by Jess Russell
They remained quiet for a long while.
“She looks wistful—expectant,” Olivia whispered.
“As I said it was painted as a wedding gift to my father. She hardly knew him—then.”
Silence.
She stepped back in order to view both portraits at once, trying to see where a little child might fit into these people’s lives. The woman, so very young, almost a girl really, and the man, maybe as much as twenty years older, and already a bit jaded looking. She did not think there was much room for one small boy between an immature young wife and a man who looked as if he could devour her in one bite.
He coughed and she was brought back to the here and now.
“Shall we return to the others?” He gestured for her to precede him.
Silly to think the sight of his mother might miraculously cause this man to expose the emotional workings of his mind—of his heart. Disappointed, she took one last look at the young woman, hoping her soft brown eyes might shed some light on the grown man who stood behind her. But Georgiana Roydan, like her son, was giving up no secrets today. Olivia turned to go, and the duke extinguished the candles, leaving them to walk in the moon and starlight.
Their steps echoed on the parquet floor. Halfway down the hall, she risked a glance at him. He seemed far away from her, as if he were somewhere out there with the stars, a million miles away.
Every measured step back to the party ratcheted up her nerves and frustration. What did this man want from her? He drew her away from the other guests and then had nothing to say to her and more importantly, nothing to do. She was here to be his mistress, yet he made no move. He did not even touch her if he could avoid it. Just now, when any other gentleman would have offered her his arm, he remained aloof, hands clasped firmly behind his back. She had had enough. They were nearly at the double doors. It was past time to get the rules straight.
“This is intolerable.” The words squeezed between her lips. He turned to her astonished. Yes, by God, she was angry.
His eyebrow rose.
“You do not even touch me!”
He stared at her dumbly. “You wish to be touched?”
That got her moving. She whirled around, skirts flying, her breath spewing her exasperation.
“God, anything but this blind uncertainty. It is driving me to distraction!” She stopped her ranting to look at him. He looked—fascinated? She charged up to him again.
“I won’t have it anymore.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You have more than fulfilled your part of the bargain. You see for yourself Egg—Lady—Mrs. Wiggins—is nearly recovered and is, in fact, thriving. She has had every attention and care. I cannot begin to tell you what that means to me, but what of my part of the bargain? I do not understand you. You are either playing the obsequious courtier to a young maiden or the standoffish autocrat. I assure you, I am no maid, and the fact that you happen to be a duke does not overly impress me. Please, I beg you, put me out of my misery and let us begin!”
He stood before her like a veritable clodpoll. Had he even heard her words?
“Begin—”
And then she kissed him.
More like launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. Her lips found his—eye? Well, he was very tall, but apparently not that tall. To be fair it was rather dark. And she had squeezed her eyes shut before she launched herself. However, she quickly rectified her misfire, as her lips skated over his nose to find and settle on his. She clamped onto them and thrust her tongue home.
Slowly—dear God, too slowly—it dawned on her that, in the throes of mauling him, she never felt a reciprocal thrust, never even felt his arms take hold of her. Mortified, she started to pull away when she felt them.
Bless you, Saint Anne. She deepened the kiss…but, no…was he pushing her away? Was he grabbing her arms to hold her, or was he setting her away from him? In her befuddled haze of lust she could not be sure.
Light hit her face and shot across the floor from the doorway. The hall door stood wide open.
His arms dropped as if she were on fire. It took a moment longer for her to comprehend the full horror of the situation, but it came crashing down soon enough. She released him and feverishly smoothed her skirts. As if performing an odd minuet, they took a step away from each other and then spun as one to see who the intruder was. Please not the Reverend or Lady Bainbridge
“Ah, pardon, Your Grace, Mrs. Weston.” Percy Bainbridge stood in the doorway, his candelabra wavering as he shifted from one foot to another. “I—Lady Wiggins is feeling tired and we thought to give her a ride in our carriage.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bainbridge.” Olivia’s over-loud voice echoed in the cavernous room. “We have stayed too long. Let us go now. Your Grace.” She gave a bare nod and flew across the room and out the door to be left alone with her utter humiliation. Poor Percy joined her a moment later. The boy clearly had no reference for catching a companion and a duke in the throes of making love. Olivia rejected the idea of making a comment to ease his embarrassment. Frankly she could think of none and instead practically ran down the hall toward what she hoped was the right direction out.
After only two wrong turns, they joined the others already assembled in the front hall. She reached for her shawl as if it were a life raft, immediately swaddling herself in its folds. Egg gave her a concerned look and asked if she was feeling well. She murmured something about it being overly warm in the gallery.
Egg raised an eyebrow.
Olivia turned, avoiding the question in her friend’s eyes. Right, it was hot and she was huddled inside her wrap as if she were freezing. Idiot!
The duke came only a few moments later to give his goodbyes to his guests. He actually tried to take her hand. She could not look at him. Hiding her hands in her shawl, she gave him a curtsey, murmured some pleasantry of thanks and moved to the waiting carriage.
She had much sooner have walked out in the cool night air but did not want to draw attention to her discomfort. She managed to keep up a reasonable chatter on the carriage ride home, suffering through Lady Bainbridge’s litany of advice on the proper way to preserve strawberries. At least Percy was not staring at her as if she were a Jezebel. That in itself was cause for thanks.
Egg was merciful as well and let her go upstairs with only a kiss and a wish of a good night.
She was finally alone.
He did not want her.
It had never occurred to her before. But the thought, once formed, began to make hideous sense.
That was why he did not pursue her. That was why he did not touch her. That was why he had gently pushed her away when she threw herself at him. The facts crashed over her like waves drowning her hopes.
Hopes.
Drawing her pillow over her head she tried to blot out the feeling of loss. But her clattering mind was not so generous. It replayed the scene over and over again with alarming accuracy. Oh how he must pity her.
The clock in the hall bonged four times.
Perhaps she could pack her things and disappear?
****
The woman’s face was a frozen crust of white lead paint, rouge, and patches. If she moved one muscle the shell would surely crack off. She peered through an intricate web of golden filigree attached to the neck of her gown. Olivia supposed it was the collar of the dress, but it looked more like a cage.
As the woman labored down a long stretch of beach, her voluminous brocade skirts dragged behind, snagging on sea-bracken and turning dark as they soaked up salt water.
She turned toward the water. The dress ballooned up around her waist as she waded into the surf. Muddy white and pink dripped down her cheeks and from her neck to stain the bodice of her gown. Olivia wanted to shout to her to stop, but nothing came out of her mouth. The water now slapped against the lady’s breasts.
The paint had nearly melted away, enough so that Olivia saw the face of the woman clearly. It was she. And she was
about to drown.
That golden cage now surrounded her. Olivia clawed at the neck of the dress trying free herself from its prison of sure death.
Salt water filled her mouth. She lifted her nose and eyes. Suddenly, a huge winged-serpent reared out of the water, its black beak piercing the waves, its enormous body causing the waters around it to swell and dip. Olivia slid into a trough as a massive wave formed in front of her, but instead of submerging her, it lifted her to its crest, and deposited her on the beast’s broad back.
She looked around her. Glistening and scaly sinew had miraculously become a ship. She could see no captain, no crew. Olivia grabbed the rail as the vessel turned sharply and made for an island in the distance. The ship flew through the black waters. Now only a few hundred yards away from the island, it seemed to increase in speed. Sweet Saint Anne, the island looked to be solid rock. Olivia wound herself into the tarred lines.
The vessel smashed onto the shore, its timbers shattering. The great canvas sails billowed, tore themselves from the broken masts, and wrapped around her, lifting her up to hurl her onto a narrow stretch of sand.
Stunned, Olivia watched as the wreckage trembled and miraculously began to reassemble, not as a ship, but as a huge, ornate picture frame. The sails rose inexplicably in the windless air and knitted together to form the canvas within. Finally a flock of birds, cormorants, hidden behind the rocks, took flight and swarmed over the canvas and then vanished.
Olivia stared at the enormous painting. The subjects were various men, women, dogs, horses, and even a child. And they all were staring directly at her. They all had one face. The face of the duke.
Something was pushing her to enter the picture. To become one with it…
“Olive.”
Olivia buried her head into something soft, but the pressure continued.
“My dear, I hate to disturb you.”
Olivia blinked. “Egg?”
“I am sorry to wake you, love, but a note has come for you. I thought it might be of some importance. It is from the duke.”
“The duke?” She sat up, struggling to sort her dream from real life.
“Yes, my dear. A footman is waiting below for a reply.” Egg handed her the folded paper.
Olivia looked at Egg, still not comprehending. The letter in her hands felt real enough, the address, “Mrs. Weston” in a bold but elegant hand. His hand? She flipped the note over. A dark red seal of a griffin. The Roydan seal.
As Egg crossed the room to pour a glass of water from a stand by the dressing table, Olivia cracked the wax and opened the paper.
Would she please meet him at Sea Cottage at five in the afternoon? It was signed simply, Roydan.
What did this mean? Why had he been so brief? She had much rather he left his rejection as it was. She could not bear him explaining his change of heart in person.
She read the note again hoping it might offer some miraculous insight into its author.
“Olivia?”
“Yes.” She managed a small smile.
“May I give the footman a reply?”
“Oh, a reply—Yes.” She traced the ridges of the letter’s seal.
“Is that your reply, dear? Yes?”
“What?”
“I said, is your reply yes?”
“Yes. That is my reply.”
“Very well, dear, I will go and tell the footman.” Soft lips bussed Olivia’s forehead. “Imagine, Albert has been waiting since seven this morning. The poor boy is like to float away with all the tea I’ve given him.” And the door closed softly behind her.
****
Rhys had arrived at the cottage too early. It was not even half past four.
As soon as his footman had returned with her affirmative reply, Rhys knew he would somehow muck things up. Now he had too much time.
Why had he said five o’clock? It was an endless time to wait. God, he’d thought he would go out of his mind just waiting for her answer. When questioned, Albert had said Mrs. Weston was still abed and Lady Wiggins had finally had to rouse her.
So she had no trouble sleeping. He’d tossed and turned all night, been up at five this morning, written thirteen notes and summarily cast thirteen notes into the fire. Finally, he had scrawled the most commonplace missive ever conceived, sealed it up, and sent it on its way before he was tempted to compose another.
But she had said yes.
He glanced around the tiny cottage. Shortly after her answer he had several of his most circumspect servants out to clean the place. He had been there to supervise everything. Fresh linens had been fitted on the bed, which had been brought in to replace the old bedstead, a small privacy screen stood in a corner, new curtains hung in the freshly washed windows, a fire was laid and wood stacked, new beeswax candles replaced the old tallow stubs, and a large basket loaded with cheese, bread, fruit, cakes, and wine now sat atop the large deal table across from the stone fireplace.
Two cushioned chairs had been brought in as well as a small chaise. A Turkish carpet in warm reds and browns now replaced the rushes that had covered the floor. Rhys did not know much about décor but he could see her in this room, and that was enough to please him.
He had rushed home to bathe and change his clothes. Then he pared his nails and cleaned his teeth, and changed his clothes again. He was so woefully ignorant as to how to conduct an affair, much less one with a woman he desperately wanted.
Thinking the gray coat too solemn, Rhys had been about to change when the door opened.
Tinsley.
Rhys looked down at the total chaos at his feet. He stood in a flotilla of linen, superfine, buckskin, and boots. A twang of guilt plucked at his nerves, but instead of an apology, he gave the valet a raised eyebrow. However, the gesture was wasted on the fellow who was already moving to restore the room to rights.
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Your Grace, that sedge-green you have chosen has always been a particular favorite of mine.” And he continued methodically clearing up as if Rhys’s behavior was an everyday occurrence and not the wildly out of character exhibit they both knew it to be.
Stepping over a particularly fine pair of Hessians, Rhys went to clean his teeth for a third time.
He now paced the cottage floor from window to window—precisely eleven steps. He halted mid-stride. Dee Gooden’s face flooded his brain before he could stop the image. This would not be like all those years ago when he had so feverishly waited for a woman.
Rhys swiped his hand over his face and then thumbed open the case to his watch. Disgusted with his nerves and sabotaging thoughts, he jerked the fob from his waistcoat and flung the watch into a drawer.
Perhaps she would not come at all? Perhaps she has changed her mind?
He wrenched open the door and strode through the garden gate. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he looked to the west, the direction she would most likely come.
Nothing.
He sought the familiar shape of his watch but only found the silk of his waistcoat. Dolt. Should he go in and fetch it? He felt almost naked without it.
But it was too late. A flock of geese had risen up from beyond the ridge as if to herald her arrival. She appeared like a mirage out of the midst of them, leading her horse. The birds wheeled and cawed in protest, their grazing disturbed. But she seemed relaxed and unflappable, a counterpoint to their cacophony.
She had come.
He could not make out her expression; the sun was too bright. He was desperate to gauge her mood. Did she want him?
As she drew nearer, she lowered her gaze, her lips drawn tight as if steeling herself for battle instead of love. Not a hint of softness…or desire. Steadfastly avoiding the question in his eyes. He reached out for her, but she had already moved past.
He tied her horse, Opalina, next to Sid and caught up with her in time to hold open the gate. She passed through, careful not to brush his body, and walked directly through the open cottage door.
She had come. His brain kept
repeating the amazing refrain. He was strung so tight he feared mere breath would break him. He had waited so long. He could wait no longer.
****
The cottage had been transformed, no longer the rough place she had used once or twice to shelter from the wind and rain.
A primrose-colored curtain filtered the fading sunlight to a soft, ripe peach, flushing the room with warmth. The light caught the deep ruby of the wine, in its crystal decanter, flashing a spangled prism on the wall behind. The rough table held a feast of more color and texture, glossy plums, pebbled raspberries, crusty bread, chalk-white cheese. They all spilled out of a rush basket and onto a faded paisley cloth. The whole scene reminded her of a Vermeer painting she had seen once in Paris, so lush, so seductive.
She turned toward the bed. Oh, yes, it became abundantly clear this was a well-orchestrated seduction. Silken pillows lay mounded against the bed’s headboard, and a tasseled throw, in a deep Pomona velvet threaded with gold, covered the bed. He had transformed it into a haven. A lover’s nest.
She heard the door softly close and even as she turned to him, her mouth still open in awe, his hands and lips were upon her.
Oh yes. Yes. Her body, so prepared for humiliation, cast off her doubt and shame in a heartbeat to embrace his want.
His hands were all over her, in her hair, over her cheeks, down her shoulders and the small of her back, finding her derriere and dragging her center up and into his hard need. He pulled at her skirt, ruching it up and up over her knees, thighs, and waist. Pulling it in bunches to her back.
His other hand was busy in his falls, wrenching at unaccommodating buttons. Her hands came to join his to help free him. At last he sprang loose. His breath, a rush of sweet cloves, against her cheek and nose as his hot length pressed into her damp curls. She gasped.
She wanted to look, to see him, but his mouth covered hers. His knees bent as his hands found her bottom again. Briefly, she felt the hot tip of his cock before he plunged into her wetness.