Ashley stopped when he came in sight of the summerhouse. The dusk was deep now, almost darkness. But the door was open. She was sitting quietly on the sofa, he saw when he came closer.
•••
Itwas strange how the mind and the emotions could be so much at variance, she thought. All day her mind had told her that she was perfectly safe—Ashley and Luke, and Anna too, had kept a close eye on her; in fact, she had found it something of a strain to smile and relax and appear perfectly normal for their sakes. And all day her mind had told her that she had met Major Cunningham under unfortunate circumstances, ones that had shown him in the worst possible light. All day he had been friendly and charming. He had seemed a worthy friend of Ashley’s. Luke and Anna obviously liked him. The neighbors who had come for dinner were clearly delighted with him.
And yet her mind could not persuade the rest of her to put the morning’s incident behind her, to forget about it, to feel convinced that it could not happen again. All day her imagination had reenacted the scene—as it had been, as it might have been. As it might have been... Terror had lurked all day only just behind the calm, cheerful facade she had assumed so that she would not be confronted again with questions.
And all day she had debated with herself the desirability of confiding in someone—not Ashley, perhaps, but Anna. Or Luke. Perhaps they could help her decide if what had happened was something Ashley should know about, or if the telling would merely damage a friendship unnecessarily. It horrified her to think that such behavior might be commonplace among gentlemen. But she could not tell Anna. Her sister would be dreadfully upset—and she had upset Anna more than enough not much longer than a month ago. And she could not tell Luke. He might do something as drastic as challenging the major to a duel. Luke had once had the reputation of being a deadly swordsman, but Major Cunningham was an army officer. Fighting was his job.
All day she had kept her secret and hidden her irrational fears. But by the evening they were threatening to show themselves again. It was ridiculous really, she told herself. She was surrounded by people. There were guests in the house, and even when they left there would be Ashley and Luke and Anna—andhim.But as the light began to fade beyond the drawing room windows, she could think of only one thing.There was no lock on the door of her bedchamber.And her mind seemed quite powerless to tell her quite sensibly that he would not try to press his attentions on her any longer now that he knew who she was and now that he was beneath Ashley’s roof.
She had to get out, she knew. Outside where she would be safe. It was another irrational notion. The opposite was surely true. But she could not control the urge without giving in to panic and becoming hysterical in front of her family and Ashley’s guests. And so against all reason she slipped from the drawing room after making her silent excuses to Ashley and up the stairs to her room, where she changed into a plainer gown, removing her stays and her padded petticoat as she did so, and brushed out her hair. She drew a warm cloak about her even though she guessed the night would be warm, and slipped down the servants’ stairs and out through a side door.
She would go to the summerhouse, she decided. She could calm herself there, find peace there. Perhaps she would stay there all night so that she would not have to face the terror of that unlocked door. She felt no fear of the lonely hillside or of the fast-approaching darkness, even though she realized as she climbed that she had not thought to bring a candle with her.
The summerhouse was very warm; the heat of the day was still trapped inside. She left the door open and draped her cloak over the back of an upright chair. And she sat on the sofa and gazed out on the darkening scene beyond the window. After a few minutes she felt herself begin to relax. It was the first time she had relaxed since early in the morning when she had been sitting on the stile, wishing she had brought her paints with her.
Tomorrow, she thought, she would paint.
And then she felt the presence of someone else. Strangely, she felt no alarm. She turned her head and smiled. He was saying something, but the light was too dim for her to see. It did not matter. She did not want to talk. She did not want him asking her questions, discovering the answers in her eyes. She reached out one hand to him.
He sat beside her and held her hand. She could not have asked for more, she thought, than to be sitting here with him like this, quietly, peacefully, as they had done... was it just yesterday? Today seemed to have been a week long, a month long.
But the feeling did not last. Perhaps it had not been such a good thing for him to have come after all, she thought. Now that he was here, now that she was not alone to fight her own fears, she felt the return of terror, of the panic that had sent her hurrying through the library door and into his arms this morning. She leaned sideways so that her shoulder leaned against his arm. She rested her cheek against his shoulder.
He must have read the language of her body, she thought, as he could always read the language of her eyes and hands. He turned to her, transferring her hand from his right to his left, setting his right arm firmly about her shoulders, dipping his head close to hers. He was speaking again. She could not see what he said. She did not want to know. He had set two candles and a tinderbox on a small table as he came inside. She knew as soon as he moved that he was going to reach for them. But she grabbed his arm.
“No,” she said. “No, Ahshley.”
She did not want to talk. She wanted to hide, to be held close. She wanted to be a part of him, part of his strength. She did not want him to see her eyes. She closed them. She put an arm around his neck, urging him closer, and sought blindly for his mouth with her own.
His arm was firmly about her. His body was warm. His mouth was comforting, gentle. It was not enough. She parted her lips and touched his with her tongue. He drew his head sharply back and said something and got to his feet, drawing her up with him. She fit more comfortingly against him when they were standing. She linked both arms about his neck and leaned her whole weight into him. She could feel the barrier of his splendid satin evening coat and the heavily embroidered waistcoat beneath, and of his shirt and breeches. His arms were about her waist, his cheek against hers.
She realized she was sobbing only when he lifted his head and feathered soft kisses on her mouth. She could feel that he was talking or whispering to her. She pressed her mouth hard against his. Safety was close. So very close. A door had opened. All she had to do was step inside. But there was still the chance that the door would slam in her face or that danger would snatch her away from behind.
He held her with an arm while he caught up the folded blanket from one end of the sofa with his other arm and spread it on the floor. He tossed cushions at the end of it, then took her down with him until they were lying on the blanket, face-to-face. He held her close. She could feel the vibrations in his chest that told her he was still speaking.
He held her very close to him for a long time while she clung tautly, her eyes tightly shut. Then he turned her onto her back, sliding her almost beneath him as he leaned reassuringly over her. She could scarcely see his face in the darkness, but his hair was back, the length hidden inside the black silk bag, a ribbon bow holding it closed behind his neck. She pulled on the ribbon and freed his hair, so that it spilled about her face. He was lifting her skirt, removing undergarments, opening the front of his breeches.
For a moment she was reminded... And for a moment her mind touched upon sin and propriety and scandal. But only for a moment. She linked her arms loosely about his neck beneath his hair, and drew his mouth down to her own. His hand had parted her legs and his fingers were stroking her very lightly, very skillfully, so that the panicked need to make herself part of him, to hide in him, took on an ache of longing to be filled, to have the emptiness taken away.
“Ahshley.” She did not know if she had produced any sound to accompany the movements of her lips against his. “Ahshley.”
There was memory then. Memory of the hardness pushing slowly inside her, stretching her, of the man’s body covering her own, much of his weight pressing down onto her. Memory of her own body becoming part of someone else’s. Ashley’s. Memory of the depth of penetration. Memory of pain. But there was no pain this time. She lay safe beneath him, felt him still and deeply embedded in her, and closed inner muscles about him.
And then there was memory of the movements, of the repeated thrust and withdrawal of the body joined to hers. Movements that had hurt and hurt that first time, but this time did not hurt at all. She lay still, feeling safe, feeling cherished. Feeling the sheer physical pleasure of rhythm. It was slow and steady. Deep. Her hands played with his hair, her fingers twining themselves into it. She braced her heels against the floor and lifted to him and used her muscles again to match his rhythm. And the ache was back that his fingers had created. Except that now it was a raw pain that centered in the place where he worked and shot upward to tauten her breasts and farther upward into her throat. She moved her hips, urging him onward—and then her head lifted from the cushion to bury itself against his shoulder as the ache got beyond her. She felt every muscle tighten in her body before shuddering and shaking into a fall toward safety.
He was moving slowly again when she recovered herself. Ashley, making love to her. In the summerhouse. Still clad in all his evening finery. Making love to her because she had begged for it, demanded it. Because all day she had been terrified and lonely. Because this might have happened this morning with a stranger. It was not happening with a stranger. It was happening with Ashley because she had needed him and he had answered her need—as she had answered his more than a month ago.
She was warm, languorous. He felt good. So very good. He smelled good. He was Ashley. She pictured him behind her closed eyelids. The man who was so much a part of her heart that there would be nothing left of it if she ever tried to tear him away from it. She pictured him splendid and smiling as he had been this evening, dressed in a glorious shade of kingfisher blue with silver embroidery, his dark hair unpowdered, as she liked it best. He had looked not quite so thin, not quite so haunted tonight. It was he who was joined intimately now with her own body. He was Ashley.
She wondered what the morning would bring. Another offer of marriage? She would think of the morning when it came. She lifted her legs to twine about his. She would not be ashamed about this, though she knew he would be sorry. And she would always cherish the memory of this and the knowledge that it had been utterly wonderful. She would be able to put aside the memories of pain and soreness, and of guilt. And of failure. She had meant to comfort and had brought only suffering—to several people. This time she had been comforted. She would not feel ashamed.
His rhythm grew faster and he set a hand between them to touch her so lightly that she felt the effects more than the touch itself. There was that desire again, and that ache again. And the cresting and release of pain again—though it had not been exactly pain. But this time it was not quite mindless. She felt him hold still in her. She felt the gush of heat deep within. And she felt him relax his full weight on her.
She let herself slip into peace.
21
