If he hated her for making him do this.
She couldn’t touch him—she’d forbidden herself that luxury—so she fisted her hands by her head, torturing her pillow with her nails.
And still his hard penis invaded her, surging and retreating, demanding something without words. Demanding what she refused to let herself give.
When his breath caught, when his pace quickened, so that her hips sank beneath his into the soft mattress, she swallowed, straining her eyes to see in the dark. When he suddenly stilled, buried deep in her throbbing flesh, locked with her in animal intensity, she wanted … so much.
But all she received was what she’d asked for.
His seed.
GODRIC CAREFULLY DISENTANGLED himself from Megs, rolling aside as his softening cock slipped from her warm depths. He wanted to stay, to perhaps hold her, and if she let him, kiss her.
But she’d made it plain that she did this without affection and he was not a raw lad.
So he stood and pulled the covers back over her form and when she made a small, questioning noise, he only said, “Good night.”
Turning, he scooped up his banyan and slippers by feel and exited her room.
He’d left a candle burning in his own bedroom and he was glad of the light now. It brought him out of the too-intimate darkness, made him remember who he was.
Who she was.
But even with the candlelight, he found himself at the dresser. His fingers didn’t shake when he fitted the key in the lock and he was inordinately proud of that fact.
He opened the enameled box. The locks of hair lay there, the same as always, and he reached to touch them but found that he couldn’t. His fingers were still damp from Megs’s skin.
“Forgive me,” he whispered to Clara.
At that moment he couldn’t even remember her face, the sound of her laughter, or the sight of her warm eyes. He was speaking to empty air.
Godric gripped the edges of the drawer, the corners pressing painfully into his palms, but still he couldn’t find Clara.
Somehow, he’d lost her.
He was alone.
He inhaled shakily and fished through the loose letters in the drawer with fingers that now trembled until he found the one he wanted.
2 November 1739
Dear Godric,
Thank you for the monies you made available to me. I’ve had the roof repaired and already the east wing has nearly stopped dripping! There is just one rather persistent leak in the tiny room just off the library. I’m not sure exactly what the room was used for. Battlefield informs me that a former lady of the house was locked in there after her husband became enamored of his (male!) steward, but you know how Battlefield likes his little jokes.
We ate the last raspberry out of the garden last week before cutting back the brambles. Everything aboveground has been killed by the frost, except for the kale, and I’ve never really liked kale. Have you? I confess I feel a strange kind of melancholy at this time of year. All the green things have gone to ground, pretending death, and I have nothing left but the frosted trees and the few remaining leaves, dead yet hanging on nonetheless.
But how dreary! I will not fault you if you grumble under your breath and fling aside my maudlin ramblings. I am not an entertaining correspondent, I fear.
Yesterday I went to tea at the vicarage, playing lady of the manor while being plied with very rich cakes and tea. You will not credit it, but we were served a kind of tart made from orange persimmons, quite pretty, but a bit bitter (I think the persimmons were under ripe) and, I am told, a specialty of the vicar’s wife. (So I could do naught but swallow and smile bravely!) The vicar’s youngest son, a babe of only forty days, was presented for my inspection and though he was a brave boy, my eyes watered for some odd reason and I was forced to laugh and pretend I had got a bit of dust in my eye.
I don’t know why I tell you that.
And again! I’ve dribbled into quite boring territory. I shall endeavor to mend my ways and be only cheerful in my next missive, I promise. I remain—
Affectionately Yours,
Megs
PS: Did you try the ginger, barley, and aniseed tisane recipe I sent you? I know it sounds quite revolting, but it will help your sore throat, truly!
Her postscript blurred before his eyes and he blinked hard, inhaling. This was who he’d done it for: Megs, who thought old crotchety butlers had any sense of humor, who ate bitter persimmon tarts to please the local vicar’s wife, and who cried at the sight of a baby and couldn’t admit even to herself why.
She deserved a baby of her own. She’d make a magnificent mother: kind, gentle, understanding.
He placed the letter back in the drawer, closed, and locked it.
He’d promised to give her that baby, and he would.
No matter the cost to himself.
MEGS WOKE TO the sound of Daniels rustling in her armoire. She squinted at the window, realizing it was rather late in the morning, and as she stretched, she made her second realization. Her thighs were sticky.
Godric had made love to her last night.
She knew her face was heating. She could feel the ache of the muscles between her legs, a twinge she hadn’t felt in years, and she wished that she could’ve woken alone so that she might assimilate the changes to her life.
To her.
Fortunately, Daniels’s mind was on other matters. “We have visitors, my lady.”
Megs blinked. It couldn’t be that late. Besides, they hadn’t had any callers since coming to London. She wasn’t even sure the sitting room had been cleaned yet. “We do?”
“Yes, my lady.” Daniels frowned at a yellow brocade gown and placed it back in the armoire. “Three ladies.”
“What?” Megs sat up hurriedly. “Who are they?”
“Relations of Mr. St. John, I believe.”
“Good Lord.” Megs scrambled from the bed, feeling a bit irritated. Why hadn’t Godric told her that he’d expected family to visit? But then, knowing the state of Saint House when they’d arrived, she had the sudden idea that maybe he hadn’t known.
Good Lord, indeed.
Megs made a hasty wash while Daniels’s back was discreetly turned, using the warm water already brought up. Then she stood obediently as Daniels and one of the little maids from the home dressed her in a pink and black figured gown. It was several years old and Megs made a mental note—again—that she really needed to call upon a modiste while in London.
Daniels tutted despairingly as she dressed Megs’s hair. Usually her lady’s maid needed a good forty-five minutes to tame the springy locks. Today she was making do with ten.