Part 4 (1/2)

”Don't I know it.” Caroline bent over and winced. Whatever she had done to her back while gardening would not go away. Rutting like a wild beast with Edward hadn't helped much either. She straightened up with difficulty. ”I'm sorry, Lizzie. You'll have to pick up the rest and steal me blind. My back is killing me. I didn't think of the consequences of my anger. I never do.”

”Sit down while I change the sheets. We'll put you to bed with a hot brick after a nice hot bath.”

That sounded like heaven. Caroline hobbled to a wing chair by the window. The street was empty of Edward and every other living thing. Most of her neighbors slept their days away since their nights were quite busy. ”I'm an awful lot of work for you.”

”Nonsense. I'd do anything for you, Lady Christie.”

Caroline leaned back in the chair. Her cat Childe Harold, Harold for short, had made himself scarce while Edward was visiting. He jumped onto her lap now and purred. When she named the cat for the hero of Lord Byron's epic poem, it had seemed fitting that as a writer she should give a nod to literature, although truthfully she found Byron rather hard going. Being a girl, she'd not been educated in the cla.s.sics; being a woman, she found Byron's antics even more scandalous than her brother's. Her tastes were simpler, her life distilled into manageable bites.

Edward was going to gobble her up and ruin everything.

Lizzie moved to and fro, sweeping, straightening, lugging water for Caroline's bath up to the dressing room with an embarra.s.sed Ben. Despite her nap in Edward's arms, she was still exhausted, and watching poor Lizzie and Ben tired her out even more. But her room was aired and fresh, her bath and clean sheets awaited. She was promised wine and soup and vanilla pudding for supper, things she wouldn't even have to chew. She sat in the tub like a child, permitting Lizzie to wash her hair and sponge her off, then retired to her bed with a tray, the brick on one side, Harold on the other. She fell asleep before the last ray of suns.h.i.+ne hit the spire of the local church she was too ashamed to attend.

And dreamed. She and Nicky were in the haymeadow at sunset, lying on the ground holding hands. Above, a flock of birds wheeled and swooped, their delicate shadows dappling the earth. Although his lips were moving, she couldn't hear what he said over the chatter of the birds. He pushed her braid away and pressed his lips to her ear, and suddenly she was waltzing with Edward, his long legs gliding effortlessly on the polished floor. He spun her in circles until she was dizzy, her dress a red blur-as red as the blood that seeped from Nicky's wound.

She woke with a start and sat up. Harold objected, kneading the coverlet until he was comfortable again. The room was black, the house quiet. Wiping the tears from her face, she punched down the pillow and started her night all over again.

But sleep wouldn't come. She hated nights like that, when her old demons took root and wouldn't leave. She supposed she deserved every minute of their haunting-she'd courted sin with naive fervor, caught it, embraced it.

She'd loved Nicky with all her heart. He was nearly her twin, born just fifteen months before she was. They'd been inseparable until he was sent off to school. Caroline was nearly joyful when her father couldn't afford to send him to university. But by then he had a new friend, a better friend, Andrew Rossiter. When Caroline's father died suddenly over a hand of bad cards, Nicky invited Andrew to live with them. An orphan himself with no particular place to go, Andrew had happily a.s.sented. Their guardian, a man as improvident as their father, didn't trouble himself to supervise them, preferring to spend their tiny inheritance in far-off London. When then sensible Mary eloped with her soldier, the three of them had the house to themselves.

There was no one to tell them what to do. There was no one to tell them what not to do. So they did everything, until the money ran out.

It was Andrew who got the bright idea to turn their home into a kind of hotel for vice. Gentlemen who wanted to escape the strictures of town were happy to comply with their exorbitant tariffs. Every month of the year they came for one week of unlimited food, unlimited wine, unlimited s.e.x, gambling, drugs-everything and anything was available for the right price chez Parker. There was no limit to Andrew's connections or imagination. Caroline was sheltered from most of the debauchery, actually locked safe in her room, because Nicky foolishly hoped she'd make a good marriage someday. He was far more anxious than she was for her to find a rich man to improve the family coffers.

Caroline had already found the man she wanted. He wasn't rich, but he had the key to her room, and he had found her. She'd been too stupid to see why he wanted her, imagining it was her beauty-which was undeniable and not at all vain for her to acknowledge-her carefree spirit, her loving heart. She was a most willing pupil in each and every one of Andrew Rossiter's lessons, odd as they had sometimes seemed. She grew used to everything, and then he made her crave it.

It wasn't until her brother shot himself that she found out the truth. And by then, it was too late for all of them.

Caroline's entire life was filled with ”too lates.” It was certainly too late to be awake, reliving a nightmare. It was too late to find happiness with Edward, too late to be a mother. Even her ma.n.u.script would arrive too late, unless she could find a way to churn the words out faster between servicing her husband on his schedule and regretting she had ever met him.

But it was just for a few weeks. She could endure anything. She already had.

Chapter 6.

His appet.i.tes were insatiable, keeping her a slave from morning until night, until the hours turned into days and Mariette heard no c.o.c.k crow but his.

-Dreams at Dawn.

There was the faintest tickling on her nose. The d.a.m.n cat and its tail. Caroline blew out a stream of air to shoo him away, but didn't open her eyes, unwilling to see Harold's equipment so close and so early in the morning. But the sensation increased, dancing across her eyelids like little fairy feet. Caroline scrunched up her face and rolled to the side. A feather-light stroke from her jaw to her clavicle made her reconsider. Either Harold had developed opposable thumbs, or she was being touched by a human. She waited, wondering if she should cry out for help or lie back and enjoy the gentle a.s.sault. A quick glance up to the mirror on the ceiling gave her the answer.

She had finally slept like the dead, never hearing Edward's footsteps, never seeing him undress, never smelling his lime-scented skin. But she felt him now, and soon she would taste him-as he was tasting her. A gossamer kiss on her bare shoulder. A nip at the base of her throat. His warm tongue edging into her ear, which always drove her mad.

”Don't pretend you are still asleep. You cannot be.”

But she would pretend. Just to see how far he'd go.

She didn't have long to wait to find out. He pulled her nightgown up, fitting himself behind her, hard and hot. One hand cupped a breast, thumbing her nipple to a tight peak. That task accomplished, he traced a line from her belly to her hip, coming to rest, palm flat. She felt each warm finger splayed in owners.h.i.+p.

Surely he wasn't going to stop there. She wiggled up against him to urge him on.

She felt his lips curve on her back. She'd seen his smug smile before; he had every right to it. ”I knew you were awake. Ask me nicely, and I'll wish you a very good morning.”

”Nicely,” she whispered, and he complied. A long finger teased her a.r.s.e, then swept forward to her slit, dipped into its moisture, then rubbed against the top of her s.e.x. He circled diligently until the room spun, Caroline clenching her nightgown to keep from touching herself. She wanted his skin covering hers, his weight overpowering her. She wanted to see him in the mirror splitting her apart. Understanding her unspoken need, he pushed her back and tore the nightgown over her head.

His mouth blanketed her cry as he penetrated her, his tongue mimicking each thrust. They were joined from head to toe, layered so close the only parts of her the mirror reflected were her wide eyes, the red of her hair on the pillow and her hands scoring his back. Her legs locked beneath him, then he twisted, lifting her from the bed as she rose to become even closer. He had never been so deep; she had never been so deep in trouble. For what was she to do when he left her again?

He mistook her sob for pleasure, then made it true, driving into her with reckless abandon, freeing them both. Stroke upon stroke, thrust upon thrust they tumbled together, heedless of anything but the electric unity of his skin to hers. She curled into him, transported, her mouth soft with love. But she swallowed the words-he would hear only desperation. Manipulation. They had never claimed to love each other, and he wouldn't trust her.

Her o.r.g.a.s.m took her hopeless speech away anyway. She felt nothing but the pure sin of his c.o.c.k spilling inside her, his hand wedged between them pressing and circling her c.l.i.toris, his teeth at her throat. She bit him back. Let the House of Lords weigh that evidence.

When she spoke, it was with careful disinterest. ”I expect you've brought the timetable with you.”

Edward flopped onto his back and looked chagrinned. ”I'm afraid I didn't have time to draw one up. I'll work it out later and send it 'round.”

She kept her tone severe, schoolmistressy. ”I can't have any more unscheduled incidents like this. I want sufficient notice in the future.”

”You didn't throw me out of bed.” He looked far too proud of himself. His facial expression implied a woman would have to be an idiot to throw Edward Christie out of bed.

Well, she was an idiot. ”I was asleep! And then it was too late. Get up, Edward. I have a busy day ahead and want some privacy.”

He hesitated only a moment. ”All right, Caro. I got what I came for. More than I expected, actually. It was very pleasant.”

She knew he was baiting her. She thought the top of her head was exploding when she o.r.g.a.s.med. Surely he felt the same. ”Yes. I suppose it was adequate. Have a nice day.” She slipped into her dressing room to use the commode, hoping he'd have the good taste to leave.

When she came out, he was gone. Baron Christie was indeed the epitome of good taste. And an exceptionally fast dresser. Remembering poor Lizzie, she squelched the desire to throw something, and rang for breakfast instead. She would write today. And write and write and write.

Her Pride and Artifice notebook lay where anyone could find it. Now that Edward was a fixture in her bedroom, that would have to change. Perhaps it was still safe-Edward had always complained about her handwriting, claiming he couldn't read it. Perhaps that was why he'd been in such a tizzy when he read her letter and learned that Ned had been there. Fortunately Garrett had no such difficulty editing her novels. His handwriting was even worse than hers.

She had been the bane of her governess's existence, but the schoolroom had held no interest for her when there were fells to walk and her brother to chase after. Nicky had no luck with his tutors either, and was sent off to school quite young-more to rid her father of one more distraction than his desire to see his heir educated properly. School was where Nicky changed and forged his deadly friends.h.i.+p with Andrew Rossiter. The poet (not the viscount) Pope's words were never truer- A little learning is a dangerous thing;

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,

And drinking largely sobers us again.

Well, apparently something had sunk in, Caroline thought wryly. Wasn't she just a font of poetry and philosophy this morning? She dipped her pen in the little crystal pot of ink and let it hover over the page. A tiny drop spread onto the page just as she felt Edward's s.e.m.e.n gush forth. She needed a bath desperately, but working on the book each morning was like drilling before going into battle. It made her limber so she could maneuver over the hills and valleys of her pages for Garrett. He would not be pleased to know she spent an hour each day wasting her words. She shut her eyes, picturing Edward at his most insufferable. It was not a difficult image to summon, and she began to write.