Once Again a Bride

Nineteen



“They got temples with heathen statues twenty feet high,” said Ethan’s cousin Jack. “All gold and glittery. Some of ’em has six arms. And every morning they washes them with milk, giving them a bath in it, like.”

“Go on,” replied Mrs. Trask. “That’d be a pure waste of gallons of milk.”

“It’s true, Gran. I seen it myself, when our ship put in at Bombay. One of the fellers took us into the city to see. Anyhow, they’ve got plenty of milk in India ’cause it’s a crime to kill a cow there.”

Ethan’s aunt shook an admonitory finger at her son. “Now, Jack, you’ve traveled and we haven’t, but that doesn’t mean we’ll swallow any rigmarole you care to spin.”

“It’s true, Ma. I swear.” Jack put a hand over his heart. “The Hindoos claim that cows are holy. Got ’em wandering all over the city doing as they please. You’re in big trouble if you hurt one.” Though he was only twenty-six, Jack had sailed to both India and the West Indies.

Ethan watched all the adults present shake their heads in wonderment. The children, who’d marveled over Jack’s tales earlier, now played a noisy game of lottery tickets in the back parlor. There was ale and a juicy roast, and Lucy sat next to him, looking relaxed and interested, as if she’d been part of the family for years and years. It was all just as he’d imagined, and Ethan’s spirit expanded with warm contentment. It was hours before they had to be back at their posts. He’d sent off his letter home and not yet had an answer, so he could bask in the belief that his future would be as pleasant as this.

He moved so that his shoulder brushed Lucy’s, wishing he could put an arm around her and show their connection before everyone. When she turned her head and smiled at him, he only just stopped himself from kissing her.

“I hope Miss Charlotte is all right,” Lucy said.

At that moment, Ethan didn’t care a whit about Lucy’s mistress. All his consciousness was occupied by visions of his own happiness. But he knew better than to say anything like that. “She said she was going to visit Miss Anne and Miss Lizzy.”

“She said she might.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

There was a flurry at the door, and Tom the coachman came in. He hadn’t been sure he’d be free to come. Prodded by Lucy’s elbow, Ethan got up and crossed the room to speak to him. “You got the night off, after all?”

“Aye,” said Tom, taking a deep draught of ale. “Ah, that’s good, that is. Left the master at Mrs. Wylde’s to be getting a cab for himself later on.”

Lucy wouldn’t like that, Ethan thought. She’d want to go on home to make sure all was well, ending the evening, as far as he was concerned, here and now. And maybe doing even worse. Wasn’t it better for them if her mistress was left alone with Sir Alexander? ’Twasn’t proper; that was true. People would talk scandal if they heard of it. But how were a man and a woman ever to get together if they never had a moment alone? That was a problem he understood very well, surrounded as he was by prying eyes and disapproving elders. Here was, maybe, an opportunity to further his plans of getting Lucy up to Derbyshire.

An unfamiliar ruthlessness rose in Ethan’s breast. He wished no harm to Lucy’s mistress; she seemed a nice enough young lady and treated Lucy well. But his own happiness, and Lucy’s, mattered more to him than anything else. If there was any chance at all… “Keep your trap shut about it,” said Ethan to the coachman.

Tom goggled at him. “Eh?”

“No need to tell everybody what the gentry’s up to.”

The coachman frowned, shrugged, and went back to his tankard. He’d open his trap eventually, Ethan knew. Someone would ask a question, and Tom would answer without thinking, and it’d come out. What would he say to Lucy then? Ethan looked at her, across the room, pretty as a picture in her blue dress and laughing. He’d think of something. For tonight, they’d just enjoy themselves.

“All’s well,” he said to Lucy when he sat down beside her again. It wasn’t a lie. As far as he was concerned all was very well. And maybe it was getting even better, back there at Lucy’s house. A man could hope so, anyhow.

***

Charlotte sat on the edge of the armchair cushion in her drawing room, sipping a glass of Madeira. She’d gotten the wine herself, without mentioning servants. And why would they talk of servants? There was no reason to do so. Or about the fact that she and Sir Alexander were alone in her house. He would leave immediately if he discovered that, and she did not wish him to leave. She gulped her wine, and let the warmth spread from her fluttery stomach throughout her body.

Charlotte knew that what she was thinking was mad—or it would have been, to the gently reared young lady she’d been a year ago. But she wasn’t that person any longer, would never be again. The year with Henry Wylde had changed her, first to an abject creature deprived of all joy, and then to a woman determined to steer her own life. Her future would not be all mean economies and superficial companionship. She would not dwindle into genteel poverty and meager, melancholy regrets. She would take what she wanted and damn the consequences. She would!

The glass trembled in her hand, and she rose to pour another draught of liquid courage. Sir Alexander Wylde had moved her as no man had ever done. He drugged her senses and roused longings so fierce she could not resist them. Not only that, she knew she could trust him. He would never betray her secrets.

The silence had grown long. “You wanted to speak to me?” said Sir Alexander. “Is something wrong?”

Charlotte stood for a moment with her back to him, then she placed the goblet on the tray with a decisive chink and went to sit beside him on the sofa. Before she could falter, or change her mind, she slid her arms around his neck and raised her lips to his. There was an instant’s thrill of doubt, a stutter of hesitation, before he gathered her into his arms. Then the kiss sent fire racing along her veins. It was the same as before; his hands and mouth enthralled her, roused every inch of her to pulsing life. Here was the vital spark that had been missing from her marriage, her whole history. This intensity was worth any price.

Sir Alexander pulled her onto his lap. She tightened her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the marvels of sensation. Thoughts fled; any vestige of resistance dissolved. Everything was body—the hard muscle of his thighs supporting her, the bastion of his arms around her, the texture of his lips drawing her on into more and more heat. Charlotte felt as if her insides had gone molten. She melted against him while holding him close with all her strength.

For Alec, the rules of a lifetime were battered back and forth by a relentless tide of desire. This wasn’t right; he shouldn’t do this. She was a widow; she had come to him and clearly wanted him. To give in would bring scandal on a young woman he… admired. He wanted her so desperately he couldn’t bear it. His hands roamed her body, frustratingly clothed; her lips burned on his. He couldn’t think; he stopped trying. He crushed her to him, then surged to his feet, cradling her, and carried her down the corridor to the bedroom.

She didn’t protest. She clung to him. And when they reached the door, she turned the knob and flung it open from his arms. Alec hardly noticed kicking the panels shut behind them. All his senses were riveted by the girl he held.

They tumbled onto the bed together, pressed close now all along the length of their bodies. This kiss seared, maddened. His body cried out for the touch of flesh on flesh. He drew back and shed his coat like an outworn skin. Charlotte’s fingers fumbled with the row of tiny buttons down the front of her gown, awkward with eagerness, clumsy with desire. Careless of folds and fastenings, Alec rid himself of his neckcloth and shirt and boots, scattering them heedlessly on the floor. She thrust her fingers through her hair, scattering hairpins like rain over the coverlet.

Then Charlotte sat before him in only her shift, her gold-coppery hair foaming over her shoulders, her eyes glinting in the last light of sunset that slanted through the window. Fighting his pounding heart and throbbing need, Alec forced himself to slow down. He sat beside her on the bed, nestled her close with an arm around her shoulders, and cupped one breast with his other hand. Savoring her gasp of pleasure as he teased it, as he took her mouth again. Through another long kiss, he eased them down onto the featherbed.

Her hands caressed his chest, his ribs—feather light, yet leaving trails of fire wherever they went. His own fingers found their way under the hem of her shift and delicately along the silk of her inner thigh. She moaned softly and opened to him, pushing up toward his touch. The sound she made when he obliged half maddened him. Her arms tightened around his neck, deepening their kiss beyond anything he’d ever known. He let his fingers flicker and tantalize until Charlotte’s breathing became a pant in his ear.

“No,” she protested when he removed his hand to free himself from his breeches, unbearably constricting. He made quick work of it, then resumed his teasing. Only when she stiffened and cried out in joyous release did he give in to his own raging desire and slip inside her.

The pleasure and relief of it was exquisite. He plunged into that glorious warmth and… through an unexpected resistance. Alec drew back; Charlotte’s arms pulled him closer. Far too aroused to think, or to stop himself, he moved again. She met him eagerly. Together, they found a rhythm that mounted and built until the world blurred into ecstasy. Somewhere in the glory of it, Charlotte cried out again. And Alec heard his own voice join hers as release carried him away.

Only when the storm had passed and they lay enlaced, breathing, did Alec acknowledge what his body had discovered. She’d been a virgin. Not an experienced young widow wise in the ways of intrigue. How had he imagined she was, with all he knew of her marriage? He hadn’t wanted to think of it, he admitted. He’d wanted… her. Desperately. Far too late, he wondered what the household had heard, what ruin he had brought upon her by yielding to his desires? And hers, yes, but he was the more experienced, and thus responsible, one. And what the hell was he going to do about it now?

Charlotte felt her pulse slow in tandem with his. She pulled in a deeper breath and let it go. Every inch of her felt wonderful. There had been a flash of pain, but it was nothing compared to the tide of amazing sensations that had come before, and after. She pushed her hair back from her face and stretched sensuously. Suddenly, she was ravenous. She sat up and lit the candle by the bedside. By its light she saw him, naked in her bed, his lean muscled body sculpted by the dancing golden illumination. “Are you hungry? The servants left a cold supper in the dining room.”

Sir Alexander—no, Alec; she had to think of him as Alec now—rose on one elbow and looked at her. Charlotte smiled at him and got no smile in return. “Left?” he said.

“They are all out.” She started to explain about Ethan’s cousin, then didn’t bother. She was too contented to form the words.

“Are they?” His expression was peculiar.

“Yes, we are all alone.” She ran a hand down his arm, enjoying the feel of it under her fingers.

“So you… planned… this?”

Something in his tone, his face, made Charlotte draw back. Suddenly, she felt naked and exposed. “I… no. I… took advantage of… the circumstance.” She hadn’t thought beyond the moment; now she was beyond it, and in uncharted territory. The way Alec was gazing at her—did he despise her for giving in to her desire? Had she become quite another sort of woman in his eyes?

“This is… I must apologize for my conduct…”

“No. You must not.” Without conscious thought, Charlotte’s hand reached for her shift. In an instant, everything seemed to have changed in the room. Tender intimacy had dissolved into awkwardness. She slipped on her shift. Alec rose and began to dress.

“I should go before anyone returns. There must be no gossip…”

Nothing to connect him with her; nothing to trap him, Charlotte thought. Briefly, she felt stricken. Then she remembered. She was in charge of her life. She had done what she wanted to do; there could be no whining now over consequences.

“I have no time to… to deal with…” He gazed at her, looking torn. “Charlotte, I am leaving town first thing tomorrow. I must travel to Derbyshire. I’ve had word from several sources that the countryside is about to go up like tinder. I cannot ignore this crisis.”

“Oh.” And what was she to say to that? She had no hold over him. He had no obligation to her. And the state of the country was undoubtedly important.

“People have reached a breaking point,” Alec added, almost as if pleading for understanding. “I need to provide some help and leadership for those on my lands, and perhaps others, if they will listen. There will be no hangings if I can help it.”

Sitting on her tumbled bed, barely clad in her thin linen shift, Charlotte could only nod.

“It is all arranged,” he finished. “I don’t know how long I will have to be away.”

“I… I hope you will be careful.”

Charlotte’s voice quavered, and Alec wanted to take her in his arms and promise that he’d come back to her. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t explain even to himself what that meant, precisely. He could not make her his mistress. Every feeling revolted at the idea. She was not the sort of woman to be relegated to the demimonde. But what else could he…? His mind was a chaos of conflicting thoughts and desires. They would have to reason it out when he returned, he told himself. The state of the country was an issue larger than either of them. Still, leaving her there on the bed, gilded by candlelight and clearly tinged by sadness, was one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life.