He’d proven to be . . . a liar. He’d called himself proficient, and yet, even hovering above the crowd, unnoticed, unobserved, as she was, there could be no doubting or disputing that Rafe was pure magic upon his feet, confident, graceful, in possession of the intricate movements of everything from a country reel to a Viennese waltz.
As his instructor, she should be beaming with the greatest pride at his accomplishments.
“Will you stay?”
“Hmm?” she murmured distractedly; it took a moment to register the spoken question beside her. Edwina whipped her head sideways.
“I believe I shall request that London Season, after all, and I would have you there with me.”
Edwina fought for a proper breath, wanting to give Cailin the confirmation she sought, and deserved. And yet . . . Tears pricked her lashes. “I am honored.” But I cannot.
Just as she could not bring herself to decline that offer, and steal this newfound eagerness and excitement from Rafe’s sister.
Cailin’s face lit up. “Splendid.”
And Edwina, if possible, felt all the worse.
The young woman popped up, and then as it became apparent Edwina wasn’t joining her, she wrinkled her brow.
“I’m just . . . going to stay on a bit longer. See . . .” Your brother with another woman in his arms. “That my instructions proved . . . helpful,” she finished lamely.
Oh, God.
“You have done wonderfully by him, Edwina,” the other woman said softly, her voice quietly melding with the strains of the haunting waltz below. “He is a different man because of you. You encouraged him to stretch his wings and leave a world he never would have. He smiles more.” Stop. Please, stop. “He listens more, because of.”
Because of me.
Edwina bit hard on the inside of her cheek. Despite what his sister might believe, Edwina had not really changed Rafe. He’d done everything himself. He’d never needed her here, and he’d certainly not need her when she was gone.
When Cailin had gone, Edwina made herself look out once more, searching frantically over the crowded floor and easily finding him. Taller, broader, more everything than the lords around him, he was a king among lesser men, twirling Lady Elizabeth about.
They’d never danced together, Edwina and Rafe. That was a gift this other woman now had, that Edwina never would.
Petty and small, and loving him as she did, she found herself incapable of laying mastery over the insidious jealousy eating away at her at the sight of him dancing that flawless English beauty across his father, the Duke of Bentley’s gleaming Italian marble floor.
Oh, God. Edwina gave thanks for already being flat on her belly.
And this . . . watching as he waltzed and wooed and captivated as desperately and deeply as he had Edwina? She’d always known he would ultimately choose to join this world. She knew it because she knew that he’d come to see the good he was capable of with the money and power afforded him by his parentage. Long before he’d revealed he wasn’t so very ignorant of Town life, she’d known he’d take to this world. Because a man such as him commanded any place or lot that he might meet. There would be a lofty lady to be his wife, a woman perfectly suited to him, and who complimented him in every way.
What she’d not imagined was that she’d be around to see it. Edwina had anticipated being long gone.
Except, mayhap that had been her own naïveté. The wish that she’d not have to witness any of it.
Just then, whatever he said to his dancing partner, the lady with perfect gold ringlets and a ready smile, brought her to laughter. Lady Elizabeth, born to her elevated rank, Edwina wanted to hate and find exception with and to, when the only thing remotely offensive about the woman was her name, and that a woman who had the name Dalrymple had even less reason to take exception with.
It marked Edwina as selfish and self-centered and petty and terrible. For loving him as she did, and wanting the best for him, she should only be overjoyed at Rafe’s success and the fact that he’d met a woman who was kind and wonderful.
Only to discover, Edwina resented the woman not because she belonged to a world Edwina had thought she wished to be part of . . . but because she had the opportunity to have a life with Rafe.
And Edwina wanted to cry because of it.
And to taunt her with her misery, fate sent that pair waltzing past, the lady’s gold skirts dancing wildly at her ankles, as Rafe twirled her about the ballroom floor.
A pressure squeezed at her heart.
It was too much.
Coming to her feet, she crept from the alcove. And the moment the curtains fluttered shut behind her, she broke. The music and the laughter all jumbled with her heartbeat clamoring away in her ears, in a sickening, dizzying cacophony that she needed to escape.
Edwina rushed along long corridors and continued onward, until the music faded and her heart raced, and the serenity of the duke’s gardens met her.
Gasping and out of breath, she crashed through the glass double doors leading out, and drawing them shut fast behind her, she kept running and didn’t stop until there was no place left to run; the marble goddess playing her lyre, guarding that ivy-covered brick wall, blocked her escape.
Edwina collapsed against it, and catching herself on the garden statue’s shoulder, fought to drag air into her lungs. All these years, she’d pitied her mother. She’d not ever worried about becoming her, because Edwina had always known she was too sensible to ever do anything as foolish as fall in love . . . with anyone.
She’d been so very convinced.
And she’d also been so very wrong.
Edwina pressed her face against the cold, unforgiving marble back of the statue. “What have I done?” she whispered. She remained there, unable to move. And time became as jumbled as her thoughts inside.
She froze, feeling him. Sensing his presence even before he spoke.
She looked around the shoulder of the marble Greek goddess now offering Edwina her protection.
At some point, he’d found his way outside . . . to her. He was . . . magnificent. Attired in elegantly cut midnight trousers and jacket; but for the snow-white of his cravat and the slip of lawn shirt revealed, he was sin and temptation that she’d tasted of and had hungered for since. And yet, unlike her, he was completely composed, even breathed, and in full control. “R . . . Rafe.” There was a slight accusation so subtle she could have easily feigned an inability to hear it. Instead, she chose the safer, more cowardly course of redirection. “Forgive me,” she said straightening, still breathless. “I didn’t hear you.” And then came the realization . . . he was here. Not with his Lady Elizabeth. “You shouldn’t be out here,” she said softly, rubbing at her shoulders.
He stopped just on the other side of the statue, so close.
His hooded gaze moved over her. “I don’t want to be in there.”
Odd, how that was the one place she wished to be . . . and yet, there with him. Not the collection of women who were his potential brides. She drew in a breath through constricted lungs and made herself stop with what she wanted, and focused her attention and concern on where it should be—on him. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “What is it?”
“You weren’t there,” he said gruffly. “I want you.”
Edwina’s breath hitched at the possessiveness and power of that declaration. And propriety and good sense said to reject that . . . to deny him.
Soon, very soon, she would leave, and they would part ways. He’d already fit himself perfectly into this world, and would remain. She’d seen that. Just as she’d seen that there would be a lovely wife there. And Edwina could not be there when that happened, but she could take this last moment, and keep it with her forever.
“I want you,” he repeated, on a harsh growl.
Her bre
ath hitched, as desire pooled between her legs, from just those three words spoken in that guttural, harsh way. “And I want you.”
They were in one another’s arms, and it was impossible to say who had reached for whom first. Or mayhap it was just that they moved in tandem in this . . . and in so many ways. With a wanton moan, she melted against him, and kissed him back. She kissed him as she’d longed to.
And like all the times before, passion burned strong, and in their desire, they didn’t bother with gentleness. But then, they never had. The fire between them was too great. And yet, as they ran their hands over one another, stroking and caressing, there was an even greater raw vitality to this meeting.
Her panting melded with his grunts, as he seated himself on the wrought iron bench and pulled her down atop him. Edwina’s skirts rucked up in a noisy, hedonistic rustle about them, and he edged them up even higher, exposing her skin to the crisp night air, and that kiss of coolness was a balm upon her.
Never breaking contact with his mouth, she stroked her tongue against his, and he met each thrust, lightly nipping the tip of hers. Rafe reached between them, freed himself from his trousers, and then guided his length to her moist curls. She clenched her thighs as he slid inside, filling her, and unlike the first time, when there’d been a moment of pain and tension, now there was only bliss. Her eyes slid shut as she took all of him inside her, sinking all the way until he filled her, deeply. Completely.
Edwina and Rafe each caught their breath on a quick intake, and she forced her heavy lashes open.
They held one another’s eyes, and she tangled her fingers through the dark strands of his hair, as he guided her hips, and she began to move. Rising and falling over him. Taking him and releasing him, again and again, their flesh slapping against one another, Edwina rode him. Harder and faster. He kneaded her hips, urging her on. The pleasure he drew from her with every stroke brought her higher and higher. She panted. It was too much. This pleasure was even more sharp, more consuming than the time before. “Rafffe,” she pleaded. Burying her face against his neck, she bit his shoulder hard; the bergamot scent clinging to that fine wool filled her senses.
“That’s it, love,” he urged, his voice harsh, his breathing labored.
Love. Her heart stuttered. And then she gave herself over to surrender, crying out, the sound muffled in the folds of his jacket, as she moved over him, her undulations jerky and frantic, and she came, in long, glorious waves so sweet and so sharp, she wept.
He tightened his hold around her, and she knew from the way his body stiffened that he was joining her.
Crying out just one word, he slid her off him, and gave in to his release.
And even as she reveled in the way his face clenched and rippled as he found his pleasure, and she knew he protected her in ways her mother and his mother hadn’t, she mourned that severed connection. Wanted to know what it was to take all of him.
But you don’t have that right. He is . . .
“Rafe?”
Her body jerked, passion receding quickly, as that familiar voice called out from the front of the gardens.
“Oh, hell,” she whispered, Rafe’s heavy breathing, mixed with her own, damning.
She scrambled frantically to her feet, pushing her skirts down, even as Rafe stood, and positioned himself in front of her.
It was too late.
“R . . . Raafe?” the duke’s question came again, this time hesitant, horrified, and so very near.
The duchess gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth.
Oh, God. Edwina’s entire body recoiled from shame, and an even greater horror, and she wanted to hide, wanted the earth to open up and feast on her, so she didn’t have to confront . . . the audience standing before them. All in like, silent shock, but for the triumph of a younger gentleman with a crooked nose . . . the lord Rafe had beat down, who’d now had the ultimate triumph. Because . . . the ton, of course.
At his side was her brother . . .
And she jerked her gaze away from him, past the gentleman whom her future depended upon, over to the older gentleman before them, a man who was older and grayer but still familiar. She jerked as a different shock knocked the air from her lungs, as she stared slack-jawed—at the man whose carelessness had consigned her to that uncertain future.
Her father.
And Edwina ran . . . past the group who’d born witness to her fall from grace, and continued running, her slippers slick on the grass, until she reached the path, and sent gravel up as she went. Grateful that no one stopped her or called out. Because then there would have to be words exchanged, and more of those looks. The horror-filled ones belonging to Rafe’s father and the duchess, and Edwina’s own brother . . . and father.
She reached her rooms, panting and out of breath, shoved the door shut behind her, and just stood there. The noisy inhalation and exhalation as she tried to suck in her breath, loud in her ears, mingling with the steady beat of her pulse, both racing, a product more of horror than even the pace she’d set for herself.
She had let her greed destroy her, because once in Rafe’s arms hadn’t been enough. She’d wanted to steal one more moment, and one more embrace . . . even, as, all the while, she had lied to herself, ultimately knowing in her heart that it would have never been enough. That she wanted . . . forever with him. And in the end, Edwina had done precisely as her mother had done . . . she had thrown away a life of respectability, one that in Edwina’s case she had dedicated years to building so that she would not become her mother. Failing to see, until this night, that she had been destined to be her mother, because when she’d found someone such as Rafe, Edwina would have loved as wholly and completely . . . and foolishly, thinking of only him.
She pressed her shaking hands over her face, and worked at the chore that was breathing, taking slow, deep breaths, and counting them as she did.
She’d ruined her future, and she’d ruined Rafe’s entrance into the ton. As he’d pointed out from the beginning, Polite Society had been destined to question his place among them, to disdain him for his illegitimacy. And what she’d done, this night, was ensure there would only be gossip and scandal.
Edwina choked on a sob.
Yes, they had both come together in that moment of passion, but she had known more than he what was at stake.
Just as she knew she had to leave. There would be no references. There would be nothing but a late-night, hasty flight for a disgraced governess whom all of London would now be speaking about. Letting her arms fall, she gave her head a clearing shake, and proceeded to fetch her trunk. Dragging it over to the painted armoire, Edwina opened the doors, and dedicated all her attention to carefully drawing out each dress. The task proved steadying and distracting. Because when she was focused on neatly stacking each garment, and each pair of slippers, it was time she wasn’t thinking about what came next. Concentrating only on the now allowed her control over the immediacy of her life.
Rap-rap-rap.
Her heart hammering, Edwina clutched the mud-stained parasol she’d used in Staffordshire when she’d first met Rafe.
And there had never been a door she had more dreaded opening than this one.
Because there wasn’t anyone she wanted to face in this instance. And that included Rafe.
Edwina forced herself to walk the remaining way, and then she brought her shoulders back, and opened the door.
The parasol slipped from her fingers, and tumbled with a quiet thwack.
The dark-haired gentleman there bent to retrieve it, but he made no attempt to turn it over. Instead, he studied the forlorn, once-beautiful article a moment.
Edwina’s lips moved, but no words were forthcoming. Dumbstruck, she looked at the duchess.
“Lord Rochester explained he was your father, and asked to speak with you,” Her Grace explained. “Would that be . . . permissible, Miss Dalrymple?”
>
Her father.
He’d identified himself as her father? And to a duchess, no less? It didn’t make sense. He had gone out of his way to avoid her, and avoid all acknowledgment of his connection to her.
It took a moment to realize the duchess had put a question to her. Asking whether Edwina wished to see the gentleman. Unable to speak, Edwina managed a nod.
The duchess hesitated a moment, and then nodded. “I shall be in the hall.”
It was an unexpected offer of . . . support, from a woman who should have greeted Edwina with fury and horror.
The moment she’d gone, and Edwina found herself alone with the marquess, she looked at him.
How long it had been since she’d seen him. He’d visited monthly, for the first years of her life . . . and when he did, he showered Edwina and mother with gifts and baubles. Then, one day, he’d ended it with her mother and proceeded to send on only his financial support. Time had been kind to him. Still dashing, still handsome, his features not-at-all wrinkled, his hair not even showing a hint of gray or white. He was, in short, a likeness of the man who’d said goodbye one last time, and disappeared forever from her life.
Since he’d gone for good, she’d dreamed of this day. She’d longed for it. To see him again. To be reunited. Only to find there wasn’t joy in his being here. In seeing him. She’d been so starved for family and friendship that he’d been that link. And what a weak link it had been.
When she’d come to find in Rafe a friend, a lover, one to challenge her and make her look at herself and be better. And to demand better . . . for herself.
Her father continued to hold her parasol, eyeing it distractedly, that parasol he had purchased and gifted her. Did he even recall as much? Or had it been simply something a servant had picked out and purchased that he’d come to her with? Those were the questions that had haunted her when he’d gone, and she’d been left with the pretty knickknacks around her and Mama’s cottage.
At last, he looked up. “My son indicated that you and he happened upon one another at the museum.” A wistful glimmer lit his eyes. “He also has a fascination with ancient—”
Along Came a Lady Page 30