The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  * * * *

  When her visitors had left, Maggie sighed and climbed the stairs to the first floor, where workmen were papering the room she had chosen for herself. There had been some disagreement as to whether she should take the room next to Greenwood’s but it was a poky hole, looking straight into the bedchamber of the gentleman who lived next door; and Adam had reluctantly agreed that the room at the back would be more suitable. His sister, Cynthia, had learned Maggie’s requirements and had the work started while they were away. Maggie paused at the door, watching with a detached interest as a section of the gold and white paper was expertly glued to the wall, and then turned to tread carefully past the pots of glue and rolls of paper in the hall.

  The poky hole was her temporary bedchamber with a massive bed looking ridiculous in the half-light: heavy carved posts and a valance-draped tester, a squat, ornate headboard with projections of carved fruit on which Greenwood had carelessly grazed his head the previous evening to an accompaniment of muttered oaths. Last night, as every night since their wedding, he had arrived at her room, his eyes luminous with desire in the candlelight, his lips curved in a smile of laughing invitation that he apparently believed was welcome to her, his hands eager to caress her slender body.

  And sometimes, when he murmured soft endearments and kissed her tenderly, as he had last night, she could feel a desire rise in her own body. But nothing ever came of it. That warm glow that suffused her was never fanned to fruition, never nurtured into an open flame that would consume her and satisfy the longing she felt. When Adam lay languorously spent, Maggie could still feel the tension in herself, and she resented the arm thrown casually across her waist—but she said nothing. He was her husband, with the right to enjoy her body when he chose. And he did seem to enjoy it, or at least to value the convenience of having a woman readily accessible to him each night. Maggie did not delude herself that he had any particular regard for her own meager charms. Now they were back in town she had to face the possibility that he would start seeing his mistress again, and she wasn’t even sure she cared any longer.

  With a shrug she turned from her moody contemplation of the mammoth bed to look for the book she had been reading the previous evening when her husband had entered the room. He had taken it from her, smiling, as he said, "You won’t be needing that, my dear.” Where had he set it? Not on the stand by the bed, or on the mantelpiece. Could he have simply dropped it to the floor and kicked it under the bed in his unthinking haste to be about his evening’s sport? Maggie fell to her knees and pushed aside the damask spread that hung to the Axminster carpet, but there was nothing under the bed—not even dust, owing to Mrs. Phipps’s careful surveillance of her domain. As Maggie attempted to withdraw her head she was startled by her husband’s voice exclaiming, "What the devil are you doing?"

  In her hurry to extract herself from such an undignified position she failed to notice that the fichu that alone kept her new gown from being provocatively low was caught on a splinter of the bed frame and dislodged from her bodice as she rose. Cheeks flushed, she turned to face him. “I didn’t hear you enter, Greenwood. I was looking for my book.”

  "Do you usually keep it under the bed?” he teased.

  “Certainly not!” Indignation served very well to cover her embarrassment, and she continued defiantly, “It was you who took it from me, and now I cannot find it.”

  Adam produced a slender volume from behind his back. “Perhaps this is it. My valet found it in my dressing-gown pocket and I was just coming to return it. You had visitors when I came in and I didn’t wish to disturb you.” His eyes traveled to the expanse of bosom uncovered and the fichu, which hung uselessly about her neck, and he made no attempt to hand her the book.

  His pointed interest was enough to alert her to the problem, and she gave a tsk of annoyance as she attempted to tuck the ends back into her bodice with hands made nervous by his steady gaze.

  “Allow me,” he suggested smoothly, once again absently disposing of the book by tossing it on a chair. Before his determined look Maggie warily allowed her hands to drop to her sides. Instead of proceeding to arrange the three cornered scarf as it had been, he slowly undid the knot, tracing with a finger the line of her gown across her breasts. There was little enough left unexposed but his gently exploring hands released the whole, pushing the gown down beneath her breasts with a murmur of appreciation.

  “Greenwood!” she protested, attempting to rearrange her gown. "The draperies are open, for heaven’s sake! And a maid could come in at any moment to . . . to clean or something.”

  He grinned and touched a finger to her lips. “Easily remedied, my dear.” First he moved to the draperies and flung them closed with a jaunty wave at the opposite window, where fortunately no one was to be observed, and then he threw the bolts on each of the two doors to the room. “Now we won’t be disturbed, Margaret. Have you any idea how desirable you look? No, don’t try to cover yourself. I’m going to undress you.”

  “But…”

  “I doubt you have anything pressing to do if you were looking for your book.” He was already behind her, working on the fastenings of her gown. “Have you?”

  “No ... but there are people about . . . workmen down the hall…”

  “They’ll never know, my dear.”

  “If ... if someone should try the door...” Maggie shuddered as the bodice and chemise fell to the carpet.

  Adam laughed. “It doesn’t matter, goose. To hear you talk, you’d think we weren’t married.”

  Her skirt was loosened around her and his hands caressed her slender legs as he worked it down to her ankles. In a daze she stepped out of it, leaving the petticoats in a jumble on the bright carpet, allowing herself to be turned by his guiding hands to face him.

  Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at the brass buttons on his coat and asked irrelevantly, “Wasn’t Captain Midford at home?”

  “No, he’d gone somewhere with Dunn. Sit on the edge of the bed, Margaret.”

  Obediently she perched where he could remove the buckled shoes and white silk stocking. “He ... he might come looking for you.”

  “If he does, he can wait,” Adam said gruffly. Impatient, he attempted to struggle out of the tight-fitting coat that had taken his valet some time to ease onto his shoulders. “Will you help me with this, Margaret?”

  Startled, her downcast eyes flew to where he stood before her, hopelessly entangled in his own coat. A gurgle of laughter escaped her as she rose to assist him.

  “I had no intention of amusing you,” he grumbled as Maggie inched the coat over his shoulders and down the long arms. When his hands were free he caught her to him and kissed the tip of her nose. “But I like to hear you laugh. You don’t do it very often, you know. Come to think of it, you don’t smile much either. Aren’t you happy, Margaret?”

  Held there in his arms, naked, seeing his brow puckered with concern, Maggie had no idea how to answer him. The question itself seemed inappropriate, but his concern was apparently real, if momentary. Nonetheless, she knew he wouldn’t understand how an insignificant little creature such as herself wouldn’t be satisfied with the position she had achieved, content with the luxuries she could command, even delighted with him for a husband. Not that he was offensively vain. His high opinion of himself was as ingrained as his good humor, as much a part of him as his merry blue eyes.

  When she made no reply he held her at arm’s length and studied her face. “Is there something the matter? Did you want to stay at Combe Lodge? Or is Mrs. Phipps making things difficult for you?”

  “No, of course not. Everything is fine.” When he was boyishly eager to please her, she could not very well tell him that his own careless attitude to her was the source of her unhappiness. In a few minutes his concern, his interest in her, would be forgotten, and anything she said on the matter would be regarded with incredulity. Had he not provided her with everything a woman could wish? Surely she didn’t expect him to live in her pocket? Co
uld she possibly have forgotten that he had given her those charming canaries as a wedding present? She dropped her eyes from his gaze and said again, “Everything is fine.”

  She had expected him to accept her words, to say, “Good,” and let the matter rest. To her surprise he continued to frown slightly as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt. Maggie turned away when he absently began to remove his pantaloons, so she was startled when he came up behind her and gently stroked her arms. She could feel the soft touch of his lips as he kissed the top of her head, murmuring, “You’re not afraid of me, are you? In bed, I mean?”

  “No…”

  Moving closer, he pressed his body against hers. “No, I didn’t think you were, but you haven’t . . . been satisfied, have you?”

  “I’m perfectly satisfied,” she said stiffly.

  “That’s not what I mean.” For a moment he was silent, allowing his hands to play over her hips and buttocks. “I haven’t brought you to a point of . . . release, have I?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You would know,” he said with a soft laugh, not unkindly. “I become irritable if I don’t find that release. Perhaps you become unhappy."

  The breath caught in her throat as his hands touched her breasts. “I don’t think women are the same. I mean, they don’t need…”

  “Hmm.” Other times he had been aware of her response to his touch, but vaguely; now he smiled at the back of her bent head. “Perhaps not, if their desire hasn’t been aroused, but once it has…”

  Maggie gave a muffled cry as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. There was a tap at the door.

  “What is it?” Adam asked impatiently.

  The valet, Perkins, spoke deferentially through the door. "Captain Midford has called, my lord.”

  “Tell him I’ll meet him at White’s in an hour or so.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Maggie shifted uneasily on the bed and whispered, “He knows why you're here.”

  “Perkins? My dear girl, who cares? He’s not likely to announce it to the whole household, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my being here.” Adam shook his head ruefully and climbed onto the bed beside her. “Does it seem wrong to you for us to be in bed at this time of day, Margaret? Are the black stretches of the night the only appropriate time for such ‘goings-on’?”

  Convinced he was mocking her she said coldly, “I had never given it any thought, Greenwood.”

  Her head was turned away from him but he could see the proud set of her jaw and he repented taunting her. The slender body lay rigid and he cautiously extended a hand to trace the line of her neck, allowing his fingers gradually to descend until they touched the firm, small breasts. For some time he fondled her, patiently waiting until she relaxed enough to respond to his touch, to his reassuring murmurs. When he kissed her he could feel the uncertain trembling of her lips, the quickening of her breathing. His hands roamed down her body, exploring, stroking, heightening her desire.

  She regarded him with wide, bemused eyes. “Should ... should you do that?” she whispered.

  “Yes, my dear.” He lifted a quizzing brow. “Don’t you like it?”

  “I ... I like it very much."

  “Hmm, yes, I thought you did. Please don’t turn away! Your eyes are beautiful all moist with desire . . . And your lips so soft and eager. Are you. . ? That’s my girl, just enjoy it.” He was too preoccupied for a while to speak, but he could not fail to notice the passionate manner in which she clung to him, the cry of release or the gray eyes glazed with wonder. Purposely he stayed with her for some time, stroking her hair, whispering tender if incoherent words of pleasure. Then his irrepressible grin appeared and he said, “Now you know.”

  A shy smile illuminated her ordinarily mild countenance. “Yes. It hasn’t happened before.”

  He disengaged himself and rolled over on one elbow. “It will happen again, my dear; I will see that it does. After all, we don’t want you getting in the crotchets, do we?”

  Some of the glow remained and Maggie surprised herself by responding to his teasing. “I can see why you are never in low spirits.”

  “Hussy,” he laughed, touching the tip of her nose. “You’ve learned my secret, by Jupiter, and I will expect you to do everything in your power to see that I don’t succumb to the megrims from now on . . . day or night. You won’t mind, will you?”

  Maggie blushed. “No, so long as you don’t announce your intention to the whole household.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it! It’s much more fun waylaying you on the spur of the moment.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I have to go, my sweet. Midford will be waiting for me.”

  Unembarrassed, she watched as he drew on his drawers and hastily grabbed up the rest of his clothing. Before leaving the room, he bent and kissed her. “Shall I send your maid?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll manage for myself.”

  “As you wish. I’m dining with Thresham, but I’ll be back about ten to take you to the Camerton ball.”

  “B-But you hadn’t mentioned we were going out.”

  “Hadn’t I? No matter. It will be an opportunity for you to meet some of the ton. I daresay half of them don’t even know I’ve married.” With a careless smile he vanished through the interconnecting door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lady Anne had kept her promise to observe the preparations for her ball, but it became more difficult as she herself began attending all the functions and festivities London had to offer that spring. Her mind was awhirl with names, costumes, menus, and decorations, though she attempted also to concentrate on introducing Maggie and Emma to the numerous friends and acquaintances she had acquired during her excursions to London with her family.

  Dear Maggie, she thought as her maid arranged two curls low on her shoulders the evening of her ball. Though the reserve remained, Maggie was making a valiant attempt to fill the position she held as Greenwood’s bride, and it couldn’t be easy for her. Shyness was not something Anne had ever suffered from—and certainly Emma didn’t!—but Anne watched Maggie’s anxious eyes and noted the effort she made to speak more than monosyllables to the countless matrons who believed in their hearts, and took little trouble to hide it, that Greenwood would have been better off with their daughters. And the dowager Lady Redwick had gone so far as to intimate to Maggie that Greenwood had been promised to her granddaughter. Anne had heard Lord Dunn tell Greenwood to “save your wife from old Lady Redwick or there’s bound to be a scene. I’ve watched that woman reduce a well-established matron to tears in three minutes flat.”

  And that was one of the times Greenwood had fortunately been with her. As often as not he sent her off with Anne and Emma, determined, Anne felt, not to allow his newly married state to hamper him in any way. Occasionally he would drop in on the entertainment where she was, seldom staying long, and only rarely dancing with his wife. Very much in keeping with the times, of course, but a horrid strain on poor Maggie, who would have preferred to stay at home for all the enjoyment she got from the constant procession of curious ladies and gentlemen.

  Lady Barnfield peeked round the door to ask, “May I come in, love?”

  “Of course. I’m almost ready”

  “Are you nervous, dear? You don’t look it.” Lady Barnfield settled herself companionably on the chair closest to the dressing table.

  “Not particularly.” Anne stood up to model the white crepe lace dress over a white satin slip. The bodice of emerald satin was made tight and cut to display an appropriate amount of décolletage, with a row of blond lace set to fall over it, and from the short slashed sleeves of emerald satin and white lace. Her headdress, a toque de Ninon, was settled on the chestnut curls as she watched in the mirror, but as she stretched out her hand for the pearl necklace, Lady Barnfield stopped her hand.

  "No, love. Papa and I have a present for you.” From the folds of her skirt where she had concealed i
t, Lady Barnfield withdrew a wide, flat jeweler’s box and presented it to her daughter

  A necklace and earrings of emeralds in a modern gold setting rested on the plush satin. “Oh, Mama, they’re beautiful! How can I ever thank you and Papa?”

  Her mother, dismissing the maid, fastened them and smiled contentedly. “By enjoying yourself this evening, Anne. I almost swayed toward the other gown we saw,” she teased, “so that you could wear the sapphires.”

  The sapphires were a family joke. Their antiquity could not redeem them from the heavy, outrageous piece they were. “Not even a statuesque goddess could carry them off,” Anne moaned, “though it did just pass through my mind that Emma might, with her exotic beauty. Perhaps Will is looking for someone on whom to bestow them.”

  Lady Barnfield met her daughter’s laughing eyes with a rueful shake of her head. “Poor Will! What a dance she would lead him! But there's not a chance of his infatuation lasting, so I think there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Anne’s brow wrinkled into a frown. “Don’t you like Emma?”

  “I think she’s delightful,” Lady Barnfield asserted, “but you surely cannot believe Will is a suitable match for her. She would annihilate him. Will needs some demure miss he can think he dominates, though she had best have a great deal of character so she keeps a good steady pressure on the reins. Your friend Maggie will be like that, when she’s had a chance to get her feet.”

  “Maggie isn’t the least bit managing,” Anne protested.

  “You misunderstand me, love. I’m talking about a good, solid woman who won’t be swayed by her husband’s excesses or flights of fancy. One who will steer a straight path in spite of the starts and stops her husband is prone to.”

  “I hope you’re right. I worry about Maggie a great deal.”

  “I know you do, love, and I’m proud that you’re so loyal to your friends. There, you look magnificent. We should go down.”