Mrs. Pidcock herself had bustled over to her last night and asked in a piercing whisper, “What was Mr. Darby talking to you about, Lady Henrietta? I should not like you to have your expectations raised by a London fortune hunter. Because he is.” Which was a slightly oblique way of reminding Henrietta that Darby didn’t know about her inability to have children or he wouldn’t waste his time wooing her.
Henrietta had patted her on the arm and told her, in the strictest confidence, that she rather fancied Mr. Darby had his eye on Lucy Aiken.
But Henrietta herself couldn’t stop smiling over the fact that Darby had actually considered her as a potential wife. Otherwise, why the compliments? Why dally at her table? Why talk of her hair, and her symmetry, and hold her hand? Why look at her with that slow and easy grin, as if he was thinking—
For a moment she felt the pulsing wash of despair that used to attack her when she was younger, a numbing longing to be normal. To be a girl like any other girl, free to marry and have children without making her life the payment.
But she was skilled at pushing away thoughts of that nature, and she did so now. That was not the point. The point was that she had met a truly attractive man who didn’t know about her disability—and he contemplated wooing her. Since she had spent her entire life in Limpley Stoke, where everyone knew her to be unmarriageable, it was a new experience. And new experiences, Henrietta told herself primly, are always advantageous.
She wandered over to the window, but the manicured lawns of Holkham House were hidden in the night. If Darby truly wooed someone, what a lucky woman she would be. He had lovely eyes. They even tried to tell her things, except she didn’t believe any of that nonsense. If he were really wooing her…
Over the years various of her friends had received love letters, usually the precursor to a formal request for her hand in marriage. A letter written by Mr. Darby would be far smoother and more sophisticated than the bumbling missives of a Wiltshire gentleman. He’d write a letter that would be sweet, and eager, and—
No. He was too beautiful, and he was clearly used to having women fall all over themselves begging for attention. He’d write a love letter that would be arrogant and assertive, and expectant.
Except he hadn’t really looked at her that way: as if he expected her to be his wife. It was more as if he thought there was something so delicious about her, about her lips or her nose or—she couldn’t even say. It was a sort of look that made a woman feel a squirming sort of warmth.
Not the sort of feeling that she, Lady Henrietta Maclellan, ever felt. Ever.
Feelings aside, Darby would write a letter that would make a woman feel desired. Beautiful, even though she was lame. Desirable, even though she couldn’t have children. Wanted. He had that lazy, calculating grin that told a woman she was beautiful. Even thinking of it gave Henrietta the oddest little shiver down her back.
She drifted over to her writing desk and sat down. She could almost see the letter in her head.
“My dearest Henrietta,” she wrote, and then stopped and chewed on the end of her quill for a moment. From what she’d read, quoting poetry in love letters was de rigeur.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Not that Shakespeare was her favorite poet. Henrietta had a secret passion for John Donne. Moreover, Darby was far too vain to adopt Shakespeare’s self-deprecating attitude. He would never assume that his beloved thought he was too old or not beautiful enough. She balled up the paper and threw it to the side.
Darby would only write a letter if he were forced to part from the woman he loved. Otherwise, he would just kiss her.
She started over with a fresh sheet of paper, thinking of her favorite poem by John Donne. “I do not go, for weariness of thee. Nor in the hope the world can show a fitter love for me.” Her eyes dreamy, she stopped and blotted her quill. Time to move from Donne’s to her own words. Or rather, to Darby’s words.
“Never will I find anyone I adore as much as you. Although fate has cruelly separated us, I shall treasure the memory of you in my heart. I would throw away the stars and the moon only to spend one night in your arms—”
She hesitated. The letter would have true poignancy if Darby had to leave her after spending the night together. When Cecily Waite ran away with Toby Dittlesby and they weren’t found by her papa until the next morning, it was generally recognized as a tragedy.
She squeezed in a word so that the line read, “I would throw away the stars and the moon only to spend one more night in your arms. I shall never sigh—” Die? These letters were harder to write than she would have thought. She sent a silent apology to the gentlemen whose literary efforts she had ridiculed in the past.
“I shall never meet another woman with starlit hair like your own, my dearest Henrietta. The dangerous beauty of your hair will stay in my heart forever.”
She stared at her head in the mirror for a moment. Her hair was obviously her best feature. Except possibly her bosom. Not that she ever wore dresses akin to Selina Davenport’s, but she privately thought that her chest was almost as bountiful, particularly if she jockeyed herself into a pair of stays like those Selina wore.
She dipped her pen into the ink again. If she wrote herself another letter she’d have to get some green ink. Colored ink was so elegant.
Time to finish the letter.
I never knew love until I met you; I never saw beauty until I saw you; I never knew happiness until I tasted your lips.
In different circumstances, she would have loved having a season, and receiving love letters. And writing them, she thought with a wicked little thrill. Replying to a gentleman’s missive was considered unforgivably fast, but surely if you were engaged to be married, you might exchange a letter or two.
Without you, there is no reason for living. Perhaps that was a little too overwrought. Oh well, it was just a pretense, after all.
Without you, I will never marry. Since you cannot marry me, darling Henrietta, I shall never marry. Children mean nothing to me; I have a superfluity as it is. All I want is you.
For this life and beyond.
Tears prickled Henrietta’s eyes. It was all so sad. Imagine Darby returning to London and living alone for the rest of his life, never marrying for love of her. She shivered as a draft from the window kissed her neck.
Then her common sense resurrected itself, and a little giggle escaped her lips. An image of the cool, reserved Darby floated in her mind’s eye. That champagne must have gone to her head! The man would collapse with shock if he knew about her letter.
It would serve him right. You could tell with one glance that Mr. Darby of Londontown would never fall in love. He was far too self-absorbed to love a woman the way she wanted to be loved: with devotion.
Henrietta was absolutely certain that one day she would meet a man who didn’t care about children. Who would love her so much that it didn’t matter. Not a fortune hunter like Darby. A man who would love her for herself, so much that all that children business wouldn’t matter.
Her hands stilled, folding up the letter she wrote to herself. It was a shame about Darby. He was perfect for her, in that he had the children she so desperately wanted. But he would never love her the way she deserved to be loved. His mouth literally fell open when she told him she couldn’t have children. It was rather pleasant, in a way, to befuddle an elegant Londoner.
He would probably marry Lucy Aiken, or some other heiress since he seemed to have taken Lucy in dislike. Lucy would have been kind enough to Josie and Anabel, although she would have likely left them in the country under the care of a nurse and governess.
Henrietta’s eyes prickled again when she remembered the sweet way Anabel said mama into her neck. Perhaps Anabel’s new nurse would make her wear wet clothing and she would get influenza and die. She shook herself.
That was absurd: naturally Darby wouldn’t hire another nurse with a propensity for leaving Anabel in wet dresses. And it wasn’t as if she were much better herself—tossin
g water onto little Josie! Even thinking about her lack of control made her feel ill. After all the time she had spent reading books on child rearing, and all the time she had spent in the village school.
What she could do was assist Mr. Darby in selecting a nursemaid tomorrow morning. He wasn’t fit to do it. Anyone could tell that he knew nothing about children. And since he knew about her hip, he wouldn’t judge her offer as too forward. She wrote:
Dear Mr. Darby,
I write to renew my offer to assist you in employing a nursemaid for Anabel and Josie. I would be more than happy to join you in interviewing nursemaids. If you do not wish to accept my assistance, I, of course, completely understand.
Yours in sincerity,
Lady Henrietta Maclellan
Henrietta folded up the letter and put it to the side, where a groom could deliver it the next morning. She couldn’t help a little smile at the thought of how different the two letters she had written that night were. She probably should discard the love letter. Except that it was likely the only such letter she would ever receive. She left it on her dressing table instead. She could show it to Imogen, and they could have a laugh over it.
11
A Midwinter’s Night’s Dream
Esme was having a dream. He’d come up behind her, quite silently, and put his hands on her shoulders. She knew who he was, of course, and she knew that they were alone in Lady Troubridge’s sitting room. After all, she’d had this dream many times before.
And the reality once.
They were beautiful hands, large and graceful. It would be lovely simply to lean back against his chest, to allow his hands to slip forward and round her breasts. But she had to tell him. This time at least.
She turned around, and his hands fell from her shoulders.
“You are not available, my lord. You are, in fact, engaged to my closest friend.”
“Only nominally,” he answered, unperturbed. “Gina has fallen in love with her husband. Even I can see that. I expect she will tell me tomorrow that she has decided not to annul her marriage.”
“I must also point out that I am not available.”
“No?” Marquess Bonnington caught one of her hands in his and brought the palm to his mouth. She trembled even at that mild caress.
Damn him for his beauty, for the emotion in his eyes, for the way his hands made her shudder with longing. “As it happens, I too am returning to my husband’s bed,” she said briskly. “So I am afraid that you have missed your opportunity. Strumpet today, wife tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed. “Returning does not imply immediate action.” He paused.
She said nothing.
“Do I understand that you are not yet reconciled with the estimable Lord Rawlings?”
At her small nod, he reached behind her and locked the door. “Then I would be a fool to miss the small opportunity that I have, would I not?”
His hands glided down her arms, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She’d forgotten something, forgotten to tell him something. But he had already taken off his clothes. Sometimes in this dream she watched him disrobe, and sometimes he would suddenly be there, naked amidst all the elegant furniture.
“Aren’t you going to undress?” he asked. His voice was husky. He had a big body, a rider’s body, which made her feel weak with desire just to look at it.
“Sebastian,” she said, and paused. She was experiencing the dream on two levels: her dream-self living it as if it were truly happening again, and her real self struggling to warn Sebastian. To tell him that she was returning to her husband’s bed the very next night. So he mustn’t come to her bed, ever. He mustn’t think that this…this encounter was for more than an evening.
He kissed her neck, and she felt his tongue touch her skin for an instant. His hair caught a golden sheen from the candles.
She looked up into his stern, familiar, beloved face. Kissing him was like drinking water after a long thirst. His mouth was so sweet, and so fierce, and she had longed for him forever.
She slid her hands up muscled arms, dusted with golden hair, to broad shoulders.
“May I act as your lady’s maid?” he asked.
She laid her face against his chest for a moment, savoring the beauty of the moment, the slight roughness of his chest against her skin. He smelled sun-dusted, as if he’d been riding. He smelled like male skin, like Sebastian.
He began nimbly unbuttoning her gown, his fingers slipping little caresses between buttons.
“Doesn’t it bother you that this is the first time you have done this?” she asked, with some curiosity.
He paused for a second in his nimble unbuttoning. “No. The process seems simple for most men, so why would it not be so for me? The action required of me does not seem complicated or difficult.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I am reputed quite an athlete, Esme. I trust I shall not fail you in the field.”
The dream Esme noted his incredible arrogance. Had the man no lack of confidence?
But the real Esme had been in Lady Troubridge’s sitting room before and knew that he wouldn’t fail her. That his prowess was greater, even on that very first try, than that of any man with whom she’d been intimate.
He slipped her gown from her shoulders, leaving her in nothing more than a few French scraps of lace, held together with little ties and bows that delicately begged to be undone.
His eyes had darkened to black. “You’re exquisite.”
She walked away from him, enjoying the swing of her hip, the fact that she could hear him breathing quickly. Reaching up, she pulled pins from her hair until it fell in a gentle swoosh to her pantalettes. Then she sank backward onto the couch with an exquisite feeling of abandon. And held out her hand.
“Will you join me, my lord?”
He was there before she took a breath. He didn’t seem to appreciate her French lace, because he pulled it off until she was quite naked, curling her toes into the carpet.
And then he just looked at her.
When he spoke, his voice made her jump. “I love you, Esme.” He pulled her forward, up and into his arms.
In some part of her mind, the real Esme knew that her dream had taken a curve, a turn from the truth. Sebastian didn’t love her.
But the dream Esme said, “As much as I love you, Sebastian?”
He smoothed the long line of her hip and thigh so that their bodies clung together.
“What about Gina?” she asked, feverishly aware that Gina was her best friend and his fiancée.
“Gina is in love with her husband. She will dismiss me,” he said, kissing her shoulder and drifting south. It was pure discovery for him, since Sebastian Bonnington had never understood the folly that leads to setting up a mistress, and had never met a woman who tempted him into foolish behavior. Until he met Esme, that is.
“You can’t…” She faltered. “You mustn’t…” The real Esme was trying very hard to remember what she had to tell him.
But he was licking an exuberant trail from her collarbone down…he was kneeling. And what he was doing with his mouth—
Her knees went to water, but collapsing on the couch seemed to be exactly what he wished.
“I’ve desired you from the moment I saw you. God, you are so beautiful, Esme. Every…every inch of you.” His voice was husky.
Her body trembled. Those hands had never touched another woman’s body, but they seemed to know exactly what to do. They stroked past her knees with a touch like wildfire.
“I have to tell you something,” she gasped.
“Not now,” he said, lowering his head again. Fire surged through her body, pleasure darting to her very fingertips.
“Seb—Sebastian.”
He didn’t even answer, and the dream Esme was utterly lost, curling forward to put her hands on his large body, to show him things he knew of but had never felt, heard of, but never experienced. Her breath was caught in her chest, unable to form itself into coherent words.
 
; But Esme herself, Esme Rawlings, widow of Miles Rawlings, was twisting and turning in her bed and it wasn’t from passion. She was caught in the dream, desperately trying to tell her dreaming self something—make her—
She woke up.
Woke up back in her body, not the lithe, sensual body that Sebastian Bonnington had been caressing, but her rotund, very pregnant self. Once again she had woken up before she could tell him.
A tear leaked down her cheek. She knew well enough why she kept dreaming about a certain evening last June, over and over and over again. Well, there were many reasons. One was that the child in her belly might well be the fruit of the night.
The second was that the child might well not be Sebastian’s, because the following night she and her husband had shared a bed for the first time in years, precisely in hopes of creating an heir.
Her hands restlessly soothed her lump of a tummy. The child seemed to be asleep as well. No little bumps tumbled against the sides of her belly to make Esme feel less alone.
It was so mortifying that while dreaming she always told Sebastian that she loved him, but she never told him to avoid her bedchamber the next night. She never managed to inform him that their affair must begin and end in that one night.
Because Sebastian had come to her room the next night. Startled them awake and led her husband to think he was a thief. And when Miles jumped on the intruder, his heart had given out.
They were familiar tears. They were familiar as the taste of bread, these grieving, guilty tears.
If only she hadn’t succumbed to Sebastian and betrayed her husband. If only she’d walked out of the sitting room when he started disrobing. If she hadn’t given in to the longing—
She sat in her bed and let sobs wrench her body as if she could physically expel her sense of responsibility.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been punished. Widowed. Pregnant. Not certain whose child she carried.