by Jane Lark
She looked about the room to ensure no one had noticed her unguarded response. They had not.
Susan’s heart reached out yet she was too tongue-tied with fear of uttering the wrong words to walk over and speak.
She sat down again and then her fingers lifted and pushed her spectacles a little farther up the bridge of her nose.
Henry circulated about the people in the room and his voice became the loudest and most assured. Uncle Edward stayed beside Uncle Robert and joined a quiet group that contained her father, Lord Sparks, John and Lord Wiltshire. Rob Marlow left that group and walked across the room to join his wife, Caroline. They shared a look expressing intense sadness and sympathy.
Susan stood as the silent communication they’d shared drew tears into her eyes, and she walked across the room to stand beside her mother, no longer able to sit alone. She longed to run. Henry had told her long ago, that was her habit, and now she absolutely recognised it. The desire screamed. She could not cope, not only with the number of people in this room, which was normally her weakness, but the level of emotion and her inability to help.
~
For the rest of the afternoon, Susan stood near her mother, and watched Henry. He spoke to all of his parents’ guests, though he did not approach her or her mother. She thought about the other day, when he’d held her hand. She longed to hold his hand again.
She had deliberately sacrificed his love. But as she watched him, that decision felt cruel. He did not look at her, and it was as though it was deliberate, as though he was afraid to look at her.
But then she had told him, no, so what value was there for him in looking at her, it would be no comfort to him.
Her heart felt as though it expanded, inflating with the intensity of her empathy, bursting with feelings that longed to hold and then cling to him.
He escorted Sarah into dinner. Percy walked with Christine.
She walked in beside her mother. She could not see him, or over hear his conversation at the table, he sat at the far end. But when Henry walked into the drawing room to re-join the women later he was amongst his friends, those he associated with in town, those who had danced and flirted with her, the reckless sons of his father’s friends, Harry’s relations, and Harry was with them. They were not laughing, though, as they would have been in town, they were all subdued today, in their black.
Alethea stood up and walked over to Henry. She had not spoken to Henry all day either.
She spoke hurriedly and tearfully.
An outflow of emotion was not what Henry needed. His jaw stiffened. He’d been more relaxed when he’d walked in with his friends, but before that, he’d been tense all day, fulfilling what must have been a very difficult responsibility. He’d changed since the spring. She had seen the changes shifting by small degrees in town, but today he appeared to have swung about a half circle. He’d become the opposite of the arrogant self-centered man she had disliked so intensely.
A closed, distant, sombre look set a mask across his face, yet he gripped Alethea’s arm and turned her, then led her across the room to a corner where they then stood alone together.
Susan’s heart whipped up into a race of jealousy. It screamed for him. She wanted to walk over to him and push Alethea away. Love, came with a sense of possession, even though the love had been cast down. That was so unfair on Henry.
She looked at Christine and Mary, then left her mother and walked over and tried to join their conversation, though all her awareness remained on Henry and Alethea who she could still see.
He faced Alethea, his head slightly bowed as he took her hand and spoke earnestly. He had spoken to Susan in that way in London, with such deep intent in his eyes. Her heart ached at the memory.
What were they talking about?
She looked at Christine and tried very hard to concentrate.
She hoped her parents would not remain late, not when Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane were in mourning. She hoped they would leave soon.
Henry suddenly walked across the room, his strides swift.
Susan looked at Alethea. Her lips were pursed in an annoyed expression as she walked over to their mother. She whispered something in their mother’s ear.
Susan looked at Henry.
When he neared the chest close to the door he grasped a decanter by its neck, then walked out of the room, at a pace that implied he would not be coming back.
Susan looked at Alethea. She came towards Susan. Oh Lord, whatever Henry had said to her, whatever had transpired between them, Susan did not want to know. She could not be Alethea’s confidant when the topic of secrecy was Henry.
“Forgive me, I need the retiring room,” Susan said to Christine and Mary then left them before Alethea might reach her, and she deliberately avoided Alethea’s path as she left the room.
A footman awaited orders in the hall. “Where is Lord Henry?”
The footman pointed into another room. “Through the French doors, in the garden, Miss Forth.”
She walked on. If he’d run, then she could.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Henry! Where are you?”
Susan. He looked over his shoulder. She was not visible. He could say nothing and hope she did not find him. Except he rather wanted to be found by her and he did not have the energy to stand up and get out of her way anyway. His legs were heavy with brandy and grief and he was in no mood to rise and run. “Here, Susan! In the rose garden!”
After a minute or so he heard her footsteps on the gravel path. Then her voice reached across the garden as she entered on the far side. “Henry…”
“Here!” he called again.
It was a round garden, with a central circle of roses surrounded by grass, and all about the edges were rose borders and arches. He was sitting on the ground, on the grass. Life had pushed him to the floor.
“Henry…” Susan said again as she approached him, only now his name was a question that asked, is anything wrong.
God, yes, Susan, everything is bloody wrong.
“Can I sit beside you?”
“If you wish.” His voice said he did not care, but he did. His heart warmed at her nearness.
She swept the skirt of her dove grey dress and her petticoats beneath her then sat on the grass. The ground was becoming damp as the sky had flooded with the orange, reds and pinks of sunset.
The descending cooler evening air was also intensifying the perfume from the roses around them.
Susan suddenly wrapped her arms about his shoulders and held him, as they sat upright beside each other. “I am sorry.”
“Thank you.” His response was terse and in a low pitch. He did not hold her in her return. He’d heard those words too much today. He’d been sitting out here and beating himself about the head, wishing he’d done so many things differently. He did not feel inclined to accept pity.
When she let go of him he lifted the decanter and drank from it. He was sitting with his legs bent and his feet wide. He put the decanter back down on the grass between his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. “I suppose you think this is self-centered of me?”
“You have been working hard all day doing everything you can to make your parents’ guests feel comfortable, I think you deserve some freedom.”
“I have been trying hard to do everything my parents would wish of me since the hour I heard William was not well.” No, that was a lie, he’d begun doing that when he’d been here in the spring, and then agreed to court Alethea, and he had only done that in response to Susan’s terse assessment of his self-centered nature. That was comical. He did not look at her.
“I know, Henry, I am not arguing the point with you, I’ve seen what you are doing. It is commendable how you are supporting your family.”
Commendable. That was a sickening word. He preferred the word reckless, at least that had been true. He glanced at her.
She bent up her knees and wrapped her arms about them.
“My family should be supporting ea
ch other, but William’s death is dividing us.”
“I am sorry.”
God those words were not good enough, no amount of sorrys would change anything. “I am in pain.”
She twisted sideways and touched his arm as she met his gaze. “I know. You should let yourself cry.”
Cry. A bark of bitter laughter left his throat then he took another long swig from the decanter of brandy to let the liquor seep deeper into his veins. “Crying will not bring him back, will it? I wish to scream. I wish to damn well punch the living daylights out of God for taking my brother if that man would come down from the clouds and face me. Why William? Why not me when I turned over my curricle?”
“Your family would be just as distressed if it had been you.”
“But William would be here and I would not be in pain, and I would have deserved it. Remember?”
She ignored his mean challenge. “But then William would be in pain. He idolised you.”
He looked at her. “I hate you sometimes, Susan, the times when you are unbearably and annoyingly logical.”
She smiled as her hand lifted and slid her spectacles farther up her nose.
His lips pulled up into a smile, and he shook his head at her. She turned around and clutched her knees again. “It is self-centered to want to be the one who is lost.”
“Too much logic, Susan, I do not want to hear that. I feel guilty enough. He is dead because of me. Did you know that?”
“You are not—”
“Do not deny it. You have just said he idolised me. He did. That was his error, he mimicked my recklessness, he would not have become ill had he not fallen from a climb to his tutor’s window.”
“You cannot know that, Henry—”
“I know it.”
Her hand settled just above his left knee on his thigh, trying to offer non-verbal comfort as he took another swig from the decanter of brandy. He’d drunk a good measure of it. His brain swam a little, the rose garden blurring.
“I still say you cannot know.”
“I am not in the mood for a woman who likes to have the last word. Leave it be, Susan. I know.”
She sighed heavily. “You will make yourself ill, Henry, if you hold all the responsibility on your shoulders and do not take time to grieve.”
“I have no choice but to hold the responsibility on my shoulders, my father is in no state to accept it, and barely weeks ago you told me I was too selfish, you cannot have it both ways. How would you rather I be?”
She did not answer.
He drank again.
“The way I feel is your fault regardless, it is you who has made me feel. You opened my eyes so I see what others feel and my heart so it would hurt when others hurt.”
The liquor became a warm rush of strength and oblivion. He looked at her when he heard her take a breath to speak. “And do not say I am sorry, please.”
“I am—”
“Susan!”
“Sor—”
“Susan!”
She took a breath. “How was the service?”
“Awful.”
“Everyone was so subdued when you returned. It is so sad.”
“Sad… That is just another form of sorry. An inadequate, pitiful word.”
“Sorr—”
“Susan!” he growled at her.
“I do not know what to say, Henry. I have stood and listened to conversation after conversation today, saying nothing, I am so scared of offending some one, and now you are… Oh.” Her eyes glittered as they filled with tears and she turned to rise from the ground.
He caught hold of her arm. “Do not go. I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you. I am just in an ill-mood and you are in the firing line. Ignore me. I am in a mood to be pig-headed.”
She sat back on the grass.
He let her go, took one more drink, then set the decanter aside on his right, at the end of his arm’s reach, with an aim to stop himself drinking more.
“Are you going back indoors?” she asked.
“No. Edward has things in hand and everyone will go home as soon as the sun has set.”
“I wish there was something I could do to help. I have been longing to have something to do all day…”
Ah, darn, that is a foolish thing to say, Susan. He knew just how she could help.
Without another moment’s thought he braced the weight of his body with one hand on the grass as he turned. His other hand reached out and lifted her spectacles off. She squinted at him. Lord, he’d longed to kiss her all day—and all night. “I cannot tell you how much I wish I had not promised to let you go. I want to go back on my offer and be selfish…”
He reached over to put her spectacles down by the decanter, losing his balance a little as he turned back around.
“Henry…”
Her pale eyes showed her confusion. But he’d longed to look into her eyes for days and they were almost the exact colour of her dress.
One hand braced his weight on the grass while the other lifted to her nape and brought her mouth to his. “If you want to help me, kiss me.”
She answered by pressing her lips against his.
He opened his mouth and kissed her more earnestly, then his tongue reached for hers with desperation as he leant her back, his hand bracing her neck so she descended gently. Then he was leaning over her, his forearm resting on the damp, cool bed of grass as his tongue delved into and out of her mouth.
After a moment, he broke the kiss. “Susan,” he said her name over her lips then kissed her cheek and her jaw, and her temple. There was one thing that would take away all the pain.
His hand left her nape and curved about her side over her ribs.
She arched upwards when he kissed her again, her body crying out for exactly what his wanted.
She could comfort him. She had all he needed to find comfort.
Her tongue reached out and danced with his, in his mouth, while his hand embraced the curve beneath her breast.
Her hand moved and gripped the back of his head, not stopping him, and by not stopping him, agreeing to this.
His hand covered her breast, and squeezed firmly. She sucked in a breath through their kiss. His fingers released and squeezed again. She sighed. His thumb ran over the nipple he could feel hardening through the material of her gown.
He kissed her jaw again and her neck as his thumb continued to stroke across her breast.
“Henry…”
He looked at her. “Susan…”
She had spoken his name with a sound of awe. He’d used her name as a question. He wanted more. He needed all the comfort she could give—everything.
His desire spurred him to open her bodice, free her breast and touch her flesh, but her dress was buttoned all the way up the back and even if he freed those buttons there would then be her chemise and corset to master. Such clothing did not welcome intrusion. But her skirt and petticoats. His hand fell and began drawing them up, his hand opening and then clasping in the material and pulling it up as he kissed her again.
She gripped his hand. “Henry.” His name was spoken with a note of caution as they looked each other in the eyes.
Her gaze searched his with a mix of desire, wonder and doubt. She wanted him physically just as much as he wanted her. She might have turned her back on him for the sake of her sister, but her heart had not turned away.
“Susan…” he asked the question again, his hand still clasping a fist full of material that he rubbed against her thigh, so she could not be in doubt about what he was asking, what he wanted—her.
She stared at him for a moment more.
His gaze left hers. Her heartbeat pulsed in the artery in her neck below her ear. He kissed the place, wishing that the neck of her gown was not so high and that he might kiss her shoulder and her clavicle. Women’s fashion had her so tightly buttoned up. He wanted to release and kiss her breast. He needed to feel the softness of a woman after so many days of facing the hard realities of life.
; He kissed along her jaw, his hand still holding a fistful of her dress and her petticoats, with her hand clasped over his.
“Henry.” She let his hand go. It was a final agreement. Her body arched upward as his fist lifted her skirt and undergarments higher. She was as reckless and as foolish as he was. He’d always known it.
His hand left the material bunched above her hip and slipped across her cotton drawers, circling, imaging how it would feel to touch her skin. Her skin would be pale. He imagined his lips on it, kissing her inner thighs, while in reality he touched her there and kissed her deeply.
When his fingers found the slit in her drawers, he intruded gently, pressing through the cloth and into the silky, moist haven of her body. Her muscles jolted and her fingers clawed into his shoulders as she broke the kiss. “Henry…” Uncertainty echoed in her pitch now.
He did not want her to feel uncertain.
He kissed her jaw, then sucked lightly on the curve just beneath it as his fingers stroked in and out of her in the rhythm of a liaison.
She tilted her neck offering it up to his adoration and her breathing changed, it became deeper and ragged as the sensations he must be introducing her to, took hold.
He used his thumb, brushing it over the sensitive part of her skin as his fingers continued invading her, he curved them so that he stroked her more intimately internally.
She was beautiful in every way. Perfect. Her breath kept catching with little sharp pants of sound when he did something different, and she reached Eros’s agony of bliss when his fingers were deep inside her, throbbing about his intrusion, as the moisture of her release spread across his palm.
Lord, he hoped, prayed, she would not say no now. His throat was parched, and his desire like a desperate beast.
“Susan…” Her eyes had been shut but they opened as he moved over her. They sparkled with the residue of the ecstasy of release. That was the emotion that he craved.
He knelt on the ground between her legs half on her dress and the petticoats beneath her as he unbuttoned his flap. Then with them both still fully clothed he bent down, leaning over her, his hands either side of her shoulders. Her hands held his upper arms, in that gentle way that was unique to Susan, gripping as gently as if he was walking her out to the dance floor.