‘Don’t.’
‘I should leave, or I might assault you again,’ he said abruptly.
‘You could swear not to. Please, Rawden. I am too raw, too full of feeling to be alone.’ Grace reached out and took his hand. ‘Please stay, Rawden.’
He sighed. This is what women did - binding a man with soft, clinging ropes of pity. How could he resist temptation when it was not in his nature?
Grace was sure Rawden would leave her, but then he climbed back into bed and folded her into his arms. Grace pressed her head to his hot chest, and his arms enveloped her. It was awkward to lie there with an almost stranger, to feel the heat of his skin warm her own, so she tried to lie as still as possible.
‘It has been a long day. Go to sleep now,’ he said, and Grace was in such a fever of confusion that she could not think of a way to soothe him. Rawden had retreated from her as quickly and surprisingly as he had advanced. And within moments, his breathing slowed, and he found oblivion. Grace could not.
She could hardly believe she had ended up in Rawden’s arms and let him take all manner of liberties. His body had been shocking. His chest was hairy, like a dog’s and as to the rest of him, well, that was almost too shameful to think about. Grace bit her lip. How could the married ladies of her acquaintance present such untroubled countenances to the world having regularly endured such a carnal mauling?
She frowned into the darkness at the strangeness of Rawden’s manhood – so heavy, hard and unyielding, like marble, but so warm to the touch as if a fire burned inside it. His manhood was an invading army wreaking havoc on her flesh, and it was a bloody, messy business. A slippery ache lingered between her thighs. Yes, there was a violence to it, but beyond that, a sinful ecstasy, a surge of pleasure, as if she had left all she was behind and become a wanton version of herself – all raw feeling and abandon. She breathed in the scent of Rawden Voss in the darkness and realised that she wanted Rawden’s hands on her, to have him inside her again.
How could she feel so much for a stranger? Their bodies had connected, but beyond the physical, there had been a shared pleasure and a coupling more intimate than the carnal. It was as if they had seen inside each other’s souls. Grace smiled to herself in the darkness as a tiny spurt of happiness and wonder took hold. She frowned at it, for such feelings were strangers to her, and then snuggled closer to Rawden.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grace stared down at her tray of burnt toast, kedgeree and hard muffins, which Reeves had brought for breakfast. Thank goodness it was all accompanied by a pot of hot chocolate, or else it would stick in her throat when she tried to swallow it. She drank the chocolate and gagged. It was sludgy and overly sweet, but her stomach growled in hunger, so she forced down a bite of toast.
Reeves had grudgingly prepared it when she had come sheepishly down the stairs in search of Rawden, only to be told that he had gone out. Enquiries as to his possible whereabouts gleaned nothing from this servant other than, ‘Don’t know. I am not his keeper. He comes and goes as he pleases. Rushed off on urgent business, he did, first thing.’
‘I see. And what am I to do all day?’ she had said.
Reeves had shrugged. ‘Not my business. I told the Earl that I am no lady’s maid. I cannot be dealing with women’s business, so why should it fall on me to tend you? Now I am for the market. Best stay in as the weather is filthy, but if you want to go visiting, venture outside and hail a carriage.’
The rattle of carts and carriages and the hoard of people in the street outside assaulted her nerves. ‘But I never did such a thing in my life,’ declared Grace.
‘Well, there’s nought I can do about it until I get back,’ the infuriating man had said, and with that, he had taken himself off.
Grace cast her rock-hard toast onto her plate with a clatter, which seemed to echo about the cavernous house. Reeves was the worst servant she had ever encountered. And how could Rawden leave her after what they had done last night? Was she already abandoned just a day into her marriage? She must have disappointed him somehow, or did he consider her a slattern for giving herself to him? Well, it served nothing to sit here all day while she withered inside with hurt feelings and boredom. Over the summer, she had become accustomed to organizing her uncle’s life and running his house. As Rawden’s wife, her duty was to do the same.
Rawden’s passion crept back into her mind as she sat alone in the brooding house. To be married was such a strange affair, and Grace could not untangle her feelings – confusion, wonder, anticipation at his return, and a strong taint of shame. Grace found herself longing for a sight of his snarling, handsome face, those flashing, sardonic eyes – so devilish, yet tender now and then. Yet she dreaded Rawden’s return in equal measure, for that handsome face could curl into a lofty sneer of disapproval instantly, those eyes could flash with icy anger, and his words could cut like a knife. And she had just opened her legs and let him inside her to do as he wanted.
‘Oh, get a grip, you fool,’ she said aloud.
She must calm down and count her blessings. What were they exactly? Well, for one, she was not poor and walking the streets. She was married to a rich and handsome man with a roof over her head, albeit a dark, gloomy one – both man and house. Uncle Charles’ many petty cruelties could no longer reach her.
Grace acknowledged that she was lucky in many ways. Oh, but her handsome, rich husband was a stranger who had married her on sufferance. She was a man’s possession and slave, to be housed, clothed and fed according to his wishes. He had dominion over her body and could use it and place it wherever he liked for his pleasure. She had no agency, no money of her own and no means of earning any. Was she to become a shadow of a person, an appendage, a ghost?
She stood up with a burning face and an urgent need to take her mind off her disgraceful behaviour with Rawden, a man who obviously cared nothing for her. All was still quiet in the house, save for the hum of activity from the street outside, so Grace made her way through it, trying to get the measure of the man who had married, bedded and abandoned her all in one day.
Causton House yielded no joy on further exploration. It was a graceless, empty place, and beyond the parlour downstairs, it boasted room after room left empty, curtains drawn, dust sheets flung like lurking phantoms over furniture, the air musty. Upstairs was no better. Most of the bedrooms were similarly bereft, save one, which she supposed must be Rawden’s.
It had a cell-like quality and was more suited to a monk than an elegant man about town. The only comfort was a huge, canopied dark-oak bed and a tatty armchair, its upholstery shiny from prolonged use. His clothes were draped over it. Grace picked up his shirt and sniffed it. There it was, that delicious manly smell from last night when his body had covered hers – musky, strong, so alien.
Besides that, there was little to illuminate the man she had married, as he seemed to live a sparse existence. Shaving implements lay about a small table along with a wine glass with a dried red puddle in its base. So, the Devil shaved and drank wine, but other than that, she learned nothing from her snooping. This was no home, no comforting nest to retire to for sanctuary. It almost seemed as though, by denying himself basic comforts, Rawden was in some way doing penance.
She could stand the emptiness of the house no longer. Surely, Reeves must be back by now, so Grace went downstairs to the kitchen. But it was deserted, and Reeves’ lair left a lot to be desired. The walls were black with age and cooking fumes, and the floor was dirty. A quick peer out of the window revealed a small garden, overgrown with nettles, its stone walls spongy with moss and the gravel path almost swallowed by weeds. A rank breeze blew in under the kitchen door, ripe with river rot and damp. But the kitchen was cosier than the echoing emptiness upstairs, with a small fire and a grey-muzzled dog lounging before it, which continued dozing with insulting indifference. Grace was loathe to return upstairs, as every creak of the floorboards or rattle of wind on the panes made her heart leap.
Grace eyed the dog in dismay. ‘Well, you are not much in the way of company,’ she said aloud to comfort herself. A noise came from upstairs, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck, but the dog did not move, so she calmed a little. She went over, squatted beside it, holding her skirts out of the dirt, and patted its warm head. It shrank from her at first, but eventually, the dog pressed its head into her hand and rolled onto its belly. Its tail thump-thumped against the floor.
‘That’s better. It seems you are a little starved of company, too,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness you are here.’ She scratched its belly, and it flicked out a long tongue, leaving a trail of slime on the hem of her dress, but she did not mind.
A loud and urgent banging on the kitchen door made Grace shriek and freeze. The dog started barking, hackles up. The banging came again, shaking the door on its hinges. Whoever wanted entry they were in a fearful hurry. Grace leapt to her feet, heart thumping, and hesitated. The banging continued and was unbearable, so she rushed to the door, slid back the bolts and flung it open.
She was confronted with a blonde woman, garishly dressed, with her hands on her hips. She wore an expression of utter desolation on her face, which was painted like a doll’s. Her hard eyes roamed all over Grace, from head to toe.
