by Sophia Nash
“True.” He leaned back a bit, a half smile decorating his gaunt face. “Except at weddings.”
“Yes,” she said, exasperated. “But then it’s not so much an act of chivalry as much as an opportunity for you to extract compensation.”
“Precisely,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, because I like you, I shall give you a brilliant piece of advice.” He paused for good effect. “For free.”
“Yes?”
“For righteousness to prevail, you often need a bit of larceny in your heart.”
Her pulse quickened. “What are you suggesting?”
“You are an intelligent creature. You’ll figure it out when you’re with your friends and your fiancé at Windsor.” His eyes half closed, and he seemed in pain as he leaned in to brush a kiss on her forehead. His intoxicating scent rushed to meet her. “I’ll be there too.”
“Oh,” she murmured, “I didn’t know.”
In the awkwardness of the stillness, she watched her finger trace the edge of his dark blue superfine lapel. The knot of his white linen neck cloth was simply yet expertly arranged. She was so close she could see the tremor of his heartbeat. She looked up. Oh, he was staring at her again, indecision radiating from his hard expression.
He exhaled in a rush. “You’re determined to make your life as complicated and difficult as possible, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped his head, his lips a whisper from hers. “Bloody hell. I can’t seem to keep away from you any more than that bloody Pymm. You would do well to get away from here, Elizabeth.”
She rocked forward onto the tips of her toes and brushed her lips against his. A rush of intense desire flooded every inch of her flesh. The passion of it trilled in her veins as he took possession of her, his hands urging hers around his neck and then returning to grip her ribs without a hint of gentleness.
She had relived the kiss under the tree a thousand times each day. It paled in comparison to the reality of the moment in the privacy of this study as he drew his large hands up the sides of her body. Her knees almost buckled when his thumbs came to a rest on the crests of her breasts.
It was as if he possessed a sacred combination of qualities fated to enthrall her. She could barely breathe, as his hands caressed her body through the thin silk and cotton of her gown and chemise. The most wicked sensations of heat emanated from every pore of her. She knew it was improper, and yet…she could not have breathed or moved for the life of her.
“Oh Christ,” he groaned, his lips surrendering their claim for a moment before returning for more. His fingers loosened the gathered front of her bodice with more practiced ease than a French maid. She couldn’t summon the discipline to stop him. Her voice seemed stuck inside of her throat, unwilling to put an end to the most thrilling moment of her life.
And then his warm lips were gently trailing the side of her neck, only the hint of a day’s growth of whiskers sanding the delicate skin of her throat. Oh, if she could only stop the minutes as they rushed by. Everything was so clear in her mind. This was everything right, the way it was supposed to be. The way—
With a groan he lifted her easily and pressed her against the wall; his lips found the tip of her breast and that first trickle of desire became an ocean that welled within her.
She shivered, continued trembling feverishly as he tortured the rosy tip with his tongue, and then suckled her, daring to nip as she fought against sensations unknown to her. Her fingers tangled through his hair.
Gazing through the long, dark tunnel that had become her path in life, Elizabeth now refused to look away from this small hint of light. She gave herself up to it and drank in the perfect beauty of these moments with Rowland Manning.
As he lavished attention on her tender flesh, she could barely breathe. Her lungs ached with the tension. The silence was broken only by the sound of his boots shifting, and of silk twisting against linen.
And then all at once the quiet sounds of passion unleashed came to an abrupt halt, as a soft knock on the door reverberated across the long chamber.
He immediately pulled away from her and rasped, “Thank God.”
Chastened by his words and her complete loss of any sense of propriety, she struggled with the edge of her bodice. He brushed aside her hands and expertly adjusted the gathered edge.
Sarah’s soft voice floated from the other side of the door. “Elizabeth, we must go. We might be missed if we stay any longer.”
The hardness had returned to his eye as he focused on her hair and adjusted a pin in her locks. “As usual, you have a flair for dramatic exits, Elizabeth Ashburton.”
She tried to regain her dignity to ridiculous effect. She could not stop trembling. Her voice would not come as she opened her mouth and so she closed it.
Her last view of him was a jaded smile as he bade her adieu with a slight bow. “I look forward to watching your efforts at Windsor, my dear. Do remember my advice.”
Oh, she had never felt more awkward. She was now angry, although she could not put her finger on the reason. Of course, she had hoped he would be more taken by her—or by the care she had put forth in arranging the food. Instead, he was more remote than ever as she drew away from his tall, stark figure and his glittering eyes.
My darling,
It brings me such wretchedness to be apart from you still. And yet, I force myself to take a page from your reserves of patience, never forgetting that we will be united soon—never to be parted again. Forever.
P.
Elizabeth twisted the latest ridiculous love note from Pymm in her gloved hands as the carriage approached Windsor Castle late the next morning. Each time the Helston footman delivered the notes she felt like screaming at the top of her lungs in frustration. She wanted to be alone with her memories of last evening, and instead she was forced to read this nonsense.
She laced her fingers to keep them still while she stared out the window. The view was like nothing Elizabeth could have envisioned. She had never seen such majestic grounds.
The wide lawn of the drive shimmered green in the sharp sunlight, every blade standing at attention. Beyond, parallel lines of ash trees surveyed with their feathered gray branchlets that swayed in the breeze. And as if on cue, a cloud of jackdaws swooped down from the castle’s ancient turrets like miniature archangels meant to guard those within.
It was good to be out of London town, where the heat of summer had turned oppressive. Here, just three hours west, the air was cooler, the clean scents of nature replacing the bitter aromas of humanity.
From inside one of the Portman Square carriages, Elizabeth gawked as the largest castle in the world fully revealed itself beyond the royal gates. For the last seven hundred years, this hallowed place had seen more than its fair share of refined grandeur and bloodshed. The Round Tower rose like an intricate scepter on the hill flanked by wings making up an endless series of royal apartments and staterooms, all buffeting walks, circles, and gates.
As she and the others making up the Helston party were escorted within, she worried about the days ahead. She hung back as Ata and Luc walked forward with Sarah and the Earl of Wymith. Only Michael and his exquisite new countess, Grace, trailed behind, still wrapped in their newly wedded bliss. Rosamunde, the Duchess of Helston, had remained in London to stay with Georgiana during her confinement.
What had Rowland Manning meant when he suggested the need for larceny in her heart? Botheration, he could not have been suggesting she creep about looking for the purported letters, could he? Just because Pymm was here, it was ridiculous to think he would bring the letters wherever he went. This entire affair was out of hand. She sighed. Her entire life was out of hand.
Hours later, as they strolled the manicured walks through the long golden shadows of a summer afternoon, Elizabeth became more and more mute to her party’s attempt at conversation. Lord Wymith and Sarah walked slightly ahead of Elizabeth and Ata, while Michael and Grace disappeared in the direction of the rose gard
en.
“Pymm has been nothing if not romantic this past week, my dear,” Ata murmured, her little cocoa-colored dog trotting at the end of a leash. The pea gravel crunched beneath their feet as they crossed toward the formal gardens. “Unlike a certain hardheaded Scot who insists on having very little to do with me. Really, why did he bother to return, I ask you? I can’t imagine why he preferred to come here in the Countess of Home’s rickety old barouche instead of ours.”
“Madam”—the Earl of Wymith turned and waited for the dowager to draw near him—“May I offer you my arm and my ear, madam? Perhaps I can offer a gentleman’s perspective?”
Elizabeth stopped Sarah, affording them the privacy of distance as Ata conferred with Lord Wymith. “He is planning something, Sarah. Here.”
“Who?”
Abashed, she replied, “General Pymm.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.”
Sarah held her tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said on an exhale.
“Dearest, I will always stand by you. I only worry you’ve been living, and hiding, based on your feelings and intuition for quite a while. Are you certain the madness you thought you saw in the general’s eyes was not the grief and wildness we sometimes saw in the men after battle?”
“I—I’m not sure. I’ll never be sure, but there was a cruelty to him. Did your husband ever say anything to you about it?”
“No,” Sarah shook her head. “Pierce never engaged in idle talk and he was as loyal as the day was long. He was not prone to disparaging anyone unless it was imperative.” There was a wistful sadness to Sarah’s gray eyes.
“Oh Sarah, I’m sorry. I know everyone thinks I’m being foolish—that I should accept Pymm.”
Sarah’s eyes studied her, searching, always searching. “Not everyone. But I will admit that the general’s devoted attachment to you appears very genuine, despite everything. You do not truly believe anymore that he had a hand in our loved ones’ deaths, do you?” She paused. “You know I will stand by you if you choose not to marry the general, whatever the reason.”
There were some things one could not even confide in one’s dearest friend. Elizabeth just could not bear to see the doubt in Sarah’s expression if she told her about her father’s letters from her French relative. And she didn’t want to drag Sarah into deeper water with her. Sarah had done so much for her already. Had always stood by her. And so she remained silent. Sarah could not help her.
Hours later, she held back her true thoughts again when Sarah knocked on her door before negotiating the corridors to the dining hall.
“Oh Sarah, those flowers are so lovely. You’ve never worn anything so pretty in your hair.”
Her friend blushed. It was the first time Elizabeth had seen Sarah do such a thing.
“They are bellflowers from the Earl of Wymith. He asked me to wear them tonight.”
Elizabeth’s spirits depressed slightly. Oh, she wanted to be happy for Sarah. Truly. She had been her first and only friend for so many years when the other officer’s wives had avoided Elizabeth and whispered she was a hoyden or worse. But she didn’t want to see the already hazy memory of Sarah’s husband fade. He had been her father’s commander, and all their lives had been woven so closely together it saddened her to think everything was unraveling. Oh, she was being selfish, and everything ridiculous.
Sarah’s fine eyes missed not a thing. “There is nothing to it. I promise you, my love.”
“There would not be anything wrong if there was,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The earl is a very good man and he will make you very happy. I’m certain of it.”
“We’ve already discussed this, Elizabeth. I know what will make me happiest. And it is”—Sarah looked away—“impossible.”
Three quarters of an hour ensconced with one hundred guests fluttering about merely increased the tension between Elizabeth’s temples. At least there was one less worry. The Prince Regent had chosen to pass the hour before dinner with his mother, the queen, who insisted on closeting herself at Windsor with dear King George, who had grown quite mad through the years.
But Mr. Brown was not helping to ease the Helston party’s overall discomfort. Or rather, Mr. Brown and the Countess of Home were not helping matters.
Ata fluttered her fan with such force that the outrageously tall ostrich plumes perched in her iron-gray curls threatened to give up their roost. “How can he attend to her, hanging on her every word?” Ata’s face was filled with uncertainty. “He fetches her drinks when there are footmen to bring gallons of wine to every lady in this room. And yet, he will not spare a second to say one word to me. I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps he is waiting for you to go to him, Grandmamma,” Luc replied, ill ease warring with his usual jaded expression.
“Oh, pish, don’t be ridiculous, Luc. Oh, how I wish Rosamunde and Georgiana were here with us. Five female heads put together are always better than one illogical man.”
“I wish they were here too,” Elizabeth murmured. “I worry so for Georgiana.”
Ata patted her hand. “You have enough to worry about, Elizabeth. And Rosamunde is an excellent person to nurse Georgiana in her confinement. And to make her laugh.”
Elizabeth stood still, her eyes fixed on the doorway, waiting, now always waiting, instead of her former natural inclination to act. She was soon rewarded. Leland Pymm strode forward, expectation of adulation apparent on his narrow face and puffed out chest, full of medals of glory. Elizabeth could not stop the ridiculous thought that it had probably taken his valet half the afternoon to artfully arrange the fringe of curls on his forehead.
He scanned the room and crossed to her. Oh, where was Rowland Manning? He had said he’d be here.
“My dear,” Pymm breathed, his chin raised in an imperious manner.
“Good evening, General,” she replied, on her guard.
He urged her forward toward a quiet copse. “I would have you use my given name when we are in private, Elizabeth.”
“But, we are not in private…sir.”
“Yet.” His smile was languid. “I have a delightful surprise for you tonight, my darling. A little engagement present, if you will.”
At the sound of the endearment, she could not suppress the slow shiver that wended its way between her shoulder blades.
“I don’t require any more of your gifts. You know there is only one thing I want,” she bit out.
He completely ignored her. “I am determined to see your dimples tonight. You will not begrudge me a smile, will you?” Without waiting for her response he continued, “No. I am certain you will like this particular gift and then there will be dancing. You always loved to waltz. Especially with me. I am looking forward to the many balls we will give when Badajoz House is complete.”
Bile rose in her throat. “You would name your house the name of the battle where—”
“That was a memorable turning point in the war. On so many fronts.”
“But my father died there. Have you forgotten?”
“Hmmm. I shall have to think on that.”
Paralyzed by a hot ball of fury and frustration banked in the pit of her stomach, she could think of nothing to say that would not bring down this delicate house of cards. There was a limit to what she dared. If she infuriated him too far, he could very well lose his temper, and all would end in disaster.
“Come, my dear. I do believe His Majesty is arrived to lead us to dinner. As I am a guest of honor, you shall sit across from me, beside the Prince Regent.”
Oh, she hated being on display as his fiancée. She looked down at her deep-blue-and-white gauze ball gown and remembered the joy she had felt all those many months ago when it had been bestowed on her as a gift. Ata had been intent on giving new ball gowns to each of the ladies in the secret widows club. It seemed a lifetime ago.
The angels and warriors of the frescoes in the Round Tower’s grand dining ro
om stared down at the elaborate long table full of guests. Elizabeth could not have picked a more beautiful place to be unhappy.
“My dear Miss Ashburton, I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance.” The Prince Regent addressed her as he cut a piece of meat on his gold plate. Dazzling rubies and diamonds squeezed three of his porcine fingers. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
Elizabeth stopped herself in time from choking on a spring pea. She prayed His Majesty would not remember her notorious display in St. George’s when she had made such a spectacle while wearing the black wig. “No, I do not believe so, Your Majesty.”
“I never forget a face.” He rested one of his hands on his rotund stomach and studied her before continuing his meal. “Pymm, you’ve chosen wisely. She has a pretty, intelligent eye, does not chatter on, and she appears demure.”
Demure? Elizabeth nearly laughed.
Across from her, the general allowed a half smile to appear on his thin lips. “I knew Your Majesty would appreciate my Elizabeth. Her loyalty, her devotion to her country—well, I have never seen anything like it.”
She clenched her hands beneath the table, her appetite lost long before she had even reached the table. She wanted to scream. Where was Rowland? He would at least be able to make her laugh at the black humor of it all.
The Duke of Helston sat next to her as he was one of the highest ranking guests. She almost jumped when she felt his hand still her leg as she tapped it incessantly under the table. He deflected the attention on her by addressing Pymm. “When do you and Wellington depart for Vienna, General?”
“A day or so after His Majesty confers the duchy, and Elizabeth and I are wed.”
She wanted to slide under the table. It felt as if every single one of the hundred guests seated were eavesdropping, despite the murmurs farther down the acre of table.
“Pymm will make a formidable addition to your ducal circle, don’t you think, Helston?” The Prince Regent chuckled, and his jowls waggled.
“Without question,” the duke ground out, staring at his grandmother.
A gathering thunderstorm threatened on Ata’s expression across from him. She appeared not to hear a word of the conversation. She was staring at Mr. Brown and the Countess of Home as they dissolved into laughter over some unheard remark by several other guests nearby.