Edith Layton (19 page)

“Bren?” he asked. “May I do now what I ought to have done then? Slowly, and carefully?”

She swallowed hard. She nodded again, “I’d like that.”

“You will,” he vowed.

This time he didn’t help her remove her night shift until she was trying to tear it off herself. He threw the covers back when their kisses and embraces made their temperatures soar higher. Last time they’d made love in a blur. This time she saw him entirely, and reveled in it. His body was strong, she knew. She knew it was shapely; his tight-fitted clothes couldn’t conceal it. But she hadn’t known his skin would be so unblemished, the hair upon it ruddy as his astonishing sex which rose against his flat, ridged, muscular abdomen.

He saw the direction of her gaze and how her eyes widened. He paused, amused and pleased. Then he saw how she looked away in embarrassment.

“It’s not a thing I can help. It’s not a thing I want to,” he whispered. “It’s how men are. It’s my body’s way of showing appreciation of you. God knows I do.”

“As I do you,” she whispered back to him, and looked her fill this time.

She was utterly enthralled with him. But her expression changed when he rose over her to take her in his arms.

“Oh!” she couldn’t help blurting when she saw his shoulder.

“Yes,” he said, rearing back, all thoughts of dalliance interrupted. “Ugly. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t deny it was a startling sight in contrast to his well-formed body. A welter of thick scars, the shoulder still showed stitches hastily and inexpertly set, the musculature itself redefined by the terrible wound that had sliced down his arm. But she could refuse his bitter apology.

“Why should you be sorry?” she asked, touching a bulge of scar tissue. “I’ve seen worse. You should see Eric’s leg! Makes this look like a fine tapestry.”

He gazed at her, astonished.

“Oh!” she said in chagrin. “And here I was angry because you didn’t think I was a maid! How could you, when I talk about men’s bodies like a…trull from the tail of the army!”

“I’ve always wanted a trull,” he breathed against her neck. “Would you be my own trull, please?”

She laughed. And lay back where he gently placed her, and sighed as his lips found her breast. This part of lovemaking was wondrous. She relaxed, then arched her back and stifled a surprised moan as his mouth slowly traced tingling fire down to her stomach too. She was a little embarrassed, then beguiled by the strange tickling sensations he aroused. It went beyond laughter to something beyond her imaginings. So much so that she wasn’t prepared for the natural end to the path he so leisurely took. Suddenly, thoroughly astounded, she froze and locked her long legs shut.

Rafe stopped too. It wasn’t easy. He raised his head with difficulty, because he was very excited. He’d had lovers. He’d shared pleasure. He knew what women liked; he’d done much and heard more. Now he was afire to do even more with this delicious, exotic, responsive woman—his wife! But he’d never had to prove the joys of love before. He realized he had to proceed carefully. His mind told him that. His mind had little to do with his craving.

“It’s all right,” he said huskily. “If you still don’t like it in another minute, I’ll stop. But I think it will please you if you let me.”

She considered it.

He knew he had won.

He kissed her lips before she could answer. When he felt her relax again, he went on, blazing a trail down the same inexorable, incredible, thrilling path. She didn’t stop him again. She couldn’t even think to do it by then. She never wanted him to stop again.

They had their honeymoon, and reveled in it.

She loved his plain speaking and elaborate lovemaking. She was enchanted by his gentleness, his patience, and the way he could lose his patience and bring her to exaltation even so. This thing they had together was wondrous, and best of all for her, it was obvious that they shared it.

He taught her much, showing her how to please him and herself, rejoicing in her lack of false modesty, her acceptance of her own desires as well as his. She taught him how a woman’s unfettered, honest
giving could make even such a pleasing act better than he’d ever known, changing it from something delicious to a thing approaching glory.

They were extremely pleased with themselves and each other. It was a true honeymoon for both of them. But it only lasted days.

She got her monthly courses. For the first time since they’d come to the inn, she spent a day in bed with a hot water bottle, not his warm hand, covering her abdomen. He went out riding to give her the chance to recover. Apart, they shared the same disturbing thought. They both wondered about the reality they’d left behind and had to face again. Sooner or later they had to leave their idyll at this little wayside inn and get on with building a life, facing down rumor, establishing themselves in the world. They’d gained a rare understanding of each other’s passions. There hadn’t been time to build more yet. They had, after all, not really known each other that long. There was much more to learn and do.

“Soon as you feel better then,” Rafe said a few days later when she asked him about their return to London.

“I feel fine. It’s almost over,” she said, blushing.

“Is
it
?” he asked with a grin.

“You know what I mean. But I’ll miss this place,” she said wistfully, looking around the room where they’d shared so much.

“We’ll take the best part of it with us.”

“The bed?” she asked, pretending shock.

“If you wish, that too,” he said, amused, “my lusty bride.”

“Is that bad?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not very ladylike of me.”

“What nonsense. It’s very good. Do you want even more praise?”

She laughed. He was very generous with his praise. For a short-spoken man, he talked a lot while at the act of love. But when he went down to see Peck to ask when they could leave, her smile slipped away. Because when she thought about it she realized all he’d ever praised had been her breasts and her belly, her mouth and her rump, and other body parts he enjoyed. That and her willingness to share them with him, and learn more about his own body and its responses.

It was praise. But it wasn’t what she was waiting to hear. There hadn’t been a word of love apart from easy endearments in the act of love. She wondered if she ever would hear any. He was, after all, a blunt man. She put the thought away. No sense being greedy. If she’d wanted poetry, she’d wait the rest of her life. She had Rafe. It was a good bargain and a fine beginning.

Her hands paused on the traveling case she’d opened.
A good bargain and a fine beginning?
It was so much more. Why was she denying it? She’d been delighted to marry him, convinced she’d tumbled into love with him. She hadn’t known the half of it. Now she was, with no exaggeration, plainly and simply and utterly mad about him. But better if he didn’t know that—or at least not until he said he was in a similar state…She bit her lip. This was
Rafe,
after all. So, she decided, if he didn’t confess to a similar
state, then she wouldn’t. At least, not until she got some hint that he was in that general vicinity.

But thinking of vicinities, she realized they’d soon be in London.

And the woman he’d loved and wanted to marry was still there.

It was a rainy morning in London. The lady Annabelle sat in her bed, drank her morning cup of bitter chocolate, and skimmed the newspaper. Her father always left it for her after he’d gone to his club. Her gentlemen callers loved to spout the latest gossip to her because she seemed so impressed by their knowledge. The truth was, she preferred to know things firsthand, and was interested in more than gossip. But she put her cup down on the tray when her eyes fell on an item in the social listings.

Her face paled.

“Anything wrong, my lady?” her maid asked, seeing her sudden distress. “Anyone died?”

“No—yes, in a way. It doesn’t signify,” Annabelle murmured. “Lay out something bright for me to wear,” she said absently. “It’s such a gloomy day.”

It was worse that that.
He’d actually gone and married her! Dalton had wed the scheming, lying cheat who’d stolen him away.

Annabelle closed her eyes in pain. The more because she realized nothing could have forced him to it but his sense of honor. She believed he hadn’t actually compromised the wench. So it must have
been her own spreading of gossip that had driven him to it.

She wasn’t used to blaming herself. It hurt more than his betrayal.
Betrayal?
He’d promised her nothing; she didn’t know if she’d have married him if he had. But she’d considered him, and she’d only considered one other as her possible husband—and now she’d lost each to less worthy women.
What did those women do that she didn’t? What did they know that she did not?

“Annabelle?” her mother asked as she hurried into the room. “What’s this? Your maid tells me you’ve had a weak spell? Because someone died?”

“The silly goose!” Annabelle laughed with difficulty. “No, nothing like. I was just reading the paper, births, deaths, marriages, and such. Speaking of which, see here,” she said in a tight voice. “Dalton actually
married
that slut of his!”

Her mother scanned the paper, thinking rapidly. She ached for her daughter and knew she shouldn’t say it. “Such a hasty wedding,” she said instead. “Needs must when the devil drives, I suppose. He was mad for you—never doubt it. Doubtless there will be an heir beforetime. Or she told him there would be.”

“I doubt it. I believe him. He is honorable,” Annabelle said.

“Honorable?” her mother scoffed. “He’s a
man
. Even the best of them will take what’s free, even if it isn’t the finest. She lured him. He couldn’t help himself. She was the dishonorable one.”

It made sense, Annabelle thought. And it was
much too painful to keep thinking she’d caused this terrible thing because of her flippant, too hasty tongue. Anger and hurt, guilt, and an overwhelming sense of futility made her gratefully accept it. “Poor fellow,” she murmured half to herself, “to be so cheated. But what good is it to know? It’s done.”

“Not quite,” her mama said. “She shouldn’t go unpunished.”

“What?” Annabelle asked on a shaky laugh. “Are you going to challenge her to a duel, Mama? Hire someone to slay her? Be sensible. She’s a clever slut—she won a good man. It’s a tragedy for him, but there’s nothing you can do now.”

“At least we can let people know the truth,” her mama said. “So she’ll never be able to hold her head up in polite society again. She wanted respectability as much as his name, I’ll wager. Who knows whose child she was carrying, appearing out of nowhere, coming from foreign parts like that?”

Annabelle sat still; she hadn’t thought of that.
Poor Rafe,
she thought with growing delight. “But they’re gone now,” she said hastily, “so how can it matter what we say?”

“They have to come back to London sometime.”

Annabelle thought about it. “Poor Rafe,” she finally said aloud, this time with tremendous relief. Talking about her failed courtship with him would be like a crusade now. Not a defeat.

“T
his is one of the finest streets in all of London,” the housing agent said proudly as Brenna looked around the salon in the town house he’d taken them to.

“Maybe,” she said glumly, noting the small windows and low ceilings, “but we’re not going to live in the street. Though it might be better if we were. At least there’d be light there.”

“Dark as a cave,” Rafe agreed. “Got anything with sunlight?” he asked the agent.

“In the afternoon this room is flooded with sunlight,” the man said quickly. “It’s late morning, my lord.”

“But it will feel this close even in the afternoon,” Brenna said. “You know,” she told Rafe, “it’s not necessary for us to move at all. We’ll do very nicely in your house.”

“So you’ve said,” Rafe said, “but a new family needs a new house.”

Her face flushed. He was right. They might become a family soon enough. They’d only been married a short time, but essential biology made his reasoning valid. Exceptional desire made it even more so. But she didn’t like this house. “Well then,” she went on doggedly, “I don’t think this place gives us that much more room. It has more bedchambers, but they seem cramped, and this room ought to be the biggest and—”

“And it’s not for us,” Rafe told the agent. “Anything else to show us this morning?”

“There’s a charming house facing the park,” the agent said.

“I don’t think so,” Rafe said. “Facing the park means facing the crowds going there.”

“Shrubbery has been planted,” the agent argued. “Nothing can be seen from the front windows but greenery.”

“And nothing can be heard but carts, wagons, and horsemen going by. No,” Rafe said. “Maybe we’d better look elsewhere with another firm, one that knows London as well as I do.”

“There’s a
most
distinguished property on the square,” the agent said hastily, “not two streets from here.”

Rafe hesitated. That was where Annabelle lived. But it was one of the finest districts. He thought fast. For all its size, London was a small town for the fashionable. If he wanted to avoid Annabelle, he’d have to move to the country. And why shouldn’t Brenna
have the same advantages he’d have given Annabelle?

Brenna and the agent waited for his answer. Rafe nodded. “Yes, we’ll see it. When?”

“This afternoon? After luncheon?”

“Give me the address. We’ll meet you there,” Rafe said.

“That’s probably his best listing,” Rafe told Brenna as they strolled down the street after the agent left them. “It’s the third property he offered, and so the one he really wants us to see. The first they take you to is so dismal you get discouraged. The second almost fits the bill. The third’s perfect, of course. And higher priced than the others. A clever trader does that with all sorts of goods, not just houses. Damon Ryder told me that, and if it’s anything to do with money, he’s usually right. I think we’ll find our house this afternoon.”

“But why bother?” Brenna said. “Rafe, it’s not necessary yet. Certainly not for me. I can be happy in your town house until we really need more room.”

“You deserve more.”

“But I don’t want to be an expensive wife.”

He stopped and stared down at her, his expression amazed. “But you are,” he said. “Two eggs at breakfast,
and
a muffin as well? I’ll be in the workhouse before you know it.”

She smiled. He put his hand over the hand she’d placed on his arm and went on down the street with her again. “Bren, I’ve funds,” he said more seriously.
“I like spending them on something worthwhile. You. Me. Our future.”

It was a cool day, but the sun was bright. But nothing could be warmer and brighter than the cockles of Brenna’s heart. He’d wed her out of honor, but he paid great honor to her, and had since their wedding day. She allowed herself to think one day he’d realize what had looked like cruel circumstance had turned out to be the best luck in disguise. It had been from the first for her.

Everything about him continued to delight her. His unique looks, that vivid coloring, his military bearing, his quick understanding. Other women might find him gruff, but she knew army men and realized it was only a facade to disguise how tender he really was. She grieved for his low opinion of himself, but thought it might account for his unflagging kindness to others. She appreciated his sly sense of humor and that absolute sense of honor. The way he made love, the courtesy he showed her in everything…

If he’d ever loved another woman, she saw no sign of it now. He wasn’t a secretive man; she must have won him over completely! She smiled up at him, feeling proud, content, and incredibly blessed.

Today she thought he looked particularly fine. It was cool, but Rafe, claiming his blood was hot, seldom wore a cape or coat. He didn’t need to cover himself; he was a fine figure of a gentleman. He wore a high beaver hat, a dark blue jacket, a gray and blue waistcoat, and biscuit-colored breeches.

By happy chance, her own costume matched his.
Her gown was periwinkle, her pelisse a darker blue. Her bonnet was biscuit colored and had a brave blue feather in it. Peck must have picked out Rafe’s clothes after having a look at what she’d had on this morning. She and Rafe shared a bed, but they had separate dressing rooms, and she’d gotten dressed first.

She knew a fashionable lady should have a maid. But she wasn’t used to being fashionable, and hesitated to add another to her intimate household just yet. Peck was different. He was Rafe’s old army companion as much as his valet, and the soul of discretion.

“Rafe!” a voice called, interrupting her thoughts. “My lady Brenna!”

A tall, dark gentleman with a long, clever face and a distinctive nose strode toward them.

“Drum!” Rafe said with pleasure. “Well met!”

The two friends shook hands. Brenna ducked a bow as Drum took her hand and looked at her keenly. His azure eyes lit up as he studied her. “Marriage suits you,” he said with pleasure. “Though nothing could make you lovelier, my lady. You have a glow. This rascal looks positively jolly. I almost didn’t recognize him.”

“Maybe you need spectacles,” Rafe said. “One look at my hair would clear up the matter. Happiness doesn’t change that. But you’re right. I am happy. A remarkable lady, this wife of mine.” He gazed at Brenna fondly. He only recalled himself when he realized Drum was watching him with a slowly growing grin.

“And what a wife she is!” he told Drum, in mock
complaint. “Frugal as a parson. As demanding as a nun. She doesn’t want to inconvenience me enough to move from my bachelor quarters. I practically had to drag her out this morning to see houses…Wait! The very man! You’re a knowing one. I want Bren to have a home she can be proud of. I can tell what looks good, but maybe not what’s a good address and likely to remain so. Tell me which districts we should avoid.”

“Note what a pessimist it is,” Drum remarked to Brenna. “He doesn’t ask where to look, only where not to. Your work’s cut out for you, my dear. You’ve got him smiling. Now you’ve got to get him to believe good things are likely to keep happening. As for good districts—this is one. But it’s best nearer the square, I’d say. That’s where the fashionable promenade, but not close enough to get in your way.”

“As I thought,” Rafe said, nodding. “It’s where we’re going after luncheon. Join us?”

Drum hesitated.

“We don’t coo or cuddle, I promise,” Rafe added. “We’re an old married pair now. It’s almost three weeks. Well, at least it’s been twenty days, and we’re fit for company. Unless Bren here loses her head and throws herself at me. She does do that, you know. Watches me meekly, then something snaps and she lunges for me. Shocking.”

Brenna pretended to try to snatch her hand from his. Her spirits soared even higher. He’d counted the days just as she had!

“I’ll come along,” Drum said, “
if
she promises to restrain herself—I’m easily embarrassed. I can catch
you up on what’s been happening here. You can tell me about your travels.”

“We went home,” Rafe said, his smile vanishing. “To Arrow Court. But didn’t stay above three days.”

Drum fell into step beside him, his expression altering too. “Yes, well, that makes sense,” he said thoughtfully.

“Introduced her to the Griffin too,” Rafe said.

“It’s a ritual,” Drum told Brenna. “I met him when I stayed with Rafe on school holiday. He terrified and fascinated me. He obviously inspired Rafe.”

“That’s too bad,” Brenna said, “because if he hadn’t, just think of the other career Rafe could have had, as a second son. If it weren’t for the influence of such a fierce ancestor, imagine what a humble, peaceable, placid vicar Rafe could have been—he might even have been made a bishop!”

They laughed at that. They laughed and talked all through their luncheon. The earl of Drummond was one of Rafe’s oldest friends, and Brenna was delighted to see how easily he led Rafe into reminiscing. She learned more about Rafe’s past at luncheon than she’d done since she’d met Rafe’s parents. He didn’t easily talk about himself, but Drum knew how to draw him out.

“We met at school,” Drum explained, “with little in common. I was ferociously homesick and furious at having been exiled. Rafe was delighted to be there. But we discovered common cause.”

“Misbehavior,” Rafe laughed. “This fellow was the most inventive boy there. He knew how to get
into mischief immediately. That always takes one’s mind off miseries.”

“And this one,” Drum said, “never refused a dare. He set high standards for me.”

Brenna didn’t learn much of Drum’s background. She could easily believe he’d been a superior spy. He knew how to turn the conversation away from himself with laughter or questions, or plain artifice. But for all his secrets, she could easily see how much Rafe valued him. That was enough for her—until Drum went along with them to see the third house the agent had to show. Then she could have happily strangled him.

“Tolerable,” Drum drawled after they’d toured the house. Brenna’s head shot up. She loved the place, light and airy, with high ceilings and wide windows and modern conveniences, such as gaslight and indoor plumbing even on the second floor. It had a graceful garden in back, with the stable conveniently to the side. She couldn’t wait to tell Rafe how perfect it was.

But Rafe heard Drum’s vague assessment and nodded agreement. “Exactly,” he said, in bored tones. “Tolerable. What else have you to show us?” he asked the agent.

He didn’t even ask my opinion!
Brenna was hurt and confused. They left the house after making another appointment with the agent, and began to stroll back down the street. Head down, she held her tongue until she could control her emotions enough to speak. Which was as well. Because as soon as they left the agent, Drum began to chuckle.

“Your face!” he told Brenna. He relented. “My dear lady, it’s every bit as lovely a house as you so obviously think it is.”

“But you can’t let the fellow see that, Bren,” Rafe told her gently. “He was raising the price in his head every time he showed you a new feature of the place! You lit up like the sun, beaming so much he was almost rubbing his hands together. No, ‘tolerable’ is the best you can say—while the seller’s in the room. I thought I’d make him an offer tomorrow. If you want. You do, right?”

“I love it,” she breathed.

“Good,” he said. “I’m going to offer half of what’s asked.”

Drum smiled. “He’ll take a quarter over that.”

Rafe agreed, “I think so too. Happy?” he asked Bren.

“I am,” she said, “though like your offer, that’s only a fraction of what I feel!”

Their laughter caused the fashionable on the avenue to stare. One lady, halted in traffic, looked out her carrriage window. She stared, then made her coachman stop. She stepped down from her carriage and waited for them to come abreast of her. When they did, she wore a glittering smile to match her sparkling eyes.

“Rafe!” the lady Annabelle said with pleasure. “So good to see you again. You naughty fellow! You quite disappeared from London and never showed up at the ball!”

A red cape the shade of heart’s blood protected Annabelle from the cool breeze. Brenna loved red but
seldom wore it because she thought it made her look too wanton. It was charming on Annabelle. It made her seem an adult version of Little Red Riding Cloak from the children’s story, at once innocent and elegant, and startlingly lovely. The vivid color and her ebony curls peeking out from her hood showed by contrast how dazzlingly white and flawless her complexion was. It also made her eyes look blue as a jay’s feathers. That bluebell gaze was only on Rafe.

He stopped. He bowed and seemed to search for words to answer her. When he did, his voice was brusque. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I’d told you I was to be wed.”

“Oh my dear!” she laughed. “But that’s not dead, is it? Engaged men do go to parties. Even wedded ones do!”

“Well, that’s what I am now,” he said. “Here is my wife, my lady Brenna. Bren, you know Lady Annabelle, don’t you?” It was only a social nicety, a thing he’d plucked from the air in order to have something to say. A tic of a wince shattered the impassivity of his expression, as he belatedly realized how inappropriate a thing it was to remind them of.

Annabelle seemed too shocked by the introduction to notice that.
“Wife?”
she gasped, her hand going to her mouth as though she’d uttered a vulgar word. “Oh!” she said faintly. “I didn’t know—that is—” her voice faltered “—I hadn’t heard. Surely it was only yesterday that we met right here in London and you told me of your plans? But
married,
so
quickly
?”

Every rude thing anyone could have made of their hasty wedding was in that question. Brenna went a shade paler.

“One doesn’t think of such haste in such matters,” Annabelle went on. “I thought ‘engagement’—a wedding in the spring…How foolish of me.” She attempted a laugh, but it came out weak and unconvincing. “I only thought of what
I
would have done. Congratulations, my lord. Best wishes, my lady. What an extraordinary thing! Where was it? The wedding, I mean to say. Not here in London, surely?”