Married to a Perfect Stranger

by Jane Ashford

  She stirred and muttered but didn’t wake.

  “Mary?” He slipped off her shoes.

  She let out a long languorous sigh that roused him further.

  “Mary,” he said more loudly. He shook her shoulder gently.

  She murmured again, threw out an arm, and turned away from him, curling into her pillows. He shook her softly once more, but she wouldn’t wake.

  The Vauxhall punch had done for her, John thought. She wasn’t used to drinking more than a glass of wine. She was dead to the world for tonight.

  His hands hovered over her. He could have her. He was her husband. No one would blame him. Mary might not even know. And that was the trouble. It didn’t feel right. And it wasn’t the way he wanted it to be. Damn it all!

  Carefully, he undid the buttons at the back of her gown. Each time his fingertips brushed her soft skin, they shook with the effort of restraint. Easing the garment off her almost broke him. This had to end. He was desperate. Quickly pulling the coverlet over her tantalizing form, he fled the room.

  Mary woke in her bed, in her underclothes, shoeless. She stretched, sat up, and noticed her cloak and evening dress lying on the floor. Heat suffused her face as she realized that John must have carried her upstairs and removed her gown. The picture this evoked was so vivid that her breath caught. Her mind conjured up the image of John undoing buttons, sliding the cloth gently off her shoulders, down along her body. Mary cursed the Vauxhall punch; it had added the final straw to her tendency to sleep like one drugged. Her sisters used to marvel that she could slumber on through thunderclaps and barking dogs and late night upsets. And now it had caused her to miss what could have been a…truly delicious process. Why had John not shaken her awake?

  Because he was thoughtful, perhaps a bit too scrupulous. Or still smarting over her stupid remark about their honeymoon? Why had she blurted that out? Why must unconsidered words be her nemesis? Mary dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, but as usual John had already gone. She couldn’t suppress a curse, which led Arthur Windly to gape at her openmouthed and then grin.

  * * *

  At his desk in the Foreign Office, John Bexley was equally frustrated and finding it damnably difficult to concentrate on reports from intelligence agents. His mind was full of Mary—her small frame in his arms as he carried her up the stairs, setting her on the coverlet, and loosening her clothes. He remembered how he’d envied her ability to sleep so deeply on their honeymoon. No lumpy bed or chorus of roosters had disturbed her then, and with the addition of the punch… If only those dark eyes had opened, and discovered him, and…

  “Bexley?”

  John looked up to find Harkness in the doorway. His superior was looking at him rather oddly. It seemed likely that he’d spoken more than once. “Deep into it, eh?” the man added.

  “Sorry, sir.” John straightened and half rose. He hadn’t slept well.

  Harkness waved him back to his chair. “Your focus and dedication is appreciated. Would you please write up a précis of your last report? I want to pass it along.” He put the report on John’s desk as he spoke.

  “Of course. Right away.” With a nod, Harkness departed. John folded away the document he’d been reading and pulled the report closer, elated that his analysis had impressed Harkness. “Passing it along” meant that Harkness thought his work important enough to be reviewed at the highest levels. He needed to clear his mind and do his job, John thought. And his marriage needed to be a support, not a distraction. No matter what, tonight he would have to make a move to see that it was.

  * * *

  Mary was more and more restless as the day wound on. And as so often when she felt that way, she soon found herself with a sketchbook. Of course. She must draw Fordyce; she must find out all she could about the man. Was he merely John’s rival? His enemy? Excited by the thought of discovery, she went to work. Her pencil moved quickly, outlining Fordyce’s remembered features and filling in detail. Then, in a corner of the page, she sketched a full-length study of the figure they’d encountered last night. An hour passed unheeded as she drew, softened stark lines with her finger, and added highlights.

  When at last Mary sat back, there was Fordyce gazing at her—his long face and hooded eyes, his pale blond hair and light blue eyes, and his wide mouth seemingly made for sneering. He was just above medium height, Mary remembered, and…sinuous was the word that floated up. His shoulders weren’t much wider than his hips. Like an eel…or a snake.

  She contemplated her work. She knew from Conolly that Fordyce was the third son of an earl. She’d asked him as they waited for John. He’d also told her that he and John had traveled together to China. She knew from her own observation that John didn’t like him. She suspected William Conolly didn’t either. And having met the man she could see why. His manner had been taunting, sarcastic.

  Mary set herself to look deeper. Whereas Conolly’s portrait had appeared trustworthy, the man in this drawing seemed the opposite. You would never want to confide in him. He would find a way to use it against you, she was somehow sure. His eyes, half-hidden as she’d recalled them, held an empty glint. Which was an odd combination of words, Mary thought. Yet it seemed right. The shimmer in his eyes didn’t feel like vivacity or humor—definitely not sympathy. It signaled a kind of…intelligence, perhaps? Curiosity? No, here was a man keenly interested in others, but only so that he could root out what they didn’t want revealed. He wanted secrets, desired them as a drunkard longed for drink. He wanted them to use, to betray, to advance himself at others’ expense.

  Mary stepped back from this latest product of her art, and she felt a strong desire to escape its intrusive stare. She closed the sketchbook and left the room.

  Wanting the company of more amiable people, Mary headed for the kitchen. There she found Kate sitting at the big wooden table leafing through what looked like a sheaf of recipes. Mrs. Tanner was bent over a pot on the stove. “There you are,” the cook said before Mary’s foot left the final stair. “That dratted boy’s gone missing.”

  “Arthur? He’s missing?”

  “He’s just out having a bit of a lark,” said Kate, as if she wished she was doing the same.

  “I sent him up to the greengrocer for carrots, which I needed twenty minutes ago.” Mrs. Tanner stirred glumly. “And now he’s been gone a good two hours.” She made a sour face. “And, no, Kate can’t go looking for the little devil. She needs to do a bit of work for a change.”

  Kate grimaced at her mother’s back. Not for the first time, Mary thought that these two should have taken positions in different households when they left the duchess’s employ. In a peeress’s large group of servants they had evidently gotten on well enough. Here, they rubbed together every moment, and the older woman was often irascible.

  In many ways, Mrs. Tanner seemed to have adjusted to her changed situation. She’d delved into the cookery books Mary had purchased and appeared to enjoy being queen of a smaller kitchen, now that she was accustomed to its ways. Their baking days had become a pleasant cooperation. All would have been well, Mary thought, if her maid weren’t Mrs. Tanner’s daughter. Mrs. Tanner was more critical of Kate than she would have been of a stranger, and Kate was more rebellious. The maid showed no signs of becoming reconciled to her position, yet she couldn’t be dismissed without offending her mother. Mary was sympathetic to their situation, up to a point. But she wouldn’t be spoken to in this way in her own kitchen. She held Mrs. Tanner’s gaze until the cook dropped her eyes and murmured, “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Mary nodded. “I’ll go out and look for Arthur,” she said. “I’d like a walk, and I have some errands.” Ignoring the cook’s renewed muttering, Mary fetched her cloak and a basket and went out into the brisk September afternoon.

  Nine

  Mary went first to the greengrocer they patronized to inquire about Arthur. He had been there and bought the carrots, but
that had been more than an hour ago, she was told. She went on to a spice merchant in a nearby street. Once she’d made her planned purchases, she walked to the market square where Arthur had encountered the dog, but she found no sign of him there. Thwarted, she wondered where else to search. She wasn’t terribly worried about the boy. Their neighborhood was quite safe. Arthur was fascinated by London and had stretched out the time of his assigned errands before, though not for as long as two hours. She was more concerned about what he might have shot with his sling or other mischief he might have gotten into. He could be lost, she supposed, though for a country boy he’d demonstrated a keen sense of direction in town.

  Mary made some looping circuits of their neighborhood. People bustled in and out of local businesses, carried parcels wrapped in brown paper under their arms, and chatted in front of the butcher’s and the tea shop. But none of them was Arthur. She ranged a bit farther. Turning down an unfamiliar street, she came upon a crooked lane of small shops. She knew she wasn’t far from home, but she’d never seen this rather charming thoroughfare before. Walking along, noting the businesses and their various wares, she came upon an intriguing display in a bow window.

  She stepped closer. Small colored bottles held labels that described tinctures and medicinal concoctions. There were packets of dried herbs as well and flower-based lotions. The sign above the door read, “Jeremiah Jenkins, Apothecary.” Intrigued, she opened the door and went in. A bell on a spring heralded her entrance.

  Inside, there was far more than the rows of patent medicines and tank of leeches one found in a commonplace apothecary shop. The place smelled lovely—like all the flowers Mary could imagine in one bouquet.

  A young man came through the arch at the back and gave her a polite smile. “Yes, ma’am, how may I serve you?”

  “Are you Jeremiah Jenkins?” asked Mary.

  “I am.”

  He was young to be the proprietor of his own shop, perhaps twenty-five, and very handsome indeed, Mary thought. His black curly hair grew in a dramatic peak above dark eyes; his square chin promised determination, his wide forehead intellect. “The display in your window interested me,” she said. “Do you make your own tinctures?”

  “Mostly I procure them from country people with generations of experience in finding and combining the proper ingredients.”

  She smiled at his prompt promotion of his products.

  “I’m sure I could supply any compound you might require.”

  Mary forgave the touch of pomposity in his voice. She was pretty certain he used it to counteract his youth. “Do you have a family?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I…ah…I prefer to deal with family men. You have a wife? Children?”

  “I am unmarried,” he replied stiffly. “But I do not see… I assure you this has no effect on my ability to provide satisfactory service.”

  “Indeed. Still, you are rather young…”

  He grew even stiffer. “My father owned this establishment before me, and he thoroughly educated me in every aspect of the apothecary’s trade. He was a master of his craft.”

  Mary liked the emotion in his voice when he spoke of his father and his apparent devotion to his profession. This unexpected encounter had given her some intriguing ideas. “Well, your shop is very interesting.”

  Still prickly and now disappointed at her failure to purchase anything, he sketched a bow as she turned toward the door.

  Basket on her arm, Mary walked to the end of the lane and around another corner, finding herself back in familiar territory. She was a little distance from home and out of ideas for finding Arthur. The afternoon was waning. She could only hope he’d returned in her absence. If he hadn’t, they would institute a more serious search.

  It was nearly dusk when she came into the square and saw the candlelit windows of her house ahead. She was hurrying toward home when she heard her name called and turned to find John striding toward her. “What are you doing out alone at this time of day?” he said.

  “I was looking for…”

  “You must take Kate or Arthur with you when you go out.” He took her arm and pulled her along toward home.

  Mary thought for an instant that she saw someone at the entrance of the square behind him, but then it seemed it was just a moving shadow. “I often do. The trouble today was that Arthur…”

  “I won’t have you out alone in the dark!”

  While she appreciated his concern, Mary also felt it a bit unreasonable. “I don’t go out alone in the dark. I…”

  “What do you call this?” John gestured at the growing gloom.

  “Our neighborhood is quite safe. I was trying to find…”

  “Until that single time when it isn’t!” He hustled her toward the front door. Mary already had her key out to open it, and in a moment they were inside. John faced her with an intense look. “I can’t worry about you while I’m out. I have to keep my mind on my work.”

  “There’s no need for you to worry.”

  “You have no idea what London is really like. I’ve seen things…” He broke off with a haunted expression.

  “What things?”

  “Never mind, Mary. I want your word that you won’t go wandering the streets alone.”

  She started to say that she hadn’t been “wandering the streets” and that he was making a great case out of nothing. But something in his face made her bite back the words. “I won’t.”

  John wanted a more specific promise. He wanted a guarantee that he would never arrive home to find her missing, hurt, or dead in an alley somewhere, dragged off by villains… Something twisted in his chest at the idea; for an instant he felt he couldn’t breathe. Then he forced these unlikely scenarios out of his mind. They didn’t live in Limehouse. Their neighborhood was, in fact, quite safe. Why else had he chosen it? She’d said she would do as he asked. She hadn’t argued. He had to accept her word. He nodded, managing a smile.

  Only then did he notice Kate at the back of the entryway, standing ready to take his coat and watching their exchange with bright interest. He took off the coat and gave it to her.

  “Has Arthur returned?” Mary said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the maid. “A good hour past.”

  Mary sighed and nodded. “I’ll speak to him later.”

  Something in the exchange caught John’s attention. “Returned from where?”

  Mary looked at Kate. “Did he say?” When Kate shook her head, she added, “He was out for hours on a simple errand. I must tell him that he is not free to pursue ‘adventures’ all over town.”

  Mary spoke lightly, as if to assure him this was a trivial matter. But the word “adventures” struck like a gong in John’s head. “I’ll talk to him,” he said.

  “You?”

  Nettled by Mary’s surprised look, he said, “I was a lad myself. I understand the breed.”

  “I know, but…”

  “You have some objection?” He was angry, and he had no idea why.

  “No, of course not. I simply didn’t want you bothered with domestic problems.”

  “Perhaps this is neither a problem nor domestic!”

  “What?”

  Confused by his own reactions, John turned toward the parlor. Irritatingly, Mary followed him in. She put a hand on his sleeve. “It’s very kind of you to think of speaking to Arthur,” she said. “I know he admires you very much.” She smiled, her dark eyes warm.

  John’s vexation evaporated in a breathless rush. In its place came memories of all the times he’d touched her—the feel of her lips, her pliant body responding to his hands, the gasp of startled pleasure he’d once roused. Desire flooded every inch of him, as if he’d been plunged into scalding water. Unthinking, he reached for her.

  In the parlor doorway, Kate cleared her throat. “Dinner is served…m
a’am.”

  * * *

  Their meal that evening was weighted with nuance. They talked of commonplace things, but John’s mind was still full of the times he’d held his wife in his arms. Their process of getting “reacquainted,” adjusting to their new situation, fresh start—whatever you wished to call it—had gone on far too long. Tension had begun to burden the very air. Why should it seem such a great step from this pleasant table to the bedchamber? But Kate was serving parsnips, and Mary was talking of some spice merchant, and there was a whole routine to be gone through before they were alone. It seemed like hours before the meal ended and they retired to the parlor.

  John settled beside his wife before the fire. He told himself not to be impatient or clumsy, but desire pulsed in at him. He could wait no longer. “Mary?”

  Something in his tone seemed to arrest her attention. She gazed up at him.

  “I know we said we would keep a certain distance until we were better acquainted…”

  “I didn’t.” Mary bit her lip.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  Heat ran through John, as if he’d stepped into flames.

  “We’re…we’re married,” Mary added. “We’ve been married for two years. It’s not as if…I mean…”

  In one swooping move John pulled her into his arms. Her eyes burned into his for one thrilling moment, and then he kissed her.

  Her eager response added to the fire coursing through him. He coaxed and caressed, his hands moving across her back, drifting up to brush her breast and rouse the breathy sigh that so delighted him. Their time apart had altered them both. They’d found their way to inner fires as life challenged them, and now the two together promised conflagration.

  Mary couldn’t have said how long the kiss went on; she only knew that she felt bereft when it was interrupted by yet another cough from the parlor doorway. “Was you wanting tea or…anything else?” Kate asked. She didn’t even try to hide a grin.