by Jane Ashford
“Were you keeping him—” began Miss Saunders.
“Did you tell him—” said his uncle at the same time.
“He’s five years old,” replied Benjamin. “I don’t have to explain every move I make to a child of that age.”
And then there the boy was, standing at the back of the hall like a sudden apparition. He had an uncanny ability to arrive just when one hoped he wouldn’t. Geoffrey’s celestial-blue eyes caught Benjamin’s gaze; then he looked up to follow the progress of his mother’s image.
Alice seemed to be floating around the curve of the staircase, looking down on them, being no help whatsoever. They might have carried the canvas the other way about, Benjamin thought, feeling slightly beleaguered. His son might make a sound or two when he moved about the house. “The portrait is going back to the gallery,” he said. Again. And sounded pompous this time. Geoffrey looked at him, and Benjamin realized that back meant nothing to the boy in this context. The picture had hung in the library all his short life.
“Am I going there, too?” his son asked.
“Where?”
“The gallery.”
“You may whenever you like,” Benjamin said. “You must tell someone first,” he added quickly.
“Everything else is just the same,” said Miss Saunders. She smiled at the boy, making Benjamin’s pulse accelerate even though the smile wasn’t directed at him.
Geoffrey gave her a sidelong glance. Benjamin was vividly reminded of the incident with the tomahawk in this very spot. He spoke before his son could say something rude. “It’s an honor to have a portrait in the gallery. Your mother will take her place alongside past ladies of the household. She’ll always be in her proper position there.”
“Respected,” said Miss Saunders.
“Remembered,” said Benjamin’s uncle.
It was gratifying to be surrounded by intelligent people, Benjamin thought. Or was it irritating to be surrounded by people who thought he required assistance? “We should have your picture painted, Geoffrey.”
The boy put his reassuringly empty hands behind his back. “Would I have to die afterward?”
“My likeness hangs in the gallery, and I am not dead.” Why did he have to keep reminding his son of this fact? “Nor do I plan to be anytime soon. It is not a requirement.”
Geoffrey shrugged. Silent and supple as an eel, he slipped around them and up the stairs. In the next instant he was gone. Heading to the gallery to watch them mount Alice’s portrait, Benjamin had no doubt.
“With his mother moved out of the center of the household, he feels as if he has been, too,” said Lord Macklin.
“Insofar as he’s ever been in it,” replied Miss Saunders.
Benjamin felt a flash of anger. “You’re making a great to-do out of nothing. Next to nothing.” The change was significant, but for him, not his small son. “Geoffrey isn’t capable of such complicated thoughts. I’d wager anything you like he’s up there begging to climb the ladder and try out the hammer as they hang the painting.” Which was paint on canvas and nothing more, he thought. They should all remember that!
His companions considered. “You’re probably right,” said his uncle.
“I am. It happens now and then.”
“Geoffrey will grow accustomed,” said Miss Saunders. She nodded. “You should have his portrait made.”
“I shall. Though I pity the artist who tries to make him sit still.”
They all smiled.
“Tom could do it,” said his uncle. When the others turned in surprise, he added, “A pencil sketch anyway. He has great natural ability. I don’t know that he’s ever had real paints though.”
“Perhaps we should get him some,” said Miss Saunders.
“Perhaps we shall,” answered Benjamin.
• • •
Furness Hall was positively packed with people, Jean thought later that day. She hadn’t noticed how crowded the place was until she thought of arranging a clandestine encounter. Mrs. Thorpe was everywhere, eager to offer her companionship and conversation, charming but inconvenient. Jean saw the irony—that she’d acquired a chaperone just when she particularly didn’t want one. Lord Macklin roamed about the estate like the kindly uncle he was, with no set routine. Geoffrey was liable to pop up anywhere, at any time. And then Tom, with or without Lily the nursery maid, would show up to find the boy. There was the whole staff of servants, of course. This group had seemed paltry when one was trying to get fresh tea at breakfast. Now they appeared to be everywhere. In particular, Sarah came in and out of Jean’s bedchamber at unpredictable hours.
Finally, her target had his own tasks and whims, not easy to pin down. She might have enlisted Lord Furness’s help, of course, and simplified matters considerably. But she wasn’t going to. This was her idea and her decision. She didn’t think she would change her mind, but she might. So she would figure things out herself. Clearly seducers had to be quite clever, she thought as she pondered the details. Or perhaps cunning was a better word.
Where wasn’t a difficult question. The public rooms were obviously unsuitable, as were the gardens, as well as possibly inclement. Her bedchamber was haunted by Sarah, and also Jean would have to herd him there and then out again afterward. She wasn’t certain how that could be managed. No, it would have to be his room, late at night when the household slept, she concluded. She’d visit him there. He’d be at her disposal. She felt a delicious little thrill at the idea, even as a part of her was shocked and another a bit anxious.
Was she really going to do this? After a period of lively inner debate, she made up her mind. She was.
And so, that night, at an hour when everyone was settled for sleep, Jean put on her dressing gown over her nightdress and slipped out of her room under Tab’s questioning gaze. She took a candle but did not light it. The glow would advertise her presence, should anyone be about.
Instead, she crept slowly in the dark, trailing her left hand along the corridor wall, counting doors. She’d made triply certain that she knew which room belonged to Lord Furness. What a fiasco if she walked in on Mrs. Thorpe or Lord Macklin! But she wouldn’t. This one was right. On a deep breath, Jean opened the door and went inside.
The bedchamber was less dark than the corridor. The day had been chilly and rainy; the coals of a fire cut the dimness. Jean could see a great four-poster bed. Indeed, the pale linens were like a kind of beacon. She took off her wrapper and slippers, leaving them with her candle by the door, where she could easily find them again, and moved toward the bed in only her thin nightgown.
She felt like a thief or a spy. And then she tripped over a stray shoe, stumbled into a small table, and knocked something to the floor. It clattered.
“Who’s there?” asked her host’s deep, resonant voice, seeming loud in the darkness.
Jean faced a moment of truth. She could still flee. He might suspect, but he’d never know her identity for sure. Surprisingly, she hadn’t the least inclination to run. “Jean Saunders,” she said clearly.
“What are you doing here? Is something wrong?” He threw back the covers, poised to rise.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Jean thought. She rushed forward and climbed in with him.
“What are you doing?” he repeated.
“Coming to bed with you.”
There was a short, charged silence.
“It seemed an obvious thing to do, after all that kissing,” Jean added.
“Obvious!”
“Well a…possible way to go on,” she said, echoing their earlier conversation. “So I decided.”
“Do I have anything to say about it?”
“No.”
Sitting on the other side of the bed, he was outlined by firelight. His head moved interrogatively.
“I mean, you don’t have to say anything.” Jean had been taught tha
t men were always eager for physical passion. A young lady was trained to discourage them, never to allow them the least opening because they would immediately take advantage. Had her mother been wrong about this, too? “Unless you don’t want to?” she added. Humiliation threatened to engulf her.
“Oh, I want to.” His voice was throaty, thrilling. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“We’re not going to worry,” Jean replied. “Or argue. We’re going to indulge.”
That final word, and the way she said it, roused Benjamin to a state where it was difficult to think. “But have you considered…”
“Could you just keep quiet?” she interrupted.
He could, but should he? Taut with desire, amused, and just slightly offended, Benjamin didn’t know. Before he could decide, Jean lunged across the bedclothes, pushed him flat, and kissed him. Her aim was a bit off, but she soon remedied that. Her skills had benefitted from their previous kisses. Her body was a soft, sensuous pressure on his.
Benjamin’s objections went up in flames. He sank into the kiss. He let his hands go where they’d been wanting to for days—up along her ribs, over her breasts, down the lovely curve of her back. He made it a tantalizing game, getting her to gasp and moan. She wriggled atop him as if to get closer. Her knees slid down on either side of his hips, and he moaned himself.
He eased her nightgown up her thighs. She straightened above him, grasped the hem with both hands, and pulled it off, throwing the filmy garment across the bed toward the door. Benjamin laughed. She really was the most astonishing creature.
He stopped laughing when she began to unbutton his nightshirt, from the neck down over his chest and the muscles of his torso. Her fingers were quick and deft. She had to rise on her knees to get the last few buttons, a process that set him groaning again. She pushed the cloth away, leaving only his arms covered, and bent to kiss him again. Her skin was hot against his. They were burning each other up. He ran his hands up and down her body.
His sleeves were an annoyance. Holding her against him, Benjamin turned over and ripped off the nightshirt. He looked down at Jean. Her eyes were pools of darkness, her skin pale as moonbeams. She reached for him, and he willingly went. Indulging indeed in kisses and touches and excited murmurs. He made certain that his caresses carried her over the peak of desire before he entered her to find his own delicious relief.
Afterward, they lay curled together, panting, while heartbeats and breathing slowed. A tide of tenderness washed over Benjamin.
“That was rather good,” she said. Her tone was contemplative.
“Rather?” he replied. “Good?” He was amused but piqued as well.
“All in all.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Parts of it were quite wonderful,” she went on. “Most of them really.”
“And the other…parts?” Benjamin tried not to feel criticized.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not the least offended.” He wasn’t. Not offended. He was just a little irked. She’d certainly seemed to be enjoying herself. “Merely curious.”
“Well, there were a few awkward bits,” Jean said. “I’m sure they were my fault.”
“If I hurt you—” He hated the idea.
“Not really. And it’s nearly obligatory, I understand.”
“Obligatory?” Had there ever been such a marvelous woman?
“And only the first time, I believe.”
“Practice makes perfect. I’ll be only too happy to demonstrate the truth of that adage. You’ll see when we’re married.”
She moved away from him. “We’re not talking of marriage.”
“I am. I have, several times.”
“And I said no.”
He rose on one elbow to look down at her. “And then you came to my bed.”
“The two things have nothing to do with each other.”
“Nothing!” Benjamin sat up in one lithe movement, startling her into a gasp. He found the tinderbox and lit his bedside candle. He had to see her expression.
But he found no clue on her face. She looked the same as ever as she gazed up at him from the pillows. Her hair had escaped its bonds and curled wildly over the white linen. She was delectable, and incomprehensible. “Really, Jean, what more do you want? Why won’t you marry me?” he asked plaintively.
“I don’t have to!”
“That’s not the issue. We are discussing wanting to. Why don’t you want to?”
She was silent briefly. Then she said, “There’s no going back from marriage. You give your word of honor. You’re trapped for life.”
“Or bonded, mated, even loved.” He dared the word.
She moved farther away from him. He hated it. “Tell me why you’re this way,” he said.
“What way?”
“Stubborn and adorable and prickly and so very…stimulating. Tell me.”
She pulled the coverlet higher on her chest. Benjamin leaned back against the headboard like the most patient of men and waited.
She’d vowed never to tell anyone, Jean thought. The very idea was dreadful. The past couldn’t be mended. What could anyone offer her but pity and contempt? Which she rejected with every fiber of her being!
He was looking at her. She could feel his gaze even though she didn’t meet it. She’d been closer to this man tonight than she’d ever come to anyone. She hadn’t imagined such tenderness. Her spirit trembled at the memory. If there was to be any future with him…which there probably wasn’t, a quick inner voice declared. The idea was very unlikely. But if there was to be any chance, she had to admit that the past sometimes hovered over her like a vengeful ghost. Perhaps there was a softer way to tell it.
But even as she searched for gentler words, the truth tumbled from her mouth. “I ruined my mother’s life,” she said. “She could have been happy, if not for me.”
“Happy how?”
He didn’t argue that she was mistaken, which somehow made it easier to speak. “Free,” Jean replied. “Able to go about in society and enjoy herself. Married, eventually, to someone who adored her. Unlike my father, who never cared a whit for either of us.” The last came out bitter; she couldn’t help it.
“An ideal existence, in short.”
Was that sarcasm? Beset by turbulent memories, Jean wasn’t sure. She pushed on. “So of course she got angry. Having lost all that.”
“At you?” There was no doubt this time; he sounded judgmental.
Heart sinking, Jean considered stopping. But the story was rising in her now, jostling to get out. “She didn’t wish to beat me. She always said that. Over and over. She hated violence in all its forms. So she locked me away until she felt better.”
“Away? Where?”
“There was a cupboard.” A childish tone had crept into her voice on that hateful word, Jean realized. “A small, dark place, waiting for me as long as I can remember. And even before that, I think.”
“When you were an infant?” He sounded outraged. Jean cringed a little at the anger in his tone.
“I suppose she started putting me there from the very beginning.”
“Jean.” He reached for her hand, but she couldn’t let him have it right now.
“The door was so tight, no light got in at all. And it was deathly quiet. Sometimes I wondered if I was dead. Especially when she forgot about me.”
“Forgot?” He seemed to choke it out.
“Mama never stayed angry long. Her temper was like a…a lightning storm. Flashes of fury and then gone. She hardly knew what she did, sometimes. When it passed, she’d go off, here and there. And then she’d recall. After a…while.”
“She left you—a small child—locked up in a cupboard for long periods of time?”
“If it was long, she’d be so sorry when she remembered.” Jean alm
ost smiled. Not quite. “She’d run to fetch me and cry and order cakes and new hair ribbons. She could be terribly charming.”
“Terribly indeed.” He captured her hand and held it, strong and steady. “This is outrageous. No one helped you? How could that be?”
“The servants didn’t want to cross her. She shrieked so. And threw things. Our staff wasn’t very good, because we couldn’t pay them well.”
“Someone should have stopped it.”
Jean set her jaw. “Someone did. Me. Eventually, I learned to recognize her rages coming on and to disappear.” She tried to make a joke of it. “Not into the cupboard, of course. I had much pleasanter hiding places.”
He let go of her hand, but only long enough to pull her up and nestle her close against his side. His skin was hot against hers. Even under the coverlet she’d gotten chilled. “It’s a pity she’s dead,” he said. “I missed the chance to tell her off properly.”
A spurt of manic laughter escaped Jean. “She’d been forced into a life she didn’t want, you see. And that made her…”
“Cruel? Tyrannical? Heartless? No, she allowed herself to be those things.”
“But I was…”
“Blameless. You do know that, don’t you?” He looked down, his eyes boring into hers.
“I can be annoying,” Jean said in a small voice. “You’ve said so.”
His arm tightened around her. “Do you equate me with your horrible mother?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that…”
“Just nothing. You were a child, her child. You deserved her love and care. And to be shielded from her unhappiness. My God, who knows that better than you? Didn’t you teach me that very lesson with Geoffrey?”
Tears welled up. Jean tried to stop them. Crying had always brought reprisals in her childhood.
Benjamin simply pulled her closer and wrapped his other arm around her. “I could weep with you for such a childhood,” he said.
Jean choked on a sob. He held her tighter. She couldn’t hold back then; she leaned on him and cried.