Victorian Dream (25 page)

Walker levered up from the seat, lurched across the moving coach, and resettled himself at her side. “What people deserve and what they get are generally two different matters. And as far as muddling things about, I’ve done my share as well.”

He eased one arm across her shoulder, and his offer of unbidden comfort set loose the floodgates. All the sorrow she felt regarding her parent’s injuries, coupled with the loneliness she had endured of late, blanketed her in darkness. Surrendering to his warmth, she clung to his solid reassuring form, and as they sped northward on what should have been the most joyous day of her life, she cried harder than she had ever cried before.

****

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Walker gave Trelayne a simple peck on the cheek, but the visions romping through his mind hardened his body rather than his resolve not to touch her. Fighting to keep the burning need in check, he studied her face. Was it his imagination, or did she appear disappointed by his lack of ardor? Guilt stabbed at his gut. That felt real enough. He had married her to keep her safe. At least that had been the idea. Now he wondered if that wasn’t what he wanted all along. Too late to worry over the whys and wherefores. The deed was done.

When Trelayne remained unmoving, he took her arm and escorted her from the chapel. “This way, Mrs. Garrison,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice he didn’t feel.

An image of Katie flittered across his mind, the only Mrs. Garrison he’d ever thought to love and cherish as a wife. It was as if her spirit hovered near, her voice just beyond his hearing. It was a joyful feeling, as if she were happy for him. That was a comfort.

Truth be told, he was glad about being a husband once again. The role had always appealed to him. Glancing sideways, he caught sight of his new wife’s stony expression. Apparently, Trelayne was not as thrilled by the condition.

“It will be all right,” he promised, and somehow he would make it so.

The inn where their bridal suite awaited was but a short walk through a nearby overgrown garden. Although the towering vegetation struggled to hold onto the last vestiges of a riotous summer bloom and a peaceful autumnal farewell, it seemed as desolate as their situation.

“It’s too late to travel home tonight,” he said, feeling the need to explain the room, and the necessity to share it. Home—that sounded strange. He supposed he would be living at Royston Hall. For show if for nothing else.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly.

Her mood, unreadable, did not match her words. He supposed only time would reveal how she really felt.

Their love nest was a spacious well-appointed accommodation, worth the price he’d paid to secure it. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, and the small table by the window held a late evening repast. A curtained-off section held a huge four-poster bed, a dressing room, and marvels of marvels, a water closet.

Avoiding the sleeping area, he directed her toward the settee. She dropped down upon it with an expression of total defeat. He’d never seen her like this, not even on the day he’d arrived with the bad tidings of her parent’s accident.

He sat at her side, and took her hands in his. They were ice cold. He should add more wood to the fire, but didn’t want to let her go.

“This must not have been what you envisioned for your wedding day,” he began. “If things hadn’t gone sour in Brighton, I would have been in London to stop you. Been there to occupy your time so you wouldn’t have entertained the idea of endangering yourself in such a misadventure.”

She sat up and stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. “How gallant. You think this is your fault? I doubted you, was infuriated by your long absence. It was childish and petty, and no one is to blame but me.” She reached up and smoothed her fingers across his mustache. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day you came to Royston Hall.”

The simple caress broke his ironclad promise to keep his distance. He drew her close and kissed her—slowly, deeply, savoring what before had only been contemplation. Then he released her. “And I’ve wanted to do that on several occasions.”

“I wish you hadn’t waited so long.” Her warm breath teased across his neck and ear as she leaned against him. “I don’t want to be married in name only,” she murmured. “Make love to me, Walker. We’ve every right.”

Her bold proposal took him by surprise. Often enough he’d imagined what he’d like to do with her and to her. But it would change things immensely. The marriage had been designed to restore her reputation. If they made love, it would be extremely hard, perhaps impossible to annul or revoke the contract. This had not been part of the plan.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he warned. “What you suggest will drastically change both out lives.”

“I should hope for the better and not the worse. Either way, as stated in our vows, we must stay together until death do us part. When you were gone to Brighton, I pined for you, and when I was not infuriated with you, I was ill with worry. I didn’t realize until you were gone, I had already given you my heart, now you must come take the rest of me. I want to know you in every way, be yours in every way.

She rested her hand upon his thigh then grazed her fingers across his crotch.

Damn good intensions, they would go to plan B.

****

Trelayne could no longer resist the desire torturing her body. She wanted—needed to be made love to. The craving gripped her more mightily than last evening’s opium and champagne. It was beyond a physical craving, it was an outcry of the soul.

Like a rushing river, the prurient information secretly researched with Penelope flooded her mind, drowning out all other thought and reason. She touched Walker, knowing her ministrations were pushing him over the line. His mouth found hers, this time rough with need, exploring and conquering her mouth, a portent of what was to come when they truly joined. Nothing had ever seemed so right.

Unbuttoning his shirt, she eased her hands beneath the fabric and traced the contours of his body, her palms grazing his nipples. With a groan, he slid his hands to the back of her dress. Tiny pearl buttons flew in every direction as he made short work of the obstinate fastenings. Yielding to her appeal, it seemed nothing would now deter him from what he wanted—from what they both wanted.

She had abandoned her corset this morning, and now with the bedraggled lavender dress fabric out of the way, he set to work removing her camisole. Cool air licked at her skin, colliding with the hot need burning in her belly. It nearly stole her breath away. Walker nuzzled her neck, rained kisses downward to her collarbone, his hands firmly cupping her breast. She held onto him tightly, the only thing solid in a world gone spinning out of control.

The part of her yet unexplored grew tight and pulsing. What would it be like when he touched her there? At the mere thought, wetness was added to the aching delight, and she sighed and rubbed her body against his.

He drew back, cold fear replacing the warmth of his caress. Had he changed his mind? Then he rose from the divan, tugged her upright, and swept her off her feet.

Renewed eagerness rushed through her as he laid her down in the middle of the bed. Standing before her, his gaze never leaving her face, he proceeded to remove his clothing. In record time, he was down to his trousers and boots. Glorious to look upon, twinges of anticipation accentuated the space between her legs, already begging for relief.

Turning, he leaned back against the bed, tugged off his boots, then dropped his breeches. When he turned back, her eyes widened at the sight of him, big and hard and ready to fulfill all her expectations.

Easing onto the bed, he stretched out beside her and tugged at the dress material gathered about her waist. Frantically, she shimmied free of the fabric, snagging her pantaloons along the way. Extricated from those as well, she offered up her naked body to his sight and touch.

“You’re every bit as beautiful as I dreamed you would be,” he whispered.

Had she really filled his musing? He had certainly overtaken her daydreams. Thoughts of him even tamed her most recent nightmare, banishing the monster to a dark inaccessible corner.

“Have you often thought about me then?”

“On many a lonely night,” he admitted.

As if she were made of porcelain, he glided a curled finger along her cheek.

Taking his hand in hers, she slid it down to cover one of her breasts, and with a moan arched up against his palm. Tonight, she didn’t wish to be cherished, she wanted to be ravished. As if reading her mind, he slid his other hand between her thighs, turning her moan to a gasp.

Leaning over, he captured her mouth, his tongue and fingers probing, exploring, delighting—arousing her body to near delirium. Then stilling his motions, he pressed his cheek against hers. “The first time hurts,” he said softly, stroking her without hesitation, “but only for a little while.”

“I don’t care. I need you, all of you.”

No words did he speak as his thumb pressed against the nub that pulsed at the apex of her thighs. She rubbed against his hand and wrapped her arms around his neck. It felt better than she ever imagined. He played her body with skill and patience as if she were a fine instrument and he knew exactly what song waited in her soul to be set free. As she spiraled into a world that existed only for the two of them, he eased her legs apart and covered her body with his. She could feel the tip of him, hard and ready, touching her, tempting her, easing forward, now retreating.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he urged.

She did as he asked, taking him in a bit farther, ebbing and flowing—again and again. Each time more of him joined with her, each time more of her belonged to him. Bearing his weight on his forearms he framed her face with his hands and crushed his mouth against hers. Then with a groan and a shudder he gave her full measure. Pain replaced what had felt so good, and a tear slipped from her eye. He stilled his movements and kissed it away. As he began to ease out of her, she grabbed his backside with both hands and thrust upward keeping him in place. The thought of him inside of her renewed desire, a balm to the sting, a spark to the embers waiting to burst into flame and burn out of control. She never wanted to let him go.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, “don’t ever stop.”

He set the pace, tantalizingly slow, and with each stroke she expanded, opening like a flower. Greedily, she took him in without hesitation. Then their tempo increased like the crescendo of a waltz, and she felt as if she were spinning faster and faster. There was nothing dainty about it now, only animal passion, hard and powerful. Moans of delight gathering volume and intensity, the demands of their bodies overruling all else. Gasping for breath, she knew she was moments away from something wonderful, something she wanted with every fiber of her being.

“Oh, Walker,” she screamed in delight.

Where their bodies joined as one, a throbbing explosion of unknown pleasure peaked and spread outward. It curled her toes and near stopped her heartbeat.

Walker groaned out something unintelligible and slammed into her, crushing her into the mattress, penetrating deeper, grinding his hips against her. Then he collapsed on top of her. Still big and hard and filling her fully, she pulsed and contracted around him.

“We’ve done it now, Trelayne,” he said, his voice calm yet somehow filled with concern. “There’ll be no easy way to break this marriage.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “we’ve certainly have done
it
. And
it
was wonderful.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Lucien threw the figurine against the wall, sending a cloud of splintered glass arching through the air. In the rays of the morning sun, it flittered downward like crystal rain.

Beatrice jumped and scurried from the room. She was smart to do so. Following another night of debauchery, he had a roaring hangover, and it was all because of Trelayne’s betrayal. This morning he sought someone, anyone, upon whom to take out his frustration and pain. Yes, pain. A torturous agony. On the evening of the Gala, Trelayne had sneaked away in the night like a common whore, leaving him standing stupefied and unfulfilled.

At first, in shock and disbelief, he thought she might have wandered off while he answered the bogus summons and waited like a fool at the front desk. But he knew she had been too incapacitated. Then he entertained the idea Spring Heeled Jack had gotten to her. But that didn’t make sense either. It had been a well-planned scheme, and someone had been her accomplice.

Yesterday morning he’d gone to Royston Hall only to be told she had gone away with her aunt. Another lie. Old Merrick, tightlipped as ever, offered no further information. So last night he’d gone on a bender, trying to forget, trying to save his sanity.

She had to have returned by now. Grabbing his coat, he slammed out of the flat. He’d get to the bottom of this yet. It was early morning and a not a suitable hour for a gentleman to visit. Who gave a damn? Not him. Not any more. He was through trying to do things according to protocol. Admittedly, he and Trelayne shouldn’t have been together at the Bond in the first place; still, he would demand an answer for her reprehensible behavior.

****

Dismounting, he secured his horse adjacent to the carriage waiting outside of Trelayne’s home. As he charged toward the house, the door opened and a woman took her leave, a spring in her step, a great silly smile upon her lips. It was Penelope, Trelayne’s closest friend. The woman was a nuisance, and had been a constant stumbling block in his campaign.

“Miss Penelope,” he said, forcing a civil tone into his voice. “You look as lovely as ever.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lanteen.” She paused, and although it seemed impossible, her smile broadened. “If you’ve come to see Miss Trelayne, I’m afraid you shall be disappointed. She isn’t here.”

“Still not in residence? Perhaps you would know when she is expected to return.”

“It’s rather difficult to say,” Penelope all but squealed, her hands clasped at chest-level as if to contain her excitement. “She’s on her honeymoon.”