Edith Layton (15 page)

She squirmed. She didn’t love Wycoff. She respected him and liked him very much. She didn’t know if she’d ever love a man again, and certainly not someone she couldn’t trust. This was different. This fascination, this longing, this needing to be with Wycoff wasn’t that. She wanted him. She faced it now, a day from England, a night from home, a day away from never seeing him again. Except in passing, perhaps.

He’d said he’d be a friend. But she didn’t see much chance of it. They’d travel in different worlds. She’d go the hotel Francis’s brother had recommended when she got to London. Jamie would meet his uncle. Perhaps they’d stay on with him. They’d
visit her mother. Then, she’d have to see. Once Jamie’s future was settled, she could look into her own. With the Ameses? Maybe one day with William or another likely fellow? Not Wycoff. He was a nobleman, a world traveler, and a libertine. A charismatic man she could never know or predict. But one she’d always want, and think about, and wonder what if…

She raised her head.
What if
indeed. Once, only once in her life, it would be wonderful to do what she wanted and damn the consequences. Because there wouldn’t be any. They’d never meet again, hadn’t she just realized that? And so, why not? Who would ever know? Who would care? She was tempted now, in the middle of this last night near him.
Impulsive and ill advised
, her small steady voice of reason warned. But once, only once in her life, what if she did something impulsive and ill-advised?
Twice
, twice
in your life
, the voice whispered, reminding her of her hasty marriage.
Once
, she argued back, because that, however poorly considered, had been a marriage, a commitment to eternity. This would be something altogether different.

And rash, passionate, and irresponsible
. But she was so tired of being responsible, reasonable, and prudent.
And risky and dangerous, what of the possibility of a child?
From only one time?
But one time might be one time too many….

But she didn’t have to make up her mind, she thought, lifting her head on a sudden inspiration. She could throw her destiny to the Fates. She could
go to him on a ruse now, the last time she could ever do such a thing, and see what happened. It would be all right so long as she was ready to accept whatever did happen. Most of all, it would be doing
something
instead of stewing, aching, yearning, arguing with herself, alternately flushed with shame at her cowardice and fearing her boldness. Even if it was only a longer good-bye, it would be better than this. It would be something definitive. An ending.

She glanced at Jamie’s trundle bed. He slept on. Nothing could wake him, nothing ever did until the morning sun. The sun was far from rising. He was safe here, and would be until that distant, fast approaching morning.

Lucy stepped out of bed and quickly drew a robe on over her long nightshift. She touched her hair, and let her hand fall. If she stopped to dress, to preen, to think, she’d never do it. In fact, she couldn’t believe she was doing it even as she crept to the door.

She peered into the corridor. A lantern hanging on the wall threw swaying shadows. Nothing else stirred. The other passengers were silent, unseen. Mrs. Oliver slept as though drugged, because she was. Her weary maid never got a chance to rest when her mistress was awake, and took advantage of it when she could. Perkins had gone into his cabin hours past—she’d heard him say good night to his master. The crew were in their quarters, except for the night watch, and he was above deck.

Lucy stealthily started toward Wycoff’s cabin.
One step reminded her she’d left her slippers behind. She hesitated, then raced, on tiptoe, to his door. She cast a fearful look down the corridor, tossed her night braid back over her shoulder, took a breath, held it. And scratched at his door.

He didn’t answer. She let out her breath, as disappointed as relieved, and turned to go as stealthily as she’d come.

His door opened. His eyes opened wide. “Lucy?” he asked. “What is it? Is Jamie ill? Are you all right?”

He was still dressed, though he wore no jacket or cravat and his shirt was open at the neck. She stared at him, horrified. She felt as though she’d just woken—she must have been half-asleep, after all, to have
actually
gone to his cabin? It all made sense in the dark of her sleepless bed. Now it was real, and now it was terrifying, she’d nothing prepared, nothing to say, no sane reason to be there. “I—I must have been sleepwalking,” she said.

He stared. But only for a second. “Then come in,” he said quietly. “We can’t have you wandering the ship all night.”

“I’ll go back,” she said, edging away.

“Come in,” he said, opening the door all the way.

He deserved an explanation and she didn’t want to give it in the corridor. She knew he’d keep asking and she couldn’t just turn tail and run now. And because she so much wanted to, she went in.

W
ycoff closed the door and turned to her, taking in her night robe, her hair in a braid, her astonished eyes. “Sleepwalking?” he asked gently, one eyebrow going up.

“We’re going home tomorrow,” she said, a little desperately. “We may never meet again. I was thinking of you. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to say good-bye in front of everyone, I didn’t want to take my bags and leave and pretend it didn’t matter. You see?”

“Yes,” he said, “because I was thinking the same thing. I couldn’t even contemplate bed, and didn’t bother dressing for it. But I couldn’t go to you. I’m so glad you came here, however long it took you to brave yourself to do it. Come here.”

“I am here,” she said, bewildered.

“No, not really all the way here yet,” he said, and took a step and closed the gap between them, and took her in his arms.

He took all the responsibility away from her as well. He left her no choice. He made up her mind for her. She sighed with relief and gave her lips up to him, blocking her mind to all sane voices of reason. Because they’d only say no, and she didn’t want to hear that tonight. All she wanted to hear was him saying how lovely she was and how much he wanted her. And he did.

But he was so warm and so solid, and his hands and mouth knew everything she wanted to say or do. She gave herself to him with an abandon she’d never experienced before, and discovered a pleasure in his arms she’d never imagined.

He chuckled, low in his throat and pulled back. “No, not here, not standing, not so hasty,” he breathed. “We’ve the night and a bed, and privacy at last.”

It was dim in the cabin, but she could see the hard need in his face. She knew it was echoed in her own. He lifted her and carried her the steps to his berth. She didn’t have time to wonder at the ease with which he lifted the gown from her, she was so greedily eyeing him as he pulled his shirt over his head. It was dark enough to spare her dignity as she stared at him, light enough for her to see the hard contours of his body and rejoice in them. He came to her again. She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his chest. He was burning, as though with fever. So was she.

She’d only known one man, and he’d been little more than a boy, and that had been almost a decade past. She hadn’t the time or inclination to regret that this wasn’t Francis, only the time to note all the differences she felt, to be sure it wasn’t a dream. And to heighten the terrifying pleasure of it. Francis had been altogether different, thinner, only lightly muscled, smoother skinned. But this was Wycoff, a man grown. She could feel the tensile strength of him, and his hard chest had silken hair on it. She could never have imagined that. It thrilled her. There was no time for it to shame her. This was like a fever dream, and all things were possible and permissible in dreams.

He ran his long fingers through her braid, tugging, loosing it, sending her hair tumbling around her shoulders. He gazed at her for a space of a sigh, then lowered his head. His lips found her breast and she shuddered with pleasure. Her hands went to his shoulders and her head fell back when he sought her other breast. She couldn’t suppress a groan when his mouth stayed there, just there, somehow knowing that was just where he awoke a white hot pleasure that almost drowned her. He knew all the right things to do. He stroked and soothed her even as he inflamed her. His hand was unerring and sought her intimately, seeking, finding, bringing sharp pangs of sheer ecstasy. She kissed his neck, his mouth, his shoulder, gasping with excitement, breathing in his scent of musk and honey, and the memory of lemons.

She could only hope he’d spend a little more time with her, just a little, because this was so delicious, but from the way he was breathing she knew it wouldn’t be long until it all ended.

She was right.

He sat back and took in a long shivering breath. “We could go on,” he said in a thickened voice. “There are ways we could find pleasure without putting you at risk. But you know that…as well as all the rest. Why did you come to me tonight, Lucy? After all these days of avoiding me? Why tonight?”

“Because I couldn’t sleep,” she said. Belatedly, she realized she was naked, and he still wore his breeches. But she didn’t do more than put a hand on her breast, to display rather than to hide it, because he was staring at her hungrily and she wanted him to stop talking. If he began talking, she’d have to start listening to her own inner voice that was beginning to clamor to be heard.

“You couldn’t sleep?” he said in his normal tones. “I see. And so you consider me something in the nature of a sleeping draught?”

Her eyes flew wide. That was not passion speaking. She plucked up the coverlet and dragged it to her breast. “No,” she said. “It was in the nature of a good-bye.”

His chest rose and fell on a deep exhalation. “So I thought,” he said. “Damn it, Lucy, you almost had a monstrous fine good-bye from me at that. He picked up his shirt. “But no, my dear. I think not. If
you wanted sleep, you could have gone to Mrs. Oliver and borrowed laudanum. You sought something else from me. I’d love to have obliged you. And I would under almost any circumstance I can think of—but one. I didn’t want you to take me because you planned to forget me as soon as we reached land.”

“I’d never forget you!” she said in dismay. “That was whole reason I came here—so I’d have something to remember of you.”

“Oh, it’s memories you’re after?” His voice had a cynical edge. He pulled on his shirt, gazing at her as he did up the buttons. She hadn’t felt shame in his arms; she hastily covered herself completely now. “Memories, yes, I see,” he mused, his face unreadable. “Memories of passion, not love. Of carnal delights, not a meeting of minds. And with the added charm of risk to your reputation, to say nothing of the risk of impregnation. Don’t wince. I’m too tired and angry to search for a more polite phrase. It’s the best I can do now. I assure you, less considerate ones spring much more easily to mind. You’re willing to face such dangers? Yet you don’t want me—my whole self—for the rest of our lives in the holiest of wedlocks, as I offered? Strange.”

“Not so strange,” she said, wishing she knew what he’d done with her robe, her shift. “I told you, I can’t marry you. I can’t trust you won’t go back to your old ways. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want…” She touched her hair, felt it needed repair, and was glad of something to do. She looked down at
her fingers as they braided her hair back up. “I’ve never done such a thing in my life.”

“Obviously,” he said wryly.

She looked up, hurt and dismayed.

“Most women would wear something a jot more seductive to such a meeting,” he added with a strangely tender smile. “Long white woolen gowns and an ancient robe are not usually considered wildly seductive—although on you, it was, of course. And most have a better reason ready to explain coming to a man’s door in the middle of the night than a look of complete horror, followed by a feeble guess at sleepwalking. Was it all only impulse, Lucy?” he asked suddenly, seriously.

“Coming here was,” she admitted, lowering her gaze. “But thinking about it wasn’t. I just couldn’t bear to leave without—I’ll never do such a thing again, I wouldn’t even if you
begged
me to now,” she said, raising her chin. And then ruined it by asking in a much smaller voice, “Why did you stop?”

“Because I’d be damned if I’d let you justify rejecting my affection even as you took my body,” he said harshly. “Nor did I want you congratulating yourself for the rest of your life—looking back at that world-weary adulterer whose suit you were so right to deny, even as you remembered how good the damned fellow was at what he did? No. ] stopped—you must know how difficult that was—to prove to you that I need more of you than ] wanted so urgently. But I did stop, didn’t I? That should show you something.”

She shook her head. “Proving you have will power is
not
the same as proving you have power to stay the course. And that’s what I need from a husband or lover.”

He looked shocked. Then he started laughing. “Oh, gods,” he said, running a hand over his hair, “I
am
an incorrigible rake, after all. For a second there I thought you meant…but you didn’t, did you? ‘Power to stay the course’? You
are
talking about fidelity, aren’t you? Too bad. I can readily show you the other kind and was about to try. It’s a thing I pride myself on, by the way. But the sort you mean will take years for me to prove. How can I? You won’t give me those years, will you? No matter what I say.”

“I don’t dare.”

“You dared trust me with your body tonight, and not one day further?” He laughed with no humor. “Sorry, my dear. Sorrier than you can know—but that won’t do. I find I have, in my dotage, this bizarre desire to know self-worth. If I took you as you’d planned, then I’d be little better than you thought. I find I don’t want to think of myself that way.”

“May I have my robe, please?” she asked, burning with embarrassment.

“Of course, the more fool I,” he muttered, and stooped, scooped up her clothing, and gave it to her. “Now we both have extraordinary memories to take home with us. Of course it was too good to be true. Ah well. And so now I suppose any attempt at that friendship you were so eager for is done with, too?”

She hung her head. “It’s not your fault,” she whispered.

“I see,” he murmured. “I’m neither to be friend nor lover now, is that it? Tell me,” he asked, after a moment. “You’re so good at these trysts. You must have guessed I don’t rush pleasures, so people would have been up and about when you left me if I’d been able to finish what you started. How had you planned to explain yourself if someone came upon you on your way back to your cabin in your nightclothes?”

She stopped tying her robe. “That long?” she gasped, and then gasped again at what she’d said, and his expression. “I hadn’t thought! I just acted.”

“I hope you marry a good man, and stay good as he is. You’d make a terrible adulterer,” he sighed. “Well, although it will no doubt damn me further in your eyes, I know how to help with that problem, at least.” He rose, ran a hand through his hair, tucked in his shirt, and went to the desk on the wall. He pulled out a sheet of paper from a traveling case there. “A note,” he said, offering her a pen. “Write one to Mrs. Oliver. Say anything. ‘Remember to pack your hat’ or ‘Do you know where my comb is?’” Anything. Then you can always say you were about to slip it under her door. Leave it for her anyway. It’s a errand to be on in case someone sees you and decides not to reveal themselves.”

“But what if someone sees me going out your door?” Lucy asked, belatedly horrified at further possible consequences of her behavior.

“They won’t,” he said. “I’ll spy out the land, and let you know when to slip out.”

He cracked open the door and waited, listening and watching. Lucy went to the desk and hastily scrawled a note. Then she walked to him, and stood at his back, her heart beating so loudly she was sure he heard it.

Because he swung around and looked at her, and dragged her into his arms and kissed her witless. Then he stepped away. “Now,” he whispered in a husky voice low as the dreaming night, “go to Mrs. Oliver’s door. Leave the note. Then scurry to your cabin. And don’t look back.”

She did as he asked, fast as she could. But at the last, when her door was almost shut, she looked back. There was nothing to see but the flickering lamplight. So she never knew how long he stood with his back against his closed door, swearing softly under his breath.

The passengers stood with their bags and cases, waiting to leave the ship. London! They’d seen the city rising from the sea as they’d neared it. They’d watched, less patiently, as the ship dropped anchor. But customs officials came aboard and made everyone wait while they checked papers and asked questions. The passengers were made to sign declarations, show the contents of their cases, and watch customs men shuffling papers.

“One would think we were still at war,” Mrs. Oliver huffed.

“One would want to declare war, they’re taking so long,” Lucy said with a smile.

But Mrs. Oliver didn’t favor her with an answering one. Lucy’s heart sank, wondering if somehow the older woman knew about her midnight folly. Until she remembered the reason they weren’t speaking had precisely to do with the fact that Mrs. Oliver never saw midnight anymore, and had encouraged her to drug herself insensible, too.

Jamie was in a fever of expectation. “We go to the hotel first, right, Mama?” he asked. “Perkins said it’s a grand place, and makes the ones at home look like a chicken coops by comparison.”

“Perkins is English and so of course he’d say that,” Lucy said. “I’m English too and I don’t think the ones at home are so bad.”

“Then we go meet Uncle, do we?”

“Then we meet Lord Hunt, your uncle,” Lucy corrected him.

“Then, my grandmother, right? But when will we see Lord Wycoff and Perkins again? Because Perkins said they’re not staying at the same hotel. He says Lord Wycoff has a house grander than the hotel, so why should he?”

“More grand,” Lucy said automatically, “and that’s as may be.”

“You’re welcome to visit at any time, Jamie,” Lord Wycoff said, catching the end of their conversation as he ambled toward them.

“I’d like that,” Jamie said. “Mama, Lord Wycoff
said he’d take me to the menagerie at the Tower, and that there’s lions there.”

She met Wycoff’s eyes squarely over the top of Jamie’s head. “There’s lions everywhere,” she said softly, and then looked down at Jamie. “That will be fine. When you have the time, and Lord Wycoff is free.”

“Lord Wycoff is always free,” Wycoff answered as softly, gazing at her, “to his eternal damnation, some people think.”

Lucy flushed.

“Where exactly are you staying?” he asked.

“At the Pulteney Hotel,” Jamie said. “My uncle told us to.”

“He’s paying, I hope?” Wycoff asked. Lucy nodded. “Good,” he said. “Mrs. Oliver will be delighted; it’s above her touch, I’d think.”

“Mrs. Oliver regrets that she’ll be unable to come with us,” Lucy said quickly. “She’s going straight to her brother’s house.”