike natural wonder. Still, she had been acutely aware of the way their hands fit snugly together, because theirs were not children’s hands: they were women’s hands, their bodies were womanly bodies. As much as Constance laughed in that free, innocent way of hers, there was no denying the heave of her bosom as she did, or the images that floated into Selina’s mind when she let herself remember all the nights she and Beatrix had lain under the summer sky at Camburton. Holding hands beneath the stars had always been a preamble to their most intimate lovemaking, with Beatrix tending to Selina’s body as if it was the most precious gift ever created. As if she was precious.
She exhaled to rid herself of those tender memories. “Would you like a glass of sherry or port? Lady FitzWilliam has been kind enough to provide me with both.” She remained by the small sideboard where the crystal decanters had been set on a silver tray.
“No, thank you.” Constance smiled gently. “Come sit by me, my sweet friend.”
Again, even though Constance used the words “sweet” and “friend,” Selina couldn’t help feeling like she was being invited into a den of iniquity.
“Constance . . .” Her voice was shaky, and she didn’t attempt to hide it. Constance should know that this whole scenario was making her uncomfortable, but she sat down beside Constance on the small settee, despite her misgivings.
“Darling, you are trembling.” Constance held one of Selina’s hands in hers. “What is it?”
“I am confused. Surely I have not imagined the connection between us.”
“Surely you have not.” Constance smiled—a deeper, more provocative smile this time—then dipped her lips to Selina’s palm.
“I have long admired you . . .” Her heart pounded with a confusing mix of unwelcome physical attraction and emotional distress. For once in her life, she was quite sure she did not want this type of physical intimacy. Never would she have imagined she would spurn the tender advances of such a lovely woman, of this woman.
Constance pursed her lips and looked adorably insulted. “Admired? You make me sound like a hat in a shop window.”
Selina actually blushed, feeling the steady caress of Constance’s fingers on her wrist, and gradually up along her forearm. “You know that’s not how I meant it.” She tried to temper her voice, but it was uneven. “I’ve always held you in the highest esteem.”
Leaning down to kiss the sensitive flesh of Selina’s forearm, Constance whispered, “That still sounds far too formal . . .” Constance placed a few more warm kisses up her exposed arm, then looked into her eyes. “I can see you want me. And I very much want you.” She leaned in and kissed her lips, a soft, encouraging touch.
“I am not feeling at all myself.” Selina’s voice returned nearly to normal as she pulled back, but her treacherous body began to respond to Constance’s advances nonetheless. Was this how she made Archie feel? This wretched combination of physical arousal and aversion? “I’ve been living with Beatrix Farnsworth these past two years—”
Constance smiled indulgently. “I know. I’ve met Beatrix, and I’m sure she would approve of a brief reunion between old friends.”
Selina wasn’t so sure. Before Beatrix had left for the Continent, the two of them had discussed at great length the nature of their commitment to one another. Beatrix and Selina had agreed that they were free to pursue other people in the time they were apart, but Beatrix had also cautioned her to be wise. Beatrix was seven years older, and she had given Selina so much more than a loving physical relationship. She had taught her how to respect her own passion, how to curtail her eagerness when the occasion demanded, how the rewards of postponement were often great . . . greater. Furthermore, wise caution was not to be confused with self-denial. The repression and cruelty she had endured as a child, Beatrix had explained, were not at all the same thing as choosing not to act on a desire
that might prove to be less than glorious. Beatrix was all about glory.
Constance and her blithe fiancé suddenly struck Selina as quite inglorious.
Her feelings for Archie were glorious.
She extracted her hand from Constance’s hold. “I know Beatrix will be happy to hear we met up after all these years, but she would also wish for me to follow my own inner voice. I am in a bit of a coil about the Marquess of Camburton—”
Constance laughed softly and, if Selina wasn’t mistaken, with a bit of malice. “Darling, really. He’s a puppy. And you are . . .” Constance let her gaze roam Selina’s body with a look that was nothing short of ravenous. “Well, you are spectacular, my dear.”
Constance reached for her bare shoulder, tentatively caressing her, then slowly trailing her fingertip lower, to the swell of her breast above the low-cut bodice. Selina inhaled sharply, wanting to cry again for how much she wished it were Beatrix or Archie touching her. Again, her body responded—her nipples hardening and her throat going dry.
“Spectacular . . .” Constance whispered, and leaned in to kiss Selina’s breast. Before her brain could grasp what was happening, Constance had worked the delicate fabric away from her nipple and began to kiss and tease it with her wicked tongue. “You need a forceful lover.” She pulled the nipple deeper into her mouth and sucked hard. Selina gasped and reached her hands into Constance’s hair to push her away. Everything felt wrong.
And, of course, that was the moment Archibald Cambury, the Marquess of Camburton, opened the door to her chamber and whispered her name, peering around sweetly as if he were coming to pledge his troth. Then his eyes landed on her—or more accurately, his eyes landed on her bosom, where Miss Constance Forrester was suckling her flesh and moaning delightedly. Selina did begin crying then. She shoved Constance roughly away from her body as she watched Archie’s tenderness and warmth drain away from his expression, and then he simply shut the door as quietly as he’d opened it. Gone like a ghost. The ghost—she belatedly realized—of everything she’d ever wanted and now would never have.
“Get out!” She tugged up her dress and stood quickly, then walked across the room and poured herself a drink. “I am serious, Constance.” Breathing hard, she reached for the bell pull, wrapping her hand threateningly around the tassel. “I will call for a footman if you do not leave at once.”
Licking her lips, Constance rose gracefully. “No hard feelings, I hope.”
She tried not to roll her eyes. “No hard feelings. In fact, no feelings whatsoever. I wish you and Professor Stroughton every happiness in your married life together.”
“Oh, not to worry, my dear. I know we will be very happy. Perhaps one day you will be mature enough to see firsthand just how happy we are together.” With that parting volley, Constance left the room and, Selina hoped, left her life for good.
Archie woke up before the dawn. To be more accurate, he’d never actually slept, but he was out of bed before the dawn. He rang for a footman and asked for his horses and carriage to be readied as soon as possible. If Selina was going to spend her time in the arms of her close childhood friend, there was no point in his hanging about like some lovesick cub. He would return to Camburton Castle and send another coach back for Selina to return at her leisure.
Or perhaps he’d be lucky and Selina would decide to spend the winter at Rockingham instead of Camburton. Earl FitzWilliam had been quite taken with Miss Ashby and her literary aspirations, and over dinner last night the countess had even invited her to visit at length should she ever require solitude or inspiration for her writing. Perhaps Selina would eventually sleep with the earl and Lady FitzWilliam as well.
He scowled at the unfair bent of his thoughts as he packed his own bag and hoped that he could get out of the castle before encountering anyone. There was a light knock at the door and the footman informed him the carriage was ready and waiting just outside the keep. “We haven’t brought it into the inner courtyard, so as not to wake his lordship and the other guests.”
“Of course, thank you for being so considerate. I’m so sorry to have disrupted the household with my early departure.”
“It’s no disruption, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The footman carried his bag down the hall to the stairs, then led the way, step after silent step, until they crossed the palatial front hall and neared the front door.
“Lord Camburton?”
He thought he must have been hearing Selina’s voice as some nightmarish punishment for his foolishness. The ghost of her sounded tentative and sweet. He kept walking.
“Archie?”
He turned abruptly. The footman also stopped. From the predawn shadows, Selina emerged from the alcove near the front door. “I thought you would want to leave quite early.”
She was perfectly turned out in her rose velvet traveling dress and spencer. She was also wearing a warmer cloak—lined with some decadent fur, he noticed with irritation. Why did that bit of tantalizing fur against her milky skin have to drive him mad? Her hair was pulled back in a severe style, with a small jaunty hat atop her head. The small feather accent quivered slightly, although she appeared to be standing perfectly still.
He addressed the footman. “You may take my bag to the carriage. I will follow along momentarily.” Once they were alone, he turned his attention back to Selina. “I will send a coach back for you tomorrow. The earl has invited you to stay, and it would be rude for you to leave in this manner.”
“Is it not rude for you to leave in this manner?” Her voice held none of its familiar teasing or playfulness. She sounded fragile.
“Selina—”
She lunged for him, desperately clutching his upper arm. He stared down at her hold, and felt completely detached. She might as well have been holding on to a lamppost or an umbrella. He’d gone numb.
“It is not what you think. Constance was trying to seduce me—” She was crying dramatic tears, and he felt a twinge of sympathy, and then . . . nothing.
He peeled her gloved hand off his person. “You were flirting with Miss Forrester from the moment you walked into the drawing room last night. Not that it is any of my concern.”
Her weeping was beginning to become hysterical. “I want it to be your concern! I thought she was my friend. I was happy to see her. She was my childhood friend. And she took advantage of me. You must believe me!” Her voice was low, but hoarse and emphatic.
“I must do no such thing.” He took a deep breath and tried to think of the least troublesome solution to the immediate problem. She gulped back her tears, apparently awaiting his verdict. “And keep your voice down or you will wake the entire castle.” He handed her a handkerchief out of habit.
She took it and patted her eyes, then held it close to her face, just as she’d done that first time they’d kissed. Had it only been a week? When it came to Miss Ashby, it seemed every minute was a year.
He sighed in frustration. “Come with me, then. There’s no point in the two of us making a scene in the earl’s foyer. I will ride up top with the driver.”
He picked up her valise, but did not offer his arm. She followed him in silence, her shorter stride requiring two quick steps across the gravel to each of his longer ones. The sun was just beginning to hint at a magnificent autumnal morning, with the mist and the grass and the morning dew rising to meet the new day. A pair of songbirds began to trill, and both Archie and Selina stopped midstride and turned to listen to their spontaneous joy.
“So beautiful . . .” Selina’s awed whisper unnerved him even further.
He started walking again and spoke without looking at her. “Get in the carriage and please refrain from falling in love with any more birds along the way. We have another long day of continuous travel.”
She gasped, but said nothing. The driver held open the door, and she stepped in and immediately looked out the far window, avoiding eye contact with him or his servant.
“Please get my greatcoat from the
trunk, Granger. I will be riding on the box with you.”
The driver nodded, shut the door to the compartment, located Archie’s coat, and they were off within a few minutes. The morning was clear and fresh, and they would be home at Camburton Castle in time for tea the next day. At least he would be home. Selina would be lurking about as usual.
The few times they paused to water the horses, Selina made her own way into the inns and saw to her own needs, and once again took her meal alone in her room when they stopped for the night. When they arrived at Camburton, she curtseyed politely and thanked him for his kind offer of transportation to and from London. One of the footmen carried her two heavier bags while she carried her valise, and they turned to walk toward her cottage on the other side of the formal gardens. Archie felt her departure like a thread being pulled from the fabric of his being, each step she took away from him unraveling his equanimity.
“Damn it.” He turned to enter Camburton Castle, nodding as he passed the butler who held open the massive oak door. “I’ll take my supper on a tray in my laboratory.” He tossed his greatcoat on the bench in the front hall and headed straight to his workroom to stare into a microscope until he could banish every thought of Miss Ashby from his mind.
It almost worked.
He ran several experiments over and over, proving some of the hypotheses he and Christopher had been batting around after Jenner’s lecture. He wrote his conclusions up in a lengthy report and sent it to London for Christopher’s review. A single line came back in the return post: Are you married yet?
He crumpled it up and then, for good measure, lit it on fire in the incinerator he used to destroy some of his more dangerous specimens. “Yet? Ever.”