Chapter 22

 

“You specialize in lovely houses.” Charlotte stepped through the door of the Leicestershire house, and felt the cool peace. This house was older than the villa by the Thames, built in the last century, but again of a comfortable size rather than palatial. After her childhood spent in houses where she could go for days without seeing anyone but her governess and the nurserymaid, she preferred this. She would never subject a child of hers to that upbringing.

Not that she seemed likely to have any children. Her courses had come and gone since the last time she’d allowed her husband to make love to her, and still he hadn’t touched her. Of course, he had his own recovery to make. By mutual consent they had carried on as they were, neither forcing the issue, until he declared his intention of taking her to his other house.

They had traveled up here in comfort, but occupied separate rooms at the inns where they’d stayed. In a month they would set out for Haxby Hall, the family seat of the Shaws, for the summer gathering of the family, but for the rest of June and the beginning of July they were together, husband and wife.

Charlotte felt more like Val’s sister than his wife. He had treated her with the utmost courtesy, but it was as if his shield were greater than hers. She wanted to reach out to him, but she didn’t know how, and every day that passed she felt more distant from him. She had tried so hard, and now she could allow her maid to dress her hair and lace her into her stays. That was progress.

Were the all-too-few nights they’d spent in the villa by the Thames all that there was for them? As he’d told her, there was no great pressure for him to set up his nursery, so there was no reason for them to share a bed ever again.

She still shook with fear when someone touched her. She could control it better if she initiated the touch. As she did now, when he held out his arm and she laid her hand on his sleeve. Even now he hadn’t offered his bare hand to her. She wanted to try it, but she was deathly afraid that this time he would reject her.

“Wait,” he’d told her after the first day’s journey. Now they’d arrived in Leicestershire, the lovely county of lush green fields and flocks of sheep, timber-framed cottages and elegant manor houses, of which this was one.

The domestic staff gathered in the hall, and Val introduced them with a disarming charm she had discovered he could switch on and off at will. Like his town finery, which he’d discarded for simpler country wear. Val was always on point. She couldn’t imagine him ever inappropriately dressed. He’d even worn the right outfit in court. At the memory of that horrible day, both the best and the worst in her life, she shuddered.

Immediately Val turned to her, his face a picture of concern. “What is it, my love?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all.” She forced a smile of reassurance. “I cannot wait to see the house.”

“Wouldn’t you like tea first?”

“Not at all. Afterward, I would love it.” She nodded to the housekeeper. “In the sunniest room, please, Mrs. Baker.”

Mrs. Baker, a homely woman with an almost perfectly round face, smiled, curtsied, and led the kitchen maids back downstairs.

Val took her on the tour. If not for the circumstances, she would love this house. It was set perfectly in a modest estate, and the furnishings were neat, but not showy. Charlotte was discovering she preferred that kind. “I hate the old solid way my father prefers, but I am not too fond of the French way of gilding everything, either,” she said. “I had no idea I had any taste at all, since everything was selected for me.”

“Even your clothes?”

She paused. “Well, I chose them, but if my father disapproved, he’d have them sent back. So in effect, he ruled there, too. The gown from Cerisot was the first I had chosen for myself. I enjoyed that. Does that make me completely frivolous?”

When she turned to him, he was close enough to kiss. She could see desire in his eyes, the widened pupils with their rim of bright blue, the way his mouth tightened a tiny bit and his lips reddened. He moved toward her but then jerked back, as if remembering he could not. “You have many years of frivolity to make up for, and I’m just the man to show you.” But the words sounded wrong, as if he’d been about to say something else.

Never one to shirk an issue, she said, “Val, what are we to do?”

“You mustn’t worry.”

“I worry all the time. I can’t do it, Val. I can’t let you touch me. I’ve tried, but it’s as if that part of me is locked away.” Finding a nearby window seat, she made use of it, sparing a glance at the pretty garden below. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves on the rosebushes. At least her enjoyment of gardens had not disappeared.

He sat down next to her, and where he would once have taken her hands, he laid them on his thighs. “I know.” He followed her glance. “Would you like me to sell it?”

At the thought of the house where she had known happiness for the first time in her life, she shook her head. “I will not allow him to taint my memories of that place. I would like to go there again.”

“I have ordered the pavilion in the Thames-side house torn down. We’ll restructure that part of the garden, or we can rearrange it completely.”

“Yes, that would be for the best.” She liked that idea, so the place where Hervey had died would be completely obliterated. “He was a terrible person, wasn’t he?”

Val nodded. “Overindulged as a child and taught to believe that everything he wanted was right. By his father, I understand, not his mother, which was why she fled.”

“Then why would she support him at the trial?”

The shoulders of his brown country coat moved in a shrug. “Loyalty, or perhaps she loved him but couldn’t live with him. That’s not unknown. I do not know. I didn’t ask.”

Stricken, she clenched her fist into folds of yellow silk. “Will that happen to us?”

“No, never.” He closed his eyes, sitting very still. When he opened them again, his eyes were clear once more. “I have a plan. Are you brave enough to try it?”

“Yes.” She paused, recalling Val’s reputation. “That is, if it’s not dangerous.”

“Everything in life worth having carries a little danger with it. Will you try?”

She nodded. If he could find them a way out of this torture, she would take it.

Looking at him every day, longing to touch him, to love him as she had so briefly and being unable to do so was killing her. If she touched him, he would want to touch her back, but when anyone did so, visions of blood and death and the utter blackness descended on her, having its inevitable result.

“I thought it would wear off, but so far I cannot bear to be touched. I’m so sorry.”

“You think it’s your fault?” His voice rose as if he were angry. “No, love, it’s not. It is an obstacle we will overcome. If we don’t win tonight, we will do so another day. Believe it.”

She dared do nothing else. His express was so fierce she would have believed anything he said.

“Take off your ring,” he said abruptly. “Read what’s inside.”

Her attention went to her hands. She only wore her wedding ring. She slid it off. The plain gold band gleamed in the sunshine, but she noticed writing inside. “What is this?” She held it to the light and slowly read, “Cert a Mon Gre.” Sliding it back on her finger, she shook her head. “What does that mean? It’s French, and it’s something like ‘certainly my…’”

“It’s old French. It’s a medieval posy ring, and it’s been in the family since the first earl gave it to his countess.”

“Shouldn’t it go to the heir?”

Val shook his head. “They have their own troth ring. This is ours. It means ‘Certainly my will,’ or ‘For sure my choice.’ I mean it, Charlotte. If I had not, I’d have not used the ring without telling you. It’s a very quiet, very personal pledge. My parents’ marriage was arranged, so at the time he chose not to give her the ring. Otherwise my mother would have it.”

“I thought they were devoted.”

His smile disappeared. “They are, now, but it was not always that way. They fought for their love. Just as we will.” He glanced around at the pretty room. “This house has a romantic history. Perhaps we can add to it. I bought it a few years ago, but it was built for a minor mistress of Henry the Eighth. She fell in love with a local man, and they had to hide their love for two years, until the king met the Boleyn sisters and lost interest in her. Her love had to watch her with their monarch or lose his head. They waited, and when the king tired of her, she married the man she loved. They lived long and happy lives and never went to court again.”

“That is lovely.” Leaning forward, she lifted her hand, as if to touch him.

Val froze and watched her, but said nothing. She hovered her fingers over his hand, waiting for the profound shock that accompanied even this much proximity.

It came, but it was muted. She could control it. She grazed her fingers against his skin, not sure if she was actually touching him or not, but snatched them back.

He had not moved. “You can trust me,” he said. “If this is what it takes, we will do it.”

“Was that your plan?”

He shook his head, smiling. “No. Wait until later, my love.”

She leaned back into her corner of the window seat, glad he could smile. “Thank you for bringing me here, and thank you for marrying me.” She shook her head. “I asked you to release me. I was foolish.”

“You were duped. Anyone can be duped. Your father wanted you to give yourself to Kellett, so nobody was to blame but yourself. At least, in his perverted way of thinking, that was what he’d planned. But that is done with, over.”

“Yes it is.” She drew back, marveling at what she had just discovered. If she gave herself time, worked through the initial shock of touching, she could prolong it. The feeling faded, and the visions of horror went away. Perhaps, with a little determination, she could do this.

She could place exactly when the horrors began to diminish, but before, with the trial and its aftermath, the bustle of London and the constant visitors coming to the house to see them, she had not had time to let her mind and body settle.

The moment was when Mr. Fielding had said, “Acquitted.”

* * * *

Charlotte let the tranquility of this place sink into her bones. As she went through the rest of the day, exploring her new domain, the garden, and afterward ate dinner with her husband, her body unwound like a clock does as the day passed.

Val had taken care of her at every turn, even in gaol. He’d made his will the day before the trial. Whether her father provided her portion or not, whether he’d been condemned or not, she’d be a wealthy woman, able to make her own decisions. The thought of that fate made chills run through her, even on this warm day.

She would not have allowed it to happen. If the verdict had gone the wrong way, she’d intended to stand up in court and claim that she shot Kellett, that she had aimed for that despicable man.

After dinner, they read and chatted in the drawing room, and Val played a new air on the harpsichord, laughing when he realized it had not been tuned recently and turning the melody into a discordant jangle, pretending to sing along to it. Val had a pleasant baritone singing voice, but he turned it harsh for her, making her laugh more than she had done since—she didn’t think she had ever laughed that much.

They had separate adjoining rooms. With a simple turn of the knob on the connecting door she could be in his chamber. Hers was hung in blue silk, with similar drapery around the bed, a charming place to sleep. But she would sleep here alone and yearn for him.

She changed into her best night rail made of fine linen and lace, with a delicate wrapper of pale blue silk over the top. She’d refused to let her maid put her hair in its usual braids, but brushed it out, dismissing the woman to do it herself. She was sitting at the dressing table, brushing her hair when she heard the communicating door open.

She kept her strokes steady until she found the brush being taken from her. Even then he was careful not to touch her hand. She let it go, and he took over.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. When she didn’t, he said, “Do you trust me?”

Of course she did.

His strokes were smooth, a little firmer than hers. Opening her eyes, she met his gaze in the mirror. He was smiling, the kind of open, happy smile she remembered from before his trial.

He raised a brow. “How is it?”

She swallowed. He was touching her. Yes, he had a brush in his hand, and he was doing what she could now allow her maid to do. As she watched, her tension rose, but not so much that she could not quell it. This was a beginning.

His robe was black with dull gold figuring tonight, more somber than his usual choice of bright colors. It seemed appropriate. “Sweetheart, I want more. I want us back where we were, but I know that will take time.”

Before he masked it, she read the desperation in his eyes. She had not realized how much her reaction to him was pushing him toward the brink, but now she did. She felt sick, but also determined to put an end to this state of affairs. “We don’t have to live in the same house. Would you be more content if we parted for a while?” That might kill her. Her spirit, her heart, everything about her that mattered would shrivel and die.

Her father had taught her how to hold herself up when she was dying inside and that to face a problem was better than to avoid it. “I want to try. If I cannot do this, I don’t deserve you.” He had stood trial for her, offered his life for hers. The least she could do was give him his life back.

“You deserve it all.” Quietly, he put the brush down and stood behind her, his hands on the back of her chair.

Still she did not turn around. Speaking like this, so close and yet separated by the mirror, gave her the confidence to say what she needed to. “I don’t.” She caught her breath on a sob, refusing to allow it to break free. “I deserve nothing, because I have earned nothing. Please, I want to try making love. Tonight.”

“But I can’t touch you when you react the way you do. It destroys my spirit.” The words, spoken so softly, with such sincerity, broke her heart. “I do have an idea, but we will both have to take courage.”

She meant what she said. If she could not manage to resume relations with him, she would leave and let him take his own path in life. So she had no choice, none at all. “Yes.” She didn’t need to think about her decision.

“Very well.”

He walked to the bed. Dipping in his pocket, he came out with a sharp knife and four long strips of cloth. Neckcloths, if she was any judge. He dropped them on the nightstand. Then he stripped off the black and gold robe. He was naked beneath.

His glorious buttocks tensed as he bent and climbed on to the bed, sitting in the middle. Taking one cloth, he bound it around his wrist and used his other hand and his teeth to make a tight knot. He did the same with his other wrist, and then he sat up and mirrored his actions with his ankles, so he had a length of white cloth suspended from each of his limbs.

Sitting up, he nodded. “Come here, sweetheart. Tie me to the bed.”

The words were stark, her reaction the same. “What are you talking about?”

“I learned a few things in the House of Correction, and by talking to people afterward.” He sat up and scanned her thinly clad body.

Her tension rose, but this time it was a good tension. She wanted that hunger, to see it more and to stoke it. His lean, muscled form tempted her beyond bearing, warring with the now-familiar terror that threatened to freeze her limbs.

When she rose from her chair, she stripped off her robe and draped it over the back of the chair.

He groaned. “No more. I can see the shape of you beneath that gown, and the adorable cluster of curls decorating your mound.”

Heat rushed over her face, but she didn’t try to hide herself. “What did you learn?” She went to the side of the bed and picked up the first binding, bringing it to the bedpost. Step by step, that was how she’d take this.

“That control is a stimulating addition to intimacy for many. Giving up that control to another person can prove immensely arousing. I am giving my control up to you.”

She walked to the bottom of the bed and secured his ankle. The neckcloths gave enough length that he could lie on the bed, and although he had to stretch out, he was not put under too much tension. But he would not be able to move. He was giving her even that much power, and his trust humbled her.

“You may leave me here, if you wish.” He smiled. “I am trusting you not to, but if you wish, you have the power to do it. Tie the knots tightly, use the knife if you need to release me. Like this, you can touch me all you want to, without the fear of me reciprocating.” His voice shook. “I want you badly, Charlotte.”

By the time she had knotted the fourth strip of linen around the sturdy bedpost, he was erect, his shaft red and straining. As she stared at it, a bead of clear moisture glistened at the tip and she was taken by a strange urge.

Leaning forward with one knee on the bed, she swiped the liquid on her finger and tasted it, closing her eyes to savor it. It tasted of salt and musky male, concentrated Val. At his groan, she opened her eyes. “You look blissful.”

“It’s good.”

Emboldened by his helplessness, she climbed on to the bed and studied him. Longing to touch and taste overwhelmed her. Still in the thrall of need, she took his shaft in her hand. The pulse in it throbbed, each one a heartbeat. She caught her breath, and when a chill crept over her soul, she fought it down, letting her desire for him help her. Her body was at war with itself, two strong emotions, unreasoning terror and powerful need battling for control.

Forcing control, she studied his erection—the large central vein, the hair-covered balls at the base, the sac tight now with their weight. She traced her finger over the shiny head, unable to resist testing its heat and silky strength. He gasped and flinched, his rod moving in response.

Her attention went briefly to his face. He looked as if he were in pain, his lips drawn back over his teeth, his head thrown back. His dark hair was spread over the pillow, wild as his expression. She drank in the sight.

Lowering his chin, he met her eyes. They shared an unspoken lingering regard before she went back to work. Closing her eyes, imagining he was a dish to be savored, she licked him, exploring the delicate dimple at the center with the tip of her tongue and tracing the flanged head, learning its shape. She cupped his balls, cradling them in her hand. The living example of the images she had seen in marble statues fascinated her.

She would have remained there forever, but she wanted more. Touching him still gave her a shock, but it was nothing she could not control. Not like when he came into contact with her. She could explore and push away all visions she didn’t want.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “Think about what you’re doing, savor the pleasure.”

As she traced one finger over the groove from his hip to his groin, she concentrated on the smooth skin under her fingers, and the soft hair surrounding his most intimate parts.

Her own intimate parts were unashamedly wet. She rubbed her thighs together, trying to bring herself some relief.

Every time she stroked him he gave her a response, either a gasp and a cry or a murmured purr of pleasure. She learned how she could drive him mad and how she could pet him to please him. To have such power under her hands excited her, but to have him helpless increased her enjoyment.

“I can touch you,” she said in wonder.

“You can. Stop whenever you wish.” His voice tightened.

She knew without him explaining it that stopping would torture him. The barrier between her and the rest of the world had thinned. She could almost reach out and punch through it. But not quite.

“Let it go,” he murmured. “Don’t think about it. Let’s take what we have.”

He was articulating her thoughts again. He was doing that a lot recently. But it was good advice.

Slowly, Charlotte moved up his body, discovering that when she brushed her nipples against his skin, they both received pleasure.

“Bring them here,” he said. “Let me suck them.”

A mixture of delight and embarrassment set up a strange feeling; pleasure and guilt made for a potent mixture. Propping herself at either side of his head, her legs either side of his, she gazed at him. His eyes were almost black, his lips open, waiting for her.

He pulled and sucked at her breast when she dipped and let him reach it. His erection pressed into her stomach, but she didn’t want it there, so she lifted and let it nestle between her legs, nuzzling the moistness at her center with an eagerness that matched her own. Touching, using her fingers hurt the most, she discovered. So she would use other parts of her body.

He let the nipple leave his mouth with a pop, and she presented the other one, eagerness pushing aside her pain. Tingles swept over her body, pushing her higher and driving her from want into need. She needed him, and she had the means to fulfill that.

Wriggling, she made the adjustment that brought them into alignment. He bit and sucked her breast, his movements more frantic as she tried an experimental push. His erection slid past her opening. She would have to do something different.

Desperation seized her. She wanted him so much she could not bear any further separation. Desire roared through her, urging her to do more.

He kissed around her nipple and drew back, gazing into her eyes. “Sit up. You can control it better that way.” His voice was ragged. “I want you so much, sweetheart. Take me.”

His words emboldened her. Watching him, she drew her knees up to hug his sides and then sat up. She glanced down to see his shaft harder, if it was possible, than when she’d kissed him there. She wanted to do that again, but she needed more. Lifting on to her knees, she took him in her hand and guided him to where she wanted him. His gaze went from her face to her groin as she pushed and took him inside her.

They both groaned. Easy as silk, she slid down on him until he was fully embedded inside her. The intimacy widened her eyes, made her gasp. But they had never done this before, never made love this way. The newness of the experience helped her. They were creating fresh memories that had nothing to do with anything that had gone before.

He sucked in a breath, his chest heaving. “Move.”

Leaning down, pressing her hands against the mattress either side of his big body, she raised herself and slid down on to him again. He held rigid for her, providing the resistance she needed when she plunged down on him.

He cried her name and dragged a breath in noisily as if he found the task difficult. Urging her on with his voice and his body, he sent her mindless. She wanted him, and nothing else mattered. Nobody else existed. They collided in a rhythm that became instinctive as hers rippled with sensation. Pursuing the goal, she quickened her pace and heard him laugh. She joined in, for the sheer joy of it. She was laughing when she came, right until the laugh became a long drawn-out scream.

The glass screen shattered. She was back, and alive.

* * * *

Charlotte woke up with a bird shrieking the dawn chorus outside the bedroom window.

“We need to work on your knots,” he murmured sleepily to her and kissed the top of her head.

She snuggled in to her husband, enclosed in his arms, and it didn’t hurt a bit.