True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  He slammed his own glass down and refilled it to over-flowing, splashing blood red wine on the tray. After a moment he resumed his story, voice tight. "So, as you see, by the time I discovered my wife's lie—that she was not expecting a child— we were married. She'd got what she wanted. At least, what she thought she wanted. In the meantime, I discovered that I had fathered a son by a woman I knew years before."

  Mrs. Monday was preoccupied folding her napkin into a neat square, the corners carefully aligned, the linen smoothed out. She seemed tied up in her own thoughts, not listening to him. Odds were she was thinking of her husbands now. He didn't like that; he preferred to have all her attention.

  True leaned closer toward her, pressing one hand flat to the carpet. "My first child had been conceived, so I learned, just before I fled England on that fishing boat. A gamekeeper's daughter who once, most generously, taught me all she knew about a certain sport, bore my first child while I was abroad. She named him Storm. The boy was already five years of age when I discovered his existence. Once I knew, I provided him with anything he needed, of course. I thought it best for Charlotte not to know."

  "But your wife found out."

  "Not for another three years. I kept Storm out of her way. I knew by then of her vicious temper and did not want the boy to suffer."

  She nodded slowly, opening her napkin, turning the square and then refolding it. "Although you say you cannot love— that you're incapable— it's clear you have affection for your children."

  "In the case of one's litter there is a natural instinct to feed and protect, a bond that cannot be broken. Or should not be." He thought grimly of his own father, and, of course, his wife.

  "The fondness you show for all your children does you credit, sir."

  "Sakes! Praise at last from your lips, madam. I thought I was already declared to be a bad parent."

  "Those were your words, sir. Not mine." Her lashes fluttered upward and True was drawn forward again into the clear, shining depths of her gaze. How young she looked suddenly.

  Bloody hell. She was supposed to be plain and completely uninteresting. The last thing he needed was a new complication in his life, some new fancy.

  Then she came along with that steady gaze, heart-shaped face, and brave, uplifted, little chin.

  He'd always had a soft spot for the scrappers. An affinity, he supposed.

  He quickly turned his head away from the surprisingly strong pull of her gaze and continued his story.

  "For the first year of marriage we tried to make the best of it. Charlotte did become pregnant after all, and I was busy at Deverell's. We both had much to distract us. There was no need to spend a vast amount of time together. Her father may not have approved her choice and threatened to disown her, but once the first child was on its way he had to give his blessing, finally."

  The woman beside him was still, listening without interruption, but now eyeing the plate of plump, late strawberries from the home farm greenhouse.

  "Of course, it was a union made out of deception, Mrs. Monday, and we both suffered for it. I soon saw through my wife's physical beauty to the ugliness within, and she found my lifestyle distasteful, decidedly unromantic. Not what she'd expected. Somehow, despite my warnings, Charlotte had thought to change me. But eventually she realized that I was, in fact, just as I'd told her, an untrainable stray. She found me rough and coarse." He paused, glancing slyly again at his secretary. "In bed and out of it."

  She didn't take her gaze from the plate of strawberries.

  "But by then she could not go back to her father and admit she was wrong. For my money and her pride, she stayed."

  Mrs. Monday finally moved her focus from the strawberries to his face. "You both made that choice, sir. You both stayed."

  "As I told you, I married her because she claimed to be carrying my child. A falsehood, as it turned out."

  "And yet there were other children to follow. Several."

  "It is the natural result of fucking, madam. Your god made it that way."

  Her lips parted and closed again.

  "What else should I do with the woman who is my wife? Go on, Mrs. Monday, tell me. I insist! Why else would a couple wed but to create children?"

  A frown line appeared between her brows, and two hot poppies of color blossomed high on her cheeks. "You did not have to indulge. It is possible to have a marriage without...that."

  "I disagree. When a man and woman are thrust together by vows, and they both have urges, what else should they do?"

  Her cheeks reddened further. "Practice restraint, sir."

  "Restraint?" he sputtered.

  "Read a book. Take up chess or...or bird-watching."

  He chuckled. "Is that what your husbands did, madam? Perhaps you encouraged those other hobbies to keep them out of your bed. I've heard some women have a distaste for it. Even when it’s gentle and tender."

  "Once again, sir, we are not supposed to be discussing my life."

  "Humor me." He swayed closer to her, wondering how far he could venture with his curiosity. Of course, he knew she needed the fee he was paying her. And True loved chancing his luck when the odds were against him; it kept his soul fed. "I've been told I'm too forward, too direct in my approach when I meet a woman I want. But I never had anyone to teach me manners, so you must forgive my candid curiosity. I've always wondered how the well-bred manage it. For example, how does a kindly parson approach relations with his dutiful young wife, without shocking her? Does he ask politely, or wait for her to put her embroidery down and give him a sign? Did you plan by rote, once a month? Surely it was at least once a month. Or did he forfeit his rights entirely out of kindness."

  "Sir! This conversation is improper."

  "You began this, Olivia."

  "Indeed I did not!" Oh, indeed she did. Just a single flicker of her lashes brought out the mischief in him and once he began he couldn't stop.

  "Madam, you suggested I should not have bedded my own wife as often as I did. When I was completely within my marital rights to do so."

  She bit her lip and looked again at the plate of strawberries on the tray.

  "Tell me, woman. How would your parson approach the matter of fucking when he was in the mood? I must know! I demand that you tell me."

  "Sir, I know this way of teasing me amuses you, but I will not —"

  He took a strawberry from the tray and offered it to her. She wanted it in her own hand, but he, holding the stalk, pressed the other end toward her lips. "Honesty, Mrs. Monday, if you please. I am telling you my life story. The least you could do is answer my questions about your own. There is no one here but you and I. How did the kindly parson tell his wife that he wanted—"

  "Well, what would you say?" she exclaimed crossly.

  "I would say..." he paused and ran the strawberry across her lower lip, "Come to bed with me, Olivia."

  Her eyes darkened as the pupils enlarged. How long and thick her lashes were. He hadn't noticed until he got this close.

  He cleared his throat. "No doubt you were a maiden the first time you married."

  "Of course." Her voice was very soft and low, barely above a whisper.

  "Did you enjoy relations with your first husband? Honesty!"

  Although he thought she would not answer, apparently she was still intent on proving herself fearless. Up went the chin as her eyes flashed boldly. "I did."

  "It was nice, was it?"

  She rolled her lips together, held them tight a moment and then they snapped apart to exclaim, "Yes, I suppose so."

  Her mouth looked very pink and full suddenly. Enticing. Had she just wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, anticipating the taste of the sweet fruit?

  "These strawberries were harvested from a surprising late crop in the greenhouses," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "There won't be any more this—"

  Suddenly, he saw a flash of little white teeth and then the strawberry was gone. All that remained was the green stalk. He was surprised s
he left his fingers intact.

  She chewed slowly, a small bulge in one cheek, eyes gleaming with salty amusement.

  Suddenly it occurred to him that she might have been sent there by one of his many enemies. He'd felt instantly that she was not what she pretended to be. This grey-clad widow with three dead men to her name already could be a Trojan horse. It wouldn't be the first time a bitter enemy tried to send him to his maker. Death by Olivia Monday, however, was a novel approach.

  "Now it is my turn to ask you a question, sir."

  "Is it?" Who made that rule, he wondered. But, being mesmerized by her lips at that moment, he let her get away with it.

  "So although you had no love for your wife," she said quietly, firmly, "indeed, you say you are not equipped to love... you still took advantage of her, as if she was your property?"

  Frustrated, he exclaimed, "I, like any red-blooded man, require the company of a lover from time to time. If I have one who has bound herself to me by vows and laws, why would I not take my ease? The need to mate is just as instinctive as the need to defend and feed one's cubs. If I no longer felt such a need, I would know I was dead."

  "And according to you, this was done with no tender or fond feelings for your wife, no softness in your heart? It was mechanical?"

  "She expected to be serviced. If I didn't, I would not be keeping to our marital vows."

  "Gracious! And you dare make sport of me for calling my husband kind?"

  "So we have both endured marriages that were incomplete, unfulfilling. At least I only made the mistake once."

  "I think, sir, we have—"

  Unable to resist a moment longer, he grabbed her chin, held her face firm, and kissed her on those berry-stained lips.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It must be the fault of her dreadful curiosity, which refused to sit in a corner and be quiet. Instead it wanted to go wandering, even in worn boots, over this rocky, unpredictable terrain known as True Deverell.

  His lips were so savage, so determined. His long fingers held her face and he deepened the kiss, leaning into her, his tongue tangling with hers.

  The kiss— she called it that, even though it was like no other kiss she'd ever experienced— lasted too long, and then, somehow, she found the strength to pull away.

  He breathed heavily, his eyes dark, his hair and his cravat now in even greater disarray she noted. Surely she had not done that with her own hands? She looked down at them now, checking for signs of misbehavior. Her fingers were curled into fists, hiding from her. Guilty.

  "Forgive me," he muttered. "I should not have done that."

  Something twisted painfully inside her. "No."

  But his supposed penitence was brief. He moved close again, pushing the tray aside, spilling their supper to the floor. She saw it coming, had plenty of time to escape, but she did nothing.

  The second kiss lingered even longer. His fingers pillaged more pins from her hair, while his lips took possession of her mouth as if they had some primal right. He was forceful, wicked. Everything people said of him. True Deverell, the legendary lover with dark, dangerous passions— a man that well-raised women only dare whisper about— was kissing her, his hands exploring, his strength overpowering.

  She fell back to the carpet and he followed her down, his body covering hers. His firm, determined lips caressed her chin, her throat. Olivia thought she might pass out, but not with helpless fear. With the sheer desire for more.

  His hand stole its way upward from her waist, over her bodice, touching her through her gown and not in a gentle caress. Demanding, forceful, devoid of gentlemanly restraint. His teeth nipped the side of her neck. She thought it was by accident until it happened again.

  He had led her off down a rocky path and the descent was steep, treacherous. Her heart raced with exhilaration.

  She exclaimed in a rush of breath, "This is no way to write your memoirs."

  Husky laughter blew warm against the side of her neck and he held her wrists tightly, drawing them up over her head. "I'll write them on you. Inside you."

  "We can't." She did not care to be another of his conquests and he had told her plainly what he thought of women.

  But he kissed her again and she let him devour her as if she had no choice. As if she was a passive woman without a brain. As if she'd been waiting ten years for this. Ten years at least.

  In his hands she became a creature of lust. It raced through her veins, melted parts of her body, stole her anxious breath and replaced it with something that sparkled and sang and laughed. As if she had been frozen, stuck, and now her river flowed again.

  Yes, she wanted him to feast upon her. Yes. At last.

  And then, suddenly, he stopped. He still lay over her, his lips barely an inch from hers, his fingers gripping her wrists firmly. "Now describe that," he murmured. "Was that nice? Can the pert little widow think of a better adjective now? Perhaps I've inspired her."

  She stared up at him, trying to get air back in her lungs with his weight over her, crushing her to the carpet. "I ought to knee you in the unmentionables, sir."

  "Oh, do. I dare you." He chuckled and she felt it moving through his chest. And elsewhere too, his manhood hard and moving against her thigh. When she writhed and struggled under him it grew further. His voice turned husky, his eyes at the point where heat turns to smoke. "But we both know that's not what you really want to do."

  She tasted the residue of wine and strawberries on her lips. But she also tasted him. Mostly him. Too much of him. Yet also not enough.

  "I daresay you'll pack your trunk and leave now, eh?" he muttered.

  "Are you trying to frighten me away again?"

  "Perhaps." But his hands still held her wrists tightly, not about to let her go anywhere.

  "If you truly have a wager against me staying, you may as well concede defeat, sir. Your methods won't work on me." As she'd told him, she did not go back on her word and she did not give in. She also needed the money, not that she would ever admit that.

  She lay still now, growing accustomed to his weight upon her, his warmth.

  When she looked up into his eyes they were molten steel. "What if I cannot guarantee this will never happen again? As I said to you, I am not dead, madam. I have urges, needs. The odds are —"

  "Against you. Not me."

  He squinted and she felt his fingers finally loosen their grip on her throbbing wrists. "What do you mean by that, woman?"

  As he rolled onto his side, she sat up, briskly brushing at the front of her gown. "You don't want me here because you're afraid."

  "Of what?" he scoffed, resting on one elbow.

  "Of a woman who is not impressed by you. I will neither fall at your feet in breathless adoration nor be shocked into running away. So you don't know what to do with me."

  "You may be unusual, Olivia..." His eyes gleamed with a sultry light, unearthly and terribly magnetic. "But I suppose you're all the same once the clothes come off."

  "That's something you'll never find out, isn't it?"

  "Do I hear a wager in your voice, woman?"

  "I've told you before, I don't gamble. Do pay attention. And if you think those kisses did anything to me, you are mistaken." Carefully she got to her feet. "I should go to my bed, sir. My eyes are strained. I am tired. It is very late. I can be of no more use to you tonight." With that halting series of excuses Olivia turned to leave the library, but then paused and glanced back at him again. "You ought to write to your daughter, sir, if you are concerned about her marrying in error. Tell her you will meet this man she's chosen. You may not believe in love because you've never known it, but perhaps she has found something you did not."

  "She's still a bloody child."

  "Precisely, sir. And you're the adult. Well...", she swept his sprawling form with a haughty gaze, "you are meant to be."

  With that, having said much more than she should yet again, Olivia left him to finish the supper alone.

  Fortunately a lit oil lam
p sat on the hall table and she used that to guide her steps to bed.

  She paused on the stairs to glance up at his eerie, faceless portrait.

  I, like any red-blooded man, require the company of a lover from time to time.

  Present tense, she noted. And at his age too— supposed age. Hadn't he done enough damage?

  * * * *

  She tasted better even than Mrs. Blewett's pork pie. Just as well she took herself off, claiming eye strain, or he might have gone back for another taste.

  Eye strain.

  She was a mere eight and twenty, for pity's sake. How much eye strain could she have? And he knew, already, that she wore those spectacles just to hide behind, make herself less accessible. Perhaps she even thought they made her invisible. It reminded him a little of a child, who thought that if they hid behind a fence post then you couldn't find them.

  True tipped onto his back across the carpet and stretched, crossing his arms behind his head. His body was far too aroused, aching with desire. He knew he'd best stay there a while, because if he got up he would be tempted to chase her down. This, he thought, is what becomes of a man who survives too long without a feminine playmate— he begins to fantasize about seducing the most unlikely woman he can find. Setting himself a challenge.

  When he touched her that night he felt the need churning through her like a ferocious waterfall. It was almost enough to sweep him away. He imagined taking her roughly— in a field somewhere, under the wide-open sky, the fresh, sweet scent of blossom filling the air. Green stains from the newly mown grass brightening her dull gown.

  In a fight she would probably give as good as she got, he mused.

  Yes, she was a scrapper alright, and she was so bloody polite about it, he couldn't help laughing out loud suddenly.

  * * * *

  The boy stood very still in the water and waited. He knew the fish would come; he just had to be patient. He'd learned that the hard way, of course, suffering many hungry days with no fish caught because he was too clumsy.