Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8 (5 page)

His hands fumbled at the cords of my stays. He’d always undone them deftly in our days of nightly loving and punctuated the unfastening with kisses and murmurs of love. None of that happened this time. He gave me a gentle scolding, controlled and careful. I would have preferred a clearing of the air, but he wouldn’t do that. He’d stopped himself a few moments ago when he was quivering with fury. I was losing him again.

He gave me reason and common sense. “Sweetheart, we have four children now. They need their mother. That’s why we brought them, rather than leave them at home.”

“I am here.” I put my hands on my hips to facilitate his action. Incipient tears blocked my throat, filled my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall until he’d left the room. Not that I intended that to happen for a while. If we continued like this, so watchful around each other, thinking about every word, every touch, we would drift apart. I’d seen it in too many couples who had let love remain hidden until cordiality became a habit.

His scolding continued. I still loved his voice, the quiet cadence, the rasp hidden under his customary congenial tones that grew pronounced in the throes of physical ecstasy. I wanted to hear that again. So much. Feel the touch of his hands, hot on my body, the soft, moist movement of his mouth on my skin, the hard suction when he sucked my nipple—I had to stop. I could feel the moisture forming at the top of my thighs. I let his voice float over me, listening to the tone rather than the meaning.

“You have to preserve yourself, let me care for you—”

But I had to respond to that remark. I snapped, “Like veal in aspic?” I hated veal in aspic. Slimy and cold. “You want to keep me wrapped up against all danger? You can’t, Richard, it’s impossible.”

A small pause, then, “I know.”

His hands left my body and the stays fell away. I caught them and dropped them on the chair, then bent to retrieve my gown and drape it over the chair too. I unfastened my petticoats myself.

I stood in shift and under-petticoat, still wearing stockings and shoes and my hair pinned up in its knot on the top of my head. Keeping my gaze on his face, I reached up and took out the pins, one by one. I knew the action lifted my breasts. It would make the nipples press against the thin lawn fabric. I would force him to suffer.

Because of my earlier thoughts, my nipples had peaked, and as I moved, the extra sensitivity made me shiver. He stared at me, his eyes cool but a small frown furrowing his brow. At least I’d had some effect. Desperation filled me.

“Do we stay like this forever?” I asked. “Do we draw further apart until you can’t bear it anymore and search for something outside the marriage bed?” He opened his mouth to protest, but I wouldn’t let him speak yet. “It would be meaningless, and that’s what you’d tell me when I found out. Because I
would
find out, you know that, don’t you? There are people longing for it to happen, for you to stray, people who will run to me to see how I’m taking your betrayal. And I’ll have to smile and pretend I don’t care, just as other wives do. You’ll be sparing me, you’ll say, stopping me from bearing more children, wearing me out with childbirth. During my time in society, I’ve heard it all, Richard, and the excuses, and I’ve seen the hurt in their eyes.”

I couldn’t keep my tears back any longer, and I didn’t see the point anymore. I let them fall but didn’t wail. Just let them trickle slowly down my cheeks, leaving hot trails behind.

“I’ll never do that.” He sounded sincere, his voice steady. He
was
sincere. But I knew he needed the closeness we had shared, if not making love, then intimate relations. I wanted the true involvement we’d had, the love and sharing, not just the making love. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted to wake up in his arms, to kiss him good morning. The lack of it was driving me insane.

I wanted to shock him into returning to me. I remembered something that had crossed my mind once, briefly. “And I’ll be alone. After a surfeit of lovemaking, suddenly I’d have nothing. Richard, what if, one day, I see a man with your eyes? What if I grew lonely enough to turn to someone else?”

Shock forced his eyes to dilate and the lines around his mouth to whiten. But to do him justice, he didn’t turn away. He must know I was close to breaking. I had shown him everything, only stopping when I could hold my voice steady no longer.

“You cannot. You know what sexual relations will mean—” Now his voice shook. “You can’t fall pregnant again.”

“It’s an excuse.” I knew several ways to avoid children, and in any case, I’d had childbed fever. “The doctor told me that nine out of ten women who’d had what I had end the illness sterile. In others that might be unfortunate, but not in our case.”

“There’s always a chance. Always. And I can’t lose you.” He took my hand, stroking his thumb across my palm in a well-remembered gesture. “It’s still me, sweetheart.” His voice softened, gained that rough edge I loved. “I can’t look at you without wanting you. Touching you is almost impossible because I want to do this—” He dragged me close. His arms locked around me, crushing my breasts against his chest, and his mouth collided with mine, needy and hungry. I welcomed him with everything I could.

Starved, I lifted one hand and pushed it under his wig, which fell to the floor with a thump. I threaded my fingers through his short, fair curls. Sleek to the touch, softer than the finest Chinese silk. He tilted his face to one side, taking my lips in a clearer, more complete melding.

I moaned and he responded, not breaking the kiss as he hummed. My tears dried from his body and the heat he was generating in mine. His erection rose hard between us, pressing insistently against my belly, and because I had undressed, I felt every ridge, right to the cap at the head. Oh God, I’d missed that. Those lover’s touches, absent these last three months and more. It might as well have been three years, thirty years. A desert of longing.

His hands, up to now in hard, knuckled fists against me as if he still tried to resist, opened and spread over my back, encompassing all of my being. During our history together we had the truth that our bodies spoke to each other, never failing us in the tide of desire and togetherness. From our first kiss in the coach house in Yorkshire, we’d fitted like this. That kiss had persuaded my body that I belonged to no other, that I could give myself to nobody but him.

I opened my mouth, and his tongue thrust in, firm and possessive. I tasted him in return, boldly played with him, tongue against tongue, the sensitive buds tasting. He sucked at me as if he’d thought of nothing else, wanted nothing else, needed me to continue his existence.

When his mouth left mine, it was so he could kiss down my throat and find the sensitive hollow at the base. He teased me there, his grip loosening so he could stroke and then cup one breast through the fabric of my shift. Shivers racked me, and I gasped his name, pushing my body into his, desperate to feel his skin against mine once more. His tongue caressed and demanded, and I imagined all my nerves standing on end and screaming for his touch.

Emboldened, I palmed his balls, felt his hard, hot length. Something inside me seemed to loosen, just as he’d loosened my stays for me, and I gave myself up to him.

That was when he gasped, “No!” and thrust me away.

I took a step back, my eyes wide. I’d tugged at his shirt, which now flopped loosely under his waistcoat and over his breeches.

His mouth was slightly open, his breath coming in short gasps. “Now you see,” he said. “
Now
you understand.”

He turned and left the room, and a moment later I heard the slam of his stateroom door. I stared at the door linking our bedrooms. Other doors, other places, we’d never locked them, but this one we’d never unlocked.

I didn’t understand at all. Not one bit.

Chapter Four

Considering the state of affairs on London’s docks, this wasn’t the most salubrious part of the city, either. I didn’t hold much hope for our landing point, but even that appeared more respectable than Rotherhithe and the Isle of Dogs. The same type of rough man hung around, but they seemed not to have the air of menace I’d sensed at home. Or maybe my imagination gave the inhabitants of a foreign town a romantic glamour. Perhaps a Portuguese would give a similar connotation to our dockers. He wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

The royal palace dominated the part of the quay that we approached. Gracious buildings with mansard roofs in the French style flanked a large, regular structure, framing a huge courtyard. I enjoyed the sight, with the autumn sun gilding the rooftops, and people coming and going about court business. We would probably make an appearance, if only to pay a courtesy visit to the king. He was out of the city at the moment, so we could postpone that visit, although I’d like to see the building in more detail.

We were to land at the brand-new quay, the
Cais das Pedras
, built of marble and very grand, standing adjacent to the palace. I ignored the wind whipping past my cheeks in favour of viewing the spectacle of our landing. The quay jutted crisply into the choppy sea, inviting us to land with its air of firm confidence.

Shaken from my recent encounter with Richard, I fixed the expression of interested welcome to my face and waited on events. We had the luxury of doing so. Other passengers from other vessels gazed around, bewildered and concerned, but I had the confidence of knowing that either we would be met, or we would procure a vehicle to get us to our destination. I never underestimated that and remembered what it was like to be alone, stranded and afraid and with insufficient funds or standing to obtain what I needed. It had only happened to me once, in Exeter years ago, but I had never forgotten the experience.

I saw all this as we approached the landing pier in a small boat rowed by some of our crew. We arrived at the base of a flight of steps, more like a ladder in truth. One of the crew led the way and then I went next, followed by Carier. It surprised me that Richard allowed Carier to take his place, but perhaps the manservant gave him little choice.

I was aware that Carier knew of my husband’s qualms and care of me, and I also knew that he agreed with me, that Richard should relax his attentions. I only knew because I had learned to interpret his movements and expressions, and I am sure nobody else understood his opinion. My maid, Nichols, treated me as usual now and only gave me the care she considered I needed, for which I was grateful. I have observed that women frequently have more idea than men of how to treat others and deal with illness.

I climbed onto the bare planks that formed the pier and staggered. Carier quickly moved to place his hands on my waist from behind with a murmured, “If my lady will allow…” and then I understood why he had followed me up the stairs. He realized what my first reaction to dry land would be and acted to support me without fussing unduly.

Richard climbed up. He appeared remarkably and somewhat annoyingly steady. I repressed my irritation when he didn’t stumble. I felt the pier move under my feet, but I was no longer sure if the movement came from my imagination or reality. Probably a combination of the two since piers were rarely completely unmoving. If I closed my eyes, I found it made the sensation worse, so I snapped them open again, and my gaze fixed on a figure at the end of the pier.

A woman stood there, leaning on the arm of a tall man. She was fair, wearing a fashionable gown and mantle, green and darker green. My sister, Lizzie.

I had missed her so much, and not until this moment did I realise how badly I’d desired her presence, someone I could entirely trust to talk to frankly. Despite my making some good friends recently, Lizzie remained my best and most trusted friend. Nobody else would ever take her place.

Richard dropped my new shawl over my shoulders and arranged it becomingly with a few flicks of his fingers. When he offered me the support of his arm, I could take it without stumbling, although I still had the sensation that I should move my hand an inch or two farther than I actually did. I gripped the coat, defying the fashionable do-not-touch demands the garment seemed to make, and essayed my first step.

Once I remembered to adjust my expectations and pretended that I didn’t feel the earth move, I progressed more steadily. I would have run into my sister’s arms if I could, and I saw from the broad smile she wore that she was ready to welcome me. In fact, I found it pleasant to watch her, to take in her expression, to see how much she had changed.

I could have said good-bye to her yesterday, for all the changes I perceived in her. Perhaps her bosom, swelling above the fichu tucked into her gown, was a little more pronounced, and her figure more womanly, but her face appeared as lovely as ever. Lizzie had always attracted more admirers than me, but not just for her appearance. Her lively nature drew people, and her lack of vanity, while still retaining a healthy respect for the way she looked, increased her attractiveness.

From her letters I knew that liveliness hadn’t changed, and I was glad. Portugal and Spain had a reputation for being more staid and grave than England. It appeared that hadn’t affected her, unless she curbed her natural
joie de vivre
in certain circumstances. For underneath, Lizzie had a more practical nature than I had ever possessed. She had always said that she would marry for companionship and the abilities she could offer a future husband, but when she met Paul, Marquês de Aljubarrotta, she had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love. Not instantly, as I had with Richard, but over time. She’d married him and moved to his home country.