An Inconvenient Wife

by Constance Hussey

  Oh, dear heaven. He cupped her breast, capturing her sudden cry with his mouth, and her hands roamed restlessly over his back and shoulders.

  “You fit my hands so perfectly,” he said. “Let me look at you.” He lifted her and pulled the chemise over her head. “Much better.”

  Anne shivered under his hot gaze, willing him to touch her. An inarticulate cry escaped her, and his smile was fit for the devil himself.

  “Come here,” he said, laying her over his legs, his arm under her neck, and laved her nipples, his breath hot on her wet skin, until she felt she would perish. She strained toward him, back bowed, and he laughed softly and lowered his mouth.

  “Nicholas!” A wild surge of pleasure flowed through her as he tasted each breast, his hand tracing paths of fire over her stomach and hips, moving ever lower until those clever fingers parted the soft hair to stroke her.

  “You are so wet.”

  He sounded pleased, and Anne felt the heavy beats of his heart quicken but any curiosity was swept away by the feel of his fingers inside her. Sweet heaven. Then she was on her back, his manhood a thick force as he pushed into her and drew back, repeating the motion until she wrapped her legs around his hips and met him thrust for thrust. Nothing but this man and the fire in her blood mattered, now, at this moment, joy sweeping away all else. Through her own euphoria she heard his shout as he spilled into her, felt his weight settle over her, and his sweat-slicked back quivering under her caresses.

  “I am too heavy for you.”

  “No.”

  He rolled aside in spite of her protest, far enough that no part of him touched her, and the chill of the night air on her bare skin seeped into her heart. You never expected this to change everything. Be grateful he wanted you at all, and he did want you. Just because it was the most marvelous experience in your life doesn’t mean it was the same for him. Let it go, Anne.

  Anne found the edge of the sheet, and holding it against her like a shield, sat up and looked around for her chemise, although she couldn’t imagine putting it on in front of Nicholas.

  “It is almost dawn,” Anne said finally, when it seemed he would not speak. She put her legs over the side and slid from the bed, picked up her nightdress and managed, in spite of leaden limbs, to get it on more or less correctly.

  “Where are you going?” Cool that tone, with no trace of emotion.

  “To my bed.” Did he care? Does he want you to stay? Fall asleep in his arms? Something she wanted—longed to do—but he had to ask. She waited a heartbeat or two, standing rigid by the bed, before she was able to walk away.

  “Good night, Anne.”

  She felt his gaze on her, boring into her back through the dark, but stared straight ahead. If he preferred it this way, so be it. She paused in the doorway, feeling perverse enough to want the last word. “Good night, Nicholas. Oh and just so we are clear…you have no idea what I want.”

  ~* * *~

  The door closed behind her with a quiet click. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Westcott threw aside the quilts and got out of bed with a weary curse. He knew damn well what she wanted. What all women wanted. Some impossibly perfect man to declare his undying love and promise happily-ever-after like some fanciful gothic novel. Furious at succumbing to his baser instincts, at Anne for putting temptation in his way—at the whole bloody situation—Westcott found some breeches, a shirt and jacket, and shoved his feet in his boots with a satisfactory stomp. He had to get out. He was in no mood to idle away the morning making small talk with a bunch of people who had nothing better to do.

  Early enough that few servants were to be seen, Westcott let himself out. St. Clair would not object to his borrowing a horse. Anne and the servants had the carriage to transport them back to Westhorp.

  “Send word up to the house that I’ve gone home. One of my men will bring the horse back,” Westcott told the groom as he swung into the saddle of a rangy gelding. Curbing the urge to race over the fields, Westcott kept the horse to a steady pace and stayed on the road. He wasn’t fool enough to gallop an unfamiliar horse in a misty morning dawn. He’d have his own mount under him first.

  Few stirred at Westhorp at this hour, but the grooms were up, starting the day’s business, and he turned the gelding over to one of them and gave orders to saddle Maximus. “Bring him up to the house in fifteen minutes.” It was long enough to change his clothes and pilfer some bread and cheese from the kitchen. Harman was at Lynton Hall, but he was damned well capable of dressing himself.

  Bill Fenton brought Max up, and if he had intended to voice the disapproval Westcott saw on his face, thought better of it. Both men knew riding out alone might give this mysterious assailant another opportunity, but this was an impulse and chance was against it.

  “I will be back in a few hours.” Ignoring the twinge of guilt at his brusque behavior, Westcott rode off, faster than was wise, but he needed it, and Max knew the road well and enjoyed a good run now and then.

  Several miles later, Westcott slowed his horse to a trot, and then to a walk. The ground rose here to a fair-sized hill and reaching the top, he dismounted and let Max nibble at the spring grass. The mist had cleared and the view over the fields—Westhorp’s fields—flushed with the pale green of the newly planted crops, provided a deep sense of satisfaction. You can always count on the land, unlike people, who intrude in your life and make you feel things you believed buried forever.

  “What in hell am I to do about Anne, Max?” Westcott muttered. Hearing his name, Maximus raised his head and looked his master in the eye. “All right, I know you like her. So do I. Too much. It just won’t do. I failed one wife and my own child.” Gad, now he was talking to his horse. Max is just as apt to answer as those trees, you blockhead. No one is going to tell you what the solution is. You know. Keep your cock in your pants and tell Anne you mean to do so. The fact that you find her appealing—and if you are honest, have from the beginning—is not cause for intimacy. No reason you cannot have a comfortable relationship without getting too close.

  Ignoring the thought that it was easier to make the resolution than keep it, Westcott tugged on the reins to warn Max it was time to go, and mounted. No more of this annoying introspection. He glanced at the sun to determine whether he had time to go on, although he could bloody well stay out all day if he pleased. Which he did not, but he was going to look around the area where he was shot.

  Approaching from this direction, one arrived at a winding, seldom-used trail before coming to the road running through the copse, and Westcott urged Max onto the narrow path. He rode slowly, his gaze sweeping the woods, but saw nothing to indicate someone was camping here. This was a waste of his time. He halted where the trail crossed the road and turned for home. Max stepped into a brisk walk, head up and ears pointed forward.

  “Looking for more of Fenton’s attention, are you?” Westcott leaned over to rub the top of the horse’s head just as Max reared and staggered sideways, dumping his unprepared rider into a thorn bush.

  Stunned, the sound of a shot echoing in his ears, Westcott sucked in a shuddering gasp and lurched to his feet. Damned if someone hadn’t taken another shot at him! The urge to run through the woods in hope of apprehending the culprit was strong, but would no doubt be a fruitless task and Max was prancing around, blood running down his foreleg. The wound was just a graze, Westcott was relieved to see; a long furrow, though not deep.

  “Easy there, fellow.” Wishing he had one of Anne’s petticoats, he dabbed at the sluggish flow of blood with his handkerchief as he soothed the stallion. Nothing else could be done out here. He pulled the reins over Max’s head and they started the long walk home.

  ~* * *~

  If he was not quite as relieved as Anne had been to see Bill Fenton approach some time later, it was close. Westcott hailed the man as soon as he was within shouting distance. “I don’t know why you are here, Fenton, but I’m damn glad to see you. Max has been shot,” Westcott said. “It’s not serious,” he a
dded quickly, seeing Fenton’s alarm. “The bleeding has almost stopped, but he needs attention as soon as possible.”

  Fenton dismounted, looped the reins around his arm, and studied the wound. “Not so bad, my lord. We’ll have him fit in no time.” He looked Westcott over, eyes narrowed with concern. “What happened? You look like you’ve had a bit of a tumble. Are you hurt?”

  “No, Max took the bullet meant for me,” Westcott said in a hard voice. “This has got to stop, Fenton.” He jerked up his chin. “Let’s walk. The sooner we get back the better. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  Fenton paced beside him, leading his horse, and stared straight ahead. “Looking for you, sir,” he said in a wooden voice. “Been more than a couple of hours since you been gone.”

  “I should be angry, but in this instance I am too pleased to see you to take umbrage.” He glanced at the sun. “Is Lady Westcott home yet?”

  “No sir, but she may be by now. Why not take my horse and go on? Max and I can walk until someone can bring out another horse.”

  His thoughts interrupted by Fenton’s suggestion, Westcott shook his head. “I will in a few minutes. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the officer who assaulted Lady Westcott. She told me,” Westcott added, when Fenton started with surprise. “A bad experience and not one any woman should have to endure. I think it has been in her mind the man is responsible for these attacks. I want your opinion.”

  “Oh, the Major is capable of it. No doubt about it, and he isn’t one to take being thwarted of his prey too well,” Fenton said, his expression hard. “But officers can’t go thither and yon on a whim, so for all our worry that he followed us to Portugal, chances are he is still on his post.”

  “Is that what you think?” Westcott asked, slanting a look at his companion.

  Fenton hesitated. “No. He is obsessed with Miss Anne…Lady Westcott. Nor does he look on me or Mrs. Fenton too kindly, and men like the Major don’t let go of a grudge easily. If he was able to put in for leave or use some other excuse to leave Gibraltar, he had only to ask around the docks to find out whence we sailed. Is he behind these attacks? Hard to say, but the man is not stupid, and your marriage public record if he goes to the consulate in Portugal. If he is here, where in hell is he hiding? Excuse my language, sir. Just thinking about the devil gets my goat.”

  “A good question and one I can’t answer right now, but I will,” Westcott said tersely. “Someone has to have seen a stranger. We simply have not asked the right person. Lord Lynton has sent to the War Office for information about this Major’s whereabouts. I don’t need to tell you to keep a good eye on your mistress, Fenton. If you hear anything, or see anything at all suspicious, come right to me. Now, I’m going to take you up on that offer. I’ll send someone out to get you.” He took the reins of Fenton’s horse, adjusted the stirrups to accommodate his longer legs, and mounted, feeling every one of the bruises he seemed to have acquired when he fell.

  “Appreciate it, Fenton. Your vigilance was well placed this time. I don’t require a keeper, however. Something to keep in mind.”

  He touched the hack’s flank with his heel and settled him into a steady trot. He was tired of being a victim of some senseless vendetta. Past time to put an end to it and he would, blast it, if it killed him. A choked laugh escaped him. Not a wise choice of words, Nick. Not a wise choice at all.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Learning of Westcott’s early morning departure—from her maid, no less—shook Anne’s confidence sorely. She tried to convince herself it was a good sign; she had dented the barrier he had wrapped around him like a shield. Maybe you did, but sending the man fleeing was not the plan. Face it, he does not want you. Last night….was an act of nature. If a half-naked woman climbs in bed with a healthy, virile man, there can only be one outcome.

  Anne stayed abed, drinking her morning chocolate, while Clara laid out her clothes. She was expected downstairs, but was tempted to avoid the other guests and take breakfast in her bedchamber. Blast the man. What in heaven’s name did Camille do to make him a….a turtle—that’s what he acted like—hiding in his shell and poking his head out now and again. Turtles bite, remember, and this one’s teeth are sharp. You’ve felt them several times. This time he’d drawn blood, however. Anne was positive he’d enjoyed their lovemaking just as much as she had. How can he act like it was meaningless?

  “Bah.” Crossly, Anne put down her cup and tossed the bedcovers aside. Who could blame her for feeling out of sorts when she had a husband as contrary as hers? Besides, turtles didn’t have teeth. At least she didn’t think they did. You are holding an inane conversation with yourself, Anne, which shows just how far gone you are. You love the man, difficult as he is, and that may not be the smartest of things you’ve ever done.

  Nonsense. Nicholas was worth every bit of it. Now was not the time to give up. She was getting under his skin.

  With little assistance from Anne, Clara saw to it that she was dressed and her hair becomingly arranged. “Have the trunks brought down as soon as you’ve packed everything. We are leaving directly after breakfast.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Anne walked along the passageway with little regard to her surroundings, almost colliding with St. Clair.

  “Oh, excuse me! I was not paying attention.”

  “I noticed,” he said, looking amused and curious. “What has you so deeply engrossed?”

  “Nicholas,” she said with a huff, and looked up at him with a resigned smile. “You must know he left early this morning, without so much as a word beforehand.”

  “Yes, I knew. I am usually informed when one of my horses is appropriated.” St. Clair took Anne’s arm and led her to a window embrasure that held a bench. “Sit for a few minutes and tell me what burr is under Nick’s saddle today. Did you have a disagreement?”

  The understanding expression that replaced his smile almost threatened her composure, and Anne took a steadying breath. If anyone knew her husband it was St. Clair. Perhaps he had the answer to some of her questions.

  “Not a disagreement exactly. I was…,” she hesitated, felt heat rise in her face, and stumbled on. “A…a little too forward, I’m afraid.” Anne lifted her eyes to meet St. Clair’s steady regard and took a deep breath. “What did Camille do to make him like this, Devlin?” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m not prying, truly I’m not, but it’s obvious he has been deeply hurt, and I know so little.”

  St. Clair covered her hand with his. “I can’t tell you much, Anne.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. For one, I do not have the entire story. I can say this. Camille was seriously addicted to laudanum, and I suspect other, more dangerous drugs. It made her behavior volatile, and I think she was not the most stable of women to begin with.” He paused, seeming unsure of how much to tell her, but whatever he read in her expression, continued. “According to the servants, Camille was in a wild state the day of the accident. She had just arrived back at Westhorp after a long stay in London. Nick had left for the city only that morning. He hoped to persuade Camille to come home. In fact, they crossed unknowingly on the road. To give them their due, Martin and Mrs. Lawson tried to stop Camille from taking Sarah out in the gig, feeling rightly she was in no condition to drive, but she was their mistress and employer. And Camille was a competent driver and never went off Westhorp land. They did send a groom after her, with instructions to keep her in sight without her knowing, and that probably saved Sarah’s life.”

  The earl’s expression was so hard and so grim Anne felt she could hardly draw air into her lungs. She opened her mouth to halt this painful narrative, a thought quickly subdued. No, it was important she know of this, however hurtful.

  “They were on their way back to the house, driving much too fast, and took the turn onto the drive at a furious speed, slamming the gig into one of the stone pillars. Camille was thrown with enough force to break her neck. They said she died instantly. Sarah fel
l as well, hitting her head on the stone, and her foot caught under a wheel. The horse went mad, of course, dragging the gig, and even though the groom arrived only minutes later, the damage was done. And in fact, her head injury was of more immediate concern. For almost a week her survival was uncertain.”

  St. Clair seemed to return from the distant memories, and he lifted a shoulder with weary resignation. “Nick only left her side to attend Camille’s funeral, whilst I stayed with Sarah. He never spoke of Camille—of their marriage—and I never asked, although I think there was more to it.” He smiled faintly. “It’s up to Nick to tell you anything else.”

  Anne blinked back tears and patted his hand. “You are a good friend, Devlin. I’m glad Nick had you to support him.” She summoned a smile and rose. “Juliette will think us lost.”

  “If we did not have guests, she would have searched us out long since,” St. Clair said lightly as they walked toward the stairs. “More curious than a cat, my wife.”

  Breakfast was less of an ordeal than Anne had anticipated. Few guests remained, and those who did were too polite to comment on Westcott’s absence. She was not inclined to linger and had little appetite in any case. After a quiet word with Juliette, promising to visit again soon, Anne accepted St. Clair’s escort to her carriage, where Clara and Harman awaited.

  “Have patience, Anne. Nick is coming around. You are the best thing to happen to him in years. He simply won’t acknowledge it yet,” the earl said as he handed her into the carriage.

  Anne’s half-hearted smile faded as she settled onto the cushions. She prayed St. Clair was right, but could not help thinking that if today was any indication, Nicholas felt otherwise. Brooding about it, however, served no purpose but to dampen her spirits. More like a deluge, Anne grumped to herself, smoothing her face into what she trusted was a pleasant expression as they turned onto Westhorp’s drive.