A Matter of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  “I’m so looking forward to going to your ancestral home,” Torie said as the coach traveled through London. “You’ve spoken of Hawthorne House so often that I feel as though I know every hallway, every chamber.”

  “I look forward to sharing it with you,” Robert said, his response paltry, hardly significant. Knowing that she knew little about him didn’t help his situation at all, because in some ways it increased his likelihood of making a misstep. The fewer details she knew, the more likely she was to have a clearer memory of them.

  She seemed disappointed in his answer, and he could hardly blame her. She was so vibrant, so alive that he felt very much like a corpse sitting on the seat opposite hers.

  Her traveling clothes were dark green. Perched jauntily on her head was a little hat with a feather slanting off to the side. Her hair was piled up beneath it. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, touch her cheek, touch her. But he feared one touch wouldn’t be enough, would never be enough.

  “I would like to invite Diana to join us, once we’ve settled into marriage.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think she and John would get along?”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Because he would have chosen her from the start if he had an interest in her.

  “Living in America, he no doubt has come to appreciate a lady with a more uncivilized nature.”

  “Trust me. Diana can be most uncivilized when she sets her mind to it. Just this morning she was goading Mother with nonsense about never marrying.”

  “Why do you consider her never wanting to marry as nonsense?”

  “Because it is a woman’s purpose in life—to seek out a favorable marriage.”

  “So by marrying me, you’ve achieved your purpose.”

  She looked up at the coach’s ceiling. “I don’t believe I’ve ever poked my foot into my mouth as much as I have today.” She lowered her gaze to him. “No, marrying you wasn’t my purpose in life. My purpose”—She furrowed her brow. “I’m not really sure exactly what my purpose is. Perhaps to be a good wife, an exemplary mother, a charming duchess.’

  “Then I have no doubt you shall achieve your goals with tremendous success.”

  “I never realized you had such faith in me.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you to wife otherwise.”

  He was beginning to lose sight of which thoughts were his and which were attempts to utter sentiments he thought his brother might. He didn’t want to be a reflection of John.

  “After we sit for our official portrait, we shall have to have a smaller copy made for John,” she said.

  “Our official portrait?”

  She smiled indulgently at him. “Yes. You’d told me that shortly after their marriage every duke and duchess has a portrait painted to hang in the family gallery.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “And you want us to have ours done very soon, since we’re now the Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth.”

  “Very soon,” he murmured, “but not immediately. I’ve never enjoyed standing for portraits.”

  Besides, no sense in having her portrait done when it would not long hang in the gallery. He couldn’t promise that she would remain the duchess. As a matter of fact, she probably wouldn’t. The vows she’d spoken today had been for another man, and Robert wouldn’t hold her to them.

  “It is a rather boring endeavor, isn’t it?” she asked. “And I know you detest being bored.”

  A trait he and his brother shared. And there was nothing except boredom within Pentonville.

  “I fear even Witherspoon finds it a challenge to assist me with my morning routine, as I’m not one to stand idle for long,” he said, rather pleased with himself because he’d managed to learn the name of his valet.

  He’d had a stroke of brilliance after they’d arrived at his London home so they could transfer from the carriage to the coach. He’d called out all the servants and insisted that each be introduced to the duchess, while he simply walked along beside her, making note of the names as the butler introduced each one. His valet was Witherspoon—a good thing to know since Witherspoon was accompanying him to the estate, traveling in the coach behind this one, and Robert couldn’t very well never call him by name.

  Torie had also brought along her lady’s maid, a woman named Charity who seemed rather young, but capable, and very fond of her mistress.

  “As I understand it, it’s quite a long journey,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we play one of our word games to pass the time?”

  Dash it all! They had little games that they played.

  “It’ll make the time pass more quickly,” she continued. “We’ll play Alphabetical Geography. Give me a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “Of the alphabet. You remember. You say, ‘W,’ and I say, ‘I’m going to Windsor for water and waltzing.’ Then I’ll give you a letter. I know you enjoy it more when several people are around to play, but we can make it work with only the two of us.”

  “I don’t mean to disappoint you, but it’s been a long morning and I’m weary,” he said, rather than confess that he didn’t know anything about the word games she’d played with his brother, and while this one seemed fairly easy, it wasn’t of interest to him. The games he longed to play involved her mouth, pressed up against his. The games played by men and women, not those favored by children.

  “Of course. How silly of me. It’s been a long morning for us both. Will you try to sleep, then?”

  “Possibly.”

  She gazed out the window, her smile withering, and he feared he might have hurt her tender feelings. She was so incredibly lovely and smelled so enticingly sweet, like a flower that kept all its petals tucked neatly away only to blossom at dawn and release the fragrance that made it special, like no other.

  Her rose and lily scent filled the coach and wafted around him. He took one deep breath after another, holding each and savoring the sweetness, allowing it to wash away years of stench filling his nostrils. Sitting with her in the coach was achieving what his bath that morning had failed to accomplish: granting him the feeling of normalcy.

  In retrospect, he probably should have sought an excuse to leave her in London, but what would the gossips say about a man who abandoned his wife as soon as vows were spoken? They would no doubt question his virility. While he himself would question his sanity, for no sane man would willingly distance himself from her, not for a day, certainly not for a night.

  Yet there he was: inches from her instead of nestled up against her, whispering sweet love words into her ear while plying her neck with his kisses. To get to that neck, he’d have to release a few buttons, because she was done up as tightly as a drum. Although they were married, he was no doubt expected to follow tradition and be the pursuer.

  Did women even know precisely what happened during the wedding night? It wasn’t as if they could visit a brothel and learn all the particulars. Although he had visited one the night he’d turned eighteen, his enjoyment of the offerings had been cut short when he was drugged and carted away. Over the years he’d had many a lonely night of imagining exactly what he might do with a woman. He might lack experience, but he damned well didn’t lack imagination, and he was having a difficult time reining it in now. It was taking liberties that he couldn’t, and even as he cursed it, he welcomed it.

  She was a temptation in which he couldn’t indulge. Yet he found himself blessedly content to simply be within the coach with her. To not be alone. Even if the silence stretched between them, he was not alone.

  Then a horrible thought occurred to him. Was he giving himself away by not speaking to her?

  She’d begun every conversation, if the few sentences passing between them could be considered conversation. He realized she didn’t appear to be enjoying the view beyond the window. Rather she seemed sad, as lonely as he.

  He was going to have to do something,
come up with some safe topic of conversation, perhaps even agree to play a silly game. He looked out his own window, hoping inspiration would strike, when something caught his eye.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop the coach!”

  “What is it, Robert? What’s wrong?” she asked, suddenly straightening, ever alert.

  He couldn’t explain it. He merely shook his head. The coach rocked to a stop.

  “I’ll be only a moment,” he said, not waiting for a footman, but flinging the door open and stepping out. He walked only a few feet away from the coach so he’d have an unobstructed view.

  The building was as ominous from the outside as it was from the inside. Foreboding as well as forbidding. He broke out in a light sweat. He swore he heard the clanging of doors, the shuffling of feet as prisoners were escorted to the exercise yard or the chapel, the absence of voices—

  “What is it about Pentonville that fascinates you so?”

  Robert nearly leaped out of his skin at the unexpected question, her unanticipated nearness. He’d not heard her clamber out of the coach, not heard her approach, and yet she was beside him, studying him. He wasn’t certain what she might see, what his face might reveal, so he tore his gaze from her, striving to keep any sort of emotion out of his voice.

  “What makes you think it fascinates me?”

  She released what she probably hoped would be a laugh, but sounded more like she was choking. “Because twice before when we’ve been out on a drive, you’ve done this very thing: had the driver stop so you could stand in that exact spot and stare at that horrid prison.”

  So twice before when his brother was with her he’d stared at the prison. Fancy that. Robert wondered how many times John might have come to look at it when he wasn’t with her. If he ever stood nearby with guilt raining down on him, guilt for all he’d acquired and all it had cost his brother, the true heir.

  Had John considered confessing his sins to her, or had he simply been taking a moment to revel in his unbridled success at replacing his brother? What had he thought when he’d stood there? And what could Robert now say to his wife to explain his actions?

  “I’m not certain why it fascinates me. It’s a morbid sort of fascination, to be sure.” Like gazing at one’s home in hopes of remembering pleasant memories where none existed.

  “I’ve seen a drawing of the prisoners taking their exercise. They’re tied together—”

  “They’re not tied together,” he interrupted. “They’re merely forced to hold a rope, knotted at five-yard intervals, to keep them from getting too close to each other. The distance prevents them from carrying on a conversation with another man.”

  “In the drawing I saw, they wore hoods—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear any more of the details with which he was so horrifyingly familiar. “It’s a bit of frippery called a scotch cap.”

  “Why do you call it frippery? It saves the prisoners the embarrassment of having their faces seen.”

  “By whom?” he asked, unable to keep the anger from surfacing. “By other prisoners? Other guilty men? Imagine living your life day in and day out at a masked costume ball…only everyone wore the same mask. You could easily go insane when everyone looks exactly alike. Watching the men come out is like bees swarming from the hive. You can’t tell them apart. The sameness of it. Everything always the same. The same thirteen-by-seven-foot cell. The same clothing, the same hood, the same—” He broke off. He’d not meant to go on so, but the misery of that existence was buried deeply inside him, struggling to escape with tenacity equal to his own.

  “I thought this new prison system was considered far superior to what we had before. It is clean, modern. And while the hoods may be a bit of a nuisance, if I were within those walls, I wouldn’t want anyone to know it was me. I believe I would welcome the anonymity while waiting to be transported to Australia.”

  “Yet you would lose that anonymity the morning you were marched to the transportation ships. Hoods are not worn then. Faces are revealed, so why bother to hide them at all?”

  She furrowed her delicate brow. “Oh, I see your point. I suppose it does seem a rather unnecessary practice, but I’m certain the decision wasn’t based on a whim. Surely there is a good reason that we’ve simply failed to consider.”

  “None that I can think of.”

  “Which isn’t proof that a good reason doesn’t exist. Only that we can’t fathom it. I’m sure all the decisions were made with a great deal of wisdom and forethought. Why does this place fascinate you so?”

  She moved in front of him so he was forced to either look into her eyes or peer over her head. He chose her eyes and quickly wished he hadn’t. They reflected a pleading that he didn’t quite understand. His gaze drifted lower, to her lips, and he realized that he was making a thousand mistakes today, because looking at them reminded him of how close he’d come to kissing them earlier in the church.

  Her tongue darted out and moistened her lower lip. His body tightened in response. He jerked his gaze up to look over her, toward the prison, the model prison, the pride of England. It wasn’t fair that he’d spent eight years in that place; it wasn’t fair that John would spend only a few nights. It wasn’t fair that this woman cared for his brother.

  She cradled his cheek, forcing him to look at her once again.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said softly, pleadingly. “I don’t know where you go when you look at that horrid building, but somehow it takes you away. Even though you’re standing right here, you’re no longer with me. Please, let’s go now.”

  He placed his hand over hers, so small, soft, and warm. Even through the gloves, he felt the warmth. Turning his head slightly, he nodded as he pressed a kiss to the center of her palm and caught a stronger whiff of her perfume. She must have placed a drop on her wrist, and he wondered where else she might have placed droplets. Along her throat, between her breasts, behind a knee. Places he would dearly love to kiss, with or without the scent of her perfume to tantalize him.

  He turned away, fearful she would read the desire harboring within him. For eight years he’d not known the touch of a woman, the sound of a woman’s voice, the gentleness a woman brought into the world. But his brother had possessed all those things. Would he be as appreciative toward her as Robert found himself, or would he take everything for granted?

  He offered her his arm and led her back toward the coach. Once they were settled in and on their way, he soon found himself gazing at his wife, his brother’s love. And knowing a fury at the unfairness that continued to be visited upon him—a fury far greater than any he’d experienced before.

  Once they returned to the coach, Torie lost her inclination to try to start a conversation. She was as weary as he claimed to be, having gotten up before dawn to begin the preparations for her wedding. And while she was undeniably disappointed in Robert’s lack of enthusiasm for any topic she broached, she had to admit that perhaps her inability to engage him in any meaningful discussion was the result of his experiencing the same weariness, and not because he was suddenly finding fault with her, when he never had before.

  He’d always maintained a quiet reserve when they’d been together in public, but then they’d always either been in public or had a chaperone nearby fairly breathing down their necks. They’d never been totally and completely alone.

  It was the private man that she’d thought marriage would introduce her to. She’d not expected him to be more reserved. She’d thought that finally, alone, they’d come to know each other better, to stir within each other the passion that was lacking before. They had always been politely comfortable with each other, but even that seemed to have vanished.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she finally ventured to ask.

  His gaze came to rest on her. “What’s that?”

  “This is the first time that we’ve been completely alone. I expected it to be somehow different.”

  “In what way?”

  She nib
bled on her lip, wondering if she should dare to confess—

  “I thought you might ravish me as soon as possible.”

  It was impossible to confirm from this distance, but she thought her husband might be blushing.

  “Surely you’ve no desire to be taken in a coach,” he stated, his voice rough as though he were struggling against images of the ravishment she’d suggested.

  “I suppose it would be rather awkward.” Although she wasn’t entirely sure. Could he ravish her while sitting? Or would they need to be lying down? As well sprung as his coach was, it was still a bumpy ride.

  “Decidedly so,” he commented laconically.

  “Have you ever…in a coach?” she asked.

  He gazed out the window. “No. And even if I had, I don’t believe I’d tell a lady of my exploits.”

  “So you might be lying now to protect my sensibilities.”

  He jerked his head around. “I’m not lying.”

  “Even if you had no plans to ravish me, you could sit by me, now that we’re married. It’s perfectly acceptable.”

  “If I sat beside you, I’m not certain that I could resist ravishing you.”

  Now she thought she might be the one blushing.

  “We could test your restraint.”

  “I would rather not.”

  “So it is a matter of temptation that has you sitting there rather than here?”

  He gave a brusque nod before turning his attention back to the window and the scenery beyond. She took what satisfaction she could from his confession. At least she was desired.

  His insistence on not testing his restraint became abundantly clear when the coach pulled to a stop in front of an inn, and she and Robert were immediately taken to a private room. Her heart had fluttered with the thought that he’d decided he could wait no longer to make her his wife. But the room was prepared for dining, not bedding. She didn’t think a table would be any more comfortable than a coach.

  Robert had crossed the room and stood staring out the window while servants brought in food and arranged everything nicely upon the table. Apparently the proprietor was accustomed to the duke stopping here on his way to Hawthorne House, because as he was leaving the room he assured the duke that fresh horses would be available.