Jo Beverley (18 page)

“So why not now?” She was hungry, she realized. Sharp-toothed appetite nibbled at her innards. “Why not?”

“Ah, Minerva, I love your frankness. I love your hunger. Always be this honest with me. Always. But you know what the French say.
‘Bon appétit.'
Things are best enjoyed with a hearty edge to the appetite.”

“And how is your appetite, Saxonhurst?”

He seized her hand and pressed it to him. “See?”

Meg suspected that a proper lady, even a proper married lady, would snatch her hand back from that shape. She didn't. She didn't even want to. She reveled in the hardness, in what it promised for the aching void he'd created inside her.

“Then you don't think
I
have enough edge to my appetite?”

His smile turned wry. “In truth, my dear, yes. You have surprised me. In only the most delightful ways, I assure you. But we don't have time just now for a feast, and I am determined that your first taste of these delights will be a splendid feast. In years to come, we will be able to enjoy many a light repast between tea and dinner. Hasty puddings, even. But not today.”

He'd continued to stroke her, she realized. In some way that different touch and his words had reduced her biting desire to a seething hunger that could be satisfied, just, by the promise of food to come. She let her hand fall away and enjoyed just lying there as the winter day
faded, and her husband, lounging beside her, soothed her sizzling senses.

They could almost be two people side by side in a drawing room.

She had to suppress a smile. Well, not really, not with her gown still loose and her corset straps exposed. But she felt astonishingly comfortable, uninhibited by expectations of how she should behave.

“In a proper world,” she said, “perhaps the man and woman would come to marriage equally ignorant and explore the mysteries together.”

His lips twitched. “You are not comfortable with being the neophyte?”

“It is my nature, I'm afraid. I like to be independent and in control.”

“I share your tastes.”

“But for a man, it is easy.”

“Is it? Few men are independent, or control their destiny. I am one of that lucky few.”

“And treasure that.”

“When one has a treasure, it must be guarded.”

Meg suppressed a sigh. She'd feared as much. It made it even more impossible to tell him he was here on this bed with her because of a magic spell.

“And yet,” she risked, “you were forced to marry me.”

He tilted her chin and looked at her, and she knew even that casual comment had caught him on the raw. “I married you to avoid worse fates. That's choice of a kind.”

“Then everyone has choice in everything, if only whether to die or submit.”

“Minerva Saxonhurst, you are not at all the mouse you at first appear, are you?”

“I never tried to seem a mouse. But I do confess that being horizontal seems to have a loosening effect on the mind.”

He laughed, a sharp hoot of amusement. “Perhaps it does, at that.” Watching her—and she knew he'd turned hunter again—he pulled looseness into the bodice of her gown and began to unhook the front of her corset.

Then he looked down, and his hands stilled. He pulled
down her gown a little further, and Meg bit her lip. She was so used to her underwear that she'd forgotten it. Now he was tracing the lines of vivid scarlet embroidery she'd worked along the stiffened seams of the corset.

“How beautiful.” He ruffled the white frill at the top that was part of her shift, and that she'd vandyked with tiny stitches. “Pure above, wanton below.”

She saw something different on his face, something more than desire, or amusement, or pleasure. “You are a creature of magical surprises, my sweet Minerva. I tremble at the thought of peeling you layer by layer down to your innermost secrets.”

The word “magic” jabbed like a needle in her conscience, and “secrets” jerked her with alarm, but Meg was mainly concerned by what he would think if he investigated too far.

Most women didn't wear drawers. Most people thought them wicked, a sign that a woman wished to ape a man's role. And to make it worse, she'd embroidered hers, never thinking they'd be seen.

He was still tracing the design of her corset, his touch shivering through her torso. “This is your work?”

“I could not afford to pay someone for such frivolity.”

“Why?” He looked up and she saw only open curiosity.

It was a simple question with a simple answer, and yet Meg balked at revealing her private thoughts, at exposing the most vulnerable part of her soul. She sat up, turning away, pulling up her dress, knowing she was being foolish, foolish, foolish.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want,” he said from behind her.

“I just like pretty things.” She struggled with unsteady fingers to rehook the one wanton fastening at the front. “A governess cannot wear fanciful clothes, but no one knows about her corset—”

She was seized, dragged back, forced down under his power. For a moment she fought, but then she remembered her resolve. And anyway, he was too big and strong for her, as she'd always known.

He dragged her gown down even farther then before, tracing the fine, vivid stitchery. Meg lay powerless,
hating the invasion, but biting her lip on a complaint. She would do his will.

Then a thumb rubbed her lip, loosening it. “Don't. If you want me to stop, say so.”

She looked into his frowning eyes. “Stop.”

After a still moment, he gently pulled her gown back up. Not all the way, but as far as it had been. Then he undid that one top hook of her corset again, and kissed between her breasts.

She looked at him and laughed, close, in truth, to tears. “You are so very strange. How do you understand?”

His lashes lay thick on his cheeks for he looked down at her covered breasts. “We all have places that are private. Sometimes places that make no sense to others.” The lashes rose, revealing darkened, brilliant eyes. “But I hope to explore your private places soon, Minerva. Every wicked inch.”

He began to loose more hooks on her corset, slowly, one by one. She knew without looking that he was keeping her gown over her corset even as he exposed her breasts.

She felt him slide his hand in to raise her right breast free of constraint, felt the air play cool upon it. Felt no shame or embarrassment at all. He kissed the tip gently, then looked up at her. “What a delightful mystery you are.”

Then he lowered his mouth again.

She waited, expecting something fierce, but felt only the brush of his tongue around her nipple, and the chill when the air found the dampness. He brushed her again, over the very tip, and she shivered. Not from cold.

He put his teeth to her, abrading her slightly so she raised a hand to protect herself. He captured it. Stayed it. Without word, he asked her to trust him and she let her hand fall back to the bed.

He sucked her, one long, slow suckling that stopped her breath and made her tense in places she hadn't known she could tense. And then he was gone.

Or not gone. On to the other breast.

Gently, it too was freed of constraint, dampened,
teased, and suckled. Meg clutched the rough silk of the bedcover so that she wouldn't clutch onto him.

Then slowly, he settled her breasts back inside the corset, fastened up the hooks, and pulled up her dress.

He looked at her, smiling with what could only be contented pleasure. She lost any wish to hide her helpless reactions.

“They will remember,” he said. “You will remember. All through the evening. Through the meal, at the theater, during the carriage ride back home. They will remember. You will remember. It wouldn't be fair if I were the only one suffering as we wait.”

Then, in one of his changes of mood, he was off the bed and tugging her to her feet. He turned her and fastened her buttons without any play at all.

“Normally we'd go late to the theater, but I'm sure the twins would think that poor fun, to miss the early shows.” He put a friendly arm around her and walked her awakened, hungry, aching body through his dressing room into her bedroom.

She had entirely forgotten that she wasn't in her own room. She'd lost all awareness of spotted camels, tortured bamboo, and shrieking Amazons.

She was, as he had intended, now solely aware of one thing.

Him, and the coming night.

Susie was already laying out clothes for the evening. The maid looked them over with clear understanding, dimples forming in the round cheeks. “Are you wanting to change for the evening now, milady?”

“Er . . . yes,” Meg said.

Her wicked husband put his head against hers, hand curling to hold her there, lips close to her ear. “Tonight,” he whispered. “Remember. Here. Away from the Amazons. But don't prepare for bed. I want to undress you, my wife, layer by wonderful layer. . . .”

Meg watched him leave, shivering as if she'd just made the most wicked, clandestine assignation. Indeed, except for the minor detail of them being married, she had!

Somehow, Meg survived dinner with dignity, perhaps because she and her husband were seated at opposite ends of the table. She couldn't say she ate much.

In the carriage, they sat side by side, and while conversing with Jeremy and Laura—the twins following behind with Mr. Chancellor—he somehow made her think of kisses and touches all the time. It was always possible the wickedness came entirely from within herself, but she doubted it. The Earl of Saxonhurst was a wizard in these matters, able to spin magic spells and entrap poor mortals into forbidden ways.

To make, as he had promised, the prey long for the hunter's killing touch.

She entered the theater in a daze, her attention wholly focussed on matters some hours ahead. She could only pray that she wouldn't do something excruciating embarrassing during the waiting time. She was so completely distracted, that it took her some moments to realize that the earl was talking to Sir Arthur Jakes!

Meg was sure she must have given something away, for she felt as if she'd been suddenly pitched into a torrent of icy water. Perhaps she even made a noise, for she caught a slight, perceptive look from her husband. Sir Arthur, however, was oblivious, for he was being claimed by the twins, who wanted to tell him all their adventures.

She was reminded that he'd been a family friend for years. She'd been as fond of him as the twins when younger, for he'd always been generous with pennies, or small treats, or trips to the nearby tearooms for sticky cakes.

It would take very little to convince her that she had
dreamed it all—his proposition about Laura, and his theft of the
sheelagh.
But then she caught one tiny glance he slipped toward her sister and she knew she hadn't dreamed it all.

His look wasn't one of love lost, or distant adoration. It was angry, frustrated, corrupt greed.

Smiling, he detached himself from the twins, and turned to Meg. “Quite the happy family. I am delighted to see you all so well set up, Countess.”

The title jarred her, and before she thought, she said, “Oh, you must not. We are still old friends, I hope.”

A moment later, she wished the words stopped, wished them scrubbed away. They had come from the past, from pennies and sticky buns, and from her own discomfort with her new rank, but they were so very foolish.

She'd surprised him, too. He was unable to hide it. But a moment later, he was easy again. “I consider myself honored,” he said with a bow, “and not because of your rank. Your parents were dear friends, and they would want me to keep an eye on their children. I hope you will not mind if I call now and then. And perhaps take the younger ones for a treat, as I used to do for you.”

Sinking in quicksand, Meg said, “The twins will miss you if you don't.” She hoped he understood that he had no permission to be alone with Laura. Ever.

But was even Rachel safe from such a monster?

“My dear,” the earl said, touching her elbow gently, “we must gather our flock and take our seats. Sir Arthur.” With just a nod, he dismissed the man and Meg could only be grateful.

As the earl guided her along the carpeted corridor toward their box, she wondered if she could tell Saxonhurst about Sir Arthur and ask his advice. Not about the
sheelagh.
Just about his designs on Laura.

She suspected, however, that the earl would do something drastic. Perhaps even a duel. She could not bear that.

No. All she needed to do was to warn Laura. Laura had clearly begun to be uneasy with Sir Arthur, and
would not seek him out. If Meg made sure she wouldn't be caught by some trick, all should be well.

In fact, Sir Arthur had no power over them anymore.

Except if he had the
sheelagh.

Drat the stone. Drat Sir Arthur. The magic was gone. Not the
sheelagh's
magic, but the spicy enchantment her husband had woven through the day.

 

Monkey—she must remember to call him Monk, as Saxonhurst did—was in the luxurious box, clearly having made sure all was ready for them. A small table held wine, tea, cakes, and a bowl of oranges. He took coats and cloaks, then stationed himself there, ready to serve.

Meg had never been in a theater box before, and she marveled at the comfortably upholstered seats and the iron stove at one side which kept the area cozy.

“One thing I've always wondered,” she said to Saxonhurst as he settled her into her seat in the second row, leaving the front for the excited younger ones, “why are there curtains at the front, and why are they sometimes drawn? Is that because the box is not in use that night?”

His lips twitched. “Not at all, my dear. It means it is very much in use.”

His look filled in the details, and Meg blushed. “In the
theater
?”

“Indeed.”

“But why?” she asked, very sotto voice. “I mean, there must be many other places. . . .”

“Not for illicit lovers.”

“But everyone would know. And know whose box it was. And who was inside.”

He grinned. “Frankly, unabashedly curious. How very wonderful you are.”

She stared at him, aware that the magic had not died.

“I hope you are always so intensely curious, my wife. About everything.” He took her hand and kissed one finger. “Perhaps the gentleman who owned the box might not mind his exploits being known, and the lady could join him once the curtains were drawn.”

“Or”—he kissed another finger—“the owner could be a lady. Some famous ones ply their trade here.”

“Not a
lady,
” she pointed out with what voice she had remaining. The wizard was definitely at work again.

“Probably not. But”—he kissed her ring finger—“since most owners do not use their boxes every night, it could be rented by anyone. That box up there for example . . .”

Helplessly, she looked at the next row up and opposite, at drawn curtains.

“. . . belongs to the very staid Viscount Newnan, who I know is celebrating Christmas with his family in Wales.” He gently turned her face toward him. “And now, I know, you are wishing you could see through that heavy cloth. . . .”

“Not at all!”

A finger against her cheek prevented her sharp turn away. “Don't lie, Minerva. Never lie. I want you curious. I want you interested in everything. I want you trembling with it, with the need to know, the need to touch and taste.”

And she was trembling, but not entirely with the effect he could have on her. She was trembling from that comment about lies. Susie had said he didn't like lies. He'd forgiven her the one about her courses, but would he forgive others? The continuous, entangling lies . . .

The finger moved, stroking her cheek. “At times, you seem troubled, Minerva. I know this is not easy. Am I troubling you?”

“No.” It slipped straight out, but it was essentially true.

“I desire you,” he said, still touching her in that delicate, distracting way. “Tonight.” With a quirk of the lips, he added, “To be honest, now. But I can wait. Wait even for another night if need be.”

Even now, he was offering her escape.

She thought about her words this time, for deep inside quivered a place that feared him, feared his power over her, feared the breaking of barriers that she knew must come with intimacy. But she said, “I don't want to wait.”

His smile showed pure delight. “I'm glad.” But then he added, “So, is there anything else troubling you?”

It was so tempting to tell him everything, but she knew temptation must generally be resisted. “Nothing in
particular,” she said, but looked away. Oh lord, she might as well paste a sign to her chest saying
LIAR
!

He moved his hand, letting her turn to look out at the noisy, crowded theater and be comfortable. If someone so troubled could be comfortable.

“What about Sir Arthur?” he asked.

She turned back. “What?”

“You don't seem easy with him.”

She hated the hint of watchfulness and doubt in his eyes and gave him what truth she could. “He's an old family friend. I was quite fond of him when I was young, but later”—she looked away again, but this time just from remembered embarrassment—“he . . . he made me uneasy. Before I left to take up my post.”

“Did he do anything?”

She looked back. “Do?”

His lips twitched again, though his eyes were not particularly amused. “The sorts of things I have done. Kiss you. Touch you.”

“No!” At the sharp word, Laura twitched to look behind, and Meg smiled for her. “No,” she repeated in a quiet voice. “Nothing like that. Just a change in his manner. It made me uncomfortable. And I am a little concerned about Laura.”

Though it was slight, she sensed his sudden tension. “Has he done anything there?”

After a moment, she lied. “No.” It wasn't really a lie. He hadn't done anything. Yet.

“Certainly, Laura seems at ease with him. Most likely the man's harmless, but to be safe, we won't allow him to be alone with any of them. With so many idle servants eating their heads off, that's simple to arrange.”

It was so complete a solution that Meg felt tears sting her eyes. “Thank you.”

He reached to brush beneath her eyes. “I wonder if you told me the whole of this.”

With despair, she knew he had to know she had not.

The finger trailed down to her lips and tapped once there. It was almost a chastisement, though a very gentle one. “Marriage is for sharing problems, my dear, and for finding solutions. Though it's early days, I will be hurt, I think, if you continue to fight battles alone.”

Then Meg did want to burst into tears and spill out every detail, but the muted orchestra surged into full volume, playing a rollicking music for the clowns of the first show. As she turned and watched the curtain rise to reveal the glittering scene in front of a gaudy oriental palace, she was glad to have escaped that folly. She fiercely resolved, however, never to hurt her kindly husband again if she could help it.

For his part, Sax watched his strange wife, rather than the performance. He noted the excited pleasure of the younger ones, and enjoyed their enthusiasm. It was easy to become jaded. His new family was breathing life into stale pleasures. Mostly, however, he was fascinated by his wife. She, too, was breathing new life into stale pleasures. How long had it been since he had anticipated sex quite this much?

She seemed to be enjoying herself, too, but she was definitely troubled.

He wondered how bad it was.

He didn't judge Sir Arthur Jakes to be the type to forgo months of rent, even for an old family friend. What payment had he demanded? Minerva herself? Was it possible that she'd had to give the man her virginity, and that her nervousness about consummation was simply a fear of being found out?

He thought over their encounter in his bedroom, trying to see if she'd acted like a woman who'd never been touched before. It was hard to tell. She'd been surprised, but in the end, eager.

Sir Arthur might be an insensitive lover who had simply used her, so that more subtle attentions were new.

He might have raped her.

Careful not to startle her too much, he put a hand on his wife's shoulder, to the place left bare by her modest evening gown. She started a little and glanced at him, nervous, but not truly fearful. He doubted Sir Arthur, or any man, had abused her, thank God, but it was still possible that she'd had to pay for shelter with her body.

He wanted to be the first, and he wanted the freedom to carry her high. After this afternoon, his marriage bed lay before him like a delicious promise, like the smell of
baking bread or roasting meat, bringing saliva to the mouth, and the spiciest kind of keen appetite.

His wife. His unexplored domain.

Ah well, even if she wasn't a virgin, she was unawakened in all the ways that mattered.

She turned back to the stage, but he knew she had to be aware of his hand against her skin. He let one finger tease her nape, and as keenly as she watched the antics on stage, he watched her every reaction—her parted lips, her warming cheeks, her hand flexing suddenly on the arm of her chair.

Ignoring Monk behind them, he moved a little closer and put his lips to her neck, just behind her ear, hearing her catch her breath. “If we were long married,” he whispered, “and alone, I'd draw the curtains.”

She raised her chin—the tiniest, revealing arch of surprised desire. When her lips parted more, he put a finger between them and grinned when she set her teeth into it. Passion. His wife was a creature of passion. No matter what little secrets she was hiding, he was a very lucky man.

He moved closer to first lick, then bite, then suck her lobe. She almost rose out of her seat, her hands tight on the arms. “We have a bed waiting, however,” he whispered. “And tonight, I think we need a bed.”

Letting his tongue play around the curve of her ear, he inhaled, taking in her scent, warm and womanly and personal, except for the most prim hint of lavender. Would he adorn her with richer perfumes, or was she best as she was, so proper on the surface, but all fire and spice beneath?