The Complete Regency Surrender Collection. Louise Allen
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As her husband stood and approached her, she could not help but listen, hoping that one of his steps might sound different from another, revealing a trapdoor in the planking. But each sounded the same as the other, until he stopped just short of her, staring down as she worked.
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.
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