Never Too Late (16 page)

Slowly, so slowly, he came into her, filling her incrementally, inch by inch. He breathed heavily with the exertion and focus. The sensations were indescribably strange to her. He was right—there was no pain at all. Instead, she felt such exceedingly unique friction—soft and hard, smooth and ridged, sensitive skin sliding against sensitive skin. Then he fully impaled her and hit a spot that made her cry out, this time in stark, overwhelming pleasure. He groaned as he withdrew almost completely and slid firmly into her again. Whatever his hands and mouth had done to her before were ripples on a pond, compared with these tsunami waves of ecstasy that made her practically jump out of her skin. She couldn’t catch her breath as he thrust into her again, again, even deeper, even harder. Her hands dug into him, one on his back, the other on his buttock, her legs wrapped around his, all to pull him ever closer. Her back arched, all her muscles tensed, her body shook—until now, and now, and now again, the pleasure exploded through her and she cried out insensibly. Even as the waves subsided, she felt him continue his onslaught, still fully erect within her, driving faster and harder. He seemed to fill her even more, impossible as that seemed. Without warning, yet another explosion of ecstasy, even more massive than the first, left her flailing, screaming “Oh, Alex! Alex! Oh, God!!!” with him putting his hand over her mouth to quiet her while he thrust into her one last time, releasing himself into her fully.

Long moments later, when their breathing and heartbeats returned to normal, she risked a glance at him. He looked bloody well pleased with himself.

“That was . . .” His voice trailed off as he searched for just the right word, stroking her shoulder.

“Indeed,” she replied. They breathed in unison as they drifted off to sleep together.

Chapter Twelve

Evans Principle?: Oh, I’ve lost count, my girl. Anyway, don’t waste time on regret. Ever forward !

N
ight serves as an excellent cover. Wrapped in dark silence, one feels a modicum of anonymity and one’s inhibitions may fall away. But day inevitably follows. The sun sanitizes, and daylight leaves few hiding places.

Nora woke suddenly to bright sunlight in her eyes and two maids bustling about the room. One of the two maids was tying back the drapes she’d just opened wide. The other, surreptitiously eyeing her with a frown, was laying out clothing.

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself, miss,” Honoria said quickly. “I’ll just wear my clothes from yesterday.”

“Lady Devin instructed us to clean them for you and bring you these for now,” the girl said quietly, “and there’s a bath drawn for you, ma’am.” No sign of Alex. Only right, she told herself, that he would prevent the servants from a scene, that he would need to prepare for the day. He didn’t leave
me
, she told herself. He just needed to leave; it was the proper thing for him to do.

As she left the bed, she saw traces of last night’s events and wondered briefly what the servants would make of that. Monthly courses, most likely. Perhaps. And what did it matter? Few people would expect or believe what had transpired; she barely believed it herself. And yet . . . as she bathed, her body announced its many complaints: joints popped, her thigh muscles ached, sore sensitive parts would not be ignored. When she returned to the bedroom, wrapping a thick dressing gown around her, she looked at the serviceable clothes laid out for her, along with cloths that reassured her the maids interpreted the soiled sheets acceptably. She also found the young maid standing by the door, staring at her balefully.

The girl curtsied and said, “I was instructed to help you dress, ma’am.”

“There is no need. You are free to go,” she said. She expected the maid to be relieved and eager to leave, but the girl’s expression hardened. She couldn’t resist asking, “Is there something wrong?”

The girl shook her head slowly.

“I assure you that you are welcome to speak freely with me. I am not one to put on airs or expect people to hold their tongues around me.”

“My employers are all that is kind. I would not wish to displease them in any way.”

Honoria looked at her more keenly and finally discerned her anger.

“Please, you may be completely frank. Whatever you have to say to me will not be repeated. This is between the two of us. I give my word.”

Still, the girl stood, as unyielding and unmoving as granite.

“I swear on the lives of my beloved parents, I will not tell another soul. You are so clearly dying to say something to me. Speak your mind, child.”

The appellation must have been the flint required because the young maid instantly blazed.

“Who are you to sneak your way into this family? You don’t deserve to be here, getting the treatment of a queen!”

She was horrified by the accusation. The girl’s intense response suggested more than the usual employee loyalty. She strove to respond calmly.

“I assure you I am not sneaking my way into the Devin family. It is no business of yours, but I was in dire circumstances last evening and the Devins were kind enough to assist me. You must be familiar with their generosity and kindness. I have no intention of being a nuisance to them or of imposing on their hospitality any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“Oh, I know full well what you did. The master will tire of you and toss you aside like the gutter trash you are.”

“You don’t even know me. Why would you assume that I am, as you say, ‘gutter trash’?”

“He deserves someone finer than you, younger, prettier. He deserves a real lady for a wife.”

“As I thought I made clear, I have no designs regarding the Devin family. Lord Devin is free to marry whomever he wishes, and like you, I hope he finds a lovely wife suited to his needs. I am not on the marriage market.”

She couldn’t comprehend the previous night’s events, much less face accusations from a little chit who knew nothing about her. Her mind whirled with unfamiliar—and extreme—emotions. Even as she dressed, every motion seemed strange, as if she didn’t belong in her skin. The shop needed her attention, but she could not focus. Her body and her heart were already too much at war to give her head any opportunity to chime in. She’d been distraught, she told herself. That was why she’d turned to him—for comfort and escape. But she couldn’t absolve herself from responsibility. She’d wanted to be with him; in all honesty, she wanted him still. Right now. But there was no future for them together, just as the brazen maid has said. Eventually, he needed to marry a perfectly respectable daughter of the peerage and produce little perfectly respectable heirs. The only way she could be with him was as his paramour, which meant there was no way.

“I will not be his mistress,” she said aloud, as if to convince herself. “I have my business to consider. And I have my self-respect.” She repeated the little speech over and over until she almost believed it. Then she went to find Lord Devin.
Drawn like a moth to flame
, she thought,
and we know what happens to the moth.

In his office, seated behind a large, walnut desk with an ornately carved front panel, Lord Devin was so much more formal, distant. The butler’s presence could also be a mitigating factor, she acknowledged. She wasn’t sure what she expected—certainly not that he would rush to her and sweep her into his arms with a declaration of undying love—but she hadn’t expected the generic cordiality he might use to greet any acquaintance.

“Good morning, Mrs. Duchamp.” He said, lifting his eyes from the sheet on which he was writing. His expression seemed warm, if professional. She wasn’t sure how to deal with him.

“Good morning, Lord Devin. I came to thank you for your hospitality. I will be returning to my shop now to assess the damages.”

“Wait a few moments. After I finish here, I will accompany you.”

“There’s no need. You obviously have much to do. Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

At that, he looked at her sharply and slowly shook his head.

“Johnson, take care of these. I will review the rest later.” His butler agreed and took his leave quietly, pulling the door almost closed behind him.

Devin walked around the desk toward her but stilled as she retreated, maintaining the distance between them. He frowned.

“I insist that I escort you, Honoria. The shop may yet be unsecured ; you should not go alone. It is no trouble. And,” he added more gently, “it will give us some time to talk.”

Time to talk. That was exactly what she wanted to avoid.

He’d left her bed at the first streaks of dawn and slunk back to his room, confused and weighed down by heavy guilt. He didn’t want to want her. He didn’t want to like her. But he did. He’d thought foolishly that his irrational pining after her would subside once he had her, but it didn’t. This morning, he’d wanted more than anything to stay wrapped in her arms, to watch consciousness slip into her skin, to protect her, to plan a future with her. To be her anchor in the storm that began for her yesterday and would undoubtedly get much worse before it broke. But he could do none of these things. So he’d left her bed while she slept—like the underhanded sneak he was.

He desperately wanted to protect her, but how could he do so if he didn’t know everything about her? She’d been so strong at the shop, so self-possessed, and yet last night she’d allowed him to glimpse her vulnerability, allowed him to care for her. It was an awesome responsibility. One thing he knew: the decision was already made; he would protect her just as he would everyone he . . .

His thoughts caught him by surprise.

Love? Could that really be what he felt for her?

The swell of emotion in his chest surely went beyond altruism. But it wasn’t love. The overwhelming pleasure and desire to please that he’d experienced with her again and again in the night went beyond physical need. But that signaled affection, not love. He’d guarded his heart so carefully, so completely. Yet she’d stumbled past his defenses, as if by accident. Whatever he felt for her, he must fold her into the same absolute haven he ensured for his mother and his siblings. His life had been lived for them, and now he had to adjust the equation.

But what if she finds out about Withersby?

It wasn’t a long coach ride to the shop, but it began as an oppressively silent one. He wasn’t sure what was going on in Honoria’s mind, but his disordered mind couldn’t focus.

“Nora, I don’t want to pry,” he began.

“That kind of prelude is never good.”

“I have some questions . . . about your husband.”

“That’s not a subject I wish to discuss.”

“Perhaps after last night, you owe me a little leeway on this matter.”

A chill suffused her. She did owe him a great deal. At least she could afford some modicum of honesty.

“All right. I will try.”

“There is, I think, the obvious question.”

“Right, why my marriage was never . . .”

“Yes, why your marriage was never. So?”

“As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen. A month after his burial, I went on a trip to the north. To call it a holiday would be inappropriate; still in mourning, I wasn’t going for enjoyment. The doctor said it would be good for my nerves.” Speaking haltingly and feeling suffocated, she took off her gloves. “I met Mr. Duchamp. Then things happened so fast. He wooed me. Within a week, we eloped to Gretna Green in Scotland.” As she wove the tale, her insides twisted and heart revolted. She felt she might be sick.

“Then, practically before the ink of our signatures was dry, he died in a freak horse-riding accident. As if to add to the horrible absurdity, our wedding certificate with the witnesses’ signatures caught fire. It was an absurd travesty. And there you have it.”

When she first returned from Scotland, she’d had to repeat her story so many times it became rote. She wished for that mechanical repetition again but couldn’t achieve it. Every word stabbed at her. Years ago, people had accepted her story mainly because she was able to show the news article announcing Mr. Duchamp’s death and naming her as his wife. Even the banker and solicitor disposing of her uncle’s will had been kind and surprisingly unquestioning.

“You haven’t answered my question. How is it that the marriage was never consummated? One night, nay, a few minutes would have sufficed.”

“Don’t be crude. There wasn’t really an opportunity.” She floundered. “We knew each other so little. The accident was the morning after the ceremony.”

“I am truly sorry for your loss. And I know I am the worst sort of cad to push this question . . . but I would think the wedding night offered ample opportunity for consummation.”

Her mouth dried up and her throat tightened. She stared out the window to avoid his gaze.

“As I said, we didn’t really know each other. We’d agreed that we should delay the physical aspects of the marriage until a time mutually agreed upon.”

“Fair enough. I am truly sorry for prying.”

She nodded acceptance.

For several moments, the only sounds came from the street. The tones outside shifted markedly from Grosvenor Square to Portland. The mostly silent and genteel gave way to the boisterous calls of vendors to one another as they began the task of opening up shop.

“I don’t think you’ve ever had proper time to grieve for all these loved ones you’ve lost.” His voice cutting through the growing din outside was low but unmistakable. His sweet sincerity was her undoing. He trusted her completely. She couldn’t let him.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted as she faced him. “There is more to this story, and I know you will be furious and horrified and want nothing to do with me. So it’s best I tell you before we get to the shop. Then you can simply drop me off and go on your way.”

She straightened in her seat, tucking her skirt against her legs and wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

“My uncle was the head of the family. He died in 1829, and I was his only heir . . . well, heir to what was left after he lost everything that was entailed. He hated me. He always said it was a shame I’d been born. Really, I think he hated, or at least disdained, all women. I know he abhorred my mother.” She could only ever picture her uncle scowling. “So it was no surprise that he bequeathed the bulk of his estate to the church, and it was likewise no surprise that what little he bequeathed to me came with stipulations. To receive the meager inheritance, I had to marry, and I had to do it by my twenty-first birthday. Do you understand why he would set those rules?”