by Edith Layton
But in this at least he was supremely confident; here he knew his own skills as well as he knew his own heart. He only regretted, and told her so, that it was all too new for her to enjoy fully or find as fulfilling as he’d wish it to be for her. The green gown and her shift and her slippers were discarded, and he delighted in the slender but lavish body she shyly presented him with as he slowly brought her to readiness. Whatever she would have been, she would have pleased him; that he found her to be so lovely, so faultlessly made, almost overwhelmed him.
She only protested once, and then he drew back in astonishment, when she explained very primly that she thought it wrong for him to keep his shirt on after he’d removed all else, whatever he said he’d been told about virginal sensibility, for if he took pleasure in seeing her body, she thought it only right that she might see his. Then he forgot all his expertise and felt like the merest boy in his anxiety, as, against all popular wisdom, he disrobed as completely as he would if she were not the pure young woman of his heart, but only a woman of the night. When she looked, and then averted her eyes, and then peeped again, only to tell him wonderingly at last, her eyes wide and shining, as he held his breath in fear of having made a horrible misjudgment, that she thought he was entirely beautiful, he found it difficult in that moment to remember any of those skills he was sure he had.
But so she did find him wholly handsome, entirely thrilling, every perceived difference on his strong clean muscular frame, however unimagined, seemed apt and perfect. His body was long and well-shaped, from narrow hips to broad shoulders, she was amazed that a grown man had so many grace notes about his person. His hair was softly silken; although tight sinew moved beneath his smooth clear skin, she was bemused to discover that dusky skin to be as exquisitely sensitive to the touch as her own was. And there was delicacy in his touch, for while never tentative, he was always gentle with her.
His skill was undeniable, but it was true her heart was beating so fast with the shocking nature of what they were doing and what she was permitting him to do, that she scarcely registered more than bits and pieces and parts of wild sensations as he touched her and kissed her, and found places that she hadn’t known existed for her to feel sensation upon. It was all, as he’d said, too new to judge. Still, she was entirely glad of her decision, for aside from the fearful delight she found in his arms and at his hands and lips, there was the grander pleasure of seeing how much she delighted him.
He never left her alone to wonder or worry, for he watched for her every response and told her often exactly how much he loved her as he enjoyed and prepared her. His love and desire were so intermixed that when at last he came to that final barrier, he swore he felt the pain that she did, and he held his breath and hated the moment when her pleasure stopped and she gasped in hurt surprise. She smiled at him after that, and tried to kiss away his expression of dismay, whispering that it was better, it was fine. This first time then, he tried to forget his art and attempted brevity for her sake, and was grateful he could save her further discomfort, when, realizing how much he valued her even as he gazed down and saw their joined bodies, for the first time in his life mind and body linked to bring him joy on every level, and he gave himself to her as completely as she’d given herself to him.
She’d been surprised by the sudden burning ache that interrupted their idyll at the moment of profoundest intimacy, because his every touch had been tender and nothing in his gentle embrace had prepared her for pain. But even as she stiffened and gasped in startled astonishment she remembered all the tales she’d heard. He paused then, and seeing his distress, she tried to console him for his dismay at her reaction to the inevitable wound he’d dealt her. When he continued, she forgot the discomfort, being overwhelmed herself by the intensity of the pleasure she felt him experience. In some fashion, then, she found her joy in his, discovering such pride in her ability to transform her cool, amused, distant Warwick into a totally absorbed lover racked with transports of delight that it brought her to a form of fulfillment as well.
He held her close for a long while after, and when he found himself again, he kissed her as he waited for the tears he thought inevitable. But he understood that popular fancy had nothing to do with his Susannah when she put her lips to the hollow of his neck and sighed with contentment, and said she thought it was all lovely.
“Liar,” he said gently as he rose and went to the washstand to get a cloth and some water.
“Nature’s unkind to you females,” he told her as he returned to her side. “It won’t be wonderful for you for a while yet, but then, I promise, ’pon honor, it will be. It was nature’s fault,” he said suddenly, “you do know that?”
“Yes,” she said simply, “the girls at school said it’s the gentleman’s assurance that they’re opening a new bottle, and they expect it and enjoy it.”
“Rubbish,” he scoffed. “The girls are idiots. Or their gentlemen are. I don’t care if the wine enjoys my drinking it. And I could’ve done without hurting you. In fact,” he said as he applied the cool cloth, “I don’t know if we gentlemen would be so eager to begin our careers in such matters had we your barriers to surmount. Time,” he assured her as he took her in his arms again, “time will equalize us, you’ll see, I promise.”
After a while they lay silently, but just when he thought she’d gone to sleep she murmured drowsily, “You don’t have to marry me, you know.”
“I know,” he replied, gathering her even closer. “I don’t have to breathe either, it just makes it possible for me to live. Silly creature. As if there’d be any point to it without you, now that I’ve found you.”
“Not so silly,” she whispered contentedly. “I knew you’d say that. I just wanted to hear it.”
She drifted off listening to his chuckle where it began in his chest. Then secure in his clasp, she slept against him again, as dreamlessly and peacefully as she’d done in the coach, this time through the night. And thus never knew that he watched over her all the rest of the night, never closing his eyes except to refresh them for an instant, afraid that if he did he might sleep to wake and find her gone, and find it all had been a dream. She awoke only once, and seeing him gazing at her, reached for him. And then, though what quite naturally followed next was still novel to her, it convinced her that whatever else her new husband would be, he’d not be a liar. For she began to perceive that there would be a great deal more to this new activity than she’d ever dreamed, just as he’d promised her, and so she confided in his ear to his further delight when they’d done.
She woke again to find him gone from her side, and sitting up abruptly, saw him standing by the bed, dressed, only just tucking in his shirttails.
“Where are you going?” she wailed.
“Morning’s coming,” he explained gently, looking down at how she was rising naked from the bedclothes, and tucking a sheet around her to firm his resolve, “and for all my jests, I don’t want to start this marriage with gossip. It wouldn’t ordinarily matter so much, but I think my great-aunt Harriet will be arriving with the dawn, and I want your reputation spotless for her. Come, get dressed, and I’ll speed you to your room before the servants wake.”
“Warwick,” she begged, her eyes wide, “don’t leave me now. Not just now.”
For all her newfound maturity, it was still all too new for her. She was afraid that once he’d left her, she’d feel guilty, and wrong, wronged and somehow shamed. He brooded as though she’d said all this instead of thinking it, and then his face brightened.
“Very well, even better,” he said. “I’ll put on my lovely morning robe, and spirit you into your room to fetch one of yours. We’ll sit together in the east salon, in high state, sober and righteous as puritans, too principled to have gone to bed in an unchaperoned house. Yes, Aunt Harriet will adore it, come.
“I intended to speak to you alone before she arrived, anyway,” Warwick said, once he’d settled her on a couch, deep in his arms, in the east salon, where, as he’d said
, they’d be able to see any coach come down the drive, and disengage in plenty of time.
“There was a thing I wanted to tell you before you met her, but somehow it slipped my mind,” he said, smiling and taking her hand to his lips.
He held on to her hand and toyed with her fingers, and seemed a trifle nervous as he went on. “We can’t have a grand wedding, since I’m in mourning. So I thought we’d have a simple one, by special license, as soon as possible. Do you mind missing out on all the fuss?”
She assured him that she didn’t, but he seemed even more anxious, and so she became a little ill-at-ease as well.
“My uncle left me some funds, the rich get richer, you know,” he said quickly, “and a magnificent home, near Gloucester. I’d like to live there, if only for his sake, all his energy went into it, and it is the family seat.”
She was too nervous now to do anything but nod, and so he went on rapidly, suddenly very serious, “He left me something else.”
She held her breath, hardly knowing what to fear.
“And I can’t refuse it, if only out of respect for him. You’ll be marrying Warwick Jones, of course. But don’t take alarm when the minister unites you with the Baron Ives too.”
“You, a baron?” she gasped after a moment, as realization dawned.
He nodded, and as she pondered this startling development, added, “And though you’ll be no bigamist, you’ll be wedding the Viscount Kimberley as well.”
Before she could speak again, he gazed at the ceiling and uttered, “…and the Earl of Dartford.”
“Warwick,” she cried, sitting bolt upright in alarm. “An earl? You’re an earl now? However shall I marry an earl? The fishmonger’s daughter and an earl?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said soothingly, taking her back in his clasp, “I’m still Warwick Jones, the highwayman’s heir. Eccentricity runs in my family. No one will be the slightest put out, believe me. Uncle talked to his pond carp, all I’m doing is marrying someone whose father made his fortune from them. Anyway, don’t let the earl bother you. For then the minister will say, ‘Marquess Holyrood,’ but pay him no mind either, for then he’ll say, ‘Duke of Peterstow.’ And that’s all, I promise, I promise.”
“A duke!” she gasped. “A duke! Me, a duchess? Oh, Warwick,” she grieved, “whatever shall I do?”
“This, I think,” he said gently, distracting her.
“Oh,” she said, distracted, enchanted, “yes.”
*
Lady Harriet Jones arrived at dawn and was shown into the salon to meet her great-nephew, the new duke, and his promised bride. She was anxious to meet the girl; she’d heard about her when she’d seen Warwick last, and had been thrilled that he’d her to talk about. It had given her hope. There were too few close-connected, documented Joneses about, and she’d worried that bachelorhood would run in the family until it ran out entirely. It was a curse to them. Now, he’d won her. And she was well pleased with what she saw he’d gotten. Pretty as she could stare, nicely mannered, and with a great deal of money, Warwick had assured her. No title, but then, manner had always meant far more to Lady Harriet than title, and money was always welcome, she was a Jones, after all.
Warwick said they were glad to see her. Doubly so, he explained, since they’d sat up all the night, sleepless, in the salon, afraid of retiring for fear of offending sensibilities because there was no chaperon in attendance on them. Lady Harriet sighed to herself. That was entirely like her great-nephew and all the Jones men: icy, bloodless eccentric. And yet, there the pretty child was, hanging on his arm, gazing into his face as though she saw the sun itself rising there. She felt sorry for the girl. For Warwick was, as everyone knew, an odd, haughty, peculiar gentleman. She shrugged; it took all kinds.
Then Lady Harriet left to be shown to her rooms. It was just as well she didn’t look behind her as she did. For like Lot’s wife, she couldn’t take life with a pinch of salt. So she wouldn’t have cared for what she’d have seen, if only because she was a strong-minded female who loved her convictions, and hated to be contradicted.
22
Nan watched him as he lay sleeping, as she’d done for hours, and was yet again astonished at how young and innocent he appeared when those light, speaking eyes were shuttered. But then they opened, and were blank in that half-second before comprehension flooded back to him, and she held her breath in fear of what he might say in that moment when he recalled where he was, and whom he was with. For if he could hurt her with a glance, she dreaded the wound he might inflict with a thoughtless word.
She didn’t know if it would be worse if he remembered or if he didn’t. Last night he’d suddenly appeared in the doorway of the Silver Swan again, coming in out of the fog like a wraith, looking as pale, wild, lost, and tormented as any mist-born wandering soul. He’d been soused, of course, she knew that the moment he’d leaned close to her to whisper his greeting, and it had been evident in the taste of his kiss, the moment after that. She’d been looking forward to this meeting with him for months, so that she might soundly snub him. Her triumphant walking-away speech had been rehearsed in too many lonely nights as she lay in this bed alone, or with others, for her not to know it by heart. But she’d looked into that beautiful, tortured face and she’d said yes, if she’d bothered to say anything at all, as she’d led him carefully down the stairs to her bedchamber.
Although he’d been so disguised he could scarcely speak without slurring, or step without foundering, he’d been capable enough to delight her, but she believed he’d be able to do that even if he were at death’s own door, and not just so badly jug-bitten. He’d turned to her many times in the night, and whatever his state, he’d been so tender and gracious she hadn’t needed to hear him mutter something about celebrating his wedding night to know that someone had lately cut out his heart, and that he was, somewhere, bleeding badly, if invisibly. It hadn’t been herself that he’d spent himself with last night, she knew that. But she no longer cared. He’d needed her, she’d served him. That, after all, had always been the only foundation of their relationship.
The light gray eyes grew aware. He closed them. And then groaned.
“Aye,” she made herself sneer, hopping out of bed as briskly as if she’d never passed the hours staring down into his face like a witling, waiting for him to wake and come back to her in any way he chose, “you deserve it too. Drunk as a wheelbarrow. An’ prolly feel as though you ort to be in one on the way to the boneyard now. Here,” she cried as he sat up, winced, and then tried to stand, “don’t need you fallin’ an’ havin’ to be put up in splints. Take your time. Hang on, I’ll get you the landlord’s finest, tastes like he did sumthin’ nasty in it but it’ll set you right. Have a wash while I’m gone, it’ll help,” she said as she shrugged into a plain frock and eased slippers on.
“Need help?” she asked then, dropping her air of insouciance, as she hesitated by her door.
“No, thank you, Nan,” Julian said, looking up at her with a rueful smile. “You’ve given more than enough already.”
There was payment enough, she thought as she raced down to the taproom. The landlord of the Silver Swan was only just checking out his supplies for the coming day at this early hour, but he was good enough to mix up his cure for a surfeit of spirits for her guest, and kind enough to say nothing until she took it in her hands. And even then, “You’re a fool, Nan, but a good one,” was all he told her.
When she returned to her room, he’d obviously washed; his golden hair was still wet as she saw it emerge from the shirt he pulled over his head. He grinned when he saw her, and drank down the cup she handed him with a huge grimace, but swallowed it all. She said nothing as she handed him the razor she’d kept for him, but after he’d lathered his face, she took it from him again, saying only that she scarcely needed a bloke with a cut throat littering her room, and shaved him in silence, forbearing to say another word until she was done.
Then he took her hand as she began to move aw
ay.
“I’m going away, Nan,” he said.
“Thought you’d already been,” she answered, looking to her hand, and never to his eyes.
“Further, this time,” he said. “I’m giving up the coachman’s game,” he explained, “England itself, for a space, too. I’ve made a little fortune actually, with the help of a friend. But I’m off today to seek a better one, and won’t come back until I’m richer than I need to be. I don’t know where I’m bound, or when I’ll be back.”
She stared at him in silence. She might be only a serving maid, and no better than she should be, and she knew that herself. But there’d never been any man like him before, and she knew that when he left her, there’d never be any like him after. It was more than his face and form; she appreciated manly beauty and it came in many guises to her—she accepted that that had always been her downfall. It was his air, his speech, his courtly manner, it was, she realized, he himself. He was unique, her viscount-coachman lover.