The Lie and the Lady (41 page)

Turner had brushed him off. Said he was fine, just busy. Put on the brave face he expected he would be wearing for some years to come. Rhys had hesitated. He was expecting to leave Helmsley and go back to Greenwich after the wedding, but he'd be happy to stay a few days at the mill with Turner, he'd said.

Turner said no.

Therefore, whoever was knocking on the door of the mill could not be more unwelcome.

But the knocking didn't stop. It wasn't loud, but insistent.

And then, a voice.

“I know you're in there.”

Her voice.

He almost thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him. Surely, when he crossed the main floor and threw open the door, there would be nothing there but the wind. Surely, it wouldn't even be worth the trouble.

But there was only one way to find out.

“Hello,” she said when the door opened. “Would you mind inviting me in? It's rather cold out here.”

The sun was setting low behind her, bringing the chill of night. And she stood before him in a slip of a gown, short-sleeved silk with lace. Lovely, and shaking.

He stepped aside and let her in. She hurried past the two large mixing machines on the ground floor, rubbing her arms to force some warmth back into them.

“You're here,” he said, unable to believe it.

“Yes,” she replied, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. Now that she was inside, it was as if the warm air made her realize that she was colder than she had thought, and the shaking began in earnest. “I have to tell you something—I'm afraid . . .”

“There's a blanket in my office,” he said, and before she could say anything, had taken her by her ice-cold arm and guided her toward his little office in the back.

There he set down the lamp in his hand, retrieved the thick wool blanket from his pallet, and threw it around her shoulders.

“Th-thank you,” she said, clamping down on her chattering teeth. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her body, but to no avail. “I'll speak quickly. I had the carriage drop me off on the edge of Helmsley—my trunk is still waiting on the side of the road, come to think of it. But I cannot worry about that anymore. I'm going to cause enough of a scandal tomorrow for Sir Barty, my trunk is the least of it.”

His heart was pounding, but he waited. Simply . . . waited. Because it seemed to him that everything in his life hinged on the next few moments, and he would be damned if something he said screwed it up again.

“I came here to warn you—tomorrow there will be no wedding, because Blackwell . . . he knows about you and me. He knows that it was you, last summer. And since I did not bend to his demands, I imagine that word is going to spread very quickly. I told Sir Barty, and as expected he was not pleased. Thus the wedding is off.”

“The wedding is off?” Turner repeated.

“Yes. Punished again for something I didn't do . . . something we never did.” She let out a small laugh, a bubble of sadness. Then she met his eyes, the weight of what they never did thick between them.

She shook her head, her body, brought herself back to the present moment. But Turner could not shake it off so easily. Oh no.

“It's important that you have this.” She reached into the neckline of her dress and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded into quarters. The ledger page. She held it out to him, and he took it, warm from her vibrating body.

“The reason Blackwell played his trump was because something in those numbers scared him. If he does have a bastard child, he really does not wish it to be known. So you need to keep this, and keep it safe, because once word spreads about the Lie, and your part in it, you will need it to strike back.”

Turner looked at the paper held lightly between his fingers, folded square. Then back to Leticia.

His Letty.

Shaking from cold, wide-eyed with nerves, breathless with anticipation.

He tossed the ledger page onto his small desk. Tossed it aside.

“You said good-bye,” he said slowly.

She blinked, drawing her eyes up from where the ledger page had fallen, to his face. He knew it the moment she heard him. Really heard him, and what he'd said. A little gasp was all it took. Her eyes darkening from gold to black with desire. Her lips parting, ever so slightly, without her even knowing it.

“I did.”

“But you're here now.”

She nodded, never taking her eyes off of his.

“I am.”

He took one step, the distance between his present and his future closed in an instant.

“Then stop talking.”

It was nothing, nothing at all, for his lips to meet hers. For his hands to cup her face, to thread into her hair. To inhale and take her in.

There was a bare moment of hesitation. But then . . . she let go. She decided to give herself this one night, and to hell with anything and anyone judging her for it. She bent to him, finally free to do so. No longer Sir Barty's bride. No longer Lady Churzy, holding herself at a distance. She was just . . .

“Letty,” he breathed, and let her name float on the air.

“Yes, John?” He could feel her smile against his mouth. He kissed her again. And again.

“You're still freezing.” His hands drifted to her arms, as the blanket he had thrown over her shoulders fell to the ground.

“Warm me up, then.”

He used his skin. Never taking his eyes off hers, he slowly undid the buttons of his thin lawn shirt, pulled it over his head.

There was something to be said for men who worked hard for a living, she thought wickedly.

He came to her, picked her up in his arms as if she was nothing more than a feather floating on a breeze, her body pressed up against his chest.

She sucked in her breath.

“That's a very impressive trick,” she said, wrapping one arm around his broad shoulders. “Carrying a lady to your bed.”

“It's all for show. Luckily we have a very short distance to cover.”

“Still,” she said, a little laugh escaping, letting her fingers graze lightly over the hard planes of his chest. “It's an impressive show.”

“Ah . . .” he hissed, jumping from the contact. “Your hands are still quite cold.”

“Oh.” She blushed, immediately pulling her hand back. “I'm sorry.”

He laid her gently down on the pallet. “Don't worry,” he said, taking her frozen fingertips, kissing them gently, then encasing her hand in his hand completely, warming it. “We'll take care of that.”

His eyes were hungry, his mouth more so, taking hers, his tongue tracing a line down her neck and sending a shiver up her spine.

She wanted that tongue to follow that shiver. She wanted . . . she wanted more than she'd ever imagined.

And she wanted it now.

But then . . . he leaned back. And looked.

“What . . . what are you doing?” she asked, her voice shaking. But not from cold. He couldn't abandon her, not now!

But his mouth picked up in that half quirk of a smile, one that spoke of a boy's mischief, but with a man's intentions.

“I've waited too long for this night, Letty. I'm going to breathe in every last inch of you.”

“But . . .” she squeaked, but he hushed her with a finger held to his lips.

And then let his eyes roam over her body.

Usually Leticia was a woman of infinite patience. Planting seeds and letting them grow over time, knowing each step in the process toward her goal.

But she wanted . . . oh hell, she wanted to frantically tear at his breeches, rip the lace of her dress, if only to get them closer, as close as two people could be. Not this slow torture. Not his taking in every inch of her, making her skin prickle—not with an itch, no—but rather with a glow of awareness, like a warm breeze dancing over her body, up her calves, to where her stockings were tied. Up higher, and through her, settling into her body with waves radiating out.

And suddenly, she wasn't cold anymore. She was really quite warm. She flushed with each flick of his eyes, heated watching his muscular chest rise and fall with each breath, coming quicker and quicker as his gaze danced and lingered on the neckline of her dress, where silk met skin.

Then, his eyes met hers. And held.

But the slow dance of exploration his gaze had trailed up her body left a path his fingers could trace. And they did.

It began with a light touch on her ankle, his fingers gliding up her silk stocking to the ribbon at the delicate flesh under her knee. She nearly lost her breath when his hands reached her thighs.

And higher . . .

“John . . . please,” she begged. “I want . . . Can we please . . .”

“Hmmm . . .” he said. “It occurs to me that you have likely never been worshipped properly. Have you?”

Worshipped? This, this need of two people for each other was never about worship, was it? With Konrad it had always been quick, and her fevered hopes for touch had never been satisfied. All she wanted was . . . a feeling she yearned for. A feeling she knew existed, but never experienced.

“I . . . I don't know what you mean,” she said.

“Then you've answered my question.”

He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the swell of her breasts, until they came up against the edge of her gown.

Her wedding gown.

“Although, I have to admit, there are some things getting in the way, don't you think?”

Finally. She nodded fervently.

“And while this dress is lovely, I'm not here to worship it.”

Slowly, excruciatingly, he pulled down the tiny sleeve of her gown, exposing her shoulder. Then, the tiny buttons at her back were undone with a finesse that belied his callused thumbs. She remembered that about his hands. So deft, and so strong.

His hands found their way to the edge of her hem, gathering it up inch by excruciating inch.

“Ow!” he whispered. “What's here?”

“Pins,” she said. “I'll explain later.”

“I never knew a gown could be so dangerous,” he said, smiling against her mouth.

“Didn't you?” she replied. “A gown is a lady's most formidable weapon.”

But then the creation of lace and butter silk flew over her head and fell lightly onto the chair by Turner's desk.

“Looks like you're unarmed.”

“That was a terrible pun,” she said, smiling.

“I agree, but I work with what I'm given.”

They both laughed in the dark at their silliness, at their happiness. Then she took his head in her hands and kissed him again.

His kisses became drugs, lulling her into bliss. Her kisses, however, became fire in his blood, stoked by the little gasps and sighs that escaped her.

Pins fells out of her hair, hitting the hard earth of the floor with dull pings. Her tresses tumbled around her shoulders in a haphazard mess that she couldn't care less about. His fingers found their way to the laces of her corset. Hers—no longer cold to the touch—fell to the buttons of his breeches. She fumbled a bit more than Turner had, but eventually found her object.

And suddenly, all laughter subsided.

“Letty,” he whispered, catching her hand. “Wait . . .”

“No,” she replied. “I'm done waiting.”

The time for reverence and for silliness was over. Now there was only Turner, and Letty, and the fire that drove them, stoked with each breath.

His body nudged her knees apart, settling between them. His hands roamed freely over her soft skin, both becoming slick with heat. She felt the world give way as he stared into her eyes as she opened, and he filled her.

He became as necessary as air. For a flash of a moment, this touch, this contact, was more important than where she lived and how much money she had. It was more important than any name she called herself. It was simple breath—in and out. But it was gentle, tenuous. Too much so. All she wanted was more.

And she had the audacity to ask for it.

“John—I want more.”

“More?” his voice was a raw gasp, straining to remain even.

“I want it all.”

He found her eyes, gone dark with passion. Her gaze was direct, commanding. Who was he to deny his lady what she wished? With a kiss against her smile, he thrust deeper, deeper, until the space between them disappeared, not even a whisper between them.

This. Oh, this was what had been missing. This feeling of . . . loss and gain all at the same time. Loss, because she was shedding her skin, taking the weight of rigidity and perfection off her shoulders and just being. And gain . . . because of everything else.

She felt glorious.

She felt powerful.

She felt . . . worshipped.

And it was that realization that did it. That stunning moment of wonder that this man in front of her, over her, inside of her, would never judge her. Never hold her accountable for someone else's mistakes. He saw her from a thousand yards away, and still knew her instantly.

He was all that she wanted. And she had him.

It was like air rushing around her body, making sparks against her skin, building up from someplace deep in her center, her body arching against him, begging for it to stop and wanting it to never, never end . . . wanting it all. And for once, getting it.

She moved. She had to. Push against him, pulse in time. Her thighs tightened around him as he pushed and thrust and lost himself in her. He made himself hers in every way he knew how. And she gave him herself in return.

When her breath slowed down enough to feel his collapsed weight against her, she smiled to herself in the dark. She felt his lips find her temple. They were both sweaty, and messy, and glowing. She had given herself this, she realized. Permission. To be sweaty and messy. To have knots in her hair and John Turner kissing her temple. A present, for all the agony she had been through—and oh, all right, caused—in the past year. For one night, she was free.

A low laugh escaped her lips.