He held her, looking down at what she was doing. The power did not diminish in that interlude. She felt it in him, thundering, crashing, making him grasp her against him.
He slid off her nightdress and kicked off his garments until they were both naked in front of the fire. She reached between their bodies to touch the tip of his arousal. As if that had been a challenge, he caressed to where she throbbed and made that hungry pulse tremble through her whole body.
She became crazed and desperate and lost hold of the world. She wanted him inside her, nothing more and nothing else. In her madness she must have whispered that, but she did not hear herself speak.
“Soon,” he murmured.
She expected him to move her to the bed. Instead he turned her so that she faced the warm glow of the dying fire. He embraced her from behind while he pressed hot kisses to her neck, provoking incredible shivers that made her arch her bottom against him and languidly writhe within his arms.
He caressed her freely, wonderfully. His hands moved in slow, sweeping strokes over her breasts and stomach, her hips and thighs. Luxurious pleasure lapped through her in delicious waves. It felt so good she almost could not bear it. It increased her impatience, even as she never wanted it to end.
He lifted her hands to the mantel and pushed her hair over her shoulder. She realized what he was going to do. Her astonishment was eclipsed by a deeply erotic excitement that had her body trembling.
He caressed down her back and over her bottom. “You are so beautiful. You make my heart stop.” His hands grasped her hips.
He entered slightly and paused, barely joined, creating a tantalizing fullness that teased her until she was crazed. She closed her eyes as that taste of fulfillment became the only reality. She felt him so distinctly. Her flesh throbbed from the exquisite torture. The sensation became too powerful to bear.
Finally he thrust, deeply. The perfection made her moan. He reached around her body to where her breasts tingled, sensitive to the air and fire’s warmth. He lightly caressed the tips, sending intense pleasure down to where they were joined.
She could not contain what it did to her. Clutching the mantel, arching her back, she submitted totally to the crescendo of sensations carrying her to the bliss of pure pleasure.
She snuggled against him in the bed. He had carried her here some time ago, but the daze of their passion had only now lifted.
She drew little lines with her fingertips on the arm that wrapped her. “How many sophisticated affairs have there been before me, Julian?”
He thought it an odd question. Perhaps she wanted to fill in the big gaps in her knowledge from when he was Mr. Hampton.
“I suppose some men keep a count, but I did not. There was none who truly mattered to me, nor I to her, however.”
The devil of it was that he had tried to make it matter. As a young man he had even convinced himself there were great passions. Eventually, too soon, he would admit in his soul that he was lying to his lover, and to himself.
It was during moments like this that the emotional vacancy of those affairs could not be denied. There was an essential dishonor in taking a woman and then having as your first clear thought that you wished it had been someone else.
“You had frivolous affairs, then, not only sophisticated ones,” she said. “We have something in common.”
“Not entirely.”
“True. I did not really have affairs.”
That was not what he meant.
“Is that why you never married? Because none truly mattered to you?”
He was not sure he wanted to have this conversation with her. “After your brother wed, I considered marrying. It seemed it was time and I was established. My interest could not be sustained long enough to do the deed. I concluded that I was not made for marriage.”
It was true, every word. Just incomplete.
“I do not remember you on the marriage mart. I never saw you surveying the girls. Nor did you have your friends make any introductions.”
“It happened, only not in your society. Solicitors seek their brides in other circles.” Lower circles. The daughters of viscounts were not for them. That was so accepted, so well known, that it never had to be said.
Nor did Pen question it now.
She occupied herself with her finger tracings, as if the patterns distracted her. Eventually those soft pads found their way to the scar on his side again.
“Did my brother do this? I would have thought he would be more careful.”
“It was another member of our set.”
Her touch brought back the images from the day he received that long wound. He had arranged to meet Witherby at Corbet’s fencing academy on a day when he knew even the chevalier would not be there. He did not ride to that meeting with any intention in mind except a blunt conversation about his suspicions.
His companion had been waiting, already prepared. Julian walked into that large hall and saw Witherby practicing his steps and moves, sabre in hand. He guessed at once that Witherby had his own reasons for agreeing to come.
“That was quite a drama here with Glasbury last week,” Witherby said as they began their mock contest. “He appeared to be accusing you of something.”
“He was wrong in his suspicions about me. However, he has evidence that someone knows things they should not.”
Witherby’s sword made an elegant block of Julian’s own. “Well, secrets eventually become known.”
“Only if someone speaks of them. In this case, I think that someone spoke of them to you.”
Witherby paced away. A hard expression masked his face when he turned back. His eyes held a coldness Julian had never seen before.
“Be plain, man. What are you saying?”
“What you expected me to say. Only two people know the earl’s secrets. Me and the countess. I have spoken to no one. That means she has. She told you.”
Witherby laughed. He swiped his sword at the air, then took his position again. They engaged once more. “Why would she tell me? More likely she confided in a friend.”
“She told you because you have seduced her.” Putting it into words darkened his mood and sharpened his skill. “She confided in you as her lover. Only you saw a way to enrich yourself by threatening the earl with exposure. There is no other explanation, Witherby. Nor is there any excuse for such a dishonorable violation of her trust.”
Witherby’s smile turned into a sneer. “You cannot prove it.”
“I need only to ask her if she told you.”
“And I only need to tell her to keep silent, and she will. Which of us do you think has her first loyalty?” Witherby’s sword instantly became more aggressive. “Stay out of it, Hampton. You have no standing to interfere.”
A storm broke in Julian’s head and his sword acted accordingly. They no longer sparred for sport but in a duel.
Clanging steel rang through the empty hall. The exertions of their fighting linked them in an increasingly deadly dance. Julian’s sword grazed Witherby’s arm: First blood was drawn.
Julian stepped back and stared at the red oozing in a thin line. Sanity returned.
Witherby stared at his wound in astonishment. Julian lowered his sword. “Retreat from any contact with the earl and I will speak to no one about this.”
“Are you trying to protect yourself from his suspicions, or that pig from his crimes?”
“I only seek to protect the countess. I do not want her to discover that you used her so badly.”
He turned to walk away. Suddenly a hot pain slashed his side. He staggered and pivoted and saw Witherby’s crazed eyes and red face.
Somehow he found the strength to fend off the deadly challenge that ensued. He let his own fury loose and it kept the pain at bay. With a relentless attack he backed Witherby up against the wall until there was no room to move.
Witherby dropped his sword and tried to sink into the stone. Julian placed the tip of his sword against his neck and battled the primitive urge t
o kill him. For a few moments only their deep breaths sounded.
The blood lust mostly passed, but not entirely. He could not resist pricking Witherby’s skin so that a bit more red showed. Then he lowered his sword and swung his left fist right into Witherby’s body. His opponent crumbled to the floor.
The fight had not left the scoundrel. He grinned up from where he doubled over his gut. “I have never seen you so impassioned, Julian. And here I thought you were made of ice. Did you expect her to live her entire life alone, like you, so that you could watch from afar with the contentment that no man had her?”
Julian walked away. “If you hurt her, I will make you regret it. If you betray her further, I will kill you.”
That warning had stopped Witherby. The earl had received no more anonymous demands for money. But Witherby’s dishonor had all come out anyway, and Pen had indeed been hurt.
“Another caused this scar?” Pen asked, making him realize he had only been lost in the past for a few seconds. “Not St. John or Adrian Burchard, surely. They are too skilled for such carelessness.”
She suddenly went very still, as if her process of elimination had led to a stunning conclusion. Or maybe she had heard his thoughts as he relived that day in Hampstead.
“Oh, dear God. He did this because you guessed what he was doing. He could have killed you.”
“He could have, but he did not.”
No, he did not. Pen considered that while she touched the scar once again. Julian made it sound like it had been generosity on Witherby’s part, but she did not think it had happened that way. She did not think Witherby had won that sword fight.
She embraced the man who had confronted her betrayer all those years ago. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest.
It was sinful that she had lived all this time not knowing how he had tried to protect her.
The passing time suddenly pressed on her. She felt the minutes and hours flying past, and with it this sweet intimacy. She dreaded the dawn and his departure for London. She inhaled deeply so she would remember his scent. She pressed her lips to his skin and memorized its taste.
He touched her head, and turned it so he could kiss her.
His passion was not savage this time, but slow and heartrending. He moved her atop him, straddling his hips, and sat her up so he could look at her while he caressed her body. She looked down and touched every inch of his muscular shoulders and chest, while his strong, masculine hands fondled her breasts.
Her arousal built poignantly. Perfectly. He did not hurry it. Her complete awareness of him drenched every pleasure, every touch. It was so beautiful and sad that she wanted to weep.
He lifted her hips and then lowered her so they were together. She leaned forward to kiss him, then spoke as she nuzzled the crook of his neck.
“Julian, you said that lovemaking had not truly mattered to you or your lovers.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to know it does this time. It truly matters to me that we have shared this.”
He lifted her enough that he could see her face. “As it does for me, Pen.”
“I am glad, Julian. I am thankful that we are each other’s firsts in this way. It is very special to have that with a good friend whom you trust.”
An odd little smile passed over his mouth. “Yes, a good friend.”
He eased her forward so she hovered over him. His tongue flicked at one nipple and his fingers played with the other. “Now cry for me, darling, so I hear nothing else all the way to London.”
chapter 16
Are you going to tell me where we are going now, madame?”
Catherine made the demand as soon as they left Mrs. Kenworthy’s house two mornings later. Catherine had not been pleased by Pen’s sudden change in plans. She had not liked the notion of continuing the journey with little rest.
The carriage that had brought them from Hampstead made a turn at the crossroad where the big chestnut grew. The view of its branches reinforced Pen’s wobbling security that she was doing the right thing.
That could be me. One day it will be me.
“I am going to Liverpool, Catherine. After that, I am going to America.”
“America! That is certainly a change in direction. No one told me I was expected to go to America.”
“You may come as far as you like, or you can depart at the first coaching inn. Mr. Hampton will see to your wages in the latter case. If you embark with me, I can promise nothing except freedom and adventure and economic uncertainty until I contact my brother.”
“Madame, really … America? If you had a disagreement with Mr. Hampton, could we not just visit Bath? Your displeasure will be expressed. I daresay he will be very contrite.”
“America it must be. Be assured this is no impulse. Nor is this the result of some quarrel. I have been thinking about it for some time now. Months.”
“If he gave you no clear cause for your decision, that is worse. Mr. Hampton will be heartbroken.”
“I expect he will quickly recover, Catherine. You have misunderstood this journey from its start, and now you are misunderstanding its conclusion.”
Pen was not sure of much about this decision, but she was quite secure that Julian would not be heartbroken. She had learned long ago that passion and love were not the same thing, especially for men. His affection for her was precious, but her departure would not leave him feeling betrayed.
Maybe he would even be relieved. Her disappearance would spare him from facing the dragon he could not vanquish, and from getting embroiled in an affair that would destroy his security.
She was the one who would remember this brief tryst forever. She was the one whose heart had been touched to new depths. It still ached from the intensity of last night, and hurt so badly she wanted to weep.
“The offer to accompany you is generous, and tempting,” Catherine said. “However, I do not think I could be so permanently parted from my child. I will accompany you to Liverpool, madame. Then, since we will be so close to Carlisle, I will travel on and find a way to see my Beth.”
Pen had guessed this would be Catherine’s answer. She had known she would be sailing to America completely alone.
The coaching inn at Blackburn was a busy place, with carriages and horses filling its yard, and footmen and coachmen crowding its public rooms. Ladies in fur-trimmed carriage mantles mingled with passengers who rode atop mail coaches. Servers dispensed ale and mulled wine to anyone with the coin.
As she had since leaving Hampstead, and as she had the last night in Skipton, Pen used a false name when she secured a tiny chamber for herself and Catherine. While she shook out a few garments for the night and the next day, Catherine left to take a turn, as was her habit in the evening.
Domestic duties finished, Pen was left with her thoughts.
Early tomorrow they would reach Liverpool, and she would find a berth on a ship. Very soon she would leave England forever.
She kept seeing her brothers and sister as she last saw them, images that would never change or grow older. She pictured her nieces and nephews, forever young in her mind even as they matured and found their lives.
It would be the same for them, too. She would be the aunt who was swallowed by America. In ten years it would be as if she had never existed.
If thoughts of her old world filled her with nostalgia, those of the waiting one left her anxious. She saw herself as America would see her, a countess who had left her own people, a woman who had abandoned her husband.
The latter point would keep many people of quality from associating with her, just as it had in Britain. There would be men who did not want their wives to have her as a friend, and women who would only speak of her in whispers of gossip. She would have to travel far from the cities and society in order to escape from her shaded history.
She would have to in order to escape the earl, too. Julian had been right about that.
Julian.
She refused to
picture him when he found her gone. She did not want to speculate on his expression then, or his response. None of the ones that flashed through her head lifted her melancholy. All of them, whether those of sadness or relief or acceptance, clawed at her heart.
She heard steps on the boards in the inn’s corridor. She hoped they heralded Catherine’s return. She would find some other subject to speak of with Catherine, and distract herself from these sad thoughts.
The steps stopped outside her door. A drop of curiosity dripped into her awareness. A tiny shiver of anticipation danced in her heart.
One step had sounded heavy. Perhaps Julian had—
The door opened abruptly. Shock obliterated her budding excitement.
Catherine flew in, trying to keep her balance as her body lunged forward, hurtled by a rough push. Two men followed and closed the door behind them.
“No screaming, now,” one man commanded. “No yelling. No reason for either of you to get hurt, then.”
Pen darted over to steady Catherine. “Oh, dear. Did Jacob somehow have you followed? I am so sorry—”
“It was not Jacob who had us followed, madame.” Catherine said. “They are Glasbury’s men.”
Julian found Laclere at home, sitting in the library with the viscountess. It did not surprise him to find them together. Laclere and his wife Bianca often spent time together, as if this mansion did not have forty chambers and they lived in a cottage where one had to share every space.
It was not the first grand house that Julian had visited today as he hurried around London, but it would be the last.
“I am glad you have called, Hampton,” Laclere said. “You have been making yourself scarce of late, and there are matters that require your attention.”
Bianca untucked her feet from under her rump on the sofa and assumed a more decorous seat. Laclere s wife had never conformed to expectations of normal behavior for her station. An American heiress, she was a handsome woman with golden hair, large blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face, but not a great beauty.
The Romantic Page 16