Part 50 (1/2)
”I swear it upon the love I hope we still share. I would never hurt you in so cruel a manner, and I had hoped you would never hurt me by thinking that I could.” She pleadingly met his gaze from where she knelt on the floor, her muslin gown spread out about her in a puddle of rose-coloured cloth. The backside of her dress, which he had unhooked sometime during the height of his fantasy, was still wide open, exposing a pale-blue corset, the chemise beneath it and a few glimpses of pale, smooth skin.
Having known his Gwendolyn for four years of marriage and a year of courts.h.i.+p before that he could tell by her eyes, her demeanour and her voice that she was in fact telling him the truth.
He choked, feeling as if the burden he'd been carrying with him all these months fell away. ”Gwendolyn,” he rasped, his knees feeling weak. ”Forgive me. After you repeatedly denied me of your bed all these months, I have been nothing short of-”
”No, Camden. I ask that you forgive me. You are right. I was distant for too many months, never allowing you to touch me out of an irrational fear of losing another child. But it never meant I loved you any less. I simply never realized our inability to have children was destroying who I was destroying us.”
He swallowed. ”I will not have you blaming yourself. I wasn't as understanding as I could have been. I expected too much of you.”
”We both expected too much of each other.” She raised her skirts so as not to stumble, and pushed herself up off the floor.
”I . . . should dress,” he murmured, throwing his clothes on to a chair in a daze. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his trousers, shoved in his left leg, then his right, and yanked them up to his waist in a single swoop.
His hands shook as he attempted to b.u.t.ton the front flap of his trousers. He focused on staring at the wooden floor beneath him, doing his best not to look at Gwendolyn, afraid this was all an illusion brought on by severe inebriation.
Camden yanked his s.h.i.+rt over his head, pulling it into place, and stuffed the ends into his trousers. He pulled on his waistcoat and his coat, and then shoved his feet into his shoes, not caring that his stockings were missing. He looped his cravat around his neck, barely aware of what he was doing.
”Camden, the only good to have come of our separation is that it made me realize I cannot lead a life without you. Please tell me you cannot lead a life without me and that our inability to have children will not keep you from loving me.” Her tear-streaked blue-green eyes met his, causing his chest to tighten.
Her words, at this moment, held everything he had ever wanted from them. But, as always, he couldn't put his cursed emotions into words for fear they wouldn't match what was truly in his heart.
The clock chimed once, announcing it was half past eleven. Then there was nothing but the annoying sound of his heart beating against his ears. The mingling of laughter and voices drifted towards them from a distance.
Gwendolyn glanced over at the clock. ”I suppose you have nothing to say,” she whispered. She turned and made her way slowly to the locked doors.
He stiffened. No. No, no, no. She couldn't leave. Not now. Not ever again. He would find the right words to say. He would. And that was his vow to her and to himself from this night forth.
Camden sprinted towards her. He slid to a rapid halt before her or what should have been a halt. The soles of his shoes skidded across the remaining length of the wooden floor until his backside slammed against the double doors with a loud thud.
He winced and stilled his large frame against the door, trying to appear cool, calm and collected despite the fact that he was anything but. He crossed his arms over his unevenly b.u.t.toned waistcoat, cleared his throat and eyed her. ”I know I've always been a man of few words, which has always been my greatest sin against you. But I . . . I love you. I don't need children to make me happy. I need you to make me happy. I didn't want to admit even to myself that we were incapable of having children. So I can only imagine what you must be enduring.”
Tears glistened in her eyes and her full lips trembled. ”Come home with me,” she whispered. ”Where you belong. We will find the words we both lack. I know we will.” She sniffed and then rolled her eyes, as if trying to draw attention away from her own sadness. She yanked her sleeves back up her shoulders and turned, exposing the open back of the gown to him. ”Would you mind securing all the hooks back into place?”
G.o.d help him, what he really wanted to do was rip off the d.a.m.n dress and take her again. Without a blindfold this time. So he could see everything and show her exactly what she made him feel every time he looked at her. Show her how she put his body and his mind into a state of constant weakness. Even after all these years.
She looked back at him from over her right shoulder, expectantly. She held the back of her gown together with one hand, pulling long strands of her loose hair out of the way with the other.
He stepped towards her and pushed all of her feathery soft curls to the side, so he could see better. His fingers and palms brushed against the sides of her muslin gown as he slid his hands up to her corseted waist. He managed to find the first hook at the very bottom, just above the curve of her backside. He hooked the material together one by one, up the entire back of her gown, revelling in the moment. He was her husband again. It was all he'd ever wanted and needed. That he knew.
As he reached the top part of her gown, just beneath her neck, his bare fingers brus.h.i.+ng against the warmth of her soft skin, she whispered, ”We must learn to find new ways to love each other. Seeing it will only be us.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her backside against him and leaned towards her ear, nuzzling against the warmth of her throat. ”We will find endless ways. That I know.”
She caught his hands and squeezed them.
His arms tightened. ”By the by, I plan on gutting Westbrook tomorrow morning at eight.”
She stilled. ”You . . . don't actually mean that, do you? Mind you, yes, he deserves it. But I would rather not see you hang. That would be rather pointless, wouldn't it?”
That it would. ”Then what do you propose I do? I am not letting that b.a.s.t.a.r.d walk away from this.”
She nestled back against him, placing her head in the curve of his throat. ”I propose we avenge ourselves by living happily ever after and making him look quite the fool.”
He smirked. ”I prefer to gut him and move to France.”
She s.h.i.+fted towards him and grinned. ”Are you being serious?”
He chuckled and shook his head. ”I wish I were. I suppose making him look quite the fool will have to do.” He paused, then added, ”For now.” He eyed the clock in the study and then drawled, ”Do you think we have enough time to play French Intuition again? Before my uncle returns?”
She turned fully in his arms, her hands sliding up his shoulders and grinned. ”I believe we do. Only this time, I intend to wear the blindfold.”
He quirked a brow. ”How about we put it around your mouth instead? To keep things quiet.”
Her eyes widened as she smacked him. ”Camden!”
He laughed. ”It was just a thought.”
”Yes. And how very few of those you have.”
He smirked. ”Why do I suddenly feel married again?”
She grinned. ”It's good to see you, too.”
”I think we ought to go home. So we don't have to rush. What do you think?”
”Even better.” She held out her hand.
”Oh. But before we go-” Camden jogged over and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pieces of black velvet. He shoved them into his evening coat pocket, sheepishly cleared his throat and strode back over. ”For later.”
A Suitable Gentleman.
Sara Bennett.
A sharp breeze tossed the simple cambric skirts of the pet.i.te lady walking along George Street, threatening to display much more than her dainty ankles. Her apparel, while not of the first water of fas.h.i.+on, displayed a certain elegance. Dark hair curled becomingly about a pale heart-shaped face, and big blue eyes were shadowed with tiredness.
”Plain and simple” were Lady March's watchwords when it came to visiting the dressmaker with her eldest niece. ”Clarinda is too old now for frills and furbelows. And of what use are they to her anyway, when her place is by my side?”
Of course Lady March would never have allowed her niece to go about Bath looking like a dest.i.tute orphan, although strictly speaking that was what she was. But her aunt had always been kind to her; Clarinda could not fault that. Lady March had taken Clarinda and Lucy into her home when they were in dire circ.u.mstances, and since then they had wanted for nothing.
Nothing material, that is.
Clarinda's face, so clearly fas.h.i.+oned for love and laughter, appeared drawn and serious as she considered the situation that awaited her at home, where Lady March had taken another one of her turns. If she were truly ill, Clarinda would be genuinely concerned, but her aunt treated illness as a diversion; since her husband died she had sought out ever more bizarre symptoms to while away her boredom. Now Lady March had run out of her tonic Clarinda doubted it was more than sugar syrup and had sent her niece out as a matter of urgency to purchase another bottle.
Buried deep in her thoughts, Clarinda did not see the top hat. Blown from a gentleman's head, it came bowling across the roadway, narrowly missing the wheels of a pa.s.sing barouche, and rolled up on to the pavement. It wasn't until the hat struck her on the s.h.i.+n, hard enough for her to cry out in surprise, that she realized she was under attack.
The bottle of tonic wobbled in her hand and she only just prevented it from smas.h.i.+ng on the hard paving. Another gust threatened to carry the hat away from where it was nestled at her feet, and, without thinking, she reached down to secure it. Automatically she smoothed the soft beaver fur with her gloved finger. This hat was well made a wealthy man's accessory and he would be missing it.