Edith Layton (6 page)

But those phantom lovers were gone with the light. That was the best part of them. She didn’t want a real lover who’d leave her with the dawn. Francis had, but he couldn’t help that. And she’d been alone so long since. She’d mused about possibilities, of course. She was a grown woman and a widow, and so no other man in the future would ever have to know. But
she
would. Even if she dared taste forbidden fruits, she didn’t need a lover who’d leave her with another child, and was wise enough to know there wasn’t a really effective way to prevent that. Maybe there was one, or so it was whispered.
But
maybe
was too great a risk. And just trying that sort of thing would make her like one of Mrs. Christie’s women, at least in her own mind.

“No,” she said aloud. “It can’t be, I’m afraid.”

“Just so,” he said softly, “so don’t be. Afraid, I mean. There would be nothing but pleasure in it.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Do you deny you’ve thought of it?”

She raised her eyes, unaware of the sorrow he saw there. “No. But all I can do
is
think of it, you see. I’m not a girl, Mr. Wycoff. Nor are you a boy. You’re a man of the world. If I were you, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be exactly as you are. But though I might feel that same temptation, I don’t have that freedom. I never will. I have responsibilities. And morals, I suppose.” She shrugged one shoulder. “That isn’t saying I’m any better than you. Women have to have morals, so I really haven’t the choice, have I? And life is all about the choices we make.”

She looked at him directly and spoke that way. “I’ve had fun flirting with you. But know this, it can never be more than that. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone, but the truth is I’m
very
sorry.”

Now he smiled. “Honesty,” he mused, looking as curiously pleased as sad. “Truth, no matter how hard it is to say? I’ve seldom encountered truth, not in all my travels, though I’ve been looking for it just as long. There was once a truthful girl I knew in London…but that was it. So she was a girl, with no womanly wiles. You’re a woman with no use for them. You present me with utter honesty. A rare gift
from a woman, or a man. I should know.”

He took one of her ringlets between his long fingers to toy with, watching her closely. “But, now, ‘never’ is a foolish word for such a very wise woman to say,” he said gently, and tugged just as gently at the ringlet he held.

It was as though he were pulling her with all his might. She was surprised, she was frankly shocked. But mostly because she didn’t try to resist, not even after her recent experience with William. This was not William. He was nothing like William. She’d never encountered anyone like him, except in forbidden dreams, and so as if in a dream she raised her lips to his as his head lowered to hers. So easy to pretend she had no will. And then she wasn’t sure she was pretending.

His lips were warm, and what she felt on them was so delicious she sighed again, and stepped into his embrace as he took her in his arms and held her for his kiss. It was stunning. Dark and sweet, and overwhelming. She could only feel, her senses stirring, quivering to wakefulness as if after a long sleep. His long body was unyielding against her own, but his embrace was not. It was such a pleasure to be held so tightly and yet so carefully, so tenderly. His scent was clean and fragrant with woodsmoke, brandy, and good soap. His mouth held rich liquors she’d never tasted. Her lips parted to take his tongue, and it was only a gentle teasing that set her shivering, and then a deeper promise and then…

She opened her eyes as his arms left her. He stepped away. Only one step. Everything that had been in his kiss was in his eyes. “No, ‘never’ is not a word for us. If only because you don’t know how it can be for us. Good night, Lucy. Dream of me.”

If she could ever sleep again, Lucy thought dazedly, long after he’d left her, without another word.

She didn’t turn to see him go, or she’d have known he didn’t want to leave. It took every ounce of his steely control to act as he’d done. His calm had been pretense, and hard won. He almost hadn’t been able to drag himself from her.

That was shocking to him. And wonderful. Wycoff strode away quickly so he wouldn’t be tempted to go back. For once, it was more than the lovely lips he’d tasted or the promise of the generous body he’d felt pressed against his own. It was the spirit that moved her that moved him more than he could remember—and he had so much to remember. Tonight he wished he didn’t.

Wit, honesty, sensitivity, and morals too? And freckles, he thought with the first genuinely tender smile he’d felt on his lips in a very long while. She’d been scented like heliotrope, too, the flower that reminded him so much of her eyes. And those lips had tasted just as good as they’d looked. Incredible. He asked her to dream of him. He began to believe she might be the one he’d been dreaming of. A new woman found in a new world. He had hope at last…
but he was too wise for that. He had hopes. He’d leave that for now. He had too much to remember, after all.

William stalked to the Ames’s stables to retrieve his horse and ride home. His memories of the night were bitter, and he had words, plenty of them—only no one to tell them to. His mother would be sleeping by the time he got home, and they weren’t words she’d like to hear. Or maybe she would. As much as she wanted grandchildren, she didn’t want him to marry. A wife meant someone in his bed, of course, but also someone else in her kitchen and parlor, and then it wouldn’t be her house anymore. He knew that. They both did. So when he did marry, it would have to be a grown woman and not a girl who’d expect more, and nag or weep over less. And if a woman, why not one who set his blood afire? One who could give him sons, and make the getting of them a pleasure.

He needed sons. Lucy had a son, she needed a husband. Why couldn’t she see that? All that nonsense about taking Jamie home to see his father’s family. If they wanted him, they’d have sent for him long ago. It was foolish dreaming, nothing more, and he’d been halfway to convincing her of that. Then Wycoff had appeared, an attractive stranger, fascinating because he
was
a stranger, to tempt her from reason. Or to his own purposes. Whatever they were, they wouldn’t be honest, William would bet on it. If they were, everyone would know the man’s history and plans for the future. No one did.

Wycoff came from England. He bought land and horses in Virginia. But he didn’t tell anyone more than that. More important, he didn’t do more than stay at the Ameses and court Lucy. For what? No carpenter, mason, or architect had set foot on his newly acquired property. The man himself said he had no staff, no servants, not so much as a valet for those fancy clothes of his. He had only eyes for a pretty woman, and a tongue as suave as Satan’s.

As to women! Lucy was well enough, and William burned for her, but a man like Wycoff would have met many more dazzling beauties in his travels. Richer ones, more experienced ones—William grew jealous just thinking about them, the kind he’d never get a chance to meet. All his travels were in his letters; his office was his home and his business kept him there. But the Englishman could and did go everywhere. So why would Wycoff want Lucy now? For only now, of course. A brief affair that would ruin William’s chances with her forever. And ruin his plans for her forever. She was a widow. That was his limit. He wouldn’t take second place twice.

He didn’t blame Lucy. Any woman would be charmed by the man. William stormed into the stables to find his horse.

“Ho, Alfred. Give me a hand here, the saddle’s slipping,” he called, finding the stableman not there. He blew on his chilled fingers and slipped on his riding gloves. “Where is the blasted fellow? Oh, woke you, did I? Well, it’s a foolishness to sleep while there’s still guests afoot. Tighten that strap
and raise the stirrup, or I’ll find myself in the dirt. It’s too cold to walk home.”

“Thought you’d gone, sir,” Alfred said, bending to the task. “I’m used to young Jed staying up nights. But he’s to Richmond, and I’m on my own here.”

“What’s he doing there?” William asked idly as he mounted his horse, delaying the ride home in the cold.

“Delivering another message for Mr. Wycoff. The lad’s been there and back twice for him this very week. Gets paid well enough for it,” Alfred grumbled, “but I’m left on my own the while.”

“Richmond?” William asked, holding the horse still. “Why? I thought he was on his own here.”

“Aye, but he’s got someone important to him in Richmond he keeps sending to.”

“
Important?
” William sat arrested. He’d been thinking of wives. He thought of them again.

“Aye, so he says,” Alfred said, “Someone he says he don’t dare make a move without, leastwise. Joked about it with me.”

“Who might that be?” Alfred asked. When Alfred didn’t answer, but only kept rubbing his chin and yawning, William reached into his coat and pulled out his purse, adding, “And where?”

“Well,” Alfred said, brightening. “I disremember. But I think,” he said as William took out a coin, “I could think on it. Aye…now it comes to me.” Another coin was flung down at him.

“Perkins. At the Swallow,” Alfred said with satisfaction as he slid the coins into his pocket.

“And is that a man or a woman?” William asked, because the name meant nothing to him. He frowned in disappointment at money wasted. The Swallow was a good inn. Too good for the absent valet, but it could be the Englishman’s lawyer or such. Or if not a wife, then a fiancée—or mistress? The back of William’s neck tingled.

“A man. But there’s a woman mighty interested, too. Leastwise she pays that rascal Jed extra coin to know what news he bears. Which don’t do her much good,” Alfred chuckled, “’cause he don’t dare break no seals, even if he could read half of what’s writ. But she knows Mr. Wycoff well and wants to be sure she don’t miss nothing about what’s happening with him. She’s a real beauty, Jed says, so it’s a pleasure talking to her, even if he got to invent things to tell her most of the time, so as to keep standing there sniffing her perfume.”

“And
her
name? And direction?”

Alfred scratched his head and looked vague.

It rained gold in the stables that night.

O
dd,” Wycoff commented to Lucy, as they sat together in the front parlor in facing chairs by the window, enjoying the last of the early spring sunlight like two tabbies on a windowsill. “I didn’t know I looked so lethal. But flattering. I hadn’t thought I’d terrified him that much either.”

Lucy laughed. “William went to Richmond on business, my friend, and not because you two didn’t get along…” Her eyes grew wide. “Unless you had words I didn’t hear?”

He didn’t seem to hear her question. “‘My friend’?” he echoed her words softly. “Is that true, do you think, Lucy? Do you consider me to be one? I’d like that very much.”

“Friends? Yes, of course,” she said too quickly, turning her head aside. The look in his eyes made
her acutely aware they were alone. But not for long. The scent of cooking was so strong she knew dinner wasn’t far off. Otherwise she wouldn’t have stolen these moments alone with him. Their shared kiss had ended any hopes of easy familiarity with him; he was too dangerous to dally with. But she couldn’t resist his company. She’d passed the parlor on her way to dinner, saw him sitting by himself, and stopped to chat. She’d done something like that every day, in many places around the hotel.

He’d been here a week. A week of meetings by chance. He stopped inviting her out of the hotel with him after the first three times. “Even mighty Caesar was only offered the crown thrice,” he’d told her with a shrug. “But you’re prettier than he was,” he’d added, “so remember I’ll be here, and the offers to walk out with you still stand—and you may take those silent offers as given ones anytime you care to.”

“But I have work.”

“And time off,” he answered calmly. “We could go out for dinner, spy out the inn for Mrs. Ames again, if you like. We could go out for luncheon too. We could take long walks, rambles, gambols down the road. Not exactly a round of dissipation, I’m sorry to say—you cannot know how sorry I am to say it, actually. But the best we can do at the moment, under the circumstances. Just a chance to be alone. We could go for a drive, or a walk, or a stroll down the lane if you wish.”

She wished. She didn’t dare. Not alone. And she couldn’t always use Jamie as a shield. A widow had
more freedom. That made it harder for her to keep her reputation, and if she lost that, she’d have no future at all. She had an even harder time resisting herself when it came to him. Her heart had been sealed so long, but even apart from the prospect of more of those devastating kisses…Oh Lord, but they had a good time when they were together. At breakfasts, and after. At luncheons and dinner and through the long evenings. And whenever she could find the excuse to stop and chat with him. He was so clever. Mature and kind. Well read and more widely traveled than any man she’d ever met, and, miracle of miracles, he expected a woman to have opinions. They talked about books, music, plays they’d seen. Life as it had been when she’d been young. Sometimes, if prodded, he spoke about himself. Few facts, scant ones, but enough to give her a picture of his life, and why he wandered so far.

He didn’t say anything about his late wife. But neither of them spoke much about intimate feelings. Not when they could be—and were—so often interrupted. By Mrs. Ames, or her daughters, or Jamie, all of whom thought the sun rose and set on their new guest.

Instead, he entertained them all with stories about his travels and his homeland. When he did, the years fell away for Lucy. He made her laugh, he made her think, he made the breath catch in her throat when he looked at her the way he was doing now. With speculation. With amusement and wistful lust, and always with what seemed to be such
complete understanding of her feelings that it terrified and thrilled her.

It made her believe too many things were possible. The possibility of laying her burden down at last, sharing it with another who cared as much for her as she did for him. The possibility of making love to a man again. The kiss they’d shared remained on her lips, no matter what they were talking about. But possibilities were one thing; she dared not hope.

She reminded herself of the facts again. She only knew what he told her about himself; she didn’t know his friends or family. He might have dropped down from the moon, when all was told. She’d only his word for the rest. But some things were immutable. She was going home. He was traveling through. They could only be friends. And they were. She shared him with Jamie, the girls, the guests. It wasn’t enough, but it had to be. She had few illusions. And absolutely no room for fantasy. She would not allow it…. Unless.

Unless he planned to stay and needed a wife, and wanted her for that, and had enough money so that he could take her and Jamie home to England with him to visit, so Jamie could meet his father’s family before she began a new one with her new husband. Him.

The thought sprang free, bold and whole. It had been lurking in the back of her mind for days. But it was such a dazzling dream she’d dared not entertain it before, and couldn’t now, here before him in the daylight.

So she tried to avoid his steady gaze and said brightly, “What did the architect say about your new home? You were gone with him all day. If I’m not being too presumptuous inquiring, that is, of course. But I thought it was a thing a friend might ask.”

“You noticed my absence,” he said with satisfaction.

She noticed everything about him. Today he was dressed all in biscuit and bone, his boots shining, his gleaming hair brushed back. She was wearing her best gown. The blue one. He’d seen her rose, and the gold one. She was glad spring was coming because she’d already run through her inventory of good clothes for winter, and had a limited number of shawls to disguise the lack of variety.
But he may not be here in the spring
, she thought, and watched him as though she was afraid he’d disappear now if she didn’t.

“A friend may ask anything,” he said. “The architect was happy to report no woodworm or dry rot. The well is pure, the foundation sound, the windows fit, and the roof most definitely is on.”

“So, you’ll be moving in soon?” she asked, horrified at how her stomach grew cold as her spirits went flat at the thought of having no excuse to see him every day.

He hesitated. Her eyes flew to his face. She couldn’t read his expression. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, because she couldn’t think of another thing to say. He didn’t fill up the silence.
“Well, then,” she finally managed, her heart beating too fast, “I suppose you’ve decided to move on?”

“No,” he said, “I haven’t decided anything, that’s the thing. Not about the house. Or my future.” His voice grew low, his gaze tender; he leaned forward. He took her hand and covered it with both of his. She was so surprised at the contact, so involved with feeling the size and dry warmth of his two hands on hers, it took a moment to make sense of his words.

“Only a week, my dear,” he whispered. “We’ve only known each other a week. Astonishing. As startling to me as it is to you. But so it is, and the thing is, I have to be sure before I say anything more significant to you about my emotions and our future. It won’t take long. I haven’t the time to waste, for one thing” he said with a rueful smile. “I’m easily a decade older than you. Precisely because of that, I can’t act the lovestruck boy I suddenly feel like. You do see?”

She couldn’t breathe, much less speak.

“You do, that’s the most amazing thing,” he said before she could form a sensible word, his hands tightening over hers. “I think there’s not a thing I can say to you that you wouldn’t see. I don’t say condone, or excuse. But you’d see it. Astonishing.”

“I think you see more than there is,” she snapped, sliding her hand out of his. Because what he said was too close to what she’d been thinking. She looked up and saw the rebuke in his eyes. Rebuke, and disappointment. She lifted her head.
“And even if you didn’t, it
has
only been a week, as you said. We only met a week ago, and you say such things to me? To even hint at them?
My lord!
” She laughed shakily before she could go on.

He blinked, startled.

“I mean I’m surprised. I mean I’m not. I suppose I’ll have to be honest with you,” she went on doggedly. “I won’t act the shocked young miss, because you know I’m not one. So I’ll skip over the denials and protests.” She forced herself to look straight into his eyes. “I know what you mean. Too well. But you have to know what I think. I made a promise to myself a long time ago. I’ll never throw my heart over a hurdle and dash after it again.
Never
.”

“You married in haste?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I married hastily, in that I let my heart rule my head, and never stopped to listen to my good sense.”

“You parents objected to the marriage?”

“They had a suitor picked for me they liked better. But they liked Francis well enough. What they knew of him. They said I should think about it a while longer. My first season, my first beaux. And in that uniform…He was an officer in the navy, and never did a uniform so well become a fellow. All the girls sighed for him; I was tickled because he sighed for me. For
me
! With all my freckles and lack of social experience. He was so breezy and bright, he took nothing seriously—but me. He danced over things other men stumbled through. He was so
attractive, different from any man I knew. It was like a fever with me. I met him, and caught it, and couldn’t think straight for a moment after that.

“Well, the long and short of it was that it was a short courtship, a glorious wedding, and a difficult marriage. Don’t misunderstand, I loved him. But not what became of us when we left England. Which we did soon as he could arrange it. That changed everything. I didn’t want to come here, you see. I didn’t want to leave home at all. Once he got here, he left me to have our baby, and set out to make his fortune on his own. I can’t say how it would have been had he stayed with me. We hardly got to know each other.”

She looked away. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said sadly. “A wife must go where her husband leads, that’s the way of the world. I ought to have known. Had I listened closer I’d have heard his longing to be off around the world to find his fortune the moment we first spoke of his future. But all I listened to was my heart. And all that foolish thing kept rattling on about were longings of a very different kind.”

Her face flushed as she heard what she said. She lowered her eyes, freeing him from that deep blue gaze. “I loved him. But I was just a girl and didn’t know what love entailed. Not his fault, not really, never think it. He was just a carefree boy. I married with a hasty heart and have repented at my leisure.”

She looked away, and he saw the moment that light and laughter came back into her face. Her son had entered the room.

“But you can’t repent everything,” he said softly. “Something fine did come of it. Minds are for higher reasoning. Hearts speak of bodily matters. We need both in this life, working in tandem. Don’t abuse a faithful servant. You might try listening to it again. Your heart won you something wonderful, didn’t it?—Give you good evening, Master Jamie.”

Jamie grinned and executed a proper bow, because he’d been allowed to dine with his idol, and wanted nothing to change that. His face was scrubbed, his hair damp from recent combing. His jacket, Lucy noticed, was suddenly too short in the arms, because she could see more of his wrists than the day before. His reddened hands were becoming too big for his boy’s body, the wrists rawboned in contrast, making him look so very vulnerable. Her heart clenched.
Yes. This was worth it all, every bit of it
.

She nodded at Wycoff, and he smiled. They’d discussed the thing and settled it without a word. Her heart leapt again as she realized it. Rebellious, wicked thing, she thought, and tried to steady her heartbeat. But it kept thumping at her ribs, as she kept reminding herself
a week, only a week, a week, only a week
, in tune with the beating of her foolish, susceptible, treacherous heart.