Letters to a Lover, page 13
“Then I think we are even,” Azalea said briskly, “since I fainted and panicked over you, and you faced the wrath of my husband.”
“You are so kind,” Darchett said humbly. “I can’t believe we were so vile as to treat you in such a way.”
“I would definitely eschew the brandy,” Trench drawled. “If not the company you keep.”
Azalea took his hand and rose to her feet. He did not release her while Darchett picked up his coat and shook it out.
“I hope there are no mud or grass stains,” Azalea said. Trench did not care.
“What is another scold from one’s valet? I would let him go if only I could afford to pay him.” Realizing, perhaps, that he was babbling, Darchett bit his lip and donned his coat. Then with a deep bow, he muttered, “Forgive me,” and marched away.
Chapter Thirteen
“Well,” Azalea said, taking her husband’s arm. “What do you make of that?”
“That at least he did not hurt you,” Eric said grimly. He paused, his eyes raking her once more. “Did he?”
She shook her head. “No. I do think he was just desperate to apologize.”
“In case you dropped a word to Miss Fenner, no doubt.”
“Perhaps that had at least something to do with it. But as soon as he took my arm, Eric, something frightened me. I did start to remember things. I remembered being in the garden with him, slapping his face for trying to touch me, even his ludicrous expression afterward.”
“But he implied you walked away as if you weren’t frightened, leaving him to slink away with his tail between his legs.”
“No, I wasn’t frightened then, and Darchett didn’t frighten me this afternoon. Something in my memory did.”
He placed his hand over hers on his arm and gripped. “What?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head with frustration. “I don’t know. I can’t remember that. But I can recall fragments of the evening now. Dancing, supper, walking with Darchett in an indulgent kind of way, then slapping him…and then it’s blank.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed. “Then you don’t remember if he came after you?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Come, shall we walk home, or will I send someone for a cab?”
“Oh, no, let’s go to the Exhibition. I feel fine now.” She smiled. “Actually, I feel wonderful because at least I’ve started to remember. I don’t feel that evening is lost forever. Dragan is right. I just need something to jolt my memory.”
“And rest,” Eric reminded her.
“Just for an hour,” she pleaded. “To show the world that I am well, and you did not feel it necessary to thrash Lord Darchett. Besides, I want to see this bed the children were talking about after you took them to the Exhibition. The one that’s attached to an alarm clock and actually throws you out of bed at the required time. And then I promise I will rest before the ball.”
He hesitated. “You will stay with me while we are in the Exhibition?”
“Yes.” God knew it would be no hardship. She wondered if he could sense her genuine pleasure. They began to walk toward the Crystal Palace once more. “Eric?”
“Yes?”
“As soon as you were there, as soon as I recognized your arms, I knew I was safe.”
“I should have been there when it mattered,” he said bitterly. “With you at the Roystons’ ball.”
In spite of all the people milling around them, she rested her head against his shoulder. “You are here now.”
*
The evening’s ball was a grand affair. Azalea’s parents, the duke and duchess, no longer attended such events, but a large part of her family was there, including the Monktons, Rosemary and Gordon, Horace, and Forsythe. And, Azalea was glad to see Griz and Dragan, looking carelessly beautiful and causing many heads to turn. Not that Griz would care about such attention, if she even noticed.
But it seemed she did. “Have I a smut on my nose or torn my gown?” she asked Azalea when she had caught up with her.
“No, my dear. You just look beautiful. And you are seen so little in Society that your presence is marked. Your hostess is preening.”
Griz looked startled. Then, being Griz, she reverted to the practical. “We need to have a conference. Do you suppose we can find a quiet spot here?”
“Of course,” Eric said. He had always been wise in the ways of secluded spaces at parties. “But not immediately. We have to dance a little first. Perhaps you would do me the honor, Lady Grizelda?”
“Thank you,” Griz said, with something like relief. She did not like dancing with strangers.
“Will people find it odd if we dance together, too?” Dragan asked Azalea.
One couldn’t always tell when he was joking. “Not unless you stand on my toes. Besides, I want to talk to you.”
“Then, please, dance with me,” he invited.
He was a good dancer, graceful like Eric, and he led well. If there was a little more drama to his waltz, well, he could be forgiven as a Hungarian.
“I started to remember things today,” she murmured and told him about the incident with Lord Darchett.
He listened carefully. “Then it was his touching you that set off both the memory and the sense of panic?”
“Yes, I think so. But I remembered that particular sense of panic. I felt it before when Gunning lunged at me, only not so badly.”
“Because Trench interrupted sooner?”
“Perhaps,” she admitted.
“But you do not appear panicked now,” he observed, moving his hand at her waist to show what he meant.
“Because dancing is different,” she said at once, then frowned. “Or because the man is.”
“Perhaps we should talk more about that later. Have you remembered any more since this afternoon?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It will come,” Dragan said comfortingly.
She hoped so, and yet… How horrible would the elusive memory be if it had already caused her to forget so much?
*
The ballroom opened onto a small terrace, from which narrow steps led down to an unlit patch of garden. Neither seemed ideal for a private discussion in ballgowns. So Trench found a small room next to the supper room, where some dishes were already being set out.
The smaller room was not lit for use, but Trench doubted his hosts would either notice or object if he lit one lamp and closed the door.
The four slipped away from the ballroom after the third dance of the evening, and when they were in Trench’s chosen room, he closed the door.
“I think Gunning is the blackmailer,” Azalea said, almost at once. “He could easily have been in Grosvenor Square on Friday evening, for he was not with Darchett at his club the whole time. He could have left and come back. He is the right size and shape. He bears a grudge against us, and he is short of money.”
“But we can’t rule out Fenner, either,” Trench pointed out.
“But why would he?” Azalea demanded. “What does he gain from it?”
Trench shrugged. “Trying to distract me, perhaps, from what he’s up to with my building projects.”
“But the blackmailer is assuming I will not tell you!”
“Well, I think that cat’s out of that bag since Grosvenor Square. Perhaps he doesn’t want you luring Darchett away from his daughter. After all, Darchett was paying you considerable attention at the Roystons’ ball. He had a wager with Gunning,” he flung at Griz and Dragan, “as to who could seduce my wife.”
“It would be pathetic if it weren’t so distasteful,” Azalea remarked. She eyed her sister and then Dragan. “You’re not saying much.”
“Trying to fit what you found out into what we did,” Griz replied.
“Oh, I had another thought,” Azalea said, “about the Royston children.” She frowned. “And one of their footmen is missing, though I have no idea how that could fit into any of this.”
“Ah, you discovered the footman, did you?” Griz said, apparently pleased. “He was stepping out with Franny the housemaid, who is terrified of something but seems to have no idea where he is. And there was a stain of something very like blood on the garden wall. What?” she asked, frowning as she noticed Azalea and Trench both staring at her.
“It probably has nothing to do with either the blackmail or your memories,” Dragan added. “But I am trying to find him.”
“Lady Royston’s servants seem to be quite unaware of anything odd happening at the ball,” Griz continued. “Though Franny might know something, she is saying nothing, and according to the other servants is merely distressed over Ned’s disappearance. Ned being the footman, who is tall and strong.”
“I see,” Azalea said. “We just seem to collect more oddities and suspects rather than finding the one. What do you think of the Royston offspring, Griz? You are closer in age to them than I.”
“Not that much closer. Beresford is only eighteen, and I never had much to do with him. I would say he’s a bit of a smirking bully, and Geraldine was petulant and attention-seeking. But people grow up.”
“I think, perhaps I should call on Lady Royston and inquire after Geraldine, who is supposed to be unwell,” Azalea said thoughtfully.
“If we consider alliances,” Trench said, “like the Royston children, what about Gunning and Darchett together? Or Fenner and Verry?”
Azalea groaned. “Then we’ve ruled out no one! But surely Darchett could not be involved? He was so open and apologetic this afternoon, I really did believe him.”
“Perhaps he’s sorry for the blackmail as well as the wager,” Trench said sardonically. “I don’t see any signs of regret in Gunning.”
“Gunning,” Dragan offered, “was ill in the cloakroom of Darchett’s club while you were in Grosvenor Square.”
Trench raised his eyebrows. “So, neither he nor Darchett can vouch for each other that evening after all?”
“No, but others can. Darchett did not leave the table for longer than a few minutes. Though he could still be working with Gunning, who could possibly have slipped out of the club and back without anyone noticing.”
“You don’t think it’s likely,” Azalea guessed, sighing. “I want it to be him because I don’t like him.”
“We can still search his rooms,” Griz offered.
“Grizelda!” Azalea exclaimed, appalled.
“Well, how else do you find evidence?” Griz demanded. “And a set of rooms is easier to search than an entire house.”
“Dragan, you won’t let her do such a thing?” Azalea appealed.
“I would rather do it myself, but a girl is less suspicious. She would go in disguise,” Dragan explained.
Seldom had Trench seen his wife lost for words. “But what if she is caught?” Azalea managed at last.
“I shall keep watch for her.”
“No,” Azalea said firmly.
Griz stuck out her tongue and smiled.
Trench laughed. “You won’t change those two. Let them do it their way. And you and I shall call on the Roystons.”
Azalea jumped to her feet, pacing the room. “I feel we are going in circles,” she fumed. “And no further forward.”
“That isn’t true,” Trench said. “We are immeasurably further forward. Who knows? We may even have finished with the whole mess in time to go to Trenchard next week, after all.”
She paused, glancing at him and a funny little smile dawned in her eyes. “I hope so.”
“In the meantime,” Trench said, rising, “since there is little more to do tonight, I suggest we simply enjoy the ball. Shall we give the world something to gossip about, Zalea, and actually dance with each other?”
Her full lips curved. “Why not?” she said carelessly.
But Trench was not fooled. He saw the faint rise in her color, sensed her pleasure, both in his asking and in the anticipation of the dance. As they led the way back to the ballroom for the supper dance, her fingers lay lightly on his arm. They both greeted passing acquaintances with a nod or a few words, apparently ignoring each other except for that formal touch on his sleeve. But awareness sizzled between them, perhaps because they were so close to admitting in public what they had avoided in private.
That they longed for each other.
He understood his own yearning only too well. He just hoped he was right that she felt it, too. Ignoring the rest of the guests, who could snicker and mock if they wished, he walked onto the dance floor, proud to have her as his partner and as excited about taking her in his arms as if he were a boy in the throes of first love.
But he was not a boy. He had the grace to bow and smile and to hold her with the respect due to the situation. And then the dance began, wrapping them in anonymity.
“How long has it been,” he asked softly, “since we last danced together?”
“In public? Eight years.”
“Before we were married,” he observed. “And in private?”
“Three.”
“You have been counting.”
“I remember it distinctly because it was the evening we decided to go to London for the Season.”
“It was the first time I had seen you smile for months,” he recalled.
She smiled. “It reminded me of fun and gaiety and love.”
“In London.”
“Why not? London was where I first fell in love with you.”
“Were you not still in love with me?”
Her smile faded but did not die. There was sadness in her eyes that made him ache, and he spun her, taking her by surprise to cover the fact she might not answer. But her feet were still nimble. She didn’t miss a step but followed with incomparable grace.
“Of course I was,” she said. “It was a dark time, and you were my only light. I don’t know where I would have been if you had not been there. If you had given up and left me, even for a month, a week. You were always there. I always relied on your being there. And then one day, maybe a year ago, now, I realized that you were not really there at all.”
“You did not need me anymore,” he said with difficulty.
“I always needed you. My fear was—is—that you no longer need me. Or want me.”
He stepped forward, and she back in perfect time, and yet as they turned, she was somehow closer in his arms. Had he achieved that, or had she?
“Oh, I want you,” he said huskily. “I never stopped wanting you, and I never will.”
Her beautiful eyes darkened. He could feel the heat on her silken skin, where his fingers reached up over the low-cut gown to her naked back. She shivered, and they smiled together. She had always had that ability to dazzle and smolder at the same time. “Prove it.”
He smiled. How could he not?
“Prove it,” she repeated. Her head lifted, bringing her face just a little nearer and allowing him a stronger, more alluring waft of her scent. “I dare you,” she whispered. “Take me to bed tonight. I am your wife.”
He bent his face even closer. How tempting to kiss her, here, in front of everyone. “You are my wife,” he agreed softly. “And I can take you anywhere I choose.”
And with that, he danced her off the floor and whirled out of the open terrace door.
Chapter Fourteen
You are my wife. And I can take you anywhere I choose. His words inflamed her body even before her mind had quite grasped them, and by then, somehow, she was on the terrace with the cool night breeze on her cheeks.
She had been more than flirting. She had been seducing for later, and she should have known he would more than accept the challenge.
Without releasing her, he cast a quick glance around the terrace to make sure they were alone, and then he sank his mouth into hers in the most sensual kiss she could ever recall. Fire and glorious weakness and utter happiness…
“We choose,” she whispered against his lips.
His mouth stilled, drew back a fraction, though she could still feel the heat of his breath. “What?”
“You can take me anywhere we choose,” she clarified.
His breath hissed out in something close to laughter. “I always grant the right of veto. What about here?”
“We would be seen!”
“Very true.” He walked her backward to a narrow set of steps, where the light barely penetrated and swung her down a couple of steps. At the same time, his mouth came down on hers again, and his hand swept over her breast in a tender, arousing caress.
“Here?” he mumbled between kisses.
Oh God, yes, no more waiting… “Still…too…danger…ous…” she managed, grasping on to her failing common sense.
Again, she was swung through the air, and this time, she landed in almost complete darkness, with her skirts bunched between them and his arms hard around her.
“Here,” he growled, and kissed her breathless while she clung to his neck and tugged at his hair in need.
Her heart thundered as she realized his hands were busy at the fastening of her gown. Oh, my, he’s really going to do it. We’re really going to…
Her gown hung around her elbows and billowed about her legs and his. Until he swept it down over her hands and simply lifted her out of it. She had never thought to be quite so glad that its wide petticoats were sewn into the gown. Clad only in her shift, stays, and stockings, she stumbled back against the wall, still holding desperately onto him. She swept her hands down his back and around, trying to reach the fastening of his trousers while his hands stroked her hips and thighs as though recalling every contour.
He was hard and more than ready in her hand. Triumph only added to her urgency. And then she gasped aloud as his caressing fingers glided inward toward the fire between her thighs, and he uttered a wild, breathless groan, quickly smothered in her mouth as he nudged against her and drove home.
Oh, God, thank you…
But this was like no other loving. Even in the early days, before and after their wedding, there had been an unhurried grace and care in his every caress. This was quick and wild, the pleasure relentless and so blindingly sharp that she would have collapsed had he not been holding her up and following her hard over the edge of bliss.
