Edith Layton (23 page)

He danced with dragons, he laughed at rubbish, he smiled at stupid jests and complimented gorgons. He’d have fed himself to them, in small pieces, to win his name back for himself. And her.

“You’re doing well,” his father told him at din
ner. “I won’t say they entirely believe the change in you. But they’re willing to accept you. My name,” he said with obvious satisfaction, “still means something after all.”

“Indeed, it does,” Wycoff said, putting his fork down. “I wonder if mine ever will again.”

“It will,” his father said, “Aren’t you eating?”

“I haven’t? I thought I was,” Wycoff said on a soft laugh.

“No, you’re too busily worrying. You’re very unsure of yourself. Astonishing. But you know? I like you like this.”

He smiled at his father. “I do, too.”

The guests rose from dinner and danced again. Wycoff didn’t get to say one word to Lucy, beyond “Good evening” when Damon brought her over to chat with him. She smiled up at him with pure pleasure. He saw the second she remembered their situation, and watched the joy fade from her eyes and a shadow come into them. But then he suddenly saw fear there.

She looked up, past his shoulder. “And here is my late husband’s brother and his wife,” she said dully. “Lord and Lady Hunt, here is Lord Wycoff. But you know each other, don’t you?”

“In passing,” Wycoff said, sketching a bow. “How have you been keeping, Hunt? Good evening, my lady.”

They both hesitated, as though he was still the man no respectable gentleman would care to have near his lady.

“Hunt,” the old earl said, as he strolled up to them. “Madam,” he added with a brief look at Lady Alice. “Have you met my son? Newly returned from America, with many a rare tale to tell. On that head—Wycoff, my boy, did I tell you? Creighton and his lady want us to dinner Thursday evening. Can you make it?”

“I’m afraid not, Father. We’re promised to Dunsany then, remember?”

The baron Hunt’s drooping eyes widened. He’d just heard the names of two of the foremost gentlemen in the ton. Wycoff subdued a grin, enjoying his father’s private jest, wondering if the Duke of Creighton had even heard of him, and hoping Dunsany was still alive.

His father’s name still meant something. After that, the Hunts were pleased to exchange inane civilities with him. But Lucy looked troubled when they strolled away together. White-faced, she gazed back at him over her shoulder as she was led off. Wycoff clenched his teeth. Was it William Bellows? Something someone had said?

“It grows late,” his father said. “Too late for my old bones. I’ll leave you now.”

“Are you staying with me?” Wycoff asked.

“No, with old Abbington. He hasn’t seen me for years, I’ve promised myself to him. I’ll see you before long. I won’t leave London for a space yet, I think. It’s far too interesting now.” He hesitated. “Hathaway? You please me. Good night,” he said, and walked away.

“Good night,” Wycoff echoed, but his eyes were roving the ballroom for another glimpse of Lucy. He wasn’t happy when he got it. When their eyes met, he realized she’d been searching the ballroom for a glimpse of him, too. She was still pale and troubled. Was it because she’d seen him talking to Lady Turner? But surely she’d seen him leave her so abruptly? He yearned to go to her and ask, immediately, but couldn’t ruin what he’d spent this evening and so many days working for: his reputation. Especially as concerned her.

She was still with her brother-in-law and his wife. How could he speak to her alone without their seeing and hearing it, or worse, speculating about what was said? It was late, but the ball still wound on. Like all fashionable events in London, it wouldn’t end until dawn. He clenched his jaw, fighting frustration. He couldn’t speak to her privately here; he couldn’t meet her at her hotel either. No matter how late it was, no one was ever unobserved in London, any hour of day or night. He couldn’t visit her until he knew he wouldn’t bring disgrace to her. Then he’d more than visit. He’d offer her his hand again, this time with a clear head and heart, and name. She deserved no less.

But she obviously wanted to speak to him now. She kept staring at him. She finally tilted her head, pointedly looked toward the outer hall, and back to him again. He stifled a groan, though he almost smiled. What a terrible conspirator she was. How he loved her for it. Although he was afraid half the
room had seen her obvious gesture, he nevertheless slowly strolled to the outer hall and lingered there in a dim corner of it, as though inspecting a picture on the wall.

“I have to talk to you,” she whispered the moment she appeared beside him. “Something’s happened that I have to talk about. I can’t wait till morning. I know it seems rash—Oh Lord, when was I ever not rash? But I have to talk with someone or I’ll run mad!”

“
Someone
?” he asked. He had to hear that much of an admission from her at least.

“You,” she admitted.

He nodded, and thought quickly. “Not here,” he said, turning to shield her from the eyes of a few partygoers waiting for footmen to bring them their hats, wraps, and walking sticks. “Nor your hotel. God, Lucy, at least tell me what it is, so I can sleep until morning, when I can find a way for us to meet—at the Park, or the Tower, or the Palace, if it comes to that.”

She looked up at him, her face a pale oval in the weak wash of reflected gaslight. But he could clearly see her distress.

“They want to take Jamie from me,” she said.

He stared. He made up his mind. He took a deep breath, and nodded. “All right. You’re right. It can’t wait until morning. Luckily,” he said on a bitter chuckle, “I have some experience in things like this. Now listen, Lucy. Tell your brother-in-law you’re feeling unwell. Go back to the hotel. But not to
sleep. When they’ve left you, slip out the side entrance. Alone, without your maid, or anyone. You’ll be safe enough. It’s a good district, well watched. Which is why you must wait at the side. I’ll send a coach for you. The driver will come to fetch you. The only place we can meet is at my townhouse.”

It seemed to him her face grew paler. “I’ll be a gentleman,” he said abruptly, “but be aware that if you’re observed, your reputation will be ruined.”

“I’m no girl,” she said defiantly.

“You are however, a lady. Widow or not, a respectable female does
not
go to a gentleman’s house alone by night. If anyone knew, your reputation would be ruined. I’d offer you my name in that case. I’ve offered it before, if you recall. But mind, this time, if you’re seen, you’ll no longer have a choice about whether you want to accept it.”

“I’ll be careful, no one will see,” she promised.

“It’s London, everything is seen,” he warned her. “Someone is always looking. So take care you’re not observed. I’ll leave now. You follow soon after. Don’t worry, we’ll sort this out, whatever it is, I promise,” he said grimly.

But his heart sung. She had a problem. He’d help her with it. She needed him now. That much, at least, he had. The rest, he’d have to see to. But she needed him.

S
he wore a long cloak with a voluminous hood that covered her hair. Lucy stood at Wycoff’s front door, looking like a figure out of history, a ghost of a lady from an ancient night.

“Come in,” Wycoff said softly, taking her hand, “I’ve sent the footmen to bed, and locked Perkins in his quarters.” His smile faded at the look on her face. “Don’t worry, no one here will see you. Lucy, come in, we don’t want anyone else to see you either.”

She swept in past him, leaving the faint heady perfume of her signature scent of heliotrope. He closed his eyes to get his wits back.

“I know I shouldn’t have come here,” she said when he turned to her again. “But perhaps I wasn’t so rash, after all,” she added with fragile dignity.
“Sometimes it’s only prudent to seize an opportunity. I had to speak with you.”

“Come,” he said, took her hand and led her to his study, and closed the door behind them.

The house was still as the dreaming night around them. Lucy stood irresolute, as much impressed by this clearly personal inner sanctum as she was by her own bravery for coming here. It was a big room with a high ceiling, but didn’t look cavernous because of the furnishings. They were simple, expensive and substantial. The huge hearth was cold, the long windows curtained against the night. She could see walls of shelves filled with books, a handsome desk, a leather Porter’s chair, and a long settee of the kind made popular by Madame Recamier, by the fireside. It was as effortlessly elegant, masculine, and interesting as its owner.

“Give me your cape,” he said. “I’ll light a fire. Your hand was freezing, and it’s striking chill. Sit down,” he told her, motioning to the settee. He picked up a tinderbox and knelt before the hearth.

Lucy sat, gingerly, and removed her gloves.

A flame shot up, quickly rising to a blue sheet that covered the logs. A moment later the fire blazed orange and began its crackling song, filling the room with the sweet, fresh scent of apple wood. Wycoff nodded in satisfaction. “Port?” he asked as he rose and went to a cabinet. He slid back a panel, exposing a trio of decanters. “Whiskey? Sherry?” he asked. “Damnation, Lucy, have something bracing, I don’t
want you falling into a swoon. You look as though you might. I won’t attack you—or is it that you’re afraid I won’t? Better.” He forced a chuckle at her expression. “Indignation suits you better than stark terror.”

“Sherry,” she whispered.

He handed her a goblet, poured one for himself, and came to sit opposite her in the Porter’s chair. The hood of the chair rose over him like a canopy, making him look like a king or conqueror granting an audience. He cradled his goblet in his long fingers, and leaned toward her, watching. “Now,” he said, “tell me.”

“They want to take Jamie from me,” she said again, the hand holding her glass trembling.

“Who?” he asked quietly.

“The Baron and his wife. Francis’s brother.” Her words came in a rush. “They want to raise Jamie as their own. They’re determined people, Wycoff. They have money and power. But the thing of it is that Jamie can have that, too, if I agree. What shall I do?”

Her voice was thick with emotion; she shook her head, and stared into her glass. The amber liquid was shivering as much as she was. “I thought I’d never even so much as entertain the idea,” she whispered, “but now I wonder if I’d hurt Jamie by keeping him. They can offer him so much more. You see, they can’t have a child, they said, and Jonathan’s very taken with Jamie. So is his wife.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “So there you are,” she concluded, quavering on the last word.

“Not quite,” he said, setting down his glass. “Tell me more.”

“Oh, Wycoff,” she cried, “what more is there to say? They don’t want me—well, why should they? They offer me ‘freedom,’ they said. Because”—she avoided his gaze—“they think that you and I—They think they’re doing me a favor by ridding me of my obligations. As if Jamie was ever that!” The rising firelight showed glistening tears in her eyes. “Everything I’ve done since the day he was born has been for him, and I want to keep doing for him as long as he needs me. I need him. I couldn’t hurt him, not for the world. He’s all the world to me. But that’s the point! Does he need me now? What can I offer him?” she asked wildly. “They can
give
him the world, don’t you see?”

“You can give him everything he needs,” he said. “None better, believe me. He’d say so, too. Love is more important than wealth or ease. As to those things, if you’d only say yes to me, I’d help you with finances. If you can’t—?” He shrugged. “I’ll help you anyway. You must know that. So don’t fret. Forget it. It’s a cruel offer, totally self-serving. That kind of proposition isn’t good for Jamie. Listen. Jamie is yours. You are his. That’s way it shall be whether you take my offer of marriage or not. I promise you.

“It wouldn’t be charity,” he said before she could answer. “I want to see you two together, and I like having my way. There wouldn’t be obligations. Because you’re a friend. I suspect you’d do the same
for me were conditions reversed. Because it’s the only right thing. Do
you
see?”

She nodded. “I do, and I thank you,” she said, drawing herself up. She gave him the shadow of a smile. “But I don’t need your money, Wycoff. I needed your advice. William only told me what suited him. My mama is—gone from London now. I value your opinion. More, I trust you. You saved me from myself on shipboard; I knew you could do it again. I needed peace of mind. You’re right,” she said, on a long shaking breath, “I
can
support my son, mind and body. I needed support to believe that, though. Thank you for it.”

But though she smiled and her voice was stronger, he frowned to see tears overspilling her eyes, glinting, shimmering in the subtle lamplight. They troubled him. He couldn’t think while she was weeping. He came to sit beside her.

He reached out and touched a teardrop with one long finger, brushing it away. She looked at him with such heartbreak that he stroked her cheek, to comfort her, trying to assure her, wordlessly, that he would help. But the feel of her smooth skin under his finger sent shivers up his arm and down his back. So he bent his head to her upturned face, and kissed her gently, sweetly, carefully, to tell her how much he cared. The feel of those soft, trembling lips beneath his undid him, entirely.

She offered him her lips, he felt as though he was taking her soul. Her mouth was warm, delicious, fragrant. Her body in his arms was everything he’d
remembered, everything he wanted. So he dropped his hands, and drew away from her.

“That’s not gratitude,” he murmured, with relief. “I can’t be mistaken about that. It is what I think we both want.”

She nodded, as though mesmerized, her eyes brilliant, fixed on his lips.

“But make no mistake,” he added softly, watching every nuance of her expression. “If you kiss me like that again, Lucy, I will not give you up again, do you understand me?”

She nodded again.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think you do. I’ll make love to you, completely this time. I won’t let you go again. I’ll help you keep Jamie whatever you decide about me, on my solemn oath. But if you let me make love to you, you must marry me. That’s my forfeit, that’s the price of taking me tonight. I’ve tried to be good. But this thing between us is too much for me. No more evasion. Miracle of miracles, I’m repairing my reputation. If you marry me, we can do it faster, together. Then we’ll give Jamie double what the baron can: my fortune, and his mother, too. And maybe I can give his mother other children, too.”

His eyes were dark. “But listen well, Lucy. I will not just take your body, and not your whole life. So think hard. You can still leave. But if you stay, you must answer me now.”

“Now? But what if you don’t like me, after all’s said and done? I mean,” she said, and dropped her gaze, “in that way…you know.”

“Oh,” he said with a tender smile. “So prim suddenly? In the way of ‘you know’? Fair question. But one with a simple answer. I’ll like you in that way. God, Lucy, one of your kisses about undoes me, there’s no problem there.”

“But that’s not necessarily so,” she said, getting nervous about what she wanted to agree to. “A kiss is not…the ultimate embrace. Sometimes, when some of Francis’s friends were visiting, sitting up late, talking, and thought I’d retired for the night…I heard…”

“With a drinking glass to the wall,” he commented, delighted they were discussing this. Because she wasn’t weeping anymore. And she hadn’t said no.

“No,” she said indignantly. “They were soused and didn’t lower their voices. The point is,” she went on quickly, “that I was a married woman, and so have heard that men notice differences in women’s lovemaking and find some inadequate, or even unpleasant…. What am I saying?” she asked, eyes wide. “What am I doing? I came to ask your advice, I got it, and here we are discussing…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Discussing the ultimate embrace,” he agreed. “I’ll teach you better words, ones you can whisper low. But yes, it’s about that, too. I want you. Naked, with me, in my bed. Or on this couch. Or on the floor, by God, Lucy I want you—but I’ll only take you if you first promise to take me, as your husband. We’ll be good for each other, I don’t worry about
that. But I want you to want me for more. Odd,” he said, touching her cheek again. “By knowing you, I’ve discovered what a woman who’s only wanted for her body must feel. It’s not a good feeling.”

He took her hand and held it in his warm clasp. “Marry me or leave now. Do you trust me, or do you not? That’s what it comes down to. I begin to think I can make myself a pattern card of respectability, after all. But I also begin to see it won’t matter. It can’t come from society’s faith in me. It must come from you, and then you won’t care what gossip says, what anyone says, but me. That’s how it must be. I’ll be a faithful husband, if you let me. I promise you that. Now. Do you want me?”

“Yes,” she breathed, because it was only true.

“Do you trust me with more than an opinion?”

She looked at him. Such a man of contrasts. So aloof now. So impassioned a moment past. And in her every dream. A man whose voice alone could make her half mad with desire. But how much of it was simply desire? And how much was wisdom? And how much wisdom did she have, after all?

“I asked if you trusted me, Lucy, with your life,” he said calmly, but she saw the tension in his face. “If you don’t by now, I don’t think you ever shall. Much as I want you, I can’t—I won’t debase myself by pursuing you if you don’t. Then I’d become an annoyance. Neither of us would care for me like that.”

So clever, she thought. So kind. But a man who’d been an acknowledged adulterer for years, and now he wanted to marry her and be…?

“Do you believe in me?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

“
That
, yes.”

“Then you will marry me?”

He waited.

He was right, she thought. There was no more time for delay. But she had an answer. She’d supposed she’d known it for a long time, more time wouldn’t change it anyway. She felt as though she were about to step off the edge of an abyss. But she knew, she hoped, she prayed he would catch her. “If you will have me,” she said, shaking so hard her voice trembled.

“That was mine to say,” he said tenderly, taking her into his arms. She felt his sigh of relief ruffle her hair as he held her close in a moment of silence. His heartbeat accelerated against her own. “Good,” he whispered, against her mouth. “So now let’s not say anything more for a space, but
yes
, and
good
, and
do that again
.”

She’d told herself she’d come for advice, not lovemaking. During the terrifying ride here in the hackney coach she’d known this was possible, but had resolved not to do it. It turned out her gown was lighter even than her resolve. They had it down from her shoulders almost immediately, as soon as it got in the way of his questing mouth. She put her head back and sighed with absolute pleasure, holding his shoulders for purchase as he kissed her breast, and lingered there, tasting and teasing, until she was wild from it.

He raised her in his arms and she wriggled, assisting him. They stripped off the gown and the gauzy undergarments she wore against the chill of the night.

His mouth was hot, his hands were sure, he’d passed a lifetime learning ways to inflame her, she knew. Just being with him inflamed her more. She was thrilled with him, and her own courage. Knowing all the cold years of denial were ending at last and ended by the one man she’d wanted from the moment she’d laid eyes on him brought her even more joy.

He moved away from her at last and sat back, looking at her from hooded eyes. She was laying naked before him, alone with him with nothing but the fire as witness. He was still fully clothed. With an effort born of a confidence she hadn’t known she possessed, she kept her hands at her sides. She let him look at her body, and rejoiced at the look on his face.

She helped him pull his tightly fitted jacket off, helped unwind his neck cloth, and waited impatiently as he wrenched off his shirt. He dragged her into his arms, and they both shuddered at the sudden contact of their skin. She touched his chest, he suckled at her breast, they laughed breathlessly when he muttered something and sat back up again. He kicked off his shoes, dragged off his hose and britches, and paused as she stared her fill at him. She’d never seen him fully undressed. His body was tight, muscled and lean, good for his age, or any age. She gazed at him as he stood before her. He waited
for her signal to join her, though his excitement was evident. And impressive. He was, she thought, as extraordinary in that as every other remarkable part of him. He saw it in her expression, and with a broken laugh, came to her.

She went into his embrace, shivering.

“Still cold?” he breathed against her neck. “I’ll fix that.”

She shook her head. “Hot,” she whispered. “So hot now.”

“More so soon,” he chuckled, laying her down beneath him on the couch. “Before God, Lucy, this is wonderful.”

So it was, and so she tensed, praying he could make it last a little longer, only a little, so she could revel in it more.