Chapter 17 #2
This morning I lay back, my head on the edge of the bathtub, and wondered about adultery. Exactly how sinful is it?
Very, my scanty religious training told me.
Once I was dressed, I drew aside the tapestry and knocked on Godric’s doorframe.
“One moment,” he called.
Was he unclothed? Perhaps he was tying his cravat.
I was consumed with curiosity about his neck.
The closest I’d come to seeing a gentleman’s neck was when a footman splashed tomato soup at the table.
Burnsby had torn off his cravat, trembling from irritation, and I’d caught sight of a scrawny neck, white as cream from never seeing the light of day.
I didn’t peek through Godric’s door, no matter the temptation.
“I’ll meet you outside,” I said instead, then walked into the cloister.
Across the colonnade, Sophonisba was snuggled against my husband’s side, looking for all the world like a royal bear in her ermine coat as they made their way toward the second garden and his bedchamber.
Resentment flared in my gut, but I told myself again that despite my husband’s perfidy, I would not break the vows I made. I would never commit adultery, especially for revenge.
Godric’s door opened. His eyes met mine, heat curled in my belly, and I forgot the sour taste of the word adultery. He glanced across Sophonisba and then smiled at me.
(Yes, smiled.)
“Shall we go to the kitchen and wish Peony good morning?”
I was not mistaken in what I saw in his face. His eyes were neither condescending nor contemptuous.
I nodded jerkily, because I don’t know how to be this person. A wife, contemplating adultery. The thing that society despised, and the thing that now felt most necessary to my well-being.
Godric turned to walk beside me. The snow had let up for the time being, and fitful sunshine lit the courtyard. “Did you hear the wolves howling last night?”
I shook my head. When we left the library, I had been filled with the warmth of a good Bordeaux and even better friends. Thinking of my dreams sent a blush up my cheeks.
Godric cast me a quick glance. Instead of his hand landing on my back, he held it out to me, eyes intent on my face. I drew my right hand from my muff, and his gloved hand curled around mine.
I felt suffused with embarrassment and, at the same time, longing. How do people survive polite society, feeling like this? How do they go about their daily life, struck by so much desire for a person’s touch that they would beg for it?
Neither of us said a word, and he dropped my hand when we reached the kitchen door. I hung up my mantua and went to my knees to greet my piggy, Peony’s tail wagging so quickly that it seemed likely to spin off her body. She scrambled into my lap and snuffled at my face as I kissed her.
“She is the love of the kitchen,” Miss Wellington said, coming over to greet us. “Do you suppose she’ll grow much larger, Lady Burnsby?”
“She is rounder, but her legs are still short,” I said. Burnsby had nonchalantly informed me that runts are usually killed at birth, a fact that made me hug Peony tighter.
Godric came down on his haunches and scratched behind the piglet’s ear. She cheerfully scrambled from my lap to his knee, accepting caresses as her due.
“Cook requests your advice regarding the Christmas puddings,” Miss Wellington told me, as I rose and went to wash my hands, leaving Godric and Peony together.
“There’s the rump steak pudding, as I told you, to be served with oysters and kidneys.
She’ll leave that in the cook pot until the last minute, but we were wondering what you’d think if she removed the plum pudding from the steamer early, on Christmas Eve. ”
“My family’s cook always did so the night before,” I said, smiling across the room at the abbey cook. “Christmas morning is so busy; it’s a relief to have the plum pudding out in one piece.”
“It might grow cold,” Cook said anxiously.
“Wrap it in several cloths and put it on the hearth. You did make two, one for the household and the other for us? Flaming brandy will warm them up.”
“We made two of everything,” Miss Wellington said. “It’ll be a feast such as this household has never had.”
“You’ll need to keep Peony away from the puddings.”
“Miss Ainsworth has expressed a fear that a pig in the kitchen might lead to smallpox,” the housekeeper said expressionlessly. “I promised to share her concern with you.”
Godric was washing his hands; he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Smallpox is spread by people, not piglets.”
Miss Wellington beamed. “Archie will be turning the spits all afternoon and tomorrow morning for roast peacock and goose. He said he doesn’t dread it like usual, because Peony will keep him company.”
My heart skipped a beat at Godric’s expression. He wasn’t precisely smiling, but I could see his emotion. He liked Peony. He liked me.
When our eyes met, I had the strangest feeling that he and I were thinking the same thing. This visit felt as if we were master and mistress, come to the kitchens to check on the progress of the Christmas feast. The idea pierced my heart with longing.
I did remember the danger my annulment posed to his judgeship, but I couldn’t seem to keep it in mind.
“Have the grooms collected greenery for decorations?” Godric asked Miss Wellington.
“Aye, we have a towering pile waiting outside the sanctuary, since no one in these parts dresses a house before the twenty-fourth. We’ll trim the drawing room last, after you and Sir Lancelot return with the Yule log.”
Godric walked casually to stand beside me. His shoulder touched mine as he talked to Miss Wellington about hawthorn, holly, and ivy.
I stood still, investigating the coal burning in the vicinity of my heart, while the housekeeper explained that kissing boughs would be hung in the doorways, as mistletoe can’t be found in Scotland.
I flinched, picturing Burnsby embracing Sophonisba.
Godric stopped her midsentence. “There’s no need for kissing boughs this year.”
Miss Wellington’s eyes flickered. “Lord Burnsby will request them. We’ve already woven three.”
“Put one over the door in the library, one over the newlyweds’ bedchamber door, and the other . . .” He glanced at me.
“Over the door to the music room,” I said. Sophonisba and Burnsby could grope each other at a threshold I would never cross.
Miss Wellington nodded.
“Lance and I will find a Yule log as soon as that lazy sod gets out of bed,” Godric said. He turned to me. “You and Ophelia could accompany us, if you wish.”
“We’re definitely joining you.” My family had always spent the holiday in London, where new snow turned to coal-black slush within the hour and Yule logs were things of legend.
I couldn’t wait to explore the white cotton that padded the tree trunks surrounding the abbey.
I was curious whether we’d find wolf tracks circling the walls, or whether the gossiping wolves stayed far away.
“I’ll send a maid to bring the count and countess morning tea,” Miss Wellington said, her eyes twinkling.
By two hours later, when we set out to hunt for the log, I was drunk on heady, improper feelings. Godric’s leg brushed mine as he helped me put on my mantle. I felt as if I was rushing headlong into a deep ocean, heedless of water splashing in my face.
I didn’t care.
Lance and Godric led the way from the abbey, followed by two boisterous grooms with axes on their shoulders. Colette, Ophelia, and I traipsed after, swathed from head to foot in heavy wool, our furred hoods up, since snow was sifting like sugar from the sky.
The forest seemed to stretch for miles in all directions, the abbey walls behind us the only interruption. We set off randomly in pursuit of a fallen log thick and hard enough to burn for all twelve days of Christmas.
“We won’t go far,” Godric said, dropping back to walk next to me. My heart spun—because there he was.
“I’m quite warm,” I said, as he took my mittened hand.
“We won’t walk far from the abbey walls due to the wolves,” he clarified.
I glanced around. The woods that seemed so ominous when I first arrived had transformed into a frosted paradise. I didn’t see tracks of any kind. As I watched, a red cardinal streaked between tree trunks, setting off a snowfall.
“Found one!” Lance bellowed ahead of us.
“If you will forgive me, my lady,” Godric said. His voice dropped when saying those two common words: “my lady.” And his smile?
He smiled.
Remember how hard his eyes were when we first met? They weren’t anymore, not when looking at me. I almost glanced behind me to see if there was another woman in sight, someone who was everything that I’m not.
Not married, for one. Not scandalous.
Ahead of us, the men were clustered around a fallen tree, discussing the measurements of a perfect Yule log. Godric squeezed my hand, a feeling as fleeting as a kiss, before plowing through the snow to join them.
“Get to work, mes amis,” Colette shrieked. “It’s bloody cold out here.”
Ophelia threw herself backward into a bed of snow. “Let’s make snow angels!”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Colette asked. “What if you disturb a wolf’s den? The mother wolf will be upset. She will emerge and bite your toes off.”
“Rubbish,” Ophelia said, holding her red mittens out to me. “Pull me up, Evie. I don’t want to ruin my angel’s skirts.”
We both admired her angel, but Colette shuddered at the idea of lying on the ground. She and Ophelia went over to watch the tree being chopped into a log.
Since no one was watching, I toppled backward into a fresh blanket of snow. Thankfully, the mother wolves remained hidden in their burrows as I spread my arms and turned a swath of pristine white into angel’s wings. I began to widen my legs to brush snow to the sides for skirts—and froze.
This was so, so improper.
A lady’s legs are never spread wide. Never.
Not even in the privacy of her own bedchamber, let alone in the out-of-doors and in the presence of men.
One of the advice manuals I’d read and reread as a girl described a lady as a clothes-peg, her legs as immovable as if they had been whittled from a single piece of ash wood.
Yet Ophelia had blithely created an angel, and no one was watching me. I swept my angel’s wings again, thinking about it.
I didn’t want my angel hobbled like a clothes-peg, so I pushed my legs apart. Cold air stole under my mantle. I wore wool stockings that tied with a ribbon above my knees. My thighs prickled to life, making the private area between my legs feel—
Odd. Cold. Vulnerable, but not in a bad way.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed my legs even farther apart, as wide as I could force them. Snow melted into my boots and soaked my stockings, turning the silk ribbons holding them up into chilly worms.
All the same, the feeling was so enlivening, unladylike, and plain fun that I kept sweeping the snow with my legs even after my angel’s skirts were surely perfect.
When I opened my eyes and raised my head, I saw that Godric was waiting at my feet, dark eyes fixed on me.
Shame blazed over my body. He’d seen me. Seen my legs. I snapped back into a ladylike pose although it was too late; he’d already seen me splayed out in the snow. Despite the freezing air, my cheeks were suddenly roasting.
“I’m not sure what you are doing, Evie, but may I help you up?” He held out both hands.
“Be careful of my angelic skirts,” I managed, pointing to the sweeps of snow on either side of my legs.
He bent over, caught my waist, and lifted me straight into the air. I squealed like a girl—except I was never a squealing type of girl. His arms closed around me, drawing me tight against him.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice gravelly and low.
“No!” I gasped, unable to disguise the breathy note in my voice. A burn of desire roared down my legs, despite the shame and wet stockings. “I must have scratched . . . scratched my neck on a twig under the snow.”
Godric didn’t glance about to see if anyone was watching us. He bent his head and pressed his lips against my throat. They lingered there for a moment, long enough for my knees to go weak.
“Better?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.
Stupefied, I stared at him, because honestly? I knew what was happening. I had watched Colette give Lance kisses full of promise and desire. I saw a silent invitation in Godric’s eyes.
My lips parted, thinking of it.
“I know it’s not gentlemanly, but you were on your back, your legs wide,” he growled under his breath.
My heart thumped. This was precisely why women don’t spread their legs around men.
But there was nothing disgusting in his gaze.
“Your expression— Evie, what do you want from me?”
The burning coal was in my chest again, sending a dangerous heat rushing down my stomach, down my legs, between my legs.
“We could make a snow angel together. My body would keep you warm,” he whispered. I imagined his heavy body pushing me into a snowbank.
Married.
Married, married, married.
The word sounded through my heart and body like a warning bell.
When I married Burnsby, I had vowed to be faithful, without regard to the fact our marriage would never be consummated.
It had been an easy promise—at that point I had no plans to go anywhere near a man, be he French peacock or English lover.
Now I felt like a Christmas pudding steaming in the pot, flushed and tingling with the heat of embarrassment.
And desire.
Godric’s eyes were slightly glossy, a streak of color on his cheekbones. “You—” he said, his voice guttural. “Damn it, I’ve never felt so fucking greedy.”
His crude sentence should have outraged me, but it didn’t. I wanted to hear more. I didn’t care what he said, as long as his words had that hungry note.
We shouldn’t, I reminded myself, excellent reasons tumbling through my mind. Instead of voicing them—mentioning his judgeship for example—I licked my lips.
His eyes caught the movement of my tongue, and his eyelids drooped. “Evie,” Godric said, raw and desperate.
“Hoy!” Lance bellowed.
Godric’s lips moved again, and he moved away from our embrace. “Hell.”
“B-bollocks?” I offered, as I summoned up a smile. Everything happening between us was wrong, and yet it was so delightful that I couldn’t help laughing. My next sentence came out without forethought, without a ladylike wrinkle of my nose, a simper, a whisper. Nothing. Just blunt words.
The truth.
“I’ve never been this happy.”