A Lady Awakened (13 page)

Now two paces … now one …
His right hand rose of its own accord and fitted itself to her breast as she reached him. The nipple lay soft, as always, in the palm of his glove, but no matter. She’d planned this. She’d spent time thinking of what he would want. She’d probably chosen the dressing-gown she supposed he would like best, and she’d put it off immediately because she knew he would like that even better. She’d felt fear and gone ahead anyway, and this kind of effort, a man could live with. He could live with a great deal of it.

She had no idea what to do next—he could feel that—so he sent his other hand round to the small of her back, and gathered her in. Her body was relaxing in the shelter he made, letting go the tension that had so tightly strung her, and she felt … Oh, but she felt splendid against him, naked where he was clothed. Thighs against his trousers. Chest against his coat. Breast curved neatly in his palm. Neither of them had spoken since his entrance into the room, but he suddenly had something important to say.

“I’m not going to make it to the bed. Do you mind the floor very much?”

She shook her head and he bore them both down to the carpet, one hand already working his trouser-buttons free. For a moment she looked vulnerable as a butterfly, pinned to the floor underneath him, wide-eyed, uncertain, exposed. Her bare toes brushed against his boots and then he was in her, the freed buttons pressing marks into her flesh with each thrust. There would be marks on her back, too, rasped in by the rug—he ought to prevent those; ought to take some care; maybe cradle her up off the floor just enough to—but she slipped her hands under his coat,
trying
again, and then—oh, God—hitched up her legs and locked them round his hips.

And he was lost. He gripped her shoulders and ravished, hard and quick, half expecting her to cry out in protest, but she only seized his shirt in handfuls and wound her legs tighter.

Yes. Take it. Take it all. Don’t refuse me. Take every last foul bit
. He plunged, again and again, into a frenzy of lust and shame and blessed, blessed relief. She didn’t refuse. She didn’t recoil. She kept his shirt tight in her fists and stayed with him as he gave her everything, everything he had to give from every bright and dark place in his soul, until nothing remained to give but the seed, and he gave it, and sank down, and lay still.

*  *  *

W
ELL
. S
HE
hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t really known what to expect, but … Well.

He appeared a bit stunned by it himself. He lay as though lifeless on top of her, his head sunk heavy past her shoulder. “Forgive me,” he muttered stiffly after a minute or two.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” If he knew how she had feared this act wouldn’t happen again, he would surely laugh.

“Yes, there is.” He rolled off her, onto his side, and fumbled at his trousers, putting his parts away. “I’m sure I’ve left you raw in more places than one.” His eyes sank from hers for a moment, to find the first few buttons, and when he looked up again he must have seen her confusion. “If your back doesn’t sting already, it will soon.”

Her back. That seemed unlikely. But who was she to question?—undoubtedly he was better versed in these things than she would ever be.

“I’m truly sorry.” His voice softened and slowed. His eyes looked stricken. “I’m not like that, usually.”

“I didn’t mind it. It went quickly.”

His head dropped back to the floor and he sighed. “No, I pride myself, usually, on leaving a lady with something more to delight in than the brevity of my attentions.”

Delight
was a strong word. But admittedly one might have use, in certain hours, for the memory of his quick, furious surrender. The desperate need with which he’d come to her, almost as though he were seeking some carnal salvation. One might fold these qualities in with one’s collection of vague imagined scenes for reviewing in private, and one might find some pleasure there.

No need to say so to him. She bent her knees up to tilt her hips. “Can I trouble you to fetch a pillow before you go?”

“I’ve no intention of leaving you stunned and naked on your sitting-room floor.” The suggestion brought him out of his pensive manner: he hauled himself to his knees.

“I’m not stunned,” she began, but before she could get further he was bent over her, and then one of his arms was cradling up her shoulders, and one hooking under her knees, and the carpet receded beneath her as he rose to his feet. Without comment, as though he frequently managed women this way, he carried her to the bed and used one knee to pull back the covers. Then he set her down, arranged the pillow, and drew the covers over her.

I didn’t give you permission to do that
, said some unruly part of her, but she shushed it. He looked odd, lingering at her bedside. Not so blithe as usual, not so sanguine. Probably still berating himself for using her so hard as he’d done.

She might grant him a kind of pardon. Why not? “Will you stay for a few minutes?” She moved over and touched her hand to the empty side of the bed. “You look as though you could use a rest. And I’d be glad of the company.” Not entirely untrue.

It was the right thing to say. One could see a weight come off his shoulders and his troubled brow. He sat, wordlessly, on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. Then his coat. He let it fall on the floor and climbed under the covers, otherwise completely clothed.

What could have cut him up so? Really, the coupling had not been so bad. “You’ve had a trying day, I think.” She studied his profile. Maybe he’d like to confide.

He laughed, a sharp exhalation with very little voice. “Darling, you can’t imagine.”

If you’d just tell me, I wouldn’t have to
. She let that rebellious thought float up and away. He wasn’t her husband. He had no obligation to share anything with her. “I’m sorry for it,” she said.

“Don’t you be sorry, when you’re the one with a back rubbed raw on the carpet.” The covers went slack as he twisted toward her. His eyes raked back and forth, working to read her face. He took a breath. “You were afraid of me, I think.”

“Not at all. I never have been.”

“What was it, then?” With a jerk of his chin, he indicated the other room. “You looked near to illness, approaching me. You’ve never looked like that before.”

“Oh. Yes. Well.” She swallowed, and felt the color rising in her cheeks all over again. “Of course I was afraid you would refuse me, and end our bargain.”

But that wasn’t the whole truth, and he knew it. He waited, his eyes steady on hers now. In the silence he touched two gloved knuckles to her arm and stroked just above the elbow.
Stop that
. No. She wouldn’t wound him with any objection.

“Also, I suppose I was afraid of appearing ridiculous.” A few at a time, she got the words out, her voice awkward even to her own ears. “I have not been in the habit of doing such things. I feared this would be obvious to you, and you would find me ridiculous as a result.”

Already he was struggling to keep a smile in check. She pressed her own lips together, and trained her attention on the canopy, and submitted to the quiet caress of kid leather against her arm. “Ridiculous,” he repeated. “Do you think you looked ridiculous?”

“Yes. I do think so.” Like some clown’s pantomime of a wanton, lurching clumsily through such foreign motions. Her cheeks might burst into flame at the memory.

“Was my response, in your recollection, the response of a man who found you ridiculous?” Still that smile laced itself through his every word, though he was clearly striving for gravity.

She allowed herself a glance at him. “I think I may have overestimated what would be your discrimination in this matter.”

“Oh, very nice.” The smile spread unconstrained to all quarters of his face. “And now you see me to be a mere gluttonous beast, do you? A pig who doesn’t notice whether his trough be full of trifle and sweetmeats or spoilt curds and potato peels.”

“I certainly shouldn’t go that far. I don’t think you’re at all like a pig.”

“Quite right.” He stretched out on his back with a satisfied air. “More in common with a horse. Or so the ladies say.”

That was in exceedingly poor taste. One oughtn’t to find it amusing. But she understood his mood. Each of them had feared the bargain was irreparably damaged, and each was giddily relieved to have salvaged it. “I’m glad to see your spirits are restored.” She brushed a hand over her mouth. Sympathy or no, her smile, if he glimpsed it, would only encourage him to a hundred more advertisements of his masculine largesse.

“For the moment, because I’m occupied with agreeable topics.” Sideways he addressed her, his head pressed back into the pillow. “I expect my morale to sink again once I’m at home and back to the grind.”

So that was the trouble. With new resolve she angled herself toward him. “Is it so dismal, studying the management of an estate? I recall you saying such study suited you.”

“Yes, I hoped to create a good impression. I didn’t realize yet how little you cared for my respectability.” A smile flickered over his lips, but found no purchase. “The truth is I have neither interest in nor aptitude for this subject. Mr. Granville has both. Why should he be burdened with teaching me what I don’t value, and why must I spend my hours in learning responsibilities I never intend to assume? Land agents exist so that gentlemen may be spared all this care and tedium, I’m sure.”

How to word this constructively? She frowned at the far wall. “I consider you rather fortunate to be under his tutelage.” No reproach. Only suggestion. “Sometimes I think men don’t properly appreciate their privileges. If I were lucky enough to have someone teach me about land, I’m sure I should do my best to learn.”

He pivoted toward her again, and this time came up on one elbow. “Are you in earnest? You really find this business interesting?”

“Of course I do. It’s the best work a person in your station, or mine, can have: to make the land fruitful, and benefit all the people who live upon it, and demonstrate that we were born for something better than leisure.”

“What an odd little woman you are.” He picked up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between kid-sheathed fingers, watching her gravely all the while. Hair against a glove made a soft squeaking sound. “I wish you wouldn’t ever wear a cap,” he said.

Always, he would turn a conversation to corporeal matters. The fact wasn’t nearly so distressing now she knew to expect it. “I’m in mourning.”

“Yes, I know.” No glimmer of a smile; he looked as solemn as an archbishop. “But I wish you wouldn’t wear it. I like the sight of your hair.”

“Well … perhaps I could take it off before you come to call.” A small concession. No great breach of propriety. “If you think to do so would be useful.”

“I’d like that.” His voice was low, nearly a whisper.

“Then I’ll try to remember, in future.” Her own voice went low too.

“Yes,” he said, and brought the lock of hair to his lips. “Do that. Try.”

Chapter Six

H
AVE YOU
had much conversation with Mr. Mirkwood?” Martha spread her fingers to hold the map firmly against the schoolroom wall.

“Almost none. You?” Mr. Atkins had tacks in his mouth; she probably oughtn’t to ask him questions.

“A little. He called last week. We’ve spoken a bit.” She steadied her stance on the chair. The more untruths one scattered, the harder it was to keep track of them. But then she’d come here with an untruth as her purpose; with the flatly false news of a letter from Mr. James Russell approving the school. And Mr. Atkins, of course, had believed her and commenced to celebrate by putting up things on the walls.

“And what impressions have you formed?” he said now in his tack-impeded way.

There was the question, certainly. She could have answered with ease a week ago. Now she hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m acquainted enough to judge. He seems a good-natured man, but one does hear certain reports of what were his habits and pastimes in London.”

The tacks clicked out onto the curate’s palm. “I try to put little stock in such gossip. People have a way of rising, or sinking, to meet one’s expectations. And he is, I think, a very young man. Still forming himself.” He set a tack and lifted the hammer in his other hand.