Lady Maybe (22 page)

“I hope your freckles will not rub off.”

She chuckled mournfully. “If only they would. The bane of my existence.”

He tilted her chin to better regard her complexion in the lamplight. “They’re charming. You’re quite beautiful.”

“Ha.” She shook her head. Pretty, maybe. But no one besides her mother had ever called her beautiful. “With this long nose and wide mouth? Hardly.”

He ran the cloth down her nose. “Distinctive.” Then he slowly ran it across her lips and whispered, “Desirable.”

Their eyes met and locked. His fingers within the gauzy cloth lowered to her neck and trailed along her clavicle bones, stroking the bare skin above the modest neckline of her gown. She could
hardly breathe. How wide the blacks of his eyes were in the flickering light. Intense with longing, yet tinged with uncertainty.

She didn’t move.

He lowered his head slowly, gaze flicking over her eyes, her face, her lips. She didn’t run or step away. She barely even blinked. He touched his lips to hers, softly, tentatively. A rush of sweet, heady longing filled her.

When she did not object, a spark flared behind his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers more fervently, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against him. How tense his body was. How nearly frantic his endless kiss.

Suddenly he tore his mouth away, grabbed her hand almost roughly, and opened the adjoining-room door. He paused only long enough to turn back for the candle lamp, then pulled her along behind him through his own dressing room and into his connecting bedchamber—a room she had never been in before. He shoved the door closed behind him with his foot and then he was kissing her again.

A small voice within her whispered this was wrong. That is was not too late. She could tell him to stop, break away, and retreat to her own room. But she gave the voice little heed. Perhaps it was the sweet port, the violent storm, his wife’s callous infidelity, or the fact that she could give him something he had been refused for far too long. Something he deeply, desperately wanted. Or perhaps she simply allowed herself to be swept away in the moment, on a foreign feeling of power and desirability.

His hands slid up under her arms, then slowly downward, following her curves, her rib cage, the deep indentation at her waist and slight flare of slim hips. He sighed deep in his throat, as though the feel of her feminine shape was somehow satisfying. He tilted his head the other way, renewing his kiss with ardor.

The youthful stolen kisses and timid touches she had once
shared with Fred seemed like child’s play in comparison. She stood on her tiptoes—he was so much taller than she—allowing her shy fingers to touch the hair at the nape of his neck. Then she slid her hands tentatively down his shoulders to his chest. Without breaking their kiss, he pulled his arms away and struggled out of his formfitting coat. He ripped off his waistcoat, sending buttons clattering to the floor. Heedless, he grasped her hands and laid them on his chest. He still wore a white shirt, but the fine cotton did not conceal the hard muscle beneath. She ran her hands up over his shoulders and down the ropey muscles of his arms before returning to his chest. She had never touched a man before, except Freddie many years ago. His skinny, wiry frame had felt nothing like this.

Sir John lowered his head, kissing her neck, her shoulder. His hands once again ran firmly up her sides until the heels of his hands brushed the swell of her and she gasped. He returned his mouth to hers, perhaps afraid she was about speak reason into the unreasonable, and stifled any protest with his kiss.

Suddenly he reached down, placed one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and swept her up into his arms with apparent ease. He carried her to his canopied four-poster bed.

He laid her down atop the bedclothes and covered her with his warm weight. Propping himself on one elbow, he brushed away a lock of hair from her brow and looked into her eyes. “Beautiful Hannah . . .”

Had he called her his wife’s name by mistake, or no name at all, she might yet have resisted him. But the sound of her given name in his deep voice, said with such feeling, such warmth . . . She was lost. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned up to kiss him, and held on.

H
annah awoke with a start sometime later. Outside, the storm had subsided, but it was still dark. What had awakened her—had a door slammed? Had Lady Mayfield returned home at last? Then suddenly she remembered. Where she was. With whom. And what they had done. All the desire and heady power dissolved into guilt and shame. And fear.

Pushing Sir John’s arm gingerly from her waist, she swung her legs over and climbed from bed. She still wore her stays and shift, though he had worked her gown off her shoulders and tossed it onto the chair. She stepped into the gown and pulled it up over her shoulders and straightened her skirts as best she could. Her hair was down, the pins who knew where. She hoped whichever housemaid found them would assume they were Lady Mayfield’s. Hannah crept around the room until she found her stockings and shoes. She slid on her shoes barefooted and bunched the stockings in one hand. She went to the main door, listened, and hearing nothing, slowly opened it. She allowed herself one last look at the slumbering Sir John, but could see little save a dim outline in the dark room. The candle lamp had long since burned itself out.

She slipped from the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She tiptoed toward her own room at the far end of the corridor and had nearly reached it when a shadowy figure carrying a candle appeared from around the corner. She stifled a gasp.

It was Mr. Ward. Mr. Ward, who often looked at her in a manner that made her uncomfortable, now glanced significantly from her, down the dark corridor. Had he any idea which room she had come from? She prayed not.

He looked at her with suspicion in his small eyes, or something even less flattering.

“Miss Rogers . . . What are you doing wandering about in the dark?”

She hoped he did not notice the few buttons at the back of her frock were not fastened. Hopefully her unbound hair covered the omission. “I . . . I thought I heard a door shut,” she faltered, trying in vain to keep her voice steady. “Is . . . Lady Mayfield home at last?”

He studied her expression by the light of his candle. “Yes, which you would know if you had been to her room.”

“I did not go in. I did not wish to wake her.”

“I doubt she is asleep. Her poor lady’s maid has just been called from her bed to undress her. For the second time this evening no doubt.”

She despised the man’s leering innuendo. Though he was probably right.

“Then she is in good hands,” Hannah said, attempting a casual tone and reaching for her door latch. Suddenly his hand shot out and descended over hers like a claw. She looked up at him in alarm.

He stared boldly into her face, as if daring her to protest. “Miss Rogers. Hannah. Perhaps we should . . . talk. In private.”

Did he think he held some power over her? Was he threatening her, or simply hoping to take advantage of this unexpected encounter in the middle of the night?

“It is late, Mr. Ward,” she said coolly. “Anything you have to say to me can wait until morning. Now I must bid you good night.”

She wrenched the door open, stepped inside, and quickly shut it behind her, turning the key in the lock. She pressed her ear to the wood, hearing nothing over the loud beating of her heart. One minute . . . two . . . Finally she heard his footsteps retreat.

But she feared she had not suffered the last of his advances.

S
he did not see Sir John until the next afternoon. One of Marianna’s female friends called, and while they were ensconced over tea and gossip in Marianna’s boudoir, Sir John discreetly sought out Hannah in the library. Her stomach tensed at the sight of him. What would he say?

He closed the door behind them and began quietly, “Miss Rogers, I am deeply sorry about last night.”

She ducked her head, ears burning. “As am I.”

“I should have found the strength to stop myself. But I acted selfishly, and I apologize.”

She managed a wooden nod. What was she supposed to say? What could she say? The more he regretted it, the more her own regret mounted.

He stepped closer. “I have never done the like before. You are a gentleman’s daughter—a clergyman’s daughter—which makes it all the more inexcusable. Were it in my power, were I not a married man, I would do the honorable thing. Since that is not possible, I am at a loss as to what to do. If there is anything you need. Mon—”

She cut him off. “Do not offer me money, I beg of you. That would make me feel even worse. Like a payment for services rendered.”

“Oh . . .” He hesitated. “I see. Well. I did not intend it that way.”

A single knock sounded and the door was opened before Sir John could reply. Mr. Ward stuck his head in, like a jack-in-the-box. It might have been comical save for the timing and his suspicious expression, as he looked from one to the other.

Sir John said evenly, “Miss Rogers and I are discussing a few things, Mr. Ward, but is there something you needed?”

“Ah . . . No, sir. That is, I can wait. If you are in the middle of something . . . pressing.” His brows lifted in expectation.

A weasel, Hannah decided. The man looked like a long-necked weasel.

“Not at all.” Sir John crossed his arms. “What is it?”

Hannah spoke up, forcing a polite formality. “Thank you, Sir John. I will make a note of it. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall leave the two of you to your business.”

H
annah didn’t know if companions in most houses ate dinner with their mistress and her husband, but Lady Mayfield insisted upon it. It gave her someone to talk to, she said. And the presence of a third party forced her stern husband to remain polite and dissuaded him from engaging in serious conversation, like asking her where she had been and with whom, and confronting her behavior. Then again, it was not very common for a married woman to hire a companion at all. But there was little common about this marriage.

The three of them sat at table together as usual that evening. Sir John at the head, Lady Mayfield to his right and Hannah across from her. Most of the time, Lady Mayfield directed her chatter across the table at Hannah, effectively ignoring Sir John. Occasionally, she directed a question his way, or a bit of news, or a barb.

That night, however, Marianna Mayfield’s gaze swung like a pendulum from Sir John to Hannah, brown eyes speculative above her raised wineglass. “You two are certainly quiet.”

Neither replied for several moments.

Then he said, “I suppose it was the storm. Neither of us slept well last night.”

Her arched brows rose high. “Neither of you?”

“Well, I don’t know how anyone could sleep through all that thunder and lightning,” he clarified. “Did you, Miss Rogers?”

Hannah licked dry lips. “No, I did not fall asleep until quite late, I’m afraid.”

“Pity.” Marianna smiled. “I slept like a lamb.”

Hannah felt Lady Mayfield’s gaze linger on her profile. When she glanced up, the woman was watching her curiously. “Perhaps that was what Mr. Ward meant. He told me he thought you . . . missed me . . . last night. He said he found you wandering the corridors quite late in search of me.”