Georgie Lee Page 7
A small cough caught his attention and he turned to the doorway, excitement rushing through him at the sight of Cathleen standing with Elizabeth. Cathleen glowed, the dress warming her skin and bringing out the deep green flecks in her eyes. A wide smile illuminated her face and suddenly Devon understood Ronald’s reaction to Elizabeth on their wedding day. He hadn’t been nervous but bowled over by his bride’s beauty and the realization she was entirely his.
He approached Cathleen, noticing the emerald earrings dangling from her ears and grazing the soft line of her jaw. “You look radiant.”
“Thank you.” She touched her hair and her mother’s emerald ring caught a shaft of sunlight. Green sparkles splashed across her face.
He took her right hand, admiring the recently cleaned and polished ring. “I’m glad you didn’t sell it.”
“Me too.”
He motioned to the vicar. “Shall we?”
“Please.”
He led Cathleen to the fireplace while Elizabeth took her place next to her husband and the service began.
* * *
“I wonder how many wagers at White’s will be lost once word of your marriage reaches London?” Ronald laughed, holding up his champagne flute for the footman to refill. Elizabeth had arranged a small wedding supper, the remains of which sat before them.
“I don’t think too many people are interested in me,” Devon answered, waving away the offer of more champagne.
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Ronald raised his glass and took a sip. “I intend to collect my winnings the moment we return.”
Devon pushed his plate away, his wedding ring clinking against the china. He rubbed his thumb over the unfamiliar weight, then looked across the table at Cathleen. She sat blissfully unaware of Ronald’s remark, listening while Elizabeth complained of her morning nausea.
“I know a tea to help with the sickness,” Cathleen offered. “Madame Rochard used to give it to all her expecting mothers. It’s a mixture of chamomile and ginger and a few other spices.”
“I’d be grateful. The scent of cooked eggs is bad enough but more so when one is already ill. Everyone said the sickness would end but it still plagues me.”
“According to Madame Rochard, sickness so late in a pregnancy means you’ll have a boy.”
Cathleen caught Devon’s eye and her smile widened, making her amber eyes burn brighter. He thumbed the ring again, hot anticipation sitting low in his body. Soon she would be his, and he imagined her eyes heavy with pleasure, her full lips parting to meet his, her soft body ripening under his touch.
“Heavens, look at the time.” Elizabeth’s voice broke through his thoughts and she stifled an exaggerated yawn with the back of her hand.
“It is barely sundown,” Devon countered, entertained by his sister’s not-so-subtle hint.
Elizabeth looked pointedly at him. “The excitement of the last two days has tired me.”
“Has it now?” Devon challenged. “I’m not in the least tired. Are you, my dear?”
“Not at all,” Cathleen responded with a conspiratorial smirk. “Why, I could stay up for hours.”
“Well, that is very convenient for you both,” Elizabeth tutted, motioning for Ronald to help her rise. “For I expect a niece or nephew by next year to join my little one in the nursery.”
Devon laughed at his sister’s forwardness and turned to Cathleen, expecting to see the same merriment. But her brow knit in a troubled fashion before she hid it behind a weak smile.
“I hope you don’t expect me to usher him to his room in a frenzy of frivolity,” Ronald protested, helping Elizabeth to her feet.
“No, I don’t, for I trust Devon and Cathleen can find their own way from here.”
“I believe we can.” Devon rose, pulling out Cathleen’s chair.
“Thank you again for everything you’ve done.” Cathleen hugged her new sister then accepted Devon’s offered elbow. “Good night.”
Devon led her from the dining room and up the massive staircase. The hall was situated on the east side of the house and the candelabras on either side were already lit to push back the encroaching darkness. The candles flickered as they walked by, casting wavering shadows over the paintings of ancient ruins situated in gilded frames and hung above imposing dark wood tables. The dancing light brought to mind the cloud of uncertainty he’d seen cross Cathleen’s face at Elizabeth’s mention of a child. Was she hesitant about motherhood, or the idea of finally being alone and intimate with him after the rush and excitement of the last few days?
Last night, he’d lain awake imagining the feel of her beneath him, his lips tracing her curves, his tongue tasting her silken skin while the two of them spent the long night savoring each other. With his bedchamber only yards away, his fingers burned to slip the dress from her shoulders. He wanted to watch her eyes widen, hear her breath deepen and feel her body ripen with his touch. Would she surrender to him completely tonight or make love to him with Thomas in mind?
There will only be one man tonight. Devon placed his hand over Cathleen’s and squeezed it. Despite everything Thomas had done for him, he was the past. Cathleen was his wife now and the need to claim her surged through him.
“Your sister is quite the brazen woman,” Cathleen teased.
Devon’s hand relaxed at the amusement in her voice. “She never used to be. Marriage has made her bold. I only wonder what motherhood will do to her.”
Cathleen laughed, the bright sound echoing down the hall. It’d been too long since the old house heard such a sound. Soon the laughter of Elizabeth’s child would join it, and hopefully his own child’s laughter, as well. Like Elizabeth, Devon hoped there would be another baby in the nursery by next year. Stopping at his room, he opened the door and ushered her in with a smile, warmed by the encouraging smile she offered in return.
* * *
Cathleen walked across the thick carpet, inhaling the sweet scent of fresh gardenias in vases mixing with the sharp smell of old ashes in the fireplace. On the mantle sat a square glass box, and Cathleen stepped closer to study the gold medal resting on black velvet inside. It was the medal he’d received from the Prince of Wales for his bravery at Waterloo. She’d heard about it from Martha a long time ago, when her sister-in-law mocked his refusal to accept the many other honors the prince tried to bestow on him.
The door closed behind her and she jumped, whirling to face him. After everything, they were alone now, their lives united for better or worse. Their bodies soon would be, also. She fingered her emerald ring, taking in his long legs hugged by the tan breeches. An anxious tension settled low in her body.
“Shall I call the maid?” he asked.
“No, I can manage.” Her clothes were the least of her concern now.
“Allow me to help.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the subtle sound of his rustling coat, feeling the dress pull slightly with each button he undid. She flexed her hands, willing them not to shake. She’d never been with any man but Thomas, and he’d guided her through the surprises and pleasures of their wedding night. Opening her eyes, she focused on the large bed pressed against the far wall, the tall bedposts heavy with brocade curtains, their dark shadows beckoning her like some sinful den of iniquity. The only surprise tonight would be the stranger beside her. Would Devon be as tender and loving as Thomas?
Devon’s fingers moved lower down her back, freeing the last few buttons. The silk began to slide from her shoulders and she clutched the material, afraid to let it drop. Looking over one bare shoulder, she caught the amused smile curving his lips. “I don’t want it to wrinkle.”
“Don’t worry.” He turned her to face him, his eyes heavy with a desire echoed deep within her. “There are servants to handle such matters.”
He gently pulled her hands away from her body and the dress slid to the floor. Enfolding her in his arms, he brought his mouth down to cover hers. She opened her lips, accepting his firm tongue,
drinking in the bergamot and champagne scent of him. Through the thin chemise and stays, she felt his hardness against her stomach, the heat of it driving away her worries.
Grasping the collar of his coat, she pushed it down over his arms, eager to explore his body, to know him in all the ways a wife could know her husband.
“Not so modest anymore,” he murmured, grazing one earlobe with his teeth and sending a bolt of excitement coursing through her.
“I’m no stranger to the marriage bed.” She kissed the strong line of his neck, succumbing to the growing desire to be one with him.
“Indeed, you are not.” He unlaced the stays, the silken ties caressing her back as he pulled them out of the eyelets. The tight garment loosened then fell to the floor. Taking hold of her chemise, he lifted it over her head. His hot eyes raked her naked body and despite standing before him in only her stockings and garters, she felt no shame. He was her husband now, and in this intimacy she felt safe and desired.
He pulled off his shirt, revealing a hard chest covered in dark hair. Trailing her fingertips along the length of his stomach, she admired the deep muscles, realizing how much she’d missed the hard lines and strength of a man’s body. Eager to see more, she started to work the buttons of his breeches loose but he stopped her, drawing her into the curve of his body, his skin warming her like a blanket after a cold bath. His lips danced over her neck and down to the point of one breast and she sighed as his tongue teased the tender bud, her center aching for his touch.
His heavy hands slipped from her hips and she gasped when his fingers found her need. A slight guilt at enjoying him so much crept in beneath her pleasure, but there was more to this than just lust, something deeper blessed by marriage and strengthened by the strange way they’d come together. Just as his anguished need called to her during his dreams, his passion called to her now and she readily answered.
He took her hand and led her to the bed, kissing her as he pressed her back against the cool sheets. He turned and slid his breeches down over the round firmness of his buttocks. She watched his long legs step free of the garment, waiting for him to turn and reveal the strength of his desire. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her.
“Now who’s modest?” she teased, stroking his back.
“I’ll show you modest.” Moving fast, he covered her body with his and she saw nothing of his manhood until the heat of it singed her thighs. She closed her eyes, expecting him to rush forward, but he hesitated, the tip of his member gently probing her, silently asking to continue. Caressing the length of his back, she opened wider, inviting him in.
She moaned as he eased into her, their bodies becoming one, his touch filling the empty space carved out by the last two years. Lacing her fingers in his hair, she arched against him, surrendering to the sweet caresses she’d missed during so many cold nights. The loneliness of those nights flashed briefly in her heart before the feel of Devon’s body, the sound of his breath in her ears drove it away. Tenderly he moved within her and she clung to him, allowing his steady strokes to guide her, following his lead until his thrusts quickened and they crashed together in a wave of release.
Cathleen opened her eyes. Malton Hall slowly came back to her as the fading ripples of pleasure stole through her. Devon nestled against her neck, tracing the line of her jaw with feathery kisses. His eyes met hers and in the faint light, she noticed the deep flecks of black in their blue depths, like a robin’s egg. Reaching up, she swept the back of her fingers over his sharp cheek.
“I could spend every night like this,” she sighed, pushing a strand of hair off his forehead.
He brushed her temple with his lips and whispered in her ear. “And you will.”
He kissed her, his tongue slipping between her lips, teasing and inviting her to be his once again.
She ran her hand over his hip and along the top of his thigh, her fingers stopping at the feel of raised and puckered flesh.
“Don’t.” He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
“It’s all right.” Laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, she tried to draw him back to her but he jerked away, his breath ragged and shallow.
“No, it’s not.”
She said nothing but leaned against the pillows, waiting patiently for him to take the lead, to decide what he wished to tell her.
The clock on the dresser ticked off the seconds and the room grew darker, Devon becoming a silhouette next to her.
“I have more than my memories to remind me of Waterloo.” His voice pierced the silence. Standing and moving to the fireplace, he picked up a reed and lit it in the grate. Walking back to the bed, he lit the candle on the bedside table. The warm glow pushed back the gray while revealing all the contours of his naked body, especially the red, angry scar snaking down his left thigh.
* * *
Devon stood in front of Cathleen, flexing his fingers against the desire to snuff out the candle and recede back into the darkness with his shame, injuries and memories. Instead, he stood waiting for her to react like the two other women he’d bedded since coming home, to flinch or try to sooth him with false concern, but she did neither. Instead, she leaned against the pillows, the sheet pooling at her waist, her eyes steady, like a candle flame protected from drafts. “What happened?”
He lay down on the bed next to her and drew her close. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he inhaled the sweet raspberry scent of her hair. The weight of his experience hung heavy in the silence and he struggled to order his thoughts, steeling himself for what he was about to tell her.
“My men and I were at Hougoumont Manor with Lieutenant Colonel MacDonnell. The French attacked hard but we held them back, until a small garrison of French soldiers broke through the North Gate. They flooded in and I knew if the gate stayed open, we’d be overrun and killed. I led my men through the fighting and somehow, by sheer force of will, we managed to close the gate. It was for this that the prince honored me.”
“But there’s more to the story?”
“Yes.” He rolled on his back and stared up at the folded pleats of the canopy, counting the small creases in a desperate bid to keep the cries of dying men from overwhelming him.
“When we closed the gate, there were French soldiers trapped inside. I was rushed by one and during the fight, I tripped and fell. His saber caught my thigh and I couldn’t defend myself.” The memories pressed hard against the back of his eyes, blocking out the candlelight, the room, almost everything except the feel of Cathleen next to him. Struggling to hold back the encroaching nightmare, he focused on her soft hip against his, the weight of her slender leg over his. “A young captain, a man I barely knew stepped between us. He fought bravely but the Frenchman gained the upper hand and killed him.”
A volley of gunfire tore through the room and the image of Thomas’s lifeless body lying in the mud rose up before him. “He didn’t even know me yet he saved my life but I couldn’t save his.”
He pressed his fist into his forehead, his chest tight with the black powder smoke filling his lungs. He sat up, struggling to breathe.
The light feel of fingers twining in his broke the tight band around his chest and he gulped in fresh air. Her hand slid over his back, clasped his shoulder and gently pulled him down, drawing him away from the past until the visions faded and he felt the soft sheets against his skin.
Opening his eyes, he stared up at the shadowy canopy, the quiet broken only by the crackle of smoldering coals in the grate.
She leaned over him, her eyes glistening in the candlelight. “It’s not your fault the officer died.”
Would you say that if you knew it was Thomas? Rolling over, he crushed her beneath him, losing himself in her soft curves, drawing in her peace and strength. She met his passionate kisses, clinging to him, the loneliness and heartache between them unspoken. Entwined together, their passion lasted late into the night until they were both satiated and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The horses’ hooves clomped over the compacted earth as Devon and Cathleen guided the animals away from the stable and into the woods. A sharp chill hung in the air and stray patches of morning fog drifted in the small dips and crevices along the riding path. Overhead, heavy gray clouds lined with white drifted by, occasionally obscuring the low morning sun.
Cathleen sat on top of a white gelding, taking a deep breath of the morning cold ripe with the must of fallen leaves and cut grass. A small bird winged down in front of her and landed in a tree on the other side of the path. She watched it hop along a twisted branch, trying to remember the last time she’d enjoyed a crisp country morning.
“You ride very well,” Devon remarked from beside her, his large tan stallion twitching its ears. Devon’s shoulders, normally rigid, looked relaxed beneath the black wool riding coat and his hands rested lightly on his thighs. Dark circles hung under his eyes, which crinkled at the corners with the happy smile brightening his face. Tiredness lingered in her body too, but she wouldn’t have traded the hours of his caresses for sleep, not for a king’s ransom.
“Thank you.” Cathleen stroked the gelding’s neck. “I used to ride a great deal before I was married.”
“Good.” Devon twirled the riding crop in his fingers then tucked it under his arm. “Then you’ll have no trouble keeping up.”
“None at all.”
She kicked her horse into a run, exhilarated by the frosty wind stinging her cheeks. Devon brought his horse even with hers, the animals’ heads and hooves moving in near rhythm. Then Devon pulled ahead, tossing a wide smile over his shoulder, and she prodded the gelding into a faster run, determined to keep up.