Page 37 of Wedding the Widow

Lips, soft and warm, met hers. The spicy familiar scent he always wore assailed her as she urged his mouth open. Yes, she had ever been greedy of his kisses. Why would that change now? She drank him in, like an elixir of life, taking strength from him one last time.

She had opened her eyes on the darkness of her room at Lyttlefield Park and had known she was truly awake. She expected the crushing grief that always followed these dreams to grip her once more. Instead, she’d been seized by a restlessness, tossing and turning about dry-eyed in the soft bed. Sad, yet somehow content, for she had bid Dickon farewell at last.

The bedclothes suddenly weighed her down. She thrust them back and sat up to light the lamp. She prowled over to the window, her bare feet shrinking from the cold floor. No sight of dawn yet. It should be light by now, not the middle of the night. Likely she’d sleep no more tonight, though she would dutifully try. She climbed back into the bed, tucking the covers around her. Now what?

Shadows danced in the corners of the room as Elizabeth tried to settle down after that disturbingly real dream. What had brought it on was obvious even to her: the turmoil in her heart over wanting a male presence in her life—a very specific male presence, to be sure. One she must confront on the morrow—or later today, in fact.

Jemmy’s handsome, boyish face and bright curly hair came to her mind’s eye easily, as if he actually stood before her. Just as he had two months before in this very room. Good Lord.

She slid down beneath the covers, resisting the urge to pull the sheet over her face. This had been her room during the October house party. The copy of The Monk had been on the nightstand then, and she’d been curious about it. Which meant that the bed she’d been sleeping in, been dreaming of kissing her husband in, was the same one in which she’d—gracious! She didn’t want to think of what they’d done in this bed.

Lord Brack. Jemmy. Though it was difficult, she must start thinking of him thus. The young gentleman had touched a chord deep within her when they’d melded their bodies. She’d no idea how hungry she’d been for a man’s touch, and Jemmy’s had been skillful, masterful. He’d been able to make her forget her grief for Dickon through the renewal of the carnal pleasures she’d enjoyed almost constantly when her husband had been in Town.

Oh, dear. The two experiences—passionate love with Dickon and equally passionate lust, stoked by that disgraceful pagan ritual—had begun to blend together, the one nearly becoming one with the other. Did she indeed wish to let go of the past? Did Dickon wish for their love to continue through her happiness? She had a high standard for any man to live up to in Dickon. Would Jemmy be able to take on such a daunting task? He seemed truly fond of her, magnanimously forgiving her for calling him by another man’s name. If one thought about it in just the right light, Jemmy could take it as a compliment that he could be so skillful as to make her believe he was Dickon at that final shuddering release of emotion. In any case, like it or not, they had shared the ultimate intimacy, and from that had come a child.

A child who would, perhaps, have riotously curly blond hair and a sunny disposition to match. So she must do her duty, her duty to the child, and perhaps to herself as well, to be happy. For her, for Dickon, for the baby. Happiness had been a stranger to her for so long she couldn’t admit that for her to be happy did not disrespect or betray her late husband’s memory. Rather it was his benediction for her to live her life and make her peace with him.

Peace, like a mantle of softest wool, settled over Elizabeth, embracing her even as she enfolded it in her heart. She rather hoped the peace would aid her to sleep again, but no. Ten minutes later, she still tossed and turned, mulling it all over again in her head. If she remained like this, she would go mad.

In desperation, she glanced at The Monk and shuddered. Many books were an aid to sleep; however, Lewis’s sensational volume did not have that reputation. On the contrary, if one wished to remain awake, some of the more lurid passages would certainly do the trick.

Throwing back the covers, she slid to her feet and thrust them into slippers. No one would be stirring at this hour. She would pop down to the library and find something more soothing to read. Donning her dark blue wrapper, she grabbed the big leather tome and the candle, and made her way downstairs.

The corridors were dim, shadows shrinking and growing as she passed through them. Thankfully, no one else seemed to be abroad, though the servants would be rising soon. Good. She could find her book and return upstairs without anyone seeing her and asking difficult questions she’d much rather not answer at the moment.

The door to the library stood open, its dark interior yawning before her like a great black mouth.

All the better to eat you with, my dear. Really, she must stop these fanciful thoughts. What on earth had gotten into her tonight?

She hurried forward, the candle wavering, casting huge shadows that seemed to twist and sway. Perhaps it was the book. The gothic nature of The Monk, what little she’d read of it, had infused her with these ridiculous, irrational fears. Best to get it out of her hands at once.

Glancing about at the towering shelves of books, she saw no gap large enough in the tightly packed volumes to suggest where The Monk belonged. As she moved from shelf to shelf, the silence of the room began to weigh on her. Maybe she should simply put the book on the library table for a servant to return to its proper place. She could choose another book to read at a later time. That would allow her to make a swift retreat to her room before her imagination got the best of her.

She padded softly to the polished mahogany table in the center of the room, to lay the book on it. In her haste, the edge of the leather binding slid off her fingertips and thumped onto the table with a loud, hollow thud.

“Who’s there?”

Elizabeth screamed, whirling toward the voice that boomed unexpectedly from behind the sofa that faced the cold fireplace. The candle flickered wildly and blew out, plunging the room into darkness. Who could be here at this time of night? Step by careful step, Elizabeth backed toward the door. If she could make it to the corridor, she could run for her room before the person could catch her.

“I say, don’t be afraid.”

The now-familiar voice stopped her as she reached the doorway. “Lord Brack?”

A quickly indrawn breath from the darkness. “Elizabeth?”

Relief washed through her, to be followed immediately by sheer panic. Jemmy was the last person she wished to see. What was he doing in the library in the middle of the night?

The scratch of flint and steel and a candle flared, revealing Lord Brack in shirtsleeves, blinking owlishly as he held the candlestick up. The flickering light illuminated his disheveled appearance—rumpled shirt, cravat hanging limply on either side of his neck, hair sticking up in unruly abandon.

Her heart thundered loudly in her chest.

“Elizabeth, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?” A concerned frown deepened as he set the flame down and strode quickly toward her. “Are you not well?” He grasped her hands. “Shall I fetch someone for you?”

Disarmed by his sudden nearness, Elizabeth reveled in the warm, strong hands on hers. The faintly salty male scent of him sent a wave of desire coursing through her, heating her from toes to eyebrows. Gasping at his touch, she whispered, “No, no, I am fine, my lord.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you, my dear.” His frown almost reached his nose now. “Your cheeks are flushed, and you’re trembling. You fainted in the church this morning. Obviously, you are not well.”

“I swear to you I am not ill.” She swallowed, trying to get moisture into a mouth gone dry as a desert. After so much time apart, the nearness of him quite went to her head. Dizzy with the excitement, she squeezed his hands and swayed toward him.