“Ah, but I was only carrying out her wishes, not mine. “
“Carrying out her wishes?” Mary was incredulous.
“Yes. And, pardon my bluntness, but Sir Gerald imposed restrictions out of spite. He used you and Teddy as a means to have his revenge on the Duke of Roxton for exiling him.”
“I know that well enough, Mr.—Christopher!” Mary stated, annoyed. “But there was not much I could do about it, was there? If you want the truth, I blame Roxton as much as I do my husband for my banishment from my family. In exiling Sir Gerald, he exiled me, and he ought to have thought about the consequences before making his decree. But what is done cannot be undone. So please tell me how it is you are carrying out my daughter’s wishes?”
Christopher sipped at his coffee and then set the mug down and stared at it a good five seconds before replying.
“Sir Gerald filled her head with all sorts of nonsense, as he did mine—about Roxton. You remember me telling you the reason he told me he was banished from the ducal family fold was because he had discovered the Duke making up to you—”
“Yes, I remember that well enough not to be reminded, thank-you,” Mary replied, blushing scarlet. “And I disabused you of that accusation.”
“You did. And before you dash coffee in my face, you will remember that I never believed you complicit. And you rightly corrected me about the Duke and his devotion to his duchess.”
“And Teddy? What nonsense did Sir Gerald tell his daughter about my cousins?”
“You must remember that Teddy is just a child—”
“Christopher. You are speaking to her mother.”
“Which is why I am hesitating to tell you. Anyone else would laugh off such a tale as ludicrous. But you will believe me because you know of what your husband was capable, and because you can trust me.”
Mary put her hand out across the table. “I do. In everything.”
Christopher smiled thinly. At any other time her confidence in him would have been gratifying, but what he had to tell her was not, so he took hold of her hand, looked into her violet eyes, and said calmly,
“You know that when a small child is told a tale by an adult, particularly a parent, and that tale is told often enough, it does not matter how fanciful it is, the authority behind the tale lends an authenticity to it that is never questioned. I had hoped she would outgrow the notion—at the very least seek reassurance from you that it was not true. I could offer Teddy reassurance, but as I have never met the Duke, my reassurances were somewhat hollow to her. And as much as I wanted her to approach you, to ask you if there was any truth to the tale, she made me promise not to tell you.”
“Why? Teddy and I have never kept secrets.”
“She kept this one, because her father also told her as part of the tale that you had been bewitched by the ogre and thus could not be relied upon to tell her the truth in this instance.”
“Ogre? Bewitched?” Mary’s fingers convulsed in his. “What dreadful notion did that man put in my daughter’s head? Surely it can be no worse than what he intimated to you about Roxton and me?”
“It is no worse, but is the more despicable because Teddy is an impressionable child, and his daughter. And he did not tell her this tale once, but on several occasions to reinforce her fear.”
“Fear? Of my cousins?”
“Of the Duke in particular. Teddy thinks—she believes—the Duke capable of magic and that he is an ogre living in the guise of a nobleman. That her father discovered the truth, which is why he was banished to his estate. And that this ogre put a spell on you that cannot be broken. That it is this spell that compels you to visit your Roxton relatives.”
“Oh, but this is such babble!” Mary blurted out before she could stop herself.
“It is. But Teddy believes it to be true.”
“Of course she does. It was her Papa who told her. Horrid, odious man!”
She looked up from where their fingers were entwined, shocked to have voiced aloud her private thoughts when she had never before been publically disloyal because good wives, daughters of earls, conducted themselves differently. But again, that was her mother’s voice, and she was done with listening to that inner voice, particularly with Christopher. She wanted to be open and honest and herself with him, especially here in the cottage.
“He was—all those things I just called him,” she stated firmly. “Sir Gerald was not only odious and horrid, he was cruel and utterly self-centered. In every way.”
Christopher knew she was referring not only to Sir Gerald’s conduct towards his only child but also how he treated her as a wife, but chose to ignore this for the time being, saying, “He warned Teddy that if she ever went to Treat, the ogre duke would lock her up in one of his towers and she would never see you again.”
“Good—God! I didn’t think it possible to loathe him more, but I do now,” she muttered, and withdrawing her hand from his pushed back her chair and stood.
She needed to walk, to pace off her anger and resentment. This she did in front of the bed niche, arms hugging her sides. Christopher watched and waited for her to speak; he could see by her mulish expression she had more to say, and did, stopping in mid-step and turning to face him.
“Do you think it a possibility she made herself sick in Buckinghamshire so she had an excuse not to go to Treat and Dair’s wedding?”
“I do.”
“You know she hates being cooped up, that she prefers being outside. She is so like her Uncle Dair. To think if she went to Treat she would end up in a tower dungeon… monster! She must’ve been terrified.”
“She was certainly greatly relieved when I arrived to take her home.”
Mary briefly covered her face with her hands, then let them drop to her sides, hands clenched into fists. “Why did I not see her fear? How could I have allowed him to fix in her head such gross untruths? How could he have used his own daughter so fiendishly?”
“You said so yourself. He was self-centered. He cared for nothing but his own wants, and to the detriment of all else, his wife and daughter included.”
“Her life was to be so very different from mine. I was determined. Her days were to be filled with love and laughter and hope, and he—and he—ruined that for her.”
“You cannot think that,” he said, taking Mary in his arms and holding her close because she was crying. He let her, and only when she was still did he speak. “She is loved, and you have given her a wonderful childhood. There are not many children, least of all girls, who are permitted to roam the countryside at will. You understand her needs, that she must be at liberty to be outdoors, to ride, to play with the village children, to call at Brycecomb Hall whenever she pleases. You have no idea how welcome her visits are; they brighten up my mother’s otherwise lonely days, so much so that she and the rest of the household are in good spirits for at least three days afterwards. And for me, the best part is I’ve been allowed to share in her life. I have you to thank for that.”
Mary took a shattering breath and nodded. But she did not look up at him but rested her damp cheek on his chest and said on a deep sigh, “Every night in my prayers I thank God that you are part of her life, for if anyone has been a father to her, it is you.”
Christopher kissed the top of her head, then took her damp face between his hands and smiled into her violet eyes.
“Thank-you. Now dry your cheeks and we will think no more about Sir Gerald, or ogres, or even Teddy tonight. It is too late in the day for me to take you angling, or for you to bathe in the warm waters of the stream, so we must amuse ourselves as best we can here in the warmth of the cottage. Shall I play for you?”
“Play?
“My mandora—a type of lute. I learned to play in Lucca.”
“Oh yes! I should like that very much. But I fear I may be a very poor audience tonight. Your stew, the wine, and a head full of unwelcome thoughts have made me sleepy.”
“Then I shall play you to sleep.” He saw her glance at the bed and managed to s
ay evenly, “There is a pitcher and basin, soap, towel, and toothpowder by the sink. While I was clearing away our dinner and making the coffee, I filled the pitcher with hot water, which should be tepid by now. Unfortunately I cannot provide you with a hairbrush, but there is a comb. And you can wear this over your chemise,” he added, holding out a brocade garment he had taken from the large chest up against one wall, and which Mary now noticed had leaning beside it the many stringed instrument Christopher called a mandora. “It’s one of my banyans, so you’ll have to fold back the sleeves. Do you need assistance with your lacings?”
“My-my lacings?” Mary repeated, taken aback to be asked such a question, and in such a straightforward manner. No man had ever asked her that, or had ever helped her unlace her stays. But she immediately castigated herself for her shocked response. He was only being helpful and she had every intention of spending the night with him, so it was ridiculous to be scandalized. “You’re thirty not thirteen! Take stock and show some mettle you ridiculous creature!” she muttered under her breath, grabbed the banyan and sailed into the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “No, thank-you! I’ll manage!”
When she returned, the bedcovers had been turned down and the diaphanous curtains pulled across the front of the bed. Only two candles in their holders were alight, one on the table, the other on the chest by Christopher, who sat cross-legged in the shadows on the opposite side of the room in the wingchair, and who was lightly strumming the strings of the mandora. He had been playing since she had disappeared into the kitchen to undress, wash, and uncoil her braids. She was now in her chemise and stockings and wearing Christopher’s brocade banyan, which trailed on the floor, her hair in one long thick braid down her back, tied off with a ribbon.
When he did not look up but continued to concentrate on his fingers plucking at the strings, she scurried across to the bed and there shrugged off the banyan and quickly put it over a chair back. But when she attempted to get into bed, she found she could not find where the curtains parted and spent several seconds in panic until she lifted the hem of the curtain high enough to duck under it. She then scrambled up onto the mattress and pulled the covers up to her chin. She lay so stiff and still she was oblivious to her surroundings, only that she was in a strange bed in a cottage on the edge of the Puzzlewood, and with a man who was not her husband or her lover, and who seemed content to remain on the other side of the room strumming a lute.
But as she listened to his gentle plucking of the strings, her shoulders relaxed; so too did her fingers gripping the coverlet, and her head sank into the soft down of the pillow. The music was low and melodic and very soothing. She became aware, too, of the scent of lavender mixed with another floral essence—roses perhaps? It was infused into the bed linen. It too calmed her. Soon her whole body went limp, her eyelids drooped, and turning her head on the pillow, she drifted into a deep sleep.
CHRISTOPHER KEPT an eye on her, quick to look away when she glanced over at him to see if he was watching her failed attempts to find where the curtains parted. He congratulated himself on keeping his expression neutral, though inside he was laughing out loud. He was sure his shoulders were shaking of their own accord. He found her prudery adorable, but for fear of offending her would never dare acknowledge her failed attempts to maintain a sense of decorum in what must be for her the most bizarre of circumstances.
He was mindful that they were at a most delicate stage in their growing intimacy, and he would not for the world sabotage its progress by upsetting the equilibrium so far achieved between them. He was still unclear as to her treatment at the hands of her boorish husband, and thus he would err on the side of caution. And if there was one thing he discovered about himself in the years he spent abroad, and most particularly when employed as a cicisbeo, it was that he had boundless reserves of patience; Mary would let him know in her own way and in her own good time what it was she wanted from him, and he was comfortable with that. He would then be able to accommodate her needs without asking, but not tonight.
She was asleep, and he was tired, too. So he continued to strum the strings of the mandora for a little while longer, then retrieved a Witney blanket from the chest, pulled it up over himself in the wingchair, and went to sleep. When he was shaken awake, his first thought was that he had not slept at all, but the remaining notches in the guttering candle told him more than two hours had elapsed since he had curled up in the chair.
Mary was standing before him in her chemise and stockings. He wondered if she was sleep walking, or in her half-waking state was disorientated and confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. She rocked gently from side to side, mussed hair falling across her face and down her back, the plait unraveled, the ribbon lost somewhere in the bedclothes. The silk drawstring of her chemise had come loose, widening the neckline enough to allow a billowy sleeve to slip from her left shoulder, exposing the creamy whiteness of her décolletage and one plump and perfect breast.
If Christopher had been half-asleep, he was wide-awake now gazing on her ethereal loveliness in the soft glow of candlelight. He threw off the blanket, intending to wrap it around her then put her back to bed, convinced she had no idea where she was. So he was surprised when she shook her head and stopped him just as he was about to arrange the folded blanket about her shoulders. She pulled it from his fingers and dropped it onto the wingchair.
“Come to bed,” she demanded drowsily, taking hold of his hand. “I need you to keep me warm.”
He did not hesitate to do as commanded.
TWENTY-TWO
MARY WOKE in Christopher’s arms, he still in his shirt and breeches under the coverlet. It was before dawn, so she snuggled in, delighting in the warmth of him pressed up against her back and curved around her bottom and down her thighs. He shared her pillow, face lost in the tangle of her hair, and with an arm outstretched across the curve of her body, he had taken possession of the silken knot that kept her stocking up over her knee and there found anchorage while he slept.
WHEN SHE NEXT opened her eyes she was alone and it was late morning. The window shutters were wide, allowing daylight to flood the cottage and to fill with the sounds of the forest, of autumn leaves rustling in the breeze and—whistling? Now that came from the next room. It had her sitting up and brushing the hair from her face. And then Christopher padded in from the kitchen carrying two mugs of tea. He set these on the table, pulled aside the diaphanous curtains, and handed her a mug. He then propped himself on the mattress at the foot of the bed. He was in his shirt sleeves without his waistcoat or his stock, the shirt left unbuttoned and gaping wide at the throat. But his face was freshly shaved and his hair slickly pulled back, as if he’d been for a swim. He confirmed this when he said, after sipping at his tea,
“You’ll have to excuse me if I smell of an excess of sandalwood soap. The trade-off with having a constant supply of boiling water from a thermal spring is that it comes with a mineralized scent. Not as offensive as the waters at Bath, because the stream dilutes the effect, but I fear it is still there…”
She sipped at her tea, then looked up at him in surprise. It had nothing to do with the mineralized waters. He lifted an eyebrow and said it for her.
“After eight years, it would be remiss of me if I did not know how you take your tea.”
“In ten years of marriage, Sir Gerald never made the effort to know that or anything else about me. But let’s not talk about him—” She sipped at her tea again and wondered aloud, “Does sandalwood truly mask the mineral scent? I can’t smell either.”
“That’s because you are so very faraway…”
“Would you care for me to assure you one way or the other?” she asked blandly, though the light in her eyes gave away her effort to be playful.
He lifted his chin, exposing his throat, and tilted his head in invitation. “If you would be so kind, I’d be much obliged…”
She took another sip of her tea, then set aside the mug and scrambled over the tumble of bedclothes to k
neel beside him. With a hand to his shoulder to steady herself, she leaned in to sniff at his throat. And as she did so, she closed her eyes and allowed her other senses to become subordinate. Breathing deeply, she caught the hint of sandalwood and of bergamot. But there was something else, something not found in the soap or a scent carefully concocted by a perfumer. It was definitely not malodorous, and the absence of any mineral smell whatsoever made her suspicious his intent all along was to have her in intimate proximity. She didn’t care about his intent. All she cared about was breathing in the essence of him, a pleasing and thoroughly masculine peppery tang—the very same authentic scent that had threatened to overwhelm her senses in her bedroom when they had set out to catch a ghost.
That episode seemed a lifetime ago now, but then as now, the pulse deep within her woke and would not be quelled. She swayed and felt her knees buckle, and then her eyes opened under heavy lids as he steadied her, hands to her waist, his mug having been quickly thrust to the flagstones.
There was a moment, perhaps not more than two, when they stared at one another in breathless anticipation. And in the next, inhibition and reticence gave way to need. If the scent of him was thoroughly intoxicating to her, having his hands to the curve of her waist was enough to send a ripple of longing pulsating through his every nerve. This most tantalizing of female curves was the bridge between the soft roundness of her exquisite breasts above and the flare of her hips and sweet wetness to be had between her thighs below. And the only barrier to pleasuring this luscious creature’s warm feminine flesh was a chemise of the finest cotton, and that was no barrier at all.
He was done with exercising restraint. He had been exercising restraint with her in thought and deed for so long now he had begun to wonder if he was more monk than man. He pulled her towards him, hands gliding over her hips to find anchorage splayed about the curve of her firm bottom, she responding by pressing herself to his hard leanness, arms around his back to hold on tight. Locked together they indulged in a passionate kiss that soon had them scrambling along the bed until they were hard up against the padded headboard. With nowhere else to go, and gripped by an acute urgency—or was it relief?—to finally be able to slake a lust that had simmered for years, they were soon in a frenzy of undressing. With clothing consigned to the floor, they tumbled naked amongst the pillows and bedcovers, a tangle of heated flesh and feverish kissing, and gave themselves up to overwhelming need.
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