Call Down the Moon (22 page)

Hugo rubbed his chin over the top of her head. “You must be right, although I don’t think you realize how very strange their blind acceptance is. Any sensible farmer should be up in arms. In fact for one awful moment, I thought maybe the mob had descended on us because they’d seen Hadrian out running with the horses today and had come to demand his hide. And mine.” He neglected to mention any of the other scenarios he’d come up with in those first chaotic seconds.

“I cannot understand why you thought for a minute they wanted anything but to honor you. Here you are, a savior to your tenants. A man who, on his own wedding day, took the time to visit them with reassurances and arranged a feast for them for no other reason than he thought it would boost their morale and fill their hungry bellies.”

“I wouldn’t paint me in quite such a generous light,” he said, wishing like hell that his motivation had been that selfless, wishing like hell that he could be the man she’d just described.

She turned in his arms to face him and rested her slim, fine-boned hands on his shoulders, her expression grave. “Hugo, you are a good and caring man. Not many would have been so generous or so quick to show that generosity. Believe me when I tell you that every last person here tonight came with the utmost gratitude and a sincere desire to give you their thanks, and why shouldn’t they? They have all been deeply worried since Lord Eliot died, watching Lyden slowly creeping downhill and driving them all into debt.”

Hugo, feeling more guilty by the moment, thought he’d better set Meggie a little bit straight before she convinced herself that he was a knight in shining armor—his mission in life to rescue everyone and everything he possibly could.

He could imagine what the result of that misguided assumption would be: He’d find himself not just with Gypsies and thieves and batty old maids on his hands, but taking in stray guttersnipes and one-legged widow-women with Meggie’s heartfelt urging.

“Wait,” he said, forcing himself to tell her at least a small part of the truth, and God knew, it was only a small part. “I should explain something to you about—“

“No, please listen to me,” she said, refusing to be interrupted. “I know it embarrasses you to hear this, as you are a very modest man, but you have to understand why you are such a hero to them. Just think of it from their point of view: Any sort of idle person might have bought Lyden, not caring anything more about the tenants’ welfare than those greedy trustees did.
Of course
they feared terribly that they’d be left to rot, and
o f course
they see you as their savior.”

Hugo looked down at her, a slight frown on his face. His earlier objection was forgotten in his bewilderment at her wealth of incredibly accurate information on a situation even he hadn’t been aware of until that morning. “How in the name of heaven do you know all of that?” he demanded. “About the tenants and the trustees, I mean—I surely didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.” She dropped her gaze abruptly, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “I put the pieces together from everything … everything I heard.”

“Aha,” he said in relief, seeing the answer straight in front of him. “The Mabey women. They’ve been chattering away, is that it?”

“They told me a little,” she agreed in a small voice, “and then the vicar said his piece after the wedding, and Mr. Coldsnap, too, and the tenants told me themselves—I … I mean just now, when I heard what they said to you.”

Her shoulders hunched under his hands as if she was suddenly afraid, as if she thought she had said too much. “I am sorry. You have made it clear that you do not wish me to interfere in your affairs in any way, or even to speak of—of anything much at all.”

“Meggie, I was not chastising you. Why would you even think it?” he asked, and in the asking already knew the answer for himself. His own words, delivered only a day before with an overbearing arrogance, had already come back to haunt him.

All I require of you is to do as I tell you to do and to speak as little as possible.

Only now was he coming to realize how precious so many of her words were to him and how much her unique perspective affected his. It gave him an entirely different—and extraordinarily gratifying—outlook on his life. “Tell me, sweetheart, please. I do want to hear what you think. Truly I do.”

She gave him a sidelong look from under her lashes, her eyes uncertain. “Well, there’s really not anything more. I just thought you needed to hear why everyone thinks so highly of you, since you are too noble and humble to see it for yourself. You have given so many people happiness this day, Hugo, myself included, and I, for one, will spend the rest of my life counting my blessings.”

Hugo didn’t know what to say. No one had ever accused him of humility before. Nobility, maybe, but never in that sense, either. If anything, he had gone through life behaving with a distinct lack of nobility, in spite of the blueness of the blood that ran through his veins. For the first time in his life, he felt ashamed of himself.

Here was Meggie who came from the simplest of stock and yet had the most generous of natures, as well as a graciousness that he was only beginning to recognize. Where most people chose to take, Meggie chose to give, where most people chose to judge, Meggie chose to accept.

What right then did he have to judge her? None whatsoever that he could see. It was he who was fortunate, he who should be counting his blessings. He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but Meggie had slowly crept into his heart and taken up a solid residence there.

He found that he didn’t really want to disillusion her about him after all, but he knew he should give it one last try if he was to live with his newfound conscience.

“Meggie—I’m not any of those things,” he forced himself to say, the words grating in his throat. “I am not noble, not humble, not even particularly decent. Believe me, I’m not.”

In answer she simply reached a hand up and touched her fingertips to his cheek in infinite tenderness. And then, after a moment, she spoke, her voice carrying the same heartbreaking tenderness in it.

“Oh, but I know you are all of those things and more,” she said, her eyes shining with such translucence that Hugo’s breath left him altogether. “So does everyone else. You are the only one who does not count your worth as you should.”

Hugo struggled for an answer, his concentration blown all to hell by her touch and the starlight in her eyes. Her shawl had slid off her shoulders and drifted to the ground. A trick of the shifting shadows somehow turned her night shift from white into dusky lavender, and Meggie was seductively backlit by the moon as she stood facing him, the curve of her spine leaning against the railing.

He couldn’t help but notice the silhouette of her slender figure, any more than he could ignore the one long, shapely thigh and calf that showed through the open seam, any more than he could help noticing the rosy points of her nipples standing out through the thin fabric.

“That’s because if I counted my worth, I’d come up impoverished,” he only just managed to say, remembering belatedly that he owed her a reply of some kind.

Meggie shook her head with a smile. “Maybe that’s the trouble—maybe you really don’t know your own worth, and maybe I should be pleased because it means that at least there is
something
I can teach you.” Her smile widened into the grin he so loved. “I do know I have much to give you.”

So saying, she feathered her fingers down to his mouth and traced over the line of his lips, and then she reached up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly, softly, where her fingers had just been.

Hugo’s arms tightened around her back, holding her close. But he let her lead him, handing himself over to her in a way he had never before done with a woman.

He shivered in surprise and delight as she took the initiative—her tongue slipping into his mouth and delicately touching his tongue, lightly circling it. Unable to resist, he bit down very gently on the tip of her tongue, then pulled it between his teeth, sucking. He coaxed her into his own mouth in an intimate dance that Meggie instantly recognized and responded to and imitated, until he wanted to take her right there on the floor.

She surprised him again. As he was still lost in the frenzied kiss, her hands trailed down to his chest and stroked over his half-open shirt. Slipping inside the cloth, her thumbs circled his nipples, caressing them just as he had earlier done to hers.

He gasped sharply as she applied a steady pressure, pinching and rolling his nipples until he gritted his teeth against the intense pleasure.

Much to his regret she took her hands away. But he didn’t mind at all when they landed on the lower buttons of his shirt, the only ones he had managed to fasten in his haste. She undid them, drawing his shirt out of his trousers and pushing it away. Her mouth slid down over his hot skin and closed over his erect nipples, sucking and pulling on them until he had trouble drawing breath into his body.

“Meggie,” he groaned, his hands twining in her hair, his thighs shaking with the effort of keeping control. “Meggie…”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her nimble fingers went to the waistband of his trousers and undid those buttons as well.

Hugo was in agony as her fingertips pressed against his aching erection with every tiny movement.

She pulled the fabric away and freed him, but not for long.

Just when he thought she might succumb to a postvirginal shyness, her fingers closed over and around his exposed and excruciatingly engorged shaft.

Hugo clenched his teeth, his breath coming in rough pants as she lightly stroked. She outlined his dimensions with no sign of inhibition at all. No, not a single sign, he thought through the frantic pounding in his head. The pounding echoed twice-fold in his groin, and his legs were about to give way as she decided to run the palm of her hand over his exquisitely sensitive tip, stroking downward, then squeezing.

His hands wrapped even more tightly in her hair and he gave a strangled gasp. His back arched and his hips could not help from thrusting forward into her cupped hand. A big mistake.

“Sweetheart, I warn you, if you go on like this,” he croaked, his chest heaving, “my pleasure will be too great and … and I will not be able to pleasure you.”

He gently wrapped his hand around her wrist and forcibly drew it back to his chest, pressing it flat against his skin. At the same time, he slid his other hand down over the firm, lush curve of her buttocks and slipped the cotton of her shift up over her thighs to her waist. Fair was fair, after all.

A fiery hunger curled in his gut as she gave a little whimper of excitement. His hand slid down to the soft, curling down of her mound brushing against his throbbing arousal. Then he touched her between her trembling thighs, his fingers seeking and finding the parting of her hot cleft, so wet, so slippery. The scent of her own musky, sweet arousal inflamed him even more as he stroked just between the petals of her outer lips and then moved deeper still, into her inner flesh.

Meggie shook like a leaf in a wind gone wild—her arms holding hard around his neck, her legs parting for him, her hips thrusting against his hand, her inner muscles pulling him into her even more deeply. Sharp little cries and gasps tore from her throat and quavered against his shoulder where she tried to smother them, her mouth open against his skin.

He knew he should take her inside to bed immediately, but it was no use. Stripped of every last vestige of control, he also knew he’d never make it, not with Meggie on the very edge of explosion, and him so close as well.

“Meggie—sweet girl,” he panted heavily, lifting her up against him. He pulled her back into the shadows and found the support of the wall.

With another swift lift, he picked her up and wrapped her legs around his waist, then eased her bared thighs down upon him. His pulsing tip found her entrance as unerringly as a compass found true North, with no hesitation, with a simple, absolute knowing.

That was it, Meggie was his North, he thought through a mindless daze, pushing slowly into her. This time her flesh yielded readily to his, embracing him, welcoming his penetration, pushing upward into his demand.

He thrust hard and strong, answering her invitation. And he thrust again and again, taking full possession of her. His hands guided and supported her hips, pulling her down on him in potent demand, wanting her pleasure even more than he sought his own.

Despite his many years of sexual experience, not one woman had ever responded to him as quickly and furiously and fully as Meggie had. Nor had he ever before given so much of himself—always holding back a measure of control, always holding back his heart. No longer. Not with Meggie. It just wasn’t possible.

Even now he felt the deep gathering of her internal muscles starting. A wave drew back and under before curling over the top, unleashing the full strength and thunder of its power as it surged back down.

“Hugo,” Meggie gasped, her arms grasping even more feverishly around his neck, her throat working hard, her head thrown back, and her eyes closed. “Hugo, it’s going to happen again—oh, I can’t bear it…”

“Let it, my love, my darling, let it come,” he said, burying his mouth against her glistening neck. He tried to contain his own fevered excitement, knowing damned well that once her wave crested and released, he’d be lost. Her tight muscles tensed, pulling him upward toward the beginning of her swell, squeezing hard on him, so hard he thought he might die.

He took everything left in him, every last shred of control, and with one last surge, one great drive upward, he held deep within her, and willed her to ride the surf of her beloved sea home to shore. Home to him.

Meggie sobbed, her wave of ecstasy peaking and breaking. Her contractions fiercely throbbed around him until he shuddered, with every muscle in his body clenching and then frantically, furiously, as he crested on his own ecstasy, releasing to find his own pounding waves home. Home to her.

Home at last.

6 June 1822
Lyden Hall, nr. Orford
Suffolk

Hugo read over what he’d just written, then threw down his pen in disgust at what he was doing—what he had already done.

God, how he hated himself. No matter how hard he tried to justify his actions, he still felt like a complete cad.

Oh, yes—Meggie’s money would have come to him anyway once they were married, and true, Meggie would have had no use for the money had she stayed locked up in an asylum. She certainly wouldn’t be as happy as she was now if he hadn’t taken her away and made her his wife.

Why then, did he feel like such a black-hearted swindler?

He shoved his forehead into his hands, knowing the answer. Because he would never in a million years have asked Meggie to marry him if she hadn’t come with four hundred thousand pounds. So to all intents and purposes, he had stolen—or was about to steal—what she didn’t even know was hers.

Even worse than that, he had lied to her. He had told her he wanted to marry her because he loved her, that he had loved her for weeks—a blatant falsehood she had believed, and believing it, had accepted his hand in marriage.

The biggest absurdity of the whole situation was that it was no longer a lie. He did love her, and with all his heart. Which, of course, made him as mad as Meggie.

Hugo groaned. How it had happened, and when, were questions he couldn’t answer. He only knew that at some point between marrying her and finally falling asleep at dawn with Meggie wrapped tightly in his arms he had come to the realization that she was all he’d ever wanted. If that was madness, so be it. He wouldn’t trade what he felt for her for an entire lifetime of sanity.

Lifting his head, he rubbed one hand over his eyes and smiled. Thinking back over the long, private hours of the night, he had been astonished by Meggie, with her unflagging enthusiasm and infinite capacity for learning. She had matched him at every turn, with her finely tuned body in perfect pitch with his.

As, it seemed, was her soul. He’d never in his life felt so connected to another person, as if he had no need to hide any part of himself from her.

Except, of course, his lies.

He shook his head, knowing that nothing could diminish his shame. Loving Meggie only made him feel worse, for he had no choice but to continue to deceive her. She would never understand his treachery or his reasons for it.

Her heart was too good, too pure, too innocent, and her mind was too simple to grasp the reality of the world and the deceptions it sometimes necessitated.

He supposed he’d have to live with his lies for the rest of his life, not a pleasant prospect. The only saving grace of the entire mess was that if he hadn’t behaved like such a damned idiot and lost all his money, he never would have gone to the solicitors’ office, never would have heard about Meggie’s fortune, never would have married her. He never would have known such happiness.

It was small comfort to a guilty conscience, but he’d take any comfort he could find. He also had another small balm to his conscience, which would not only make him feel better, but also give Meggie guaranteed security no matter what might befall him.

He picked up the quill again and dipped it into the inkstand, applying it to the paper with renewed determination.

“Yours, etc., and so on,” Hugo mumbled, finishing the obligatory salutations and signing the letter with a flourish.

He blotted the paper, then picked it up and read it through in entirety. He was satisfied that he’d said what he wanted to say and laid the appropriate groundwork.

He’d included enough detail about Meggie to pique the solicitors’ interest, but he’d also left out enough detail to make himself appear entirely innocent of any foreknowledge of Meggie’s inheritance. He’d certainly given them enough leads, and with any luck, they would scramble to confirm the facts and discover the other pertinent details on their own.

He gave them about a fortnight before appearing on his doorstep.

Now he could only pray that James Gostrain would forget Hugo had been in his office at the time that the discussion about Margaret Bloom and her offspring had taken place. Mr. Gostrain hopefully would remember only that Hugo had spoken in glowing terms of the impoverished woman he loved and had decided to marry.

He folded the paper, sealed it with wax, and addressed it. That done, he put it to one side of the desk to be posted, and started on the next arduous and far more difficult task—that of writing to his mother.

“Good heavens. Good gracious heavens above.” Eleanor, Dowager Duchess of Southwell, removed her reading glasses and stared down at the letter in her hands, sure she couldn’t possibly have read it correctly.

“What is it, Mama?” Rafe looked up from his breakfast, an eyebrow raised in question. “You are not usually so vociferous about your correspondence. What has happened? Perhaps Hermione Horsley finally expired, leaving the throne of the
ton
empty at last? Or perhaps Lady Stanhope launched yet another mysterious debutante and made the match of the Season two years in a row.”

Eleanor looked up at her elder son with exasperation. “If you refer to your own match, dear boy, you might consider who was responsible for that, and it certainly was
not
Sarah Stanhope. She was merely an accessory to my plan. However, if I were you I would wipe that ridiculous smirk from your face, or you will be feeling very foolish in another moment. This is news indeed, and it concerns you as well as me.”

“Well?” Rafe said, leaning his cheek on his fist. “Have out with it, then. I want to get back upstairs to Lucy and our son.”

“Besotted, that’s what you are. I’ve never seen a father make such a fuss over a newborn,” she said with a wave of her hand that hid her own very great pride in her infant grandson. He had been born only two days before and with a minimum of fuss. “Very well, I will tell you. This letter is from your brother.”

The amused smile faded from Rafe’s face. “I see. What has Hugo gone and done now? The last I heard he was playing at gentleman around town, attending all the fashionable events in an effort to attain a respectable reputation. I suppose he’s fallen foul and reverted to his old bad habits?” He rubbed the space between his eyebrows as if developing a headache. “I will
not
bail him out again, not this time, not after he promised me that he would reform.”

“You are too quick to judge your brother, darling. He did indeed promise to reform, and it appears he has, in a way I never expected.” She passed the first page of the letter over to her son, allowing him to read the astonishing news for himself.

Rafe read in silence, his mouth dropping open. “What in the name of God…’’ He looked up at his mother.
“Married?
Hugo? To a penniless orphan from
where
? Isn’t Woodbridge the name of the town where Eunice Kincaid’s asylum is?”

“Yes, that’s right, although Woodbridge Sanitarium is three miles outside of the town itself,” the duchess answered absently. “No, what is particularly interesting is that Hugo has married not just a penniless orphan, but Meggie Bloom of all people. This is extraordinary news.”

Rafe regarded her as if she had a screw loose, which she found rather amusing under the circumstances.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that you had better explain. Who the devil is Meggie Bloom? You obviously know something about her, and since you don’t tend to spend your time in the company of penniless orphans, I have to wonder what you have been up to and why you have mentioned nothing to me.”

She graced her son with an indulgent smile. “Really, my dear boy, you cannot think I tell you every last detail of my busy life? You would be bored to tears if I attempted such foolishness.”

“Have you been matchmaking again?” Rafe said, one eyebrow raised.

“Not in the least. This news comes as great a surprise to me as it does to you. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Get on with it, Mama,” Rafe said, his eyes glittering.

“Very well,” she said. “I can only think that Hugo met Meggie Bloom last March when I sent him to the Woodbridge Sanitarium in my place. I had the most dreadful cold, and since Hugo was going out that way, I thought he could do my business for me.”

“You sent
Hugo
to visit that madwoman?” Rafe said, looking appalled. “Mama, what were you thinking?”

“Don’t be absurd, Raphael. I sent Hugo to speak to the director and deliver a bank draft and a letter.”

“But my solicitors already pay a small fortune for Eunice Kincaid’s upkeep—why would you be sending the place money?” Rafe said, scratching his golden head. “Forgive me, but none of this makes any sense. Would you care to elaborate?”

“Well…” the duchess said, not entirely sure how her son was going to react to the entire truth. “You already know that the Woodbridge Sanitarium is a quiet home near the coast in Suffolk, a soothing setting for people who suffer from mental disturbances. What I haven’t told you is that the sanitarium is one of my most cherished charities. I am a patroness.”

Rafe stared at her. “A patroness. How long have you been a patroness of this—this sanitarium?”

“Since you were a boy.”

“Since I was a boy. Yet you said nothing even when you had Eunice committed.”

“I saw no need. You have never been interested in my charities, Rafe. Why should you be?”

“I suddenly find myself mightily interested,” he replied, throwing Hugo’s letter down on the table and regarding her with unsettling intensity. “Do go on. How did you come to be a patroness of a lunatic asylum?”

“A sanitarium, dear. I think ‘lunatic asylum’ is a bit harsh.”

“I don’t care what you call the damned place. I want to know how you became involved and why.”

“Well, let me see,” the duchess said gingerly, knowing that she was treading on dangerous ground. “I helped to found the sanitarium as it happens, not too long after your dear father died, and I have been keeping an eye on it ever since. It’s really a very lovely place,” she said, taking a large sip of coffee, trying to maintain her equilibrium in the face of Rafe’s relentless interrogation.

“You founded the sanitarium after my father died,” he said, turning his knife over and over in his hand. “Why, exactly?”

“I—I wanted to ensure that people who needed help would receive it when their families could not look after them properly, see to their safety.” Oh, dear. She hadn’t thought Raphael would be this displeased. The subject was sensitive and not one he was inclined to discuss, which made her wonder why he was pursuing it with such determination.

“I see,” he said. “I suppose I can guess at your interest, given Papa’s frequent bouts of melancholia.”

“Yes. Yes, that is it exactly,” she said, relieved that he had brought it up himself. In the year since she had told him the truth about his father’s illness, he hadn’t mentioned it once. “You see,” she continued, trying to help him understand her motives, “there were times when I thought your father might be better off under professional care, but at the time no place existed that would not have been a dreadful experience for him.”

“Hmm,” Rafe said, raising his inscrutable gaze from the knife to her face. “I also suppose you hoped that by establishing a place for others like him that you could keep them safe from their own destructive acts.”

It was her turn to stare. Surely Raphael had not guessed at the rest of the truth—but how could he have? She’d been so careful, so very careful to protect him from it.

Oh, dear Lord, let it not be so, she prayed. Let him at least have that one small piece of innocence left to him—the memory of his father?

“I—I am not sure I understand you,” she said, trying very hard to keep her face composed as her heart fluttered with panic.

“No? Let me be clearer. I suddenly suspect you know far more about the manner of Papa’s death than I previously thought.”

“What do you mean?” she said, still praying that he knew nothing more than that his father had died in a terrible accident. “What more could I know? You were the one who discovered his body after the accident, darling. You told me everything you saw, right after it happened.”

“Not everything. Not everything, Mama.” He stood and turned away, walking over to the window, his back to her. “I don’t think you’ve told me everything either, and I wonder if we should not finally be honest with each other. I find my taste for keeping painful secrets has diminished since marrying Lucy, and quite frankly, I would far rather have truth between us than a pack of half-lies and evasions.”