That Kind of Woman (23 page)

He tossed the sweat-dampened covers aside and slipped into a pair of trousers and a shirt. A quick glance at the clock showed a quarter till midnight, hardly an hour for a collar and cravat. It felt good to leave the neck open, lying in a V against his skin. He walked to the open window where the cool summer night poured in and across his skin, a balm to his tattered nerves.

A light shone in the upstairs window of the dowager house, encircling the dark silhouette of a woman, standing at the window, just as he did. His room was in darkness, and he doubted she could see him. Moonlight touched the distance between them, turning the garden fairy-silver. It was the sort of light in which neither reality nor madness could thrive. The world shimmered and beckoned, and Andrew answered, padding softly through the halls and out the rear door on bare feet.

The ground was cold enough to feel wet, although dew had not yet begun to collect on the grass. Subtle, soothing perfumes emanated from the roses and recently mown lawn. A breeze soughed in the leaves of the trees. From the moment he emerged from the house, he kept his eyes on the form in the window. He had to be in plain view of her now, but she didn’t move, didn’t douse the light to discourage him.

Andrew didn’t knock. He mounted the few steps to her front door and stood, the smooth, hard stone underfoot a sharp contrast to the soft, springy grass. When she opened the door, as he had known she would, he turned to her and said, “Sometimes I think that if we had simply taken off our shoes and marched in the grass barefoot, everything might have come out differently.”

And then he felt his face flush. It was a ridiculous thing to have said. She looked pure and serene in her pristine white night-rail. The exact antithesis of the nightmare he had left behind.

Miranda stepped outside with him. His face was haggard, his eyes profoundly sad, and she wished she had some idea of what to say to him. Instead, she simply slipped her hand into his.

Andrew squeezed lightly. It was such a good thing, the feel of a woman’s hand in his. “I hate to sleep.”

Miranda smiled. “I love to, but sometimes sleep doesn’t seem to want to keep company with me.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “It is a fickle thing, sleep.”

Andrew shook his head. “I find it far too constant. You can only deny it for so long, and then it must come again.”

“So I cannot sleep, and you will not. What are we to do? Might it help you to talk?”

“Talk does no good.”

“Then what?”

He tilted her face to his, his eyes looking so deeply into hers it seemed he must surely see things inside her that Miranda herself had never known were there. And when she looked back, she saw such pain, such desperate longing that it took her breath away. She ran her fingers gently over his cheek, the light stubble there rough. Here, in the magic of the garden at midnight, the only thing that seemed real was the flesh of the man before her.

He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “May I come in?”

Nothing on earth or in heaven could have made it possible for Miranda’s mouth to form the word
no
. But
yes
was such a tiny utterance for such a monumental commitment. Silently, her hand still in his, she led him through her door, beyond the small foyer, and up the wide stairs. A single candle, the one she had lit before she had gone to the window, still burned. They had moved from the silver outdoors to the golden cocoon of her bedchamber, keeping them clasped inside circles of light from which all things harsh and real were banished.

Miranda had known—known the moment he had stepped out the door and into the garden—that this was where the night would take her. It was as if she had willed him to come to her as she had stood at the window feeling so very cold and alone. She had felt like something was missing. Even as a child, it had been hard for her to sleep. A maid would pull back the covers and then tug them crisply into place again once she had settled herself in. “Good night, miss,” the maid would say and turn out the light. It left her feeling cold and empty inside. It seemed like someone ought to have touched her, embraced her, kissed her brow.

So when she stopped at the side of the bed and Andrew took her into his arms, she was astounded by the heat. It seeped through his clothes and her night-rail. His body was hard, but hers fit against it so perfectly that every muscle seemed to welcome her, support her. And when she lifted her face and pressed her lips to his, it felt like she was home for the very first time in her life. She opened her mouth and the kiss became an act of giving and acceptance. Their tongues danced, and he tasted mellow and slightly sweet, intoxicating.

The battlefield was finally far away from Andrew. There was only this moment and the tender, sweet, moist flesh of Miranda’s mouth, the feel of her delicate body pressed to him. He had wanted this for months, and it had been well over a year since he had been with a woman, but he felt no need to rush. They were in some enchanted realm where time did not exist. They could simply kiss for half of forever and still have all of eternity for the rest. So while he wanted to pull the nightgown from her shoulders, he contented himself to bury his hands in her hair and enjoy the silken texture of it, all the while breathing in the scent of roses that her skin shared with the garden beyond the window.

Miranda let her hands wander. The fine, soft fabric of his shirt was at odds with the hard sinew under it, and she caressed him, intrigued by the sensation. He smelled of sandalwood mixed with a musky note that made her head spin. She was no stranger to kisses. In London, there had been men who had hoped to seduce her. Some had been quite skilled. She thought she had known what kissing was.

She hadn’t. She hadn’t known that a mere kiss could touch her so, excite her so. She hadn’t known that to take a man’s tongue into her mouth and to have him take hers could mean so much. When she finally sank onto the bed, pulling him with her, it was because she had become too weak-kneed to stand.

And suddenly, the kissing was no longer enough for Andrew. The moment they were on the bed, he pressed her the rest of the way back and yanked at the bow securing the top of her gown. He pushed away the fabric and bared one breast to the soft light, taking a moment to admire its perfect roundness and the tight, dusky nipple that begged him to touch, stroke, taste.

Oh God,
Miranda thought. If the feel of his mouth on hers had filled her with heat, the feel of it on her flesh, his tongue flicking across the sensitive crest of her breast ignited her. She tugged her night-rail lower, arching her back, and he responded to the invitation, ministering to the other side.

He lifted his head, and Miranda reached for him, frantically ripping his shirt away, helping him tear the gown from her body. Then she lay beneath him, the naked flesh of his torso against hers, the contrasting texture of his serge breeches against her bare legs. She reached down and found the hardness under the fabric and caressed him. As warm as the rest of him felt, he seemed hotter there, and when he gasped in pleasure she felt a ripple in her stomach and an ache between her thighs.

His fingers touched her there and sent a jolt of pure, molten need through her. She opened her legs, craving more, but jerked her knees together again when he would have ventured deeper. Rational thought rudely broke through, and she realized she still had a secret, one best lost in the very height of passion, where it might be missed.

She pushed him off and sat up, her hands flying at the fastening of his breeches, then pushing them down and allowing his staff to spring free before her. Together, they finished taking them off, and she took him in her hand, fascinated by the heat and hardness of him—the fine length and ample thickness. It was one thing to be told of a man’s body, another to experience it. To touch him and feel him pulse in her grasp. She watched his face and thought that he had never looked more beautiful than he did now, his expression intense, his eyes dark and smoldering. She wanted to slow down and would have preferred more love play, but this was not the time for it. This first time had to be fast.

Her mother had been right. They would be lovers. This wouldn’t—couldn’t—be a one-time happening. She didn’t yet know what final form it would take, but there would be other meetings, other nights, and time enough for lingering passion.

She leaned toward him, letting her turgid nipples brush his chest and sucking in her breath at the electric sensation. “Now, Andrew. I need you now,” she whispered in his ear.

He nuzzled her neck and lightly nipped it. “Soon.”

“Now,” she whispered again and took his mouth completely, thrusting her tongue deeply. She pulled him back on top of her, spreading her legs and allowing the wet heat of her to unfold to him. Reaching between them, she took his manhood, rubbing the tip of it against her. It felt so unbelievably good, and she moaned softly.

It was his undoing. He slipped in among the folds and thrust. She gasped, and he stopped to look down upon her. “Are you hurt?”

“It has been a long time,” she whispered, her breath harsh.

“I’ll slow down.”

“No!”

Andrew pressed forward. She was so tight, as tight as Caroline been had the first time. “Are you sure?”

“All of you!” she cried.

He sank completely into her. It didn’t feel quite right, but he was beyond caring. “Miranda,” he murmured against the ivory flesh of her throat. He felt the tension there. She wasn’t with him. He leaned on his arms to watch her face and moved slowly, waiting for the moment that it would open again, pleasure erasing the pain.

Miranda tried to breathe slowly and not to whimper. Her mother had said the pain was brief, but it seemed to go on and on. When he began to move, he did not withdraw fully and thrust. Instead, he eased back, then pressed slowly downward, deep and then not as deep, over and over, his hips undulating. This held him inside of her, but also kept his body in constant and most intimate contact with hers. Before long, a breathtaking sensation began to build and seep through her every sinew, slowly obliterating the pain.

She was submerged in warmth and sweetness, and she opened to him, her body seeming to know just what to do. Her hips moved with his, and their breath fell into the same rhythm, the sound a symphony to her. She trembled like the strings of a violin, and he was the bow, coaxing pure, melodious sighs and moans from her throat. He countered them, the rich, cello bass of his own voice taking up the harmony. Onward he took her, still slowly but somehow more intensely, until the sensation burst into a wild crescendo and there was nothing in the world but the music of their joining.

And afterward, just as at the finish of a symphony, there was a hushed silence occupied by all they felt but could never put into words. In the quiet of the night, their breathing steadied, the sweat of their bodies evaporated and cooled them, and they lingered together in perfect peace and contentment.

After a while, Andrew moved away and smoothed a strand of hair from her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She wanted to cry. She wanted so to tell him what she had given him. Instead, she shook her head. “It has just been a very long time. George was sick for so long. But it was good, Andrew, so very, very good.”

He leaned on one elbow to see her more clearly. “Mmm…so very good.” Then, with a sigh, he added, “I shouldn’t have stayed inside of you.”

She ran her fingers over the smooth, taut skin on his chest. “No, I wanted it this way. It should be fine; the timing was as safe as possible. But we will have to be more careful in the future. No children, Andrew.” It hurt to say it. Until this moment, Miranda had never understood why her mother had chosen to bear such shame and sacrifice all security to be with the man she loved. Now, she understood with excruciating clarity.

The candle lighting the room was beginning to sputter in its holder, and Miranda rose to fetch another taper, careful to keep the top sheet pulled up over the bottom where they had lain together. When she returned and touched the second taper to the flame of the first, Andrew drew the covers back to allow her to return to bed. There, in the light of the two candles, he stared at the blood-smeared bedding and knew beyond a doubt that something, indeed, had not been right.

It had happened so fast. There wasn’t any time to stop him from what he had done. Miranda stared down at the stains, and suddenly felt very naked and terribly cold. Quickly, she blew out the old candle and replaced it with the new in the holder, then turned and picked her night-rail up from the floor. She slipped it over her head, afraid to look at him.

Finally, she heard him take a deep breath, and it stuttered once in his chest as he released it. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know how to explain,” she answered, her voice soft.

“But—”

He stopped, and she found the courage to face him. The look in his eyes was one of pleading. His was the face of a man torn in half, a man who wanted the truth and feared it all at once.

“You already know, don’t you?” she asked.

Andrew looked away, shoving the covers back over the spot. “George was already sick when you married, yes? He had—problems.”

“If that is what you wish to believe, I won’t deny it,” she said.

He bolted from the bed and walked, nude, to the window. His body was a wonder against the moonlight, and Miranda wanted to go to him, but she couldn’t seem to move. Then he pounded a fist against the window frame.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Miranda! I wanted you myself the very moment I laid eyes on you. You were my brother’s wife, and I wanted you all the same! What man wouldn’t?”

“Andrew—”

He turned upon her with a look of venomous hatred. “God
damn
Reginald Toller! God damn him straight to hell! And damn
you
! What sort of woman tolerates such filth in her own house? Makes
friends
with her husband’s perverted, half-man lover?”

“Do you really want to know? I’ll tell you, but only if you promise to listen. If you’ve made up your mind to hate me, to defile your brother’s memory—”