An Untitled Lady (18 page)

His breathing was not as fast as hers. For just a second, she was all over shy. Then she went mad to make him feel the way she felt. Slipping a hand free, she reached between them for the waist of his trousers. At her touch, he jerked his hips away, and deepened their kiss. She was not completely distracted, though, and reached again.

She had never felt this way. Out of control yet safe, dangerously powerful. She wasn’t even ashamed of how much of her body she was showing him. She wanted to show him all.

His hips settled down, and she fiddled with the front placket until he reared back. “You drive me to distraction.”

“I’m not left-handed. It’s hard.”

He had the placket open in one second and his clothes entirely off in two. “That it is.”

She reached for his member, swollen for her. Just as her fingertips sensed the heat of him, though, the familiar dread crept up her arm, toward her heart. She shouldn’t be doing this.

He didn’t seem to notice, busy pushing her shift up to her hips. She dropped her hand to the comforter.

“May I?” His hand, resting on her hipbone, held the fabric of her shift.

“Yes.” She held both arms over her head, as if she were one of the littlest girls at school waiting for the housemother to pull her shirt off. Instead, it was Nash pushing the fabric up her sides, onto her arms, and over her head. There he stopped, trapping her face in a white cotton mask. She gasped, a flash of panic. He leaned over to lick her lower lip through the fabric. He bit her lip, gently, and then kissed it, pulling off the mask, setting her breath free.

Her arms were trapped again, but she couldn’t think of that now. She had to make him love her.

“Beautiful. Face to feet, inside and out. I’m so glad we waited for this.”

She pulled her arms out of the shift and reached for him, for the warm touch of his reassurance. They embraced, breast to chest. Nash ran his hand down her spine. “So smooth, so perfect.” He rolled her onto her back, traveling with her until he was on top of her, their bodies touching everywhere.

“So mine.”

Something, the word, the feel of his cock, the throbbing of her heart, set off alarms in Maddie’s head. She gasped, clenching her fingers into the fine hairs on his chest. Panic started to swell, from her hips, through her belly, warming her heart.

“Maddie?” Nash’s smile faded. His hips, which had started to rock, went still.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go all cold on Nash again. He didn’t deserve it. She had to master this. Here. Now.

Or he would leave her.

She pushed her lips to smile. “Touch me. There.”

“You’re not ready yet.” He reached down and feather-stroked her. His hand between her and his cock gave her the space to give herself a stern talking-to.

This was Nash. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He couldn’t. She was going to perform for him, as a good girl did. She was a good girl. Slowly she relaxed into his touch.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “So lovely, see? So beautifully wet. Ready now?”

She sighed, thinking of a certain warm meadow in springtime, an image she hadn’t called up in a long time. “Yes.”

He touched her lips with his wet fingers. She licked them, salty sweet. “That is you. All you.”

Then he replaced his fingers with his lips and tongue, and this time when his hips moved, she could move hers in matched time. She’d heard copulation was pleasurable, and it was all true. The rocking built a warm glow in her middle.

When his fingers touched her there again, she was ready, arching into them. When they slipped out again, and were replaced by his man-rod, she took herself far away into the clouds. This had been quite nice.

He didn’t seem to notice her absence, growing more and more distracted, until a wave of rumbling ran through him, the rod flipping and flopping inside. Then he rolled off her, his hand on her hip.

She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her disappointment.

She had worked so hard to make it so he wouldn’t see her fear, she should rejoice in her success. Instead, she felt sad and angry, and somehow cheated.

He hadn’t noticed.

They never did.

{ 20 }

The shadows crept up the bed, covering first her feet, then her knees, and still Nash breathed like a metronome set at lento. Maddie didn’t wish to wake him, but she couldn’t stand to be in her skin one minute more. And what if he woke and saw her like this?

She rolled, dislodging the log of an arm he had draped across her waist, but he only murmured, settling deeper into the mattress. The planes across his cheekbones and jaw softened with sleep. With his eyes closed, he looked a boy, but the shading under them spoke of a man’s cares. She so wanted to please him.

His shout of release had startled her. Who knew men could contort their faces so? She grinned. That complete surrender of his body, he called it “spent”—she had done that. He couldn’t find fault with her now.

She pushed fully free of his arm and the sheets. Silently rolling up to her hands and knees, she stepped backwards onto the floor. Another adjustment, and the metronome started up again. The hair on his forehead fell away in that odd side parting. She wondered if he had been cut there, falling out of a tree or perhaps in a pitched battle. While Deacon’s hair marched perfectly across his forehead, Nash’s was a less well-trained regiment.

Her parts down there ached, shortening her steps. The lid of the chest squeaked as she pushed it up, looking for her wrap.

“Come back to bed.” His voice was slow and thick.

“In a minute.” She swung the wrapper around her, tying the belt loosely. She had her hand on the doorknob when he spoke again.

“Where are you going?” He sat up, eyes sharp. The sheet slid to a pool about his waist. His body was perfect, solid and strong. The scent of him drew her despite herself.

She was filthy, not fit to touch. “I just need a word with Mrs. Willis.”

“Why?”

“To ask her to run the water.”

“Another bath? He slid out from the covers, six feet of obviously virile male. “What was last night?”

Why didn’t he understand? She was dirty, she must wash immediately. There was nothing to explain. She shrugged, praying he would step away. Praying he would not look too closely at the sheets.

Fully erect, he walked toward her, his lips shaping that limb-melting smile. “And who is to say we are finished here? You don’t want to waste a whole tub of water.”

She couldn’t allow him to touch her now. She couldn’t bear to see that smile drop away, replaced by the twisted mouth of disgust. She backed into the wall so hard her shoulder blade protested.

“Why is wasting water so important to you? Manchester has plenty.”

“The Willises have plenty of other duties. Wait until tomorrow.” He took her hand, playfully swinging it.

“No.”

The swinging stopped. The smile faded. His other muscles seemed to relax as well, all except his eyes, tight on her. “Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t? I repel you that much?” His lips flattened, his gaze accusing.

“Don’t. You don’t understand.” She blinked back stupid tears.

“Stuff the dramatics.” He leaned against the door next to her, crossing his arms, casual in his nakedness. She knew he didn’t see the sense of it, and she wasn’t sure she did, either. She loved the smell of him, clean or covered with their lovemaking. It wasn’t the same for her, somehow. She simply could not stand one more moment of filthiness.

What if he refused her? What if he pulled her back into the bed? As a husband, he had every right. Her skin started to burn with itching. Thousands of gnats biting, clawing, scratching. She gulped so hard for each breath her body shook.

“You are serious.” His voice went flat, as if it were something he could not believe.

“You don’t care.”

“Nonsense.”

“Then move.”

He frowned, and didn’t budge from the door. Maddie’s desperation grew, a monster starting to eat her insides.

“Let me go!” She heard the taint of hysteria in her voice.

He grabbed her to him, his voice a tight buzz in her ear. “Maddie. You can’t keep doing this. It’s not healthy.”

She pushed him away, trying to slide between him and the door. She had to get out. He’d never understand. No one did, not even Miss Marsden. The headmistress had found a way to solve her problem, but a school always had pots and pots of water hot and handy. Here it was all the poor Willises could do to keep up with pumping and carrying enough for cooking and drinking. Maddie knew she was a burden here, but what could she do about it?

Nash had to listen to her. She could compromise, she just couldn’t give in.

“I could have one pail of hot water to four pails cold.”

“You’d catch your death.”

“I’ve done it before.”

He rubbed a hand across his face. Not only his face, but even his manhood was disappointed in her. She wrapped her arms around her.

“Choose: Bath or supper.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Bath.”

“And no supper?” She nodded. He dropped his hand, staring at her as if through force of vision he could change her mind. He reached a finger to stroke her face, but stopped in mid-air.

“Now you flinch from me?”

He shrugged himself off the door, but instead of slipping through and running to Mrs. Willis, Maddie stood there, a manikin, shocked by her body’s own response. “I’m sorry.”

Nash already had pulled his shirt over his head. He overstretched his stockings and yanked his trousers on. He stood, shoes and coat in his hands.

“I’ll inform the kitchen, ma’am. Good evening.”

He walked past her without looking at her, opened the door, and passed and through the doorway. He closed the door again with such force the wall shook.

Maddie sat on the bed, relieved and bewildered and just a little furious.

What had she done?

* * * *

Nash found both Willises in the kitchen. Their picture of domestic harmony slapped him in the face. Even as the scent of the chops set his stomach growling, he scowled.

“No need to fold out the table, Willis. The lady will have no supper.”

The couple exchanged a look. “She’ll be wanting the bath sooner, then?”

“Aye. But finish your barm cake first.”

Mrs. Willis stood up from the cook fire, tapping a ladle on the iron pan. “And who will eat these chops? Fine pieces, they are.”

“Leave two for yourselves, and pack up the rest. I’ll take it to Jem Smith’s family.” They could certainly use it, with his father on half-pay and his wife out entirely.

Again the Willises exchanged a look. Willis shrugged, but his wife spoke. “Half of it is already marked for them. Mrs. Quinn sends food over most every other day.” Her steady stare somehow felt a rebuke.

“Our food?”

“We found some savings, and I believe she uses a bit of her clothing allowance. It’s no burden.” She turned back to the pot. “Do you think to set and eat with them? I’ll pack a bowl and spoon.”

“I don’t need to be reminded that their house doesn’t brim with plate. And stop looking at each other like that.”

They turned to him, matching looks of shock in their gazes, “like what?” in the arch of their brows. Like a couple. Like people who cared for each other. He was an idiot.

“When can it be ready?”

“No time at all. Have a barm.” Mrs. Willis set a plateful of the buns on the table with a bit too much force.

Nash sat himself with too much force as well, the simple bench creaking in protest. He set a hand on the edge of the table on each side of the plate and glared at the buns. Willis drained his tea and rose, head down so as not to be accused of looking at his wife. He took a bucket and left the room, going to fetch Maddie’s blasted bathwater.

After a minute, Nash picked up a bun and bit into it. Still warm, it melted a shard of the ice over his heart. Mrs. Willis set a mug of tea in front of him.

“A lady likes to be clean.”

“It’s unnecessary. Expensive. Unreasonable. It’s too much work.”

“A lady won’t pay social calls when she knows they’ll not be returned.” To a house like this, she left unsaid.

“The house is plenty.”

“And ready water. And where will we put the bairn, when he does come along, God willing? And his sister, praise be?”

“I’m not a family man yet.” But he may have started one with their gymnastics upstairs this afternoon. Then how much wash-water would they need every day? A bit of bun lodged in his throat. He choked it down with the nearly scalding tea.

How had things come to this? Not two months ago, he’d never heard of her. His biggest problem was he was running out of his supply of calicoes. Now his place of business was dangerous and crime-prone, his house was too small, his staff overworked, his rod underworked, and his wife unsatisfied.

That last grated on him, worse than a razor-toothed rasp on standing rigging. What had she to complain of in his bed? It was as if she were afraid of him, and forcing herself to overcome it, ordering herself to submit.

He didn’t want her to submit to him. He wanted her to want him, to come to him of her own accord. To show he was as important to her as she was to him.

“Tell Mrs. Smith she needn’t return the crockery. Mr. Willis will fetch it when next he comes by. Or Mrs. Quinn.” She handed him the pot, cool but warming with the food inside, and a box with buns and a bowl for him.

“No one needs a bath every day.” His voice sounded petty even to him.

“Not everyone is afraid of the water.” She gave him that hateful, pitying look that made him feel five years old again. He should apologize. He was out of line. Instead, he stomped out of the kitchen, likely in the same way she’d seen him do it dozens of times as a boy.

He’d given them a good roof over their heads, and they all needed to learn to appreciate it. He blamed Mrs. Heywood and her new supper table that didn’t fold, just took up space all day long in that blasted “dining room” of hers. A bad precedent. It was not his fault if Maddie grew up expecting a castle. She should be content with what she got, and the incredible forbearance he’d shown her, as well. He’d waited all this time, hadn’t he?

Why wouldn’t she want him? He shifted the pot in his arms and stepped around a puddle in the street.

Perhaps that was a useless wish. Perhaps no one had such a connection. His parents had not, nor his grandparents. Still, he thought he saw it in the Willises, and among the flock at church. Perhaps they were better at pretending in public. He could imagine Maddie acting the good wife in church, while at home it was something different.

Or was it? Was she acting this afternoon? Her body wasn’t, at least at first. She had wanted him, with her pounding heart, her wide eyes, her grasping hands, her heat and wet.

But he’d also felt her go stiff, in that awful way, and then relax. That was when the acting started.

He was too far gone to stop, and he took her. He disgusted himself. He knew she had no experience and he’d raced her along to the finish line anyway. He was the household boar, just as his father used to say.

Next time would be different, he promised himself. She would be as satisfied as he.

But what if she wasn’t? What if she was always cold and frigid and this was the best she could do? She hadn’t turned away from him, like the other times, or screamed, like that first night. She swallowed her distaste, her bile, to allow him entry.

How lowering.

When he had pictured his married life, Nash had rather glossed over the physical aspect. He’d assumed he’d be attracted to whomever she was, and the rest was understood. The questions in his mind revolved around where to live, whether to move, how many children to have, whom the woman would befriend, and how it might affect his business prospects.

He had pictured the woman herself as some shadow, he realized, less a human being than an additional appendage. This view guaranteed that he would be the one to set the rules, and this shadow-creature the one to follow them.

Sad to say, his marriage was nothing like that.

Along River Street’s blocks of back-to-back rowhouses, the one held by Jem Smith and his family had pride of place. At the street edge of the narrow, dark court, the stacked single rooms had two windows each instead of the one sported by the other dozen or so dwellings in the ring. And if the air were ever sweet, it would be sweetest here.

Mrs. Smith did her best not to take fright at seeing him, but Jem came quickly to her side to take the heavy crockery. He invited him in, but Nash hesitated on the threshold.

“It won’t cause you trouble, having a master in your home?”

“Nay. All know I’m a master’s man.” He grinned and set the package by the hearth. “As well they know the difference between a Quinn and a Malbanks. You’ll stay to sup?”

“If I may. Mrs. Willis said she packed extra.”

“Not extra. Double.” Mrs. Smith raised her dark-rimmed round-rabbit gaze at the news. “You such a big eater?”

As his eyes grew adjusted to the dim, Nash saw plenty of mouths to feed. Jem introduced him to his in-laws, the father chair-bound, and his two boys, a spiky lad of six and a roly-poly toddler. If they could stack six souls in two coal-scented rooms, what did Maddie have to complain of? At least the charred-wood smell covered the other, less-pleasant odors.