What was that banging?
She followed the repetitive clatter back to Lady Mayfield’s room. She knocked, though she was quite certain Lady Mayfield had yet to return, then inched the door open. Lightning flashed, lighting up the room, and in an instant, she identified the problem. The windows had been left open and the shutters not lashed down. Rain and wind were blowing into the room. Hannah ran forward and began drawing in one window then another, latching them closed. The rain was coming in at a nearly horizontal angle—fat droplets splattered her face and neck.
Suddenly, Sir John appeared beside her, clearly drawn inside by the banging shutters as she had been. Or perhaps in the hope his wife had returned. Setting down his candle lamp in haste, he began latching the upper shutters, while she closed the lower halves. They worked together, passing closely, hands accidentally brushing as each reached for the last shutter.
“To leave open the windows on such a night...” Hannah muttered, shaking her head. Suddenly aware of her wet face, she grinned ruefully. “Here I thought we were the ones safe and dry indoors tonight.”
He remained silent, expression tense.
Nervous to be alone with him in Lady Mayfield’s bedchamber, she prattled on. “I shall ask Mrs. Peabody to remind the housemaids to be more careful in future, shall I?”
He merely stood there, looking at her.
She asked, “Is the carpet wet? Perhaps I should gather a few bath towels, and—”
“Leave it.”
She turned back in surprise, regarding him by the light of his nearby candle.
He said, “I don’t care about the carpet, but you are damp through.” He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, then lifted it toward her face. “Allow me.” With one hand, he lightly took her chin between his thumb and fingers. With the other, he gathered a corner of the thin cloth and softly brushed her forehead, then her cheeks.... Her heart began to accelerate, nerves tingling at his touch.
“I hope your freckles will not rub off.”
She chuckled mournfully. “If only they would. The bane of my existence.”
He tilted her chin to better regard her complexion in the lamplight. “They’re charming. You’re quite beautiful.”
“Ha.” She shook her head. Pretty, maybe. But no one besides her mother had ever called her beautiful. “With this long nose and wide mouth? Hardly.”
He ran the cloth down her nose. “Distinctive.” Then he slowly ran it across her lips and whispered, “Desirable.”
Their eyes met and locked. His fingers within the gauzy cloth lowered to her neck and trailed along her collarbones, stroking the bare skin above the modest bodice of her gown. She could hardly breathe. How wide the blacks of his eyes were in the flickering light. Intense with longing, yet tinged with uncertainty.
She didn’t move.
He lowered his head slowly, gaze flicking over her eyes, her face, her lips. She didn’t run or back away. She barely even blinked. He touched his lips to hers, softly, tentatively. A rush of sweet, heady longing filled her.
When she did not object, a spark flared behind his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers more fervently, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against him. How tense his body was. How nearly frantic his endless kiss.
Suddenly he tore his mouth away, grabbed her hand almost roughly, and opened the adjoining room door. He paused only long enough to turn back for the candle lamp, then pulled her along behind him through his own dressing room and into his connecting bedchamber—a room she had never been in before. He shoved the door closed behind him with his foot and then he was kissing her again.
A small voice within her whispered this was wrong. That it was not too late. She could tell him to stop, break away, and retreat to her own room. But she gave the voice little heed. Perhaps it was the sweet port, the violent storm, his wife’s callous infidelity, or the fact that she could give him something he had been refused for far too long. Or perhaps she simply allowed herself to be swept away in the moment, on a foreign feeling of power and desirability.
His hands slid up under her arms, then slowly downward, to the deep indentation at her waist and slight flare of slim hips. He sighed deep in his throat and tilted his head the other way, fervently renewing his kiss.
The timid, stolen kisses she had once shared with Fred seemed like child’s play in comparison. She stood on her tiptoes—he was so much taller than she—allowing her shy fingers to touch the hair at the nape of his neck. Then she slid her hands tentatively down his shoulders to his chest. His coat and waistcoat did not conceal the firm muscle beneath. She ran her hands up over his shoulders and down the ropey muscles of his arms before returning to his chest. She had never touched a man before, except to embrace a youthful Freddie several years ago. His skinny, wiry frame had felt nothing like this.
Sir John lowered his head, kissing her neck, her shoulder.When she gasped, he returned his mouth to hers, perhaps afraid she was about to speak reason into the unreasonable, and stifled any protest with his kiss.
Suddenly he reached down, placed one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and swept her up into his arms with ease. Holding her, he gazed into her eyes. “Beautiful Hannah.”
Had he called her his wife’s name by mistake, or no name at all, she might yet have resisted him. But the sound of her given name in his deep voice, said with such feeling, such warmth ... She was lost.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, and he carried her to the canopied bed.
Hannah awoke with a start some time later. Outside, the storm had subsided, but it was still dark. What had awakened her—had a door slammed? Had Lady Mayfield returned home at last? Then suddenly she remembered. Where she was. With whom. And what they had done. All the desire and heady power dissolved into guilt and shame. And fear.
Pushing Sir John’s arm gingerly from her waist, she swung her legs over and climbed from bed. Still wearing her stays and shift, she stepped into the discarded gown and pulled it up over her shoulders and straightened her skirts as best she could. Her hair was down, the pins who knew where. She hoped whichever housemaid found them would assume they were Lady Mayfield’s. Hannah crept around the room until she found her stockings and shoes. She slid on her shoes barefooted and bunched the stockings in one hand. Going to the main door, she listened, and, hearing nothing, slowly opened it. She allowed herself one last look at the slumbering Sir John, but could see little save a dim outline in the dark room. The candle lamp had long since burned itself out.
