Chapter Sixteen #2
Heslop grinned. “You’ll do all right, Master James, in the end.” He placed his hat on his head and resumed weeding as James set off in his wife’s wake.
By the time he had caught up with his wife and sister, they had reached the oak tree beside the lake, and Margaret had already climbed onto the lower branches.
“Come on, Cordelia!” she cried. “Or are you as stuffy as Georgiana?”
Cordelia approached the tree, then lifted a foot onto the fissure in the bark. She slipped, and James broke into a sprint.
“Cordelia!”
She froze and stepped back. “F-forgive me. I didn’t think.”
“No, I was only concerned you might hurt yourself,” James said. “If you’re eager to climb the tree, don’t stop on my account.”
“But a viscountess…”
“Can do what she pleases in the privacy of her own home,” he said.
“Ha!” a voice cried from above, and he tilted his head up to see Margaret grinning at him, her hair already working loose. “I like you much better when you’re not so stuffy.”
“I’m not stuffy all the time, Meg.”
“You are when we have guests,” Margaret said. “He makes me say please and how do you do, even to people I don’t like. Have you ever had to do that, Cordelia?”
Cordelia’s smile slipped.
“I-I have, yes,” she said.
“And did you like doing it?”
“Not at all.”
James’s heart ached at the pain in his wife’s eyes—the cause of which he now understood.
“Come along, then!” Margaret said. “It’s such fun up here, and the view is wonderful higher up. You can see all the way to Fircombe. I can see the church spire just from here.”
“I’m not sure if I can climb in these shoes,” Cordelia said.
Margaret’s face fell. “Oh. Georgiana always says that.”
“I have some sturdy boots that might be better? I brought them with me, but didn’t think it would be appropriate to wear them here. They’re not very fine.”
James took his wife’s hand and caught his breath at the fizz of need as her warm fingers interlaced with his.
“Wear them,” he said. “Wear whatever you like. You’re a free woman, Cordelia.”
She met his gaze, and a flicker of understanding passed between them.
“Watch me climb higher,” Margaret said, “then, when you have your boots on, you’ll know what to do.”
Margaret leaned back and reached for the branch above. She caught it and swung outward. Then she let out a scream, lost her grip, and fell out of the tree.
Before James could move, Cordelia pushed him aside and darted toward the tree, arms outstretched. Margaret slid down the trunk, but Cordelia caught her, breaking the fall, and wrapped her arms around the little girl as they both fell to the ground.
“Margaret!” James cried.
Shaking, his sister clambered to her feet and began to cry.
“Are you all right?” Cordelia said, kneeling beside her. Margaret nodded, her lip wobbling, then Cordelia touched Margaret’s arm, and she let out a cry.
“Dear Lord!” James said. “Have you broken your arm? I’ve told you to be more careful. There’s nothing to be gained from showing off.”
“I wasn’t showing off!”
“You were—in front of Cordelia. What will she think if you cry in front of her as if you were still in the nursery? No wonder Georgiana says you’re a wild thing if you—”
“James, that’s enough,” Cordelia said. “There’s no harm done.
Just a graze, isn’t that right?” She rolled up Margaret’s sleeve and inspected the girl’s arm.
“It’s nothing a little salve and a bandage won’t fix,” she said.
“As a child, I got scrapes and bruises all the time. And they made me cry as well. But there’s nothing wrong in crying.
” She turned and fixed her gaze on James.
“Crying lets those whom we trust know how we feel—it can help when we want to be safe.”
“And what if we’re not among people we trust?” Margaret said.
“Then we must never cry,” Cordelia replied, her mouth set in a firm line, her jaw bulging as if she gritted her teeth.
Once again, James shivered at the expression in his wife’s eyes. What had she endured to elicit such hardness?
But her life had been hard. To survive, she’d had to become hard herself.
Cordelia rolled Margaret’s sleeve down, then patted her hand. “Let’s get you back to the house and see if Mrs. Case has anything for you.”
“You won’t tell Georgiana, will you, Cordelia?”
“No, sweet one, I won’t,” Cordelia said. “You might want to tidy your hair, though. Shall I do it?”
“No, I can do it when I get back. I can plait it by myself, you know.” Margaret gestured toward the lake. “Do you want to see the moorhens? I can show them to you before we get back.”
“Margaret, I think you’ve had enough excitement for one—” James began.
“Let her,” Cordelia whispered. “It’ll take her mind off the fall. She’s trying not to cry, and it helps to distract oneself with other things.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
Her eyes darkened once more and she turned her head away, casting her gaze over the lake.
“You can trust me,” James said, lifting her hand to his lips. “And you’ll always be safe with me.”
She blinked, her gaze fixed on the lake while, in the distance, the distinct call of the moorhens echoed across the water.
“Cordelia.”
He lifted his hand and caught her chin, then guided her head around until she faced him.
The longing that had swelled in his body last night, and nearly caused him to spend that morning, now settled in his heart.
Unable to conquer it, he dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers.
She parted her lips and her warm breath caressed his skin.
Then he slipped his tongue inside, relishing the sweet taste of her—warm honey with the tang of sorrow.
How he longed to ease her pain! Though the notion of her crying broke his heart, he wanted nothing more than to be someone she could trust, someone to make her world safe so she could open her heart to him.
Her injuries ran far deeper than a mere scrape on the skin.
They were scars formed in a life devoid of love, a life of being used for the gratification of others.
Some scars hardened the skin such that all hope of feeling, of sensation, was lost forever.
But perhaps he might strip away her hard shell to reach the soft heart within.
“James…”
The moment she softened in his arms, his heart soared with hope and he deepened the kiss, devouring her with hungry strokes.
A groan of desire reverberated in her bones and he pulled her close, his body hardening with readiness.
He thrust his hips forward, his member bulging against his breeches, and she caught her breath, then curled her tongue around his, drawing it deeper in.
His cupped a breast and drew in a sharp breath, almost bursting at the feel of the hardened bud pressing insistently against his palm.
To think: She was his—his to kiss, his to touch and caress, his to bury himself into while he poured his life into her, shouting her name into the heavens…
“Urgh—yuck!”
Cordelia withdrew, her cheeks flaming. But a primal desire flared in her eyes, flashes of silver like tiny stars pulsing in their depths.
“You’re supposed to kiss her indoors, brother,” Margaret said, wrinkling her nose.
“Nobody’s looking, Meg.”
“I am.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. Go and look at the moorhens instead.”
“I want Cordelia to see them.”
“And she will. Just give us a moment.”
Margaret let out a huff, then continued toward the water’s edge.
“I do apologize,” James said as they followed Margaret at a leisurely pace.
“There’s no need,” Cordelia replied. “Your sister is a lovely child. I quite adore her. It’s heartening to see a child with such joy in life. And she isn’t afraid to say what she thinks. I envy her in that.”
“But she must be tempered as she grows older.”
“She can enjoy a few more years of childhood, can’t she?”
“Two or three, perhaps. But when she enters Society, she’ll be expected to behave as a viscount’s sister. As I’m expected to behave as a viscount.” He squeezed her hand. “I’d rather behave as a lover. But Margaret’s right. I must temper my behavior while outside.”
She glanced up, disappointment in her eyes. “Must you?”
“And in company.” He let out a sigh. “We must entertain soon.”
“Entertain?” The disappointment in her eyes turned to fear.
“I’ll be expected to host a house party,” he said. “It’s impolite for a newly married man not to invite his friends and neighbors to pay their respects to his bride.”
“It sounds as if we must pay respect to them.”
“Perhaps, but it comes with marrying a title. Surely Mrs. Dove-Lyon told you that? After all, aren’t all her customers women who wish to marry titles? I take it there’s no concern as to whether anyone might recognize you?”
Her smile slipped. “Men rarely bother to look at a doxy’s face.”
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firm until she yielded.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he said. “I’ll help you. And Georgiana also. She can teach you the rudiments of etiquette.”
She said nothing as they drew near the lake.
“I-I know Georgiana isn’t enamored of your being Lady Bedford,” he said, “but she values the family honor and will help you all that she can in order to preserve it. She’ll warm to you in time once you’ve settled into the role.”
“That’s very kind of her,” she replied, an edge to her voice.
“There’s a moorhen, look!” Margaret cried.
James released his wife’s hand and she strolled toward the water’s edge, revealing a slight limp.
Had she injured herself when she fell? Why, then, had she said nothing?
Because you’re an arse, James Bedford. Because you’ve failed to earn her trust.
But in time she would understand that by schooling her in the customs of propriety, honor, and her role as a viscountess, James was doing her the greatest service he could by shielding her from the derision of the Society into which she had married.
Perhaps that was why men never married their mistress, maids, or doxies. Because the world would always punish them for it.