A Regency Christmas Carol (15 page)

She kissed him back, as he had been kissing her, touching each feature of his face with her lips and tongue before settling on his mouth and losing herself in it. Being with Joseph was more than just passion. It was a solution, an answer, the opening of a locked door. It was right, no matter what her head should be telling her.

They parted for breath and he touched her cheek with his finger. ‘May I stay with you until dawn?’ he
whispered. ‘We do not have to lie together, if you do not wish…’

It was an odd thing to say. But she did not take the time to wonder at it, for there were far more interesting things to notice. ‘It is what I wish,’ she admitted. It was yet another point of no return—to say aloud that she wanted him. Before she could lose her nerve, she ran her hand once down the length of him, over his chest to rest near his sex, afraid to do more than that. She took a deep breath, and then spoke what was in her heart. ‘Because I want to show you what I feel. Whatever happens tonight, tomorrow or in the distant future, you must know that I love you.’

‘You have known me for such a short time that you cannot know the truth of your feelings.’

‘I know that as well,’ she said. ‘And I know that you do not want my love. But I think it is important that you hear the truth. You do not love me. But I love you.’

‘You should not,’ he said, a little uneasily.

‘I cannot help it.’ She leaned back into the pillows and closed her eyes. With his body, he followed her, throwing a leg over her hip so that they could lie together, skin to skin.

She felt her body wakening as though it were newly born, every sensation a first. Despite the danger to her reputation, and to her heart, she felt warm and safe, and more sure of her love than ever. She must have been meant for him, and he for her. Why else would their bodies fit so well together? Why else would they
respond so quickly? She could feel him, hard between her legs. And her hips gave an answering push against him, wet with invitation. The act of love, which had seemed most unusual when her mother explained it to her, now seemed like the most right and natural thing in the world.

Joseph understood, and gave a little shake of his head. ‘Wait. There is more.’

‘More?’ After what had happened in the alcove this evening, what was left for them but to finish what they had started?

‘I wish to know every inch of you.’ His hands began to explore, smoothing down her shoulders and spine, and up the backs of her arms. His leg moved against hers, the hairs of it tingling as they brushed her. Then his mouth left hers to kiss her fingertips, her elbows and her ribs. He took one of her nipples into his mouth and gave it the softest of kisses. Then he rubbed his face gently between her breasts, so she could feel the roughness of his cheeks, grating ever so slightly against her skin. Then he turned his head to take the second breast less gently than the first, turning the soft kiss into a series of nips that made her cup his face in her hands, arch her back and press her body into his open mouth.

His fingers stroked her as his eagerness grew, gripping her thighs and parting them, and then giving one single touch of a fingertip in the place where they met. It hovered for a moment, and then slid down, and in.

She gasped. She had thought, after the sample he had given her by the ballroom, that she understood what it must be like to make love. But though he touched her in the same way she felt different now, as though every part of her body burned.

He slid up her body again, so that he could kiss her on the lips, and the passage of his rougher skin against her body was maddening. She wanted to writhe against him, purring and winding herself about him like a kitten, demanding to be stroked.

‘If I can do nothing else, I want to make you feel as you do me, when I look at you.’ He smiled. ‘I will make you want me to the point of madness. And together we will take the want away with having.’

‘You have.’ It seemed that now he was nude he was larger. Not just… She looked down and then hurriedly up at his face again. Not just the increase she had expected. It was the whole of him, as though the power and energy which had been hidden beneath his clothing was suddenly released. She was awash in it, tingling from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

She looked down again, at the pair of them naked and side by side on the bed. For a moment she was more amazed than aroused. It was natural and right to be this way with him, just as it had from the first moment they’d been alone together, when he’d grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to safety. He reached for her now and caught her suddenly under the arms, rolling and pulling her close. Then he was on his back, and she
was being pulled down, over and against him, sprawling over his body, covering him like a blanket.

It was his turn to lie back into the pillows, sighing contentedly. Then he pulled her head down to meet his and kissed her, with the tickle of his chest hair against her nipples and the stirrings of his erection between her legs. His hands were busy, adjusting, moulding, positioning, until his body was fitted to hers, his manhood nudging at her maidenhead.

Now she was waiting, fairly sure of what the next step would be, but unsure of how it would come about. ‘Relax,’ he murmured against her temple. ‘We are still strangers, the pair of us. Touch me. Learn my body so that I may better know yours. I want to feel your hands.’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere. You will know when it is time for more than that.’

How would she know anything of the sort? Perhaps he still thought she had some experience in the matter. If so, she was likely to embarrass herself soon enough. But all the same she ran her hands over his chest and felt the muscles move in response. She touched his arms and they moved to circle her, to stroke her, to hold her in place against him. She bit his shoulder and he clutched her bottom, grinding his hips into hers as she sucked upon his skin.

And so she dared to sit up, balancing on his thighs, and reached lower to touch the part of him that touched her. His hands slipped between her legs, spreading them
wide, probing the opening of her body and taking it while she stroked him. He teased and thrust with his fingertips, leaving little spearings of pleasure that coalesced inside her, urging her to pull his sex, which had grown hard, towards her own. She hung there, on the edge of something, afraid to take the leap that would end in a flight or a fall.

And then she was sure. She wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted to be his, even if it was just for a night. She cried out to him, ‘Help me. Please.’

‘Barbara. Darling.’ The hands that had been slow and gentle before moved lightning-quick, pulling her forwards and onto him. There was a lance of pain. Then he rolled so that she was beneath him.

When she looked up, into his face, the expression she saw was as surprising as anything else had been. It was as though he had changed, in a moment, to a different man. There was no trace of hardness in him, nothing frightening or aloof. The flaws had burned away in a burst of triumphant energy, leaving bliss, peace and desire.

Then he began to move in her. She felt a sense of connection to him that was beyond physical. They were working together towards some common goal, and she smoothed her hands over the muscles of his back, trying to go where he led her, sure that there would be pleasure enough for both of them when they arrived. Everything was alive in her—every inch of skin. The places that touched and rubbed were different from the bare places
touched by night air and firelight. The place where their bodies met was the best of all. There was no feeling like this. No words to describe it. It was like springtime, full of promise, melting ice and birdsong, the stirrings of things that had been sleeping inside her.

Inside her body some part of him touched some part of her, and it was as though the whole world had lurched violently to one side and then righted itself. Then it happened again. She seemed to lose all control as her body turned upside down and inside out. And in all that confusion he was with her, holding her, feeling the same thing. He tensed, gasped and stilled.

He was lying on top of her. But it was not as she’d expected. Even though he was a large man, he seemed to weigh nothing, covering her like a shield, keeping her warm and safe. He was a part of her now, and would be even after they parted, as she was sure they must. He drew away from her, but only a little way, reaching towards the foot of the bed to pull the coverlet over the pair of them and then settling back at her side, wrapping his arms about her body and keeping her close.

‘I should go,’ he whispered.

She did not really wish him to. But it might be better for him to leave now, while they were both happy, than to stay too long, until that feeling changed.

‘You should,’ she agreed. ‘But I do not mean to let you. Not just yet.’ She held him close, and he turned her so her back was against his chest, wrapping himself
around her in a different way, as though he wanted to know every inch of her body before he released it.

‘I will see to it that I am back in my room before the house wakes in the morning. I will listen for the chiming of the clock. It is already well past four. I did not hear it strike at all. Perhaps that is late enough. Nothing has changed.’ Then he relaxed, stroking her hair, his hand moving slower and slower as he lost consciousness.

And she dozed as well. But before she was lost to all she wondered what he had been expecting.

T
he next morning was much as any other visit to the manor had been, even though another man was master. A round of sleepy guests gathered in the breakfast room for steaming plates of eggs, thick slices of ham, toast, marmalade and subdued chatter.

It was all familiar except for their host, who sat at the head of the table looking like death and subsisting on nothing more than black coffee. If he had slept at all, it did not show. His skin was grey and there were hollows in his cheeks that the razor had not touched. Barbara wanted to go to his side and cut the food on his plate, feeding him like an invalid before sending him to bed.

But that was not her job. It was Anne’s.

There could be no acknowledgement of what had happened between them—not even to share the fatigue they had felt while lying in each other’s arms waiting out the hour between the clock chiming four and five,
wondering if each minute would be the last they’d share. She was as tired as he, though she had made an effort to look lively so that no one might ask her about it. But it was a happy exhaustion. She had come to the table and smiled down into her plate, trying not to show the world how wonderful she felt.

Then Joseph had arrived. And the longer she’d sat with him the worse she’d felt. She found herself listening to the ticking clock once more. Eating mechanically and longing for the moment she could escape.

Morning had come and everything had changed—in that it was much the same as it might have been had nothing happened at all. Joseph was there at breakfast, greeting his guests, helping himself to more coffee and making sure that all needs were met. But he showed her no special favour, enquiring politely if she had slept well without a wink or a nod.

She responded in kind. If she seemed awkward, or somewhat chilly, it would be taken for a sign of the estrangement between her family and him. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then he turned his attention to Anne. He could at least manage a smile for her, though it was little better than a death mask. His concern was more pointed. Her plate was heaped full and taken away just as quickly when she did not seem pleased with it.

Barbara felt her own food curdling in her stomach, and reached very deliberately for the teacup in front of her. As she lifted her gaze to stare fixedly across the
table she caught the eyes of Robert Breton. His expression was similar. Just as bland and unflappable. He was just as stubbornly uninterested in the proceedings at the end of the table as she was.

But as he looked at her there was the slightest rise at one corner of his lip, and an equally slight salute as he raised his teacup, as though he were toasting their shared misery.

To kindred spirits
, she thought, and responded in kind.

‘Will you be participating in today’s activities, Miss Lampett?’ he asked politely. ‘I understand that the skating on the pond is quite pleasant. There will be games in the parlour, and the lighting of the Yule Log.’

‘I had not given it thought,’ she answered. ‘When I arrived I was hardly prepared for more than an evening. If there is a way to return to the village…with a servant, perhaps.’ Even now she sat at the table wearing her ridiculously unfashionable ballgown, because it was all she had. Today it was just one more thing to single her out from the group as not quite belonging to it.

‘Oh, please do stay,’ Anne insisted. ‘And do not give me any excuses about lack of preparation. Your skates are still here, you know, from when we were young together. Anything else needed you might borrow from me. Or there are Mary’s old things…’

There was a sharp intake of breath from Lady Clairemont, who was seated beside Joseph. Anne fell silent again.

‘Yes. Please. Stay. I will accept no excuses.’ Joseph made the offer mechanically, without even looking up, and Barbara took another hurried sip of tea to stop the words on the tip of her tongue.

What do you mean by that? Are you in any way sincere? Or is that sarcasm I hear? Even if it is a bald-faced lie, could it not be delivered with a smile?

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I thank you for your gracious offer of hospitality, but I must be getting back to Mother and Father. Perhaps, after Christmas, I might return. It has all been quite lovely and I am very glad that you invited me.’

‘Very well, then,’ Joseph said, not even bothering with a token resistance. ‘I will see that the carriage is brought round—or perhaps there is a sledge.’

A spirited discussion erupted as to the delightful nature of sleigh rides, and what fun it might be to make an outing into the village, which was declared ‘quaint’ by the visitors from the South. It was a relief when the attention turned to more cheerful topics than the fate of the dowdy young woman at the foot of the table, leaving Barbara to excuse herself unnoticed.

She fled to her bedroom, counting on the privacy of a locked door. There were no belongings to gather before departure. Hiding above stairs would spare her any more awkward conversations. She could sit in the window seat and watch for the carriage that would take her away from the disaster that this visit had become.

But even there she was not alone. When she entered,
she startled the maid who had come to make up the room. The girl was the youngest daughter of the Stock family, who lived a scant quarter-mile from Barbara’s home, and she was staring at the tangle of sheets on the bed, and the bloody smudge in the midst of them. She offered a quick curtsey, and muttered an apology for the interruption. Then she smiled, as though she had been presented with a tidbit juicier than any she might see with Christmas dinner, and hurried from the room.

Barbara almost turned to go after her, with a lame story of her restless night and the sudden monthly imposition that would explain the spots of blood. But there was no way gossip could be avoided. To deny it would be as good as admitting the truth: a couple had been sporting here, and the lady involved was the formerly virginal Miss Barbara Lampett.

They had been careful, or so she’d thought. Between kisses Joseph had assured her that the walls were thick, and that no one would see him come or go. She had consoled herself that if she was lucky enough to avoid pregnancy—and she dared not think about any other possibility—the secret would go to her grave.

She had not counted on the maids. While a bit of gossip about Mr Stratford’s London guests would be harmless, and gossip about Anne would be avoided for the sake of her family, there was no magical protection that extended to Miss Lampett. She was a lady and should know better.

She gave one last look around the room to remember
that, however briefly, she had been supremely happy here. She had belonged to someone, if only for a few hours. Now she must return to her home and put the happy memory away, as she had so many others. She would not return after Christmas, for she doubted she could bear another visit.

And so she wandered, avoiding the breakfast room, where so many people were still gathered, and the salons and reception rooms, where plans for the day were being made. Instead she went to say goodbye to the portrait gallery, and to the ballroom, stopping to touch the curtain that covered the little alcove and wondering, if she pulled it back suddenly, if she would find the ghost of her younger self hiding there. Or had all those old times been supplanted by memories of Joseph?

With a little smile, she drew aside the curtain—only to hear a gasp, and the rustle of clothing falling back into place as the couple inside sprang apart.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I had no idea…’ She turned quickly, shielding her eyes.

Anne stumbled forwards into the hall. Mr Breton acted almost as quickly to thrust her back into the recess and step in front of her, as though it were possible to shield her from view. He cursed very softly, and ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to compose himself. Then he bowed. ‘I am sorry you were a witness to my disgraceful behaviour, Miss Lampett.’ He bowed again to Anne. ‘And that you had to experience it, Miss Clairemont. My actions were totally inappropriate, and
no apology can be offered for them other than an excess of alcohol.’

He looked back at Barbara, knowing that she had seen him, sober as a judge, at the breakfast table, less than an hour ago.

He gave a helpless shrug. ‘My fate is in your hands, miss, as is the honour of a lady. Though I would not wish what has occurred here to be known, I cannot demand that you keep my secret. Know that I will be leaving Mr Stratford’s home early in the New Year and returning to London. There will be no further risk of another incident.’ Then he walked hurriedly away from them, down the hall.

The moment he was gone Anne rushed forwards, seizing her hands. The polite pretence of soft, smiling apathy had disappeared. ‘Please, Barbara. Please. I beg you. Say nothing to Joseph of this. I know that I have no reason to ask your help. My family has treated you horribly for a thing which was no fault of yours. But, please, say nothing.’

For a moment the frozen woman before her melted into the image of her lost sister, into something much more human than she had been: a woman with desires who was at least capable of making mistakes, if not yet able to admit to them.

There was so much that Barbara was not speaking of already. Why should there not be one more thing? ‘I saw nothing, Anne. Nothing at all that I wish to remark upon to anyone. But just for a moment can you not be
honest with me? Was this all his doing? Or is there feeling on both sides?’

And Anne, normally so reserved and in control, burst into tears in her arms.

Barbara glanced around, relieved to see that there was no one there to witness the outburst. Then she took a firmer grip on Anne’s hands and dragged her back into the alcove, to sit on the bench, pinning back the curtain to allow some light into their sanctuary. ‘Come, now. If you cannot get hold of yourself, then at least come where fewer people might see you. Now, tell me. Do you love him or not?’

Anne gave a hesitant nod. ‘He is leaving. Even before you discovered us he was threatening. Now he will go for sure.’

Barbara stifled surprise. She had meant to ask about Joseph—the only man whose future mattered. She corrected herself. ‘You will lose Mr Breton, if you do not cry off your engagement.’

‘How can I?’ Anne looked up at her from watery blue eyes. ‘I am the only daughter left. Everyone is depending on me to do exactly what is needed. Joseph wishes a lady for the manor. My father wishes to get his foot back in the door. He would rather stay here as a doting father-in-law than learn to be comfortable in new surroundings.’ For a moment there was uncharacteristic bitterness in the sweet voice. ‘No one is particularly interested in what
I
want. I had thought, since I had no real objections to the character of the man, that it
would be enough to be comfortable and back in my own home. But, Barbara. Oh, Barbara.’ She smiled. ‘That was before I met Robert. I did not know that I could feel like this. And now it will end.’

Then she was crying again, and Barbara could find nothing to do other than offer her shoulder and pat the girl ineffectually on the back. Would it do her any good to be assured that her future husband did not care about her either?

That could not possibly be a comfort. Though she did not seem to expect it of him, Barbara doubted that the girl in her arms wished to know the extent of his uninterest, or that an old friend was a co-conspirator in her betrayal. Love was not her reason for marrying. And there was nothing Barbara could say that would make the Clairemonts’ desire to regain the manor any different than it was.

‘There, there,’ she said, and could not manage to sound the least bit enthusiastic about it. Success for Anne meant failure for her.

There was no way, in good conscience, that she could talk the girl into crying off. ‘Would it help,’ she asked cautiously, ‘if I spoke to Mr Stratford for you? Perhaps if he understood how unhappy you are…’

‘No.’ Anne gripped her arm. ‘You mustn’t. He would be furious. So would my father.’

Barbara doubted that would be totally true. Though Lord Clairemont would be angry at having his plans
thwarted, she’d seen no evidence that Joseph would be similarly affected at the loss of his impending marriage.

But then, she had seen no evidence to the contrary. In all that little time they’d spent together he’d said nothing about Anne, either positive or negative. She was sure that he’d said not a word about terminating the engagement.

‘Very well, then. I will not expose you.’

Anne gave her a watery smile. ‘I am sorry again for how my family has treated you. How I have treated you as well. You are good and kind. I will do anything I can to help you in the future if you will keep my secret.’

With secrets of her own, Barbara could feel nothing but sympathy for the sister of her dearest friend. ‘I will do nothing to hurt you, I promise. And if I can find a way to help you, I will do so.’

‘I can ask for nothing more than that,’ Anne said, carefully drying her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Miss Lampett?’ Mrs Davy the housekeeper called from the end of the hall. ‘The carriage is ready to take you to the village. Dick says you had best leave soon, or the roads will turn to mud.’

Without another word Barbara dropped the curtain into place, pretending that she had been alone. ‘Of course. I am ready.’ She walked quickly to the front of the house, wondering if she was obligated to say a farewell to her host. She decided against it. He knew very well how she felt, and the reasons for her leave-taking.
‘You will give my regards and my regrets to Mr Stratford, of course,’ she said politely to the housekeeper.

‘That will not be necessary, miss. He is waiting to see you off.’

‘Oh,’ she said weakly, forcing her steps not to falter on the way to the door.

He was waiting there, just as the housekeeper had said, looking more like a professional mourner than a party host, a few flakes of snow lying unmelted in his dark hair.

She nodded at him, trying not to show the fear she felt that he would try to stop her. If he revealed even one moment of true feeling she was likely to turn back on her plan and go meekly to the room he had given her.