Marrying the Mistress. Juliet Landon
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she was the only one to notice that, this time, he took part in her conversations instead of distancing himself, showing more of an interest in her well-being.
Linas was exhausted after missing his afternoon rest, and at dinner Helene could see how he fought against his fatigue. Not wishing to prevent him from drinking more wine than usual while so many were there to see, she was obliged to watch in dismay as his glass was refilled time and again. His speech began to slur, and his pale skin became unhealthily mottled.
Unable to hide the concern in her eyes, she found her looks intercepted by Winterson’s equally worried frown. It was getting late, yet no one had deserted the gaming tables or the chatting groups arranged on couches and floor cushions. She shook her head at the young footman holding a tray of filled glasses in front of Linas, but too late to prevent one being removed, clumsily, sloshing the contents over white knee breeches and carpet.
She went to him, hoping to offer some unobtrusive help, but Winterson was there before her, lifting his brother under each armpit and good-naturedly ignoring his protests. ‘Come on up, old chap. Enough for one day.’
‘Stay with your guests, my lord,’ Helene said. ‘I’ll go up with him.’
‘No, you stay here. I’ll see to him myself. Nairn is on his way.’
‘He’ll be at his supper.’
‘I sent for him. Lespeaking ave him to us.’
His commands offered her a certain comfort for, although she had not wanted to stay amongst the guests for much longer, the alternative was even less appealing. To hand control over to his authoritative twin would be no great sacrifice.
She stayed in the drawing room for another hour, managing to convince all except one that she was as light-hearted as the rest of them. Winterson reappeared to lead a silly game of charades, but the pace slackened and, two by two, the ladies withdrew to their rooms to prepare for the night, still giggling and flirting. Helene was relieved that she and Linas would be returning to York in the morning. She would leave him at his spacious Stonegate home to rest and recover, and she would go to her well-ordered house on Blake Street, which was not really hers but Linas’s. She would pretend to be its mistress when the reality was that she could stay only as long as Linas was alive.
If she could have given him an heir, her future would be more assured, but that was unlikely to happen, for both of them had realised some time ago that one of them must be infertile. Having as much pride as he, Helene preferred to believe that the fault must lay with him, but Winterson’s wounding enquiry about her future had inflamed a painful truth that was never far from her darkest thoughts that, no matter which of them was responsible for their childlessness, the outlook remained bleak.
Deep in thought, she allowed her maid to undress her and to lock away the few jewels Linas had given her since their first Christmas together. He had never thought it necessary to shower her with gifts, but now her birthday had come and gone without a word, and the thought re-occurred yet again that their relationship must be on the wane. Ought she to leave him now, before he did? Should she find another lover, and be passed from one to the next until…until what? Had his brother anticipated the end of the partnership? Was that another reason for his coolness?
With a pang of guilt, she decided not to go to Linas’s room, knowing how the scene would do nothing to lighten her spirits. His brother and valet had tended him, and now he would be snoring heavily under a mountain of extra blankets with all the windows tightly shuttered and a lamp left burning next to the mahogany commode. The air would be heavy with the odour of medications and sweat. It was no place for lovers.
For a few moments longer she watched the rain beat upon the night-blackened window and run down the glass, parting and joining, lashed sideways by fitful gusts of wind. Then, drawing the curtains to shut out the sight of her distorted naked reflection, she parted the cool sheets and slipped between them, gasping at the sting of freshness upon her skin, her feet seeking the places where the warming-pan hadspeaking recently been. The maid tiptoed across to the candlestick and blew out the flame, leaving her mistress to her rest.
Not for many weeks had Linas stayed overnight at her Blake Street house, nor had he invited her to stay at his, and so it was with an immediate sense of consolation that, in unthinking half-sleep, she accepted the gentle movement of the sheets behind her and the slight dip of the feather mattress as his weight tipped her against him. She had been asleep, that much she knew, for the wind had whipped itself into a howling spring gale that rattled the old casement windows, and drowsily she wondered whether it was that which had disturbed him or the sudden remembrance of her birthday. With a grunt of contentment she snuggled deeper into his warm body and took the weight of his arm upon her hip, expecting that he would straight away resume his sleep.
But the weeks of abstinence were testimony to the way her senses remembered him, for instead of the tang of friars’ balsam, laudanum or linctus, there was a fresh moorland smell of heather and larch trees after rain, and instead of the heavy limpness of his arm, this one was thick and prickly with fuzz, moving over her skin with a purpose, his fingers spread wide to cover hers.
Her breathing behaved strangely as she struggled to bring back to her sluggish mind some memory of what she’d been used to, yet even with her back to him she could not reconcile those vague familiarities with the pulsing firmness that now pressed against her. Could she be dreaming? Had her tiredness, resentment and yearnings taken her too far? Reaching backwards, she took hold of the hand to feel for the signet ring he never removed.
But the hand slipped away quickly to grasp her wrist and hold it immobile, and as she turned to him in sudden alarm, he moved faster than she could ever remember him doing without stopping to cough and regain his breath. She found herself under him, pressed softly by wide shoulders that covered her, arms that enclosed her, and a large head of thick hair that touched her face with its softness, imparting a scent of new-washed linen. His lips found hers with none of the usual tentative pecking by way of introduction that was Linas’s way, but with the assured and competant kisses of one who knew how to suspend a woman’s protests in a limbo of delight, and it was not until he had taken his fill of her lips that her terrible doubts were able to surface and demand verification.
Pushing at his shoulders, she struggled against him as her body tried to recognise the deception, her mind still trying to persuade her not to delve too closely for fear of discovering the truth. Wordlessly, so as not to shatter the dream entirely with accusations and denials, she put up a fight that was disadvantaged in every way, which he countered in silence and with ease, and ultimately with the potency of his kisses that she allowed with nothing like the opposition she ought to have offered. Once, holding his head between her hands, she traced his features with sensitive fingertips over broad forehead and brows, over closed eyelids, cheeks and nose, firm mouth and chin, wider than the one she was used to. He kissed her fingers as they passed across, and she melted at that small tenderness before exploring the depth of his hair and the deeply muscled neck that led her on over the contours of his shoulders, down and down.
It occurred to her that he might have mistaken her room for that of another, but he would surely know where his guests were being accommodated. If any other thoughts of reason or common sense sneaked into her mind that night, they stood no chance of being heard against the deeply urgent need that sedated her fears like a potent drug, a need borne of starvation and a sense of waste that had dogged the last year with her lover. Gradually closing the doors of her mind, she began again to lose herself in the lure of his closeness, in the touch of his hand exploring the full roundness of her breasts. Perversely, she joined him in the treachery, forbidding herself to think about the consequences or to seek answers to a host of questions that were sure to follow. She would take what he was offering her, on her birthday, the only gift of comfort she was likely to receive.
Whatever reasons he had for doing this, he was not inclined to share them with her, nor did she ask him to, for she knew this would never happen again. Ever. He was making use of her and she would do the same with him, just this once. She might have pretended it was against her will, but she knew it was not, her token struggles having lacked any conviction against his gentle but determined restraint.
Savouring every