The Desperate Love of a Lord (4 page)

It had to be her.

Mayer? He was sure the name had some connection to her. He knew it for some reason. But why would she change her name, and why go by Mrs and not by her title?

What or who was she running or hiding from? Him?

All he felt inside was confusion.

His boot slipped on the cobble, making him stumble, but he didn’t fall. He slowed his pace. The mist was clinging to his coat and in his hair. All he could really see was the ground beneath his boots and an eerie glow reaching through the murky grey from any lights burning in the shop windows as he walked further up Queen St. He turned into Quiet St, his hands curling into fists in his now damp greatcoat. Lamplight shone through the grey, drawing his eyes to a small jewellers shop on the left. The shop attendant was busy lifting trays of rings from the window.

A deep seated need pulled Geoff toward it and he pushed the door open. A bell rang above it. The shop assistant, who was leaning over slipping trays into drawers, looked up sharply, then straightened. “We are just closing, sir.”

“My Lord,” Geoff corrected, “and I am just going to make a purchase. You’ll stay open. I want a ring, an engagement ring.” When he found Violet, he was not letting her escape again. She would know how he felt if he had already thought of this.

“My Lord,” the man acknowledged bowing slightly, and then he bent down again and lifted a tray from below then placed it on the shop counter.

“I want sapphires. She has blue eyes. Sapphires and diamonds.”

The shop assistant lifted one eyebrow but bent again, then set another tray beside the other. “Their maybe something here you like, my Lord.”

Geoff scanned the rings nestled in midnight blue velvet. They glinted at him all calling to be picked. Ruby, emerald… Sapphire. He knew most of Violet’s jewellery was sapphires. Sapphires must be her preference.

A ring stood out. The gold was woven like threads with blue and clear stones shining from between the strands. Sapphires and diamonds. He picked it up. It was tiny to his large hand.

A memory of once playing with one of her rings, crept into his thoughts. It had been a long time ago, just after he’d met her, when she’d seemed like an ethereal being, all testing, brash confidence and beauty.

He slipped the ring onto the tip of his little finger and tried to visualise the comparison to when he had done the same with one of her rings. It seemed a similar size.

It had to be the choice. The one meant for her. It would fit perfectly.

“I’ll take this one.”

The attendant set it in a velvet bed, in a leather box, and passed it to Geoff as Geoff handed him the money.

The shop bell rang again as Geoff left.

When he’d tried one of Violet’s rings on, it had been the first night he’d slept with her. He walked back to the inn through the mist, remembering that night.

She’d propositioned him. He’d been looking. But she’d spoken.

She had walked past him and run her fingertips across his midriff. Then across the room she’d fluttered her fan and looked over the top as he’d stood transfixed for an age.

She was stunningly beautiful.

When he’d made no move after an hour she’d worked her way about the room, stopping here and there talking and laughing, and then she had walked up to him.

Her fan had snapped shut and then she had tapped his arm, and she’d said with a seductive smile and a glint in her eyes, “You look like a man who enjoys his entertainment, Sparks. I bet you play a good hand. Do you fancy a game?” Of course she had not been speaking of cards.

His heart had thumped as he’d answered. “Where?”

“My house I think. I do not fancy your bachelor apartments.”

God he could still remember the sudden heat which had burned in his veins and the weight in his groin at the very idea.

She was bold and domineering, and he had been bloody devoted.

In the carriage she had not let him touch her or kiss her, all the time building a burning tension between them.

He’d been constantly aware of where her hands were. When they’d brushed the fabric of her dress he’d felt a tremor run through him.

He’d been even more aware of the lift and fall of her bodice as she’d breathed, while she laid out the rules. “You are not to read any favour into it, Sparks, you understand…”

He’d nodded, not giving a damn, just thinking of lifting her bloody skirt. He’d heard how good she was, rumours about her had circulated men’s clubs. He knew others she’d been with, and no one ever complained about her rules.

“I wish to be treated well, Sparks. I do not expect to be looked at as if I am your discarded linen after this.”

He could remember smiling at that. She could hardly be compared to dirty linen, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes on.

“We are equals in this, I do not wish you plying me with prose or…”

She had rambled on the whole way, drawing lines in the sand he wasn’t supposed to cross. When they’d reached her house he’d climbed down first and offered his hand. She’d accepted it, her small fingers clutching his. They were so delicate.

They’d had a nightcap and then he’d thought it time to take the reins from her hands. He’d lifted her glass from her fingers and covered her mouth with his to shut her up.
Violet.
He ached to kiss her now as he remembered.

That first time had been sheer bliss. It had never been the same with other women, and he’d had other women before and after. There had been several casual liaisons since, but none quite like the first. She had been fire and ice, and earth and wind that night.

The first time he’d taken her had been on the floor in her drawing-room, with a fire blazing beside them, its light warming her skin and turning it amber. But before he’d gone that far she had been on her knees worshipping him in a way a decent woman should not, her fingers running over his torso and brushing over the hairs on his thighs like she simply could not get enough of him.

When he’d pressed into her heat, an uncontrollable hunger had ripped through him, and he couldn’t get deep enough or work fast enough. It had been excruciating, delicious, blissful pleasure. He’d driven into her like an unleashed animal and she’d cried out as her fingernails clawed into his skin. He’d made her break numerous times, with her thighs gripping his hips and the breath of her cries caressing his neck.

His coming had been something monumental but not the end of their first night. Their second encounter had come after half a bottle of wine, which they’d shared lying naked before the fire. It had been in a chair. He could still feel her sitting astride him and undulating in a rhythm which had enthralled. His fingertips had pressed into her thighs, while she had bitten his neck.

There had been a third time. In the morning. In her bed. That time had been achingly slow and beautiful and he’d felt the tremors of her pleasure racing through her body as he’d touched the skin covering her ribs and seen in the daylight just how beautiful the magnificent woman was.

She’d bathed while he’d languished in her bed, watching, mesmerised by her lack of care for others opinions. Her maid and the footmen had come and gone, filling a bath for her, while he’d remained in her bed.

Before she’d got into the tub, she’d taken off the rings which she’d worn the night before and left them on the chest beside her bed. He’d picked one up, surprised by just how tiny it was and played with it while she talked, laughing at him from her relaxed pose in the water.

Even then he’d known what a precious thing he’d found.

~

The fog had finally lifted and sun glowed through the parlour window. Its brightness reminded Violet of her breakfast parlour at home. The windows there always caught the morning sunlight. But that was her old house, and her old life. It was no longer home. Yet the sunlight made her feel restless, and called her outside. She had never done so little in her life.

After the last few days of loneliness and boredom, she was willing to admit how much she missed the parties and the people – as well as Geoff. Yet once the child came, she would be fine. She was not worried that this was a life sentence. It was merely adjusting from the old to the new. But there were three more months before the child would come.

Anxiety and impatience rattled through her nerves, battling. She wished the child here and yet, she did not. She was afraid of becoming a mother… She had no idea how to be a mother… But she longed to be one… Her fingers spread across the rise of the bump in her stomach slipping over her muslin dress as if comforting the child to tell it, it was loved.

“Janet, I think I shall go for a walk.” Violet spoke to her maid, putting down the book she’d been reading. It had failed to hold her attention, she’d merely read the same page thrice.

“Did you wish me to accompany you, Ma’am?”

“Not today, Janet. Just fetch my bonnet and cloak.” She felt too much like weeping. Besides, this was a small village and she was a widow, no one would care if she walked alone. After all she was Mrs Mayer here, not Lady Rimes.

Her fingers settled on her stomach as she walked to the window and looked out, stroking the taut convex curve before falling away. The street outside was busy. People were hurrying about their business. She wished for somewhere or someone to hurry to.

“Ma’am?”

Violet turned. Janet held up her cloak and settled it on Violet’s shoulders. Violet tied the tapes in a bow, then took her bonnet from Janet’s hands and put it on. As she tied the ribbons, she was suddenly disorientated.

It was so strange to be wearing all this black, only a few weeks ago she’d persuaded Jane to give hers up, and now here Violet was masking herself, hiding behind it – lying.

Oh she was feeling melancholy today and this ill mood would do the child no good. She would walk and breathe in some fresh air and enjoy the prettiness of her new surroundings and force her heart to be glad again.

She took her gloves from Janet and slipped them on. “Thank you.” Then she nodded and turned to leave. Janet hurried to open the door and held it as Violet walked out.

The sunshine immediately touched her face, warming her skin a little. The autumn day was chilly, but now the fog had gone, in the sunlight, it was not harshly cold.

The summer had been long this year, and hot. She’d spent several hours of it walking with Jane. She wished Jane were here.

A time they’d walked in Hyde Park came to mind. They’d seen Barrington’s niece. Mary was a pretty little thing.

Suspecting her own condition but denying it wholeheartedly at the time, Violet had been enchanted. It was the first moment she had let herself accept the possibility and hope.

She thought of Jane as she walked about the village, peering into the bakers and milliners shop windows, and then wandering on; smiling at anyone who smiled at her, and greeting them if they spoke. She didn’t know many people yet, bar her neighbours. If she’d have been in London now, she would have called on friends. But she was not in London.

If only Jane had not married Barrington, Violet could have asked Jane to visit and she would have come. But Violet could hardly ask Jane to keep the secret from Barrington, he was Geoff’s close friend. Her friendship with Jane was another casualty of this muddle. She could neither write nor ask Jane to come and none of Violet’s other friends could be trusted to keep a secret.

Isolation settled on Violet’s shoulders like a second cloak, as she walked on through the people busy shopping in the market square, away from the inns. She had a desire to seek a more silent place to sulk and suffer her heartache.

This was so foolish. She’d made this choice for good reason. Her hand touched her stomach. It was not her way to mope. She forced a smile and tried to lighten the mood in her heart, walking on down a side street. Then she turned left at the narrow cobbled ford which crossed to a row of cottages on the far side. She looked at the stepping-stones but instead decided to turn left and carry-on up the hill where the cottages grew sparser.

Violet laughed suddenly, remembering how she’d accused Barrington of toying with Jane. Barrington would laugh now if he saw how far Violet had tumbled from her pedestal.

Reaching a wooden gate at the entrance of a field, where a deep cart rut was cut in the meadow, from hundreds of loads and horses passing through over centuries of use, Violet leaned her elbows on the top bar and looked out across the long grass.

Another wash of pain and misery swept over her in a wave as she thought of Geoff.

~

Geoffrey arrived in Lacock in time for a late luncheon. He ate in the Black Horse Inn. His stomach growling as the serving maid set down his meal. He’d eaten far too little these last few days.

He looked up as the plate touched the beer stained table. “Do you know Mrs Meyer who has recently moved into the Village?” The name the agent had given him, felt foolish on his tongue. There was no feeling in his chest when he said it.

The maid shook her head. “Will you ask the other staff in the inn if they have?”

She nodded, as Geoff picked up his knife and fork. When she walked away he began to eat, merely filling his stomach to start his search again. He had no appetite.

When the maid returned to collect his empty tankard and plate, he said, “Has anyone heard of her? Do they know where she lives?”

“No, sir. No one’s ‘eard of ‘er.”

Had he come chasing after a ghost? What if Mrs Meyer wasn’t even Violet? “Thank you.” Tossing a couple of coins onto the table, in a gesture of gratitude, he stood, and then left.

As the door dropped shut behind him, he faced the street uncertain what to do. He’d had a hard ride through the fog to get here. He’d set out at daybreak. Now he’d never have known it had been foggy. The sun was bright.

He saw another inn along the street, The King’s Head. Perhaps someone at that inn might know of Mrs Meyer. When he walked in he leaned on the bar and asked the man behind it, “Do you know where Mrs Meyer lives. She is new to the village.”

“No, sir. What can I get you?”

“Nothing. That is all.” Again he dropped some coins on the counter and then walked out.