The Spinster Bride (22 page)

“I think it's very necessary.” With a low groan, he pressed his lips against hers and she melted, right there and then. It was so sudden, so intense, her knees actually buckled. He lifted her against him and walked backward, never stopping the kiss, to the couch. She felt every hard inch of him, including that manly part that pressed against her stomach, and grew even harder when he lay down upon the couch with her atop him.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air. “Perhaps kissing was not such a grand idea,” he said, his brown eyes glazed with passion. He moved his hips, letting her feel just how aroused he was, and groaned again. “I want to be inside you,” he said, lifting his hips again.

She widened her eyes and he chuckled. “Not now, silly girl. But someday very, very soon.” He closed his eyes and she kissed his mouth softly, loving the way he felt beneath her. He was large, solid, and so very masculine. Every muscle was bunched, and she wondered if there was a soft part on him other than his mouth. She laid her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat for a few seconds before giving in to temptation and kissing him again. She moved her tongue against his lips and he opened his mouth, making their kiss something wonderful and carnal. She'd never known how the mere act of kissing could be so entirely arousing. When he moved his hands down to her buttocks, she let out a sound she hadn't even known she could emit. Heat flooded between her legs, making her move against him to find some sort of release from the exquisite pressure that was building there.

He turned then, pressing her against the back of the couch. It wasn't a very wide piece of furniture, but it could accommodate the two of them easily enough, even with her small bustle. He lifted his head and stared at her, moving one hand up and touching her swollen upper lip with his index finger.

“You look decidedly ravished,” he said, moving his finger down to her chin, to her neck, and finally to the tops of her breasts.

“I'm not nearly ravished enough,” she said, ruining her bold statement with a blush. He dipped his finger beneath her dress and brushed it lightly against one nipple, making her gasp. She closed her eyes and tried to control her need to moan, but when he squeezed her nipple gently, she lost the battle. “That feels rather lovely,” she whispered.

His gaze became fierce and he kissed her again, open-mouthed and out of control. Wonderful, wonderful this kissing and touching, but she wanted that feeling again, the one he'd given her the last time, when he'd moved his hand between her legs and made her come. She wanted to tell him that, wanted to beg him to lift her skirts and make her scream. Instead, she pressed her core against his arousal and moved in a rhythm that told him what she wanted.

“Yes,” he whispered, moving his hand away from her breast and down between her legs. He pressed his hand there and her breath hitched.

“I want you to—” she said. They both tensed as the door to the parlor opened, then closed.

“Oh, hello,” said a man.

Marjorie immediately tried to sit up, but it was impossible, jammed between the couch back and Charles's large body. Charles solved the problem by falling off the couch rather ungracefully and then standing.

“Oh dear,” he said, rather like a bad actor. “We've been caught.”

Marjorie finally sat up, pushing clothes into place, and peered around Charles to see a man standing in the room, staring blearily at them. One couldn't actually call what the man was doing standing. It was more of a sway, as if he were on the deck of a ship and trying not to topple over from the movement.

“Ah,” the man said with an extravagant wave of his hand. “You needn't worry about me. I won't tell a soul.” He sought to press one finger to his lips, missed, then found the right spot and let out a rather watery “Shhhh.” Even from where Marjorie sat, she could smell alcohol on the man's breath.

“Oh, but you should tell. This is awful, isn't it, Charles?” Marjorie said, feeling a bit of panic building up in her that this dolt of a man wasn't going to tell on them.

“Why should I tell? Didn't see nothing,” the man slurred.

“But I'm an unmarried young girl. And Charles Norris is a single man and we've been caught in a compromising position. Why, we shouldn't even be alone in this room together. I . . . I'm so ashamed.”

Charles looked at her and lifted one disbelieving brow.

“Ish that a couch?” The man stumbled toward it and Marjorie sat up lest the gentleman sit upon her. He patted Charles's back grandly before plopping down on the settee. He sat, still wobbling, for a few moments before he lay down, feet still on the floor, and closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he was snoring.

Marjorie folded her arms in pure disgust and glared at the man.

“Perhaps when he wakes up tomorrow morning he'll remember?” Charles offered hopefully.

“He won't even remember being at this ball, never mind finding us together. Really, the man is a disgrace.” She let out a huff of air and turned her glare at Charles when he began to laugh.

“You must admit it was rather fun to try to get compromised. We'll just have to try again.” He lifted out his pocket watch. “But I fear it will have to be another night. It's already well past one.”

Marjorie's eyes widened. “But this is wonderful. My mother will certainly have noticed my absence. And perhaps others have noticed
your
absence and that will be that. Let's go back to the ballroom.”

Alas, while they were gone, poor Lady Smythe, who'd been complaining for hours that she wasn't feeling well, collapsed, quite taking up the attention of everyone in the room. No one, not even Dorothea, had noted the couple's absence. Everyone had gathered around the lady, who looked quite ghastly, her face a dreadful grayish color and her breathing audible and harsh. A physician had been called for and was now attending her.

“I wish they had thought to bring her to the parlor,” Marjorie said softly to Charles. “That couch there would have been more comfortable than the little settee she's lying on.”

He leaned toward her, so close his lips brushed the curls by her ear. “Have you no shame?”

“I used to. But you have been a terrible influence on me, sir.”

He chuckled softly, then moved away when Dorothea spied them together. Marjorie went to her mother's side, for she looked terribly upset. “I do hope she's all right,” Marjorie said, feeling guilty about her earlier jest.

Dorothea pressed her lips together and Marjorie was quite certain her mother was trying not to cry. “I've known Lady Smythe for forty years. She has always been so kind to me. After your father's death, she visited nearly every week to make certain I was well.”

It seemed an odd thing for her mother to say, Marjorie thought, because she'd always had the distinct impression that her mother hadn't cared a wit when her father died. They hardly spent any time together when he was alive, and when they were together they barely uttered two syllables to each other. If they loved each other, they hid it well.

Two footmen, carrying a gurney between them, arrived and helped place the poor lady onto it.

“Where are they taking her?”

“Home, of course. She wants to die in her own bed.”

Marjorie watched as the men carried the woman from the room, leaving behind the worried guests. “She may recover, Mother.”

“No. I've seen the look of death before. I'll ask Bishop Fraser to say a special prayer on Sunday.”

It was late and everyone in attendance was greatly subdued. Many of the guests had already departed, and now it was time for them to leave as well.

“Let's have a nice quiet evening tomorrow, shall we? I find all these amusements so tiring of late,” Dorothea said.

“Are you feeling unwell, Mother?”

Dorothea smiled. “Fit as a fiddle. I simply find these late nights draining, particularly without a break in between. ”

“Tomorrow is the Westin ball and I promised Theresa I would be there. Would it be all right with you if I went with George? I know he will be there.”

“With that Cavendish girl, no doubt.”

“They are engaged.”

Her mother's eyes, which had held such warmth a moment before, became frosty. “Your aunt can go with you.”

“All right. I'll send her a note in the morning.”

She hated to think of Aunt Gertrude's reaction should she and Charles get caught together at the Westin ball. She was such a sweet old lady and truly loved Marjorie. It would break her heart.

But she knew Gertrude would understand in the end. Aunt Gertrude had loved her husband deeply and still talked about him fondly. If anyone would forgive her transgression, it was Gertrude. Perhaps it would be better having her mother at home. That way she could break the news herself without the humiliation of her mother witnessing her shame.

A wave of guilt twisted her stomach, but Marjorie pushed it down. After all, if her mother hadn't been so stubborn, she and Charles would not be forced into executing such a drastic measure.

 

L
ady Summerfield gazed fondly at her daughter. At eight years old, she was the light of her life, the only thing that made it worth getting up each day. She would stare at her in wonder. How on earth had she and Summerfield produced such a darling, beautiful girl? Her head was surrounded by thick, spiral curls that bounced as she skipped down a hall. And she was always skipping. Always full of joy and happiness. Even at eight years old, she showed the ability to charm both her peers and her elders. Summerfield adored his daughter, indulged her far too much, and showed, for the first time in his life, a softer side Dorothea rarely saw. Watching her husband with their daughter was the only joy she had in her marriage.

When George had been born, Summerfield gave her a beautiful ruby brooch as a thank-you. Red, like their little son's hair. He praised her for giving him a son, as if she'd had anything at all to do with the fact she'd produced a boy. Even as a newborn, his hair had been frightfully bright. What a proud father Summerfield had been. Marjorie had been a good little baby, crying only when she was hungry or wet, and grew quickly into the sweet-tempered little girl they both loved so much. George had wailed incessantly. Nothing could stop it but sleep. He cried when he awoke, he cried himself to exhaustion. They went through five nursemaids before finally he outgrew whatever it had been that was making him so miserable. He was three years old when Dorothea began to suspect something wasn't quite right with their son. Something a tad . . . off. She had Marjorie as an example of what a perfect child should be. And although she tried not to make comparisons, it was impossible not to do so. Marjorie had been able to carry on a conversation at two, while George knew only a few words. Marjorie craved physical affection while George tensed up whenever she drew him into her arms. And he had an odd way of bobbing constantly that drove Summerfield mad.

By the time he was six, the differences between George and other boys his age was obvious. Something was wrong with his heir, something that could not be treated and was impossible to ignore. Little George was an embarrassment to Summerfield. He didn't want to be around the child. He wouldn't allow him to be presented to visitors. And he took every opportunity he could to blame Dorothea for his defective son.

Dorothea spent several hours a day in the nursery even though they'd hired a competent governess. She watched her children learn and was relieved when George showed an unusual proficiency at reading and memorizing. Even at six, he read far better than Marjorie.

“You see, my lady? George is brilliant,” their governess, Rebecca, said with a smile when Dorothea entered the nursery one day. “I never even tried to teach him. I saw him with a book and thought he was just looking at the pages, but then I noticed his lips were moving as if he were reading to himself. And he was.”

George stood in the nursery, clutching the book in his hands as if Dorothea might pull it away from him, and her heart melted. “That was wonderful, George,” said Rebecca. “You are the very best reader I've ever heard.”

George smiled. “I know the first three pages already.”

Dorothea looked to Rebecca for an explanation.

“He's memorized them, my lady. Word for word. It's miraculous, it is. I've never seen anything like it before in my life.”

Dorothea stared at her son. “Show me, George. Let me see.”

He reluctantly handed the book over.

“Now, tell me what it says,” she asked.

“Where should I start? Which page?”

Startled, Dorothea looked to Rebecca again, who simply shook her head and smiled. “Page two. Half way down.” She opened the book, a sea adventure written for children far older than George, and he started. A shiver touched her spine. It was impossible. How could he have memorized the book so thoroughly when he'd never shown any signs of remarkable intelligence before? Even as he recited the words with stunning accuracy, he stared at the floor, his head bobbing as he repeated, word for word, what was written in the book.

“His lordship must be made aware of this,” Dorothea said. “It's truly remarkable.”

That evening, Dorothea brought George down to visit with his father. She had gushed with enthusiasm about their remarkable little boy who had managed to not only read but to memorize five full pages of text that very day. Summerfield had not been impressed. “A parrot can repeat words, Dorothea. I highly doubt the boy was reading. He can hardly speak, for God's sake.”

“I heard it myself, Summerfield. It was astounding.”

He let out a scoffing laugh and gave her a derisive expression. “Your moron son can no more read than I can fly. Willing it so, does not make it so. I fear you are so desperate for him to be normal, you have invented this trick to prove you haven't produced a defective child.”

Dorothea had simply smiled. She knew what her son was capable of. She knew he was a brilliant reader and she could hardly wait to prove Summerfield wrong. God, how she loathed him. It would be sweet indeed to watch her husband's face as George recited the book.

Now, she smiled at her son encouragingly as he stood in front of his father, the book clutched in his bony little hands.

“Go on now, George. Read for your father.”

“It's seven o'clock.”

Dorothea looked at the clock. Indeed, it was seven. “Yes, George, it is. Now read.”

“I play with my tin soldiers at seven o'clock. It's seven o'clock.”

Dread, and a tiny bit of panic, bloomed in her heart. Summerfield let out a bit of mean-spirited laughter.

“You can play with your tin soldiers after you read for Father, George,” she said gently, even as part of her wanted to give George a little shake. “Now, go ahead and show Father what a wonderful reader you are.”

“It's time to play with my tin soldiers,” he repeated in a small voice.

Summerfield brought his hands down loudly on the arms of his chair. “Well. That was impressive, Dorothea. We indeed have a little genius on our hands. Go play with your tin soldiers, George. Go on now.”

George immediately left the room, relief evident in every muscle in his little body.

“He can read,” Dorothea said.

“Yes, I'm certain he can,” Summerfield drawled.

Dorothea spun around and immediately headed to the nursery, anger and humiliation fueling her steps. When she entered, Marjorie was sitting in an oversized rocking chair singing to her doll and George was lying on his stomach carefully setting up his tin soldiers. Those blasted, infernal tin soldiers.

“George, you are to be punished. You purposely disobeyed me.”

George continued to play on as if she hadn't said a word, but Marjorie slowly put her doll aside and climbed down from her chair, her eyes wide.

“I'm taking your tin soldiers. I'm taking them and you will never see them again.” Dorothea stalked over and swept up a handful and stuffed them in her pocket. George struggled to keep the others in line even as Dorothea brushed his little hands aside and grabbed the rest.

And then he stood and began to scream. High-pitched, ear-splitting, and thoroughly painful.

“Stop it, George. Stop it or I shall shake you.”

He stopped, but only to take another breath and let out another scream.

“Mother, give him back his soldiers,” Marjorie cried, tears streaming down her face. “He plays with them every night. He has to. It's seven o'clock.”

“I know what bloody time it is,” Dorothea shouted over her son's screams.

Marjorie tugged on the pocket where Dorothea had stuffed the soldiers. “Please, Mama, George needs his soldiers. Please.”

Dorothea looked down at her daughter's tear-stained cheeks, then at her little hand clutching her dress, and slowly calmed. She was such a fool to think George could ever be anything close to what a normal boy was. She reached into her pockets and dropped the soldiers, one by one, onto the wooden floor. The moment the first one struck, George stopped screaming. He crouched down and gathered them up. And when the last tin soldier was on the floor, he lay down on his stomach and began to line them up, one after another, until they stood in a perfect V.

Dorothea stared down at him and wanted to cry. Part of her knew George hadn't humiliated her on purpose, that he was just an odd little boy. And she wondered, not for the first time, if Summerfield was right, that it was her fault her son had come out wrong. Had she gone for too many walks? Eaten too many figs at Christmas, tightened her corset too much? Summerfield was always hinting that she was fat and it was obvious he thought her pregnant body grotesque. Watching George play with his tin soldiers that night, she only saw his strangeness and none of his beautiful uniqueness. And somehow, oddly, it was a relief.