Freed of this barrier of clothing, Robert rolled her beneath him, taking back control. Gripping the neckline of her chemise between his teeth, he bunched the delicate fabric in his fingers, and ripped it away from her breasts. It may have been his inability to deal with tricky fastenings that had him tearing her clothing, but oh, it felt wickedly exciting! She writhed ecstatically beneath him as he licked, and nipped with his teeth, and suckled at her, her hands sweeping the breadth of his back.
Her legs felt trapped by her skirts. She wanted to be able to spread her thighs, so that he could settle between them. As though he had read her mind, he solved their mutual difficulty by reaching down and ripping the flimsy muslin from ankle to her waist. For a split second, she regretted the ruination of the one gown she had brought with her, but then she recalled his stated intention to keep her naked, in bed, for an unspecified amount of time, and a sensuous thrill swept all her practical concerns away.
He could not fully remove his breeches. He had been lying on the covers fully clothed when she had come in. His boots, she thought fleetingly, as between them they frantically tore away the last barriers of fabric, were going to ruin the quilt. But then they were one, and her capacity for rational thought ceased. She loved him, oh, how she loved him. And to feel him filling her, embracing her, needing her in this way, stoked her own need to fever pitch.
But afterwards, as they lay side by side, amidst the tangle of ruined clothing, the doubts and fears crept slowly back. He had only to kiss her, and she lost her head.
How was she going to explain to Mrs Farrell just how they had managed to get boot blacking all over the beautiful white quilt? And it was all very well saying she did not need clothes, but that was nonsense. She supposed she could borrow one of her husband’s shirts, she reflected, chewing at her lower lip. Or send a maid to fetch one of Miss Lampton’s shapeless gowns for the moments when she simply would have to leave the bedroom ….
‘Stop it,’ Robert growled.
‘What? Stop what?’
‘Thinking. You are growing as tense as a board.’
He tugged her up against his side, dropping a kiss on to the crown of her head.
Bother the quilt, she thought, snuggling into his side and draping her arm about his waist. And bother the servants too. They can think what they like. So long as Robert wants me here in bed, he shall have me.
And with a smile playing about her lips, she slipped into a deliciously restful sleep.
Robert shifted slightly, so that he could look down at her. Her head rested upon his scarred shoulder, her hair flowing over his mangled arm like a sheet of softest silk. Something stirred in his chest at the sight of her gleaming perfection curled up trustingly against his battered body.
It was not tenderness.
It was not!
It was the warm glow that sometimes came over a man after such a satisfying sexual encounter. And—naturally he felt particularly pleased at the way things were working out. He had feared he might never have a willing woman in his bed again. Not only was Deborah willing, but she could rouse him to a state where he could perform twice in one day!
Naturally he got a warm feeling when he looked down at her lying in his arms. She had given him much to be thankful for.
And over the next two weeks, he decided that asking Deborah to be his wife had been an inspired choice. She seemed to have taken on board his assurance that it was not a sin for married people to enjoy sex. Though she never instigated it, she always responded enthusiastically to his overtures. Once, she had even made him laugh, tilting her head to one side, tapping her finger thoughtfully against her chin, saying, ‘It is as well I am of such a practical nature. And that I care little what becomes of my clothing.’ For despite him saying they had best restrict any amorous interludes to the bedroom, he soon discovered there was nowhere they could not make love, in spite of his disability, if she put her mind to it.
She was a marvel.
He looked at her across the width of the dining table, admiring the way the candle-light brought out the rich chestnut tones in her hair, and wondered how he had ever existed before she came into his life.
The thought was like being doused with a bucket of cold water. He had only planned to spend a week at The Dovecote, at the most, just long enough to take possession and look over the place. His one driving ambition had been to return to London, and flaunt his wealth in Percy Lampton’s face. But she had put all his plans out of his head. They had been here over a fortnight, and all he had done was establish that there was nowhere a disabled man could not have sex, if his partner was determined enough.
Laying down his wineglass with a snap, he glared at her.
‘We have dallied here long enough. Tomorrow, we must return to London.’
His grim face and curt tone cut Deborah to the quick. She had, she suddenly saw, allowed herself to hope that his attentions over the past two weeks had meant he was growing fond of her. But that one word, dallied, was like a sharp frost, blighting tender shoots that had been fooled into premature growth by a few unseasonably warm days. Dallying was what a man did with a kitchen maid. Not their own May, of course, since any man foolish enough to try dallying with her would likely receive a frying pan to the skull for his temerity.
She bowed her head over her plate, forcing herself to continue cutting up her pigeon as though his remark had not just shrivelled her burgeoning happiness to a stalk.
Carefully wiping the meat through the sauce, she placed it in her mouth, chewing slowly while she tried to muster some response that would not sound as though she were a petulant child. Robert had never offered her affection. It would be foolish of her to distance him by complaining that he hurt her when he dismissed their physical intimacy as exactly that. Merely physical. She would always treasure the memory of the two weeks they had spent here. They had acted just like real lovers, unable to keep their hands off each other. Even if it had meant so little to her husband, to her it had been a real honeymoon. She would allow no cross words, no petty accusations to taint this magical time.
‘I shall be glad to see my mother again,’ she eventually managed. ‘I have been a little concerned that she has not written to me. Nor has Susannah. They must have the address,’ she continued, ‘because they sent my trunk here.’ Her brief fears that she would have to wander about the house clad in only her husband’s shirt had proved groundless. The very day after they had ruined Miss Lampton’s pristine white quilt, a carrier had turned up at the door with her possessions.
Captain Fawley’s frown deepened. He suspected that if Lampton was running true to form, he would have ditched Miss Hullworthy the minute he heard about Deborah’s wedding, leaving her prey to malicious gossip. Mrs Gillies would not wish to blight her daughter’s honeymoon with that kind of news. He was only surprised Miss Hullworthy had not written to tell her supposed best friend of that misfortune herself.
‘I expect they had their reasons.’
‘Well, I shall be able to see them both, soon, and speak to them, which will be better than getting a letter, will it not?’
It comforted her to speak of her mother and her friend, she reflected. She really would be glad to see them both again. Perhaps her mother would be able to offer her some words of wisdom, even if all she did was listen while Deborah poured out her heart. It would help her to cope with this unequal marriage.
‘I should like to make an early start,’ said Robert, his eyes snapping a challenge.
He expected her to make a fuss, she could see. Complain that he had not given her enough notice, and that she needed time to pack. Laying her napkin down beside her plate, she rose to her feet with a sad smile.
‘Then we should have an early night.’
Their last night in the house where she had been so blindly happy. Tomorrow, they would return to London, and she had the horrible feeling that it would be a return to real life. In London, she would discover what marriage to her really meant to her husband.
&nb
sp; If it meant anything at all.
Their coach drew up outside the front steps of Walton House late the following afternoon.
‘We will live in the rooms my brother set aside for my use to begin with,’ Robert had explained on the journey up from Berkshire. ‘Though I should like to begin searching for our own house at once. Do you have any preferences?’
‘I?’ Deborah had been startled when he had asked for her input. She had assumed he would just do as he pleased, and ride roughshod over any objections she might raise.
‘Yes, you. It will be your home too. And don’t forget, money is no longer an object. Miss Lampton left me an enormous fortune.’ Then he frowned, remembering they had still not discussed anything that really mattered. Whenever they had been alone, talking had been the last thing on either of their minds. He had no more idea of what went on behind those languorous brown eyes than he had on their wedding day. She had fascinated him, dazzled and distracted him with her eagerness to participate in lovemaking. Physically, yes, they were as intimate as it was possible for two people to be.
But he did not really know her.
‘My wealth exists in the form of shares in various enterprises. You may reside at as fashionable an address as you wish.’
‘I … I had not given it any thought,’ she admitted.
Robert had scowled at her, as though her remark displeased him. But all he had said was, ‘Perhaps we should get an agent to scout about for us and let us know what is on the market before making any decisions.’
‘Very well.’
‘And in the meantime, you will open accounts at dressmakers, milliners and so forth. Lady Walton will be only too pleased to guide you, I dare say. She always looks bang up to the knocker.’
And I do not, she thought, battling yet another wave of hurt. He had told her once before that he wanted her to look fashionable. Like Lady Walton. His dear friend, she thought, her lips compressing in irritation. The woman he had confided so much in, when he did not trust her as far as he could throw her. He did not even trust her enough to purchase her own clothes. He wanted another woman to watch over her, and make sure she did not go about looking like a provincial dowdy any more.
An impressive-looking footman, in blue-and-silver livery, bowed them into the house when Linney knocked on the door. Robert just stalked across the hall, opened an inner door, and said, over his shoulder, ‘If you have any complaints about the accommodations, I don’t want to hear them. We will only be here until you choose our new address.’ With that, he just disappeared through the doorway, leaving her floundering in the hall.
To her surprise, it was Linney who came to her rescue.
‘Don’t pay no attention, madam. He’s always like this when his leg’s giving him pain. And long journeys in a carriage near always jolt him up. I hope one of the first things you will persuade him to buy, now he’s got so much money, is a really well-sprung coach. So he won’t go hiring no more of them bone-rattlers no more.’
‘Thank you, Linney,’ she said, though she did not know why on earth he would think she might have any influence over her irascible spouse.
She trailed across the hall, pausing on the threshold to her husband’s domain to see why he should think she might not like the rooms.
She was looking at a sitting room. A very masculine room, she had to admit, with large, leather sofas and chairs dotted about a floor that had not seen polish for some time. Robert was sprawled upon one of the sofas that flanked an empty fireplace, a crystal tumbler of spirits already clutched in his hand, leading her to suppose that Linney’s assumption had been correct.
‘Through here is the bedroom, madam,’ Linney said, opening a door to the right of the fireplace. She peeped inside. Again, it was a very masculine room, with a solid-looking oak bed, heavy furniture and bare floorboards throughout. The washstand, she noted with some misgiving, was placed beside the wardrobe. She would have no privacy, unless she evicted her husband from his own bed every morning. The logistics, as Robert had once put it, would be somewhat tricky. There was a truckle bed just protruding from under the main bed, upon which she guessed Linney had used to sleep. Eyeing it, he leaned towards her, murmuring, ‘I will move to rooms along with the rest of the staff here, madam. He won’t be needing me the same, not now he’s got you. And if he gets into any difficulties, you will only have to ring, and I can be down here in a trice.
‘This here is the door that leads to the mews,’ he continued, in a louder voice, indicating a door tucked into a far corner of the sitting room.
‘My wife will use the front door of Walton House, not skulk in at the back as though she were some kind of miscreant,’ Robert growled from the sofa.
‘Do many miscreants come in at the back, then?’ she asked, taking a seat on the sofa opposite her husband and pulling off her gloves. If she did not manage to lighten the atmosphere, she was afraid she might burst into tears.
‘One or two,’ he growled, draining the glass and letting his head fall against the sofa back, though he kept his eyes fixed on her.
‘What a very interesting life you must have led before you married me. I hope I am not cramping your style?’
‘We had best keep that door locked, now you are in residence,’ he said, ignoring her attempt at humour. ‘All the miscreants I know must come in through the front door, from now on. See to it, Linney, would you?’
She untied her bonnet, and laid it upon the cushion beside her.
‘May I fetch you some refreshment?’ said Linney.
While Linney played the host, her husband simply lay there glaring at her.
‘Thank you. What is there?’
‘Only strong liquor or ale down here. But I dare say that, if I was to ask, Lord Walton’s staff could rustle you up some tea and such.’
‘Thank you, Linney. That would be welcome.’
With a nod, and an affable smile, the manservant left the room.
She fiddled with the ribbons of her bonnet, wondering if there was any topic she might safely broach without getting her head bitten off.
‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘Can you live in two rooms that have been set up for the purpose of making life easy for a cripple?’
And then it hit her why the floorboards were bare, and unpolished. No rugs, or slippery surfaces to trip him while he had been learning to walk first with a crutch, and, later, his false leg. No need to climb the front steps, should he wish to go out. The way to the mews was probably all on a level. No little tables, that he might bump into in here, either, she noticed for the first time. Only a sturdy desk, under the window, with two upright chairs beside it that informed her it doubled as a dining table. She remembered the handrail beside the bed, where she would have expected a night table to stand. The extra-broad steps placed to make it easy to get into, and out of, that bed. Nothing in itself had been remarkable enough to draw notice, but, put together, they clearly spoke of his disability. And he hated her seeing it.
‘It looks like any other set of bachelor’s rooms, I would imagine,’ she said, with a slight shrug. ‘Why should I object to any of it? After all …’ she shot him a look from under her lashes ‘… I never heard you complain about all those feminine frills that dominated the decorations at The Dovecote.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You have a knack of making the best of things, haven’t you?’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘You would no doubt have resorted to quoting some uplifting portion of scripture to get you through the days if you had become a teacher.’
She flinched at the bitterness in his tone. And felt heartily relieved when Linney returned, saving her the necessity of having to make any reply.
‘Lady Walton has heard you have returned, and wonders if you would like to take refreshments in her sitting room? She wants to discuss the ball.’
‘Ball?’ said Deborah.
‘Hell and damnation!’ said Robert. ‘I had forgotten all about the wretched ball.’ Sitting up, he weari
ly rubbed his hand across his face. How could he have forgotten the ball he had arranged to hold here, in Walton House? It had all been part of his plan to flaunt his victory in Percy Lampton’s face. And his brother had been equally as keen to do his part.
‘It will be a public demonstration of our family solidarity,’ Charles had said. A way of silencing the disgraceful rumours regarding your birth once and for all. Though how they got away with it for so long beats me. Anyone who has ever been in the portrait gallery at Wycke would see at once you are more of a Fawley than I am!’
‘I suspect the circumstances surrounding my marriage will cause far more gossip than will be silenced by one ball,’ he had countered.
The Earl had smiled coldly. ‘But it will serve to separate the sheep from the goats.’
Society would be polarised between those who wished to retain the Earl’s good graces, and those who supported the Lamptons. Lord Lensborough would stand buff, he was sure, and he was not without influence. His presence would assure his and his wife’s acceptance amongst his own coterie. His true friends, comrades from his regiment, would stick by him no matter what. And as for what the rest of society thought, well, he did not give a rap! The Lamptons would no doubt spread tales of him being a usurper, who had gained his fortune by deceit and trickery. But he was used to their malice. So far as they were concerned, he had always been the cuckoo in the nest.
He had been looking forward to launching himself into the polite society that had always excluded him, thanks to the Lamptons’ lies. Yet one night in Deborah’s bed had put all thought of it clean out of his head.
He glared at her. ‘The ball to celebrate our marriage is to be held two weeks’ Friday. You had better go and find out what arrangements Lady Walton has made. And offer what belated help you can. She should not have to do all the work, not in her condition.’
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