Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (25 page)

“How old?” He remained where he stood.

She set aside the broom.

“Months old. But had I received it yesterday it would not matter. My husband was cruel to me, and he beat our son. He did it because Harry wished to spend time with me, but
he
demanded all of my time. Every minute of it. So he struck my little boy, often and brutally. I am glad he’s gone, for now he cannot harm Harry again. So, you see, my lord, you mustn’t be sorry for my loss. I’m not.”

“My God, Calista,” he whispered harshly. “I—”

“It’s all right. Really.”

“How can it be
all right
?”

“Harry is free. I am free. It is over. In the past. Now I am here, living in the present. And I have had today, a beautiful, perfect day. I am so grateful for it. That is enough for me, whatever comes tomorrow.”

He stepped toward her, his face severe. “He struck you too, didn’t—”

She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “Today, Tacitus. Only today matters.”

He grasped her hand and turned his lips into her palm. The heat of his mouth scored every corner of her body, and a sigh escaped her. His arm came around her and he pulled her to him, and he found her mouth with his.

She twined her fingers into his hair, letting him kiss her and covering his lips with kisses of her own. It was so good to feel him again, delicious and dizzying. Swiftly she wanted all of him, this kiss, his hands, his skin and heat and embrace. They sought each other, closer and closer with each kiss. His arm tightened around her waist, his hand on her face, his thumb urging her lips apart. He lifted her onto her toes and she clung to his shoulders and made herself drunk on the flavor of him.

“I want you,” she said. “Now. Tonight. Make love to me tonight.”

His lips hovered over hers. “Only tonight?”

“Tonight is all I have. It is all I want. Help me make it perfect.”

“Tonight it is, then,” he said with glorious huskiness.

He did away with cloak and greatcoat, grasped her hand, and led her swiftly up the stairs. She pulled him to a halt at her bedchamber door.

“Here,” she whispered. “I want to have the memory of you in my bed.”

He bent his head, brushed his lips across hers, and then captured them in a kiss that rocked her to the soles of her feet. She gripped his waist and his hands came around her face. Then he was pressing her back against the door and his body to hers, and kissing her like there was in fact no tomorrow. Laughter tumbled through her throat.

He drew away only enough to look into her eyes, then his gaze dropped to her lips.

“If you are laughing at my kiss,” he said, “I think I will go ahead and perish here immediately.”

“I am so happy.” She held him tight. “So completely happy.”

“Ah, well. That is a relief,” he murmured, pressing a kiss onto the corner of her lips, then her jaw, then her lips again. “Laugh all you wish, then, my lady.”

“Don’t stop kissing me.”

“I believe I can comply with that demand.” His palm circled her face, his thumb stroking over her lower lip. “I have had so many dreams about these lips.” His voice rumbled very low. “These perfect lips.”

“Not my teeth?”

“I cannot as easily kiss your teeth. But yes.” He touched his lips to hers again, then again, then he parted her lips and ran his tongue over the edges of her teeth. She invited him into her, and the ache in her exploded into fire.

“Your teeth are perfect too,” he said with urgency against her lips.

She reached for the door handle behind her.

“Come inside and let me show you what else is perfect.” She opened the door and he dragged her inside and into his arms. The door closed with emphasis and his hands swept down her body to lodge around her behind and force her hips against his.

“Sweet Calista,” he whispered, his lips moving to her throat. “You are perfect everywhere.” With his hands bracketing her hips, he ground her against his arousal and she gasped and could not control her shudders.

Her fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat, unfastened them. Then he was helping her, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, drawing up his shirt, and baring his chest and his arms, and she got weak all over with need. By the amber glow of the fire, he was so beautiful.

“Yes,” she whispered, running her hands over his hot, smooth skin and taut muscle.
“Perfect.”

After that, removing her clothing seemed to become his priority: first her gown, then her petticoat, stays, shoes and stockings. Her shift was plain linen, suitable for winter travel. But he stared as though it were the finest French lace.

“Remove it,” she whispered.

He did not move.

Nerves spiked in her belly. “What is it?”

“I am having a moment.”

“A moment?”

“Of disbelief. You have ordered me to remove your clothing. I’m feeling dizzy. I think I might swoon.”

“No! You
must
not try to make me laugh.” She laid her palms on his chest as he gathered the hem of her shift and drew it upward.

“Your laughter is ambrosia to me. I could drink it and be drunk for days. Good God, this is a beautiful body. Calista, how—”

She pressed her mouth to his and his hands came beneath her breasts, then he pulled the garment over her head. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I am wretchedly torn,” he said, his palms smoothing over her waist and hips.

“Between?” she murmured against his jaw, his roaming hands and the brush of her nipples against his chest driving her truly mad.

“Between holding you at a distance so that I can feast my eyes upon this beauty, and holding you close so I can touch it.”

She trailed kisses on his throat and ran her palms up his arms and around his shoulders. “Why don’t you do both? Alternately.”

“I have a solution.” He went to his knees before her and she felt the caress of his palms and fingers from her thighs upward to her breasts. He cupped her breasts in his hands and covered a peak with his mouth. They groaned together, and she sank one hand into his hair and gripped his shoulder with the other as he kissed her, again and again, and her need throbbed. As though he knew, his hand surrounded her hip then caressed inward, and his thumb dipped to stroke her intimately.

“Oh.”
Her knees buckled. He caressed again and her eyes closed as she felt it in her breasts and thighs and everywhere in between. He touched her until she was so tightly coiled inside with pleasure, so hot and without breath that she could hardly stand.

“Please,”
she begged, thrusting into his touch. “More.”

He looked up and his fingers strummed her. “More of what? This?” The tip of his finger slipped inside her.

“Oh,
yes
. Everything. More of your hands. Your mouth.
You
.”

Rising to his feet, he removed his remaining clothes. Then, taking her waist in his hands, he turned her back to him and drew her against him.

“What are you doing?” she whispered as he bent and kissed her shoulder with open lips, then her neck, sinking delirious heat into her.

“Giving you more.” His hand smoothed down her abdomen, the other to her breast, and he gave her more. Considerably more. From her throat that he kissed, to her legs that bowed, she felt alive, needing, and craving his touch everywhere, before and behind and inside her. He took her breast into his palm, her nipple between his fingertips, and she ached for his mouth there again. He stroked deeply between her legs and she wanted him there even more desperately. His arousal was hard against her behind, between her buttocks.

“Calista,”
he uttered against her neck, the rhythm of their bodies unbearable, too good,
too good
.

“Now.” The word came upon a moan as she pressed down on his hand. She was shuddering, convulsing inside, gasping, wide open and reaching for him.
“Now.”

He swept her up and onto the bed, and then he was between her legs, probing, entering her, then thrusting hard and deep. She cried aloud. She was frantic, her body seeking his as he rose in her again. She bucked beneath him, spreading her legs, urging him, and he gave it to her. It was wild, all skin and wetness and hot urgency to be as close, as tight, as connected as her flesh and his would allow.

When her release came, it was hard and sudden, and immediately intensified by his.

Neither of them spoke.

Arms bracketing her, chest heaving against her breasts, he bent his head beside hers and set his lips to her shoulder. Lifting her knees to clasp his hips with her thighs, she trailed her fingers down his back that was damp with sweat, and she felt all of his strength.

Drawing away, he rolled onto his back. “That was—”

“Perfect,” she panted.

He reached for her hand and drew it to his lips. “Entirely perfect,” he said against her palm.

“Let’s do it again,” she said.

“Right.”

He pulled her into his arms and their mouths came together, his fingers in her hair, her hands gripping his buttocks.

They did it again.

And then again.

The third time, they took their time. He invited her to touch him, and smiled when she did so tentatively, noting that this approach surprised him, given her usual style. But he was obliged to choke back groans when she showed him precisely what she thought of that commentary. She made him beg and had a deeply satisfying time doing so.

Touching his hard male body, kissing it, was a new world of pleasure to her. Looking at his masculine beauty had always made her feel things in her own body, powerfully, even years ago. Now she allowed herself to revel in the feelings. Indeed, he demanded it, and seemed to take pleasure from her moans as she caressed him.

Finally he took her onto his lap and she took him into her. She loved how he filled her entirely, and she loved how each deep kiss seemed like an act of worship and lust at once.

The way he held her after it all, tenderly, stole every word she knew. He kissed her brow, then her lips, then her brow again, and stroked her cheek gently. She curled up against him, breathing the scent of his skin into her.

“Calista.” The word rumbled beneath her palm upon his waist. His eyes were closed.

“Tacitus?” Her lips brushed his shoulder.

He reached for her hand and entwined their fingers, but he said nothing more. She tucked her cheek against his arm and closed her eyes.

Old Mary’s ring crashed
through Calista’s dream and dragged her into waking. Drawing in a long tunnel of air to fill her lungs, she let her eyes remain closed, savoring the images behind her eyelids.

A smile stretched her mouth as far as it could stretch.

“Glorious day,” she whispered, turning onto her side and pressing her face into the pillow on the empty side of the bed. “Glorious night.”

Her body was deliciously sore. A brisk walk this morning would serve her well. Later, though. Now she would linger abed for a few precious minutes and remember the night. Time enough today to venture out into the rain—

The rain that sounded …
strange
.

Her body was
sore
?

Her heartbeats jolted. Quickened.

Between the bell’s tolls, the rain seemed distant. And broken. Splashing. Not rushing. Not droning.

Not possible
. She was still dreaming.

A cow’s plaintive low broke through the reverberating pause.

Calista sat bolt upright, her eyes flying open.

And discovered herself entirely naked.

Her breaths jerked out of her, little puffs of shocked air. She took it all in: dry windowpanes, the pale yellow hue of a clear morning, her gown and undergarments strewn across the floor, a cow mooing in the rear yard. Not only the cow, people talking too.

Heart pounding in her throat, grabbing up the blanket to cover herself, she flew to the window and jammed it open.

“Thank you, Uncle! Thank you!” Molly was exclaiming to a man standing beside a cow covered in mud. Hefting a pail of water, he threw it over the creature’s back, and the animal complained loudly as water cascaded off its sides into puddles.

“I did a good left-handed milk of her before I bought her.” He patted the animal’s back and said gruffly, “She’ll keep Nell fine company. Now you go tell your aunt I’ve returned, while I clean the rest of this muck off Peg here. Just like a contrary female to wallow in mud when she could have been chewing grass.” He crossed the yard to the water pump and Molly disappeared into the house.

Calista shut the window and clasped her shaking hands together as Old Mary broke into her seventh toll. Slowly the sound faded.

She held her breath.

The bell boomed.

“Eight,” she whispered. “Eight,” she said more loudly. “Eight.
Eight
.” she shouted. “It is Sunday! It is
tomorrow
.” She threw herself onto the bed and buried her screech of joy in the pillow. It smelled like
him,
like the man who had spent the night in her bed. She inhaled the scent, clasping the cushion to her face and hugging it so hard her arms hurt. “It is tomorrow. Harry, it is tomorrow!”

Mr. Whittle had arrived with the new cow. The road must be open. Today she would see her son.

Leaping from the bed and dragging the blanket about her body, she danced around the room. Aphrodite watched her impassively. She swept over to the statue, planted a kiss on the top of her stony head, and laughed.

“Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Tossing the blanket aside, she washed up with the basin of cold water and swiftly dressed. She took some care arranging her hair with hands that were not entirely steady. What did one say the following morning to a man one had made love to for most of the night? This was new territory.

Everything
was new territory. Tomorrow had come!

Descending to the ground floor, she looked for Plato, but no cat waited on the stairs for his breakfast.

Molly hurried from the kitchen, hands filled with a stack of cups and a coffeepot. Calista smiled. Some things remained the same every day, even when the day did not.

“Good morning, milady! The creek’s down. You’ll be traveling home now, I expect?”

“Yes.” Her smile widened. “Home.” To her family. To Dashbourne, finally.

“I’ll bring you a nice cuppa tea as soon as I’ve poured these.” She curtsied and went into the taproom. Calista hadn’t any appetite; her stomach was sour from too many cakes the night before and agitated with nervousness. She paused in the taproom doorway.

Several of the other guests were breakfasting, but no handsome lord. Still asleep, no doubt.

Taking her cloak off the peg, she went out into the morning. A silvery-blue winter sky spread across the roof of the earth. The yard was softly muddy and pocked with hoofmarks, but straw had been strewn across it. Entering the stable, she greeted the ostler and went along the corridor to her carriage horses’ stall.

But … Something was …
missing
.

She halted, then retraced her steps several paces. The stall before her stood empty. The stall that had housed the Marquess of Dare’s horse.

“Mornin’, mum.”

She pivoted around.

“Tommy. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the vicarage?”

He shrugged. “There’s work to do here. And my sisters were scratchin’ at my temper somethin’ awful.” He offered her a little grin. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. “His lordship bade me give you this.”

“Has he left already?”

“Afore the sun was up, mum.”

Tommy returned to work and Calista stared at the envelope. Her head felt light, her stomach bunched up like fingers fisting. But that was to be expected, she supposed. She sat down on the bench and unfolded the message.

Thank you for the night, my lady.

         T.C.E.

She slipped the note into her sleeve and went to find her coachman. It was time to leave Swinly behind. Time to start living each day gratefully, whatever gifts each day gave her.

Time to start living one day at a time.

~o0o~

The creek that had been a river twelve hours earlier looked unremarkable from the other side of the ford now. Calista drew her head back into the carriage and tilted it against the seatback, her eyes on the wooden box on the opposite seat.

After packing her scant luggage and saying good-bye to Mrs. Whittle, Molly, and Penelope, she had nearly left the statue behind. But it wasn’t hers to make that decision. Her mother wanted it. Her mother would have it.

And she would have Harry. That was enough. That was more than enough.

~o0o~

The four people that descended along the gangplank to the dock were not garishly or slovenly dressed. Nor were they haughty or vulgar or obnoxious in any manner when Tacitus introduced himself to them and welcomed them to England. Instead, his aunt took his hands warmly into her own and smiled with eyes exactly like his mother’s.

“Dear nephew,” she said, the smile crinkles on her face wonderfully familiar. “I have waited thirty-one years for this. Too long. How good it is to finally meet you.”

His aunt’s husband, a man of sturdy frame and an honest face, shook his hand.

“We’re glad to be here, lad,” he said with a light brogue that bespoke his Scottish origins. “Thank ye for the invitation.”

Their daughters, girls of perhaps eighteen, smiled shyly and offered their hands to shake as well. None of them curtsied or even bowed. None of them used his title. They were thoroughly American and entirely refreshing.

As they made their way through the press of dockworkers, sailors, and other travelers to the inn where he had arranged for lunch, his aunt and her husband told him of the crossing. By the time lunch was served, his cousins had thrown off their shyness and launched into tales of their month at sea. The younger, Cecelia, had hazel eyes that glimmered when she spoke of the ship’s first lieutenant, and a brow that scowled prettily when her sister Anne choked on a chuckle.

All four of them were delightful: warm, well mannered, and interesting conversationalists. They were modestly appreciative of the meal, his servants that moved their luggage from the docks to the carriage, and his hospitality.

Tacitus could barely comprehend his good fortune.
He had family
. Family to fill his big, empty house with happiness and laughter. He was no longer alone.

Mounting Herod as the carriage set off loaded with relatives and traveling trunks, he felt a deep satisfaction in his chest he hadn’t known in seven years. He hoped it would suffocate the sharp, gripping ache that had lodged there the moment he rode out of the Jolly Cockerel’s yard two days earlier, and had not abated since. But he doubted it.

One night. Only one night. That was all she had, all she wanted, she’d said. She had made that indisputably clear. After her years under the control of a vile man, Tacitus could not blame her for wanting freedom.

Before leaving Swinly, he should have waited for her to rise and then said a proper good-bye. But the flood had already stolen too many hours from his journey between Peyton’s estate and Bristol. He’d known that his carriage traveling from Dare Castle would arrive at the port on time; his servants were always punctual. But while his coachman was perfectly capable of attending to his guests, he had wanted to greet his relatives personally when they disembarked.

And he was not without pride. He simply could not have chanced saying good-bye to her in person. He hadn’t trusted himself not to beg her for another night.

Nights.

Days and nights.

Forever
.

Urging Herod onto the road behind the traveling chaise, he knew it could be worse. He could still be living a life of reluctant bachelorhood, but without the memory of one perfect day and night to sustain him.

~o0o~

“That cluster of stars is Hercules. He was a very great warrior in his time.” Calista pointed into the black sky glittering with points of light. “And there is Ursa Major, the great bear, like your Mr. Bear. And that one, the brightest star, is Venus.”

“Who was Venus?” Harry said sleepily. Tucked against her side under a thick blanket to ward off the night’s cold on the terrace, his eyes were curious. But his little body drooped with weariness. The moment her mother had written to her elder brother about Richard’s death, Ian had hastened up from town to Dashbourne. Today he had taken Harry on his rounds of the breeding stables and pastures awaiting the new foals, and then for a long ride in the cold across the estate. Accustomed to days alone and indoors, Harry was worn out. And rosy-cheeked. And deliriously happy.

Calista’s heart was full of joy for him.

After a fortnight with him at Dashbourne, surrounded by her family, she wished her heart weren’t aching so fiercely for someone else.

With Richard gone, she could begin anew. She would sell Herald’s Court, find good positions elsewhere for the servants, and relocate to Dashbourne. Ian was focused on building his stables now; the possible threat of being thrown out by a new Lady Chance seemed distant, and even then she could move to the dower house with her mother and Evelina.

Settled in a safe home, the rest would be easy to arrange. Richard’s investments were extensive. She would have plenty of funds to hire a tutor, a kind, intelligent person who would treat Harry with respect and compassion. And she would ask Ian and Gregory to teach him riding and fencing and boxing and all the other activities gentlemen learned as boys. She would depend upon her brothers to help raise her son, and Harry would grow into a good man.

She would do the same with Harry’s younger sibling.

At first she had thought Aphrodite’s game delayed her monthly menses. Other than when she had carried Harry, she had never been late, but circumstances in this case were extraordinary. With every day that passed, however, that theory disintegrated bit by bit. The full tenderness of her breasts and her consistently unsettled stomach told a clear story.

“Venus was the wickedest of all the gods of the ancient Romans, darling.” She wound her arm more snugly about him. “They called her the goddess of love and beauty. In fact she was a terrible tease.”

“But love is the best thing in the universe, Mama,” he said in his sweet, soft voice.

“Yes.” She pressed her lips to his forehead. “Yes, it is.”

“Then I like Venus the most of all the stars.”

She did not correct him. He was already half asleep. Hopefully one of the mares would give birth to a foal that her horse-mad son could name Pegasus or some such thing, and he would come to prefer those stars instead.

She uncurled from beneath the blanket, gathered him up in her arms, and carried him into the drawing room.

“Callie,” Evelina said from the table where she was writing in a notebook, then lifted her head and saw Harry’s sleeping face. She bit her lips together and followed Calista out. “What do you intend to do about that letter from Richard’s solicitor?” she said in a hush as they started up the stairs toward the nursery. “It has been three days already. You cannot ignore it.”

“My late husband would not have failed to write a will,” she whispered. “He was too obsessed with his money to leave that sort of thing to chance.” They reached the second story. “When I return to Herald’s Court, I will find it, and all will be settled to Harry’s advantage.”

“When will you go?” Evelina opened the door to the nursery and Nurse came forward with outstretched arms.

“There’s a dear,” Nurse whispered as Calista transferred him into her round arms. “We must get this little one into his nightgown and tucked into bed with his bear.”

Handing over the beloved rag doll, Calista let her son go reluctantly. But Nurse was as dear and capable as when she, Evie and Gregory were children. Her son was in good hands.

Anyway, in a few hours she would steal up here and cuddle next to him for the rest of the night, just as she had done every night for a fortnight already. She told Evelina and her mother that this was to allow Nurse more time to sleep, now that she was elderly. But she fooled no one. She had missed him so deeply. She could not tell them why, but they could see it.

Upon the first day of her return to Dashbourne, she had decided to tell no one of Aphrodite’s game. They would think her mad, her mind turned by the misery of her life with Richard. Forever after they would imagine her unstable. Out of love, they might even take Harry from her.