The Irish Heiress

by Kaitlin O’Riley

  For the first time Foster looked with surprise at Rose. I never got to marry whom I wanted to marry and live the life I wanted. What did she mean by that? It had never occurred to him that Rose might have been in love with someone else before they wed. They had both been young, and she had only been eighteen years old. He had not been given the opportunity to court her or to get acquainted with her before they married. Hell, he only met her on the morning of their wedding day!

  Foster had been away studying at Cambridge when his father had unexpectedly shown up at school and unceremoniously announced that marriage plans had been arranged for him. James Sheridan, Earl of Sterling, was not a man who took no for an answer, especially from his twenty-year-old son. Foster had learned very early on not to cross his father. Whatever James Sheridan’s reasons were for wanting his son to marry Rose Davenport, Foster did not question him at the time. At least not to his face.

  With no say in the matter, Foster was hastily packed up and brought home to Sterling Hall to be married. He did not even meet his intended bride until she appeared, looking dazed and just as unhappy as he felt, in the little chapel the following morning.

  Rose Davenport had been better looking than he expected, but not as pretty or charming as he had hoped for on his journey to Yorkshire. She was trim, with a decent figure, and lustrous brown hair hanging down around her shoulders. At first glance she looked young and appealing. But on closer inspection, she was not even the least bit friendly or inviting. The icy blue eyes, pallid complexion, and sour expression did not conjure any hope for joy in their future together. Nor did her frosty demeanor induce much sympathy.

  Instead of looking at him as an ally placed in the same uncomfortable situation, Rose regarded him as an enemy. As if he’d forced her into this marriage himself. Nor did she seem particularly pleased with him. Now Foster knew he was an attractive-looking man, having been told so too many times to count, and any young lady would have been pleased to look upon him as her husband. As the young and handsome heir to an earldom, he was a catch. Yet Rose Davenport gazed at him with scorn and hatred.

  It did not bode well.

  Before they both uttered their vows and wooden responses, Foster remembered wondering if their arranged marriage had been as much of a surprise for Rose as it was for him. Or had being told of the marriage only the night before been a special degradation that his father had reserved just for him? Had Rose had any forewarning of the arrangement? For who else learned of their wedding the night before and had no idea who his bride was?

  Still, Foster had felt sorry for Rose. She looked far more miserable than he felt. And that was quite a lot. As their marriage was declared official, he could not ignore the awful knot in the pit of his stomach. He was now tied to this woman, a complete stranger who clearly did not wish to be with him, for the rest of his life. It happened so quickly he could hardly believe it. It seemed like a bad dream.

  There were no warm congratulations or celebrations afterward with well-wishing friends and family. There was only a small wedding breakfast with awkward and stilted conversations between his parents and Rose’s parents, who made their departure shortly afterward. He’d been struck by the abrasiveness of Henry Davenport and thought he was remarkably like his own father. Two self-centered, strong-willed men who dominated and manipulated the people around them, had bound their son and daughter together in a life of misery so they could each get whatever it was they wanted.

  Meanwhile, his bride could not muster even a forced half smile, an understanding glance or inviting gesture for him. Foster’s heart sank.

  Later that evening, in his bedroom at Sterling Hall, he knew what was expected of him. It was his duty to procure an heir for the earldom, which would one day belong to him. Yet he recognized that Rose was young and scared. He did not make advances toward her or attempt to kiss or touch her. Foster had no desire to frighten her or force her to consummate the marriage. In his mind they needed time to at least become acquainted with each other before engaging in such an intimate act. When he said as much to her, Rose burst into tears. She spent the night sobbing on the divan, while he slept in the bed. Being a gentleman, he had offered to sleep on the divan instead, but she would not go near the bed. Not only that, but she refused to speak to him or answer his questions, denying his attempts to get to know each other.

  During the interminable days and nights that followed, the cold and empty pattern for their wretched marriage was set. Rose spent each day holed up in her bedroom, rejecting his offers to walk in the garden, or to dine together, or to simply talk about their situation and their future. Each evening Foster would invite her to his bedroom, where Rose would become hysterical, crying and sobbing and begging him not to touch her.

  So he let her be.

  Confounded by her behavior, for arranged marriages were not at all unheard of, and as far as husbands went, Foster thought Rose was very fortunate to have one as understanding as he was. And he understood what the problem was, or at least he thought he did. In the beginning, Foster truly believed that Rose was simply a naïve and sheltered young girl, who needed time to warm up to the idea of having a husband and sharing a marriage bed. As time passed, however, he knew that she couldn’t still be skittish because of an arranged marriage.

  There was more to it than just that. Something was truly troubling Rose.

  As the days turned into weeks, then months, he knew his cold and withdrawn wife needed more than time. Yet he did not know how to help her. She completely shut him out; rebuffing his overtures of friendship, rejecting his attempts to comfort her, ignoring his inquiries to get to know her better.

  Another man might have asserted his husbandly authority over her. Whether Rose liked it or not, it was her duty as a wife to procreate.

  Yet Foster Sheridan was not that type of man.

  He left her alone.

  After that first disastrous month at Sterling Hall with Rose as his wife, who was still a virtual stranger to him, he gave up. He went to London, thinking to give her some distance from him, and hoping it would make her more relaxed. She could come to him. Eventually, like all women, she would want children. They were still young and had plenty of time to sort out their situation.

  But Rose never did come to him. And in spite of his regular visits to Yorkshire, which grew less and less frequent over the years, their relationship never warmed. In fact, Rose hated him even more, if such a thing was possible. She tolerated his visits but still never allowed him in her bed.

  At first he was foolish and naïve enough to think that eventually Rose would change. He hoped that she would mature and realize he was a decent man, and they would have children together and create some semblance of a life together.

  Then before he knew it, ten years went by. Rose had only become more spiteful, while he grew more indifferent, and they led completely different lives.

  As he stared at her now, he wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to her to make her so angry and bitter at the world. Lord knew, Foster hadn’t had a happy childhood, but it didn’t prevent him from taking happiness when he could find it. Rose never seemed to grasp that fact. She was happier and infinitely more comfortable being miserable.

  “I’m sorry your life was ruined by marrying me, Rose. There was a time years ago when I would have been sorry to hear that and I would have cared about why you’re so unhappy,” Foster said. “But my life was also ruined by this marriage. The difference between us is that I want to change that. I want out of this dreadful mess. I want to be happy. You don’t.”

  “You cannot dissolve our marriage, Foster. You simply cannot,” she protested, tears of frustration glinting in her icy-blue eyes.

  “Watch me.” He stared at her, and for the first time in their ten-year marriage he felt that he was the one in control.

  Foster turned and left the room.

  14

  Impressions

  On a chilly October evening, once darkness had fallen, Mara quietly m
ade her way to Foster Sheridan’s townhouse, which was becoming something of a familiar routine for her by now. She knew exactly where to go and what to do. The intrigue of it all was rather exciting. They could not meet too frequently and they had to be very discreet. The consequences of being caught were too terrible to contemplate, but not enough to dissuade her from coming to him this way.

  She and Foster chose their nights together with the utmost care, and Mara went to great lengths to ensure they were evenings when Aunt Colette and Uncle Lucien had plans to go out and she would not be missed. Only Brighton, her lady’s maid, knew exactly where Mara was going, but she was devoted to Mara and would never divulge her secret. If her family inquired, Brighton was instructed to tell anyone that Mara was merely under the weather and staying in her room. Mara could be sleeping, or suffering a headache, or any other vague malady that would cause her family no undue worry and allow them to leave her in peace. So far, Mara was certain no one at Devon House suspected anything unusual in her behavior.

  When Mara was coming for the night, Foster dismissed all his servants except his butler, Preston, and even he was out of sight for the evening. It had been almost a week since they had last seen each other and Mara missed him terribly. As she tiptoed along the back path and quietly let herself in through the kitchen door, her heart beat with excitement. Once inside, she flung back the hood of the dark blue cloak that kept her face hidden. She unfastened the clasp at the throat and removed the cloak, tossing it carelessly over the back of a kitchen chair.

  With quick footsteps she made her way through the quiet and dimly lit house, anxious not to waste a precious moment of their time together. She practically flew up the staircase to Foster’s bedroom.

  He was waiting for her.

  Foster stood before the fire, wearing only black trousers and a white shirt, which was open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbow. His brown hair was combed back from his clean-shaven face, and he had no shoes on his feet. There was something incredibly intimate about seeing a man dressed so casually.

  A grin lit his handsome face when he saw her.

  They ran into each other’s arms, their mouths meeting in a passionate and hungry kiss. Mara’s heart immediately felt at peace. All the pangs of guilt she suffered during the week when she thought about what they were doing dissipated as soon as she was with him again.

  “You’re early,” he whispered, his hands carefully undoing the pins in her hair, allowing it to spill around them in silvery blond waves.

  “I’m afraid I’m always early.”

  “I love that about you. And it means we have more time together.” He smiled at her adoringly. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you too,” she murmured into his mouth. The heat from his tongue sent shivers of anticipation through her body.

  Foster suddenly lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed, laying her among the pillows. He continued kissing her for some time. Then he paused and asked, “Supper first?”

  “After,” she said, pulling him back down to kiss her. Mara loved the feel of his mouth on hers and delighted in the passion that grew between them whenever they were together. She loved him and wasn’t shy about showing him just how much.

  Foster gazed at her. “I have an idea you might like . . . a bit of a surprise for you,” he whispered, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Something we can try together.”

  “What is it?” Their secret evenings had proven to be quite an education for Mara and she had enjoyed every moment with him. Each time they were together, Foster lovingly introduced her to some new way to give or receive pleasure. She was certain that this evening would be no different.

  “Well, you will have to remove your clothes to find out.”

  Mara laughed. “Isn’t that what we were planning to do anyway?”

  “Yes, but this is rather different.”

  She was intrigued. “Only if you remove yours as well.”

  Foster lifted his white shirt over his head, revealing his muscled chest. “Oh, I was planning on it. Now you.”

  “Well, if I must, I must,” Mara replied gamely, and then began unlacing her boots.

  “Aren’t you even going to try to guess what I have planned?” he teased, as he continued removing his clothes.

  Mara laughed. “No, I couldn’t even begin to guess.” Foster had shown her so much pleasure during their nights together that she trusted him implicitly and whatever designs he had for them this evening. “I shall let you surprise me,” she added.

  “Very well.”

  She kicked her boots to the floor and began to remove the puffed-sleeve jacket that matched her claret-colored skirt. She then unbuttoned the front of her high-necked black blouse, and her skirt followed. When she had only her black corset and garters left, she looked up to see that Foster stood before her completely naked.

  He was glorious. The male form fascinated her. His broad chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Muscular arms. A trim waist and hips . . . Powerful legs, and of course, the most masculine part of his body, which displayed itself quite proudly.

  The very presence of him, standing there, staring at her with his green eyes and an irresistible smile, left her a little breathless.

  “You are quite handsome, Lord Sterling.”

  “And you are so beautiful, Mara. I can’t think of anything but you and I’ve been counting the hours until we could be together again.” He stepped toward her and pulled her into his arms.

  She stood on her tiptoes and reached around his neck, meeting his kiss with her own. Heavens, but she could kiss this man all day and not get enough. His kisses consumed her.

  “As much as I adore how you look just wearing the corset, let’s get you out of that contraption.” With skilled hands, he released her from the confines of the undergarment in record time. He placed soft kisses along her neck and shoulders, moving down to her breasts. He knelt before her and ran his hands along her stocking-covered legs, unhooking the black garters that held them in place. Slowly he slid the stockings down her thighs, kissing her skin as he went.

  When she was finally as naked as he was, Foster took her hand in his. “Are you ready?”

  Suddenly feeling a little nervous, she nodded anyway. What on earth was he planning for them? “I suppose so.”

  “Then come with me.”

  He led her across the expanse of his bedroom, which had the same sleek feel as the rest of his house. Mara had come to love this place and thought of it as their bedroom. They’d spent all of their time together there and it felt like a luxurious cocoon, where she was safe and loved and nothing else mattered except the two of them. It had become their cherished space where they could be alone and shut out the rest of the world.

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise when he brought her into the bathing room.

  Granted, Foster’s bathing room was the most magnificent one she had ever seen, rivaling even those in her own house or her aunts’ houses. It was definitely the most modern one, possessing the very latest innovations in plumbing. The room was decorated with smooth white tiles on the floor and walls and beautiful stained-glass windows. A very large canopy bath stood against one wall, wrapped in a majestic mahogany frame. The room had been lit with beautiful beeswax candles instead of the usual gaslights.

  Foster led her to the canopy bath.

  “Foster?” she questioned, suddenly beginning to understand what he had planned for them.

  He didn’t answer, but let go of her hand. He moved quietly to turn the faucet on, allowing the water to run hot and begin to fill the large enameled cast-iron bathtub. He turned around to face her, his expression one of excitement, and held his hand out to her. She knew it was an invitation to join him in the luxurious tub. Giggling with nervousness at the erotic idea of bathing with a man, Mara slowly stepped toward him and took his hand. She pressed her body against his as he kissed her.

  Carefully he helped her step into the tub and followed in behind her.
They both sank into the warm water. Foster sat with his back against the lower edge of the tub, while Mara sat between his legs, resting her back against his chest. The sensation of the warm water on her skin and Foster’s naked body against hers was exquisite.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her neck.

  She smiled with satisfaction. “You are quite clever to have thought of it.” Settling into her position, she relished the intimacy of the two of them together this way, never dreaming that doing anything like this was even possible.

  He took a cake of soap from the little tray beside the tub and began to create some lather with it. His hands then moved slowly over her body, through the warm water. With infinite care, he lathered her breasts, circling and massaging each one with the sandalwood-scented soap. Mara sighed at the deliciousness of it all. The warm, soapy water, the woodsy scent, and the mind-melting pleasure of his caresses sent her into a languorous state of relaxation. It was quite extraordinary. Never had her senses been so heightened while her body was so utterly lethargic.

  As he continued to kiss the back of her neck, whispering in her ear sweet words, his hands slid lower, across her abdomen, down between her legs. Desire swept through her like flames at his touch. Her own hands wrapped around his knees for support as his fingers began moving, arousing that familiar aching pressure within her that demanded to be released.

  “Oh, Foster.” She breathed his name as the tension began to build with each stroke of his fingers.

  Mara closed her eyes and rested her head against his broad chest. Time ceased to exist and she gave herself over to his delectable ministrations. Thrilling waves of pleasure began to build within her and her breathing began to quicken as his hand moved faster and faster against her. Every nerve in her body tightened, anticipating the decadent sense of bliss that was sure to come.