Beware of Virtuous Women (19 page)

Touch. Touch. She needed touch. She needed to touch as well as be touched. The word became a mantra inside her head.
Touch. Touch. Touch...

She lifted her hand, guiding Jack's hand to her breast, then gasped when that hand closed over her, as his warmth reached her through the thin cotton of her night rail, as the thumb he'd teased her palm with now moved in small circles just at her nipple. She reached her arm up and around his back.

"Jack..."

His name came to him quietly, a whisper in the dark, and he heard the question in Eleanor's tone, as well as the plea. She didn't understand what she was feeling, what was happening to her, yet she wanted to learn more.

He longed to teach her.

But slowly. Slowly. They had all night. Morning would come, and the walls might go back up, the problems, the differences, the secrets all coming back, brick by damning brick. But not tonight. Tonight was theirs. To share. To experience.

For tonight, all the walls had come tumbling down.

He kissed away her clothes, kissed each new revealed marvel of her even as he stripped away his own clothing, even as the bedside candle burned low then sputtered out, with only the small, dying fire to throw soft, wavering shadows over them.

She was so small, so perfect. That she would entrust herself to him, that she would trust him, penetrated to his core, shook him, even frightened him.

He was not a gentle man. He'd never felt the need, nor even the desire, to be so. Until now. He'd die before he hurt this woman.

Yet he needed her. He needed her so badly. Needed her gentleness, her quiet courage. Her strength, so strong within that seemingly fragile female body.

When at last he entered her, caught her soft cry of surprised pain with his mouth, the need to possess her momentarily overtook him and his gentle assault intensified as he plunged deeply once, twice, before disciplining himself to move more slowly, leash his passion, brace himself so that the full weight of his body didn't crush her.

Eleanor felt herself spiraling out of control even as she lay still, her arms tightly around Jack's back, her palms flat against the rock-hard muscles beneath his smooth skin.

She hadn't known. How could anyone have possibly known? How did someone describe the indescribable? He filled her, he made her complete. She wasn't alone. Until now, she hadn't even realized that she'd been alone.

She wanted more of him. She wasn't sure how she knew there would be more, that there even could be more, but her body seemed to understand. She lifted her hips to him, to take him more deeply.

"Eleanor," Jack breathed against her ear, "are you sure?"

"I don't even know what I'm asking," she told him honestly. "But there's more, isn't there? I feel...I feel
hungry."

Jack raised his head, looked down at her. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't break, Jack," Eleanor told him, desperate to see his face in the dim firelight.

"No, you don't, do you," Jack said, and she thought she saw the flash of his smile before he kissed her, before he lowered himself more fully to her, began to move inside her once more.

Eleanor felt the spiral begin again, taking her higher even while tightening inside her, and she moved with Jack, allowing her body to dictate her response, beyond rational thought, all her carefully built control winging away without regret.

Not a dream. Reality. How much better to live in the world, rather than to simply stand back where she was safe, and observe it.

Jack heard Eleanor's soft cry even as he felt her climax take her, taking him with her, taking him beyond anything he believed he knew possible.

His body was sated, yes, but his heart had never been full before. Not like this. He didn't want to let her go, didn't want to leave her, held on to her tightly, was not amazed when the unfamiliar sting of tears pricked behind his eyelids.

"Eleanor," he said simply as he moved onto his back, pulled her against his side, kissed the top of her head as she lay very quietly.

"Hmm?" she asked muzzily, exhausted and exhilarated at the same time, with exhaustion, to her chagrin, beginning to take the upper hand.

"Nothing," Jack said, smiling into the dark. "Just... Eleanor."

"That's nice..." She snuggled more closely and was soon asleep. Jack remained awake, suddenly dreading the dawn. The inevitable dawn, the dangers they faced, and the wall of secrets that still stood between them...

Eleanor woke slowly, reluctant to leave her dreams. Then her eyes shot open wide as she moved into a slow stretch and felt a not uncomfortable awareness of her body, a small soreness that was almost pleasurable.

Jack. Not a dream at all.
Jack.

She turned on the pillows, to find that she was alone. Thankfully alone.

She needed time. Time to think. Time to consider. Time to— "My hair!"

Eleanor wriggled to the side of the large bed and slipped to the floor, hunting for slippers she belatedly remembered had been ruined in the fire. Worse, she was naked.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, frantically pulling back the covers as she searched for Beatrice's night rail, then slipping it over her head, poking her arms into the overlong sleeves, nearly tripping over the hem as she headed for the large mirror hung over a table between the windows.

"Oh, my God," she repeated, dropping the material and lifting her hands to her head, to the jumble of wild curls that hung in ridiculous ringlets all at odd lengths around her head.

She hadn't cared. Last night. Just cut it all off, she'd told Mrs. Hendersen.

Now, this morning, she cared.

"What will I do? What will Jack say when he sees me? I can't let him see me!" She pushed her hands against her forehead, then pulled back her hair, pressing it to her head as she stared into the mirror. Was that better? No, it was worse. Impossible to be worse, but it was.

Eleanor took a deep breath, turned away from her reflection. "This is
not
important. In the scheme of things, with everything else that is going on, this is
not
important. This is a small thing. There," she told herself, holding her hands out in front of her and pushing down with her palms, figuratively pushing down her mounting hysteria. She, who was never flustered, never shaken from her own disciplined calm.

Except for yesterday afternoon when she
slapped
Jack.

Except for last night, when she'd...when they'd...

She would not die a maiden.

A giggle escaped her and she quickly covered her face with her hands.

"Ma'am? Are you all right? I knocked, but—"

"Mrs. Hendersen!" Eleanor quickly clasped her hands in front of her, took a deep breath, attempted a smile. "I didn't hear your knock."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I've come to help you with your toilette, as Beatrice is in her bed and the doctor Mr. Eastwood had brought to her says she's to be there for two weeks, at the least. An entire fortnight, ma'am. I'll be shifting things, sending Mary to you, but I thought, for this morning, I'd tend to your needs myself, if that's all right?"

Eleanor desperately tried to assimilate everything the housekeeper was saying. Simple things, household things. Certainly easy enough to understand. Goodness, she'd been dealing with a household four times this size at Becket Hall. Surely she could manage a simple shifting of staff.

And what else? Oh, yes. She needed to see her bedchamber. Oversee the cleaning, the necessary redeco-ration. Her clothing! She should ask someone to please find a way to air out her clothing. And sleeping arrangements. She couldn't stay in here. Last night was...was an aberration. Possibly. Maybe. But she couldn't simply assume that everything had changed because last night had happened.

She should go into her bedchamber, take up pen and paper, start to make lists, beginning with the most important. What was most important?

"Mrs. Eastwood? You look sort of funny, pardon me for saying so. Are you all right?"

Eleanor raised her head and looked hopefully to Mrs. Hendersen. "My hair, Mrs. Hendersen. We start with my hair."

"Oh my, yes, ma'am, I can see that, begging your pardon again. My cousin will be here directly, as Treacle sent a footman to fetch him. Mary will soon be bringing you something to wear as we've managed to freshen most everything, although the blue silk, ma' am, seems reluctant to give up its smoky smell. But you aren't to fret about that, or about anything, ma'am. Mr. Eastwood was very clear about that. You are to rest, and so he said just before he went out."

"Jack—Mr. Eastwood isn't at home?"

"No, ma'am. He and that Mr. Shannon were tight as inkle weavers all morning, and then they both went off together. Mr. Shannon, he was looking angry and muttering in that Irisher way he's got, or so Treacle says."

"I see," Eleanor said, not
seeing
at all. "Did Mr. Eastwood happen to say when he'd be returning?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. For dinner, ma'am. He stopped personal to see Mrs. Ryan, and tell her to snap her fingers and create a miracle, as he and Mrs. Eastwood would be dining together this evening."

"He said that? How...well, how nice. Mrs. Hender-sen, if you will not mind a break in the routine I have set, I believe I'd like to repair to my...the bed and eat my breakfast there, resting just as Mr. Eastwood has directed as I wait for your cousin to arrive. Let us only hope that your cousin, as well as the always able Mrs. Ryan, proves capable of a miracle."

"I should hope so, Mrs. Eastwood. Oh, I almost forgot," Mrs. Hendersen said, reaching beneath her black apron and coming out with a folded and wax-sealed piece of paper. "This was delivered for you late yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Eastwood, but somehow did not come into my personal possession until this morning. I do hope it isn't important."

"Didn't come into your possession? I don't understand."

Mrs. Hendersen sighed in a way that said she was a woman overburdened with idiots. "The person who delivered the note did not also pass over a small, um, remuneration, ma'am, so that the footman felt no urgency in passing the missive along to me. He has been disciplined. I'm so sorry, and dearly hope it is of only small importance."

"Our servants expect
tips
for doing their duties? London certainly is strange, isn't it?" Eleanor said, taking the folded sheet with some trepidation. She looked at the red wax seal to see that it was plain, with no crest imprinted on it. She turned over the paper, decided it probably wasn't an invitation. Yes, Jack had gone to see Lady Beresford, but if this missive was from that lady, surely her husband's crest would be imprinted on the wax.

Staring at the paper wouldn't tell her what had been written on it, so Eleanor thanked the housekeeper again, dismissed her, and crossed to Jack's desk and the letter opener she knew was there because she had been the one to dust the desk a few days earlier. A lifetime earlier.

She slid the opener under the hardened wax, then pulled back one of the draperies so she could have more light to read the letter:

#

Mrs. Eastwood,

You were so kind. I wish to be kind, also. Your husband plays a dangerous game I pray in my heart he will win. But I overheard them and they are planning something terrible against him. I would not wish to see harm come to you. If, for instance, there were to be a fire late one night? Could you flee fast enough with that unfortunate limp? Or would you be caught, trapped in the flames? I would think that to burn to death would be so very painful.