But perhaps he did.
Perhaps she wanted him to mean it.
Marry, first. She swallowed. Marry, before you test it by asking.
“I could always count on Gram, though,” she said with forced brightness. “Winters in Rawsey were my favorite.” She made herself smile. “And now, thanks to you, I’ll be able to count on Rawsey whenever I like.”
For a moment, his regard remained serious and frowning. She touched his lips, gently urging them up at the corners. “Smile,” she whispered.
He kissed her fingertips, then caught her palm and held it to his mouth, breathing deeply of her. “Rawsey will be yours.” His lips moving against her skin raised goose bumps, caused her stomach to flip. “And anywhere else you might like. Whenever, wherever.”
“Yes.” That, he had promised in the contract. He would not interfere with her freedom of movement.
“Will you come to Rawsey?” she heard herself ask. “In the winter sometime?”
This laugh sounded genuine. “I could think of better climates for the winter.”
Her stomach sank.
No, no, his reply should not disappoint her. Their marriage was not designed for companionship, but to free each other from burdens: he, from the debts that crippled his estates and restricted his travels, and she, from legal impediments to her ownership of the island, and from the societal expectations that constrained unmarried women.
But she’d felt so sure, a moment ago, that he wanted differently . . .
She took back her hand. “Of course you’ll want to be in Nice or Rome, somewhere south.”
“Better weather, yes. But not better places, if you aren’t there.” And before she could even think to check her smile, he leaned forward and kissed her.
They had kissed a good deal in the eight weeks since they’d left Rawsey. He’d gone back to England for a fortnight, but since his return, they’d found dozens of opportunities to meet. Spring was a festive time in Edinburgh. They met in ballrooms, over dinner tables, at musicales and garden parties. Anna’s aunt Elizabeth, her nominal chaperone, was suffering from her annual headaches, and could not muster the energy to chase and scold her. “You’re a mad girl who will do as you please,” Auntie Liz had told her the afternoon she’d emerged from the Stromonds’ garden with leaves in her hair. “Mind you don’t drag Moira into your nonsense—that’s all I ask.”
And so they flirted their way through the New Town and Old Town, and slipped into empty boxes at the opera to kiss in the dark. Anna felt as though she had been walking through a dream this season, fevered and magical. But not until now, in this tin-roofed shed with the rain beating down, had she truly found herself alone with him.
Anything could happen.
She lay back on the floor and pulled him down atop her. He smelled so good, like an enchantment, though each note of his scent was very ordinary—soap and pomade gotten from a high-street chemist, starch from the laundry, sweat from their outdoor exertions. She breathed in deeply and felt her head swim. He bit her lower lip and she squirmed against him, wishing away her clothes, wishing she could imprint his skin on hers, carry that sweaty soapy musk with her, to sniff at odd moments when she found herself bored or fatigued in company. It was better than coffee to make her senses leap and sharpen.
He kissed divinely. It got better and better. He used his lips to open her mouth wider, then angled his head and did something clever that sealed her lips to his. They kissed long and deep as she squirmed beneath him, wanting . . . something . . .
This edgy need was her new companion. At night, she fell asleep imagining his mouth, his hands. Near him, she all but vibrated, her skin magnetized, drawn to his, singing in his presence. Even now, as he kissed her, she wanted more. What if this hunger never ebbed? What if it could not be satisfied? What if she was broken, somehow, fevered and hopeless of a cure?
He did not seem hurried. He kissed her as though there were no other end but this, to taste her deeply, her lips and cheeks and the hollow where her pulse beat in her throat. When he was done with her, sometimes her knees trembled, but he never trembled, nor seemed flustered or startled. Was this so one-sided, then? Sometimes he almost seemed amused by the way she trembled for him. He said he dreamed of her, too, but what if this was only a joke to him?
She pushed against him, hoping to feel the proof of his excitement. But before she could find it, he twisted his hips away. When she tried again, he bit her lower lip in punishment, which made her gasp, then tracked his mouth to her ear, nibbling at her lobe.
His hand smoothed over her waist. She wanted it higher—or lower. She caught it, and felt its steadiness as it turned in hers, gripped her, and held her still.
Her breathing was ragged—his, inaudible. Once, she had heard him pant. Two days ago, in the galleries at the Royal Scottish Academy, she had dragged him behind a pillar. After a minute, his hand had slipped beneath her neckline, and as he’d cupped her breast, she’d heard him hiss out a breath.
She carried his hand now to her chest. “Touch me,” she whispered.
The edge of his teeth scraped her throat. She heard him swallow, and then, praise be, his hand slipped beneath her neckline, delving under her corset and chemise.
She gasped. It felt better even than it had in the museum. His palm so rough, callused, and hot . . . His thumb found her nipple, chafing her, and her body tightened, her belly twisted, a pulse started between her legs. She arched up and clamped his hand in place, and with her free hand, she swept over his back, down his ribs, to his muscular, flexing buttock.
He went rigid. His pelvis rocked into hers once—yes, at last, there was his desire—before he thrust himself aside, removing his hand from her breast as he went. He threw himself down beside her, flat on his back, and when, after a minute, he turned to kiss her again, a great pique sizzled through her and she twisted away.
He caught her face and turned it back. “Behave,” he murmured, and dragged her into another kiss, not permitting her to struggle.
She had never behaved: he could ask her aunts if he doubted it. Her body was aching, and his hands and mouth were the cure. Did he not ache?
She had listened to her married cousins’ gossip, late after a night spent drinking whisky and punch. She knew how to make him want her.
She reached down his body swiftly, before he could notice, and grasped the bulge tenting his trousers.
He made a choked noise, then caught her hand and pulled it back up, planting a kiss on her wrist. “Patience,” he said roughly.
“Why? Nobody’s about—”
“Because I say so.”
She yanked free and sat up.
After a moment, he, too, unfolded himself off the floor. Once he was sitting, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, he said, “You’re put out.”
“You are not in charge of me.”
The rain abruptly softened. As the drumming died down, the silence felt shockingly loud between them. He tipped his head as he studied her.
“Fair enough,” he said at last. “Is that your only complaint?”
“No.”
“May I ask the other?”
“You know it.”
“Let me hear it anyway.”
“You . . .” Not for the first time she cursed her coloring, which showed her blushes so clearly. “I dislike being the weaker one.”
His brows lifted. “Weaker one? In what regard are you weak?”
She blew out a breath. “You’re so . . . unmoved.”
He stared at her for a moment, and then shook his head, a slight uncomprehending shake. “I am far from unmoved. You just felt proof of it.”
“And you knocked my hand away.”
His mouth opened, began to smile, abandoned the smile, and then closed again. A snort of amusement came from him. “It is my devout wish not to deflower you in a toolshed. I assure you, had I not moved your hand, I might have forgotten that rapidly.”
“Then forget it!”
&nbs
p; He sat back as though to see her better, his amber eyes wide with amazement. “You wish to—here? Now?”
“I am sick,” she said furiously, “of feeling like this—so hot and fevered and . . . shaky.”
He put his hand to his mouth, staring at her. Then came his laughter, hoarse and soft. “My God. Anna, I do not think you even know how you compliment me. Be careful: my vanity may become unmanageable.”
“And now you’re laughing,” she said, but with less sharpness, for it was impossible to keep her temper when he was looking at her so warmly. “I dislike feeling like an ignorant naïf. Explain the joke, if you please.”
He dropped his hand, revealing his grin. “The joke is that I am the luckiest man alive. And the least deserving of it, surely. Lie back, now. I’ll cure this fever of yours. But no,” he added huskily as he came over her again, “I won’t deflower you. For that, I’ll need a proper bed—and a great deal more time.”
She squinted up at him, suspicious. “Then what—oh,” she said softly as his hand closed around her ankle, his grip hot and firm.
“It is a wonderful thing,” he said as his hand climbed higher, and his reach permitted him to lie down beside her and speak directly into her ear, “that I might be the one to show you this.” His palm massaged her thigh, and her breath caught as he continued. “For now you will think of me whenever you do it yourself.”
“Do—” What, she was going to ask, but the word slipped back down her throat as his hand found the split in her drawers, and he touched her where even she did not touch herself.
“This,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Practice this when I am not with you.” His fingers delved through her folds, finding a spot that made her body clench. “Then, on our wedding night, you can show me what you’ve learned.”
His touch was delicate, light, probing—then, as she gasped, he whispered, “There. Yes?” And at her wordless nod, he pressed his smile into her temple and stroked and pressed more firmly, setting up a rhythm that pitched her fever higher, to a careening, desperate gallop. She twisted, reaching for him—his free hand found hers, clutching it hard, holding it to his cheek as he stroked her, as he whispered words of praise, compliments to her, to the noises she made as she gasped and twitched and arched against him.
The crisis came on her first as a rivulet of sensation washing through her, building, building, and then—climaxing, glorious, glory indeed.
His palm pressed hard into her, holding her steady as she trembled. And then, when the pleasure at last settled and faded, he said, “Look at me.”
She found herself unwilling to open her eyes. He was still touching her below. She was wet—she could feel it. It was dreadfully mortifying. She knew she had gone red as a beet.
“Look at me,” he said gently. “Anna.”
She was no coward. She had asked for this.
On a ragged breath, she rolled her head toward his. His face so close that their lashes tangled, he said, “You are beautiful. And I thank you. I will live on this memory until our wedding night.”
Shyness fell away. She clasped his cheek, amazed by him.
“Two weeks to wait,” she murmured. “No fortnight will ever feel so long.”
CHAPTER TEN
London, 1861
The firm of Kent, Hartsock, and Witt had a blemishless reputation. It had represented Anna’s family from her grandfather’s time, and Sir Charles Kent had once made the long trip to Edinburgh to draft her marriage contract. But she had never visited his offices.
Thus did she find herself befuddled, on the curb in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, by her first sight of the Gothic house. Set somewhat back from the street behind wrought iron gates, the house boasted crumbling iron balconies, a castlelike turret, and an ancient weathervane, which in the sudden strong wind did not swing toward the west so much as lurch toward it, shrieking loudly as decades of accumulated rust forced it to a premature halt.
“You sure this is the right address?” called down Henneage, Lockwood’s coachman.
Henneage had driven the horses with such abominable speed that Anna had felt the carriage wheels leave the ground during turns. “Learn to drive,” she snapped, and clutched her queasy gut as she stalked into the office.
Inside the small, square lobby, a deep hush prevailed, punctured only by the squeak of Anna’s footsteps on the waxed wooden floor. Gentle, lemony light diffused through the tall windows swaddled in yellow silk, casting a cheerful tint over oil paintings of bewigged men in dark court robes.
At the center of the lobby sat a clerk, who stuffed the remnants of a jam pastry into his mouth before linking his hands together atop the polished surface of his mahogany desk, posing like a man who was not trying, frantically, to finish chewing.
Anna turned away, pretending to admire the furnishings, in order to give him a moment to swallow. A faded painting covered the low, domed ceiling: Lady Justice, in Roman stola, holding aloft her scales—and wearing a blindfold.
This sight did not improve Anna’s temper. She had not spoken to her husband in two days. Unwilling to surrender his ropes and ties, he had declined to visit her bedroom. At breakfast, she ate alone. Anna spent the evenings with her cousin, lest Lockwood have the opportunity to spurn her for dinner as well.
“May I help you?” came the clerk’s inquiry.
She turned back. The pastry had left a jam mustache on the clerk’s upper lip. “Yes. I’m here to speak with Sir Charles.”
“Appointment?”
“No, but—”
His overloud sigh cut her off. “No admission without appointment. How many times must I say it today?”
The door creaked open behind her. In waltzed a rotund blond man, who doffed his tall hat to etch a sarcastic bow to the clerk. “Hartsock about?”
“Oh, to be sure. In his office.”
That did not sound like a man with an appointment. Anna watched him toddle off into the depths of the house before drawing herself straight and facing the clerk again. “You will tell Sir Charles that Lady Forth is here.”
The clerk tapped the ledger that sat open in front of him. “It isn’t I who makes the decisions. This appointment book is what does it. And I see no mention of . . . Lady Forth, was it?” His intonation, paired with the slight lift of his brow, bespoke grave doubts concerning the legitimacy of her title.
“Yes,” she said coolly. “The Countess of Forth, to be precise. Sir Charles will be most glad to see me.”
“Alas, he can’t be disturbed today. I suggest you go home and write a request—”
Here he broke off, for the door had swung open again, admitting a ruddy lad in a rumpled suit, who chewed on an unlit cigar. This man’s wink at the clerk caused him to laugh. “What ho, Rollo,” the clerk exclaimed. “Back from Margate already?”
“Come to say hullo to the lads,” Rollo replied, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he strolled past them.
“So many appointments,” Anna said flatly.
The clerk nodded. “Indeed. We’re a very great firm, ma’am.”
“Your ladyship.”
He frowned. “Ah . . . right. Well, as I said, you would do well to go home and write for an—”
She slapped down one of the calling cards she’d had printed last week. Her hand was shaking, a sight that only soured her temper further. She retrieved her hand and clutched it behind her back. “I will see Sir Charles at once.”
The clerk loosed a long-suffering sigh, glanced at the card, then gave her an alarmed second look. Swallowing, he rose and hastened into the hall.
This victory, perversely, only worsened her mood. Lady Forth was not worth his time, but Lady Lockwood made him jump. Was it Lockwood’s title that commanded respect? Surely it was not the man himself.
The next minute, Sir Charles was hastening into the hallway, trim and dapper in pinstriped trousers and a dark morning coat, his silver hair slicked flat against his head—no sign of his useless clerk. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he
said rapidly. “That boy is new. I’ll have a word with him, I promise you.”
“It’s quite all right,” she said stiffly, and allowed him to escort her down the long, dark hall into his office, which offered a handsome view of the small garden that ran alongside the building.
As soon as she settled into a wing chair, she felt herself relaxing. Sir Charles was the very picture of legal authority: painfully erect, magisterially wrinkled. His thick-lensed spectacles magnified the grave and penetrating quality of his gaze, which had held on to hers four years ago without a flicker of surprise or judgment as she’d explained her unusual requirements of a husband.
“I am glad you called,” he said as he took his seat. “I had just started a letter to you. Tea?”
“No, thank you.” She was not in the mood for any courtesies. “What was the letter to say? Have the MacCauleys decided to sue for breach of contract?”
“It won’t be necessary,” he said, beaming.
“You’ve located Mr. Roy, then?”
“I have put an end to the search.”
She stared. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“Ah. It seems you haven’t yet read the Times today.” She caught the newspaper he slid across his desk. “Top right corner,” he said.
It took a moment to understand her eyes.
The Great Western Caledonia Railway—the company that had leased the beach at Clachaig—did not actually exist.
With growing astonishment, she read onward. The land had indeed been leased—its owners, the MacCauleys, described the lessor as a dark-haired gentleman, well spoken, with a city accent. But we did think it curious when no engineers came to survey the land, Mr. MacCauley was quoted as saying. Nor did they ever make good on their promised payment.
Meanwhile, over the course of the last six months, tens of thousands of shares in the company had been sold to investors—most of them ordinary citizens, driven to high hopes by the grand campaign that had advertised the coastal route.
Sometime over the last fortnight, those shares had been liquidated in secret, the company disbanded. The shareholders now clamored for the return of their money, with little hope of recompense.