Viola was plainly taken aback by this news, and murmured some incoherent response; Richard could only be grateful for Lord Marchett’s intervention, for once. The Earl raised what Mr Armstrong could not help but see as a satirical eyebrow, and said with a touch of impatience that it was time he was away, and any awkwardness was lost in the flurry of farewells. By the time his carriage had rolled away, Edward had said it was time for him to leave also, or it would be pitch-dark when he reached his destination. He made his way round to the stables for a less ceremonious departure, brushing away with a sudden vagueness his wife’s insincere offer to come and see him off. The pair were left alone, save for the servants, looking at each other in silent consternation.
They wandered into the library and sat by the fire, both chilled. ‘Thompson did come in and ask to see him urgently when we were at the breakfast table,’ Richard told her. ‘So it could be true, but it seems an odd coincidence all the same.’
‘It may all be true, but it’s still a pretext to leave us alone together,’ she said, her voice rich with contempt directed at her husband. ‘I do not believe he would normally go haring across the countryside in February because a few sheep have a cough. He has people to tend to such matters for him, surely. I know he does. Perhaps in the end, he cannot stomach the idea of being in the house while we… Or perhaps, and more likely, Lord Marchett has told him that if he insists on make a cuckold of himself, at least he need not be present while it happens.’
‘Is it going to happen, Viola? You weren’t sure last night.’
She looked at him, straight in the face, and then incredibly, she smiled. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘If you want me, I am yours, even if it can only be for a night or two, and then we must part forever.’
17
Having taken that decision made a difference, Viola found. No matter that she had been manipulated into it, almost pushed into her lover’s arms, no matter that when she thought about Edward, she felt sick and angry; still, she was choosing this for herself. She would not think now about the fact that she might be also giving Winterflood what he wanted – that didn’t seem to signify much at the moment. This was whatshewanted, and what Richard wanted, and tonight, that would be all that was allowed to matter. Something for themselves.
It was a day of flirting, of pretending that she was as free to flirt decorously with the man of her choice as any other girl her age. The reflecting pool was frozen still, and Richard found skates in some cupboard that he remembered from his childhood. Once they had strapped these metal contraptions securely over their boots, he took her out on the ice, both of them bundled up against the penetrating cold. He was a superb skater, and she was indifferent at best, wobbling comically at first and clinging to him, but he held her and did not let her fall. Once she became a little more confident and steadier on her feet, they glided together in exhilarating motion – like dancing in a ballroom, but so much better, fast and breathless and always with an edge of danger.
When they began to feel the cold and the sun was setting in an orange ball behind the bare tree branches of the park, and the white mist rising, they went inside and took tea by the fire. It was all very sedate, but occasionally, her hand would brush his, or his hers, and always their glances locked and held, their eyes bright with promise and with their ever-present desire for each other.
After tea, she bathed, lying in the cooling water and soaping herself slowly and languorously, anticipating his touch, refusing to think any further than the night ahead. She wanted to array herself in her best for their first dinner tête-à-tête, but resisted the temptation because her maid would undoubtedly think it odd to see her dressed as if for some special occasion. She chose instead a blue silk gown that he had admired when she had worn it a few days earlier. It was embroidered with tiny brilliants around the neckline and the sleeves, and she wore no jewellery with it. Everything she had, apart from a simple locket from her mama, belonged really to Edward – had been worn by his other wives first, and would be worn by other unknown women after her. She would not go to Richard decked in another man’s diamonds.
They were waited on by the footmen over dinner, and so could discuss nothing but commonplaces, but there was a pleasure in that too – every word, every look, had an underlying meaning, and though his hands could not caress her, his eyes did. For the sake of appearances, she left him to sit in solitary splendour over the port she knew he did not care for, and it was worth the brief time alone – it was very brief – to see the glad expression on his face when he came to join her. They played silly card games together for ridiculously high and entirely imaginary stakes, laughing over their hands and teasing each other over mistakes as they had never been able to do when Edward was present. It was a piercing reminder that there was happiness in the world, that even this place where she’d almost lost her mind need not be quiet and miserable unless it was made so, and she found herself consciously storing away the memories against the lonely years ahead. She tried not to wonder if he was doing the same; his life was so much fuller than hers, she must think it unlikely.
Eventually, the clock struck ten, which seemed to her to be a reasonable time for a respectable lady whose husband was absent to go to her chaste bed. She said goodnight to Richard and climbed the stairs, a small figure amid such grandeur, alone as always but for once not lonely, ignoring, as ordinarily she could not, the intimidating marble magnificence all around her – the statues brought from Rome, the vast battle scenes, the writhing gods and goddesses in the frescoes on the ceilings high above her, the displays of ancient weapons. Tonight, they were not real and she was.
Her maid came to help her undress, and she tried very hard to behave as though it was just a normal evening like any other. Jennings was a woman in her thirties, small in stature and quick in her movements, always quiet and respectful, highly skilled at her profession, and a complete mystery to Viola. She’d tried in her loneliness to prise anything more than commonplaces from her attendant, and thus she was aware that Mary had grown up on the estate and had several siblings and her parents still living, but she knew nothing more. She did not doubt that the woman had opinions of her own about everything, including her new mistress, but it was impossible to divine what they might be. The new Duchess suspected, with no basis for these suspicions, that Mary Jennings had been Elizabeth’s abigail for years, and a particular favourite of hers, but if she was glad to find herself serving her successor, or if she found each day a trial and an affront, Viola had not the least idea. It was impossible to dislike her, since she displayed no personality traits apart from diligence, competence and courtesy, and equally impossible to like or trust her. She, after all, was not really the woman’s employer, but a mere newcomer.
She’d never had a maid before, not even a shared one, and her new personal servant had been selected for her without any consultation, presumably by Edward or the equally enigmatic housekeeper, the intimidating Mrs Bradford. If either of these women ever had a choice to make over where their loyalty lay, it would be foolish in the extreme to assume that they would chooseher. At best, their allegiance was to Winterflood as some kind of abstract idea, but more likely, it was to Edward, and to his regrettably dead second wife. So she must never relax her vigilance in their company.
Once the maid had left her, she tried to sit calmly as she waited for the house to fall quiet and for the servants to retreat to their own quarters for the night. It was clearly inadvisable for Richard to come to her, for reasons to do with the state of the linens when the housemaid came in in the morning that were too sordid to put into words, even in her own mind. She would go to him, as soon as she felt it safe to do so. And she was glad to do it, because it was so very different from lying in her bed and waiting to see if Edward would appear or not. She would be active, not passive, for the first time ever. The fact that it might also be the last was something she pushed resolutely from her mind.
Eventually, she thought that she would be safe from detection as she could be, and wrapped herself in her robe, taking up her candle and very carefully closing her chamber door behind her. There was no point locking it – a locked door would give her away as completely as an empty bed, or a bed occupied by what the world would call the wrong man. She crept along the passageway, her heart in her mouth, until she reached her destination. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and went inside.
18
Richard was waiting for her, dressed in his robe, and he came to her as soon as she entered. ‘The maid has been and warmed the bed with the pan,’ he told her. ‘We are safe.’
‘If only that were true,’ she said, and pulled down his head so that she could kiss him with fierce urgency. It was different, doing that here, both of them lightly clad, both of them knowing that they need not stop. She gave free rein to all the desire that she’d been feeling for him over the last week or two, her tongue in his mouth, her hands fumbling for the fastening of his robe. She found it and released it, pushing it from his shoulders so that it fell to the floor, and discovered that he was gloriously naked beneath it. ‘I want to touch you,’ she said against his mouth, her hands exploring his broad chest. ‘I want to know you, and for you to know me. I want you to show me the things that people do when they aren’t coming together with one purpose in mind, and that purpose very little to do with pleasure.’
‘Viola,’ he said, ‘my love, my darling, it shall be exactly as you wish. We don’t have to do anything at all that would fit with Edward’s plans, if you don’t want to. There are many, many things that we can share that will give us both all the pleasure in the world and yet not risk giving him what he wants from us.’ He was unfastening her robe too as he spoke, and caressing her body through the thin fabric of her night-rail.
‘I want to do everything,’ she said, unfastening the buttons of the flimsy muslin garment, aware that every minute was important when the time they had was so brief. ‘These two nights with you will be all I have, I fear. I want to know passion as I have not yet, and if it does bring me a child, whether it is his precious heir or not, that will be a comfort too, and a reminder of you when you are gone. I had reconciled myself to having his child – why in the world would I not want yours instead, as long as I am able to choose it freely for myself? But I don’t want to think about him or talk about him any more, only about you. There is no one in the world but you and me tonight.’
‘Come to bed, my love.’
They slipped naked between the sheets, and he pushed them back so that he could look at her, all of her; they had neither of them blown out the candles, and this was new for her, and exactly what she wanted.
‘You are so beautiful, it breaks my heart,’ he said, and then his lips claimed hers as his hands explored her.
Edward had never kissed her as he kissed her – she had not wanted to make comparisons, but it was impossible not to, because she had never felt worshipped before, and the pleasure she had known had been but a pale shadow of this. She touched Richard too, and explored his beloved body with her mouth and her hands, imprinting every inch of it upon her mind so that she would always remember. And when their passion had exhausted them, they slept naked in each other’s arms, and that was new for her too.
19
Richard had developed a useful habit of coming wide awake very early in the morning, fully alert in an instant and ready for anything the day might bring at the sort of ungodly hour when most people were fast asleep, dreaming and defenceless. Often, the path he had chosen in life – or perhaps it had chosen him – meant that he was obliged to sneak away when nobody else was up and about to catch him. Sometimes, he needed to explore and map the place he happened to be staying in, unobserved; sometimes, there was a vital object or objects – papers, usually – that must be stolen and concealed, or copied and put back, as the case might be. Once or twice, there’d been violence to be done: a smothering cloth, a blade in the dark, and then an innocent return to bed.
This late February morning brought a different kind of anxiety; though he had not the least desire in the world to drive her away, Viola had to be awakened and sent back to her cold chamber, so that she could make a credible pretence of sleeping in it once more to ensure that the servants suspected nothing. Or, to be painfully accurate, if indeed they suspected something already, as well they might, given the Duke’s recent peculiar behaviour, she must make certain that their suspicions couldn’t be proved correct by any physical evidence, such as a missing duchess and an empty bed.
God knows he wished she could stay. If she were his wife, he wouldn’t be on the other side of the county peering at sickly sheep in a freezing field. Let some other poor bastard do that. She was warm and glorious in his arms, and when he kissed her tenderly awake, she responded with such instant trust and passion that they made love again, fast and urgent and fiercely, heart-shakingly moving. And then she slipped reluctantly from his embrace, dressed herself in the dark and left him, after more lingering kisses, not forgetting to take her burnt-down candle with her so that it too would be in its proper place if anyone thought to check. He rolled over to where her warmth lingered and buried his face in the pillow that held the scent of her hair. Which, of course, had much better be gone by the time the maid came to make the bed.
They did not meet at breakfast. He ate alone, but when she did appear, they went riding together as they had so often done before, and later took luncheon. It was bitterly cold today, an icy wind cutting across the frozen landscape and sneaking into the house here and there to make one shiver. They spent the afternoon reading quietly in the library rather than going out onto the ice or for a walk. They didn’t have a great deal to say to each other in this semi-public place, and anyone who happened to see them together would have sensed a certain constraint between them, such as might easily fall between a young married woman and a male relative she didn’t know very well with whom she had unexpectedly and awkwardly been left unchaperoned in her home. That wasn’t the true cause of their discomfort, of course – in reality, it was the shared knowledge that tonight would be the last that they could be sure of spending together. Tomorrow was Friday, and Edward had said he would be back. Perhaps they might have a final stolen night, if he failed to return, but they could not assume as much until late the next evening, and perhaps not even then. They neither of them wished to grow complacent, or to play out some farce where he caught them together because they had been careless. Would he simply turn and walk away, or would he be hypocrite enough to pretend he minded? Would they be disgusted by his falseness and tell him that they knew what he was about, provoke an argument – and what then? Viola, who was nothing less than trapped here, should not be put in such a precarious position.
