But that would let in thoughts, emotions, that she didn’t want to consider right now. This act was so she could have a baby. That and only that.
His fingers were stroking over her pubic hair, brushing lightly, drawing closer to the folds below. She tilted her head away, staring at the fireplace, trying to keep her equilibrium. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth, the beating heart attached to that seeking hand, but she’d already decided to make this impersonal. It wouldn’t do to change her mind now when she wasn’t thinking clearly.
And then he touched her there and all thought fled her mind. His fingers slid into her intimate recesses, where only she and Roger had ever been, and she should’ve felt invaded, but God help her she didn’t.
She didn’t.
The sob welled within her, unstoppable, unstiflable. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, afraid to make a sound and break apart this intimacy.
He brushed against that small bit of flesh and she jerked as if he’d stabbed her. She wanted … more. She wanted to grind herself against him, wanted to moan, loud and free, wanted to take his hand and make him touch her more firmly. But she did none of those things, for she was a lady who had asked of him an impossible price and if he was gentleman enough to accede to her wishes, the least she could do was bear it with composure.
Even if it might kill her.
He continued with those light, relentless brushes, and she felt herself begin to swell. To become engorged with a kind of liquid pleasure, heating, pulsing in her loins. She’d felt this before, knew what it led to.
She grabbed his wrist and the sound that emerged from her throat was perilously near a whimper.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. If you just let me—”
“No,” she gasped. “Please, no.”
“Megs,” he sighed, his voice troubled.
She couldn’t answer, could only tug on his wrist, mutely indicating what she needed.
He took pity on her, rolling atop her.
She let go of him then, spreading her legs to let his hips slide between them, a firm weight. He bunched up his nightshirt and then she felt the heat of his bare legs, the soft scrape of his body hair. So intimate. So close. She felt thin, cold metal fall between her breasts, some type of pendant he must wear on that chain about his neck. She wondered, absently, what it was—and then all thought fled her mind.
The head of his penis probed her entrance.
She grit her teeth, tensing uncontrollably.
He made a soothing sound and slid through her folds, wetting himself. Teasing her.
She wanted to tell him to just put it in her, damn it. Do the thing and get it over with so she might regain her balance. But he took his time, gliding against her, circling. She could hear the small, wet sounds, feel the spark every time he pressed her there. By the time he finally put the blunt tip in and began to push, she was trembling, trying to keep herself from falling off that ledge. He shoved into her agonizingly slowly. A subtle insertion and retreat, each time filling her a little more with his length. He was as solicitous as if she were a virgin.
And she was going to go insane if he kept it up.
This wasn’t what she wanted, what she needed. She hadn’t asked for careful, warm lovemaking.
She’d asked for his seed.
Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he made one last thrust and she felt the stretch of her inner thighs as his hips met hers. He rested there a moment and his chest pushed against her breasts, unbound under her chemise, as he inhaled. He rocked, sliding against her without saying a word, his breath rough above her in the dark. She wondered what his face looked like, if this act transformed it, if he watched her even though he couldn’t see her.
If he hated her for making him do this.
She couldn’t touch him—she’d forbidden herself that luxury—so she fisted her hands by her head, torturing her pillow with her nails.
And still his hard penis invaded her, surging and retreating, demanding something without words. Demanding what she refused to let herself give.
When his breath caught, when his pace quickened, so that her hips sank beneath his into the soft mattress, she swallowed, straining her eyes to see in the dark. When he suddenly stilled, buried deep in her throbbing flesh, locked with her in animal intensity, she wanted … so much.
But all she received was what she’d asked for.
His seed.
GODRIC CAREFULLY DISENTANGLED himself from Megs, rolling aside as his softening cock slipped from her warm depths. He wanted to stay, to perhaps hold her, and if she let him, kiss her.
But she’d made it plain that she did this without affection and he was not a raw lad.
So he stood and pulled the covers back over her form and when she made a small, questioning noise, he only said, “Good night.”
Turning, he scooped up his banyan and slippers by feel and exited her room.
He’d left a candle burning in his own bedroom and he was glad of the light now. It brought him out of the too-intimate darkness, made him remember who he was.
Who she was.
But even with the candlelight, he found himself at the dresser. His fingers didn’t shake when he fitted the key in the lock and he was inordinately proud of that fact.
He opened the enameled box. The locks of hair lay there, the same as always, and he reached to touch them but found that he couldn’t. His fingers were still damp from Megs’s skin.
“Forgive me,” he whispered to Clara.
At that moment he couldn’t even remember her face, the sound of her laughter, or the sight of her warm eyes. He was speaking to empty air.
Godric gripped the edges of the drawer, the corners pressing painfully into his palms, but still he couldn’t find Clara.
Somehow, he’d lost her.
He was alone.
He inhaled shakily and fished through the loose letters in the drawer with fingers that now trembled until he found the one he wanted.
2 November 1739
Dear Godric,
Thank you for the monies you made available to me. I’ve had the roof repaired and already the east wing has nearly stopped dripping! There is just one rather persistent leak in the tiny room just off the library. I’m not sure exactly what the room was used for. Battlefield informs me that a former lady of the house was locked in there after her husband became enamored of his (male!) steward, but you know how Battlefield likes his little jokes.
We ate the last raspberry out of the garden last week before cutting back the brambles. Everything aboveground has been killed by the frost, except for the kale, and I’ve never really liked kale. Have you? I confess I feel a strange kind of melancholy at this time of year. All the green things have gone to ground, pretending death, and I have nothing left but the frosted trees and the few remaining leaves, dead yet hanging on nonetheless.
But how dreary! I will not fault you if you grumble under your breath and fling aside my maudlin ramblings. I am not an entertaining correspondent, I fear.
Yesterday I went to tea at the vicarage, playing lady of the manor while being plied with very rich cakes and tea. You will not credit it, but we were served a kind of tart made from orange persimmons, quite pretty, but a bit bitter (I think the persimmons were under ripe) and, I am told, a specialty of the vicar’s wife. (So I could do naught but swallow and smile bravely!) The vicar’s youngest son, a babe of only forty days, was presented for my inspection and though he was a brave boy, my eyes watered for some odd reason and I was forced to laugh and pretend I had got a bit of dust in my eye.
I don’t know why I tell you that.
And again! I’ve dribbled into quite boring territory. I shall endeavor to mend my ways and be only cheerful in my next missive, I promise. I remain—
Affectionately Yours,
Megs
PS: Did you try the ginger, barley, and aniseed tisane recipe I sent you? I know it sounds quite revolting, but it will help your sore throat, truly!
Her postscript blurred before his eyes and he blinked hard, inhaling. This was who he’d done it for: Megs, who thought old crotchety butlers had any sense of humor, who ate bitter persimmon tarts to please the local vicar’s wife, and who cried at the sight of a baby and couldn’t admit even to herself why.
She deserved a baby of her own. She’d make a magnificent mother: kind, gentle, understanding.
He placed the letter back in the drawer, closed, and locked it.
He’d promised to give her that baby, and he would.
No matter the cost to himself.
MEGS WOKE TO the sound of Daniels rustling in her armoire. She squinted at the window, realizing it was rather late in the morning, and as she stretched, she made her second realization. Her thighs were sticky.
Godric had made love to her last night.
She knew her face was heating. She could feel the ache of the muscles between her legs, a twinge she hadn’t felt in years, and she wished that she could’ve woken alone so that she might assimilate the changes to her life.
To her.
Fortunately, Daniels’s mind was on other matters. “We have visitors, my lady.”
Megs blinked. It couldn’t be that late. Besides, they hadn’t had any callers since coming to London. She wasn’t even sure the sitting room had been cleaned yet. “We do?”
“Yes, my lady.” Daniels frowned at a yellow brocade gown and placed it back in the armoire. “Three ladies.”
“What?” Megs sat up hurriedly. “Who are they?”
“Relations of Mr. St. John, I believe.”
“Good Lord.” Megs scrambled from the bed, feeling a bit irritated. Why hadn’t Godric told her that he’d expected family to visit? But then, knowing the state of Saint House when they’d arrived, she had the sudden idea that maybe he hadn’t known.
Good Lord, indeed.
Megs made a hasty wash while Daniels’s back was discreetly turned, using the warm water already brought up. Then she stood obediently as Daniels and one of the little maids from the home dressed her in a pink and black figured gown. It was several years old and Megs made a mental note—again—that she really needed to call upon a modiste while in London.
Daniels tutted despairingly as she dressed Megs’s hair. Usually her lady’s maid needed a good forty-five minutes to tame the springy locks. Today she was making do with ten.
“That’s enough,” Megs said, keeping her voice calm even though she wanted to run down the stairs before these relatives of Godric left in high dungeon at the state of the house. Good lady’s maids were hard to find—particularly ones who would work in the country. “Thank you, Daniels.”
Daniels sniffed and stood back, and Megs walked quickly out of her room.
The first floor was very quiet and Megs bit her lip as she descended. Had they left?
But as she made the lower level, she was greeted by Mrs. Crumb, looking as perfectly put together as always. “Good morning, my lady. You have guests waiting in the primrose sitting room.”
Megs nearly gaped. Saint House had a primrose sitting room? “Er … which room might that be?”
“The third on the left, just past the library,” Mrs. Crumb said sedately.
Megs’s eyes widened. “The one with the ball of cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling?”
Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow twitched. “The very same.”
“Er …” Megs bit her lip, staring at the formidable housekeeper. “It doesn’t still—”
Mrs. Crumb’s left eyebrow slowly arched.
“No. No, of course not.” Megs smiled in relief.
The housekeeper nodded solemnly. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea and biscuits from Cook.”
Megs nearly gaped again. “We have a cook?”
“Indeed, my lady. Since this morning at six.”
“You’re a paragon, Mrs. Crumb!”
The housekeeper’s lips curved very, very slightly at the corners. “Thank you, my lady.”
