Flowers From The Storm (50 page)

Christian tilted his head back, gazing up at the ceiling in pleasure. But he didn’t want to waste it, not while he had Maddy to look at, Maddy enrobed in her extraordinary hair, rubbing his feet as if it were a task of the most solemn gravity. She kneaded his arches and his heels, and stopped sometimes to turn one foot a little, looking down at it, bending slightly, inspecting, he presumed, to see that she had done a thorough job.

In one of these pauses, he arched his foot and touched his toe to her body, pushing the sheet of her hair aside a fraction. Below her throat, a pale ribbon of light found her skin down the nave of an erotic cathedral. Last night had been all feeling; tonight it was all the sight of her, in glimpses, in secret moments.

He allowed her hair to fall back as she resumed her earnest massage. He wriggled his toes again to get her attention, which seemed to have fixed too intently on the business of kneading.

She looked up. He drew his feet away and propped them flat on the floor, watching her between his knees. It was a dare: she had to come forward to him or retreat entirely.

“This is not equitable,” she said, on a plaintive note.

“Why?”

“Thou art… dressed.”

He smiled complacently.

“Thou art wicked and creaturely,” she accused.

He tilted his head to the side and lifted his eyebrows.

“Thou art laughing at me!”

“Not.” He stretched his legs out on either side of her. “Waiting.”

“Am I to undress thee?” she demanded. “Is that what I’m supposed to do?”

He brought his feet together to her hips, caressing her. “Want?”

Her eyes evaded his. She dropped her gaze to the carpet in front of her. He moved his toes slowly over her bare skin and hair.

“No false… Maddygirl,” he said gently. “Want?”

She took a deep breath, exhaled it, and leaned forward over him.

It was all Christian could do to hold himself in check. Her position on her hands revealed her vividly, full breasts under a wash of gold that caught the firelight, that was too finely translucent to conceal shape behind it. Supporting herself on one hand, she loosened the buttons on his trousers.

Her hair slid down, unveiling her back and the curve of her buttocks. She made a quick move to catch it back, rising, a sudden vision of everything; her smooth torso, her breasts, the line of her belly and dark crown of curls.

Christian’s restraint deserted him. He sat up, leaning on his hands. She seemed startled; she looked at him like a diffident forest creature, drawing back—but he caught her between his legs. He reached up and pulled her down on top of him. He lay back on the carpet, kissing her throat, her breasts, her hair falling all around.

But he didn’t want to hurry—he wanted a luxurious, slow bonfire. With an effort, he relaxed his hands, smoothed them down her body that was poised above him. She had not drawn away, not after that first moment: she seemed to wait, not quite meeting his eyes, her lips parted a little.

“Do you know… I like… lazy.” He locked his hands behind his head. “Still… wait.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered again, woeful.

“Can’t think?”

Firelight glistened where she wet her lips. “No. I can’t.”

“Up,” he said. “Up on… knees.”

When she made no move, he caught her wrists. He pushed her, his palms against hers, until she knelt upright. She tried to pull her hands away, but he knew what she would do if he allowed it.

“Don’t hide.” He kept them locked with his. “I remember… first night I saw you… my table… all prim stiff proper… thee-thou… Miss Timms.” He smiled. “Oh, Miss Timms. I saw you… like this.”

Her cheeks bloomed rosy. “Because thou art wicked.”

“You say… wicked. So bad, Maddygirl?”

She gazed down at him, apparently unaware of the picture she presented and what it did to him—at least, she did not look any lower than his face.

“You tell… first saw me… what you thought.”

She gave a faint breath of amusement. “I thought thou wert a wicked man.”

“Despise.” He raised his knees beside her and closed them on her hips. “Scorn. Go home… pray.”

“I liked thee a little better after thou offered the mathematical chair to Papa.”

“Ambition,” he said. “Good wife.”

That got a real smile from her. He swayed her slightly with his legs.

“Shrewd. Ambition.” He let go of one of her hands and swept her hair back over her shoulder.

“Beautiful.”

She began to breathe more quickly. He touched her, traced his fingers along her waist and up to her breast. He outlined the underswell of it with his forefinger.

“I like that,” she said, in a soft, unexpected rush of words.

“So do I,” he said solemnly.

Her breast rose and fell beneath his caress. He went slowly, watching her, every stroke reflected in her face. When he touched her nipple, she drew in a sharp breath and caught her lower lip in her teeth.

Christian made a low groan. He pulled upright, closing the space between them. With his tongue he traced the path of his fingers. He rested his hands at her waist and opened his mouth over her nipple, sucking.

She whimpered, arching into him. His hands slipped downward, thumbs sliding over the provocative short curls. She still had the scent of the night before about her, dense with heat and his passion. Dimly he felt her fingers burrow into his hair, drawing him closer.

He pushed his hand between her legs, coaxing them apart, over his, straddling him wide open—prim Maddy, exquisite sensitive amorous Maddygirl, her hair cascading down over one shoulder, her head tilted back and her lips parted, panting.

He made it last. He made it last oh so long, caressing her, teasing her, until her thighs trembled and she gasped each time he touched her. And when he moved beneath her she made a sharp whimper and her eyes sprang open, and she watched him as he did it, easing inside her, pulling her back down onto him.

He lifted his head from the carpet to suckle her. She moved with awkward exquisite jerks, writhing, until he cupped his hands at her buttocks and taught her the rhythm, her hair sliding between his palms and her skin. With a lovely suddenness, she came—with little female cries, like an unquiet dreamer: he brought his arms up around her and held her close for an instant—then with one deep thrust, holding her hips down to take it, he let go of the lust he’d kept dammed inside him.

When it was finished he held her hard against his chest and never closed his eyes—to make it real, and banish nightmares in the firelight.

Maddy could barely look at Jervaulx the next day, though he did nothing to indicate he remembered her abandon, or even that he’d taken notice of it. She thought he was even somewhat cooler toward her than usual, composed and collected, treating her in the presence of the others with nothing more intimate than common courtesy. His demeanor was all casual detachment—except for one private glance behind his aunt’s back: that crooked pirate’s smile, swift and secret, blue eyes beneath black lashes, while everyone stood round a roaring fire in the hall and discussed plans for the tenants’ Christmas dinner.

Maddy felt herself blush all over, unable even to break the glance. Jervaulx’s smile turned into a grin—and then it was gone, and he looked away.

Durham was suggesting a ball, with waltzing, while Lady de Marly asserted that a pair of oxen roasted, a good dinner of three courses—not less than two hundred dishes to each, mind you—and an elevating concert of religious music after had always been quite sufficient, and would be in the future. Papa smiled at both ideas, and Calvin Elder wore an expression of attentive discernment, as if he had participated in such controversies times out of number, but owed it to his position to consider the arguments one more time.

The Reverend Mr. Durham spent no time on rational propositions to counter Lady de Marly. He merely bowed before her, turning a graceful leg, and began to hum as he lifted her hand and drew her into a revolution. Her stick went clattering. She made an irritated exclamation, but her feet moved with a surprising freedom.

“Unhand me, you outrageous boy,” she sputtered, pulling away. “You’ll break my bones!”

He held her by one hand, steadying her, still humming as he danced himself around her. “A waltz, my lady!
Dumdum-ta-dumdum-ta-dummm
, ciw/ndum-ta-dumdum—”

Maddy found herself swept away as unexpectedly as Lady de Marly, her husband’s arm around her waist, his hum blending with Durham’s, their voices gaining strength. Maddy had no idea how to dance; she scrambled to keep her balance, stepping out by necessity as the duke spun her about the floor.

The humming had become impromptu music,
dumdum-ta-dumdum-ta-dummm
, in strong masculine notes that echoed from the walls while the room whirled about her. His hold on her was light and commanding; his coattails spun out and her skirts flared as they turned. Maddy had to keep her feet moving smartly or be flung off them—though each time that it seemed she must be, he drew her into a spin that saved her. When her toe came down hard on his, his only reaction was an emphatic to instead of a dum, a pointed smile and a tighter hold on her waist.

He and Durham came to the end of their musical piece. Jervaulx held her arm up, bowing to her with a flourish. “Duchess! Thank you.” As Maddy stood flushed, trying to catch her breath, he looked toward the others. “Can’t…
dance
,” he said.

“I don’t know how,” Maddy exclaimed. “Friends aren’t to dance!”

The three of them looked at her. She felt absurdly awkward in her everyday shoes, more clumsy even than Lady de Marly under the weight of years.

“It is an idle amusement,” she said.

Lady de Marly sighed. “Hire her a master, Jervaulx.”

Calvin Elder met a footman hovering at the screens passage and returned to them carrying a silver tray with two letters on it. “The post is beforehand today, Your Grace. Shall I have it sent to your study?” He bowed briefly toward the duke’s aunt. “There is an item for Lady de Marly.”

“Leave it in my parlor,” she said. “Do you suppose that Italian who taught the girls is still in the country, Jervaulx?”

The duke had taken his letter. He broke it open without aid—a small achievement that no one seemed to note except Maddy, not even Jervaulx himself.

“I should be glad to lend myself to the task,” Durham offered, “until you can find a master. But we’ll need someone to play the instrument.”

“I don’t wish to learn to dance,” Maddy said. “I’ll have no occasion for it.”

“Best have a violoncello for music, but no doubt we’ll only find some widow woman who can play the pianoforte in the village,” Lady de Marly said.

“I really don’t wish—”

“Humbug,” Lady de Marly said. “None of your dissenter faradiddle, girl. If you want to be excused from waltzing, you may do so on the grounds of propriety, but the respectable dances are a requirement.

You’re no invalid; you’ll be expected to stand up with the duke or look no-how.”

Maddy would have argued further, but as she started to speak, she glanced at Jervaulx. Her words faded. He stood with the letter in his hand, unfocused, his face white and set.

“What’s wrong?” she blurted.

As soon as she had spoken, she wished that she’d kept silent. The others looked toward him. A shade of wariness came into his expression. He said nothing.

“Let me see it,” Lady de Marly said, holding out her hand for the letter.

He looked toward her as if he’d forgotten she was standing there. He shook his head.

“Let me see it.”

“No. Nothing.” He frowned. “Nothing.”

“Don’t be a fool, boy,” his aunt insisted. “What have you there? Let me see it.”

He crumpled the paper in his fingers. Without answering he threw it into the fire as he strode across the hall and out.

“Young fool,” Lady de Marly said.

Maddy turned on her. “Canst thou not speak to him as if he is a man, and not a wayward child?”

“I speak to him as I always have, miss. Why should I change now?”

“He is changed.”

“But the world is the same. Don’t discount it.” She thumped her stick on the floor. “The world is always with us—and don’t you discount it, Duchess.”

Christian stood with his back to the parapet, leaning his shoulders on cold stone, the wind whipping up through an arrow slit and blowing his hair against the back of his head. A falcon coasted over Belletoire, rising up above the tower in a hurtling curve, and then tilting into a drift down and sideways. Beyond that, the sky was empty gray.

Christian stared at nothing. It had been a stupid move, of course. Those moments two nights ago had seduced him, the fleeting instants when his speech had been intact. He’d thought, if he just concentrated—

He’d gone alone to write, and known while he was doing it that it was not quite accurate. He saw his mistakes, but when he tried to locate them exactly, they seemed to disappear, only to reappear at the corner of his eye when he looked away. When he’d seen the sheet upside down, folding it, he’d realized how odd it was—all shifted to one side. But he had given it to Calvin Elder to dispatch anyway.