Amy Lake (20 page)

Chapter Twelve

Claire had another week’s grace, a respite from the storm that even now was descending on the Earl of Ketrick and would soon drive him back to London. But the grace was incomplete.  Edward had stopped seeking his wife’s bed and was now avoiding her even during the day. This afternoon had been a good example. Claire had harassed poor Boggs into letting her into the earl’s study after lunch, and she sat in the window seat for an hour–getting sleepier and sleepier in the warm sun–waiting for her husband. Finally the door opened, and he strode over to his desk.

“Oh,” said Edward when he saw her. “I won’t disturb you.”

And he had turned on his heel and walked back out.

“Edward–wait,” she had called, but the door was already closing behind him.       

Claire combed out her hair in front of the fire and thought how much emptier her bed looked now that she was the only person who ever slept in it. She knew that it was Lord Tremayne’s right to conduct himself in whatever way he pleased. As he had made clear to her, on more than one occasion, he had no obligation to stay at Wrensmoor at all.

But if he did not wish to bed her–or to spend any time in her company at all, for that

matter–why was he still at the castle?  Claire sat on the rushing in front of the fire and puzzled over this. She was convinced that her husband was troubled by something. He had received several letters from Justin MacKenzie recently, and he’d seemed in a worse humor with every one. Was it something involving her? thought Claire, who had reviewed her last real conversations with Edward time and again, searching for something she might have said to disturb him.       

Claire frowned and tossed back her hair. The whole situation was very frustrating.  It was not in her nature to beg for her husband’s attention or to complain that she did not receive enough of it. But how could she discover why her husband continued to avoid her, if they were never in the same room together?  She arose earlier each morning, only to be told he had already breakfasted. Of late, the only times she had seen Edward were at the evening meal, and his conversation there was distant and formal, limited to pleasantries concerning her day and his.

“Would you care to join me in the library after supper?” she had asked him just that evening, finally deciding that she must be more forward in her address. He had looked at her bleakly and, to Claire’s eye, with total lack of interest.

“Ah, no. No, there is business I must attend to–”

“I see. Yes, of course.”

But she did not see. Business!  This supposed business–from what she could tell–consisted entirely of glass after glass of brandy. Edward’s eyes were bloodshot now more often than not, and the hollows in his cheeks appeared more pronounced by the day.

He will be gone to London at any time now, thought Claire, feeling a sudden chill even in front of the fire. I may not even know it until supper arrives and he is not there. What if he is planning, even now, to be gone before daybreak?  The idea took her breath away. There can be nothing more to lose, she thought, and resolved that another night would not go by without serious conversation between herself and her husband.

But how to accomplish this?  Claire rose and paced the thick carpet for a few minutes, finally sitting down on the bed to consider the situation in detail. Edward would not breakfast with her or ride with her or–heavens, he wouldn’t even kiss her. Perhaps this was not the time for subtlety, thought Claire, and–despite everything–she smiled. The new Countess of Ketrick was an exceedingly practical woman and not one to ignore her own strengths. She called for Connie and asked the girl to prepare her bath.

* * * *

A wave of dizziness came over him, and Edward swayed, barely managing to remain upright. He clutched the railing of the staircase, thankful that he had talked himself out of that last decanter of brandy. Perhaps he could sleep tonight without drinking himself into unconsciousness, although–

He groaned as a vision of Claire lying beneath him flashed through his mind.        

–although it was hopeless.                                                 

He sat down on the stairs for a moment, head in hands. He thought about returning to his study and the oblivion of drink. He would find rest no other way–

If you can call it rest, came that insistent thrumming voice within him, the voice that had been tormenting him night and day.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Just take her, it answered, unrepentant. She’s your wife. Take her, take her, take her.

“Shut up.”

He staggered to his feet and resumed his wobbly climb. At least he wouldn’t be repeating last night’s fiasco, when he had awakened at some cheerless, black hour to find that he had passed out on the floor in front of his wife’s door. Aghast at the thought that one of the servants might have seen him lying there in a drunken stupor, Edward had sworn to himself that he would take no brandy this night. Although he had not kept that vow, at least he had exerted enough self-control to be able to find his own rooms.

At last. The door to his bedchamber opened as he fell against it, and he managed the few steps over to his balcony. He stood there for a long time, feeling the night’s breeze against his overheated skin, and eventually his head felt clearer.

He needed to sleep. Strong as he was, he could no longer keep up the schedule he had set himself of late: up at dawn, a frantic spate of activity during the day, followed by drinking far into the night. And none of it had managed to drown out the yammering voice in his head.

Take her. Take her.

Edward shuddered as desire washed over him, and he stepped back into the room. This was idiocy. He should leave for London soon, find a mistress and be done with it. He’d seen the gleam in Chedley’s eye when he’d mentioned being in need of a mistress. No doubt by now the viscount had a list as long as his arm of applicants for the post. And Gerald’s taste was impeccable, running to exquisite, shapely blondes.

 Edward groaned, and flopped down on the bed. He was fooling himself and he knew it. No matter how desperately he craved the relief that a mistress might provide, he found himself unable to leave Wrensmoor.

Ha! came the chiding voice, changing its tack. You’ve never had any trouble leaving the castle behind before, have you?  The woman has bewitched you.

Then, a new voice. Frederick’s. Never marry a woman you love–         

Edward would have returned to the study, if the thought of negotiating the stairs again hadn’t seemed too much of a bother. He undressed slowly and lay down, hoping to sleep sometime before he heard the castle peacocks announcing the dawn.

* * * *

Claire held her breath and opened the door to the short passageway between her rooms and Edward’s. The massive door swung easily and silently on its hinges–well-oiled, she suspected, at her husband’s behest, during the time when he was coming to her at all hours of the day and night. She crept along the passage, seeing a faint glimmer ahead.  She realized the door on Edward’s side must be ajar and the tapestry not quite enough to block the light entirely. That was lucky–

She came to the door–which was indeed partially open–and stood still, listening. She heard night sounds from the river, the crackling of the fire–and then footsteps, heading, as far as she could tell, to the bed. Edward wouldn’t be able to see her very easily from that vantage, and Claire risked a peek around the edge of the tapestry, feeling the stirrings of a mischievous excitement. Her husband was in this room–only a few steps away–and she was about to go to him, to seduce him.

The earl was standing with his back to her, removing his shirt, which was, to Claire’s blushing distraction, the very last item of clothing he wore. She stared at his body, the strong muscles of his back and legs outlined in firelight, and wondered if she would be able to follow through with what she had planned. Perhaps she should just creep back to her own bed.

No. No, it was time to force the issue. If he no longer wanted her, if he no longer desired her in the way he had seemed to so urgently desire her only a few weeks ago, then it was time she found that out. Perhaps he would think her wanton, but during the past few days Claire had decided it would be better to be thought a wanton than not to be thought of at all.

Edward climbed into the bed and blew out the candle. Darkness settled over the room, and Claire waited for her eyes to adjust. She untied the sash of her wrapper and took a deep, steadying breath as it fell off her shoulders and slid silently to the floor.  She smoothed the silk of her nightgown with  trembling hands. This was Madame Gaultier’s most daring confection–the fabric almost transparent, the neckline deeply cut–and she had never before summoned the nerve to wear it.

“Edward?” she whispered.

The small sounds of a body shifting in bed stopped. She guessed that he was listening intently, unsure of what he might have just heard. 

“Edward?” she whispered again, stepping into the room. She heard her husband’s sharp intake of breath, and smiled. It was time.

* * * *

His wife’s body was outlined in perfect, erotic detail by the firelight. Edward at first thought she was wearing nothing at all, but then realized she was clad in a diaphanous nightgown that clung to her every curve. Her nipples were clearly visible at neckline, and Edward’s body responded immediately with furious, urgent demand. He couldn’t have her. He
had
to have her.

“Edward?”

She smelled of roses. Edward pushed himself up to a sitting position, the bedding clenched in his hands, and tried to form a coherent reply.

“What is it?” he heard himself say, his voice sounding ragged and harsh to his own ears.

What could she mean by coming in here dressed like that?  If she came any closer she would be sure to notice how his body had responded to her–

Take her, take her
, came the drumbeat voice, so deafening that for a moment Edward was not sure if Claire had spoken and he had simply failed to hear.

She sat on the edge of the bed and gave him a half-smile.

“My lord?” she said. “Did you ask me something?”

“What are you doing here?” he managed to rasp out, perfectly aware of how ridiculous he must sound.

“Mmm,” she said, and reached to stroke a fingertip down the line of his jaw. She laughed softly as a muscle jumped under her touch, and he fought to keep his breathing even.

“Did you wish something from me?” he asked, trying to gain some control over the situation. His eyes felt trapped by the sight of her breasts, full, rounded, pressing against the filmy silk of her gown.

It was the wrong question. He had meant to be intimidating and brusque, but his wife nodded.  “Yes,” said Claire, and she scooted next to him on the bed. “I do. In fact, I
need
something from you.”  She sounded impossibly composed. Edward, whose mind had been fixed on the tormenting pressure in his loins, was taken aback for a moment. What was she talking about?  What was it that she needed to come to him at night, dressed like–like–

She’d tried to talk to him this afternoon, in his study, he remembered. And later, too, at dinner. Perhaps there was a problem that he had been ignoring. From now on–this was of the utmost importance, Edward decided–he must allow conversation between them during the
day
.

He felt a little calmer at this thought, although his need for his wife did not abate in the least. It had obviously been a mistake to try to avoid her altogether. He would find out what she wanted now, and in the future–

“I find I miss our . . . lovemaking,” said Claire, looking at him in all innocence, as if she had just remarked on the weather. “I’m not terribly experienced yet, as you know, but I believe what I am feeling is the need for your touch.”

He stared at her, unable to move.

“It’s a very strong feeling,” Claire continued, “somewhat like an ache inside. Do men feel this, too?”  She fixed her large, silver-grey eyes on him, and her lips parted slightly as she ran the tip of her tongue over them.

Edward was edging past the point of coherent thought. “Yes,” he said. It came out as a croak.

“But you no longer feel this way for me?”

Was the chit blind?  “Ah. Well, yes, but–”

“And, Edward, I do not believe I am breeding yet. Perhaps before you leave for London, we should continue to–”

Even at this moment, with his self-control in shreds, Edward told himself he was only going to kiss her. Just a small, chaste kiss. He leaned toward Claire and touched his lips to her cheek. She smiled at him.

“Perhaps, if you are not feeling . . . well . . .
ready
, I could–” Claire slid a hand under the bedding.

“Claire, don’t–”

Her eyes widened. “Dear me,” she said.

“
Claire
,” Edward groaned.

It was the last intelligible thing he was able to say for some time.

* * * *

Claire awoke an unmeasured time later in her husband’s bed. The sky was still black, so she decided it couldn’t yet be much past the earliest hours of the new day.

She felt the solid bulk of her husband lying next to her, felt the slight movements of his breathing.

Her attempt to seduce Edward had been successful beyond imagination.

He had been almost too aroused at first. Frantic, fumbling, he could hardly contain his need as he took her. Claire stifled a giggle. It was a good thing the castle walls were thick; otherwise, Edward would have been heard all the way down to the stables.

The second time had been slower but no less passionate. Claire stretched and wiggled her toes. Every single part of her felt sated, and she mentally chided herself for having allowed her estrangement from Edward to have lasted as long as it did. A single night was too much to spend apart from such delights. Certainly now he would realize how much he needed her, and how much she needed him. Perhaps true love
was
just romantic nonsense. Perhaps she and her husband would have no need of such foolish sentiments to continue their enjoyment of mutual interests–and pleasures.