by Julia London
Ava’s heart raced as he pushed her against the wall with her hands bound, and put his face against her neck. She moved her head to one side so that he could better reach it, closed her eyes, and let the hunger for him seep into her pores. The man had the capacity to disable her—when he began to kiss her, when his hands began to roam her body, sliding in and out of its most intimate parts, she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but enjoy the ride.
He kissed her neck. “Confess, wench.”
“There is nothing to confess,” she said breathlessly.
He bit her neck. “Perhaps you might start by confessing that you are an accomplished horsewoman, and not the novice you would have me believe.”
She gasped with surprise and brought her heel down on the top of his foot.
“Ouch,” he yelped as Ava slipped away, running to the bed, her hands tied. “How do you know?”
“I saw you ride. Furthermore, you weren’t thrown from Bilbo, or you would have suffered a bruise or a cut instead of the artfully placed dirt on your clothing.”
Ava felt herself color.
He laughed, and pointed a long finger at her. “You may as well confess your other secrets.”
“Why should I? I’m not the only one with secrets!”
He growled and lunged for her, and with a squeal of laughter, Ava hopped up on the bed to stand.
“What secrets?” he asked, eyeing her like prey.
“That you have a particular friend in Lady Kettle.”
“That is no secret,” he said, reaching for her foot, which Ava eluded by jumping from his reach. “She has been an acquaintance for years and is like a sister to me.”
“I rather doubt Lady Kettle perceives it in quite that way,” Ava said, panting a little now. “And what of the riding?”
“The riding?”
“You ride like the wind, my lord.”
“I never claimed to be a novice as you did.”
“But when you ride alone, you ride as hard and fast as is possible. It’s as if you are riding away from something.”
Something dark passed over his eyes, just before he leaped for her, catching her and pulling her down on the bed with him. “It is time for your punishment, Lady Middleton,” he said, and kissed her passionately.
In moments such as this, she was certain she loved him. That she felt this way, that she longed to feel his hands on her, longed to see his smile and hear his voice and lie in the comfort of his arms, made her heart take wing.
He moved down her body, his mouth leaving a hot, wet trail. She didn’t object when he pulled the laces of her chemise free and pushed it open, exposing her breasts and torso, or when his hands grazed lightly over the same path his eyes took. His expression was ravenous, his hands warm and smooth on her skin. He raked his fingers through her hair, then lifted her bound hands and pushed them above her head.
“Just lie there,” he said softly. “Lie there.” He divested himself of the dressing gown, unabashedly standing before her, his body lean and muscular and magnificent. He moved on top of her, bracing himself with his arms, and began a very casual exploration of her with his mouth and hands.
And when he at last slid into her, long and hot, Ava closed her eyes and sailed on the cloud of sensual gratification as he pumped his blood into her womb.
When they had both climaxed, they lay together—her hand, still bearing the silk tie around her wrist, lying carelessly across his chest, and his leg on top of hers. Her head rested on his shoulder while he stroked her hair with his fingers.
They said nothing, for they had, in Ava’s estimation, passed the point where words would serve them. What she was feeling was too profound, too great for mere words, and she hoped, she prayed, that he was feeling the same thing.
But she dared not ask him, dared not let her heart be dashed to pieces.
Twenty-four
T he tide seemed to turn after that night, or at least it seemed that way to Ava.
He invited her along on his outings during the day, the two of them riding side by side. She had the opportunity to see him work, once alongside his tenants, when a small dam on a stream broke and had to be mended. He removed his coat and waistcoat and lifted large rocks along with the tenants to rebuild the dam.
She watched him help herd the cattle he’d bought in Marshbridge, ushering them out to a field on the north side of the abbey. She even tried to help by trudging behind with a big stick, until she stepped into a patch of questionable mud and ruined her shoe.
At night they would sit together in the study, she reading one of the books from his library, he poring over papers that, he explained to her, gave him an accounting of his money.
As to that, there was no end to his generosity. He was adamant that she have what she needed to support Phoebe and Greer—assuming, of course, they ever saw Greer again. According to Phoebe’s latest letter, Greer had traveled deeper into Wales in pursuit of her family. Ava was very disturbed by it and asked Jared one night, “What sort of lawlessness and disorder do you think is in Wales?”
He smiled. “The usual sort, I’d suspect.”
“Oh no,” she exclaimed, the furrow in her brow going deeper.
He laughed. “By that I mean not very much of it.”
“Ooh,” she said, greatly relieved.
Ava was pleased that he tolerated Sally, too, who had become quite chaste after the dressing-down Ava gave her.
“You’re not pinching the bottoms of the footmen or anything as ill-advised as that, are you?” Ava asked one afternoon.
Sally clucked her tongue at her. “Of course not. If I’m to pinch, it’s the cock I’m after.”
“Sally!” Ava cried, whirling around so quickly that Sally lost the fold she was pinning at her back.
“What?” Sally asked innocently. “Don’t you want to pinch the master’s from time to time?”
Ava flushed and turned around. “Whether or not I do is very much beside the point. The point, Sally Pierce, is that you must be on your best behavior. You promised.”
“Not bloody fair that you’re the only one in this house to be allowed a bit of sport,” she groused, but then grinned at Ava’s reflection over her shoulder and winked.
Ava closed her eyes and sighed heavenward, but in truth, she did enjoy Sally’s fresh view of the world, and moreover, she needed Sally. The woman had taught her many things about how to please her husband—even though she was constantly cautioning Ava that she was giving in to him far too easily.
“The moment the whore comes round, she’ll catch him in her web again,” she warned Ava one night when Ava waxed dreamily about her day with her husband, in which they had both joined in the binding of hay bales alongside the crofters.
“For pity’s sake!” Sally exclaimed when Ava mentioned how very strong he was. “He knows he has you in his pocket, doesn’t he? He’ll think, Why, I’ve another empty pocket here…”
“Hush,” Ava said sternly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
But privately, Ava feared that Sally could be right. She couldn’t seem to grow accustomed to Lady Kettle’s frequent visits to the abbey, or the easy way she laughed with Middleton, or the way she looked at him. But at the same time, Ava had learned quite a lot from Lady Kettle about her husband. She had told Ava stories that had painted the image of a lonely boy, rarely with his parents, yet still under the thumb of a very rigid father. His childhood sounded rather bleak.
And there was the reckless riding that she couldn’t understand. And when he worked, he worked to the point of exhaustion, doing more than any other man, often working fearlessly, without regard to his person. It almost seemed as if he didn’t care what happened to him, and if he didn’t care for himself, could he really care for her?
While her relationship with him had improved—they seemed to be getting along quite well, she thought—she couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. Just when they would get very close, he’d be gone again
, or his mood would grow dark and pensive. She often had the impression that he felt trapped in the moment, or the day. Or perhaps even the marriage.
Honestly, she supposed she really didn’t know him very well at all.
Which was why she had come to dread the delivery of the post. She endeavored each day to reach it before Middleton. She had, in the last two weeks, snatched up two letters Lady Waterstone had penned, but fretted that more had reached Middleton.
The two she’d confiscated she read aloud to Sally, who lay on the chaise rolling her eyes, puffing out her cheeks, and making all sorts of disdainful noises.
But Ava did not see any letters posted to London in response. That kept the flame of hope alive in her.
Unfortunately, the flame was not as bright as she would have liked. She had noticed, over the course of time, that the marquis never used her given name. And she never used his, except in the privacy of their marriage bed. It was almost as if the use of given names between them was somehow too intimate.
That he wouldn’t say her name began to gnaw at her. She began to count the number of times he referred to her as “madam” or “Lady Middleton.” She counted the number of times she referred to him as “my lord” or “sir.” It began to feel as if she were the maid sleeping with the master, never allowed the use of his first name, except in the most intimate of circumstances.
She stopped using his given name altogether, stubbornly determined that his name would not pass her lips until he loved her. Ava didn’t care how long she might wait. It was as she wrote to Phoebe:
Sisters and cousins use given names. Why on earth wouldn’t a husband and wife? It seems positively barbaric. As to barbarians, is there word from Greer?
It wasn’t until the week of their departure for Harrison’s estate and his annual gathering to mark the start of the fox-hunting season that Ava finally reached her limit.
It was a dreary night, cold and wet and a bit blustery, and given that she had a draft in her suite—“The crack in the wall is as wide as the Thames,” she avowed—she had crawled into his bed that night for warmth. “How will you possibly hunt in such weather?”
“Ah, but that is half the fun of it,” he said, putting his arm around her and pulling her into his side.
They lay silently for a moment, listening to the sound of rain on the windows, the crackle of wood burning in the hearth. Middleton wrapped her braid around his fist and after a moment, he asked softly, “Have your courses come?”
The question galled her. He’d asked it three times in the last two months, as if her fulfillment of that single function was the most important thing in the entire world.
“Two weeks ago,” she bit out.
“Ah,” he said, and damn him if he didn’t sound disappointed.
Ava buried her face in his chest, but he put his hand to her chin and forced her to look up. In the firelight, his hazel eyes were dark in a way that she understood very well now, a darkness that always made her shiver with anticipation, a look that made her blood rush.
He knew it, too—he suddenly rolled her on her back, coming over her. He pulled the top of her nightgown open and pressed his lips to her throat. “Beautiful,” he muttered.
She wanted to push him away, but she couldn’t—she lit up so quickly with the touch of his hands, the pressure of his lips. Her blood warmed and moved, pooling in her groin, filling her with a desperate longing to be held and loved by him.
“My lord,” she moaned as his hands found her breasts.
“Call me Jared,” he uttered before turning his mouth to her breast.
Something caught in the beating of her heart, and the very warm feeling suddenly evaporated. “No,” she said flatly.
He paused in his attention to her breast and glanced up at her face. “Beg your pardon?”
She roughly pushed him away, then pushed herself up to sit. “I won’t use it because your given name is reserved for those you love and who love you. It’s the same reason you never call me Ava.”
He looked stung; he pushed up, too, swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat there, looking a little dazed. “By God, I don’t know what you want at times,” he said. “I don’t know how to please you. I’ve tried to be good to you, I’ve tried to make things right when you feel they are wrong, yet you still find something to grieve. What do you want, Ava?”
She bit her lip, felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and blurted, “I want…I had hoped…that you would grow to love me.”
He looked stricken; it was clear from the confusion on his face that he had no idea how to respond. It was just as clear that he wasn’t going to give her any declarations of undying love, either. “Ava,” he said, reaching for her hand. “My darling Ava.”
It was the first time he’d used any term of endearment, and she heartened, turned toward him, and swiped at the tears with her fingers.
“Love…love comes with time,” he said haltingly.
Her heart plummeted, and she actually felt a bit queasy. “Oh God,” she said.
“It takes time and experience to develop,” he added, looking awfully pained.
“Yes, I know that,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “It’s just that…it’s just that I don’t know how two people can be…like this,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the bed, “and there be no stronger affection.”
“But there is affection!” he insisted with a smile, and cupped her face with his hand. “I hold you in the highest esteem. I…I esteem you greatly.”
He seemed to be fumbling for words, but Ava waited for more. “And?” she prompted him.
“And?” he echoed, confused as to what she wanted.
“Oh!” she cried, and scrambled off the bed, grabbing up her dressing gown.
“Wait,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “Where are you going? Don’t go—let’s speak of this. If you want me to call you Ava, I will certainly do so, and of course you have my leave to use my given name—”
“I have your leave? Dear God, you haven’t understood a word I’ve said, have you?” she gasped, tying the sash of her dressing gown around her. “You believe that this is about your given name?”
“But you said—”
“Yes, yes, I know what I said,” she cried, gesturing wildly. “I wish I’d never spoken of it! My mother, rest her soul, was right! Marriage is nothing but a matter of convenience and fortune, and to want more from it is sheer lunacy!”
“What are you saying?” he asked roughly. “This marriage is rotten because I did not use your given name?”
“This marriage is rotten because it’s not a marriage!” she cried. “It’s a business arrangement!”
“Yes,” he said, his voice suddenly cold. “It is indeed a business arrangement because that is precisely what you wanted! I warned you, madam—do not ask of me what I cannot give you!”
Tears began to blur her vision. “Is it because you love someone else?”
“No!” he said, his voice full of exasperation. “I love no one.”
“Augh!” she cried, and ran around the foot of the bed, trying to run past him, but Middleton caught her arm. “Let go!” she cried.
“You knew what this was!” he bellowed. “You knew from the moment we met what this was!”
“But it changed!” she cried, trying to yank free. “You cannot deny that it has changed!”
“Ava, listen to me,” he said, grabbing her other arm and forcing her to stop squirming. “We are comfortable together. That’s really quite good!”
She wrenched free of his grip and lunged for the door.
“Ava!” he shouted after her, but she had already run through the door, wanting to be as far away from him as she possibly could be.
Behind her, Jared stared at the open door, then turned and slammed his fist into the dressing room door. He knew precisely what Ava wanted, and he wanted nothing more than to give it to her.
He just didn’t know if he could. He didn’t trust his feelings and was far
more comfortable with their arrangement.
Frankly, he’d been feeling quite lost of late. He enjoyed Ava’s company in a way he would not have thought possible. He found her witty and smart, willing to help out where most women would not deign to lift a finger.
Ava’s allure was in her bright, and perhaps somewhat naïve, outlook on the world. He found it utterly charming, a refreshing perspective from the way he’d come to view the world. He adored her spirit, he did. But he didn’t know if he loved her, if he was even capable of it. He’d only loved once in his life, and that had ended disastrously. He had learned, a long time ago, that if one invested too much of oneself in another, someone or something could take it all away.
There was the preservation of the self in not falling in love.
Ava, he thought wearily, would learn it one day as well as he had.
Twenty-five
T he next day, the rains had stopped and, according to Dawson, Middleton had ridden to Broderick very early. Ava was glad for it—she didn’t want to see him until she had managed to find her way and a method of enduring her marriage.
She took a long walk, up to the old castle ruins. As it happened, Edmond Foote was there, brandishing a wooden sword. “Friend or foe?” he called down to her.
“Friend!”
He nodded, and carefully slipped his sword into a cloth scabbard he’d obviously sewn together.
“May I enter?” she asked from the bottom of the old castle walls.
He gave her a beautifully charming smile and bowed low, sweeping his hand grandly to the ruins. “My castle is yours.”
She climbed up and saw that he’d been dragging rocks around to form the outline of rooms.
“Ah. You are rebuilding the castle, are you? I must be standing in the kitchen.”
“You are standing in the bailey,” he said, as if that were obvious from the outline of rocks.