Letters to a Lover, page 14
His breath rasped into her mouth as she kissed him, shuddering. Every inch of her trembled with wonder. She hadn’t known she could reach such joy so quickly. She hadn’t known he could.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, “if I was rough. I have been patient too long.”
“So have I,” she breathed, and she felt the smile on his lips as he kissed her deeply. From upstairs in the ballroom, the stately waltz music continued.
He lifted her again, and though she didn’t know how he could see, she landed in the center of her discarded gown. Somehow, he found the open neck and drew it upward, helping her find the armholes.
While he fastened the back of her gown, they heard voices above them.
“My lord, I should not be out here alone with you.” Surely that quick, nervous voice belonged to Miss Fenner?
“One kiss,” said a male, husky voice. Darchett?
Eric kissed Azalea’s nape, and she moved her head in pleasure, aroused all over again. But he stepped away, adjusting his clothing.
“Now we can go back inside,” Darchett said on the terrace above, and Miss Fenner gave a pleased little giggle. “It is time for supper.”
The music had come to a close. Azalea ran a hand through her husband’s wild hair, combing it into some semblance of order, then made sure his necktie and collar were respectable. He caught a few locks of her hair and wound them round pins already there.
“It needs work,” he murmured and led her out into the dim light from the terrace, where he checked it was empty before dusting down her skirts with his hands. She liked that, too.
“The ballroom should clear, and we can use the cloakrooms there before we go up to supper,” she said, lifting her skirts to climb the narrow steps.
“What an excellent planner you are.”
She caught his hand and glanced up at him. “I didn’t plan this.”
For an instant, his eyes were serious. “Do you regret it?”
“Never.”
A warm smile curved his lips. “Then let us go and brazen it out like an old married couple perfectly used to copulating outside ballrooms.”
A shock of laughter took her by surprise. “Well, we are now,” she said, taking his arm. And oddly, as they strolled across the terrace and into the emptying ballroom, she felt no embarrassment at all, just a certain smug triumph.
“And when we go home,” he said in her ear, “we’ll see if we can’t make the pleasure last a little longer.”
This time, she definitely blushed.
*
Since Griz and Dragan had walked round from Half Moon Street, Azalea offered them a seat in the Trench carriage to go home.
The rest of the ball had been curiously fun, eating, talking, dancing in the warm glow caused by what she had just done with Eric. She felt very contented and pleased with herself—like the cat who got the cream.
“I think,” Dragan said to Eric, “you might want to look into the work currently being done on your building sites. The firm you contracted is the same as was involved in Fenner and Verry’s previous projects. There seems a shortage of materials being ordered for the money they’ve drawn. I need to get a look at their accounts to be sure, but if I were you, I’d send your architect round to see what they’re doing.”
Eric didn’t seem surprised. “I will. My solicitor’s already looking into how we can eject one or both of them from the partnership. What do you think is going on?”
“Much as you suspected,” Dragan replied. “I think the builder is cutting costs on foundation, water supply, drainage, load-bearing walls. I suspect he’ll take the money for the original specification and split the difference with Fenner and possibly Verry.”
“And our building will be no better than the slum it replaces.” Eric’s frown cleared. “But that is a worry for tomorrow. Thanks, Tizsa.”
“How did you come to be involved with these people?” Azalea asked him.
“Impatience,” Eric said ruefully. “I was looking for quick investment in order to get started. I knew Verry socially, was glad enough to take his money, and he brought Fenner with him. I ignored the rumors. But it seems our contract is already broken. I shall start again.”
“Will you lose much?” Dragan asked.
“Not enough to matter if I act quickly.”
Something was nagging at Azalea’s mind as the carriage stopped to let Griz and Dragan alight. Something about a contract. Only as the horses started forward once more did she realize why it bothered her.
“I still don’t know what I did,” she blurted.
“When?” Eric asked.
“When I wrote that letter,” she said, distraught once more. “When I was at the Roystons. I knew from the moment I first read the blackmail letter that any reconciliation…any mending between us would have to wait until we knew…”
He took her hand in his firm, warm clasp. “Knew what?” he asked gently.
“Whether or not I betrayed you.” She forced the words out, yet her fingers clung to his fiercely.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, Eric, we don’t know that!”
“I know you. If someone tricked you or forced you into anything, whether in word or deed, that, too, will be added to the reckoning.”
She stared into his face. “You would forgive me?”
“There would be nothing to forgive.”
“But if I’m guilty…of something, you might regret that, Eric, regret what we did this evening. I was right about keeping some distance between us until—”
“No,” he interrupted, unexpectedly fierce, as indeed he had been during the delicious incident she referred to. “That isn’t how marriage works. We are partners.”
“So are you and Fenner.”
He blinked, catching her train of thought. “You and I are not a business transaction. We are life partners, and we will go forward together, Azalea. These bizarre events have given us the kick we needed, and I, for one, will not lose it. I will not waste another day, another hour of loving you. We will deal with this together.”
Enchanted, she could only gaze at him in wonder as the horses came to a halt once more, and he handed her down from the carriage. A little buzz of happiness seemed to surround her as she walked inside with him. Her husband.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. I should be. But I feel I could dance for another three hours or run across fields like a child.” She halted at his bedchamber door, her heart beating loudly. “If you are not tired either…” Her voice broke, and she finished huskily, “you could come to my room.”
His fingers brushed her cheek. In the dim light, his eyes were warm and clouded, but his free hand was already reaching for the door. She tried to smile, though the disappointment was heavy. She still had the evening. And tomorrow…
“Mine is closer.” The door gave under his hand, and before she had understood his meaning, she was whisked inside. “I’ve grown to hate this room,” he said softly, taking her in his arms. “I think it’s time we created some pleasanter—much, much pleasanter—memories here.”
She smiled, lifting her face for his kiss. “What an excellent idea.”
*
Trench woke to the sound of his bedchamber door opening and hastily closing again, as Ford no doubt spotted his master was not alone and retreated. They had not even bothered to close the bed curtains.
Trench smiled and stretched like a large, contented cat. His fingers encountered soft hair on the pillow.
In truth, he was almost surprised to find her still here. The night had been memorable, not just for the wild and hasty interlude at the ball but for the much longer, sweeter loving in the dawn light. It had felt like a new beginning. A long, hot beginning of sensual delights. He had almost forgotten the way her skin seemed to ripple in response to his every caress, her open, generous passion, her joyful smile as she shuddered and trembled in the throes of climax…and her tender triumph as she brought him to his.
The bedclothes were rumpled, barely covering her nakedness. His arousal grew. Though he knew she needed to sleep, he could not resist just one butterfly caress from her lips to the base of her throat.
She sighed in her sleep, but an instant later, her eyes opened, and she caught his hand, sliding it to her breast. And so, although he had meant to rise, he loved her again.
In the end, it was almost midday before they rose and moved to her sitting room to enjoy coffee and toast in fresh surroundings.
“Although I certainly look more favorably upon that bedroom than I used to,” he observed.
Morris left them to privacy, and Trench rather enjoyed the domesticity of being handed coffee and offered toast by his wife. He was even prepared to take his mesmerized gaze off her for long enough to read his post in a lazy, contented kind of way.
On the other side of the small, intimate table, Azalea picked up her own little pile of post and shuffled the letters. And then they fell from her grasp onto her plate.
Eric glanced up, an amused quip forming on his lips—until he saw her expression. She was gazing down at the top letter, which was unopened.
“Every time,” she said unsteadily. “Every time I start to believe all will be well—” She broke off, swiping the letter onto the floor with unusual violence.
“All will be well,” Trench said firmly. But he rose and picked up the rejected letter, placing it in the middle of the table before he sat back down. An uneasy suspicion had formed. “How does this offend?”
“It’s from him,” she said with loathing. “The blackmailer. I recognize his writing.”
“Then he is giving us another clue as to his identity. Do you want me to open it?”
Her gaze flickered to his face, then back to the offending letter, which she snatched up and tore open in one disgusted movement. She scanned it. Then her lips twisted, and she passed it wordlessly across the table.
My lady.
Although you have not played fair with me (involving your husband after I expressly forbade it), I believe you have at least paid a fair price for your incriminating letters. Therefore, I will return it to you this evening (Tuesday) at No 70 the mews behind Berkley Square. Be there, alone, without your husband, at ten o’clock, with a mere five hundred pounds, and I will return the letters to you. Our game will then be over.
However, should you involve your husband or anyone else, I can promise you only misery such as you have never dreamed.
I trust this will be our last communication on any subject.
“Do you?” Trench murmured. “Well, I really don’t think it will be.” He tossed the letter on the table and reached for his coffee.
Azalea said hopelessly. “What shall we do?”
“I shall keep the assignation. Without any money whatsoever. And we shall see who gets the better of that tussle. We are already agreed we can stop him publishing anywhere that really matters, and if he does publish some rag or other, well, I’m not sure I care a great deal when you and I know the truth. Now, what was on our agenda for today?”
She stared at him, almost angered by his carelessness. Then, slowly, her expression began to lighten. “We are going to call on the Roystons, and hopefully meet their children.”
“And the maid who was stepping out with the missing footman,” Trench added.
“Yes, that is odd, too.”
“And tonight, we should discover who this opportunist is.”
She picked up the letter and reread it. This time, she sounded almost gloating as she said, “You gave him a fright in Grosvenor Square. That is why he’s calling off the blackmail, with one last money-grab, giving us no further reason to pursue him. Otherwise, he would be trying to milk me for years.” She frowned. “You know, I cannot really believe the Royston children could be involved in something like this. I don’t know anyone quite that nasty.”
“Apparently,” Trench said, “you do.”
She frowned again in fresh anxiety. “You can’t go alone. I think we should all be there, even if only hiding, ready to step in and help you capture him.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll not deny Tizsa will be a useful ally. He was a soldier, after all. But I would be happier with you and Griz safe at home.”
“If you imagine Griz will sit tamely at home during such an exciting event, you are delusional. And I believe, for once, she will be in the right of it. Besides, what if he is watching the place and sees you turn up instead of me? He needs only to walk away, and we still won’t know who he is or solve the mystery of the wretched letters.”
Privately, Trench acknowledged the truth of that, and it worried him. For it went entirely against the grain to allow her to walk in to meet such a villain alone. Perhaps a little more ingenuity was called for.
“After we’ve been to the Roystons’,” he said, laying down his cup and reaching for the toast, “I think we should call in on the Tizsas.”
Chapter Fifteen
No hostess was ever “not at home” to Lord and Lady Trench, so Azalea was not surprised to be immediately admitted to the Roystons’ house and welcomed by their butler.
While depositing outer garments, Eric exchanged some half-jocular horse-racing tips with the butler, and Azalea wandered further toward the stairs, looking about her.
A maid scuttled through the green, baize door from the servants’ quarters and hurried across the hall before she caught sight of Azalea and stopped dead. Even over the yards between them, Azalea could see the blood drain from the girl’s face. She looked terrified.
In quick concern, Azalea took a step toward her, and the girl hurried over, clearly meaning to speak to her.
“This way, my lady, my lord,” a footman said.
Azalea hesitated, but the maid veered away, rushing into the nearest room as if that had always been her destination. Perhaps it had.
Reluctantly, Azalea let her go and accompanied Eric and the footman upstairs to Lady Royston’s drawing room. However, the maid’s startled face stayed with her, and with a jolt, she realized why.
I’ve seen her before! From the window, hanging around Mount Street, near Trench House. She had almost gone down the area steps. Azalea had imagined she was looking for work, but perhaps… Had she spoken to this girl the night of the Roystons’ ball? Did she know something?
Azalea dredged her memory, for many small details had come to her since the incident with Lord Darchett. She remembered arriving at the house with her brother Forsythe, who almost immediately deserted her in pursuit of some long-suffering young lady. She remembered speaking to various people and even dancing. She recalled the faces of several servants who had taken her cloak and presented her with champagne. But she couldn’t remember that particular maid, except in Mount Street.
They were fortunate enough to find Lord and Lady Royston both in the drawing room where, Azalea suspected, Royston had been reading his sullen son a severe lecture. At the footman’s announcement, he broke off abruptly, smiling a jovial welcome to his guests.
“Well, well, what a pleasure, my lady! How do you do, Trench?”
While his parents greeted them, young Beresford showed a tendency to gawp at Azalea. And when introduced—or at least reintroduced—he turned bright red and uttered something incoherent. He might have been overawed and tongue-tied. Azalea did have that effect on some young men. Or he might have been embarrassed at discovering his victim in his mother’s drawing room.
“Just been trying to drum into the cub how important it is to study,” Royston said to Trench. “He’s going up to Oxford this year but seems more interested in chasing the petticoats at Covent Garden.”
Lady Royston kept smiling and pretended not to hear. So did Azalea.
“And how is Geraldine?” Azalea asked, taking the seat offered her. “She was not well when I spoke to you last. Is she recovering?”
“She seems quite well, now. Thank you for asking after her! Oh, Beresford, ring the bell and ask them to send Geraldine down to meet her ladyship. It will do her no harm,” the proud mother told Azalea, “to see how far she is from the grace and maturity of a fashionable lady.”
“Oh well,” Azalea said, “one cannot expect young debutantes to behave quite like old married women.”
“Oh, no, but it gives her something to aspire to. For next Season.”
It was not the most scintillating half-hour Azalea had ever spent. Between the gawping Beresford and the awed but petulant Geraldine, she found it unusually difficult to make conversation. Eventually, she hit on the idea of asking the girl if she played the pianoforte.
“Indeed, she does,” Lady Royston beamed. “That is, she is coming along. Play something for Lady Trench, my love.”
With much better grace, Geraldine jumped up and went to the piano in the window. “Beresford, turn the music for me,” she ordered.
Beresford opened his mouth, clearly about to deliver a blistering refusal when he caught his father’s choleric eye and closed it again. He rose to his feet. “Very well. But only if I might perform the same service for Lady Trench afterward.”
Azalea only laughed and crossed her fingers in her skirts, hoping Geraldine was not too awful.
In fact, she played surprisingly well and, moreover, lost her vaguely resentful look while she did so. Azalea had no qualms about asking for another piece.
Undercover of the music, and Eric’s casual voice asking about Beresford’s outings during the last week, Azalea asked her hostess about her missing footman.
Lady Royston sighed. “Still missing. But I have asked your brother-in-law, Mr. Tizsa, to help find him. Such a useful man to know!”
“Indeed, I believe it is a profession in much demand,” Azalea said with delicate emphasis, just to remind her ladyship that Dragan should be paid for his discreet services.
They could not, in all civility, linger very much longer after Geraldine’s second piece came to an end. And if Azalea had not learned much from the visit, she still hoped to run into the maid again downstairs.
