constraint, but one with enough questions in his eyes to make her understand what it was he asked.
The fire of his appetite was easy to interpret. Such a masculine simplicity! For a second the very sincerity of it made her pause, no pretence or artifice, no false posturing at something else either.
Not love, but need, his man’s body bristling with something she did not understand yet, but knew enough to be wary about.
‘If you could be patient.’
He nodded stiffly, the bronze in his eyes brittle. All of a sudden the sheer and utter amazement of sharing a meal at night and alone was scintillating. Exhilarating.
No longer single, but married.
The very idea of it seeped through her body in an unexpected warmth, as her memory of the one kiss he had given her began to tug at a power deep inside. It overwhelmed her, this newness of being here, and she could barely take breath as a hot flush of what he might do to her again surfaced. Too raw. Too quick after such a day. A single trail of sweat ran between her breasts and the cream dress was not thick enough to hide what she knew with horror was suddenly on show.
Her nipples stood proud against the silk, pressing and swollen. What was it that a husband did to a wife in a marriage bed beneath the sheets under the cover of darkness?
She did not know. Had never known. Until now. Until a knowledge that was as old as time itself began to wind itself through an aching anticipation, the thickening throb of her womanhood making her languid, heavy.
If he saw he did not say anything, a man who had spent the day balancing her unhappiness, her cousins’ anger and her father’s uncertainty like juggling balls as he tried to get through a wedding he could hardly want, either.
Her mind remembered Lord Hawkhurst’s uncle’s words.
The longing in her body was replaced by a wooden fear of everything. Two strangers sharing a meal without any idea as to who each other was, their wedding clothes and rings only a ludicrous parody.
Just silence.
And then another sound.
‘Mr Lucas. Mr Lucas.’ A child’s voice from afar and as the door was flung open a small dark-haired girl bolted into the room, stopping briefly as her eyes sensed Lillian’s presence, but then regrouping.
‘You are home again. Mrs Poole said that we should wait until the morrow, but-’
‘We?’ He looked around just as she did and there at the door stood a more timid child, hair so blonde it was almost silver and eyes a wide pale blue.
‘Charity wanted me to wait, but she is so much slower I could not.’
The other child came forwards, a shy smile of gladness gathering on her lips.
‘Charity and Hope, this is Lillian Clairmont.’
Hope smiled at her, but the other child looked away.
‘We were married today at her country home of Fairley.’
‘This is your ring?’ Hope’s finger traced the band of gold on the hand that held her.
‘Indeed it is.’
‘Look, Charity. Isn’t it lovely?’ the dark-haired girl exclaimed and the smaller child nodded.
‘And the lady wore that…?’ A thread of something akin to disappointment startled Lillian, although Lucas did not seem to notice any criticism.
‘She did and she looked very beautiful.’
‘I will wear lace and silk and a tiara when I get married and I will have flowers in my hair.’
The appearance of a harried-looking governess at the doorway curtailed the amusements.
‘I am so very sorry, sir. The girls were told to stay in their room and I thought that they were there until I heard footsteps and followed the sound.’
‘Please could you come and tuck us in? Please, Mr Lucas.’
He looked at the time. ‘If you do not mind, Lillian, it is late and the girls…’
‘Indeed,’ she answered back, trying to keep her tone light. ‘They would obviously like you to settle them and I am very tired.’
He seemed to hesitate at that, as though he might have wanted to say more, but then thought again.
‘Then I shall bid you goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ Hope parroted, and they were all gone, just the bustling sound of them receding into silence.
Lillian stared at the closed door with a growing amazement. Goodness, she thought, and turned to lift the lurid purple eiderdown around her shoulders, the quilting on the back of it catching her eye with the very fineness of detail.
A movement to one side of the room made her start as a large grey-and-white cat padded towards her.
‘Shoo,’ she said, but the word did not seem to change the animal’s direction one bit as it lurched itself up on the bed, the sound of purring distinct and deep. Tentatively her hand went out, running across the thick fur, a quiet delight enveloping her.
‘I said shoo,’ she repeated, allowing the cat on to her lap even as she said it, the warmth of its body comforting in the cold of the evening. Soft paws pushed into her thighs, kneading the layers of silk and organza. Almost tickling.
The whole day had been a skelter of emotion. Up and down. This way, that way. Touching and distance. No true direction in any of it. She closed her eyes and breathed in, the ugly ring on her finger winking up at her with its bright deep red.
Damn, damn, damn, Luc thought, after he had tucked in the two children and gone back to his own room. The wilting ache of his body was as out of place here as his desperate attempt at ignoring the hard outline of Lillian’s breasts against silk.
Take it slowly, he thought. Give her the time she wants!
But even now he wanted to go back, wanted the promise of what could be, wanted to see the beauty of what lay beneath her dress, her nipples puckered with yearning. But he could not.
Careful, he thought. Go carefully. The reason for his ordeal at sea still worried him and the truth was not as yet such an easy path to follow.
He had married Lilly to save her reputation and any other feelings that were as yet unresolved lingered in a place he had no wish to explore. Had she had any hand in his disappearance? Had Jean Taylor-Reid acted alone? Did the woman have any true idea of the danger she had placed him in? Perhaps she genuinely thought she had bought passage for him to the Americas, an easy way of dealing with a problem that was becoming more and more complex.
The whole puzzle of it made him swear and he was tempted to open the brandy standing on his desk. But he didn’t.
He needed to trust Lilly and she needed to trust him.
If he took her virginity in the guise of a man who was not exactly as he promised he was, he knew she would never forgive him.
Damn, he said again as the knowledge of what he could have just missed out on settled in his stomach like a stone.
Taking a drink of Mrs Poole’s freshly made lemonade, he settled down to read the final part of Dickens’s Bleak House, the title appropriate for all that he was feeling tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
‘This hillock affords the best view of the place,’ Lucas said as they stopped atop a cliff. ‘I
