Authors: Cynthia Wright
Grey, who had been eating bread and soup, glanced up and smiled at her. "We don't want to distract you from that leg of lamb by wandering into a philosophical discussion, so I suppose we'd best be on our way. Miss Beauvisage, would you care to take some exercise to aid your digestion?"
She saw the mischief in his eyes as he stood and offered her his hand. "That would be lovely, Mr. St. James. Thank you again for luncheon, Laviolet."
As they strolled down the wide corridor toward the stair hall, Natalya whispered, "We dare not venture outdoors, Grey. It wouldn't do at all for Francesca to see us together. What manner of exercise did you have in mind?"
"I thought a brisk stroll up the stairs would do nicely," he replied conspiratorially, and placed his hand at the small of her back to guide her.
Her heart began to pound with anticipation, for she yearned shamelessly for his touch and the sensation of his body against her own. It was bliss to share Grey's company, to talk and laugh with him and feel the bond between them strengthening, but there was more to love, and she desperately needed to feel that completion.
Grey made no pretense of his intentions. He led her directly into his bedchamber and closed the door. During his adult years he had known many and varied forms of lust, but he had never felt like this before. His physical need had never been so intense, and yet it was much more than that. When he turned to Natalya and she came into his arms, a sweet, cleansing heat passed forcefully between their bodies.
Natalya pressed her face against his shirt and held fast to his shoulders for fear her knees would give way. When his lips brushed her hair, and she turned her face up to him, Grey lifted her for a long kiss that went straight to her heart, branding it with fire.
Somehow they found their way to the bed. Smiling into each other's eyes, they shed their clothing. Natalya fumbled with the intricate folds of his snowy cravat, then Grey deftly unfastened her riding gown. Standing before him in her chemisette, she felt like a bride.
"You are utterly perfect," he said in a husky voice, touching his thumb to the rosy nipple that swelled against the thin muslin of her bodice. "Utterly perfect for me."
Natalya realized that she believed him. No longer did she fear that she was not young enough, that her mouth or breasts were too full, or her eyes the wrong color. Grey loved her just as she was; in fact, he
preferred
her this way. He'd hinted many times that she was precisely his idea of womanly beauty, but Natalya had never dared believe it until now. Newly confident, she slid the chemisette from her body and stood naked and proud before him.
Arousal, raw and deeply primitive, surged through Grey at the sight of her. Pulling off the rest of his clothes, he reached for her, and the contact of their warm, bare bodies was pleasure beyond description. His sun-bronzed hands wandered down the graceful line of her back, over her full hips and the curves of her buttocks. Natalya felt her breasts swelling against the crisp black hair covering his hard chest. When he pressed her hips to his, she found that she thrilled to the sensation of his fully erect manhood, hot and insistent against her belly. They began to kiss hungrily, and it came to Natalya that an innocence born of the tenderest emotions infused each caress of their mouths and hands.
As he lifted her onto the bed, it seemed to Grey that he was making love to a woman for the first time. What had changed? He knew only that he had never dreamed of feeling thus; his heart had opened and he was beginning to understand all that he had missed by keeping it locked so securely all these years....
"Darling Natalya," he said gravely, staring into her luminous eyes, "I love you."
* * *
Garbed in an exquisite gown of pale green India muslin with a long pearl necklace encircling her neck, Francesca entered her downstairs parlor with an air of grandeur. She wore her auburn curls in a Grecian knot offset by two emerald-studded combs that had been favorites of the deceased Countess of Hartford.
"My dear Miss Timkins," she exclaimed warmly, walking toward the Sheraton sofa with her hands outstretched. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you could visit me today."
Red-faced and nervous, Charlotte stood up and bobbed a curtsy. "Pleased to be here, your ladyship." She hardly knew how to react to so effusive and familiar a greeting from the woman who had briefly attempted to preside over Hartford House. Although Charlotte had been in awe of Francesca then, as far as she knew the viscountess had never noticed her existence.
"Do sit down, my dear. I'll ring for tea. My cook makes the most delicious little cakes, and I'll wager you're famished after the long ride from that... farm in the hinterlands." Her lips pursed in obvious distaste.
When a serving girl had brought tea and tiny frosted cakes, Francesca waited until she and Charlotte were alone again before confiding, "These American servants are quite hopeless! I cannot tell you, my dear Charlotte, how elated I was to discover that
you
of all people were in Philadelphia."
Charlotte wondered how her ladyship had learned this, but she was far too shy to ask. In fact, Francesca had sent one of her own lackeys out to Belle Maison the previous day, ostensibly to apply for a position there. He'd happily discovered that the Beauvisages had left for Connecticut and lingered to casually quiz the servants. When at last he returned to Pine Street with the information that Natalya's ladies' maid was a Miss Charlotte Timkins who had come with her from England, Francesca was intrigued. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but for what reason? It was David who remembered that the girl had been employed at Hartford House like her mother before her.
"She's a bumbling child, very eager to please," he'd told Francesca. "She spilled tea on me once and burst into tears, begging me not to tell my father."
Now that she saw Charlotte, Francesca remembered her. Out of regard for Mrs. Timkins, Mrs. Thistle had been training the woman's daughter for the world upstairs beyond the kitchen. Sometimes she had been allowed to watch Francesca's own ladies' maid perform her elaborate duties.
"You must tell me how you came to America," Francesca continued blithely, pretending not to notice that Charlotte's hand was shaking violently as she attempted to sip her tea.
"Well, my lady, I actually came with his lordship. That is—your husband! I mean, if he is still your husband. I wouldn't know about such things, it's not my place. At any rate, he was bringing Miss Beauvisage home, and I came along as her ladies' maid." Overcome by curiosity, she asked, "Does his lordship know that
you
are here as well?"
"Oh, yes, of course! You see, that was part of his plan all along. Perhaps you are not aware of it, my dear Charlotte, but Lord Altburne is a very evil man. That was why I was forced to run away when I had the opportunity. But through devious means he has discovered my whereabouts. His lordship means to harm me... and I have reason to suspect that your new mistress is in league with him."
Charlotte gasped and nearly dropped her cup and saucer. "Oh, my lady, that is terrible! But I hardly think that my mistress is capable of evil—"
"Dear sweet innocent Charlotte!" Sighing, Francesca shook her head sadly. "How trusting you are. You have been very sheltered and know nothing of people of this sort, who are expert at hiding their true natures. Have another cake."
Her eyes like saucers, Charlotte accepted the proffered cake and popped it in her mouth, chewing furiously. "My lady, is it not possible that you could be mistaken?"
"I fear not, my dear," Francesca replied regretfully. "You see, I have evidence."
"Oh!" The girl's brow wrinkled as she tried to accept what she had been told. "It seems... impossible, but—"
"Surely you do not accuse me of lying?"
"Oh, no, my lady!"
Francesca sat down beside Charlotte, patting her plump hand. "I understand that this has been a terrible shock for you, my dear girl. Tell me, have you been very happy in the employ of Miss Beauvisage?"
"Now that you mention it—no, my lady, I haven't. She's nothing like a proper English lady. In fact, she would rather do for herself than call on me."
"But, don't you see, that's because she doesn't want you to see what she's really doing."
"It is?" Charlotte squeaked. "I never thought of that. Do you know, my lady, I've been feeling more and more unhappy, deprived of the duties I was raised to perform. More than anything, I must be
needed."
"Well, my dear girl," Francesca replied, slipping a kind arm around the maid's shoulders, "I understand exactly how you feel. But, now you must cheer up, because I need you, and we have important work to do!"
* * *
Leaning back against pillows plump with goose down, Natalya sipped from a goblet of wine and breathed deeply of the fragrant breeze that wafted in from the garden. "I would say that I am happy," she murmured, gazing into Grey's eyes, "but that seems a very small word for such an overwhelming feeling."
He wrapped his hand around her slim fingers and lifted them to his mouth. "I never would have believed that I could voluntarily engage in such a conversation with a woman," he said, with a self-deprecating smile. "I never believed that this could really happen in life. I thought true love was for fools."
"And now?" she prodded, joyously anticipating the answer.
Grey gave her a dazzlingly grin. "I know that I was the fool. The love I feel for you is, quite possibly, the first honest and valuable emotion of my life. It is as if I've been walking under a dark cloud of cynicism for so long that I assumed it was hovering over everyone." Impatient with the gap between their bodies, he drew her against him, kissing her brow and her soft, unruly curls. "When I met you, I was skeptical of your enthusiasm for life and I resisted the desires of my heart." Grey's eyes stung and his voice caught for an instant. "Now I have discovered freedom in surrendering—"
Tears clung like stars to Natalya's lashes as she set aside her wine and straddled Grey's thighs, perfectly at ease in her nakedness. "I do not regret the years I wasted doubting love," she declared, "because I think God was keeping me safe for you. In the past, I believed that I could never give any man power over me. I treasured my independence. And yet, with you, I felt differently almost from the beginning. When you took charge of me, I
liked
it, yet I was so confused! All I knew was that I felt secure when you were near, and so keenly alive. It was quite alarming." She traced the line of his jaw with her fingers. "Oh, Grey, do you not think that we were meant to be mates?"
Although no promise of marriage had passed his lips, Natalya trusted him, and that was a gift he did not take lightly. "Yes, minx, I believe that is what God intends for us."
Smiling, she caressed his tousled, silver-flecked hair and the lean line of his jaw. "We're going to have a wonderful life together, and I shan't take one moment of it for granted. Where shall we live? "
In the magical world they had created in this testered bed, the reality of Grey's marriage to Francesca seemed a barrier that could be easily pushed aside. He gave himself permission to dream. "You'd love Briar Hill, the country estate that will one day be mine. It's in Hampshire, one of the most idyllic regions of England. But..." His face darkened and he glanced toward the window. "I'm not at all certain that I want any part of the life that's been created for me back home. Even that word—
home—
seems hollow compared to the warm, loving example of family and home I've witnessed at Belle Maison."
"Won't you tell me more about your family?" Natalya asked gently. "I do need to understand." Returning to a less distracting place beside him, she nestled in the circle of his embrace, her breasts warm against the tapering line of his chest.
Grey sighed harshly. "It's all so different from what you're used to. Growing up, I learned about duty. As a nobleman from birth, and the heir to an earldom, I was groomed to believe that I was better than other people. England's upper class is fraught with beliefs that have little to do with humanity." He reached for his wine and took a long drink before continuing, "My life was very cold and regimented, especially after my mother died, though I don't remember her as being a particularly warm person. How could she be, married to my father?"
"What is he like?"
"Extremely remote, although I must own that I have begun to find him rather amusing of late. Perhaps it's because it no longer matters to me that he scarcely remembers I'm alive, let alone cares." His tone was distant. "However, when one is a little boy and craving a word of kindness or encouragement from one's father, it's hardly amusing to hear, 'Fine, fine, yes, quite, and do visit me again if you happen to be passing by,' spoken without so much as a backward glance."
Natalya's heart ached with Grey's pain. Kissing his shoulder, she exclaimed, "What a horrid man!"
"Not precisely. He simply doesn't know any other way to behave." Grey shrugged. "And once I realized that he could not give me what I needed, that I could never measure up to his standards no matter what I did, I taught myself not to care. I threw myself into the heartless but amusing pastimes of a titled rake: gambling, wenching, drinking, sporting, and other activities in that line. Then I went to fight Boney, and you know the rest."
"But have you no other family besides your father?"
"My mother died giving birth to my sister. My younger brother, David, was lost in the battle of Salamanca two years ago. I have other more distant relations, but none I particularly admire."
"How very disheartening. Were you close to your brother?" Natalya sensed that these questions were painful, but she also knew that it was important for him to share with her the details of his past so that they could go forward.
"No. David and I were not close. As the elder son and heir, I received what little attention my father had to give, and David quite justly resented that. Also, to be honest, he could not equal me in other areas. He was not as tall or strong as I, nor did he excel in the meaningless but fashionable pursuits I described earlier. He lacked the streak of reckless daring I possessed, which is a quality that is highly valued in London society." Grey paused, and a shadow momentarily crossed his face. "Sometimes I think that he wanted to die in battle. What did he have to return to? Knowing what I do now, I would try to change things between us, but we cannot go back, can we?"