by Lavinia Kent
Finally, his long legs spreading, he sat across from her. A carriage had never felt so small.
“Do you know we’ve never actually been in a carriage together before?” She had to say something, unwilling to sit in awkward silence.
“Really? We must have.”
“No. Even after the wedding you went on ahead. I am not quite sure why, but I do remember there was a reason, something that made it only slightly odd.”
“Are you sure? I can’t remember.”
Their wedding day and he couldn’t remember. She remembered every single second of that day. Of the joy in her heart and the anticipation of what was to come—what had never come. “It is not important.”
“Surely, however, we must have gone somewhere together in that month before I left.”
“I do not believe so.” She knew for a fact that they had not, but was not going to make a bigger issue of it.
“How many times do you need me to say that I am sorry?” His voice was very quiet.
That had not been what she was aiming for, however . . . . “I believe you’ve only said it once—and you left the room immediately after.”
The sound of a deep breath being pulled in very slowly filled the space. “I suppose I’ve said it so many times in my mind that I was unaware I had not said it aloud.” He reached out and took her palm in his hand. “Do you know one of the things I like least about being home? Gloves. It is warm out. There is not a chance of rain and I would be greatly surprised if you intended any manual labor this evening. Why are you wearing gloves?”
“How did the subject change from your being sorry to my wearing gloves? And I wear them because it wouldn’t be proper not to.”
“Take them off. At least take one off.”
The command was clear. Should she disobey? It was a very strange request. Undoing the tiny pearl buttons, she peeled off one glove. “You will have to help me get it back on before we arrive. I cannot be seen in only one glove.”
“I promise.” He had removed one glove also, and after a moment reached out and took her palm in his.
It was the strangest of feelings. Warm flesh against warm flesh. Her thighs pressed together as she fought the sensations the contact brought her. She ran her thumb across the flat of his hand. His skin was rougher than hers; calluses marked the base of each finger. She stroked again.
“I helped with the sails on the way home. Rope will eat at your flesh quickly if it doesn’t thicken. Not that my hands were ever smooth—not like yours.” He turned her hand over, palm up, and raised it to his lips. The softest, sweetest of kisses sent little quivers of excitement up her arm.
Even knowing she should pull away, she was powerless. He lifted his eyes to hers and peered up at her through thick, dark lashes. He didn’t say anything but brought his mouth back to her hand. Another kiss. “I am very sorry for all the hurt I have caused you.” Another kiss. “When I was small my mother would kiss away all my hurts. I wish I could do the same for you.” The next kiss was different, his lips parting and his tongue stroking the sensitive flesh.
She started to pull away, reflexively, the sudden feeling beyond what she had been expecting. Not wanting to be thought a prude, she stopped, her hand halfway out of his.
A slow, easy smile spread across his face as he continued to stare into her eyes. His pupils expanded, even in the dark she could see them grow. He bent his head an inch, his lips finding the tip of her little finger, and then the next. When he reached her forefinger, he caught the end between his teeth, drawing it into his mouth.
Her heart stopped. She knew that it could not really have ceased to beat, but what other explanation could there be for the way her body felt?
He sucked softly, then hard, then softly again. His eyes never left hers. “Do you like that?”
Was it possible to talk when one had no breath? She forced her chest out, forcing her lungs to fill with air. Her breasts pulled tight against the fabric of her dress. “I don’t know.”
His eyes had dropped from hers and fastened on the black lace edging of her bodice. He sucked again and she felt her nipples swell as if it were them he suckled upon.
Slowly, very slowly, he raised his other hand, still gloved, and, giving her ample time to draw away, ran his fingers across the edge of her bodice. He didn’t push the dress lower or allow his fingers to stray, he just brushed across the firm curve of her upper breast.
There was no chance that she would have moved even had she been able, even had her entire body not felt frozen—frozen with desire. Was such a thing even possible? There were no other words to describe the sensations he caused to rise within her.
He had to stop. They had not done anything yet—a kiss on the hand, even such a one as they were sharing, did not count as anything—but he knew that if this continued another minute, another thirty seconds—hell, another second—he would be lost. They would never attend the ball and he would never have his chance to show the world how he felt about his wife.
Pulling her finger into his mouth one more time, wondering if she knew that it was her breast his mind was filled with, he released her, placing one last gentle kiss in the center of her palm. He sat up, folding his legs away from her. “Here, let me have your glove. We had best get it back into place.”
Her body stiffened. She was not happy with his sudden withdrawal, but then neither was he. It was not, however, the done thing to seduce one’s wife in the carriage—at least not before the ball. After might be another story.
Eyebrows drawn close together, she settled back into her seat and shrugged her shoulders, her delightful breasts pressing again against her bodice. This cutaway coat was definitely going to be an impediment. “Don’t be disgruntled. We will be there in a moment and I know you want to appear properly attired.” He took the glove and her hand and began to ease the fabric over her long, elegant fingers.
“I am not disgruntled.”
He supposed it would not be polite to say that she sounded like a fussy child. “Do you wish me to delay our arrival at the ball?”
He raised his hand as if to knock.
“No.” She pulled back the curtain and looked out into the dark. I do not wish to be late. It makes everyone stare when you enter. Far better to be part of the crush.”
His gut clenched again. What had he done to her? Oh, he would not take blame alone, he knew her uncle and her cousins had done their part, but this was unbearable. “I am surprised that they don’t stare at you whenever you arrive.” She might take that wrong, he hurried ahead. “You must be by far the most beautiful and exotic thing there.”
“And that’s why you left me for four years—because I was so beautiful?”
In a way it had been, he now realized. She’d been so young, so delicate, and he’d felt a rough bore who would ruin her if he touched her. And more than that, he’d been afraid that if he touched her he would never leave. There was not time for such an explanation now, however. “No, I left because I had always planned on it—nothing more. Why don’t we save these words for later?”
The carriage jerked to a halt, the sound of the groom dismounting echoing through it.
With a slight creak, the door swung out.
With practiced grace, William slipped his legs out and then jumped down. He’d learned long ago that if he attempted to stand first it would become a game of contortion. Turning, he held out his hand.
“Come with me,” he said. “Let me not only say, but show you my apology.”
Her eyes questioned, but she held out her now-gloved hand and followed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Pepperidges had really outdone themselves. The ballroom was decorated to resemble the banquet room at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. Not that Elizabeth had ever been there, but she’d certainly seen reproductions as people gasped at the huge expense of the original, while admiring the beauty.
Lord Pepperidge must truly be expecting to curry royal favor. He’d lined the walls with heavy velvet
drapes, their long tassels flowing to the ground. And the paper! Every square inch of wall seemed to be covered with painted paper that must be identical to that the king had chosen. She wondered if Pepperidge would keep it up after the party was finished. It seemed a huge expense for only one night, but surely one would not want one’s home to be an exact copy of the king’s.
William shifted his arm, bringing her fingers tight against his body. The gesture was innocent, but her response was not. The memory of the sensation of his bare palm against her skin remained from earlier. She could not help but wonder what it would feel like if his skin were uncovered now.
Smiling through introductions, aware of all the eyes upon her, she wondered how long it would be before William left her, before he sought refuge in the card room or went walking on the terrace with a cheroot. She curled her fingers around his forearm, feeling the hard muscle beneath his jacket. Time spent pulling up sails had affected more than the skin of his hands.
Together, they strolled deeper into the ballroom.
“May I have your first dance?” William asked softly.
Surprise filled her. “I didn’t think you danced.”
“I don’t. Not well, at least. But you do. I remember seeing you, before we were wed, dancing with a doll on the lawns at your uncle’s country estate.
She had done that—and far more frequently than she should have—but had never realized anyone had seen her. Lifting her face to his, she tried to decide if he was poking fun at her or if he genuinely knew she liked to dance. “Yes, I would like to dance.”
He led her to the floor. A country dance began and they could do no more than smile as they moved up and down the line. Conversation was impossible, but every time their hands touched she felt as if some special message passed between them.
He stumbled slightly as they danced down the shortening set, but the vigor of the skip with which he followed more than made up for it. He might not be practiced, but he certainly had both grace and energy. He’d last the length of the dance no matter how many couples joined in.
It was almost half an hour later that the dance finished. Elizabeth knew that her cheeks must be glowing, and a genuine smile was fighting to be seen. Dancing had always been a favorite pastime, but she’d never had so much simple fun. William’s glances and secret looks had been perfectly in line with her own feelings. There’d been one couple who never quite managed to move together, and each time they’d passed, William’s face had shone with hidden amusement—and she’d known her own expression mirrored the feeling. And Lady Whistlebottom’s feathers. The spray of white egret that adorned her hair had almost removed the eyes of several gentlemen, and then at the very end she’d managed to dip them in a glass of red punch. It had been almost impossible not to laugh.
It was at that moment that she’d realized she truly liked her husband.
Their eyes met and she’d realized that they both felt the humor of the situation—but that the greater humor was in trying not to laugh at such absurdity. William had pantomimed biting his cheek and in return she’d had to actually bite her own to keep the mirth from spilling out.
What would everyone think if she did laugh? She was known for being fierce and stiff, not for laughing aloud at the end of a country dance. Her cheeks were sore with the effort to keep her face placid, and finally she allowed herself a full smile.
William held out his arm again and she took it without questioning. It should have been time for them to part, to fulfill their social obligations separately, but she was not eager to leave him—she was having far too much fun in her husband’s company. A ball had never seemed so full of delight and magic—and fun. She knew she was repeating the word, but could not help herself.
He seemed in no hurry to leave her, either, and that flush that marked his cheeks made him look like he was enjoying himself as well. The thought raised a warmth deep in her belly. Her husband was enjoying her company.
He led her to fetch a glass of champagne and then another. They walked on the terrace. She showed off her limited knowledge, identifying each of the plants that ran along the border by its full Latin name. He only corrected her twice.
And then another dance, a waltz this time. The feeling of his strong arms about her filled her with warmth and security. Despite their physical closeness, they did not talk during the dance, simply enjoying the music and the feeling of moving together. Whatever lack of ability he’d shown earlier vanished as they floated together across the floor.
Then that dance, too, was over.
“Would you like some more champagne?” William asked.
“In truth I would, although I fear you’ll believe you have a wife who overindulges.”
“Never. Shall I fetch it or will you accompany me?”
Choices. “I would love to accompany you, but I fear that I need a moment to refresh myself, if you do not mind.”
William nodded. “I will meet you back here in ten minutes. Is that acceptable?”
It was her turn to nod—and then he was gone.
Her feet were still dancing as she turned and made her way up the stairs toward the retiring room. The night could not have been more wonderful.
“You ladies should be paying me soon.” A man coming down the stairs commented as she passed.
She stopped, turning. “Excuse me, sir, but do I know you?”
“We have been introduced.”
Racking her brains, she tried to place him. He was a most ordinary man, although something about him reminded her of a feral creature, something looking out only for itself. “I am afraid I do not recall. I would pretend if I could.”
“Why am I not surprised?” His tone was snide.
She should have ignored him and walked past. It wasn’t like she had a reputation for being gracious to uphold. “I do not know what I have done to warrant such behavior. I can assure you that I meant you no disrespect. It is not my fault that you are not memorable.” There, that sounded more like Elizabeth, the Countess of Westhampton, and less like a silly girl falling in love with her escort.
Oh, perish that last thought. It was impossible to fall in love with someone in a couple of days—even if you had once fooled yourself that they were your dream prince.
Still considering that last thought, she stared hard at the man. “I do not understand your comment, but I do not need to. If you will excuse me, I must be going.” She grabbed her skirts in one hand, pulling them aside, and swept up the stairs.
The weight of the man’s gaze burned upon her back. Whatever she had done to offend him in the past must have stung him deeply—although she could not think of anything that might even begin to explain his hostility. Perhaps she was being too self-important. It was more likely that he was having a bad evening and had chosen to take it out on her.
But spending another moment thinking about him was a waste of time. The evening was by far the most pleasant she had spent in the last years and she was not going to let one unpleasant encounter ruin it.
“Why were you talking to Swatts?” The voice came from the top of the stairs, redirecting her attention.
“Who?” Elizabeth turned her attention to Kathryn.
“Swatts—he’s actually Doveshire’s heir presumptive, if you can believe that. A truly vile little man. Oh, I do hope he’s not a friend. I should learn to think before I speak.”
“No, I cannot say he is a friend. I do not recall ever meeting the man—which I am afraid I made much too apparent and he is quite insulted. My mind is simply on other things and I spoke without thinking.”
Kathryn laughed, a proper social titter. “I imagine that it was. Your husband is very attentive. Nobody watching tonight would believe either of the cartoons. The two of you can’t seem to keep your eyes off each other. I’ve never seen a man quite so captivated by his own wife at a ball. Even Harrington and Doveshire ran off as soon as was possible—although Harrington does tend to reappear whenever a waltz begins. He glowers if he finds me dancing on
e with another man. He almost ignored me in public for the first two years of our marriage and now he bristles whenever another man comes near.”
“I can’t imagine Westhampton ever behaving in such a way.”
The sounds of the next dance filled the landing. “I do understand,” Kathryn said. “I admit that I once felt the same about Harrington. It takes a lot for a man to show his feelings before society, but I must admit that I am happy that Harrington has decided I am worth it.” The smile that played about her mouth spoke of far more than the normal definition of happiness. There was a good measure of deep satisfaction mixed in as well. “But forget about that. I came to speak to you about Linnette. The two of you must reconcile. You know that I have had my own problems with her as well, but I cannot bear to have the two of you at such odds.”
“You heard about what happened in the park.”
“Who in all of London, perhaps all of England, has not? I am only surprised that there is not yet a cartoon showing her with her bodice about her waist and you with your cheek swollen and ugly.”
“At least Linnette has breasts to show. It would have been quite pathetic if it had been me with the ripped bodice.”
“Do not make light of yourself—or of the potential for harm from these evil prints. The one of Harrington and Linnette almost ruined my marriage. And while the one of Linnette and Doveshire was not nearly so destructive, it certainly could have been. Linnette needed time before she was ready to confront her feelings. And Annabelle—can you imagine how she must have felt seeing Tattingstong with that other woman? My toes curl just to think about it.”
“But things have worked out fine for all of you.”
“Yes, but who knows what will happen next? Have things worked out fine for you?”
Elizabeth looked down at her beaded slippers. “I don’t know. I must admit I have not decided if I can move on, if I can forgive him for his desertion.” She lowered her voice. “He wants to make the marriage real and I am just not sure that I am ready—or that I want to at all. I’ve learned to be on my own these last years. I’ve never put my trust in anyone. Why should I change now?”