Regency Surrender: Wicked Deception: The Truth About Lady Felkirk / A Ring from a Marquess

She paused and looked up, expecting to see the censure she received from Montague when she occupied herself with something other than his needs. ‘If you wish, you have but to say the word and I will put it away.’

‘No. No, certainly not.’ He took a step back as though surprised at her response. ‘If it gives you pleasure, by all means continue.’

She offered a nod of thanks. Though she had not given it much thought, it did give her pleasure. While her hands were busy, her mind was free as a bird to think whatever she liked.

She felt him shift uncomfortably, foot to foot, and wondered if he wished for a similar pursuit. Perhaps he was as unsure of his place in this new world as she was. She raised her eyes from the mechanical motion of her hands on the bobbins and said, ‘What do you normally do, of an evening, to pass the time?’

‘You do not know?’ he asked, almost suspiciously.

Her mind raced for a moment, then settled on an answer. ‘We were together only a short while. You had little time or interest in domestic pleasures. In fact, I did not pick up my lace again until after we arrived in Wales and I knew you were settled comfortably. There simply was not time for it.’ She waited for him to infer the obvious.

‘We spent more time in the bedroom than the drawing room?’ he said, then laughed at her blush. ‘It need not embarrass you. We are married and our behaviour was quite normal.’

‘Of course,’ she responded. Now that she had put the thought into his head, he would likely demand that they retire immediately to return to their old diversions. At least the suspense would end and she could settle her nerves. Lying on one’s back in silence was easier by far than trying to think of what to say while sitting up.

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘I am sure, with practice, we can learn to sit together in the parlour as well. You asked how I spend my evenings when at home?’ He paused again. ‘I like to read. Not very exciting, I suppose. You may have noticed that my brother is happiest pacing about the room and debating politics. And while Penny is a great reader, she is often translating from Greek or Latin as she does so.’ He paused, as though it were some sort of guilty secret. ‘But I prefer novels.’

‘Do you read aloud?’ she asked. It was a solution that would solve no end of trouble. He might be happy and conversation would be rendered impossible.

He thought for a moment. ‘I have not done it thus far. Until recently, I have not had an audience.’

‘I should be happy to listen,’ she said, ‘if you wish to do so.’

‘It would not distract you?’

‘It would be a welcome addition to the evening,’ she assured him. ‘Perhaps you could choose one of your favourites, to share with me.’

He had responded to this with a relieved smile that made her wonder if the ensuing hours weighed as heavily on him as they did on her. When he had taken up his cane to go to the library for a book, he had waved away her offer of help. Both his spirit and his step had seemed lighter.

The answering warm glow she felt inside on seeing the change surprised her. Perhaps she had grown so used to thinking of him as her patient that she took credit for his success. Or maybe it was the equally unexpected knowledge that she did not like seeing him unhappy. Before he had come into the shop in Bath, she had felt only bitterness at the thought of him and his family. But the man before her now was what her father might have described as tabula rasa: a blank slate on which anything might be written. It did not seem fair to hold the past against him.

When he returned from his search, he was barely winded by the trip down the hall and holding a battered copy of Gulliver’s Travels. She could barely remember the story, but she was sure she had read it some time in childhood. But it was plain that she had not understood the finer points of the narrative. The passages, though very funny, were too bawdy to be read aloud in a drawing room. She did not know whether to laugh or blush, doing both by turns. What must he think of her?

Then she remembered that she was supposed to be his wife and should not be shocked by his choice of subject. Perhaps he meant to relax her and put her in the mood for what was likely to follow, once they had retired to his room. It was strange. If he meant to flirt with her, he needn’t have bothered. He had but to command and she would do whatever he wished.

Or he could give her another kiss. The memory of the kiss in the hallway of his brother’s home was far more shocking than anything he was reading and left her so flustered that she confused her twists with her crosses on a whole row of bobbins and had to undo them and start again.

What was she to make of him? It would be a lie to say she did not like his company. She had not expected to enjoy this time alone, or to be so entertained by a thing that obviously gave him pleasure. It made her think longingly of the library. There were enough books in it for a lifetime of evenings just like this one.

She had enjoyed listening to him this morning as well. His stories of home and family had been so interesting that she had almost forgotten the reason she had wished to hear them. Her father’s fate, and the location of the gems, had seemed unimportant compared to the history of a place that would never be a true home to her.

She suspected it was its master who fascinated her, not the house itself. She liked to look at him, with his pale skin, black hair and fine features. Even as he’d lain in the sickbed, she’d had more than a nurse’s interest in the naked body concealed beneath the sheet. Though it was wasting from prolonged illness, she could imagine the vitality that had been there. As he read to her tonight, she could see the vigour she had assumed was there. His enthusiasm for the book filled the room. His voice was expressive, his whole body animated, so she could imagine the scenes playing out before her. She had been right to bring him home. What a waste it would have been for someone so alive to die violently, alone and unloved.

She let herself relax into the sound of his voice and the flicker of the candle behind the screen at her side, her fingers working methodically on the trim in her lap. When he shut the book with a snap, she was surprised to hear the clock strike eleven. She looked up at him and he returned her gaze with a surprised smile.

‘I did not think it had got so late,’ she said.

‘Nor had I.’ He yawned and stood, setting the book aside. ‘I think, perhaps, it is time for us to retire. Let me escort you to your room. When you are ready for bed...’ he paused, as though he was as nervous as she. ‘Come into my room by the connecting door. You need not bother to knock. I will be waiting for you.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed.

Chapter Nine

She did as he suggested, letting the maid that had come with her from Penny’s household dress her in her nightgown and comb and braid her hair. With each stroke of the brush she reminded herself that it was foolish to be so nervous. She was not some fainting virgin, unaware of what was about to occur. Her time with Montague had prepared her for any request Lord Felkirk might make.

William, she reminded herself. His family called him Will. So must she think of him, for she was his wife. If the stories she had told him were true, they had been intimate for some time. They would be so again. It was only natural.

She fought down the depression that the thought caused. It was bad enough to be the plaything of Montague. But to open herself to a stranger in the hope of gain? It was a dangerous precedent.

The best she could hope for was that this would be the last man to use her so. But it was a shame that it had to be this particular man. He was kind. He was funny. And he was most certainly handsome. At one time, it had been her dream to find such a man. More accurately, she had wanted to be found by him. If only he could have come five years ago, before it was too late...

She dismissed the maid and took one more glance in the mirror, watching her own eyes go blank as she put such foolish thoughts aside. Then she went to the door that connected their rooms and turned the knob.

He was already in bed, smiling at her as she closed the door behind her. He had propped himself up on the pillows, bare arms folded behind his head. The covers pooled in his lap, exposing his equally bare chest. She suspected he was naked beneath them. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run.

Foolishness. She had seen a naked man before. She had seen this man naked. She’d been bathing him for weeks. There were no surprises here.

He unfolded his arms and held one out to her in welcome, patting the mattress at his side with the other. ‘Come,’ he said.

Without thinking, she went to him, as obedient as a trained dog. Her own lack of resistance disgusted her. Had Montague schooled the last of the spirit from her? She buried the thought deep, so that it did not show on her face. It would not do to go frowning to her husband’s bed.

As she drew near, he threw back the blankets so that she might climb in beside him. She glanced down at the bare flank it revealed and then back up into his face, then sat down on the mattress, swung her legs up beside his and let him settle the covers over them.

His arm wrapped around her, holding her easily to his side. ‘Is this as strange to you as it is to me?’

Stranger than he could possibly imagine. She sought a comfortable place to rest her own arms, settling them gently against his chest. ‘It has been some time,’ she said, trying to sound sympathetic.

‘You, at least, remember who I am,’ he pointed out.

‘Will it really matter so much, once the lights are out?’ she asked.

She had said something wrong. He leaned away from her, clearly shocked. Of course it should matter. If the man one loved could not remember, it should hurt. If he had cared enough to marry her, he should at least pretend that she was not just another warm body in his bed.

He cleared his throat. ‘If it were simply a matter of desire, perhaps it would not matter. We share something more, do we not?’ This last came with a leading, hopeful tone, as though he was still longing to remember what it was that had brought them to marry.

She had no answer, other than ‘yes.’ Then she snuggled closer to him and eased a leg over his, hoping that the discussion might be over for the night.

He did not move away. But neither did he tumble her on to her back so that they could begin. Instead, his other hand reached out to her. It hovered over her breasts for a moment. Then he ran a finger along the neckline of her rather chaste nightrail. ‘Did you make this for yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the lace here. What is it called?’

She shrugged, for it was no great achievement. ‘A simple picot edging.’

‘Do you make it with the pins and the cushion?’

She shook her head, surprised that he would be asking about her work now, of all times. ‘I use a shuttle. It is called tatting. Very easy. I can make enough for the whole gown in an evening.’

He looked down at her body again, seemingly more interested in the simple dress than the body beneath it. ‘Is this indicative of your other nightwear?’

‘I have several identical to this,’ she admitted.

‘It is very practical,’ he said, politely.

She had a sudden memory of lying with Montague, wearing the sheer lawn he preferred. And then there were the nights he expected her to come to him wearing nothing at all. She could not help the sudden shudder of revulsion.

He lifted the blanket and bunched it around her shoulders. ‘As I told you before, old houses are cold. But you may trust that I will keep you warm when we are together like this.’ With two fingers, he plucked the nightcap from her head and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. Then he blew a warm breath against her ear.

This made her shiver as well. But it was accompanied by a sigh of delight that surprised her and drew a satisfied nod from him. Then he spoke again. ‘I am curious. You take the time to make masterpieces for your friends. They could talk of nothing else but the cleverness of your work. When I did not see lace trimming on your gown during the day, or at dinner, I assumed I would see some tonight.’ He glanced down at the cap on the floor and shook his head in disappointment. ‘Why do you not wear the finer stuff yourself?’

She had a sudden memory of the chest her mother had kept. It was as big as a wardrobe, the outside inlaid with intricate tracings of sulphur, the inside smelling of beeswax and cloves. You will have it some day, she had said. For your trousseau.

How long had it been since she’d thought of it? After Montague had come to her, she’d realised that marriage was a lost dream. That had been the day that she’d set the items she’d already made aside, so that Margot might have them.

Her husband was waiting for an answer.

‘It is nice to see others happy,’ she said.

‘I would like to see you happy as well,’ he replied. ‘You would be most attractive in a gown trimmed with the lace you were making tonight.’ He drew a finger across her bodice, as if to indicate where it might go.

She shivered. ‘It would not be very modest. You would see...’ She stopped. She could imagine her nipples, poking through the lace.

‘I know,’ he said, with a smile, his hand pausing dangerously near to one of them.

‘If you wish, I will remove the gown,’ she said, squirming under the covers to draw up the hem.

He covered her hand with his to stop her. ‘You misunderstand me.’

Perhaps she did not. ‘You do not wish to see my body?’

He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I wish to. Very much. I am sure I enjoyed the sight of it before and I look forward to seeing it again. But there is no reason to rush.’

‘Of course not,’ she said, stretching beside him again and pressing a hand to the middle of his chest.

In response, he stroked her hair. ‘It is quite embarrassing to admit this, but I do not know if I have the strength to perform. The day has been tiring and I am still weak as a kitten. I am likely to shame myself, should I attempt to be intimate with you.’

When she glanced down, his body said otherwise. She could see the beginnings of arousal growing beneath the bedsheet. ‘We will do whatever you wish,’ she said, surprised to feel disappointment.

He closed his eyes and sighed, as though it were a relief. Then he said, ‘Then we will go where the mood takes us. And I do enjoy your being here, with me. The sound of your voice is soothing. I was told you read to me, while I was unconscious.’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Only novels. Nothing of substance.’ She smiled. ‘It seems we share an interest in them.’ It had been a chance to indulge a guilty pleasure of her own, while pretending to help him.

‘I do not remember the words,’ he said. ‘But I think I remember the sound of you. You must speak more often for I love to hear it. Your voice is like music.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He closed his eyes, and leaned back into the pillows. ‘You have listened to me all night. Now you must speak. Tell me of yourself.’

Her hands froze on his chest and she hoped he did not feel her go rigid with panic. What could she say that might not trigger the very memories she did not want to awaken? ‘What do you wish to know?’

‘How did you become so clever with your hands? Did your mother teach you?’

She relaxed a little, for that topic was harmless enough. ‘It was a skill of hers. But much of the work I taught myself. She was carrying my sister when my father died.’ The words almost stuck in her throat and she hurried past them. ‘After the birth, she was so very weak.’ Memories of her mother were equally painful. ‘When Father had been with us, she’d been young and happy. But without him, she’d go days without speaking, staring out of the window of our tiny apartment, her beauty fading a little each year, until the life was gone from her.’

Will must have recognised the fact, for his hand tightened on her shoulder, as if he could lead her away from the past. ‘But you still have your sister.’

‘Her name is Margot,’ she said, relieved. ‘She is in school.’

He opened one eye and glanced at her. ‘At this time of year?’

‘She spends summers and holidays there as well,’ Justine said. ‘I have no money to help her and must tend to my own work. It is better that she remain there, if there is nowhere for her to stay.’

He had opened both eyes to stare at her now. ‘You have somewhere now,’ he said, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘You are mistress of a house that is more than large enough to hold a young woman, no matter how extravagant her needs might be. Tell me, how old is little Margot?’

‘Nearly twenty,’ she admitted.

‘And still in school?’ he said, surprised. ‘Is she not out yet?’

‘There was no money for a Season.’

‘There is now.’ He settled back into the pillows again, as though there would be no further discussion. ‘She will stay with us until we can arrange for her come out. Let Penny settle everything. She might appear to be a wallflower at times, but she is quite good at organising things. And she is a duchess, after all.’

‘Well...’ she said, running through the list of reasons that such a trip would be impossible, to search for one that made sense.

Will was staring at her again. ‘You want to see her, do you not? There is no estrangement between you?’

‘I want to see her more than anything else in the world,’ she admitted, feeling the tightness in her heart when she thought of her sister ease a little.

‘Then you shall write to her first thing tomorrow and we will have her here, while the weather is still good.’

‘Thank you.’ She would find a way to change his mind in the morning.

But then it occurred to her that she didn’t have to. She could summon Margot and have her in Wales before their guardian knew a thing about it. Once she was part of the duke’s family, he could not threaten her or attempt to remove her without admitting who he was. If he attempted it, Justine would threaten to sacrifice herself and reveal what he had done. She did not know much of chess, but she suspected this was what players called a stalemate.

She looked at William Felkirk again, a smile spreading slowly across her face. He had that slightly puzzled expression she associated with men in the jewellery shop who had been surprised when a word or gesture held more significance than the gems they were offering. With one casual suggestion, the man in the bed beside her had the power to reorder her world. ‘Thank you.’ She said it with more feeling so he might know she was truly grateful. Then, to stop further conversation, she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

She had been kissed often enough. It had been unavoidable. But had she ever kissed a man before? Certainly not like this. It was wet and open mouthed, as though her happiness could not be contained behind closed lips. His mouth was surprisingly sweet, as though the ice cream he had rejected was still on his lips. She tasted the flavour. She quite liked it and the feeling of his firm lips against the tip of her tongue.

She could tell her sudden boldness had surprised him. He was still at first. Then his hand settled into the small of her back, drawing her closer to him, pulling her body up on to his chest. Then, everything about him seemed to relax, his mouth falling open against hers, his tongue easing into her mouth to caress hers.

Such kisses had always seemed like an invasion. But this was very different. Will Felkirk’s touch was gentle, as though he were learning her from the inside out. She probed gently in response. It was different to respond. She did not feel desire so much as curiosity. What harm would it do to indulge that, as long as it kept him from asking any more questions?

He tasted different. The shape of his mouth was different as well. She could feel the playfulness of his smile, the fullness of his lips and the smoothness of his cheekbone as she stroked it. She moved her hands lower, to his bare chest, which was no longer as sunken and hollow as it had felt while he slept. With a little sunlight and solid food, the health was coming back to him. His heart beat fast and strong under her fingers. She could feel it beating even faster as she touched him. And there, on his arm, was the strange smooth skin of the burn scar.

While she might admit that the duke was the more handsome of the two brothers, he was a trifle too perfect to look at. This man, with the crease in his skull and the scars on his body, was so much more real and she knew him almost too well.

He sighed at her touch and his kisses became a sudden opening and closing of his lips as though he was taking a bite of fruit. Then he sighed again, in satisfaction as if he needed her to feel complete, as one might need air or food.

She stilled for a moment, not sure she liked it. She understood being desired. She understood what it was to be used. She had understood his need when he was too helpless to care for himself. But now the feeling was different. She wanted him to be stronger for her help, not more dependant.

Suppose, when she finally managed to escape from this place, she left him feeling less than whole. She had expected to lose some of herself by this joining. But suppose she grew to depend on him? She could not afford such feelings, if she was ever in her life to be free.

Perhaps it was simply that it had been so long since lying with a man that she had forgotten how to behave. The trick was to disengage one’s mind from the activity, so that it might be somewhere else, while the body acted. She tried it now and found it strangely ineffective. The feel of his skin under her hand, was too real to ignore. Instead of hiding from it, she wanted to lose more of herself to him, to be more deeply entwined. In a daring moment, she ran her hand down his chest, following the trail of hair on his belly until it slipped beneath the sheet to grip him.

He inhaled sharply at the touch, taking her tongue more deeply into his mouth.

This was interesting. She had never felt this sense of control before. She took advantage, running a fingertip lightly across the opening at the head of his member.

He pulled away, ‘I do not think...’ Though his member stirred at her touch, his body moved weakly under hers, a reminder that he was still not fully recovered.

She had but to release him, with an apology for her forwardness. She would be safe from intimacy for another night, or more. Perhaps he would even let her return to her room. Instead, she kissed his lips again and murmured, ‘Let me.’ Then she moved her hand on him.

As she watched, he settled back into the pillows, but did not relax. His eyes were shut tightly, his mouth shut so tightly that his lips went white. Did her touch hurt him? She thought not, for he made no move to stop her. His nostrils flared as he took a slow steady breath as though struggling to maintain control of his own body and prolong the climax.

Did she really affect him so? The idea that she could award or deny his happiness with a single touch was exhilarating. She gripped him tighter, stroking slowly from root to tip, and felt him growing under her fingers.

He was longer and thicker than she’d expected. Silky skin stretched tight over blood and muscle, growing slippery with the first drops of his seed. She wondered what it would be like when he entered her. Probably not as pleasant as she was imagining. In her experience, real life seldom lived up to imagination.

But the current moment was satisfying enough. As she moved her hand on him, his whole body seemed to tighten, tension building like a coiled spring. His eyes were open again, head had arched back so that he could stare at the ceiling and his lips worked, almost as though praying. In this moment, he was hers in a way that no man had ever been. It made her wish that she could keep him. Or, at least, that she could keep pretending for a lifetime.