Their return to Hadley Hall was accomplished in utter silence.
CHAPTER 6
“Wherever have you been?” Edith asked with a scowl. Sir Edmund trailed behind her.
Christobel did her best to school her features into a pleasant expression. “I was sitting with Marie. I fear I let the time slip away from me.”
It was true, after all. As soon as she and Mr. Leyden had returned, she’d hurried in and had Simpson return her clothing and hair to their proper order. She’d immediately gone belowstairs to check on the recuperating housemaid, as she’d done each and every day since the girl’s assault. Unused to such idleness, poor Marie was going mad with boredom.
Edith just shook her head. “I should have known.”
“Marie?” Sir Edmund asked, his ginger-colored brows drawn over bright blue eyes.
“One of my housemaids,” Edith supplied. “She was…er…recently injured.”
Christobel nodded. “And while she’s abed, I’m teaching her to read.” Indeed, she’d found an old primer in the library and started with the basics, and Marie had shown a quick, sharp mind.
Sir Edmund looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Teaching her to read? A housemaid? Why would a maid need to read?”
Christobel bristled. “And why not? Such a dull, dreary life, the life of a maid. Should she not be able to escape into the worlds created by the Brontës or Miss Austen? Or perhaps you’d think Mr. Dickens more appropriate?”
Sir Edmund rocked back on his heels, looking entirely flummoxed. “Well, er, perhaps. Still, I don’t think it’s your place—”
“Come, Sir Edmund,” Edith interrupted, casting her a scathing look. “Everyone is gathering in the drawing room. I’ve got a delightful entertainment planned for this afternoon.”
Looking suitably repentant for her outburst, Christobel followed the pair out and into the drawing room, eager to see what diversion Edith had in store for them. Anything to take her mind off John Leyden.
Hide-and-seek. Not what Christobel would have hoped for, even though it had become all the rage of late. Even now, Edith was drawing names from two hats, one holding the ladies’ names, one the men’s. Once everyone was paired up, one couple would be designated the seekers, and everyone else would head out in search of hiding places, either indoors or out in the park. The game could go on for hours, as those “found” joined in the search.
Christobel generally found the game tedious at best—she did not enjoy sitting still, just hanging about waiting to be discovered. But now, as she eyed the hats filled with folded slips of paper, her mind raced. Not Sir Edmund. Please, anyone but him. Silly, of course, as he was the perfect gentleman. Still, she had no wish to be alone with him. What if he were to attempt to take liberties? Thank God Mr. Leyden was nowhere to be seen, because if she were to—
“Miss Christobel Smyth,” Edith’s voice called out gaily. She reached into the dark gray bowler hat that Jasper held aloft. “And Mr. John Leyden.”
Christobel’s heart skipped a beat. She saw the confusion on Edith’s face. Clearly this was not the outcome her sister had hoped for, either.
“I told my cousin I would not take ‘no’ for an answer,”
Jasper said in reply to Edith’s questioning gaze. “It shall be great fun, won’t it, John?”
Christobel’s gaze darted about the room, and then she saw him, tucked into the shadows by the door, looking every bit as uncomfortable as she felt.
Still, there was no way to beg off without publicly insulting him. She had no choice but to go off with him, alone, for God knows how long.
Minutes later, the boundaries of play had been set and Edith and Jasper were named seekers. Time to pair up with one’s partner. Christobel took a deep, fortifying breath and made her way toward Mr. Leyden, who still stood where she’d seen him last, as immobile as a statue, leaning against her sister’s William Morris–papered wall, watching her approach.
She swallowed hard as she continued to pick her way across the room toward him, his icy gaze bold and unwavering. His arms were folded across his chest, one knee bent, the sole of one boot pressed flat against the wall in an insolent pose. He looked rakish, almost dangerous…nothing at all like the bland, boring John Leyden she remembered.
Heat pooled in her belly; excitement raced through her veins. Dear God, whatever had come over her? Over him? This was madness—her and John Leyden, of all people.
Christobel was nearly breathless by the time she reached his side, though she could not credit why. “I suppose we shall have to make the best of it,” she said before she’d thought better of it.
Instantly, his eyes darkened a hue. A muscle in his jaw flickered, and she realized that, once again, she’d insulted him. Blast it, but her wits seemed to abandon her whenever she was in his presence.
She’d been seventeen when she’d first met Mr. Leyden, when Edith had become engaged to Jasper. Nearly eight years ago, she realized. So many days spent in his company, and yet he’d never before affected her as he did now. Whatever had changed, and in so short a time?
After an uncomfortable pause, Mr. Leyden pushed off the wall and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Christobel glanced back over her shoulder. Edith leaned toward Jasper with a furrowed brow and whispered in his ear; he nodded in reply, then cocked his head toward the door.
Her legs trembling, Christobel turned back toward Mr. Leyden and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I know just the place,” she said.
The old gristmill. It sat abandoned, not far from the ornamental pond. She’d seen a cat dart inside just yesterday. A female cat, she’d determined, and dubbed her Clementine. Fearful and skittish, Clementine was clearly not used to human interaction, but Christobel was determined to tame her. She’d asked Jasper’s groundskeeper to bring food and water to the mill each day. Going there now would give her a chance to check on the poor cat and see that the groundskeeper was heeding her request.
Mr. Leyden allowed Christobel to lead him out without comment. Other pairs were dashing this way and that, whispering among themselves, but she and Mr. Leyden walked in silence.
“Might you tell me where we’re headed?” he said at last, startling Christobel as they ducked under a cottonwood’s low branches.
“The old gristmill. There”—she pointed to a clearing just ahead and to the left—“beyond that maple.”
“You’re sure that’s within bounds?”
Christobel nodded. “Quite sure. Come, let’s hurry.”
Minutes later, they stepped inside and closed the door on rusted hinges behind them.
“Here, Clementine!” Christobel called out. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
“Clementine?” Mr. Leyden asked, looking about with a scowl.
“A lovely gray and white cat. I found her here just yesterday. Oh, good—I see Mr. Carter has brought food for the poor beast.” There were two dishes in the corner beside a wooden trestle table and bench, one containing water, the other a half-eaten piece of fish. “I wonder where she’s gone off to?”
Mr. Leyden resumed his previous pose, leaning against the mill’s dusty planked wall. “Jasper tells me that you’re teaching Marie to read,” he said, folding his arms across his broad chest. He’d finally abandoned his somber black dress and was attired more appropriately today in a buff-colored pinstriped suit with a gold-striped waistcoat and matching four-in-hand cravat. His tan oxfords looked freshly shined, his gold cufflinks buffed to perfection.
“Indeed, I am teaching her to read,” Christobel said. “And I suppose you’re going to scold me about it, too?”
His brows drew together. “Why would I do that?”
Christobel wiped her damp palms across her skirt. “I don’t know. Sir Edmund seemed to think it folly to teach a servant such a skill.”
“I would think that someone in her position would welcome the escape afforded by the ability to read.”
“Precisely!” Christobel said, her cheeks warming wi
th pleasure. At last, someone understood her way of thinking on the matter. “The poor girl is perishing from boredom right now, forced to remain abed. The reading lessons are giving her pleasure, and she’s catching on so quickly, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve recently started a free school at our mill for the workers’ children. In most cases, it’s their only chance for an education. At first my father and brother scoffed at the notion. The children will be put to work soon enough, they said, and book learning will be of no use to them. But now I think they’re coming around to my way of thinking.”
“What a lovely thing to do,” Christobel said. “How very generous of you.”
Mr. Leyden suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Yes, well,” he muttered, unable to meet her gaze.
Christobel’s breath hitched uncomfortably in her chest as she realized how wrong she’d been about him, how vastly she’d underestimated him. Traits she’d seen as weaknesses were actually signs of his good character—his brooding silence hid a deep sensitivity; his supercilious nature a response to what he saw as snobbery. She’d dared to fault his quiet sensibility, when in fact she should have applauded his inability to indulge in empty, meaningless talk and mindless flattery. “Perhaps we’re more alike than we believed ourselves to be,” she said at last.
She was right, John realized with a start. All these years they’d been acquainted, and he’d never really known her—never known that she was the type to teach a servant girl to read, to make sure that a stray cat was fed and cared for. Instead, he’d thought her vain, selfish, even. How far off the mark he’d been, and how his heart—among other organs—swelled with the knowledge.
Desire coursing hotly through his veins, he watched her, mentally measuring the distance between them. Three yards, perhaps? No more than five. How he wanted to close that distance, to take her in his arms.
“Your limp,” she said, so softly he could barely make out the words. “I…I know it’s horribly rude of me to ask, but, well, considering what we’ve shared these past few days…” She trailed off, her cheeks suddenly red.
He didn’t wish to speak of it, not now. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of his weakness, his physical imperfection. “I’d rather not discuss it,” he bit out.
“Of course,” she murmured. “I should not have presumed—”
“Pray, forgive me, Miss Smyth.” Damn it. Why had he spoken so sharply? It was a legitimate question, he realized, and she deserved an answer.
“Christobel,” she corrected. “Please.”
He nodded, rubbing his chin. “Christobel, then. I was a boy, no more than ten or eleven at the time, and—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “You’ve no need to speak of it if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“My mother sent me around to some of the workers’ homes to deliver baskets of fruit,” he continued, not heeding her protestation. Suddenly he wanted to tell her; needed to. “Fruit was scarce, you see, and rickets common in the poorer homes. As I was just about to knock upon a door, I heard a baby wailing, a woman screaming, crockery breaking. For some stupid reason, I pushed open the door. Inside, I found one of my father’s foremen laying a horsewhip upon his cowering wife, a baby crying in the cradle. The man reeked of spirits; the entire house stunk of it.
“Like a fool, I charged in, taking on a man twice my size. I was no match for him, of course. He flayed open the skin on my arms, broke my leg in three places. I was lucky to get out of there alive.”
The color drained from her face. “Dear God! That’s dreadful. I hope he paid for his crime.”
“Two years in jail. Not six months after his release, he killed his wife. An accident, he claimed, but I knew it was a lie. I’d seen the hate in his eyes. Less than a year later, he took his own life, the cowardly lout.”
“Good riddance,” Christobel said hotly.
“Anyway, to answer your question, my leg never healed properly. I’ve been lame ever since.”
She took two steps toward him, closing the gap. “It’s a badge of honor, then. You should be proud. You were brave and righteous and—”
“Foolish,” he supplied with a wince. “Had I not been in such bad shape, my father would have taken a whip to me himself.”
She tipped her chin in the air, the same defiant pose he’d seen her strike so many times over the past few days. “Then he would be the fool, not you.”
Two more tentative steps. Another two, perhaps three, and she would be an arm’s reach away. If she came any closer, he’d have no choice but to take her in his arms. Devil take it, he’d ravish her, right here, right now, given an ounce of encouragement.
“Cousin John?” she said breathlessly, moving on silent feet to stand directly before him.
“Just ‘John.’ We’re no blood relation.” As his cock swelled painfully against his trousers, all rational thought fled his mind. Call him base, call him coarse and ungentlemanly, but he was suddenly consumed with the idea of getting her naked. Now.
Christobel’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “No, we’re not blood relations, are we?” She was close now; so close he could smell her sweet scent. “Dear God, I…I want…” She trailed off, shaking her head, confusion playing out upon her features.
“You want what?” he urged, reaching for her hand and drawing her closer still. His heart pounded against his ribs; his blood roared through his veins. “Say it, Christobel.” Want me, his mind urged silently. Want me, as I want you.
She was so close now that her breasts grazed his coat. Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, he released her hand and balled his own into fists by his sides. He could not touch her till he knew her mind, till he had her permission. Naked, his mind screamed. God help him, but he wanted her naked. How many years had he imagined her naked, lying on his bed, her glorious hair spread out around her.
“John, I…”
He closed his eyes, waiting for more, steeling himself for disappointment. He felt a rush of air and opened his eyes, only to find her moving quickly across the room, away from him, toward the door. Good God, he was going to die of sexual frustration, right then and there. She didn’t want him, she was leaving, she was—
Locking the door. The heavy bolt slid into place with a squeal of protesting metal.
That was all the encouragement he needed. He met her halfway, lifting her off her feet and carrying her toward the room’s darkest corner, away from the windows. As soon as he set her back on her feet, their lips met, hot and hungry. He pressed her back against the wall as her hands moved over his chest, tugging at his coat. He shrugged out of it, dropping it to the dusty floor without care.
“Please, John,” she murmured, tearing her mouth from his. “Please. Now.”
Damn it to hell, but he was going to oblige her, before she changed her mind. He found the fastening on her belt and tugged it free, then pulled her blouse from her skirt’s waistband. Seconds later, his hands slid up her belly, over her corset and whatever undergarments she wore, cursing them all the while.
When his fingers reached the top of her corset, he felt skin at last—skin as smooth and satiny as the finest silk. With a groan, he tugged at the coarse fabric of her corset, dragging it downward, ripping seams as he did so. At last his fingers found his prize, her nipples pebbling to his touch.
He heard her gasp at the intimate contact. “Oh, God, John…what…oh!”
Without thinking, he raised her blouse, fighting with the fabric as his tongue captured one firm, rosy peak. With a soft moan, she arched against him as he suckled her, his hands cupping her breasts. They were round and full, exactly as he’d imagined them all these years. Perfect.
Devil take it, she was exquisite. He was going to spill his seed right then and there if he kept on. A growl of frustration tore from his throat as he forced himself to retreat.
But soon her fingers were unbuttoning his waistcoat, then moving on to his shirt and cravat. He stood, motionless, allowing her to undress him, b
arely able to believe it. At last his shirt was open, his waistcoat and cravat tossed carelessly aside.
“You’re beautiful,” she said breathlessly. “Like…like the finest sculpture.” Her fingers trailed up his torso, drawing gooseflesh in their wake.
Christobel let out her breath in a rush, unable to believe how perfect, how sculpted his chest was. Never had she imagined…She let the thought trail off. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but reach for his trousers with trembling fingers. Dear lord, but she’d never wanted anything this badly. Her entire body ached with it—her legs trembled violently, her thighs were damp with need. She fumbled with his trousers, silently urging him to complete the task.
Mercifully, he did. Next thing she knew, he was reaching beneath her skirts, tugging down her drawers. Silently, she said a prayer of thanks that she’d decided to don plain drawers that day rather than her ungainly combination. She heard John curse under his breath as he fought with her skirts, finally bunching them up around her waist as he pressed her back against the wall. Instinctively, she raised one leg and wrapped it around his hips.
“Have you any idea how long I’ve wanted this, Christobel?” he asked, his voice so filled with need that her heart accelerated dangerously, thumping noisily against her rib cage. “How I’ve dreamt of this?”
“Now!” she urged breathlessly. “Please.”
His eyes met hers—his gaze steady and unblinking, full of heat and lust and wanting. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said gruffly.
“Then do it quickly!” she said, unable to stand the wait a second longer.
She felt the tip of him, tentatively probing her entrance. Soft and silky, yet hard and insistent all at once. In one sharp motion, he plunged inside, clutching her buttocks hard as he buried his face in her neck. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry out.
“Oh, God, Christobel,” he ground out. “I can’t…I can’t stop.”
“Don’t, John. Don’t stop.” The pain was exquisite, sharp and burning, yet it began to subside almost as quickly as it had appeared. She felt herself stretch as he filled her, inch by glorious inch.
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