Authors: Lorraine Heath
It made little sense to him. He was skilled in the bedchamber, and yet never before had he taken such delight in bringing pleasure to a woman. He’d never left a woman wanting, had always considered himself a considerate lover. But with
Louisa, bringing her pleasure was more than trying to prove his prowess. With her, it was a resounding joy to give, each touch of his fingers, each stroke of his tongue a gift, her appreciation so apparent in her sighs, her languid eyes as she looked at him.
Bedding her was unlike bedding any other woman, and at moments its intensity terrified him, the thought of not having her…he would not think of it.
“You are mine,” he rasped, as he moved up and plunged inside her.
“I’m yours,” she murmured, placing her hands on his backside and urging him deeper.
She was not a woman to take without giving. She was what he’d never had before: a true partner. She was as eager and anxious to pleasure him as he was her.
Rising above her, he held her gaze, rocking against her, relishing her cries, sensing her body tightening around him. Her calling out his name in ecstasy triggered his own release, a release so intense that for a heartbeat he thought he might die from it. Little wonder the French called it the little death.
Collapsing partially, supporting his weight on his elbows, he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, kissed the dew at her neck, and smiled in wonder, because already he was anticipating having her again.
“Hawk! Hawk!” His mother’s panicked voice carried down the hallway.
“Why is it we are continually caught?” he asked in exasperation, as he reached down for the covers and threw them over Louisa and himself to protect their modesty as his mother came barging into the room.
He’d not thought to close the door because he’d not expected anyone to disturb him in this wing of the house.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” his mother said, as she staggered to a stop, clutching a piece of paper, tears dampening her cheeks.
“It doesn’t matter, Mother. What is it?”
“She’s gone,” she sobbed.
“Who? What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Caroline. She’s run away!”
T
he rain that had brought such comfort all afternoon had transformed into a frightening storm. Sitting in the drawing room, Louisa was aware of the duchess flinching each time thunder clapped.
“I’m certain he’ll find her, Your Grace,” she said quietly, so as not to startle the woman further. With the hounds to guide them, Hawk and several of the male servants, including the gardener, had gone searching for Caroline.
Wringing her hands, the duchess stared into the fire. “A mother should not have to choose between her children.”
“You have not favored one child over the other.”
With tears welling in her eyes, she looked at
Louisa. “Oh, but I did. For the sake of my son, I denied my daughter a father. I have kept her secreted away, and now she feels unworthy, and my son is burdened with her care. Now they are both out in this dreadful weather and may return frightfully ill. I could lose them both.”
“You are borrowing trouble, Your Grace, and quite honestly, I see no need to do so.”
The duchess released a small laugh before looking at Louisa. “You do not look on the dark side of things, do you, my dear?”
“I prefer to believe all will be well, and if it is not, then I shall deal with it at that time.”
“I can quite understand why my son married you. It has been sometime since our home has been filled with optimism.”
Louisa felt her stomach tighten. “I fear it was not optimism he sought, and had circumstances been different, he would not have married me.”
The duchess arched a brow. “Yes, he confessed his naughty behavior, but I know my son remarkably well, Louisa. If he married you, it was because he wished to.”
Louisa saw no point in revealing he’d stated outright that he did not want to.
“Do you love my son?” the duchess asked.
Louisa shook her head slightly. “I’m not certain what I feel for him. I thought I knew the sort of man he was, but I’m no longer as certain.”
“He was near to being a man when I discovered I was with child again. I know he did not approve. What man with any sort of moral compass would?
Yet he never censured me. He sought to protect me, then to protect his sister from society’s ridicule and penchant to be unkind to those who do not conform. I placed a terrible burden on him.”
“I do not believe he views it in that manner.”
“He wouldn’t admit if he did. He accepts his burdens with stoicism and buries his own unhappiness.”
Louisa studied the dowager duchess, who was gazing out the window. She wondered if the woman’s words applied to Louisa. If Hawkhurst saw her as a burden. If he masked his unhappiness. That afternoon he’d seemed…content. Was it only a performance, a kindness designed to keep doubts from plaguing her?
“I believe I see lights flickering,” the duchess said, as she came to her feet. “Oh, please let them be returning, let them be returning with my daughter safe.”
Louisa followed her into the entry hallway where the duchess flung open the door. The duchess gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. Louisa’s chest tightened.
Two men carried lanterns and between them walked Hawkhurst, his coat billowing out behind him with the force of his strides and the strength of the wind, his sister draped limply over his arms. He ascended the steps and walked through the doorway.
“Is she—” the duchess began.
“No,” Hawkhurst assured her. “She is shivering and unwell, possibly fevered. She was awake
when we found her, but only for a short while. Denby has gone to fetch a physician.”
Louisa felt useless following behind, ignored, as Hawkhurst swept up the stairs. She’d seen the sorrow and despair etched in his face. She watched as though observing a play as he laid his sister tenderly on her bed.
“I’ll see to getting her out of her wet clothes,” his mother said, as she moved in to replace him at his sister’s side.
Hawkhurst stepped back, reluctantly, as though dazed. His sister moaned, he stepped forward. Louisa’s heart tightened. Had she thought this man incapable of love?
She touched his arm. He looked down as though only just realizing she existed.
“Come,” she said softly. “We must get you out of these clothes before you catch your death.”
“Yes, go,” his mother admonished. “Caroline is much too grown-up now for you to remain in this room while I undress her.”
“She is still a child,” he murmured, but he didn’t resist when Louisa guided him out of the bedchamber and down the hallway to his own room.
It was the first time she’d been in his chamber. It was stark, bare, with no ornamentation at all. A bed. A wardrobe. A dresser. Two chairs before the fire. A lamp on the table beside the bed. She had no doubt he’d already disposed of his possessions, sacrificing whatever small things might have brought him joy.
He stood in the room as though he hardly recognized it. She could hear his teeth chattering. She went to the fireplace, knelt, and lit the kindling someone had prepared in advance so a fire could be easily started. She wished she’d thought to start it sooner so his room would already be warm and welcoming.
She returned to his side. “Here, let me help you.” Although in truth, she was doing much more than helping. She was doing everything as he stood there as though in a trance. She worked his coat off his shoulders, letting the sodden garment fall to the floor.
He moved away from her, shrugging out of his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He began unbuttoning his shirt. Stopped. “She ran away because she thinks we do not want her, that we are ashamed of her. She wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain that it was out of a desire to protect her that we kept her secret.”
He hardly seemed to notice as she tugged his shirt free of his trousers and helped him pull it over his head. “She is simply adjusting to the change of having a sister-in-law and the disappointment of not having a Season,” Louisa said.
“She is adjusting to my breaking my promise.” He began unbuttoning his trousers, and while she’d seen him without clothing, she still turned away, fearful that he would see the yearning in her eyes. Hurrying into the changing room and gathering up some towels, she wondered what sort of immoral creature she was to be so fasci
nated by her husband’s body, especially at a time such as this.
When she returned to the room, he was standing before the fire, his back to the room, his arms outstretched as he gripped the mantel, the muscles in his arms taut and bulging.
“I’ve brought towels,” she said.
“Leave them.”
She set the towels on the chair, walked over to him, and placed her hand on his back. He stiffened beneath her touch.
“I’m certain she’ll be all right.”
“No, I cannot keep my promise to her, I cannot protect her.” She saw his knuckles turning white as his grip on the mantel tightened. “If only you’d not walked into Pemburton’s library.” He bowed his head. “If only I’d not taken you into my arms.”
His voice was ravaged with regrets, regrets so sharp and deep that they threatened any happiness Louisa may have hoped for. She felt ill with the realization that his love of his sister would always come before her. That he blamed her for their present circumstance, and she couldn’t deny her culpability. She had walked into the library, and while he had taken her into his arms, he’d not known it was her. It was Jenny he’d been expecting. Jenny he’d thought…
He was so incredibly magnificent standing there…and defeated. Because of her actions. She’d had the strength to go out into the world, but no power to resist him.
She took a step back. “I should look in on your mother.”
He moved not a muscle. With tears clogging her throat, she left him alone to fight his own demons of disappointment.
Stepping into the hallway, closing the door behind her, she was astonished to see the duchess and Denby standing so near to each other. So near that her eyes had deceived her into thinking she’d seen the gardener holding the duchess’s hand.
The duchess smiled softly at Louisa. “I was thanking Denby for fetching the physician so quickly. I believe the dear man put his own neck at risk.”
“You instill much loyalty in your servants, Your Grace,” Louisa said, wishing she knew how to instill as much loyalty in her husband, because for her, passion would not suffice. With startling clarity she suddenly realized that she desperately wanted love. Not love of her eyes, or her smile, or her body, but love of herself, of her soul, of that which was not visible. “It is a tradition I hope to emulate.”
“I do nothing special except appreciate them.”
“I should be going,” Denby said. “I hope your daughter will recover quickly from her ordeal.”
The duchess reached out and squeezed his hand, an entirely unheard of gesture for a lady to give a servant. “I have faith that she will. Thank you again, Denby. I’m not certain what we’d do without you.”
“Send word if I may be of any further assistance.”
“I shall without hesitation.”
It looked as though he wanted to say more. Instead, he nodded toward Louisa before turning on his heel and heading down the stairs.
Louisa approached cautiously, with a sense that perhaps she’d interrupted something very important, for the duchess continued to look where the gardener had disappeared.
With a sigh, she eventually faced the door of her daughter’s bedchamber. “The physician is examining her now.”
“Has she awoken?”
“Not yet. I fear her ordeal, as Denby referred to it, has taken a decidedly unfavorable toll on her.”
“It was very good of him to console you while you waited,” Louisa said.
“He is a good man.”
Louisa couldn’t help but notice the duchess had referred to him as a man rather than a servant, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the slip held significance.
Caroline would recover if the chill did not settle in her lungs. The physician had offered the words of reassurance before he departed. Yet Hawk was not reassured.
He sat beside Caroline’s bed, watching her sleep, fearful if he turned away for even a heartbeat, death would slip in. It was well into the late
hours of the night, the flame in the lamp, the fire on the hearth, providing the light.
He’d succeeded in convincing his mother to retire, so she would be refreshed and could take over the vigil at dawn, as though their mere presence was enough. It took all within his power to remain seated when he dearly wished to depart. If his wife weren’t sitting on the other side of the bed, he would not have remained as stoic; he would instead be pacing and cursing and giving physical release to his worries.
He didn’t want Louisa here. She served as a reminder of his failings, and while he recognized that it was unfair to her to release his frustrations at her, he was also acutely aware that if not for her, he might even now be on the cusp of marrying Jenny Rose and be in a position to keep his promises to Caroline.
“I’m certain she’ll be fine,” Louisa said quietly, repeating the statement she’d issued earlier in the evening as though all that was required was faith.
“I see no reason you must be here,” he said. If she attempted to mask how his words had injured her, she did a poor job of it.
“I care for your sister, and I know how difficult it is to stand vigil alone. When my mother took ill, I would have given anything for Alex to have kept me company, especially in the darkest hours of the night, when all is so quiet you can almost hear death creeping near.”
“To think you once told me you had no talent for metaphors.”
“I had many a lonely night to ponder melancholy thoughts.”
“He never sat with you?”
“No; he was otherwise occupied.”
He recognized the censure in her voice and gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Enjoying drink, women, and gaming with me no doubt. Little wonder you found such fault with me. I didn’t realize your mother was ill until she died.”
“You’re not to blame because he refused to face his responsibilities.”
“I provided him with the means to escape them.”
She gave him a gamin smile. “If you insist, then I shall allow you to take responsibility for his wayward ways.”
“I fear I’m more responsible than you realize. My father suffered a lengthy illness. I know rumors abound that he died of the French disease, but it was cancer. A horrendous cancer. He did not wish my mother to witness his suffering, and she did not wish him to die alone.”
“So it fell to you,” she said quietly.
He felt his chest tighten with the memories as he nodded.
“But you were a child.”
“All of twelve. A boy who with his father’s passing would become a man.” He felt the tears sting his eyes, fought them under control. “Yet, still he
died alone, because I cowered in the corner when death came. He called my name and still I wouldn’t come.” Abruptly, he came to his feet, the chair scraping back with the force of his movement. “I know not why I confessed that failure on my part.”
Perhaps because it seems to be a night for recognizing failures.
He walked to the window, jerked the drapery aside, and gazed out on the darkness, so much easier to look at midnight shadows than his sister’s pale face or his wife’s disappointed expression.
Louisa studied her husband as he gazed out, her heart pounding with his confession. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it had been for him to hear his father’s plea, his last rasping breath…to know he had carried this guilt for more than twenty years. She did not take pleasure in his suffering, and yet she couldn’t deny she was deeply touched he had shared with her a secret he’d shared with no other.
How could he curse their marriage only hours before and now speak to her of such private sufferings? What did he want of her? What did he want of them?
As quietly as possible, wanting not to disturb the intimacy his revelation had created, she rose from her chair and joined him at the window, placing her hand on his back, covered only by his linen shirt. She felt his muscles bunch and stiffen beneath her touch, a touch that seemed to repel
him now when only earlier that evening he’d welcomed it. She dropped her hand to her side, determined to make the best of their situation.