Alexander shook his head, and even from this distance, Elsie could see his face was bathed in sweat.
“Are you going to be sick?” Monsieur asked, stepping back just as Alexander vomited, a wrenching horrible sound that made Elsie nearly cry out. What was wrong with him? Was he truly ill? Perhaps that was why he’d stayed away from her all those nights.
She could hear Alexander’s shaking breaths as he tried to regain control of his stomach.
“Are you done?” Monsieur asked, more than mere concern in his question.
Alexander shook his head and held a shaking hand up to stop Monsieur from coming closer, just as he retched again.
“I told her you did not like the company,” Monsieur said fiercely, as Alexander retched again.
Elsie stepped back from the window, stunned. Nerves. It was nerves making Alexander so ill. The mere thought of sitting in a room with people he did not know was nearly debilitating for him. She put her hands over her mouth, feeling wretched. She knew he was shy, she knew he’d suffered as a boy, but she had no idea he was so afflicted. But hadn’t he told her? Hadn’t he said it was impossible for him to attend public functions? She hadn’t understood. No wonder he thought it so impossible to claim his title, to go before the House of Lords and state his case, to carry on the duties of duke. If the thought of sitting down to an ordinary dinner could make him physically ill, what would the thought of speaking before a roomful of peers do?
Missy entered the room, carrying a pair of silk gloves in her hand. “We got that stain out, Miss Elizabeth,” she said, holding up the pair of gloves triumphantly.
“Marvelous,”Elsie said, pulling them on quickly. She wanted to intercept Monsieur and Alexander and let them know that it was not necessary for Alexander to attend. But as she descended the stairs, a carriage pulled up carrying the Picket family, and Elsie was forced into hostess duties.
Her father and Nelson Picket were long-time friends, and the two had become especially close when her mother died. The vicar had been one of the few people her father had leaned on in his terrible grief, and the Pickets were one of the few families to visit the manor since the death of her mother.
Their daughters, both seemingly happily unmarried, were an innocuous pair. Frances and Martha were plain girls with absolutely no sense of adventure and even less sense of humor. They both took words at face value, but Elsie liked them well enough, even if she did deem them too serious. Though they were three years apart, they dressed almost identically, in plain, light gray dresses that would have suited a very proper governess. Their hair, though a slightly different shade of brown, was parted sharply in the middle, and pulled into an unrelenting bun with nary a hair out of place. But despite their stern appearance, they were pleasant girls. Elsie always had the idea, one that she rather liked actually, that they thought her slightly improper and bold. Of course, they were rather isolated from society and hadn’t any experience with the truly bold girls of the ton.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Elsie said. “I do believe the weather cleared just for your drive.”
Martha smiled. “Do you think so?”
Elsie, who refused to believe Martha was being purposefully obtuse, said, “Of course. The heavens would not dare rain on our guests.”
The sisters smiled uncertainly, as they always did when someone didn’t speak completely plainly.
Elsie led the family into the large drawing room, where her father was already talking to Monsieur Desmarais. Alexander stood with them, stiff and silent, his hands thrust behind his back. When they entered the room, he looked at her with such intensity, Elsie’s knees went momentarily weak. Then he looked away, and Elsie didn’t have time to interpret that look.
“May I introduce you to Monsieur Desmarais, who has done us the great honor of agreeing to paint a mural on our ballroom wall,” Elsie said. “These are our neighbors, the Pickets and their daughters, Miss Martha and Miss Frances. Mr. Picket is the local vicar. The entire family was a great comfort to us when my mother died.”
“A pleasure,” Monsieur said with a small bow.
The group looked curiously at Alexander, who continued to stand stiffly by Monsieur’s side, like some powerful guardian. Someone who did not know him might have interpreted his cold countenance as arrogance, but Elsie knew better. His features were taut, his body almost painfully erect, his jaw clenched tightly. Elsie couldn’t get the sound of his retching from her mind as she looked at him, trying to silently communicate how sorry she was to have forced this on him. But he refused to meet her eyes.
“This is his assistant, Andre,” Elsie said, glad that she didn’t slip and call him Alexander.
He nodded, a sharp jerk of his head.
“When will we be able to see this masterpiece, sir?” the vicar asked.
“Unfortunately, not this evening,” Elsie said with forced cheer. “He has demanded that the unveiling be a surprise. The anticipation is quite maddening and I have had to force myself not to take a peek.”
“The effect would be ruined,” Monsieur said, smiling.
Elsie led the Pickets away on the pretense of discussing her birthday ball and quickly explained that “Andre” was a mute who did not speak.
“Oh,” Martha said, her eyes filled with sympathy. “The poor man. How good of you to include him, though, Elsie.”
“I fear he would rather not be here,” Elsie admitted, daring another quick look at Alexander who looked stoic, as if enduring a great discomfort. “I think I might excuse him before dinner. I rather believe my invitation to him is frightfully thoughtless.”
“But uninviting him might be even more devastating,” Mrs. Picket said. “I think it was all kindness to include him. He seems clean enough and well behaved.”
“Why ever might he not be clean?” Elsie asked, feeling her skin burn from the older woman’s unintended slight. Alexander was not a stray pet, he was a brilliant artist and heir to a duchy.
“My dear girl, as a vicar’s wife I am often called on to care for such people. Often they cannot be taught to wash or care for themselves in even the simplest way. It can be quite disconcerting, indeed.”
“The Hayworth boy,” Mr. Picket said, shaking his head. “Sad, sad case. But the Lord has a special place in His heart for such creatures.”
Elsie knew of whom they spoke. The poor lad could only grunt, and his parents were quite unable to care for him.
“Al ... Andre is not an idiot. He simply cannot speak,” Elsie said, trying to rein in her temper. Even though she knew the Pickets meant nothing critical or unkind, she wanted to throttle them both. Hearing them gave Elsie new insight into what Alexander had no doubt suffered.
“Yes, there are varying degrees of affliction, I daresay,” Mrs. Picket said soothingly.
“Still, it was all kindness,” Martha said.
Never had Elsie intended the inclusion of Alexander to be something cruel. She hadn’t thought of how difficult this evening would be for him. She’d only thought of herself and how she yearned to see him. Any anger she’d felt was gone. He might have been wrong to avoid her, but the knowledge did not make Elsie feel any better about what was happening at this moment.
Their butler announced dinner and the group made its way to the little-used formal dining room. When her mother had been alive, they’d had dinner parties at least once a week. It had been a house filled with guests and gaiety, and these small, solemn dinners only made Elsie miss her mother all the more.
Elsie’s father sat at the head of the table, and Elsie took a seat to his right. Across from her sat Monsieur, then the Pickets and their daughters, and sitting at the end like a forgotten extra piece, Alexander. His sitting without a companion across from him made his attendance even more glaringly incorrect.
Even though she knew he was extremely uncomfortable, Elsie couldn’t help drinking in the sight of him sitting with her at the table. They’d spent every moment together in the dim light of a gaslight or a lamp. Now she could see his true beauty, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft waves of his too-long chocolate hair. He did not look her way, but kept his eyes on the table in front of him. Still. Silent.
Angry.
Yes, he was angry. She saw that now. Elsie bit her bottom lip as the footmen began to serve the first course. She joined in the inane conversation, and even laughed a time or two, but she was ever aware of the man sitting at the end of the table, his eyes burning, his hands shaking when he dared take a drink, his mouth pressed tight.
“How ever did you find Andre?” Mrs. Picket said, and Elsie saw Alexander give a nearly imperceptible jerk at the mention of his name.
“He was orphaned and I took him in when he was just a lad. He is like a son to me,” Monsieur said, looking pointedly down the table to where Alexander sat. Anyone else would have looked at Monsieur and smiled, but Alexander simply sat staring at the table as if transfixed. “A good and loyal son.”
“How lovely,” Mrs. Picket said. “You are a good man to take on such a burden.”
“He’s not a burden,” Elsie blurted out before thinking.
“No,” Monsieur said, looking at Elsie thoughtfully. “He is not. He is a great help to me and good company. The life of an artist can be a lonely one.”
Elsie squeezed her hands together on her lap. She wanted to stand up and scream that Alexander was a wonderful man, the true genius behind Monsieur’s murals, and a man she loved with all her heart. But, like Alexander, she remained silent.
“I sometimes wish I had a silent companion,” Frances said. Then, as if realizing she’d just made a joke, she covered her mouth so that Martha could not see her smiling.
“That, my dear, was a terrible thing to say,” Mrs. Picket said sternly.
Frances bowed her head, but Elsie could see she was still trying not to smile.
Finally, a dessert of peach cobbler was served. Alexander seemed slightly more relaxed, slightly less enraged, perhaps. It was, beyond a doubt, the worst dinner of Elsie’s life. She’d spent the entire time worrying about Alexander, and wondering how she could put things right.
Soon after the meal was ended, the Pickets left for the evening and Alexander disappeared back to the small cottage he shared with Monsieur. Her father, who’d had a bit more port than usual, was engaged in a lively discussion with Monsieur about, of all things, lichen. To his credit, the artist seemed actually interested, and expressed enthusiasm when her father suggested he show the artist his drawings.
“They’re not nearly as fine as what you do, but perhaps you could appreciate my crude attempts, sir.”
“If you don’t mind, Father, I think I shall retire,” Elsie said. Her father nodded absently, completely distracted by having someone finally share his love of the beautiful fungus.
Elsie had no intention of going to her rooms. Instead, she slipped out of the house and began walking directly across the lawn in the direction of the cottage and Alexander.
Chapter 14
Alexander returned to the cottage, threw off his jacket and yanked off the cravat that felt like a noose around his neck. This night had, perhaps, been one of the most humiliating of his life. To have the woman he loved see him like that was torturous. He hadn’t thought her a vindictive person, but why else would she force him to be the night’s entertainment? Had she enjoyed his discomfort? Was this the punishment she had exacted for being ignored? It seemed so unlike Elsie that his heart rejected what his mind was telling him.
He took a deep, ragged breath, trying to force himself to relax, his entire body was so taut, his muscles had begun to ache. A knock on the door made him wince. He didn’t want to face anyone, not even a helpful footman. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t the young servant who’d been attending them; it was Elsie, tears streaming down her face.
She threw herself into his arms on a sob, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing her wet face against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Alexander. Please forgive me,” came her muffled words.
Slowly, Alexander brought his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, like a small child seeking comfort after a terrible hurt. He let out a sound that sounded humiliatingly like a sob and he brought her closer against him.
Elsie lifted her face and looked beseechingly at him. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t. But you refused to see me and I was going mad. I had to see you. I had to know that what you told me wasn’t a lie, that you do love me. Tell me you do.”
Alexander swallowed down the misery that gripped his throat. “It does no good whether I love you or not, but if you must know, then yes. I love you. I will always love you.”
“Then why did you stay away?”
“It is because I love you.” He let out a short breath. “I thought it would be easier, for both of us, if we stayed apart.”
Elsie shook her head, looking adorably sad. “It wasn’t at all easy.”
“I do know that now,” Alexander said on a small laugh. “I don’t know what I shall do when you are lost to me forever.”
“Let’s not think of it,” Elsie said, gripping him even tighter and laying her head against his chest. “I can hear your heartbeat,” she whispered.
Alexander kissed her hair, breathing in slowly so that he might remember her warm scent.
“I don’t think I can bear being with another man.”
“Don’t speak of it. Please don’t.”
She lifted her head again, her eyes filled with anguish. “I want to know what it’s like to be with a man I love. I want to carry the memory of it with me. If I only have that, I can bear it. I can close my eyes and think of you.”
“God, Elsie,” he said, pushing her away. “Stop.”
“I cannot help it. I want to make love to you, Alexander.”
He looked down at her earnest face and was sorely tempted to drag her into the cottage and do as she asked. But he feared loving her would only make their parting even more unbearable, not to mention it was simply wrong.
“Do you really think I’m the sort of man who would cuckold his own brother?” he asked gently, tipping her chin up with his forefinger.
She dropped her gaze and bit her lower lip. And when she looked back up at him, he saw a glimmer of mischievousness in her gaze. “I
was
hoping.”
He couldn’t stop the chuckle that erupted from his throat. “It would be wrong.”
“It would be wonderful,” she said, and he could not argue. “I love you Alexander, and I want to show you in every way. Please.”
She grabbed his hand and started tugging him from the door. “You mean now?”
“Absolutely. If I give you a chance to get away, you’ll surely come to your senses.”
“I’ve already come to my senses,” he said, even as he let her lead him away. He was no saint, and the woman he loved, who would soon be lost to him forever, wanted to make love. He could not and would not say no.
The two hurried across the dew-filled grass, two shadows beneath a sky lit dimly by a half moon. She brought him into the ballroom and secreted him up a set of stairs, to the second floor of the manor.
She stopped outside one door and turned to him. “It’s a guest room and hasn’t been used since before my mother died. No one shall discover us.” With that, she slipped into the room, and, God help him, he followed.
“Are you certain of this?” he asked.
“Yes.” No hesitation, no uncertainty. “Are you?”
“No,” he said with a tinge of exasperation. “I fear I shall regret this. I fear
we
shall regret this. I fear ...” He stopped and swallowed. “I fear. I fear everything.”
She smiled at him, as if a smile could wipe away the sort of man he was. “Then stop.”
“Stop?” he asked, bewildered.
“Stop and kiss me.”
If there was a glimmer of resolve left in him, at that moment it was swept away. How could he not kiss her, with her face uptilted, her mouth slightly open, her eyes beseeching him? And so he kissed her, feeling the softness of her lips against his, her sigh of pure joy. He moved his mouth, slanting his head, and she matched him with unpracticed enthusiasm, letting out a sound that went straight to his groin. God, he wanted this, he wanted to feel her against him, he wanted to sink into her slick heat, he wanted to taste her skin, to make her moan, to make her come. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, loving her taste, the way she matched his strokes, the way she pressed against him and moaned when she felt his erection.
“I think we should undress,” she said, backing away. The window let in little light, only the cold gray of a half moon that left a weak rectangle of light on the carpeted floor. She turned her back and looked over her shoulder. “You need to unbutton me,” she said so matter-of-factly, he laughed.
“As you wish, Mademoiselle.” His fingers shook as he undid them one by one, revealing more of her to him. When he reached past her small waist, he pulled the gown down over her shoulders and placed his mouth on that perfect spot where her neck gently curved to her shoulder. She let out a sound of pleasure and he brought his hands to her front, cupping her breasts, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
“So soft,” he murmured, kissing her exposed skin.
Elsie turned around and pulled off her dress and well-starched petticoats, the great mass of material falling to the floor with a rather loud rustling sound that made her giggle. In a matter of minutes, she’d loosened her corset laces and stood standing before Alexander wearing only her chemise, silk stockings, and pantalets.
“I am always amazed at how many layers of clothing women insist on wearing even in the middle of summer,” Alexander said. She looked delectable, the white of her underclothes seeming to glow even in the dim moonlight. She looked down, shy and awkward, as if, along with stripping her clothing she’d also stripped away any confidence she’d had. “I think I can handle the rest,” he said, his voice low.
Elsie looked back at the large bed behind her, a thrill going through her stomach. She felt strangely alive, her body sensitive to the barest touch. Even his breath upon her skin made her shiver with anticipation. This was right, she told herself. And even if it wasn’t, she refused to care. All her life she’d done what was expected of her, and now, for this brief moment of time, she was being utterly selfish. She would spend the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love to protect her family. For this one time in her life, she would do something just for herself.
Behind her she could hear Alexander removing his clothes—the thump of his boots, the sound of his braces snapping off his shoulders, the starched collar and cuffs being put aside, his trousers being pulled down. She closed her eyes and smiled. The man she loved was undressing and they were about to make love. Her eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears, and she shook her head at her silly emotions.
She turned suddenly, and stared. He was completely nude, and her quick turn startled him into stillness. He was gloriously masculine, and even in the moonlight she could tell he had a fine form. “You’re naked,” she said unnecessarily.
“And you are not.”
She giggled nervously. She never giggled and here she was doing it again and again. She must stop, for it was annoying even to her own ears. That thought made her giggle again. “I’m quite nervous,” she admitted, and turned toward the bed.
This was a little used guest room. The furniture was shrouded with covers to protect it from dust and to make preparing the room for unexpected guests a simple job for the servants. Alexander walked to the bed and removed the protective covering, revealing a rich, embroidered satin coverlet whose color was impossible to discern in the dim light. He neatly folded the cover and pulled back the coverlet, laying the folded cloth neatly on the bed, before letting out an audible sigh.
“What is wrong?”
“I have never been with an innocent girl,” he said. “I have heard there is blood. And pain.” He let out another breath. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It hurts?” she let out on a squeak. Her mother had died before she’d been able to talk to Elsie about what happens in the marriage bed, and she’d assumed her aunt would give her “the talk” before she got married to Lord Hathwaite.
“Well, you won’t die of it. I don’t think,” Alexander said, clearly teasing. “Come here.”
Elsie walked to him, her shyness growing with each step. He was, after all, completely nude, while she still had on a considerable amount of clothing.
“Give me your hand.”
She held her hand up and he grasped it, his own large and warm and immensely comforting. Then he laid her hand on his chest and she could feel his heart beating madly in his chest. Elsie smiled up at him, her love expanding so suddenly, it was all she could do to stay firmly on the ground and not fly up to the moon in complete joy. He let out a shaky breath, and pulled her hand down so she could feel the taut ridges of his torso, and then, the completely foreign appendage that made him so completely male.
“Oh,” she said, and pulled her hand back. He gently placed her hand around him, thick and hard and hot, and he hissed out a breath. How odd, she thought, letting her hand explore the velvety length. She’d never given much thought to a man’s parts, what it felt like, what would happen should she touch it. Certainly, she’d never thought the men around her were hiding such large things in their pants. That thought almost made her giggle again. Now, she was overcome with curiosity, and she let her fingers move along his length, not realizing that he’d stopped breathing, that his fists were clenched by his sides as if he were in agony.
“It’s hard. And rather larger than I imagined,” she said thoughtfully.
“It is not usually so hard. This is what happens to a man when he desires a woman,” he said through gritted teeth.
“And you like it when a woman touches you?”
“When
you
touch me it is exquisite torture,” he said, then nudged her hand away with a groan. He pulled her up for a long, drugging kiss, his hands on her round bottom, pressing her up and against his hard member. She could feel heat and liquid pool between her legs, and the beginning of what she knew was sharp arousal. Unknowingly, she began moving her hips and discovered unexpected pleasure in the movement. Her hands lay against his lightly-furred chest, then snaked up behind his neck to pull him close. She could not get enough, no matter how deeply she kissed him, no matter how she moved against him. She needed something more, something she instinctively knew Alexander could give her.
Suddenly, he lifted her and placed her on the bed, never breaking their kisses, never stopping his caresses. He pulled back only long enough to tug at the ribbon on her chemise, pushing it down to reveal her breasts to his burning gaze. With a low, soft sound, he kissed one nipple, already pebbling in the cool night air. And then, he sucked, gently, sending such an expected shard of pleasure between her legs, she cried out. With a male sound of satisfaction, he moved to the other breast, laving his tongue against her taut flesh, drawing her into his mouth, making her hips move of their own accord. She could feel him move against her, pushing his arousal against her hip in a provocative rhythm that instinctively matched her own movements.
He pulled back, his breath harsh, and she let out a small sound of dismay. She never wanted this to end. Never.
“You are a miracle,” he said, kissing her mouth again and again, as if she were a drug and he could not get enough.
“And you, sir, are very practiced,” Elsie said with mock anger.
She could tell he smiled down at her as if pleased with her comment instead of shamed by it.
“I want to please you, Elsie,” he said with endearing earnestness.
“You do please me.”
“No. I want to make you feel intense pleasure, but you must trust me.”
Elsie grew alarmed at his seriousness. “Trust you with what?”
“Your body.” He moved his hand to her pantalets and found the slit and her most private place. Elsie stiffened, but he kissed her and stilled his hand. And when he moved it again, he let out a groan of satisfaction that Elsie didn’t understand. “You are so wet, my love.”