Letters to a Lover, page 2
“You did not,” Lizzie argued.
It was not the first time Azalea had unexpectedly come across her husband in the nursery, but it was a rare enough occurrence to throw her off balance. Of course, she knew he saw his children frequently, but the times of their visits and outings had not often coincided.
“Let your mother stand up,” Eric suggested, and at once, the children dropped off her. Eric was there to help her rise. “How fortunate Elsie cleaned them up before you arrived. Jammy fingers would have done little for that ravishing gown.”
“I cleaned my own jammy fingers,” Michael said with dignity, which at least enabled Azalea to hide her unexpected blush.
For once, both parents were there to read bedtime stories and tuck them in, which may have made Elsie’s job of settling them to sleep slightly harder, but Azalea knew they were happy as she and Eric pretended to creep from the room.
It was interesting to watch him change from clowning father to elegant gentleman. He did nothing so obvious as adjusting his coat or smoothing his hair, but his posture altered, his shoulders straightened, and his expression lost the boyish playfulness that had been such a revelation when Michael was tiny.
There were many facets to her husband, and she loved them all. The surge of emotion brought a lump to her throat.
“Dinner is ready to be served, my lady,” Given, the butler, informed her with a bow as they reached the landing. “Shall I have it sent up immediately?”
“Are you ready to dine, my lord?” she asked her husband.
“Famished,” he replied promptly, offering her his arm.
Chapter Two
It felt quite strange to enter the dining room on her husband’s arm. She could not remember the last time they had dined alone together, and to this unfamiliarity was added a tangle of desperation, for this was her chance to win Eric back. Perhaps there would never be another.
She had ordered their places set at one end of the grand table, Eric at the head and she on his right-hand side. He held her chair for her to sit, a mundane courtesy that seemed to assume much greater importance as his arm brushed against her hair.
“So how come you have no other plans for this evening?” she asked lightly as the servants brought in the soup.
“I did,” he admitted. “I changed them.”
“Not on my account, I hope?”
He met her gaze. “Do you?”
She smiled. “No.” She saw the answering gleam in his eye before she demurely lowered her gaze to her soup and picked up her spoon. After all, there were servants in the room. But her heart lifted because it was still possible to flirt with Eric, and she remembered the fun of it.
It was Eric who dismissed the servants when the main courses were brought in. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
“I do not miss company for dinner,” Azalea remarked.
“Does that surprise you?” He helped her to asparagus and potatoes scattered with mint.
“No.” She met his gaze. “I have always enjoyed your company.”
“And I yours, a fact we seem to have lost sight of.”
“Not lost. Just…mislaid. We should do this more often.”
“I hope we do. At the risk of sounding like Augusta, a slightly quieter pace of life might be…beneficial.”
“You could never sound like Augusta,” she said, dismissing her sister-in-law, “but in what ways would it be beneficial?”
It was an opening to flirt, but again, he took her by surprise. “To your health, for one thing.”
She blinked. “My health? But I am perfectly well.”
“Are you?”
She had forgotten how penetrating that blue gaze could be. What had he seen? “Do I look so haggard?” she asked lightly.
“No, you are lovelier than ever.” He laid down his knife and fork and curled his long, sensitive fingers around the stem of his wine glass. “After Lizzie was born…you had a year of darkness and lethargy. Followed by three more of constant activity that has recently become… hectic.”
“I am not,” she said firmly, “hectic.”
“Whatever you say, Zalea, but something is wrong.”
She tried and failed to drag her gaze free, to laugh off his insight with a joke. She could not think of one.
“Won’t you tell me?” he asked gently.
That lump was back in her throat. His voice was compelling, tempting, and God knew she wanted the relief of sharing this anxiety. But his eyes, the eyes she longed to see once more clouded in passion, were too kind. She did not want kindness from him. She wanted love.
“Tell you what?” she asked, just a little huskily.
His lips stretched into a rueful smile. He raised his glass and drank. “We used to be better friends, you and I. We solved our problems together.”
Abruptly, she reached out, clasping her hand over his on the glass. “I miss that,” she whispered. “I miss…the way we were. I miss you.”
“Do you? Or do you say so to stop me asking questions?”
She withdrew her hand as though burned, but he caught it in his own and held it.
“I am not a fool, Azalea. We have let this drift too long to change in one evening’s conversation. But surely we must begin with honesty?”
“I have never been dishonest. Have you?”
He shook his head. “Do you love someone else?”
Her lips parted in shock. “Love some… Of course not!”
Something changed in his eyes, a spurt of relief even he could not hide. He had really been afraid.
Torn between outrage, guilt, and triumph, she withdrew her hand. “Somehow, I thought you would know that.”
But he had himself in hand once more. “A man needs reassurance every so often,” he drawled and took another sip of wine.
“And a woman does not?”
“I am sure Her Grace, your mother, explained you must never appear to notice when I stray.”
“You explained to me once that you never would.”
“I never did. Which is one reason I find it curious that the unspeakable Gunning imagined it was acceptable to try and seduce you in my house.”
“Or in anyone else’s! Perhaps my instincts have grown blunted. I shall take more care that careless politeness is not misconstrued.”
Amusement crept into his hooded eyes. “No, you won’t. You’d rather upend a few more teapots.”
She would have laughed, except she remembered that moment of panic when she had suddenly been in his power. It had felt like every woman’s fear of male violence, and yet there had been such a confusion of images flashing through her mind that it was almost memory.
A frown had dragged down Eric’s handsome brow. “Did he hurt you, Azalea?”
“No.” She shivered. “No, but I am glad you entered when you did.” Another picture swam across her mind, of Gunning, gasping and dripping under the deluge of cold tea, his pristine white shirt speckled with leaves. A gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Though he did look awfully funny.”
Eric grinned. “Awfully.”
“Do you think we should go home, Eric?” she said impulsively.
“Home? To Trenchard?”
“We have not been there since Christmas. Though I know you have matters to attend to in town.”
“Nothing that cannot be rearranged.” His smile was warm. Clearly, he liked the idea, which made her even more hopeful.
“I have a sudden longing for peace,” she confided.
“Perhaps we could both benefit from that.”
She was still smiling at him as the footmen entered discreetly to clear the table and bring desert. “It has been on my mind that we should engage a new governess,” Azalea said, finding a more neutral topic of conversation while the servants were present. “Miss Hollister has been gone for more than two months. Oh, and did you know Lizzie has begun to read? Michael has been teaching her letters!”
The subject of the children continued when they were left alone, exchanging amusing stories tinged with pride. It had been a long time since they had discussed more than general necessities regarding the children, such as their health or education. But now they recalled the daily fun of family life, and Azalea’s hope grew warmer as did her physical awareness of her husband.
When she rose to leave him to his wine, as was the formal custom, he merely swiped up the decanter and followed her to the drawing room. The lamps had been lit, making the room welcoming and cozy.
Emboldened by the wine and her desires, Azalea sat at the piano and played and sang for him, as she once had. He lounged beside her, supposedly to turn the music that she didn’t use, and he didn’t touch. Instead, his gaze burned into her face, and she remembered the tenderness of his touch, the excitement of his kiss.
They moved to the sofa, discussing the music of Beethoven and Berlioz, forked briefly into politics and family, and by then, it no longer mattered, for whatever they talked about it, it was with humor and fun, and she remembered all over again how much she liked him. How could she have let them grow so far apart? How could he?
She could see no trace of boredom in him. On the contrary, his eyes were warm as they dwelled on her. He refilled her glass, and they talked on, of everything and nothing. As a companionable silence fell between them at last, she thought of Gunning, of the things she could not remember.
“Eric?”
“Azalea.”
“I…” I have blanks spaces in my memory. I can’t remember whether or not I invited Gunning or if I encouraged him. Or anyone else. Appalled by the damage her admission could do to this frail closeness they had achieved, she gave a shaky little laugh. “I have had a very pleasant evening.”
“So have I.” His hand, draped behind her along the back of the sofa, dipped to caress her cheek. “Shall we do it again?”
“Yes, please.”
“But you are tired. And I must be up early tomorrow.” He took her empty glass and placed it with his on the table before rising to his feet and holding out his hand. “Shall I escort you to your chamber?”
“If you would be so good,” she said with mock formality, although behind the joking, her heart was beating a wild tattoo.
Would he stay with her tonight?
They climbed the stairs together, and when he walked past his own door without hesitation, her insides seemed to turn to molten liquid.
At her door, he halted and took her hand from his arm, raising it to his lips. His mouth burned her skin. She clung to his fingers, lifting her face to his.
His breath hitched. In the shadow of the dim, solitary landing light, his eyes seemed to blaze. He leaned down and found her lips.
Her stomach dived. Every nerve in her responded to the sweet, tender kiss. He cupped her cheek, and her arms slipped around his neck. When their bodies touched, his arms swept around her, and she drowned in bliss.
“Stay with me,” she whispered against his lips.
He smiled against hers. “Not yet.”
She drew back, staring into his hot, clouded eyes. Oh yes, he wanted her. “Not yet?”
“I’m courting you,” he said. “Anticipation is all. Goodnight, my lady.”
And he actually released her and walked away.
Indignation warred with amusement, especially when she noticed his faint, uncomfortable limp. “Sweet dreams, my lord,” she drawled.
He turned at his door and cast her a fleeting smile. “Not sweet enough,” he said ruefully, and she laughed as she opened her door and went in.
Closing the door, she leaned against it, listening to the pounding of her own heart. Disappointment lingered, along with frustrated desire. But, almost with surprise, she realized that for the first time in years, she was so happy she couldn’t help smiling.
*
That happiness was still with her when she woke the next morning. Even better, she could hear Eric’s voice in the outer room. She had always loved his voice, low and deep, usually with just a hint of sardonic humor…except in the throes of passion when it turned arousingly husky.
She wanted to jump out of bed and run to him, but Morris’s voice, answering him that her ladyship was still asleep, held her back.
They had spent one evening together, enjoyed one sweet, exciting kiss. He had been right last night. After all these months, years growing apart, they were merely courting, learning each other all over again.
She smiled into the pillow. She looked forward to it. Oh, but she did…
The voices fell silent. She could not help feeling disappointed when the outer door closed, and only Morris’s footsteps entered the bedroom.
“Good morning, my lady. I’ve brought your coffee.”
Azalea sat up, yawning. “Did I hear his lordship’s voice?”
“Indeed, my lady. He came to tell you he was going out but will join you for luncheon if you are free. He wouldn’t let me wake you to find out.”
Azalea took a reviving mouthful of hot coffee and sighed. “I cannot remember my engagements for the day. My diary will be in the sitting room. Perhaps you would bring it along with breakfast.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Until her breakfast arrived, Azalea spent the time much as she had the morning after she had first met Eric—going over every word exchanged, every look, every accidental touch of the previous evening. Now, at least, she could laugh at herself, but she did it anyway.
Breakfast arrived on its familiar tray, which Morris carried in and placed over her knees. A pencil and her diary lay on top of a pile of letters.
With fresh coffee and toast, she inspected her schedule for the day. She was delighted to find she had no engagements until the evening, apart from a vague plan to join her mother, the duchess, for tea before a visit to the Great Exhibition in Hyde Park. Perhaps Eric would enjoy a visit to the Crystal Palace. He had been, of course, but there was far too much to take in with just one viewing.
She would take the children to the park this morning, she decided. And begin a more serious search for a governess to replace Miss Hollister.
Wiping crumbs from her fingers onto the napkin, she began to open the day’s post, which usually consisted primarily of invitations to parties and respectfully begging letters from charities. Today, there were also a couple of letters from friends and one from her sister Athena in Yorkshire. She read those first, smiling over amusing anecdotes. Then she set about those addressed in hands she did not recognize and set each aside in piles to be answered later.
The last letter was in a firm, masculine hand and written on expensive paper. She had hopes it was a note of apology from Mr. Gunning, but when she opened it, she saw at once that the sender had forgotten to sign it.
Nor was it headed with an address of any kind. It began merely, My lady…
Frowning, she scanned the very odd epistle and then, in some outrage, read it more carefully.
My lady,
Allow me to come directly to the point, which is that I am in possession of certain letters written by you, which do not speak to your advantage. Indeed, apart from the distinctive signature, they are of a subject matter and type of vulgar, florid language that would play better in a bawdy house. I venture to guess that your ladyship’s distinguished family would find it impossible to save you from the scandalous consequences of such folly, should these letters become public, or, indeed, come into the possession of his lordship, your noble husband.
However, I beg you do not despair, for there is a simple solution to prevent such calamities. The sum of five hundred pounds, left in your ladyship’s box at the Theatre Royal in Haymarket on Wednesday evening, will ensure your privacy. Place the money in a packet under the seat at the farthest left of the box.
For your sake, I hope your ladyship will not disappoint me.
The letter fell from her nerveless fingers.
“Not bad news, I hope, my lady?” Morris said anxiously.
“Mmm? Oh, no, nothing like that.” She forced a yawn. “I just seem to be tired…” Hastily, she folded the letter, pushed the tray away, and rose from her bed, clutching all the morning’s letters in one hand. She padded into her sitting room and shut them all away in the desk.
I should burn such arrant, threatening rubbish. Or pass it on to the police.
But she knew she wouldn’t for one very good reason.
Although she could not imagine writing any such letters, she could not swear that she hadn’t. The same way she could not swear she had not encouraged Gunning to hope for a liaison, or….
Panic surged through her, much as it had yesterday. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe. She struggled desperately to see, to understand the blurry images that sped past her mind. Something was missing from her memory. Many things surely were missing.
She needed a doctor.
But more than anything, she would not allow that vile letter to disrupt her promising new closeness with Eric.
So, she determined, as she went about the mundane business of choosing her morning gown, washing, and dressing, she had to get the letters back.
She could pay the five hundred pounds, but she doubted such a sum would deliver the letters to her. It would be but the beginning of a cycle of blackmail and shame, spoiling whatever hope she had to regain Eric’s love.
Surely we must begin with honesty? he had said to her last night.
I have never been dishonest…
Was there a worse way to begin their new courtship? But if she laid all this before him, now, revealed that she might have written such letters to another man…?
Dear God, how could she?
“I couldn’t have,” she whispered aloud, then stared guiltily around the room.
Fortunately, Morris had gone, leaving her to gaze at her troubled reflection in the mirror.
But if I did, how on earth do I go about getting them back? Or even finding out who sent them?
Frowning, she rose and walked out of the room to the nursery, which was where, in the midst of the children’s chatter and laughter, that she realized who might just be able to help her.
Griz.
