by Sara Bennett
His mouth distracted her again, returning to hers, and she heard herself make the most surprising sound. A moan. Startled, she would have pulled back, but he leaned over her, caging her in, and his fingers were trailing back and forth between her legs and the hair on his chest was abrading her sensitive breasts, and suddenly she was burning up so badly that she wondered if she might combust. Right here, right now, in bed with Sebastian Longhurst.
With a gasping cry she came halfway off the bed. It was only the second time she had felt that clenching of desire. Patrick had laughed the first time, as if he found her amusing, and she had made certain not to let it happen again. Not that it had been likely to. He was always so quick, so businesslike in their marital bed, as if he didn’t expect her to enjoy it. He took his own pleasure in a practical manner that left her as untouched as she had been on their wedding night.
Now, as she clawed back her scattered thoughts, she waited for Sebastian to finish and leave. But he didn’t. Instead he groaned as if the pleasure was only just beginning. His mouth was trailing down over her body, and then he was kissing her breasts, his tongue sliding back and forth over those rebellious nipples. He sucked them into his mouth and she felt the ache returning, and this time she knew what it foretold and the waiting was almost unbearable.
“I don’t think,” she began in a husky voice that didn’t sound like her at all.
“That’s one thing you should not do,” he whispered, lifting his head to look down at her. “Don’t think. Feel, Lavinia. Just feel.”
She wanted to dispute his words, explain to him all the ways in which he was wrong, but then he was kissing her again and she lost the thought. Now he was lying on top of her, his muscular thighs pressing between hers, stretching her wide, and she felt the prod of his shaft against her entrance, and suddenly it was too late to change her mind and she knew to her dismay that she didn’t want to. That it was possible that she would never want to stop him, that deep inside she craved him like a thirsty woman craves water.
“You’re beautiful,” his voice was a breath against her ear. “I want to take you now. Are you ready for me?”
She managed a jerky nod and he laughed softly, turning his smiling face to hers. Those ocean blue eyes wouldn’t release her gaze, as if he could read everything in her own, and then his mouth was on hers, never stopping, and all the time he was pressing for entry and she felt him slide deep.
Shockingly, her body welcomed him. She was wet and ready and she could feel herself clenching around him. She wanted him with a passionate desire she had not known herself capable of.
He made a sound in his throat, and she clung to his shoulders, her hips moving with his, the heat and the tension winding tighter and tighter. And then suddenly she was crying out and shuddering in his arms, and he groaned long and loud, and fell heavily upon her.
Their chests were rising and falling together as they tried to catch their breath when there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. The pleasure was a warm ache, spreading through her veins like a languid tide, and all her worrying thoughts had stilled. Nothing had prepared her for this. Nothing in her past and in her belief about her own nature had made her think she would be so susceptible to this man.
She was the Ice Maiden.
And she had melted in Sebastian’s arms.
He rolled off her to the side and lay on his back. And when he turned his head she knew he was looking at her.
I won’t look, she told herself. It’s over, and I can pretend this never happened and we can walk away and . . .
She turned her head and looked at him.
The hard lines of his handsome face had been made softer somehow, and his eyes were hazy, while his lips were reddened from kissing her. Once more she felt her heart begin to pound, as if that bird was on the verge of escaping from inside her chest, and at the same time the ache started again, in her breasts and between her legs, and she knew she wanted him. Again.
And he knew it, too, had read it somehow in her face, and he smiled in a way that should have been arrogant, and instead made her insides turn to liquid.
“We-we should go home now,” she began, her voice shaky, even though she knew it was a lie. “We should end it now.”
He reached out and traced the shape of her lips, as if memorizing them. “But this is just the beginning,” he said, and desire tightened his mouth and made his eyes smoky.
Lavinia let out her breath on a gasping sigh, as he reached for her again, and she turned eagerly into his arms.
Six
Autumn 1816, West End
The memories flooded through Lavinia. Like an unstoppable tide they inundated her body and her mind and her heart. It was as if she was back in the bed they had shared while she waited for the signs she had conceived the baby that was to bear Patrick’s name.
For three months Patrick would ask and for three months she would say no, not yet. Even though she knew after a single month that she was with child. She’d lied to him and herself, pretending she had to be sure, just so that she could spend more time with Sebastian. Because she couldn’t bear for it to be over.
Sebastian was still staring at her across the theatre, their eyes locked, and it was only with an enormous effort of will that she dragged her gaze away. Back to the stage and the play she hadn’t heard a word of.
“Lavinia?” Margaret’s voice, and she sounded concerned, as if this wasn’t the first time she’d spoken. “Are you well?”
Lavinia shook her head a little wildly. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”
She stood up and moved to the back of the box, meaning to leave via the door. Appearing concerned, Margaret hurried after her, clutching Lavinia’s reticule and wrap, which she had forgotten in her haste. They’d barely stepped out into the corridor that led to the stairs when the door from the adjacent box also opened.
Sebastian stepped out in front of her. “Lady Richmond?” he sounded wary. “Are you well?”
The woman Lavinia had seen at his side hovered behind him, her beautiful face curious, her hand resting on his arm.
As if he was hers.
“I’m perfectly well. Thank you for your concern, Captain.” Lavinia said it stiffly, feeling her face rigid with embarrassment and the urge to escape this awful situation as soon as possible. She needed to lock herself away and recover. She needed to cloak herself in the Ice Maiden who seemed to have deserted her.
He stepped aside and bowed, his face closing down into an indifferent mask. She may as well have told him to mind his own business but right now she didn’t care. Lavinia hurried toward the stairs, Margaret close behind her, and then they were outside the theatre and waiting for their carriage.
“Are you sure you’re well?” Margaret asked her, shivering in the chill air. “You are as white as a ghost.”
“I think I am out of the way of crowds, that’s all. My life has been so unexciting until now.”
She could feel Margaret’s curious gaze on her but refused to meet it. She still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened in that moment when she and Sebastian stared into each other’s eyes, but she felt as if something inside of her had broken. She’d believed she could move on, but what if she couldn’t? Right now she needed to go home and hold her son, and remind herself of all the reasons she must stay away from Sebastian. And all the reasons she must forget him.
They were safe in her carriage when she heard herself say, “The woman with Captain Longhurst . . . I thought I recognised her.”
Margaret grimaced. “So did I. I think . . .” She glanced at Lavinia as if deciding whether or not to say the words, and then did so anyway. “She is not a very nice woman.”
Lavinia’s lips twitched as she focussed on her friend but her amusement for the turn of phrase soon faded. “She’s his mistress then?”
Margaret shook her head and then nodded it. “I don’t know, Lavinia, but she is someone’s mistress. Her name is Mrs Chandler and that is her profession.”
> They didn’t speak again, and the silence hung thick in the luxurious vehicle. When Margaret alighted at her cousin’s address in Mockingbird Square, she turned back to Lavinia, and her green eyes were full of worry.
“You know you can talk to me,” she said earnestly. “I want to help, and I would not repeat anything you said.”
Lavinia raised an eyebrow. “You and Monkstead are very thick, Margaret. I think everyone in the square knows that. And as you’ve pointed out to me before, the earl likes to interfere in the lives of his neighbours. I don’t want him interfering in mine.”
Margaret flushed. “I barely know him,” she retorted. “And he annoys me as much as he annoys you, Lavinia. You do not need to worry about me gossiping with Monkstead. Believe me when I tell you I am quite indifferent to that man.”
Lavinia wondered if Monkstead felt the same. She thought she had seen the opposite to indifference in his dark eyes when he looked upon Miss Margaret Willoughby. Everyone knew Monkstead was an enigma, a man with a past, a man with secrets. And although over the years there had been many women linked to his name none of them had been respectable, while Margaret was the epitome of ‘respectable’.
Once inside her own town house with the door closed, Lavinia breathed a sigh of relief. Safe. Immediately her thoughts began to clear, the heat inside her to cool, and Sebastian was relegated to where he belonged—the past. She was able to remind herself that it had been Patrick’s wish that her son be heir to his estate and nothing must jeopardise that, no scandalous whisper must attach itself to either of them.
Sebastian’s companion touched his arm with her gloved fingertips, demanding his attention, and blindly he turned to face her. Mrs Chandler, courtesan and mistress, the sort of woman many men salivated over and only a few could truly own. At a price.
Right now, for this evening, she had agreed to be his. He saw her mouth move, heard the sound of her voice, but it was meaningless. In his mind he was still seeing Lavinia—the emotion in her eyes and the way her face drained of colour. He had been desperate to go after her, bundle her into his own carriage and demand she tell him what was the matter.
But he had no right. She had taken that away from him. And when she walked away just now, he knew the last thing she would want him to do was force her to acknowledge their past.
“… is she his sister?” Mrs Chandler was still speaking and he still wasn’t listening. She gave an impatient sigh and tapped her fingertips against his cheek. A tap that almost instantly turned into a caress. “Captain Longhurst?” she called in a sing song voice.
Enough. It was time to do what he’d come to do, Sebastian told himself resolutely. He turned with a smile and hoped it didn’t look too forced, and then he took her fingers in his, bending to kiss them. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted. I’ll do better.”
She pouted with her lips but there was a touch of sadness in her eyes. “I could see that Lady Richmond thought me a terrible woman. Perhaps I am a terrible woman,” she lifted her chin, “but sometimes we find ourselves in situations that require us to make a choice. Survive and be terrible, or don’t survive at all.”
Sebastian realised that he, too, had been guilty of judging her. She was exquisite, and he had assumed she had chosen the easy option, trading on her looks in order to gain wealth and a comfortable life. He gathered from her words that her choice might not have been made lightly. He had come here tonight knowing that to get his way he may have to threaten this woman—or seduce her. He was willing to do either if it meant preserving Patrick’s inheritance for his son. But perhaps the solution was simpler than that; perhaps all he needed to do was speak the truth.
“You are very different from the men who usually pursue me.” She was still watching him curiously.
He met her eyes, wondering if after all he would need to seduce her. Suddenly he had no taste for it. Beautiful she may be, but she was not Lavinia.
Mrs Chandler sighed, reading the truth in his face. “There is someone else and you are an honourable man, Captain. A shame.”
“A shame? Why so?”
“Because I was looking forward to our supper and more, but your heart is already taken. That would not matter, but as I said, you are an honourable man. I have discovered that men like you do not allow themselves to take pleasure with other women. Women like me. It is very frustrating, Captain. I would much prefer to spend time with you than my other clients.”
He gave a surprised laugh. “I’m flattered, madam.”
“But you do not refute it? Your heart is given elsewhere? Yes, I see it is. Are you sure you cannot forget about her, for just one night?”
The offer was there in her smile and her eyes. She really was a beautiful woman. He kissed her fingertips again. “I wish that I could. I am flattered, but . . .”
“Then do not let her break it, Captain,” she said. “Because if she does, I will be waiting.”
He wondered if it was already broken, but that was not a conversation to have with Mrs Chandler. They had more important matters to discuss.
Later
It must have been close to dawn. Sebastian had shared supper with Mrs Chandler, and she had been more forthcoming than he’d dared to hope. She was, he suspected, rather honourable herself.
Mark had been right to be worried, he told himself, as he strolled toward his brother’s house, breathing the chill air and deep in thought. Tomorrow he needed to speak to Lavinia. She might refuse but he would force her to listen. It may be the last time he had anything to do with her but at least he could walk away knowing he had done his best to carry our Patrick’s wishes.
Not for Patrick’s sake, although they had been friends once, but for Oliver. Everything they had done—Patrick, Sebastian and Lavinia—had been to secure Oliver the Richmond inheritance, and if that failed then what had been the point?
A heavily laden dray rumbled past him, and a moment later there was a crash as one of the boxes fell off the back and smashed onto the cobbled street. He threw himself to the ground, forgetting everything but the need to take cover. His heart was beating so hard he couldn’t hear anything but the rush of blood through his body.
Over the past year Sebastian had learned to control his reaction to sudden noises. Unfortunately this was not one of those times. Taken unawares, he found himself catapulted backwards.
Seven
The Battlefield at Waterloo, 1815
The clamour of the battlefield was unbearable. He could feel the ground shaking as the cannons roared out their displeasure, sending death into the air, and then thumping back to earth. Men and horses screamed. The air was filled with the acrid, eye watering stench of war.
“Longhurst!” The call came from the melee to his right and he turned, searching through the smoke.
He had been sent to find Lord Richmond, which in the circumstances was ironic. The two men now avoided each other whenever possible. One night they had been forced to sit opposite each other at Wellington’s supper table and the atmosphere between them had been noticeably hostile.
“I don’t like to see my men at odds,” Wellington had said, when he drew them aside later. His eyes had been as cold as stone. “Whatever the trouble is, deal with it.”
They hadn’t dealt with it. Patrick had given him one glaring look, turned his back and walked away. Sebastian hadn’t gone after him.
Now they were in the heat of battle, Patrick had gone to give instructions to a subordinate and hadn’t returned. Sebastian had been sent to find him.
“Richmond is one of my most conscientious and reliable officers,” Wellington had said to Sebastian with a frown, before he sent him out. “He should be here. I need you to find him, Captain, and bring him back. I’m sure Lady Richmond would be grateful to have her husband returned to her in one piece.”
Would she, Sebastian wondered? He no longer knew what Lavinia thought. He had only seen her once since the child was born, when he had paid a visit to Mockingbird Square to enquire after her health. H
e’d timed his visit when Patrick wasn’t there because their once close friendship had cooled so drastically. Should he blame Patrick for asking him to sleep with his wife or himself for agreeing? Well it was too late now to change what had been done. Nor, it seemed, could any of them forget it.
He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Lavinia. That had never been part of the plan. And yet he had, and although they had never acknowledged it aloud, Patrick knew the truth.
At least he’d seen his son, Sebastian told himself, eyes stinging from the smoke. Oliver might go by Patrick’s name but he was every inch a Longhurst.
“Here! Captain Longhurst!”
The voice came from his left.
“Lord Richmond? Is that you?”
There was no answer and Sebastian stumbled on the uneven ground and paused a moment to get his bearings. He was remembering his one and only sight of the boy. Oliver had been red faced, his tiny body tightly bound in his blanket, but his voice was loud enough to wake the dead. Hearing him wail, seeing the living proof of their union . . . Sebastian had felt as if something inside his chest had turned to jelly, and he’d had to clear his throat to speak.
“What are you calling him?”
Lavinia stood near the door, as if she didn’t want to be too close to him, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Patrick wants him named after his grandfather, Oliver.”
Sebastian nodded as if it was no matter to him, while the knot of jealousy grew tighter and tighter.
“Patrick says there is a battle coming,” she added softly. “He says he must fight Napoleon one last time.”
Sebastian looked across at her, this woman he had fallen in love with and could never have. “I think he’s right,” he said with a grimace. Then, he spoke the words that seemed to come from out of nowhere. Words he hadn’t known he was going to say until they spilled out of his mouth. “What if Patrick was killed in the battle?”