A Wild Pursuit (23 page)

“This is seduction,” he said to her, and his voice was raw with it.

He could feel the coil in her, feel the tension growing. She was so beautiful, trembling in his arms, coming closer and closer…

“Would you do this for me?” he said fiercely.

Her eyes opened. They were magnificent, drenched, beautiful…“Of course!” she choked. She reached out for him. “Please…”

“It's seduction.”

“It's glorious.”

He made his fingers still, just stay there, in the melting warmth. Then just as she was about to stir, he moved again. She gasped, and her body jerked against his. He stopped. And then pressed hard again.

“Stephen, don't!” she cried.

“Don't? Don't?” He let his fingers take a rhythm then. And allowed himself, finally, to return to her lips, beautiful dark and swollen, not with false colors but with kisses.

She was writhing against him now, panting little bursts of air, a scream building in her—he could feel it, could feel an answering shout in his own chest, a desperate longing—

She shuddered all over and clutched his shoulders so hard that he could feel her fingernails bite into his flesh, even through his coat.

And then she was pliant in his arms, a sweet, curved womanly body. He whispered into her hair. “That was a seduction, Bea.”

There was silence in the library, and then she said, “I think I guessed that. At some point.” The thread of laughter in her voice would always be part of living with Bea.

She didn't pull away from him, though. She stayed, nestled into his arm like a dove. He had to leave the room or he'd lose his resolve. Stephen had the sense he was fighting the greatest battle of his life: his own Enclosure Act. He had to enclose her, keep her, marry her.

And he had to make her understand that.

“I want more from you,” he said into her ear.

She opened her eyes rather drowsily and smiled at him. His blood licked like fire at the look in them. “I'm amenable,” she said sleekly.

“You don't know what I want,” he pointed out.

She blinked. “Couldn't you teach me?”

“I want to be courted, Bea.” He watched her carefully. “Not seduced,
wooed.
”

“Do I have to consult a dictionary?”

“I hope not. May I escort you to your chamber?”

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and a faint rosy color high in her cheeks. It took every bit of self-control he had in his body to leave her at her bedchamber door. But he was playing for keeps.

C
andles were being snuffed in bedchambers all over the house. Rooms were sinking into darkness, into the pleasant intimacy that welcomes a lover's step, a silent kiss, a whispered invitation. But Rees Holland, Earl Godwin, was hardly in a loverlike mood. He stared at the door to his bedchamber, grimly awaiting—

His wife.

And wasn't that an irony? That he should feel such a revulsion of feeling, such a disinclination to even speak to the woman, that he felt like dashing out of the house and saddling a horse on the moment? But there it was. She was a viper, Helene was. She could say the merest thing to him, and it would sting to the bottom of his soul for days.

And yet—he told himself again—he only wanted the best for her. Fairfax-Lacy wasn't a man to stand by her during a divorce. 'Twould ruin his career, for one thing. She was infatuated with the man, he could tell that. But it wouldn't last. Fairfax-Lacy was naught more than a smooth-talking politician, a silver-tongued devil, as his grandmother would have said. He didn't look at her with much desire, either. Rees had caught Fairfax-Lacy looking at Beatrix Lennox with real interest in his eyes.

That was the crux of it. He himself had been a damned failure as a husband to Helene. Not that she'd been any good as a wife. But presumably she was bedding Fairfax-Lacy, so perhaps it was only with him that she felt so—revolted. It was amazing to find that it still stung, years later. Even now, when he saw her, he had the impulse to put on a cravat, to cover any stray chest hair that might show. Because it
disgusted
her. She had said that again and again. Hairy beast, that he was.

Rees grimaced. What the hell was he even worrying about her for? She was a sharp-tongued little devil. Except he couldn't let her make the same mistake again. She needed to find a husband who'd be true to her this time. And Fairfax-Lacy wasn't the one. Not with the liquorish way he glanced at Lady Beatrix when no one was looking. He never looked at Helene that way. Oh, he was wooing her: teasing her with extravagant compliments about her moonlit hair and other such blather. But he didn't look at her with that smoky longing that a man looks at a woman he wants to bed. Can't bear
not
to bed, in fact.

And yet she was obviously planning to ask for a divorce. Presumably Mr. M.P. thought he could get an Act of Parliament allowing her to remarry. But if Helene married Fairfax-Lacy, she'd find herself with yet another unfaithful husband. He, Rees, had allowed her to go her own way and find a consort of her own. He'd given her her own life back. But Mr. Proper Fairfax-Lacy would never do that. No, he would dally with strumpets on the side, embarrassing Helene in public and private, but he'd never give her freedom to do the same.

There was a scratching on the door, and it silently swung open. Rees marveled for a moment: the doors in Lady Rawlings's house seemed to have been greased, they moved so quietly.

Helene looked rather like a silvery ghost. She was muffled up in a thick dressing gown, looking as drearily proper as any matron in all England. Rees had to admit that he was rather glad she had found a consort. The burden of being the only adulterous one in their marriage was exausting for his conscience.

“Forgive me for my informal attire,” she told him. Her voice was cool, with just the faintest edge that told him that she expected him to be rude. Vulgar, even. She always thought he was vulgar.

So he bowed and settled her in a chair with all the manners he could summon to mind.

“I've come to ask for a divorce,” she said abruptly, “but I'm sure you've guessed that.”

“Has Mr. Fairfax-Lacy agreed to exposure as your consort?” Perhaps the skepticism in his tone was audible. “He will allow me to sue him for adultery?”

But she was shaking her head, perfectly calmly. “Oh, no, that might infringe upon his career. Stephen has a very important role in the government, in the life of the nation. We'll simply have to hire some man to stand in his place.”

Rees didn't have to think hard to know that a writer of comic operas wasn't considered important to
the life of the nation.
“Shouldn't Fairfax-Lacy be in session at this very moment, if he's so vital?” he asked.

“Stephen is quite, quite exhausted by the ordeals of a recent parliamentary debate,” Helene said, waving her hand in the air.

Rees thought sourly about exhausted men and their proclivities to entertain themselves with other people's wives. “Ah, exhausted. I see.”

“You wouldn't understand, Rees. Stephen has a critical role in the House. He just finished orchestrating a tremendous battle against an Enclosure Act. That's when a rich man fences in land that was originally openly used for grazing by villagers. Stephen had to go against his own party!”

“I know what an Enclosure Act is,” Rees said irritably. “And I fully understand that he is a worthy man.”

“So it would be better for all concerned if we simply created evidence of my adultery.”

“I don't see any reason for us to go to the tremendous expense of effecting a divorce,” Rees said. Despite all his caution, he was starting to get angry. It was something about that martyr role that she played so well: as if he had ruined her life. Whereas it was more the opposite—she had ruined
his
life!

Her jaw set. “I don't wish to be married to you any longer, Rees.”

“We can't all have what we want. And now you seem to have the best of all worlds, if you'll excuse a little plain speaking. You have the proper politician for a bit of kiss and tumble on the side, as well as the title of countess and the very generous allowance I make you.”

“I don't give a fig for the allowance,” she said. Her eyes were glacial.

“No, I don't suppose you do.” He was losing his temper again. Damn it, but she had a way of getting under his skin. “Because if you did, you might actually buy some clothing designed to appeal to a man. How the hell does Fairfax-Lacy fight his way through that thing you're wearing?” He eyed her thick woolen dressing gown.

She raised her chin and squared her shoulders. She could have been wearing the mantle of a queen. “The allowance, the title—they're
nothing.
It's a baby that I want,” she said. And to Rees's horror, her voice wobbled. Helene and he never, ever showed vulnerability to each other. It was beyond possibility that he should comfort her.

“A baby. I believe you told me that before,” he said, giving her time to gather herself together.

Helene took a deep breath and leaned forward. She had to convince Rees: she simply
had
to. Never mind the fact that she had no intention of marrying Stephen. It took ages to obtain a divorce, and she could find someone else to marry during the process. “Have you seen Esme's baby?” she asked.

“Of course not. Why on earth would I venture into the nursery to peer at a newborn?”

“William is the dearest little boy that you ever saw,” Helene said, trying vainly to convey the stab of longing that overtook her at the very sight of the baby. “His eyes are a lovely clear blue. And he looks at Esme so sweetly. I think he already knows who she is.”

Rees couldn't stand children. They mewled, spit and vomited on a regular basis. They also created any manner of revolting odors without the slightest consideration for others in the room. Moreover, there was something about the slavish adoration in her voice that set his teeth on edge.

“A baby is unlikely, in your situation,” he said bluntly. “You would do better to avoid the nursery, if a mere visit sends you into this kind of transport of emotion.”

Helene had been smiling a little, but the smile withered immediately. “Why not?” she demanded. “And what precisely do you mean by
my situation?
” Rees was grateful to hear that her voice was not trembling now; she sounded more likely to garrotte him on the spot.

“You would do better to simply accept the truth,” he said. “I have done so, I assure you. I have no hope of having an heir.” Never mind the fact that he'd never wanted one. “I think it is far better that we simply accept our situation.”

“And that is?”

“We're married to each other and, obviously, our marriage isn't tenable. But no putative second husband has presented himself. Fairfax-Lacy won't even stand by you during the divorce. Therefore, he's extremely unlikely to marry you afterwards.”

“He would!” Her voice was shrill now, but Rees far appreciated shrill over teary.

“I doubt it. And frankly, my dear, he's eyeing that wanton little friend of Lady Withers's. So even if he did obtain an Act of Parliament allowing him to marry you—and I suppose, given his position, he has more chance of success than most men—he'd be as unfaithful to you as I am.” Rees rather liked the way he had summed up their situation. “If you find a braver consort, I'd be happy to reconsider the idea of divorce,” he added.

“Bloody hell!” She exploded out of her chair like one of those Chinese firecrackers he'd seen in London. “How bloody generous of you! You are the most stubborn, disgusting man in all England!”

“I think I am being perfectly reasonable,” Rees said, staying right where he was. Surely husbands didn't have to follow that nonsense about standing up every time a lady did.

“Reasonable!”

“You would be happier if you simply accepted the situation,” he said.

“You
bastard!
”

That caught him on the raw. “Don't you think that I would like something more?” he roared. He bounded from his chair and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don't you think that I would like a real marriage? A wife I could love, could talk with, laugh with?”

For a second she shrunk away from him, and then she raised her head and glared. “Am I responsible for that? No!
You
eloped with me when I was barely out of the schoolroom!”

“I was barely of age myself,” he said. “We were fools together, Helene, don't you see?” He gave her a little shake. “God knows I'd love to take back the moment I asked you to elope. I wanted—want—more from life than I have! I see Darby and Henrietta together, and I wish—” He turned away. There was no point in continuing this subject. He sat down, plopping into the chair with a sense of exhaustion that took his whole being.

There was silence in the room for a moment and then, with a faint rustle of wool, she sat down opposite him.

“So,” she said finally, “you see your friend Darby and his new wife, and you wish for a more appropriate spouse. Someone as charming and beautiful as Henrietta, I gather. Whereas I see Esme's baby, and I feel equally envious.”

“My only point,” he said, feeling as tired as he ever had in his life, “is that at some point one simply has to accept what's happened. I made a mistake, and God knows I've paid for it.”

“
You've
paid for it,” she whispered, incredulous. He could see her small fists clenched in her lap. “I'm the one who lives to be ridiculed, to have everyone tell me about your—your opera singer. I'm the one who wants a child and will never be able to have one. I'm the one who can't even attract a man willing to face the scandal of marrying me! Your life is
perfect.
You have your music and your opera singer. And I don't believe for a moment that you really want Henrietta: she's not at all musical.”

“I don't want Henrietta. I just want—I want what Darby has with his wife.” Rees leaned his head back against the carved oak of his chair. “Fool that I am, I want a woman's companionship.”

After that, they just sat there.

Helene didn't say anything about the light his comment cast on his relationship with his opera singer, the woman living in Helene's own bedchamber.

And Rees didn't say anything about the fact that Helene herself had admitted that Fairfax-Lacy didn't have the nerve to stand by her during a divorce.

There had been precious few acts of kindness in this particular marriage, but sometimes silence can be the greatest kindness of all.