Caroline lay still, her silver eyes closed.
“You won’t kick me?”
She shook her head into the pillow as he began to knead her arch, rolling her heel in the cup of his hand as his long fingers traced a line to her toes. He felt her relax into his palm, her foot growing heavier, her other limb splayed in abandon to reveal her glistening cleft. She sighed as he tugged at each toe, working the knots out, rubbing her sole as earnestly as he did her swollen bud earlier. He lifted her calf and bent to kiss the little line behind her knee, allowing his hands to wander a bit farther north. She tapped her still-shod foot onto the coverlet.
“Ah. I’m getting carried away. I almost forgot.” He made quick work of undressing her other foot. “I can see it’s cross with me.” He lightly kissed each toe, massaging all the while. Caroline let out a whimper which he took for an invitation, so he kissed his way up her leg, his hands smoothing and stroking in tandem.
He was hard again already. Molten. Her scent and his filled his senses as he parted her and feasted, filling his mouth with her tender pink pearl. She convulsed beneath him, still greedy, still his. For tonight.
He gazed up though his lashes and saw Caroline struggling with her tiny buttons in frustration. She was half mad. Clumsy. His doing. He smiled and swiped his tongue deeper and felt each tremor against the tip. She abandoned the buttons and held him to her center, her words incoherent but her body stating plainly its need. Edward happily obliged in her drugging embrace, each kiss justified by her response. He could imagine doing this with no one other than Caroline, swallowing her bliss, tasting his own triumph.
She begged him to stop, yet he felt her fingers run ragged in his hair, each stroke a second late mimicking his tongue, as though they were dancing to the same tune from across a sensual divide. She crested again and again, sobbing his name. His common English name had never sounded sweeter or meant more.
And still they were dressed. Ridiculous. He gave her a final kiss, sat up, and tore off his jacket.
“Oh, no. No more,” she whispered.
“We have tonight, Caro. Only tonight.”
She nodded. “I can’t—you can’t—we must put an end to this. You know it as well as I.”
He didn’t agree, but was not going to ruin what was between them with an argument. But if he didn’t shed his clothes, he’d burn up like a dry forest hit by lightning. Caroline was his lightning, his flame. He could taste the ash of her leaving already.
He fingered the little blue bone buttons. He saw they were shaped like little flowers, each petal sharp. Caroline always had an eye for detail. Why she couldn’t see how much he loved her was a complete mystery to him. “What fiend sewed these on?”
She batted him away and began to unfasten them herself. “It’s just because I’m hot. We are not going to—you know. Ever again.”
“I know what?”
“You know,” she said, glaring at him.
He slipped down next to her. “It doesn’t seem fair, Caro. This last time was all for you. When do I get my turn?”
“You’ve had your turn. Too many turns. I can’t keep tumbling into bed with you, Edward. Especially since I’m very, very angry with you.”
He lifted her chin, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, I could tell how angry you were. You were just chock full of—anger, was it?”
“Now you are mocking me. Of course I responded to you. I’m only human. But you’ve been the fiend, tying me up and carting me off to the country like this. I want to go away. Tomorrow.”
“All right.”
She opened her mouth. “You don’t mean that. Not really.”
“Of course I mean it. A Christie’s word is his bond.”
“Then this is our last night together.” She didn’t sound as happy as she might have.
“If that’s what you want.”
“I do. It’s exactly what I want.” She pulled the blue dress over her head and dropped it to the floor. The finest French batiste shift still covered too much of her, but Edward saw the gratifying shadow of her nipples beneath the fabric. He continued to undress until he was shorn of everything but a massive erection.
Caroline closed her eyes. “Oh, no. I simply can’t.”
“There won’t be anything simple about it, Caro, I guarantee that. For the last time should be special, should it not?”
The flush had left her cheeks and throat. Caro was alabaster in the lamplight, as beautiful as a marble statue. But her body was damp and warm against his, though not for long. He broke the spell deliberately. “You must promise me something.”
She curled into his shoulder as though she had forgotten they would not be lovers again. “No. No promises. I’ve said all I’m going to say. You said I could leave tomorrow.”
“This is not about us. I’ve had word from Lord Douglass.” Edward’s sister Beth had sent a footman with the letter to Bradlaw House that afternoon. Edward should have sent her to buy a proper red dress. She was one of the few who knew of his reconciliation plan, and had encouraged him with unrestrained enthusiasm. Obviously, she’d read too many of Caro’s books to recognize romantic drivel did not work in reality. Lord Farringdon’s Fickle Fiancée had been a dismal failure if even after the passion of the past few hours, they could not put their marriage to rights.
He felt the immediate emptiness when Caro rolled away. “Now what? Don’t tell me you mean to keep me by sleeping against the bedroom door like some bloody great mastiff for the rest of my life. I won’t be threatened by these amorphous plots. Or by your misplaced sense of chivalry.” She sat up, her hair a crimson thundercloud in the lamplight. “This is it, Edward. The last fling. Don’t think you can scare me into staying. We are absolutely, completely, one hundred percent over.”
Edward felt deflated. Gut punched. She meant what she said. It was the last time he would ever see her creamy skin or feel her wet velvet around his cock. He would send her home tomorrow. Buy her the promised cottage far, far away. In America if she’d go. There was no point in further discussion. Her very presence would break his heart. By having this conversation now, he was ensuring it was, in fact, the end. Any further arrangements they’d make would be free of feeling. He would summon Cold Christie and that would be that.
“You’ve made yourself quite plain I’m not wanted. We’ll talk about the formal end to this marriage tomorrow when our heads are clear.” He doubted his head would be clear anytime soon, but he’d not bore her with any more entreaties. His Christie pride forbade him lowering himself any lower. At least he’d have a shred of dignity left when he handed her up into his carriage tomorrow afternoon. “Please listen. He tells me Pope has not entirely gotten over your insult to him.”
“But you spoke to him yourself weeks ago!”
Edward nodded. “I did. And he was most convincing in his assertion that he was not the man Rossiter overheard in the garden. I thought he might actually haul off and sock me, he was so full of righteous bluster. But Douglass warns me that Pope seems more desperate than ever. He’s had some financial reverses and blames you.”
“I? As though I have anything to do with the Exchange! This is ludicrous, Edward. Why are you telling me?”
“I just want you to be careful in the future, when you will no longer have my protection.” The thought of Caroline rattling around by herself in the country pierced him. But he’d hire servants. Get her a real mastiff if necessary. Harold wouldn’t like that one bit.
“I’ve already promised not to write any more books. I don’t see what else I can do.”
She was off the bed, reaching for the old red poppy robe on the chair. To his surprise, Edward realized he would miss the robe, and the lush white body beneath it even more. Their lives were about to change, his back to the well-worn groove of propriety. Speeches in Parliament. Stultifying dinner parties. Estate matters. Only his children would have the power to set him off-kilter. He nearly looked forward to Neddie’s next mess.
Caroline’s wo
rld would shrink even further. She’d be buried in the country. No naughty tea parties, no naughty books. A living death for a scarlet butterfly like Caro. But it was what she wanted.
He wondered how long she would last. “You won’t miss writing?”
Caroline shrugged. “It hasn’t been easy the past few months. I may have run out of ways to murder my characters.”
Edward would have been sublimely happy to have died in her arms a few minutes ago. But he had responsibilities. Duties. Cutting Caro loose as requested was one of them.
She belted the robe and sat at her dressing table, untangling the thicket of curls. He didn’t dare to get up and help her tonight. But he needed to get up. Put on his clothes and go. Turn the key in the lock for the last time. Lie awake down the hall knowing she was under his borrowed roof, breathing the same night air as he, perhaps feeling the same regret. She would be close, yet a world away.
Tomorrow they would conclude their business. He would be generous. He’d set his man of business out at once to buy her some damned country house with enough damned flowers to choke a herd of goats. Hire a staff. Double her allowance. Will would rail at him, but his money meant nothing. There would be plenty for Ned to run through, and more than adequate provisions had been make for Jack and Allie. Edward was not so distraught that he longed for death. The years ahead stretched empty before him, but he would manage. Christies always did.
Chapter 21
Esme looped the length of rope around the lone linden tree. The valley was vast beneath her, but what choice did she have?
—Escaping the Earl
She could not wait for Ben to help her. If she stayed another day, it would mean another night in Edward’s arms. No matter what she said—and she had said it all, spelling out how it was the very last time every time they had made love, all three times—she didn’t trust herself to keep her word. If she succumbed to Edward again, she might as well lie down in the road and wait for the London stage to run over her, just like in Beauty and the Baronet, only at the last minute the baronet pulled the beauty from certain death and into his bed. Edward would do the same. She could not keep opening to him—not her mouth, not her legs, not her heart. Nor did she want to open her ears to listen to a new list tomorrow.
She looked at the little bedside clock. It would be later on today. They had spent quite a long time in bed, Caroline initiating several moments she meant to remember. The last desperate, drowning kiss. The last graze of her nipple between his teeth. The last twisting thrust of his hips. Even though she tried consciously to cling to the concept of “last,” another day spent at Bradlaw House would make her lose her resolve. Edward would be immaculately civil, his gleaming dark hair brushed back, his face impassive. He would grant her everything he thought she wanted and more. Likely she would be the best-set-up estranged wife in England. In Europe. In the world. And she would be bound to thank him in the only way she knew how.
There was not a hope of her sleeping with Edward’s scent on her bedding. On her. She opened the door to the dressing room. Very conveniently, the armoire had crisp white sheets stacked on the top shelf. But she would not be changing the linens. Just her clothes, because even the wrinkles of her blue dress had wrinkles after what Edward had put her through.
Caroline pulled the last fresh dress from its hanger—a simple slate gray travelling costume with a narrow skirt and tight-fitting matching jacket. She sponge-bathed with the cold water in the pitcher, dug clean undergarments from the drawer where the invisible maid had arranged her few possessions, and buttoned up the silver buttons herself as best she could. Her difficulty was a reminder that she had indulged herself far too much the past few months. If she weren’t careful, one could tip her sideways and roll her down the street like an empty wine barrel. Declaring her hair a hopeless cause, she braided it and tucked it up under a black straw bonnet. Her jewels pinned safely into a pocket in her skirts, she began knotting the sheets together with all the expertise of one of Admiral Nelson’s sailors.
Dawn was not so very far off, and the road from Bradlaw House led straight into Ashford, a busy market town. While she might have wished for her vanished half-boots, her black leather slippers would have to do. She laced them up her stockings, tying them as tightly as she did the sheets. Once she had dropped her line out the window, she discovered she’d underestimated. With a sigh, she pulled a fragrant rumpled sheet from the bed and added one last length. She dragged the chintz chair to the window for an anchor, hoping it wouldn’t catapult over the window frame and come crashing down on her head. The furniture in the first room was much heavier, but Caroline had to escape from where she was. At least the drop to the ground was much more manageable. She could do it with her eyes closed.
And did, barring a disconcerting moment when a gust of wind twisted the makeshift rope and swung her into the bricks of Bradlaw House. She contained her yelp and slipped to freedom. The house was dark and quiet behind her. The only sound was the rattle of dry leaves that would fall soon and the thudding of her own heart.
She ran along the building to the front courtyard, down the tree-lined alley to the iron gates that stood at the end. They were, mercifully, wide open, an egregious oversight on Edward’s part. If she turned right, she would wind up at Christie Park in less than an hour. Ashford was to the left, easy walking on a well-surfaced road, although the overwhelming inky blackness of the country night gave Caroline pause. By walking at a steady pace she should reach Ashford by daybreak. She shivered into her jacket, wishing she’d thought to bring the kidnapper’s cape with her. It would be a memento of the odd adventure of the past two days, and useful besides. However, the sun would soon warm her on the way. No doubt she’d be so crammed into the coach to London with other travelers she’d be too hot for comfort.
She patted her pocket, confirming that the sharp lump of stones and gold and silver was still there. She hadn’t taken all her treasures, but had every confidence Edward would eventually return her possessions to her, even Harold, who would have made an uneasy companion dangling from a window had she been able to find him. Edward would do what was right. He always did, although he’d made a detour of late, making her his unwilling mistress, holding her captive, and not only with ropes and keys.
She was finally free, the wind in her face, her steps lively. Walking to Ashford was not so very arduous. Caroline was not perfectly sure how she would barter a ticket with a trinket or two, but decided to worry about that when the time came. She had to concentrate on the dips and curves of the road and the insidious pebbles that seemed to roll under her every step.
Despite the chill, her armpits became damp and her thighs slapped together rather unpleasantly. She would be chafed and chapped, but who would ever see her red thighs? With each stride she became more aware of the soft life she’d led in London. Her breath was ragged although she moved at a snail’s pace. She was alternately cold and hot, which made no sense at all. What a pity it would be if Edward found her lifeless body in a ditch. He might mourn her, but it would solve the problem of him marrying again. She imagined the next Mrs. Christie, like the first, would be a paragon of virtue and good taste.
Caroline couldn’t remember the last time she was truly virtuous. Even her desire to free Edward was more for her sake than his. She was a selfish creature, chock so full of foibles she didn’t have a name for them all.
She laughed out loud, causing something in the grass to dart and scurry. She was so foolish. One couldn’t die from walking and sweating and feeling sorry for oneself. It was rather ridiculous wearing a bonnet in the dark without a soul to see her, so she loosened the strings to let the air cool her scalp. The straw hat bumped on her back with every step and her braid slithered from its coil. She wiped a drip of perspiration from her left eye, not that she could see a bloody thing. She could hear, though—odd shifting and rustling, croaks and cries, all the usual sounds of a country night. Once, she had been used to them. She’d spent many a Cumberland night as a gir
l roaming the fields and woods with Nicky. She was no longer so intrepid. London streets might be unsafe, but she’d be delighted to have the company of a few merry inebriated gentlemen and hard pavement beneath her feet.
The air was redolent of leaf mold and damp. She sniffed. Rain was coming, she was sure. Perfect. She trudged on in the gloom, checking the sky every few steps for the black to give way to gray. A handful of stars winked down, most obscured by the scuddering clouds. Caroline sent a brief prayer upward that the rain might hold off until she was closer to Ashford and was rewarded by a wet plop on her nose.
Hell and damnation. She was already wet underneath her clothes. What difference would it make if she got rained on over them? Wet was wet. She shoved her hat back on her head and picked up the pace until a wicked stitch in her side was impossible to ignore. A low rock loomed ahead and she sat, catching her breath.
And was very glad she did, for she heard the jingling of a harness and the steady clopping of a horse in the distance. For one frightful moment she thought Edward had discovered her, but this particular horse was moving too slowly to be ridden by an angry husband. The creaking roll of a cart could be heard behind it. It must be market day in Ashford.
She stood up uncertainly, waiting to spy the conveyance and its driver. Folks were kindly hereabouts, or had been the brief time Caroline had been at Christie Park. Her walking days might be over. She kept well to the side of the road, not wishing to frighten the horse or its driver, and made her voice as sweet as warm honey. She waved a black-gloved hand in the air, not that anyone could see it.
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