Keeping Faith

by Beverley Oakley

  She was going to die of cold. Her bones ached to the very marrow, and her head ached. How had it happened so fast? Why had she let it happen? Her thoughts had wandered so very far away. Away to what freedom might feel like if she ever got out of the prison of her making. Of Mrs Gedge’s making.

  She felt his hand on her as he lay her on something that yielded slightly. A bed.

  The ceiling was dark and unfamiliar. Not her room. Not a room a gentleman would inhabit, she realised vaguely. The servants’ attics or a musty room somewhere else.

  “It was the closest.” She felt his warm breath against her forehead.

  The bathroom was tacked onto a little-used part of the house; she knew that. Knew also that he was not going to strip her naked and have his way with her when she was vulnerable. Yes, cold she might be, but she was not insensible. A girl who traded on her wits and who didn’t intend landing in the gutter couldn’t afford not to have a semblance of consciousness of what was going on around her.

  But she was so cold. The spasm that tore through her and his hesitancy following the light hand on her chest, not her breasts for he was a gentleman and would remain one, she was certain of that, banished his diffidence.

  He began to work the row of tiny buttons at the front of her gown quickly, stripping her dress over her shoulders and down to her waist while she wriggled to help him. For the gown was like an icy mantle, and she was desperate to get warm. Desperate to feel warmth against her frozen skin.

  His warmth.

  Reaching out, she closed her hands about his wrists, and he stopped.

  “Make me warm.” Her hands found his thighs, the rough fabric of his trousers. Wet. Like the rest of him as he’d held her, dripping against him.

  It was only reasonable he get warm and dry too. She didn’t say it, but her seeking hands and the expression she levelled at him made her thoughts clear.

  She reached out her arms for him, and one glance at her face was enough, for then he was tearing at his necktie, unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat, stripping off his trousers.

  All with the urgency and attention to what came next that she required.

  The thought of skin to skin contact was like a burning obsession, although only conceived of in the minutes she’d spent conjuring them up while lying on the bed.

  Before, it had been a necessary precursor to her freedom.

  Now it was a raging want, and as he lowered himself into her arms and his hard, naked chest pressed against her breasts, she thought she would die of desire.

  Warmth sizzled between them, his heated skin instantly communicating to her everything she needed, whipping up sensations she had no idea were possible in her carefully controlled human sphere.

  “Hold me,” she whispered, wrapping her arms and legs about him and pulling him tight. “Please.”

  He was as naked as she, and the searing contact lit a fire within her belly.

  Desire? Is this what it felt like? She, who’d imagined she was immune was now as desperate as any common doxy to fuel the fires of the man in her embrace for her own ends. She wanted love; she wanted passion; she wanted human connection.

  Sliding beneath the covers, they curled into each other, his warmth heating her all over, his erection pressing into her belly; strengthening her from within. Powerful. She felt it of her own accord and because of his worship, for that’s what if felt like—as if he were imbuing her with a strength she could only experience through honouring this connection between them.

  His lips were on hers, lighting her up from inside, thrilling her with sensations she’d not thought possible.

  She rolled on top of him, straddling him as she cupped his face, kissing him back with passion. What did it matter that the motion came naturally, observed during her time at Madame Chambon’s though never acted upon until now. It gave her power and negated any gentlemanly requirement to question her desire to proceed.

  She could no more have halted the escalation of raging need to take this to its culmination than tell him she never wanted to see him again.

  For she wanted to see him…be with him…now…forever.

  Faith had never wished to be with another person for any length of time. Her body had never reacted to another human being as it did now. Conscious thought disappeared; instinct took over, and it was the most fulfilling, liberating moment of her life when he rolled her beneath him, and his mouth found her breast.

  “Oh!” she cried, desperate for what she did not know. Only that the suckling of her nipple was the most delicious torment she’d ever experienced. Meanwhile, her seeking hands liked what they found. His young body was strong, hard and…responsive.

  She pushed back the hair that flopped over his forehead, and her eyes caught his as he positioned himself at her entrance.

  Oh, she was more than ready. She was more than wanting.

  She sucked in a breath, and a small smile was all he needed to continue with what could never have been stopped with all the will in the world.

  He slid into her, eliciting a brief jerk of surprised pain that was quickly subsumed by all the delicious sensations that followed.

  This was nothing like she’d expected. And so much more than she’d ever hoped for, when hope was something that seemed reserved for other people.

  She clung to him and moved with him, loving the knowledge that he was in another sphere, and that she’d taken him to pleasures unknown. It’s what it felt like, and what else mattered than what she felt now?

  Especially when it only felt more incredible with every thrust.

  His body spoke to hers. It was as if they were made for one another. Sweat slicked her once-icy skin. Sizzling sensation tore across her nerve endings. Inside, her body was experiencing a firestorm of its own; a raging conflagration divorced from the pleasure that flooded her mind.

  With a cry, he thrust into her one final time, flinging his arm about her and pulling her tightly against his chest as, panting, he lay on his back, eyes closed, face raised to the ceiling.

  Faith curled into him; her free hand stroking his chest, lingering over his nipples, making him jerk and smile as she toyed with him.

  “My darling,” he muttered, opening one eye and staring down at her.

  She didn’t pretend to be coy or shy away from him. She had bled, and thank God he need have no doubts that he had indeed taken a virgin.

  But that was academic. Faith wasn’t going to let him go.

  Not now, not ever.

  It was as if his brush were infused with magic. A life of its own. In the early morning, with the light as sharp as would be achieved on another gloomy day, he painted the glorious creature who floated in the bath and who gazed up at him through lazy, half-lidded eyes.

  The water was warm, and the candles would continue to be refreshed. He wasn’t about to lose her to some foolish preoccupation with his art though, lord, he wasn’t sorry by what had precipitated this descent into madness.

  It was madness, but he wasn’t about to call it out for what it was and deny the possibilities that lie before them.

  Them. He was not a young man to downplay what was real. Denial had been hard won during the drawn-out process accepting her as the helpmate of his future.

  She’d arrived too early in his life, but he recognised her for what she was—the wife he’d spend his life looking for if he didn’t claim her now.

  And he’d claimed her as surely and effectively as a man of his moral code could.

  “Are you comfortable, Miss Montague?” he said above the clicking of Lady Vernon’s knitting needles.

  “Quite, thank you, Mr Westaway.” She flicked a covert, meaning-laden smile at him, managed through half an open eye, and he was satisfied. Their communication was as subtle as needed to be with a chaperone on standby, and as satisfying as any lust-craven gentleman could want.

  Having sinned once, there would be no impediments to strengthening the precious, fragile bond through further sinning.

  He would
wed her, there was no doubt of that, and in the process, restore her immortal soul.

  The precious enigma that she was would be in no doubt that his intentions, when all was said and done, were honourable. And by making that clear, she’d dispense with the inhibitions that, extraordinarily, had not been in evidence when they’d sinned the first time.

  No, she was pure, that was not in doubt, yet he’d unleashed in her a primal desire that surely every man would ache to have as the essential makeup of the woman to whom God had joined and no man must put asunder.

  “The water is not too cool for you, Miss Montague?”

  “Slightly, Mr Westaway, but your painting must come first before I warm myself.”

  And that, you will not do without my help, Miss Montague, he thought, though his glance made that clear enough for she slanted a secret smile at him, instantly regaining her former gravitas when Lady Vernon dropped her knitting and stared for a long moment between the two of them.

  But the old woman did not suspect. How could she? She was a dried-up husk of a creature with no understanding of human passion.

  Miss Montague reared up before him, water dripping from her hair and dress, spattering the floor as she reached for linen with which to dry herself.

  “Forgive me, I suddenly couldn’t stay there a moment longer.”

  “Faith, you were not given permission!” Her chaperone was angry, and Crispin enjoyed seeing the flint in his beloved’s eye as she stood her ground, pretending she didn’t care that her actions compromised Crispin’s ability to paint the picture that would earn him his place in the world.

  There was no doubt this was a masterpiece in the making. She was his inspiration, his muse, and another night in her arms would give him the power of creation, of genius.

  “The cold has a habit of seizing one suddenly. Taking one captive, Lady Vernon,” he soothed. “Let Faith leave now if she must.”

  The old lady was not pleased, it amused him to see. It amused him even more to see how well Faith played the pliant schoolgirl with the invisible armour that suddenly sprouted metal spikes when her ire was aroused. He wondered what words were exchanged when the two of them were alone and Miss Westaway was defending her need to break what Lady Vernon surmised was the contract between them.

  The contract that had been rewritten.

  Chapter 18

  The words that were in fact exchanged between Faith and her chaperone of course bore no resemblance to any he might have surmised.

  “You can’t behave like a prima donna or you’ll never get his measure.”

  “You think I haven’t already?” Faith glared, wanting to taunt Lady Vernon and keep her wondering, yet wanting her to know that Faith had succeeded so beautifully already.

  But caution and the long game stilled her tongue, so she merely looked enigmatic when Lady Vernon demanded to know what she meant.

  “You have three days, Faith. Three days to enslave him, torture him.” Lady Vernon’s nostrils flared. “Ruin him.” The old lady stared out of the window as she toyed with the brush she was about to use on Faith’s tangled tresses. “And then it will be time to live your own dreams.” She looked so enraptured by this thought that Faith could have imagined she was living Faith’s life in her own mind.

  Faith sat down on a wooden chair in the centre of the room and held her head erect, waiting for Lady Vernon to play servant. How she did enjoy that. The old woman was a parasite; a cosseted creature born to a life of leisure, but too unattractive to snare the attention of a protector, so that as she aged, she had nothing but her own resources to draw upon.

  Faith didn’t need a protector. She was too clever. And, unlike Lady Vernon, she had multiple resources to draw upon: youth, beauty, wit, intellect, education.

  Mrs Gedge had equipped her with the tools to exact the other woman’s evil revenge, but Faith would turn the tables with a pure heart.

  It strengthened Faith to know that her vitriol had a pure edge. She wasn’t truly bad, as she’d once believed. Love had freed her, cleansed her. Her words and actions towards Mr Westaway were motivated now by truth and honesty; honesty in that she feigned nothing of her feelings.

  If that meant her dealings with Lady Vernon were tainted, so be it. If she needed to play a role in order to emerge like a chrysalis, reincarnated from evil into good, it was transitory, necessary. That was all.

  Lady Vernon was out of sorts as she tugged the brush through Faith’s hair. Faith was playing her cards close to her chest with nothing to support the old lady’s suspicions one way or the other. And there was nothing Lady Vernon disliked more than not being in control.

  Faith knew this, and it delighted her to keep her guessing while she dreamed away the moments before she could throw a cloak over her nightclothes and slip away up the back stairs to the room they’d occupied the night before.

  He was waiting there for her as she knew he would be, his impatience clear, his delight at the fact she’d come as gratifying as anything could be when he strode across the floorboards to greet her and took her in his arms.

  “My love, you have no idea how impatiently I’ve waited for this moment.” He held her close, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured, “I painted you as you lay in the bath, with the sun burnishing your hair like a halo, dreaming of a time when I could see you just like that with no one but the two of us.”

  “And that moment has come.” She twined her arms behind his neck and nuzzled him, breathing in the scent of him with rapture before he scooped her up and lay her on the bed. He joined her, holding her against his side while he kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth, pausing to whisper, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  She didn’t, and her breath hitched, every sense suspended as she waited tensely. What would he say? He couldn’t live without her and would she be his mistress? She was the most intoxicating woman he knew, but this must be a secret between them? He loved her, but his father would never allow their union?

  “I want to marry you. I will marry you.” He was above her now, his chest bare, his eyes boring into her with a fervour she could not believe was feigned. She didn’t know what to say, but he went on, “Because you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t feel the same way about me. You’re not one to give away your affections lightly, Faith. I’ve observed every nuance of you…the way your skin flushes when you’re happy to see me, or irritated by your chaperone, or pleased with the way you see the painting taking shape. You’re the perfect muse, but that’s only part of why I need you. Yes, need you, Faith, because I think you are my perfect foil. My helpmate. We would be good together. A union in perfect symmetry. I am better with you by my side. Less selfish, more careful. I need to be careful with a painstaking eye to detail to be good at my job.”

  “Painting?”

  “When I am a diplomat.”

  “But how can I be a diplomat’s wife?” For the first time, she felt truly panicked. The thrill at hearing him put into words the depth of his feelings for her had given way to the practicalities. Little matter that she’d come here for the single purpose of receiving just such a declaration only to throw it back in his face, claim her reward from Mrs Gedge, and thus be free.

  She would no more be free than a slave from Africa if she were forced to give up his love.

  “I love you, Faith. My commitment is not in doubt.” He stroked her cheek and gently kissed her mouth, his words more important than his desire, which was apparent as his body pressed against hers. “Is yours?”

  She shook her head, and in a fresh burst of ardour pulled him down, her hands sliding to his trousers, indicating her impatience that he divest himself of all impediments to furthering the intimacy between them.

  “I love you.”

  “Say my name.”

  “I love you, Crispin.” The words came out on a sigh of happiness, made wonderful and magical…and pure...by the fact they were spoken in truth. And she was pure, wasn’t she? Pure in the Biblical sense. She’d not lain
with another; she’d given her virginity to this man, and she had every right to claim his love and whatever else he offered.

  That she was a creature bred for revenge need not enter into it. Faith had lived by her wits, and the prize was freedom. Never had she doubted she’d get what she wanted for she was cleverer than Mrs Gedge, cleverer than Madame Chambon, and cleverer than Lady Vernon. If Mr Westaway…Crispin…wanted to marry her, she could make a plan that would enable it to happen.

  “You are not the shy creature I thought you at first,” he whispered, unfastening the front of her dress and sliding his hands inside. “But you’re a great deal more buttoned up than you were yesterday,” he added, referring to the fact she wore a corset and underclothing beneath her ensemble.

  “You’ll have to make me less buttoned up,” she giggled, rolling onto her side so he could slide off her skirt, then onto her back so he could unlace her corset, and finally, giving him unfettered access to her combinations. “If romance can survive all that, I am completely yours.”

  “My darling, I relish the challenge.” He kissed her on the nose. “And your humour. Lady Vernon doesn’t know the half of you, does she?”

  “Lady Vernon thinks she does.” Naked at last, Faith revelled in the way his eyes feasted on her breasts. She breathed deeply, causing them to rise and laughing when the invitation was so implicit, he lowered his head to take one nipple in his mouth.

  “Too divine,” she whispered as sensation snaked through her limbs and coalesced at the juncture of her legs. The weight of him on top of her was unbearably wonderful, and she felt all powerful at the feel of his erection pressing against her. She’d seen naked men aroused before and been disgusted. But Crispin was too beautiful for words. Tender and kindhearted, masculine but conscious of her needs, she was not going to let him go.