Chapter Eight
“I once played parlour games with a group of friends and four decanter’s of brandy. Don’t remember the games, but I did wake up in Covent Garden in only m’breeches.”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor.
Staring around at the people enjoying themselves at the dining table, Hestia wished them all to perdition.
What an awful idea to have a house party. No-one really wanted to be here, but they came because the request was made by the Earl of Rookdean. The mamas and their daughters had marriage to Rook on their minds; the men wanted his influence; the widows, well, they wanted his body. Hestia was…superfluous – even to her own husband.
She wanted to go home…to her son, to feel his sweet warmth against her skin and let his soft snoring ease her woes.
Tonight, she had placed herself the farthest away from Nathan that it was possible to be. She could only just see him at the end of the table, hidden behind a stone candlestick, and a rather nice arrangement of early, pink-blush roses.
He was requesting more wine from the footman, and Hestia frowned, as she noticed his hand was heavily bandaged when he held the glass to his lips. Nathan enjoyed wine, but wasn’t a great drinker – tonight he looked to be well on his way to being completely foxed.
Hestia sipped at her own beverage. He’s probably worrying I will attack him again, she thought wretchedly – there was no chance of that. As soon as this damn party was out of the way, she was retiring with Harry to one of their country estates – the one in Somerset was a favourite – leaving her husband alone in London. After the utter humiliation of last night, she couldn’t even bear to look at him.
The man next to her was wittering on about his coin collection, and she nodded absently, hopefully in the appropriate places. Ralph Mayden was actually quite sweet, and Hestia had purposely placed him next to herself, as she’d begun to think he may be family soon enough. She eyed Rook placing tender cuts of meat onto Clara Lockwood’s plate; he was besotted, she thought wryly. She had seen women come and go over the years but never had one seemed to capture, not only her brother’s desire, but his mind as well. Hestia could only approve: she liked Clara tremendously, and only hoped she could stand up to her brother’s sometimes domineering attitude.
Watching, she saw Clara give Rook a small smile and then talk to the man on her other side – the girl was holding back for some reason. Probably sensible, Hestia acknowledged forlornly – chasing after men didn’t work.
The previous night’s disaster came to mind. God! what had she been thinking? The evening had become rather raucous with the songs, but she saw her husband slip away near midnight. She’d followed him and watched as he’d wended his way to the small box room in the west wing. His valet, Pritchard, had appeared, and just as quickly disappeared – she couldn’t blame him – that room was awfully small.
She’d checked herself in the mirror. The green dress brought out the depth of her eyes, and Nathan always said he couldn’t resist their colour… She wasn’t quite sure what she hoped to accomplish: To talk? To listen? Just to be held? She had taken a deep breath and opened his door.
He’d been washing and didn’t hear her enter, despite the small space. Hestia had admired his muscled torso, as water sloshed down his shoulder blades and droplets clung to the small of his back. He was not a big, broad man like Rook, but slender and sinewy. Boxing and riding had left him with muscled arms, and Hestia swallowed hard – how had she ended up marrying this beautiful man?
“Nathan,” it had come out as a squeak. Pathetic!
“Nathan,” she’d said louder, hoping it sounded… seductive.
Swinging round, a towel at his face, Hestia had felt her heart skip – his chestnut hair was damp at the edges and stubble had appeared on his cheeks. He looked slightly rough, and she felt her limbs shiver with desire.
“Hestia…what are you doing here?” His voice had been slightly gruff as well – too many cheroots and brandy, she’d surmised. Hestia had walked towards him slowly, and she’d seen his eyes darken – maybe he wasn’tsounaffected by her.
Hestia remembered with utter clarity, even sitting here at this dining table with guests around her, the smoothness of Nathan’s chest, as she had laid her hand on him. She’d trailed her hand down his arm, first feeling the firm muscles. It seemed as though he hardly breathed, he’d been so still. She had whispered her hand back across his chest, and then headed lower, grazing the back of her hand over his stomach.
She hadn’t gone for that. Her intentions had been nobler, but she’d heard the hiss from his mouth and stepped closer, her breasts touching his chest. He still didn’t move an inch, and Hestia had leaned in, kissing his collarbone and then lightly biting – exactly how he liked it.
The reaction had been instant. Suddenly, Hestia had felt herself propelled hard against the door. For a moment she’d thought it was to throw her out, but no. Nathan’s mouth descended on hers – bruising and hard – his tongue stabbing into her mouth with ferocity and strength. A strangled moan erupted from him, and she’d felt her hands caught and held above her head. His mouth had headed down her body, biting and nipping over the thin, emerald satin. Their mouths met again, and she’d felt his body thrust her against the door, his hips slamming into her with wild abandon. Teeth nipped hard at her neck, and Hestia hadn’t been able to withhold her moan,
“Nathan, Nathan my love…” Abruptly, he’d stilled at her words, his breath panting against her neck. Nathan’s hands had clenched rigid around hers…and then he had let her go.
He’d stood away; his face was hard. That rough edge, which she had desired only moments earlier, now seemed cruel and implacable. He closed his eyes and turned away, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her.
“Nathan, what –”
“You shouldn’t be here, Hestia. Go back to your room.” His voice, Hestia had thought, was flat and steady, even after… “I don’t want you here,” he had continued coolly.
“We have to talk, Nathan. Just now…” she’d pleaded.
“I’m drunk, anyone would do.” Hestia held her hand to the pitiless pain that stabbed her chest at his words.
“Why?” she’d whispered and watched his shoulders, as he simply shrugged dismissively. “There is no need to continue conjugal rights together: we have Harry now.”
“Conjugal rights!” Hestia had snapped harshly. “Is that all I ever meant to you? The begetting of an heir?”
He’d shrugged again, and Hestia had wanted to rip into him, to scratch that pristine back to bloody ribbons – the way he was doing to her heart.
