“Blythe, no! I was so glad of your healthy recovery.”
Miss Collins gave a bleak chuckle. “And that made it worse, at least when I was old enough to understand everything. One can only feel guilty for so long, and then one feels . . . angry about it. And suppresses all the guilt anyway.”
Robert knew his guilt was deserved, and Miss Collins’s guilt wasn’t, but he understood her better now.
“Blythe,” Audrey began quietly.
“No. I don’t want your sympathy or your understanding. My behavior doesn’t deserve that. I—I don’t even know why I told you all this. It doesn’t change the past. I—I don’t feel particularly hungry right now.” Gracefully, she rose to her feet without looking at either of them, and glided from the room.
Robert turned to Audrey, whose head was bent, her palms flat on either side of her place setting.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I never knew how she felt. That confession . . . it changes so much.”
“You’re lucky, you know.”
Her smile was faint. “I am? Not according to Blythe.”
“I’m not talking about your eyesight. But you have a chance here to make things right with your sister. I would give anything to have that with my brother, dead at fourteen.”
“You were . . . twelve, were you not, when he died? What would need to be fixed in such a young relationship between brothers?”
“I told you we were competitive in our schoolwork, but that doesn’t truly explain it. My father always expected the best from us, and I’m assuming he made certain our tutor understood this, and perhaps even feared for his position if we were not exemplary in our studies. Father, of course, wanted us to go off to Eton so he could be proud of our superiority. But our tutor took this to heart, and chose the worst way possible to increase our studies—he pitted Neil and I against each other in everything, and the one who lost out to the other on even the smallest assignment was punished. Competition turned to anger then to hatred. Even at Eton, we had nothing to do with each other, and I felt like he set his friends on me. Whether that was true, I don’t even know. And I’ll never know. That’s the point. I’ll never be able to relate to Neil as an adult, to love him as a brother should. But you have that chance, and Blythe is obviously struggling with the past and how to make things better, just like you are.”
“You’re very wise, Robert,” she said softly. “I am sorry for your childhood—for both our childhoods.”
“You and Blythe might never have the kind of full respect you want. At least you and I have that for each other.”
She looked confused. “I . . . yes, I agree.”
“A lot of marriages begin with less than that.”
She frowned. “What are you saying?”
“That I want to make this engagement real. I would like to marry you.”
She laughed, ending it so abruptly she almost snorted.
He smiled, not taking offense. “You think I’m teasing you.”
“And it is quite the joke.”
“I’m not teasing. I would like to marry you. We’ve worked well together these past weeks, and we always have something to talk about. And then there is passion, of course.” He took her hand. “When I’m with you, all I can do is think of kissing you.”
“Robert, stop,” she insisted, pulling her hand away. “The whole point of accepting your help was so that I could live on my own. I am not marrying any man, ever again.”
Or bearing such terrible pain—he could hear those unspoken words, now that he knew the whole truth.
“I know why you’re saying this,” she said, her voice growing sharp. “You pity me, because you think I’m ineffective with my servants.”
“That isn’t true at all. I see how you consider the servants a challenge to be overcome and won. That is your choice.”
“Robert.” She shook her head. “You don’t even realize what you’re saying. You just don’t want Society to know you didn’t marry the blind girl when you’d promised.”
“I don’t care what Society thinks of me.”
“You talked about being lonely—you won’t be that for long. Just wait until the London debutantes discover you’re on the market again. You’ll be swarmed with invitations.”
“Do you think I’m interested in young women fresh from the schoolroom, with no experiences in life? The first thing that goes wrong, they’ll flounder. Whereas you are made of stronger stuff. You’re a survivor, Audrey, and I can’t think of wanting more in a wife.”
“Say what you want, Robert, but this is a whim. We’ll pretend you never said these things.”
“I can’t pretend I don’t feel this.” He got to his feet and pulled her up and into his arms, capturing her mouth in a kiss more bold and urgent than he’d ever allowed himself to show her.
When she moaned, he felt the first flare of satisfaction.
Chapter 17
Audrey was swept up in the urgency of his kiss, heard a gasp at the door, and then heard it shut, but that all seemed distant and unimportant.
Against her mouth, Robert whispered, “Do these feelings mean nothing to you? Are you trying to deny that we’re drawn to each other?”
“I—I—” She could barely think, barely remember to breathe. Her head whirled with the passion that made her throw her arms around his neck and hold on as if she depended on him to even stand.
Then the room seemed to spin as Robert lifted her off her feet and set her on the edge of the table, bending over her until she was flat on her back. He stood between her thighs, only their garments separating them. He kissed his way down her neck and to the edge of her bodice, his tongue dipping between her breasts. She didn’t know she could feel such passion and desire, for her husband had never even tried to fan those flames.
And then she felt Robert’s hands moving beneath her skirts, trailing up her calf that was only covered by the sheerest stocking. It made her squirm, but it didn’t tickle, not exactly. And her squirm made her rub her hips against his, and he groaned. She knew what he wanted, what a man wanted to do with his . . . hips.
His hands moved higher, both of them now lifting her knees, spreading her thighs, placing her feet on the table for support. For a wild moment, she wondered if he would try to take her right on the table. Would she be able to stop him—did she want to stop him?
Her skirts and petticoats fell around her hips, and his big hands rested on her knees.
“Robert . . .” Her voice was a whisper, and she couldn’t think of any other words.
He began to caress the inside of her thighs across the fabric of her drawers, sliding ever closer, an inch at a time, to the intimate depths of her. She felt . . . hot and aching and desperate for something she had no name for, had never known she could even want.
And still his hand kept moving, until her breathing was ragged gasps and her legs trembled. Those magical fingers met in the center, the most private part of her. Nothing had ever felt so sinful, so wondrous. And then he slid his finger inside the slit of her drawers and felt the wetness of her.
She clamped her hand over her mouth to smother what might have been a scream.
She felt him looming above her, his fingers still teasing and circling and probing inside her. His hair brushed her chin, his tongue slid down the short length of her cleavage. When he put his free hand in her corset and pulled down, she felt her right breast spill free from restraint. And then his mouth was there, drawing her nipple into its hot recesses, licking her—
And she came apart inside in a tiny explosion that rocked her into a shuddering, seething mass of heat and pleasure. With a groan, she felt the satisfaction move through her, turning all her muscles into useless tissue. Robert’s hot breath fanned her nipple again before he kissed it, and it made her tremble with another arrow of scorching pleasure.
He slowly straightened, and she felt his hands slide back up her thighs, pulling her layers of skirts up and over. Her feet seemed
to fall bonelessly to the floor. He took both her hands to pull her upright.
She’d lost the capacity for speech, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or grateful for an experience her own husband had never even tried to give her on their wedding night.
Or she could be angry.
Robert didn’t do this just to pleasure her, to give her a gift.
“That wasn’t fair,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
He drew in a sharp breath. “What are you talking about? I wanted to make you feel good, to show you what we can share forever.”
“No, you wanted to get your own way, to control me.”
“I did not—”
“You used my body against me, knowing I couldn’t even begin to understand what you were doing.”
“You were married once.”
“And you surely guessed from all I told you that Martin was not a man who cared to show me any kindness once he had what he wanted—and no pleasure either.”
“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.
“Maybe not. But this was still badly done of you. I don’t want another man who thinks he can control me—or abandon me in some drafty castle.”
“Abandon you?” His voice rose in anger. “I am not Blake.”
“And I won’t be a countess in a castle, when I can barely move around this small cottage unassisted.”
“That’s not true. You’re doing fine on your own. You’re just letting this situation with your staff unnerve you. If you’d just let me be your husband, protect you and care for you—”
“I don’t want to be taken care of!” she interrupted. “Do you not see what you’re trying to do?”
“I’m trying to propose!”
“And I’m saying no. Please step away from the table.” She rose up, mortified that her legs felt shaky and not her own. He’d done that to her, made her body more his than hers, since he knew what to do with it, how to coerce and seduce her. “I need you to leave, Robert.”
“Audrey—”
“Just . . . give me a few days. I need to think, and I can’t do that right now.”
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “You think about what I said, what we feel for each other, how things could be between us.”
“Oh believe me, I see how things could be,” she said bitterly.
He sighed. “Don’t, Audrey. Don’t turn a thing of mutual pleasure into something sordid.”
“You did that, Robert, not I. Please go now.”
She heard the doors of the dining room open, felt a current of cooler air, and heard his footsteps fade away into the front of the house.
She couldn’t cry. Except for during Molly’s illness, she hadn’t cried since she put the death of her baby behind her, forbid herself to wallow in self-destructive grief.
But oh, she ached inside with confusion and pain.
Was Robert just trying to show her how he felt in a way he couldn’t say with words? Before coming to Rose Cottage, she had only known one other man unrelated to her, and his words and caresses had been lies. How was one to know the difference?
She’d asked Robert for time to think, and that had been the right thing to do. She had to wait for this passion and grief to leave her, so that she could consider everything rationally.
But inside, she felt . . . different, changed, new to herself. And she wasn’t certain this knowledge was a good thing.
Audrey didn’t sleep well that night. Too many times, she awoke with Robert’s scent in her nose, or the memory of his hands working magic on her body. Lethargic and sad the next morning, she was frustrated with her mind and body for being unable to forget, and craving that sensation again.
Hard work would make her forget, and she didn’t need Robert for that, or even a pair of working eyes. She decided to inspect Evelyn’s cleaning, and could tell with her nose and fingers that at least the dirt was swept up and the furniture polished.
While she was in the middle of lifting a corner of the drawing room rug to feel beneath, she heard the light tap of Evelyn’s shoes.
“Ma’am, is somethin’ wrong?”
“Just doing a little inspection, Evelyn,” she said pleasantly. “Should I have a reason to be concerned?”
“N-no, ma’am,” the girl answered.
Audrey frowned. “You don’t need to fear me, Evelyn, you know that, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
The maid’s nervous behavior lingered in Audrey’s thoughts as she went into her study and found the most recent ledger. Robert had gone over it, but she wanted to hear the numbers herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him where her household was concerned; she simply wanted to rely on herself.
She took the ledger up to Molly’s room, and she could tell by the maid’s voice that she was standing at the window.
“I’m up and about more and more, Miss Audrey,” Molly said.
Her happiness was almost contagious, and Audrey found herself smiling for the first time all day.
“You are so anxious to begin work again?” Audrey asked.
“It’s not work when I help you. What do you have under your arm, miss?”
“The current household ledger. I know Robert looked it over, but I would like to hear the expenditures myself.”
“I don’t have a table, miss, but come sit with me on the edge of the bed, and we’ll see what we see.”
Audrey listened as Molly slowly read through the story of the household, from grocer to butcher to oil man. As the maid read through the servants’ wages, Audrey found herself frowning.
“I could swear Mrs. Sanford’s wages are thrice the amount Mr. Drayton read aloud to me.”
“It’s not my place to say, Miss Audrey, but I did think her wages quite high for the housekeeper and cook of a small manor house.”
“But the point is, I believe Mr. Drayton misled me.”
“But . . . you said Lord Knightsbridge looked over these accounts just the other day.”
“He wouldn’t know a servant’s wages,” Audrey said distractedly. “He has men of business who handle all his accounts.”
Molly said nothing, as if she knew Audrey had to think through all this herself. But Audrey couldn’t think—her mind was churning with confusion. Who was trying to deceive her? Mr. Drayton? The Sanfords? What was going on?
She was standing before she even realized it.
“Miss Audrey? What do you mean to do?”
“Find out the truth,” she said coldly, then left Molly’s room.
She found Mrs. Sanford alone in the kitchen, making preparations for luncheon.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Blake,” the woman said.
Audrey thought the housekeeper’s voice sounded cautious, but then maybe she knew something important was happening just by Audrey’s expression.
“Mrs. Sanford, we need to have a frank discussion.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
But she could still hear a rhythmic scraping, as if the woman was stirring something in a bowl, and her temper snapped. “Please stop what you’re doing at once!”
The bowl hit the wooden table. “Aye, ma’am. Please forgive me.”
“But for what shall I forgive you? I was just going over the household ledgers. Perhaps you can tell me why your wages are thrice what they should be?”
There was such total silence that Audrey could hear a distant church bell in the village though the windows were closed.
“Mrs. Blake, I assure ye that I am worth—”
“Please do not give me assurances of your skill. And regardless of what you and your family have been doing to annoy me since I arrived, I can tell you know what you’re doing. That does not account for your wages. I demand to know the truth, right now, or I will at last be forced to terminate not just your employment, but that of your entire family. And the fact that you risk this tells me there is something serious I’m not aware of.”
And then she heard Mrs. Sanford give a suppressed sob and blow her nose in
a handkerchief. Audrey felt a tinge of sympathy, but she forced herself to put it aside.
“Tell me the truth, Mrs. Sanford. We can deal with it together.”
“Nay, Mrs. Blake, I don’t think that’s possible,” she said wearily.
She heard a creak, and imagined the woman slumping onto a kitchen stool.
“So you won’t confide in me?” Audrey asked, feeling just as weary.
“Nay, I didn’t say . . . I didn’t mean . . . oh, dear, this is so hard to say. I’d hoped you’d never need to know, never need to be so . . . hurt.”
“I’ll be hurt?” Audrey said with confusion, putting a hand on the kitchen worktable as if to find something solid to hold on to. “Just tell me, Mrs. Sanford. I need to know the truth.”
“The extra money is for me daughter, Louisa,” the woman whispered, and her voice cracked at the end. “She . . . she used to work here as a maid. But she can’t anymore. The babe—” Another sob seemed to clog her voice.
Audrey said nothing, waiting with barely leashed patience and a growing sense of unease.
“Mr. . . . Mr. Blake said she was to have the money,” Mrs. Sanford admitted brokenly. “That’s all he would give her.”
And then Audrey realized what the woman had been dreading to tell her, and it crashed over her with waves of pain and betrayal—but not shock. No, she couldn’t be shocked anymore by anything her late husband had done.
Including father a child on an innocent, young housemaid.
The babe, little Arthur, was Martin’s bastard, and he was the same age as their own child would have been.
Martin had said good-bye to two women before going off to war, she thought bitterly.
But was that the whole truth?
“Mrs. Sanford, did my husband force his attention on your daughter?” she asked with quiet resignation.
“I wish I could tell ye yea,” Mrs. Sanford said with her own bitterness. “But Louisa was a foolish girl with stars in her eyes, far too flattered that a gentleman would be noticin’ her. She admits, to her lastin’ regret, that she allowed it all to happen. But—she cannot regret little Arthur. He is such a good boy, Mrs. Blake,” she said pleadingly. “He bears no blame in this.”
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