Unforgivable, p.15
Unforgivable, page 15
He groaned as she bit him softly there, soothing the tiny sting with a damp, openmouthed kiss that drifted to his collarbone, then up again to his mouth. And then she was climbing onto his lap, straddling him, a thigh on either side of him, her already damp quim pressed against his aching cock.
She tilted his head back and kissed him greedily, just as she’d kissed him that night. His hands went helplessly to her hips, pulling her closer, and his hips bucked as his cock searched for a way to penetrate her. She moved over him maddeningly, exciting herself by rubbing against his hard length, the wetness of her slick against him. It was as gratifying as it was infuriating. He no longer doubted that she wanted him, and when her hands went diving down between their bodies to seize his cock, he let her be the one to guide him into her tightness.
He watched her take him in, her pretty face transfigured by desire. Brow damp, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He let her glide onto him, a small gasp escaping her as she hilted him in her.
“Ah, Rose,” he groaned. “Take it, then; take what you want.”
And she did, rising and falling on his cock, her eyes closed as she focused on her goal. He watched her, hungry for her need, holding himself back as she took and took and took, her muscles clenching on him rhythmically, milking him, binding him.
I’m just ploughing her, he told himself, trying to make it basic and easy. But it was impossible to fool his treacherous heart. It seemed to swell in him when she came, crying out her pleasure. It seemed to swell with a kind of cosmic gratitude because he was with her again. Eve. Rose. And then he was coming too, with her, their cries and groans mingling and echoing and dying away into the night.
They remained where they were for a long while in their strange embrace. He rested his head against her breast, trying to ignore the tangled emotions that threatened to overwhelm him: keen joy, helpless sorrow, bleak disillusionment.
Part Four
Winter
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
William Shakespeare
Sonnet 97
Chapter Fifteen
London, October 1814
Every morning when she woke up, Rose knew immediately that she was back in London. It was the noise. Stanhope House was in Mayfair and somewhat removed from the grimmer realities of life in the capital, but even here there were sounds that reminded her she was no longer in the countryside: the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobbles, the rumble of carriages, the quick step of servants sent on errands.
She noticed the absence of sounds too. Birdsong in particular. There were some pigeons on the square, but their citified cooings were nothing like the birds at home. She missed the reedy song of the skylarks and the peep-peep of the song thrushes. She missed home.
She sat up slowly in bed and considered carefully how she felt. Fine. That was the truth of it. She was four months gone now, and the worst of the sickness seemed to have passed. Her breasts, which had felt tender at the beginning, felt better now. She was lucky, the doctor said. “Some ladies suffer terribly,” he’d told her. “Be glad you are not one of them.”
As she arranged her pillows behind her, she glanced at the rumpled space to her right. Gil had lain there last night. For a while. He’d risen and left as soon as he thought her asleep. He came to her every night now. She hardly saw him during the day, but they came together in the quietest hours of the night. There was passion between them, and, more surprisingly, tenderness, though it did not find its expression in words. Only in the kisses of silent lips and the blind questing of hands in the darkness. There were times, during the night, when she thought about saying something; times when she thought her words might even reach him if she could only think what to say. I’m sorry? Can you forgive me? I want to forgive you. Can we begin again?
Impossible.
In the morning, it was difficult to believe he had ever been in her bed, except for the disturbed sheets. The man who came to her at night was very different from the one she saw after she had risen in the morning. He was so very withdrawn in the daytime. He always had somewhere to go or something to do that took him out of her orbit. He was, in fact, as absent as he had always been. During the day.
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of her morning chocolate.
“Good morning, m’lady.” Sarah smoothly entered the room, deposited the tray on her mistress’s lap and walked over to the window to open the curtains.
“Good morning.” Rose sipped the chocolate and lay back against her pillows.
“Which gown would you like to wear today, milady?”
“You choose.” Always the same answer these days. Sarah tutted disapprovingly and walked into the dressing room. She emerged after a few minutes with a primrose-yellow morning gown. Rose nodded uninterestedly.
Once she’d finished her chocolate, she got up and let Sarah bustle her into her shift and stays and button up her gown. Then she sat down in front of the dressing table to watch the maid put up her hair. She felt aimless, sitting idly while Sarah made the braids for her coronet. But there was not a thing she needed to do until her morning callers arrived. She could lie abed the whole morning if she wanted.
She could not enjoy her leisure, though. Unlike most ladies of fashion, she was used to a life of activity. Over the last few years, she had thrown herself into the running of Weartham with vigour. Here she was expected to do as little as possible. The housekeeper reported to her each day, but it took all of half an hour to approve her exceedingly sensible suggestions and peruse her flawless menus. Rose was usually twiddling her thumbs by eleven o’clock. And this was only her second week in London.
Her first week had been taken up with her presentation to the Queen, a necessity before she could enter society. The dressmaker had made her elaborate court dress—convention demanded a full-skirted gown in the style of the last century—within just a few days, and Gil’s aunt Leven had sponsored her. Once that was over, the invitations had begun to trickle in, and now there was a steady flow every day. Balls, musicales, routs. It was the little season. The last hurrah of the top ten thousand before they returned to their estates for winter.
Now each afternoon brought a rash of fresh callers to Stanhope House. Rose was an object of considerable curiosity: Lord Stanhope’s hitherto invisible wife. They came to stare and wonder, and sometimes to ask sly questions. Why had she not come to London before now? Was it true she had only just been presented? At her age and married these five years?
She was a mermaid. A bearded lady. Freakish and fascinating. The latest on dit. She was the neglected wife of that notorious lothario, Lord Stanhope. It was difficult not to feel gratified by the surprised expressions on the ladies’ faces and the admiration in the gentlemen’s eyes when she stepped forward to meet them. They had assumed she was ugly. Perhaps they had been told she was ugly. A galling thought, that.
Gil had been present during the first two days but since then had been conspicuously absent. Three afternoons in a row now, she had faced the callers alone. He didn’t explain his absences to her, just took himself off in the mornings, returning for dinner in the evening. And it wasn’t as though there was anyone else in the house. Gil’s sister was staying with cousins in Bath, and his brother James was rarely to be seen, though he too lived at Stanhope House. James’s existence seemed to revolve around sporting events, drinking and gambling, and he kept hours that rarely brought him into contact with Rose.
Rose had never felt more alone in her life than she had these last few days. Even when Gil had first abandoned her at Weartham, she’d at least had Harriet. Here she had no one. And every day, a dozen curious callers. There was nothing to do but to paste a smile upon her face and parry the questions and stares as best she could. Put a brave face on it, even when one of Gil’s former lovers, Lady Cairn, appeared. A pretty woman, Rose had to admit, but unlikeable. She’d gravitated to the only gentleman present, ignoring the ladies for the most part. And she’d smiled like a cat with a fish when Rose had admitted she didn’t know where Gil was.
“Are you looking forward to the ball tomorrow, milady?” Sarah asked, interrupting her train of thought.
“Yes, I am,” she surprised herself by replying. For some childish reason, she was excited at the thought of going to a ball—her first official ball. She didn’t count Nev’s masked one.
She wondered if Gil would deign to dance with her. She knew she wasn’t an especially good dancer, not having had much practice. Just with the dancing master and the other girls at the seminary. Oh, and Will, of course, at the annual village dance—though only country dances were danced there.
Sarah’s voice was dreamy. “Which gown will you wear, milady?”
“The blue, I thought,” Rose replied distractedly.
Sarah stared at her, aghast. “Not the silver?”
“You think the silver more suitable?”
“Infinitely, milady.”
“Then I shall bow to your superior judgment.”
Sarah smiled complacently, satisfied with the outcome of their discussion. She went back to the braiding of Rose’s hair. And Rose went back to wondering what callers this afternoon would bring.
“Lord and Lady Stanhope,” a footman announced.
Gil stepped forward, Rose’s arm on his, to greet Lord and Lady Clive, the hosts of Rose’s first ball.
Gil bowed, Rose curtseyed, and after Lord and Lady Clive had reciprocated, Gil performed the introductions. Lord and Lady Clive’s expressions, when they looked at Rose, were avid with curiosity. And, in Lord Clive’s case, admiration. His eyes swept down the length of Rose’s silvery gown and up again, lingering on her bosom, then her mouth.
Gil discovered he wanted to punch Lord Clive on the nose, although, rather inconsistently, he also discovered that the man’s reaction gave him a strange thrill of somewhat masochistic pleasure.
And what was that all about?
What did it matter to him what anyone thought of Rose?
It was a thought he had plenty of time to contemplate that evening. Forced to introduce Rose to dozens of friends and acquaintances, he then watched her proceed to dance her slippers off with everyone but him.
He really ought not to mind. He was the one who had suggested they go about in society together for a few weeks. The very purpose of coming to this ball was to introduce Rose to the Ton, wasn’t it?
So why, every time some grinning fool approached them to enquire who Gil’s lovely companion was, did he feel like frog-marching her out the door and back to Stanhope House?
It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
Gil heaved a sigh and leaned his shoulder against the pillar that he was half hiding behind. There were plenty of people he could talk to if he chose, but he wanted to be alone for a while, and he’d found this quiet nook from which to watch Rose dance the quadrille. She was dancing with some young pup called Thorpe, who affected the most absurd poetical airs, like a third-rate Lord Byron. Thorpe was gazing soulfully at Rose. Making a cake of himself, Gil thought irritably.
He turned his attention back to his wife. Her movements were graceful, though obviously unpractised. He could see that she needed to think about the steps as she performed the passes and turns of the dance with her overeager partner.
Lord, but she was beautiful tonight. Her silver gauze gown glittered under the blazing chandeliers, making her look like a fairy. Titania maybe, with that regal pose of hers. A serious sort of fairy. The sort that would be running fairyland, he thought, and smiled to himself, thinking of her poring over golden accounts books in her silver finery.
He’d been watching her for only a few minutes when a female voice spoke behind him. “Hello, Gil.”
He turned, a smile already growing at those unmistakable soft tones. “Tilly—”
Eyes twinkling, she offered her hand, and he lifted it to his lips, grazing her gloved knuckles with his lips. “You look wonderful,” he said. And she did, in a diaphanous gown that enhanced her pink-and-gold beauty, a beauty that looked more mature now.
“Thank you.” She blushed becomingly. Still that quiet, modest nature. “You’re very kind, Gil.”
“Hardly. Merely pointing out the obvious. And how is Dray? And the children?”
She was plainly pleased to be off the subject of her own looks, launching into an animated monologue about her family, how busy Dray was with his politics and how the twins had had mumps but were quite recovered now. Tilly was a domestic creature at heart, and Gil smiled at her indulgently as she talked, not especially interested in her news but soothed by her easy contentment.
“And what about you, Gil?” she said at last. “I see that your wife is with you this evening. Is she—that is, is everything…?” She trailed off hopefully, gazing at him with wide blue eyes. He shouldn’t have been surprised by her question, but Rose had never been mentioned between them before. He found himself wondering why Tilly had asked. Had she seen him staring at Rose? Had he looked infatuated? The thought of other people guessing his innermost feelings made him queasy.
“Rose came down to London a couple of weeks ago,” he replied. “We are—that is, we plan to try to live together.” He gave an uncomfortable laugh, an attempt at lightness that didn’t come off.
“Really?” Tilly said, blue eyes suddenly glittering with what looked suspiciously like tears. “Oh Gil! I—I’m so very pleased for you. I’d been thinking, you know, what a—well, a perfect waste you’ve been making of your life. So, I’m glad. Truly.” She gave a little sniff and smiled in a wobbly way, and he found himself gazing at her, surprised by her little display of emotion. She was always so full of her husband and children and her home. He was amazed she’d even given him a thought.
After a moment, Tilly tore her gaze away from his and looked at the dancers. “She’s very pretty, I see.”
Gil stared at Tilly’s averted profile, wondering how to respond to that.
“I—well, yes,” he mumbled eventually and followed her gaze. His eyes immediately found Rose amongst the dancers, turning in silver splendor, her gown glimmering with the reflected flames of a thousand shivering candles. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, he thought, though it seemed ungallant to say so to another woman, even Tilly.
“Well, goodness, how things have changed!” Tilly said brightly. Then she looked up at him and smiled the old Tilly smile. “You must bring her to see us, Gil. I want to extend the hand of friendship, of course. It must be so difficult for her, entering society for the first time.”
He returned her familiar smile with one of his own, fond and indulgent. “That’s very kind. I’d be grateful, and I’m sure Rose will be too.”
She beamed, like a schoolgirl given praise. “A dinner,” she decided. “I was planning one soon anyway and can easily make it larger. You can be the guests of honour.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Don’t be silly. It’ll be a pleasure!”
“Then, thank you. We will be delighted to come.”
Her attention was snared then, by something across the room. “Oh, bother,” she said, though she smiled. “Dray wants me.”
Gil glanced in the direction of her gaze, and sure enough, Dray was beckoning her. He tipped his head at Gil when their eyes met and smiled a greeting but then beckoned Tilly again.
“I’d better go,” she said. “Dray and I have to look in at Lady Lennox’s rout before we go home, and it looks as though our carriage is waiting. But perhaps I’ll call on your wife tomorrow? I really ought to be introduced to her before I invite you both for dinner.”
“She’ll be pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.” Gil smiled.
It was only a minute or two after Tilly took her leave that Rose returned to his side. She had young Thorpe in tow and they made a striking couple, being of a similar height and build, both dark-haired and fair-skinned. Rose rested her arm on Thorpe’s as they walked. He was talking animatedly, and she was smiling at him. Gil gritted his teeth. By the time they came to a halt beside him, Thorpe was beside himself, all puffed up from her attention. He bowed over her hand with a flourish.
“My lady’s hand is as white as the new-fallen snow,” he declared, even though said hand was encased in a silver satin glove that went all the way up to her elbow.
Gil glared at him. “Your lady?” he muttered irritably.
Thorpe glanced nervously at him and quickly let go of Rose’s hand. The puffed-up look vanished.
“Would you excuse me, Lady Stanhope?” he said quickly. “Miss D’Aubney has promised the next set to me.”
“Of course, Mr. Thorpe.” Rose smiled, and he hurried away as though he had a pack of foxhounds at his back.
“Did you have to be quite so rude?” Rose asked mildly once he was out of earshot.
“All that damned poetry,” Gil grumbled. Then he looked at her narrowly. “I thought you hated poetry.”
A reluctant laugh burst from her. “I do,” she confessed and then laughed again, more freely this time. God, she was lovely when she laughed, with her clear, bright eyes dancing and her mouth quirking up like that. It was good to see her smile again, and smiling at him. It was like being in the sunshine after a long, bleak winter.
“Oh, he went on and on,” Rose said. “I don’t think he said one sentence that wasn’t in iambic pentameter.”
Gil laughed at that, and so did she. When their eyes met, it seemed to him that she was all lit up from within, and all at once, he felt so close to her. He wanted to stretch his hand out and touch her. Just a brushing little contact. Nothing at all compared to what they did in bed together each night—but he didn’t feel he had permission for that sort of public intimacy.
Just then, the orchestra took up their instruments again, and couples began to take their places on the floor. When the music began, Gil realised it was a waltz—and that no partner had come to claim Rose. Well, perhaps there was a way to touch her after all?
