The Memory of Your Kiss (7 page)

Later that night—the eve of her wedding—Sydney had tossed and turned in her bed, beset by doubts. Was it right to marry Henry feeling as she did about Zachary? And, really, how
did
she feel about him? How did she feel about either of these men? Yes, there was this incredible chemistry between her and Zachary. That kiss in the park had shaken her to the very core of her being. She loved the fact they seemed to understand each other on some fundamental level she had never known with another human being.

But she had known Zachary only a matter of weeks—less than a
month. With a seven-year age difference, she and Henry had never been close as children, but she had known him virtually her whole life. Yet what did she really know of this man she was to marry? She knew Zachary’s taste in art and what books he liked; they shared an interest in history, even if they did not always agree on who were the positive and who the negative players on history’s stage. Was Henry a reader? Did he even like literature—let alone was he able to quote well-known works?

Oh, do stop
, she told herself. This was an exercise in futility. There was no point in considering what might have been. She had given her word. Under no circumstances could this well-reared vicar’s daughter ever subject her intended husband, her father, her family, to scandal. Nor was it merely the threat of scandal that gave her pause. Henry could and would protect her, her father, Geoffrey and Marybeth—and he would do it now. Zachary was returning to the war for God alone knew how long. And only God knew how much time her papa had left.

Thus ran Miss Sydney Waverly’s thoughts throughout the night before her wedding. By morning, she was sure she had gained firm control of herself and not only her future, but also those of Geoffrey and Marybeth.

Then she saw Zachary standing next to Henry and she faltered, but only momentarily. He looked splendid; his impeccable red-coated military uniform was a stark contrast to the conservative civilian wear Henry wore. She tried to read his expression, but couldn’t. Her gaze shifted to Henry. She saw only friendly welcome in his eyes. Her hand trembled on her father’s arm and he placed his other hand over hers.

“Courage, my love,” he whispered. “It will be fine. You’ll see.”

And suddenly, it was. She repeated her vows in a strong voice and signed the registry with a steady hand, though she admitted to herself the familiar sensation she felt when her hand touched Zachary’s at the signing. In the carriage on the way to the Hall, refusing to let herself consider what the rest of the day and night held for her, she sought diversion in small talk with her brand new husband.

With a gesture to the window, Henry said, “Happy the bride the sun shines on.”

Was he nervous too? She smiled. “And the groom, I hope.”

“We shall have decent weather for the drive and our stay at Tarrenton—perhaps
it will even hold as we go on to the sea.” Sydney knew Tarrenton, a manor house with extensive acreage, was another Paxton property located thirty miles from Paxton Hall.

“I shall enjoy it in whatever weather we find,” she said. “I love the sea, especially when it is stormy.”

“My wife—the consummate rebel.” Henry took her hand in his and continued to hold it until the carriage swung into the driveway. Aware of and nervous also about the great changes the last hour had wrought in her life, Sydney clung to his hand, grateful for the reassuring contact.

The wedding breakfast, about which Sydney had previously harbored a good deal of apprehension, turned out to be rather fun for her. Henry had been right: she knew these people and they not only wished the bridal couple well, but did so with gusto. There were many toasts, but later Sydney remembered only the first one. Zachary’s.

“To my cousin Henry and his delightful bride. May their trust in each other and fidelity to the vows they took today see them safely through any turbulence in the sea of life. May neither of them ever be tempted in any way to alter the regard they have only for each other and the honesty and integrity with which they begin their married life.”

Henry, leaning back in his chair to speak to a guest on the other side of Celia who sat next to him, seemed not to have heard Zachary’s toast. Sydney nodded and smiled and said all that was proper, but later she wondered if there was some double entendre to his remarks.

And much, much later, she was sure there had been.

Sydney gave herself up to enjoying this party, refusing to allow the disconcerting presence of one Zachary Quintin to deter her. She was aware of him seated next to her; she sensed the warmth of his body. Occasionally, their arms chanced to touch. There was an instant in which she caught the familiar scent of his shaving soap. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but this was neither the time nor the place. And, in truth, what
was
there to say? The meal and toasts over, the glasses were refilled again and again. Musicians had played softly throughout the meal and now played country dance tunes and many of the guests formed sets while others merely mingled and chatted.

Sydney was determined to make this an enjoyable occasion, not
only for herself, but especially to assure her father that she was happy, for, after her return from Bath, he had seemed nervous about whether she would be content with her lot in life. Had he suspected something had happened to her in Bath? She and Henry led the first dance set and after that she took part in others as well. She was pleased to find herself able to meet Zachary in the twists and turns of one dance set with a cool detached demeanor—at least outwardly. She struggled to control her inner emotions.

During a lull in the festivities, Sydney sank into a chair next to her father. “How are you faring, Papa?”

“Quite well, my daughter. Quite well.”

“You are not getting overly tired, are you?”

“No. No. I am thoroughly enjoying myself. I had a nice chat with Lieutenant Quintin. I met his mother years ago. Nice lad. He danced with Marybeth.”

“He did?” It occurred to Sydney that she had never been his chosen dance partner. “So what did you and he talk about?”

The vicar chuckled. “Would you believe the relative merits of
The Iliad
and
The Odyssey
? I accused him of military prejudice in his preference for a war story. Fine topic at a wedding celebration, eh?”

Sydney laughed and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Papa.”

He put his hand on hers and gazed into her eyes. “Bella, you
are
happy, are you not?”

She held his gaze, trying to project her sincerity. “Of course I am. Could any woman ask for more?”

It had been a rhetorical question, but he took it seriously. “Maybe—” he started, still holding her hand.

She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek again. “Do not worry yourself, Papa. It will be fine. I promise.”

Sydney was also keenly aware that this was her first public appearance as the Countess of Paxton. It was important that these people, almost all dependent on the earldom to some degree, see her changed status as a positive factor in their lives. To this end, she made sure that she and her new husband had a personal word with everyone.

When she and Henry had changed into their traveling clothes, they returned to the party to bid their guests farewell and endure a good deal of merriment at their expense. They also had private moments with their family members.

“Zachary, feel free to stay here at the Hall as long as you wish,” Henry said.

“My ship sails in three days. I shall leave in the morning,” Zachary said as he shook hands with Henry. He then lifted Sydney’s hand to pass an air kiss over it. She squeezed his fingers for a moment as he held her gaze and said in a husky voice, “I do wish you both every happiness.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

There was a flurry of good-byes as the newlyweds settled into the traveling coach with a driver and two outriders to accompany them. Henry’s valet and Sydney’s maid had been sent on ahead an hour earlier.

As Sydney poked her head out the window for one last good-bye, she caught sight of Zachary standing behind the crowd. He leaned against one of the columns of the portico on the Hall, arms crossed over his chest staring at the ground. Her heart wrenched at the bereft expression on his face.

It was the last she would see of him for nearly four years.

D
etermined that she would be a good wife to Henry, Sydney had few reservations about her coming wedding night. She knew essentially what to expect—had she not assured her father that she knew about “the birds and the bees”? Still, she was nervous; she did know the basics, but there were glaring gaps in this part of her education.

Maisie, who had helped her into and out of the wedding gown, then into her travel clothes, now helped her remove those and don a sheer silk and lace concoction that was intended as a nightgown. Sydney felt suddenly shy in front of the maid and tried to cover her embarrassment with small talk.

“I must say, Maisie, I do appreciate your help. Dressing is far more complicated for a countess that it ever was for a vicar’s daughter.”

“Aye, my lady. Fancier dress has more pins and tapes.”

“You’d think people who could invent steam engines and construct huge bridges could devise simple closings for women’s dresses.” She knew she was babbling, for, now that the moment was upon her, she was increasingly apprehensive.

“Yes, ma’am.” Maisie hung the traveling dress in the armoire, folded the other garments, put them away, then turned to dealing with her mistress’s hair.

Sydney sat on a stool in front of the dressing table as Maisie combed out the upswept hairdo. “And that’s another thing. It would seem I must now spend much more time on my appearance every day.”

Maisie, who was only two years older than her mistress, smiled and said, “Married ladies of the
ton
generally do, I think.” She finished brushing out the light-brown tresses which now hung below Sydney’s shoulders and ended in soft curls. “Will that be all, my lady?”

“Yes. Thank you, Maisie.” It occurred to Sydney that Maisie delighted in saying “my lady.” After all, Maisie had, in an instant, gone from being a vicar’s general purpose maid—doing whatever needed to be done in that understaffed busy household—to being a lady’s personal maid in a great house.

As Maisie left, Sydney moved to a comfortable couch near the fireplace to wait for Henry. She reviewed what had surely been one of the most eventful days of her life, but she refused to dwell on Zachary’s having been there. Should they ever meet again, it would be as mere acquaintances. She gazed about her, aware of the movement and muffled voices of her husband and his valet on the other side of the door to the adjoining room.

Her husband.

She looked about the room to avoid going where that thought was leading. It was an attractive room with pale blue and silver silk bed draperies and dark blue velvet drapes at the windows. The light gray marble fireplace and oyster-colored furniture showed the previous generation’s obsession with Egyptian decoration. The colors here reflected those of the countess’s bedchamber and sitting room at the Hall.

She was startled out of these musings by a knock at the connecting door to Henry’s room. He entered dressed in a dark maroon robe, awkwardly carrying a decanter and two glasses which he set on a low table in front of her before settling himself next to her.

“I thought a bit of cognac would be in order,” he said, splashing the liquid into the glasses. “Helps one relax.” He handed a glass to her, then touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to us, my dear.”

She gave him a tentative smile, drank, and promptly coughed at the burning sensation in her throat. She felt her eyes watering at the fumes. “I—I’m not used to—”

He grinned. “Just sip it slowly.”

She did so and felt warmth spread through her.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded. “Much.” She took another sip, not really sure she
liked the taste, though she did appreciate the relaxing warmth the drink offered.

Henry shifted his position to put his right ankle on his left knee. She noted a small tattoo on the ankle, a pair of crossed swords. He saw her looking at it and explained.

“Paxton heirs always have this mark.”

“Why?”

“Tradition, mostly. Twins are rather common in the family—Amy and Anne, for instance. The first earl of Paxton had identical twin sons. To distinguish the first born from his brother, the earl—a great swordsman, by the way—had him immediately tattooed. Thereafter, we’ve all had it.”

He finished off his drink, then gathered her into his arms and kissed her. It was a long, deep kiss that tasted of the drink. He moved his mouth to nibble at her earlobe and then trailed kisses down her neck to the swell of her breasts. She drew in a deep breath as his hand caressed her breast and she felt her body relaxing and responding. His lips sought her mouth again and she opened to him. He drew back, breathing hard. Then he stood and extended his hand. As she rose, he stepped back to survey her. She felt naked in the filmy gown and held her breath for his approval.

He sucked in a long, whistling breath. “My God, you’re beautiful. How did I get to be so lucky?”

She merely blushed and allowed him to lead her to the bed. She slid under the covers and watched as, loosening his robe, he bent to blow out the bedside lamp. She was disappointed. Other than statues and drawings, she had never seen a completely naked man before, let alone a fully aroused one. She had—wantonly—looked forward to doing so. Nevertheless, light from the fireplace allowed her a peek—a peek that gave her pause. Good heavens! However would her body be able to accommodate
that
? As he lay next to her she felt the hardness pressing against her.

He shoved her nightgown above her waist and stroked the soft flesh between her legs. Again recalling her intent to be a good wife, she tried to adjust to him.

“Ah, Bella,” he murmured. “This may be painful the first time, but I cannot wait any longer.”

“I—I—all right …”

He positioned himself between her legs and pushed slowly, gently into her. She felt searing pain and cried out sharply. He covered her cry in a cognac-flavored kiss. They both lay still for a very long moment, his face buried against her neck.

He raised his head. “Are you all right now?”

“I—I think so.” The pain had subsided.

He began to move inside her, his strokes becoming more and more intense. Then he uttered a long, satisfied moan. Suddenly, it was over. He rolled to her side, held her close, kissed her tenderly, and within seconds, it seemed, he was breathing the deep breaths of dream-filled sleep.

Sydney lay staring at the underside of the bed canopy. Was that it?
That
was what married women whispered about and virginal girls could hardly wait to experience? Somehow she had expected more. Much more. She gave herself a mental shake. Ah, well—

Finally, she, too, slept.

The next morning she woke to an empty bed. Sometime in the night, Henry had returned to his own room.

That became the pattern of intimacy in her marriage. In time she achieved a degree of enjoyment and comfort from their couplings, but never the sheer ecstasy of whispers and dreams. The ever-practical Countess of Paxton consigned that notion to the stuff of fantasy, and she went on with her life, determined to ignore any foolish longing for “more.”

As with most lives, the next few years of Sydney’s vacillated from the ordinary to the extraordinary, with elements of both tragedy and farce, dreams realized and dreams quashed—or altered at least.

That first year had been a year of learning and loss. In midwinter the new Countess of Paxton traveled with her husband to London for the opening of Parliament and the social season. The former vicar’s daughter was presented at court—Queen Charlotte insisted on maintaining her traditional receptions despite the king’s bouts of ill health. Lady Paxton acquitted herself well in the entire social milieu, even hosting a large dinner party for members of her husband’s Tory faction, though some whispered that her ladyship was rather quick to voice her own opinions on Parliamentary matters—and—
gasp!
—that those opinions often seemed to have Whig overtones of reform.

With her husband’s compliance—nay, his encouragement—she made two visits to Windham to alleviate what she recognized as bouts of homesickness.

Her father, having given up his duties as vicar just after Christmas, moved, along with Marybeth and Geoffrey, to Paxton Hall. As long as he was able, he tutored his son and oversaw his younger daughter’s education. He also discussed with Sydney his wishes regarding further schooling for them: Harrow and Miss Sebastian’s, of course. The Laughton twins, Lady Anne and Lady Amy, would also go to Miss Sebastian’s when Marybeth went, for the girls had become fast friends. Meanwhile, a governess saw to their training. Sydney regretted the time in London, time away from the family back at the Hall.

In London, Henry was attentive to his new wife, though he made it quite clear they should not expect to “live in each other’s pockets.” He frequently spent long evenings away from home, presumably at his club or out with his male friends. Though he tried to be quiet, Sydney would hear him come into his room next door sometimes even as the city’s delivery people were starting their rounds. Still, he performed his marital duties with alacrity, pronouncing “this business of getting an heir to be quite wonderful indeed.”

But it did not happen.

When the season ended in June, Sydney welcomed the return to Paxton Hall, but she found her father’s health far weaker than his letters had led her to expect. She was so preoccupied that summer and autumn with the increasingly imminent loss of her beloved papa that she scarcely noticed Henry’s prolonged absences. He was often off to oversee the earldom’s far-flung interests, which included Welsh coal mines, Irish estates, and sundry other enterprises. He announced his latest departure during one of his frequent visits to her bed.

When Sydney commented on the geographical diversity of Paxton holdings, he explained, “My ancestors made interesting acquisitions in their marriage settlements.”

“Unfortunately, the present earl did not,” she said, aware of just how little of material value she had brought to this union.

He pulled her closer and murmured, “Do you hear me complaining?”

Not yet, she thought. But so far she had not fulfilled her primary obligation of getting an heir.

Her father died in late autumn, over a year after performing her
wedding ceremony. Sydney had mixed feelings about his passing. She had selfishly exulted in every moment he stole from the inevitable, but his last weeks were so fraught with pain that she—and he—welcomed the release.

“Oh, Papa,” she said on visiting that grave next to her mother’s, “I am going to miss you so very, very much.”

She had shared one spot of joy with him before he died, though: She was four months pregnant.

Christmas was a subdued affair that year and Henry later journeyed to London alone for the opening of Parliament. Sydney, with few regrets, missed the London season of 1813 entirely, for by the time the official six months of mourning for her father were over, she was too near her confinement to journey to the city.

In late March Henry managed to make it home in time for the arrival of his son and heir, Jonathan Alfred Henry Laughton, named for his two grandfathers and his father. His cries as he was promptly given the Paxton heir tattoo fairly broke his mother’s heart.

A week after his birth, she still could not bear to be away from him for long. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she cooed, as she sat in her bed, bolstered by pillows, and held him close.

Henry, dressed for travel, had popped in to say good-bye. He laughed softly. “Beautiful? Red and wrinkled as he is? If you say so, my dear. If you say so.”

“But just look at this shock of dark hair—that comes from you. His eyes are from me—and my father. I do hope they won’t change. Mrs. Hatfield, the midwife, says they often do. And he has such spirit!”

Henry grinned at his wife and touched a forefinger to his son’s cheek. “I assume by ‘spirit’ you mean he has a healthy set of lungs. He does that.”

She cuddled the baby closer and said, “Pay your father no mind, my son. In time, he will learn to appreciate all your attributes and achievements.”

“Just as soon as they manifest themselves.” Henry rose and kissed her on the forehead. “I must be off, my dear.”

“For how long did you say?”

“A fortnight. Maybe longer. I will write you.”

“All right.” As the door to her bedchamber closed behind him, she turned her attention back to the baby.

Life settled into a comfortable routine. Sydney refused to be one of those society mothers who relegated total care of their children to nursery maids. She was also determined that, though she had not brought a great estate to this marriage, she would have something of value to offer. She worked closely with the housekeeper, butler, and the head gardener to ensure that the Hall itself was operated efficiently and smoothly.

Then one day, she took on a new role—one outside the conventional duties of a countess. Henry was away and Sydney was just finishing breakfast with the twins and her own brother and sister, when Mr. Roberts, the butler, appeared to announce that Mr. Stevenson, the estate steward, wanted to speak with her.

“He says it is rather urgent, my lady.”

She found the steward, a man of perhaps forty years, pacing in the library, his hands behind his back, a worried expression on his face.

“Good morning, Mr. Stevenson. Won’t you sit down and tell me what the problem is?” She gestured to a chair in a nearby grouping and took one of them herself.

The steward sat, his hands splayed on his knees. He seemed nervous. “I am sorry to trouble you, my lady. Not a matter for a woman, don’t you see. Ordinarily, his lordship would handle this, but he is not here and you having grown up in Windham and all—well, it just seemed logical to at least ask you about it.”

“And what is ‘it’ exactly?” she asked.

“You know the farmers Davis and Newton?”

“Oh, dear.” She knew immediately what the problem might be. “Those two have hated each other for years. Ever since Darlene Ryan chose to marry Tom Newton instead of Fred Davis. But—good heavens!—that was over twenty-five years ago.”

“Their feud escalated this week.”