Someone to Cherish

by Balogh, Mary

  His fingers dispensed with the pins that held the bulk of her hair in a knot on the back of her head, and it came cascading about her shoulders and down her back, a dark cloud of unruly glory. He combed his fingers through it, held her head cupped between his hands, gazed into her eyes, and kissed her again, both of them openmouthed now.

  Both hot.

  “Harry.”

  Her hands were unbuttoning his coat and then his waistcoat and pushing them off his shoulders so when he straightened his arms they landed on the floor behind him. He dispensed with his neckcloth, dragged his shirt free of his waistband, pulled it off over his head, and sent it to join his coat. He heard her inhale slowly as he set his hands at her waist and held her at arm’s length while he gazed at her, wearing only a cotton shift now, which ended just above her knees, and her stockings and slippers.

  How had it ever been possible for her to render herself invisible?

  She was nothing short of gorgeous.

  He went down on one knee, rolled down her stockings one at a time, and drew each off her foot after first removing the slipper. Then he stood, slid the straps of her shift off her shoulders, and let it slide down her body to pool about her bare feet. He stood back again to look at her. And she gazed steadily back at him, though the flickering light of the candle from the dressing table showed him that her cheeks were rosy with color.

  “You are so very beautiful,” he told her.

  She spread her fingers briefly in front of herself before curling them into her palms. She had been going to unbutton him at the waist but had lost the courage. He removed the rest of his clothes himself while she sank her teeth into her lower lip.

  “Harry,” she said, and reached out a hand to touch the seam of the worst of his old saber wounds, which slashed across his left hip. His body looked very much like an old battleground. “I came so close to never knowing you at all, did I not?”

  She came into his arms again, all soft, hot, naked perfection.

  He hoped he was going to be able to impose some control, some discipline, upon himself. It had been a long time. He wanted to make it perfect. For both of them. She had been a long time without too. But this was not just the lust of a long hunger. He could not recall ever wanting a woman as he wanted Lydia at this moment. She had crept up on him in her quiet, near-invisible way like all the dreams of love and perfection he had ever dreamed rolled into one. Yet she was no dream. This was no dream.

  He drew back the bedcovers and she lay down and reached for him. It was only after he followed her that he thought of the candle, its flame multiplied several times in the wings of the mirror over the dressing table. He had not asked if she would prefer darkness. He did not ask now. He wanted to see her, and her eyes were feasting upon him, scars and all.

  His control was put to the test. She was all panting need as she pressed herself to him, moved against him, and kissed him, murmuring his name. Her skin was warm and smooth, her breasts small and firm, her nipples hard, her waist narrow, her hips flaring, her legs smooth, the place between her thighs hot and moist. He felt them all with his palms, his fingers, his lips, his tongue. But there was little or no rousing to be done. She was ready for him, open to him, eager, reaching, hot, and repeating his name.

  He moved on top of her, spread her legs with his knees, slid his hands beneath her to lift her and hold her steady, positioned himself, and entered her. Slowly. She was tight, and he remembered again that it had been a long time for her. But so tight. And then almost impossible. Until she flinched slightly and he slid with sudden ease to his full length deep inside her.

  He lay still on her for a moment, savoring the tight, soft heat that encased him, and wondering, a bit startled, if … Considering an impossibility, shaking it off as absurd, but holding back the urge to begin moving so she could adjust to the feel of him. Then he slid his hands free, took some of his weight onto his forearms, withdrew, and pressed inward, once, twice, and again and again in the rhythm of sex. Slowly, while he watched her face so close to his own, her eyes shut tight, her teeth biting her lip. Her body was tense. She opened her eyes after a while and gazed into his, and he could feel her body relax even as her inner muscles tightened and then let go and tightened again as she learned his rhythm and matched it. She had stopped biting her lip. He kissed her.

  Oh, God, this was … But there were no words. This was sex as it was meant to be. For she was not just a woman. She was Lydia. She was his woman. Though not that either, for it suggested ownership, a one-sided thing. She was not his anything, just as he was not her anything. She was the completion of him, just as he hoped he was the completion of her. They were they. But he was not thinking these things in sentences or even words.

  There were no words.

  He took her hands in his, palm to palm, raised them to her pillow, on either side of her head, laced their fingers, and lowered his weight onto her again before increasing the rhythm and the depth of his strokes until the need to spill into her roared like a torrent in his ears and set his heart pounding and his loins flaming. He waited for her, waited … But then could wait no longer.

  He released deep into her, and heard her sigh against his ear. A warm, satisfied sigh. Surely, even though he had not felt an answering release. She whispered his name.

  After a minute or two he moved off her to lie at her side. He slid an arm beneath her neck and she turned to him, nestling her head on his shoulder. She smiled and closed her eyes.

  And he was left wondering. Not knowing for sure. And hesitant to ask. What an idiot he would make of himself if she looked at him in amazed incredulity. It was impossible anyway. Surely. Of course it was. She had been married for six years. To a young, vigorous, handsome man with whom she had fallen headlong in love and married two months after she met him. Unless Tavernor had been impotent. Or preferred men. Both of which seemed highly unlikely.

  No, it was stupid even to be wondering. It was impossible that she had been a virgin until a few minutes ago.

  He ran his fingertips lightly along her arm to where it bent at the elbow and then down over her hip. He was warm and satiated. He could easily fall asleep—and perhaps sleep through until morning. That would not be wise. Although the candle was behind her and threw her face into shadow, he could see that her eyes were open again. When he kissed her, her lips were soft and relaxed.

  “When dreams come true …,” she murmured. But she left it at that. She did not make a complete sentence out of it. She had dreamed of a lover. Of him. And she had just had him.

  He kissed her, their lips lingering on each other’s, soft and warm. She sighed.

  He would not let himself get hard again. Just in case … Even though it was impossible. And he must not let himself fall asleep.

  He sighed too and kissed the top of her head. “I had better go,” he said. “It would not do for me to spend the whole night here.”

  “No, it would not.” But she sounded regretful. “Thank you for staying, Harry. I am terribly weak willed. I was determined to turn you away, but I could not do it. You must not blame yourself, as I daresay you will try to do tomorrow. I asked—no, I begged—and you stayed. Thank you.”

  He slid his arm free and got out of bed. He got dressed as she watched, leaned over the bed to kiss her good night, sliding his arms beneath her while she wrapped her own about his neck, and then left the bedchamber.

  He lit the candle by the door after donning his cloak and then lit his lantern from it. He took up his hat while Snowball came to be petted. When he straightened up after scratching her back, he realized Lydia was standing behind the sofa. She was barefoot, though she was wearing a dressing gown, which she held across herself with both arms. She had hooked her hair back behind her ears. She was not smiling.

  “Good night, Lydia,” he said.

  “Good night,” she said, then drew an audible breath. “This cannot continue now, Harry. You must not come again. I am sorry. I really am. I am not sorry you stayed, but …” She
shrugged. “I am sorry I have sent such muddled and mixed messages tonight. I—” She stopped and shrugged again, and he realized she was on the verge of tears.

  He was not surprised. And he was not going to argue. For he knew now he was not in the market for an affair. And she was not in the market for a husband. So this must be the end, whether he was happy about it or not. He must see her again, however. In private. For he had thought of something he had assumed he did not have to worry about.

  “I will call tomorrow,” he said. “Not to stay long, though. I must ask you something.” Now, tonight, was not the right time.

  “I am going to Eastleigh tomorrow with the Reverend and Mrs. Bailey,” she told him.

  “The day after tomorrow, then,” he said.

  “Perhaps.” She looked very unhappy. She was biting her lip again, and blinking rather a lot.

  “Good night, then,” he said again, and let himself out of the house. He closed the door quietly behind him, looked cautiously both ways when he reached the gate, and hurried across the road onto his own drive. Yet he felt as though eyes were upon him, now when all was over between them and it would be particularly disastrous to be seen slinking away in the dark. He felt prickles across his shoulder blades and all down his spine. The consequences of guilt. For of course this really must be the end. He must honor her decision to be free. He must do nothing further to endanger her reputation in the eyes of her friends and neighbors.

  All his previous lovers had been experienced women. All of them during his military years, without exception, had been widows from among the camp followers, a few of them widows several times over. All of them had known a thing or two about keeping themselves unencumbered while they followed the armies about under all conditions, making themselves useful, doing what they could to make life possible for a vast army on the move in a country not their own. They had all known how to keep themselves clean and free of disease. They had all known how to prevent conception.

  Because Lydia Tavernor had been married for a number of years, and because she was childless, he had assumed without—admittedly—giving the matter much thought, that she knew how to stop herself from getting with child. But what if she really had been a virgin until tonight? What if she knew nothing? What if she had not even considered the possibility that a real lover as opposed to a dream one might get her with child?

  But no. He had to have been mistaken. It would be just too bizarre …

  But what if … ?

  He sighed as he climbed the steps to his front door. If only when Tom had offered to walk her home that night, he had kept his mouth firmly shut. And if only after she had said good night to him on that occasion, he had not insisted upon following her through the gate and all the way to her door. If only his heart were not feeling a bit bruised tonight. More than a bit, actually.

  If only, if only, and if only …

  Lydia washed herself with shaking hands. She pulled on a flannel nightgown and then her dressing gown over it. She went back into the living room, took the guard away from the fire, and saw that it was out with not an ember still glowing. She did not bother to build a new one. She sat on her chair, her bare feet and legs curled up beneath her, pulled the cushion from behind her, and clasped it to her bosom with both arms. She slid her hands under the loose sleeves of her dressing gown to warm them.

  She could not stop shaking even though it was not a cold night. She had to clamp her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Snowball was sitting before her chair, gazing mournfully up at her, but she had no attention to spare her dog.

  What had she done?

  And if there was ever a more rhetorical question than that one, she did not know what it could be.

  She had given up willpower, common sense, sanity. She had done him a terrible wrong—telling him this morning he might come this evening, telling him as soon as he arrived that he must go, inviting him to stay awhile anyway, sending him away again, calling him back, sleeping with him, sending him away yet again, telling him never to return. It was a relentless list of weakness and contradiction and self-indulgence.

  Harry.

  What had she done to him? She was not so vain that she imagined she had broken his heart. But she had … used him. And then discarded him.

  It had been nothing like … Oh, it had been nothing like anything she had expected. Sweet kisses, sweet romance, sweet bodily pleasure, and sweet memories to wrap about herself. That was what she had dreamed of. Not hot, mindless passion and raw sensation that was pain and fierce pleasure all inextricably bound together, and naked beauty and the overpowering sensation of being possessed body, mind, and soul. Suffocated by it. Though no. No! That was unfair. And wrong. If she had felt possessed and suffocated, it was by her own desire, her own passion to love and be loved. Though that was not the right word either. Something more raw than love. More physical. If there was a word, she did not know it.

  She shivered still in the aftermath of what had not been love, though she did not know what it had been. She was sore and throbbing. And yet longing at the same time. Yearning and longing. She tightened her arms about the cushion and lowered her head so her forehead rested on the top of it. She closed her eyes.

  She had hated Isaiah.

  What a wonderfully freeing admission, even if she was just thinking it and not shouting it from the rooftop. She had never admitted it even to herself before now.

  She had hated him.

  And it was not even past tense. She hated him still.

  From her wedding day on she had tried and tried to please him, to make his vision and his mission her own. He must be right, she had always told herself. He was a man of God, and many of his parishioners here worshiped him as much as they did the God whose word he preached. She had made herself be one of them. For she had to be wrong in any rebellious thought that tried to invade her mind. There would be something bad about her if she did not love him. And so she did. By sheer willpower. She had had no real problem with willpower in those days. Perhaps if he had lived she would have kept on loving him and convincing herself that it was not in reality hatred that she felt. And perhaps all that was herself would have disappeared more and more into him as time went on until she vanished altogether. She almost had. Perhaps it would have been as well if she had.

  But what had made her think about Isaiah now of all times? Guilt? She laughed into the cushion, and Snowball whined. Lydia looked up.

  “Guilt, Snowball?” she said. “Guilt?”

  She laughed again, and Snowball tipped her head to one side and looked inquiringly at her.

  “I lost my virginity tonight,” Lydia told her dog. “And I am supposed to feel guilt? I am supposed to grovel before the sacred memory of my husband who was husband only in name?”

  Snowball did not think so. She whined again and bounced before the chair. Lydia uncurled herself and set aside the cushion in order to lean down and scoop the dog up onto her lap.

  She did feel guilt. Toward Harry. Who was beautiful. Inside and out.

  How was she ever going to face him again? He wanted to call on her once more to say something. Briefly, he had said. He did not plan to apologize to her, did he? She would not be able to bear that. He was coming the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow she was going to Eastleigh with the Baileys, though she could not bear the thought of that either. How could she share a carriage with those good people and spend a day shopping with them?

  But then an idea caught at her mind. A temptation, perhaps? To run away? To escape reality? To return to what was most familiar to her? Or perhaps merely a withdrawal, a chance to give herself space to sort herself out, to put herself back together so she could move forward again with the life she had set up so happily for herself during the past year?

  She would not have to stay forever. It could be just a visit, to last as long as she chose. Maybe a week, maybe two. She had the perfect excuse. Her sister-in-law had just let her know that she was with child. She was excited about it and wante
d Lydia to come home. She meant, of course, that she wanted Lydia to move home and stay. But a visit would be in order. Her father had been ill. They would all be happy to see her.

  And she had the perfect opportunity. She would not have to wait until she wrote to Papa and he sent the carriage for her, as of course he would wish to do and insist upon doing. That would all take a week, probably longer. She could travel post from Eastleigh or even hire a private chaise. The Reverend Bailey would surely advise her upon which would be best. Papa would not like it, but he would be delighted to see her anyway.

  Lydia sat for a few minutes longer, thinking. She had developed an alarming tendency lately to say and do impulsive things she later regretted. Was going away so abruptly something she would regret doing? Specifically, running away home to her father and her brothers—and her sister-in-law? Running away from Harry? Would coming back in a few weeks’ time be even harder than staying now and facing him the day after tomorrow? Would she find it impossible to come back and so slip into the old life again, her lovely freedom and independence here merely a fading memory?

  Lydia sighed after a while and ran a finger between Snowball’s ears and along her spine. “You and I are going on a journey tomorrow,” she said. “Will you like that?”

  Snowball waved her stub of a tail and nudged her nose at Lydia’s hand to encourage more petting.

  Ten

  He was quite adamant at Christmastime,” Viola, Marchioness of Dorchester, said, “and he had not changed his mind when he wrote in February. He does not like being in town, especially during the Season, and he has no plans to come here this year.”

  “I daresay,” Jessica, Countess of Lyndale, said, “he knows very well that if he comes here we are bound to arrange something for his birthday. He would hate it. Poor Harry.”