Chapter Fifteen
It had worked. She was naked with Avery in his bedchamber, all that remained was for them to be discovered and she had done what she could to ensure that. Now she had to deliver what she had promised and her courage was failing her for so many reasons.
He looked so like Piers and yet so different, so unsettlingly different. This was no idealistic, lovestruck youth, still growing into his body and his confidence. This was a man, self-assured, experienced and physically in his prime. And the overwhelming masculinity and sexuality he exuded shook her own poise. She desired him, he, very obviously, desired her, but it was six years since she had lain with a man. Could she entrance him sufficiently that he allowed her to stay the night, that he became careless of discovery?
She was acting out of calculation, acting against every instinct except the one that propelled her towards Alice. And yet she could not hate this man. She still could not find it in her to forgive him taking Alice, sending Piers back to war, but in everything else she desired and liked him. I love him, she realised, her breath taken by the realisation. I love him and I am going to betray him.
The only way she could go on was by drugging herself with lovemaking. Laura reached out and laid her palms on his chest, curled her fingers and raked down, lightly scoring. Avery closed his eyes and growled, deep in his throat, but he did not move as her hands moved downwards, winnowed through the coarse curls on his chest, circled his navel. She felt the skin tighten under her fingertips and she stayed still, deliberately tormenting him. Who would break first?
To her amazement he did. ‘Touch me,’ he ground out and opened his eyes, green and intense.
So she did, not tentative and not gentle, taking him in a bold grasp, stroking hard from tip to root and back. ‘Like that?’
‘Like that,’ he agreed and lifted her, both hands under her buttocks, and pushed her back onto the bed so her legs dangled over the side as her shoulders hit the mattress. It was outrageously arousing after the memory of Piers’s tentative, gentle caresses. Heat flashed through her and when he stroked between her thighs with arrogant possession she knew she was already wet for him.
‘Now,’ she gasped and reached for his shoulders as he bent over her, his feet planted on the floor, the high bed presenting her wantonly to him. Her conscience stirred and she blanked her mind to it the only way she knew how. ‘Now. Avery.’
He did not hesitate. One thrust and he entered her, filled her, shocked her into startled awareness of him, only him. Avery froze, poised over her, deep within her. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No.’ He had not, only overpowered her with his size and his certainty. ‘I am not sure I can move, though.’
‘Curl your legs around my hips,’ he prompted and, as she obeyed, ignoring the stab of pain from her ankle, the pressure eased. ‘Ah.’
Avery began to move slowly, his arms braced either side of her, his eyes never leaving her face as though he was reading her thoughts, her soul. It did not occur to Laura to close her eyes and escape that gaze as he remorselessly drove her higher and higher, tighter and tighter until she began to writhe and sob beneath him, begging for release. He shifted the angle and growled, ‘Come for me’, and she did, shockingly, suddenly.
When she surfaced out of the darkness and back to herself Avery was still moving within her, but he had shifted again, brought her up with him to lie on the bed. ‘Again,’ he ordered.
‘I...I can’t.’
In answer he bent his head to her breast, kissing, licking, nipping while she reached helplessly to caress the autumn-leaf hair, threading her fingers through the springing strength of it, holding him to her. The careful, sliding penetration had changed into a demanding rhythm that built the need back up in her, hot and swirling and tight almost to the point of pain.
‘Avery.’ And she was lost again. This time she heard him gasp, felt him go rigid and then withdraw before the swirling light and dark left her with nothing but the awareness of her own body, her own disintegration.
She came to herself to find him cleaning her with a cloth and cool water from the washstand. It was a curiously tender gesture from him. Laura realised she would not have been surprised if, having done with her, he had put her from the bed and left her to her own devices. As I deserve. Finally I have earned my reputation.
He had better manners than that, Laura concluded. She should be shy, ashamed even, to lie there naked amidst the tumbled sheets while a man showed her these intimate attentions, but she was too sated with satisfied desire to move. I love him and he has made love to me as I never could have imagined. Oh, Avery, I love you so much. Could she tell him, risk everything, admit what she had done and why? Would it convince him of her desperate need for Alice or would it simply disgust him? He will never believe me if I admit how I feel. She had done this all wrong, she realised. She should have told him she loved him, told him she trusted him with Alice. She should have loved both of them enough to risk letting them go.
And now she had to stay here, stay in this bed or this, this beautiful, stupid, wicked mistake, would have been in vain. She had chosen the wrong path, but now she had to follow it to its end.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured as Avery tossed aside cloth and towel. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘Come back to bed.’
‘You can hardly keep your eyes open,’ he said, his own heavy-lidded gaze resting on her face.
‘We can sleep a little and then later...’ Laura let her voice trail off as she held out her hands to him. She did not have to act. Avery smiled and slid down beside her, pulled the covers over them both and settled her against his side, her head on his shoulder. It felt so good to be held by a man again, to be held by this man. His skin was salty and musky with their lovemaking, warm and soft over hard-strapped muscle. She wriggled closer and tried to turn a deaf ear to her conscience. It is too late. Too late to go back, too late to say I love you. Too late for trust.
Laura closed her eyes and finally slept.
* * *
They had woken twice during the night and reached for each other without words. Laura woke for the third time to the delicious drift of kisses across her stomach, then lower. Light was streaming through the open curtains, early morning light that showed her Avery’s broad shoulders and the top of his head as he eased himself between her wantonly spread thighs.
‘Avery?’ She had heard of this, but Piers had never touched her in that way. Avery silenced her with a kiss so deep, so intimate that her whole body arched off the bed. His hands held her ruthlessly while his lips and tongue and teeth destroyed every last inhibition she had. Her hands were fisted in the sheets, her breath was sobbing from her lungs and her voice was hoarse with pleading, but he was implacable. Laura convulsed, shaking and ecstatic, her blood thundering in her ears.
Then Avery cursed savagely and she realised the noise was not her blood pounding, but knocking on the door and an agitated female voice. Avery threw a sheet over her and twisted one around his waist as the door she had persuaded him to leave unlocked flew open to reveal Lady Birtwell, Mab and the indistinct shapes of other figures in the corridor behind.
Lady Birtwell slammed the door behind her, leaving everyone else outside. ‘Avery Falconer, how could you?’ she demanded, brandishing something at the bed, the evening slipper Laura had managed to drop from her foot the night before as Avery opened the bedchamber door. Her plan had worked and now she felt sick with nerves and self-reproach. Alice, think of Alice.
‘And Laura Campion, I am shocked and disappointed. Thank heavens your poor mother is not alive to hear of this. Well?’ She turned her furious gaze on her godson. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’
‘Who knows of this?’ he asked coolly. Laura, close to him, could see the tension in his jaw, the clenched fist on his thigh, but his voice betrayed nothing but bored enquiry.
‘Who knows? The entire dratted household, I should imagine!’ Lady Birtwell snapped. ‘Lady Amelia found the slipper when she was on her way to Miss Gladman’s room to borrow something and she brought it to me immediately, which was very proper of her, for, as she said, something must have happened to you if you were wandering about with only one shoe.’ She glared at them both. ‘Well, Falconer? What are you going to do about it?’
‘I can do little about the fact that Lady Amelia is a prurient little busybody,’ Avery drawled. ‘My immediate plans are to get dressed and have breakfast.’
The infuriated dowager raised both hands heavenwards as if in supplication for more strength. ‘What are you going to do about Lady Laura?’
Avery swivelled round to look at Laura, as unconcerned by his near-naked state as some pasha disturbed in his harem, she thought with unreasonable resentment. The irritation helped her meet his green eyes with some semblance of calm while she waited for the outburst. ‘Why, marry her, of course,’ Avery said calmly.
‘Thank merciful Providence for that.’ Lady Birtwell did not sound very thankful. She opened the door a crack, hissed an order and Mab sidled into the room. ‘Take your mistress in there.’ Lady Birtwell gestured towards the dressing room. ‘Get her clothed while I make sure no one else is still wandering about.’ She went out, closing the door behind her with a decided snap.
Laura swathed the sheet around herself, slid off the bed without looking at Avery and hobbled painfully after Mab, who had been gathering up scattered garments. The maid closed the dressing-room door and leaned against it. ‘What were you thinking of?’ she demanded.
‘Getting Alice. It worked,’ Laura said, pulling on her petticoat. If she sounded confident and pleased, then perhaps she could convince everyone else that was how she felt. It was a pity she could not convince herself. For one night she had known how it felt to be loved by the man she was in love with. Now, although she would lie with him for the duration of their marriage she had forfeited the right ever to tell him how she felt, ever to expect his love in return. ‘Stop lecturing and fasten my corset.’
‘But the scandal!’ Mab jerked the strings tight and shook out the chemise.
‘Lady Birtwell will squash it and he will marry me. I will be Alice’s mama-in-law.’ She turned on her maid who was unrolling stockings. ‘What are you muttering about?’ she demanded and sat down to take the weight off her ankle. She must have twisted it again during the night for it was throbbing like the devil.
‘You are getting Alice, but you are also getting a husband who is going to hate you—and he didn’t care for you too much to start with!’ Mab knelt to roll on the stocking, tutting over Laura’s swollen ankle.
‘Avery will not show his feelings for Alice’s sake,’ Laura said, praying she was correct. ‘And I will make him a good wife.’ Somehow I must make amends.
‘He’ll not forgive you,’ Mab warned. ‘He’s a proud man used to having his own way, used to being in control. You’ve trapped him in a net of his own honour.’ She stood and began to stick pins into Laura’s tangled hair with emphatic force. ‘You’ve got a tiger by the tail, my girl. Let go and he’ll eat you alive.’
* * *
Avery waited until Laura had been bundled out of the room by her maid, waited until Darke put his head round the door and retreated, wary and silent, to fetch hot water, and then swore viciously and inventively until he ran out of words. When he looked down, the sheet between his hands was ripped across.
Thank heavens he had not asked her to marry him before she had revealed her true nature, not let her glimpse the feelings he had not been able to acknowledge to himself until those moments when he had held her in his arms and thought he had read truth and pain and some stirring of emotion for him as a man.
Now his questions had been answered. He could not trust her, she was as manipulative and deceitful as he had feared. She had told him yesterday evening as clearly as it was possible that the thing she wanted most in the word was the thing that had been stolen from her. Alice. Avery smiled, with a bitter kind of satisfaction. Laura thought she had trapped him, cock-led him into matrimony. All that had happened was that she had betrayed herself, armed him thoroughly against her future wiles. There was nothing she could negotiate with now and he had what he wanted, a mother for Alice whose devotion to the child was assured.
Darke eased himself in from the dressing room and cleared his throat. ‘Your shaving water is ready, my lord. Will you require me to shave you this morning or...?’
‘I will shave myself.’ Avery looked down at his clenched hands. ‘No, you do it, Darke.’
* * *
Twenty minutes later he sat back in the chair, chin raised while Darke negotiated the tricky sweep around his Adam’s apple, and resumed the outward calm that had seen him through one duel and numerous diplomatic crises. Laura Campion was just one more crisis to be dealt with.
‘My lord!’ Darke stepped back, the razor dangling from his hand. ‘My lord, I almost... I am so sorry, I do not know what came over me.’
‘My fault, I moved abruptly.’ Avery dabbed gingerly at his throat and regarded the bloodstained towel with a rueful smile. ‘I hope you can dress the cut or the guests are going to assume I would rather cut my own throat than wed.’
‘Hah, hah,’ Darke rejoined, clearly uncertain whether that was a jest or not. ‘I am sure no one could think such a thing. A very delightful young lady, if I may be so bold as to offer my congratulations, my lord.’
‘Yes, thank you, Darke.’ Avery sat back in the chair and allowed the nervous valet to complete the shave. Laura. He had thought himself armoured against her—it seemed his nerves were not as steady as he had thought.
* * *
Avery went down for breakfast with a dressing on his throat under his neckcloth and an expression of complete blandness on his face. The breakfast parlour was almost full of house guests all eating very, very slowly in the hope of catching the scandalous lovers when they came down.
He smiled amiably, returned mumbled Good mornings with studied calm and sat down. ‘Something of everything,’ he said to the footman. ‘And coffee.’
‘You have a good appetite this morning, Falconer,’ Simonson said and then blushed when two ladies giggled and several gentlemen cleared their throats noisily.
Avery regarded him steadily for a moment. ‘Indeed I have. This excellent country air, I imagine.’
Lady Birtwell entered and the men got to their feet as she cast a repressive glance around the table and announced, ‘The carriages will be at the front door at ten for morning service. For those who wish to walk, it takes twenty minutes and one of the footmen will direct you.’
From the expressions around the table it was obvious that the fact this was Sunday had escaped almost everyone, swept up in the delicious scandal bubbling in their midst. Avery accepted a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage and kidneys and made himself eat. He could not recall ever being so purely angry.
There had been fury mixed with grief and guilt over Piers’s death, he had been more than annoyed when he discovered Laura Campion in London and realised what she was doing, but now he was conscious of little else but a desire to shake her until her sharp white teeth rattled in her head. It did not help that some of the anger was directed against himself.
He made himself converse with his neighbours on topics that were suitable for a Sunday which, eliminating horse racing, royal scandal, the latest crim. con. cases in the courts and most plays, none of which would have been approved by their hostess, rather restricted discussion.
There was a desultory exchange underway about the death of an ancient royal cousin and whether court mourning would be decreed when the door opened and Laura came in, leaning heavily on the arm of one of the footmen. The gentlemen rose to their feet and then sat again when she took her place, reminding Avery of a flock of lapwings, alarmed at a passing hawk, rising off a ploughed field and then settling back.
‘Good morning,’ she said generally, then, ‘Tea and toast, please,’ to the footman.
‘You are very pale this morning, Lady Laura,’ Lady Amelia said with sweet smile. Avery regarded her with dislike. How the blazes had he thought this sharp-tongued cat might have made a suitable wife? Laura’s judgement had been quite correct.
‘My ankle is very painful,’ Laura said. ‘How kind of you to be so concerned.’
Avery almost smiled before he recalled how furious he was with her. The wretched woman looked, pallor aside, completely calm. Actress, he thought. No shame, not an iota.
The room had gone very quiet except for the scrape of knives on plates and the rattle of cups in saucers. The other guests did not appear to know where to look—at him, at Laura or at their plates. What did they expect—that he was going to fall to his knees at her side and ask for her hand? Well, he might as well give them something to twitter about.
‘With your injury I imagine you would wish to drive to church, Lady Laura.’
All eyes moved to her. ‘Certainly I will not be able to walk,’ she agreed and took a sip of tea. Over the rim of the cup her eyes met his, brown, unreadable. Last night he could have sworn he could see into her soul. Last night he had believed he could love what he would find there.
‘Then perhaps I may take you in my phaeton? It is not a high-perch one, so I imagine you will find it easy enough.’
‘How very kind, Lord Wykeham. That would be delightful.’
Not a blush, not a moment’s hesitation, the hussy. ‘Excellent. It will be at the door for ten.’ He would drive her to church and make only the most banal conversation. He would sit next to her in the pew and find the hymns for her. He would behave impeccably until her nerves were as tight as a catgut violin string and then he would drive her into the depths of the park and...settle this matter.