Angel in Scarlet (53 page)

We went into the parlor in front of the house, a cozy room with shabby pink sofa and chairs and a worn gray oriental carpet with green and blue and pink designs, the colors faded. A vase of wildflowers sat on the low mahogany table in front of the sofa, another on the mantel above the fireplace. Hugh examined the books I had brought along with me and stacked on one of the tables. He asked me if I still read a great deal and I nodded and said that reading was a great comfort.

“Haven't had much time to read myself,” he told me. “I used to when I was a boy. I fairly devoured the books your father loaned me.”

“He—he told me about that,” I said.

“He was a remarkable man, Angie, the only man I ever truly respected. When everyone else shunned me, considered me some kind of wild animal, he was kind to me. He believed in me.”

“I know.”

I believed in you, too, I thought. I believed you could make something of yourself, on your own, through your own efforts, without the inheritance you believe should be yours, and what have you become? A thief, a criminal. I should send you away, Hugh, this very minute, before it's too late. Hugh put down the book he had been examining and looked at me with those dark brown eyes and I was unable to speak the words I knew I should speak, unable to do the thing I knew I should do.

“I've missed you, Angie,” he said.

“Have you?”

“These past weeks have been hellish, knowing you were so close, knowing you were living with another man. When I learned that you had left the house on St. Martin's Lane, when I learned you and Lambert were no longer together I couldn't stay away. I love you, Angie.”

“I believe you do,” I said quietly.

He came over to me and took me into his arms and I shook my head and pulled away, and he didn't persist. He stepped back, patient, content to wait. I knew what I should do, true, my head told me in no uncertain terms, but my heart told me something else and I mustn't listen, I mustn't. I was very vulnerable at the moment, hurt, disillusioned, lonely, and it would be so easy to turn to Hugh and take comfort in the love he offered, but I sensed that that would merely lead to more pain, more disillusionment, far worse than that I felt now.

“You're afraid,” he said.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I would never hurt you, Angie.”

“Not intentionally,” I said.

“I want to give you the world.”

“I don't want the world,” I told him. “I don't want a title, a grand estate, riches. The things that matter to you aren't important to me.”

“You're all that matters to me,” he said.

I looked at him, and I wanted so desperately to believe him. I glanced out the window and saw the open one-seat rig he had arrived in standing in the lane beyond the low gray stone wall, a beautiful bay in harness, waiting patiently in the shade of an oak tree. I saw his bags on the seat of the rig, and I knew he had come to stay. Send him away, Angel. Now. Tell him there is no future for us. There isn't. You know that. Tell him he must go.

“You gave up your rooms at the Blue Stag?” I asked.

He nodded. “The Gainsborough reproduction, a few other things were put into storage. Everything else I own is in those bags you see.”

“The horse? The rig?”

“For a modest fee the innkeeper at the village will stable the horse for me and keep the rig in the carriage house. I made tentative arrangements with him before I came on out here.”

“Tentative,” I said. “You weren't sure.”

“I hoped, Angie.”

His voice was quiet, his dark brown eyes were grave, and in the hazy, softly diffused light streaming in through the windows his face seemed sculpted by a master artist, the lean, sharp lines with their own special beauty, the curve of his full lower lip taut, expectant. His hair gleamed, so rich a black, brushed back neatly and fastened at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He was so hard, so harsh, so vulnerable. He was the love of my life.

Instead of giving him an answer I suggested we take a walk, and we left the cottage and strolled slowly down the lane. There were rhododendrons growing on either side, mauve and pink and purple, and that brought back memories of another time, another lane. We left the lane and crossed a field, and it was spotted with wild daisies. That brought back memories, too, and time seemed to shimmer, evaporate, and the present disappeared and I was seventeen again and in love for the very first time, filled with poignant emotions as vibrant and tender as they had been all those years ago. Hugh was silent, grave, walking beside me, waiting for me to say the words he so wanted to hear.

We strolled back to the cottage, the sunlight pale silver, the sky a cloudless blue, and as we reached the low gray stone wall festooned here and there by strands of morning glories, I was at peace with myself and my decision was made. I suggested he carry his bags inside and drive the rig to the inn. Hugh didn't say anything. He pulled me to him and kissed me lightly on the lips and held me for a moment, and then he fetched the bags and took them inside and came out and took hold of the side of the rig and swung nimbly up onto the black leather seat and gathered up the reins. I watched him drive away, a tremulous joy inside me, and though I knew I might regret it, that joy was all that mattered now.

I went out to the well and drew buckets of water and heated it, filling the small porcelain hip bath. I scented the water and bathed and washed my hair and reveled in the luxury of love, my whole body seeming to tingle with anticipation of his touch. I dried myself with a soft towel and toweled my hair dry and put on a frail white silk petticoat with rows of delicate lace ruffles on the swirling full skirt. I brushed my hair until it fell to my shoulders in loose gleaming waves, and then I slipped on a pair of soft tan kid slippers with high heels and a pale tan muslin frock sprigged with small dark gold flowers and tiny brown leaves. It was fetching indeed with its small puffed sleeves and low bodice and snug waist, the full skirt spreading out over the petticoat beneath. Looking in the mirror, I saw a girl with glowing complexion and sparkling violet-gray eyes. The glamorous, sophisticated actress had disappeared.

I went down into the cellar and fetched a bottle of cool amber wine, and in the kitchen I sliced chicken and ham and arranged slices on a plate and buttered bread and washed grapes and peaches and placed them in a bowl. The sunlight was beginning to fade slightly when I heard footsteps coming up the walk. I went to the front door and greeted him with a smile. He was a bit dusty from the walk, his thin white shirt moist with perspiration, clinging to his skin, but that didn't matter at all when he drew me to him and kissed me again, lightly, tenderly, there in the cool, dim foyer. His lips caressed mine and his arms held me loosely and I rested my hand on the back of his neck and gently stroked the warm skin and then ran my hands over his shoulders and back, feeling the smooth, hard muscle beneath the damp silk.

I pulled back when his lips became more urgent, demanding. I smiled again and told him we had all the time in the world and he grinned and his eyes glowed darkly and he said yes, perhaps he'd better wash up. I caressed his lean cheek and stroked his lower lip and he captured the ball of my thumb between his teeth and bit the soft flesh gently. I pulled my thumb away, and he lightly encircled my waist, drawing me to him again, and I ran my hands along those lean, muscular thighs tightly encased in black broadcloth, and I felt the bulge in his breeches pressing against my abdomen and smiled once more as he rubbed, straining against me, silently informing me of his need.

“Later,” I whispered.

He leaned his head down and planted warm lips against the base of my throat and made a low, moaning noise and then, reluctantly, he released me and sighed a heavy sigh. I went into the kitchen and placed the food on the table and opened the wine, and he joined me a short while later, smelling of soap, wearing another thin white shirt, lawn, with lace at the wrists, a lace jabot dripping at his throat, and that small vanity pleased me. He sat down at the table and glanced at the food, hungry, but not for food, and I reveled in the delicious torment of anticipation, pouring the wine, sitting down myself. We ate slowly, looking at each other the whole while, silent, anticipating, savoring the sensations building, mounting inside.

Utterly enthralled, I watched him eat chicken, his strong white teeth tearing the flesh apart, and it was thrilling, tantalizing. I observed the way his neck muscles worked when he swallowed his wine, and that was thrilling, too, and I watched with fascination as his large brown hand reached out, fingers wrapping around a fuzzy golden-pink peach, clutching it. He took up a knife and carefully peeled the peach and divided it into sections and ate them one by one, gleaming brown eyes devouring me as he did so. The tip of his tongue slipped out and slowly licked the peach juice from his lips, and then he took another swallow of the cool amber wine. He set the glass down and rested his hands on the edge of the table, fingertips drumming the oak.

He was impatient now, eager, finding it difficult to contain the smoldering need inside. I felt the same need, but I wanted to savor this delicious anticipation, knowing it would make eventual release all the more satisfying. I asked him if he wanted another slice of cake. Hugh shook his head. The sunlight was dimmer now and the kitchen was beginning to fill with hazy blue-gray shadows. I cleared the table, stacking the dishes on the drainboard, and Hugh climbed slowly to his feet and came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me to him.

“I've waited a long time for this,” he murmured.

“I'm afraid you must wait a little longer. I must bring Matilda in.”

“Matilda?”

“The cow. I must put her in the barn.”

Hugh sighed and, resigned, followed me out the back door. The sky was pale gray, softly smeared with fading orange and gold banners in the west. Heavy oak boughs groaned overhead, leaves rustling, and the chickens were quiet now, roosting in the henhouse. Matilda looked up expectantly as I moved across the field toward her, followed by the tall, lean stranger with the disgruntled expression. I stroked her soft velvety nose and, taking hold of the lead rope, led her slowly toward the small barn behind the henhouse. I talked to her and stroked her as I put her in her stall, promising to see her first thing in the morning. The barn was dim, smelling of hay and manure. Hugh stood in the hallway silhouetted against the light behind him, and I knew he was remembering the stables at Greystone Hall and the bitter, unhappy boy who had tended them.

“Quite finished?” he inquired.

I patted Matilda a last time and joined him at the door. “For now,” I replied, carefully closing the barn door.

“I suppose hundreds have told you how beautiful you are,” he said.

“I never believed them. I keep remembering that gawky adolescent girl.”

“You were beautiful back then, Angie. You were the most captivating child I had ever seen, the most beautiful young woman, gentle and graceful and totally unaware of your beauty.”

“And now?”

“You're even lovelier,” he said.

“You just want to sleep with me,” I accused.

“You're right about that!”

I smiled and he slung his arm around my shoulders and we walked back to the house, passing the kitchen garden with its pungent smells. The house was filled with shadows now, all hazy, dreamlike as we moved down the hall to the foyer and climbed up the worn wooden stairs to the bedroom above with its low-beamed ceiling and whitewashed walls now a soft mauve-gray at twilight. Impatient before, Hugh was strangely subdued and hesitant now, as though this really were a dream, as though he couldn't believe we were truly together at last and free to communicate the love living inside us all these years. His dark eyes glowed with that love as he gazed at me now.

Oak leaves rustled outside the opened windows. Hazy white light grew dimmer still, deeper mauve shadows spreading over the walls. His face was solemn, brushed with shadow, cheekbones prominent, lips slightly parted. I put my hands on his shoulders and stood up on tiptoe to lightly caress those lips with mine. He tilted his head, leaning forward, wrapping one arm around my waist, responding to my kiss with a passionate fervor that was still incredibly tender. I held on to his shoulders as my senses reeled, as so many dreams suddenly materialized into a shattering reality. It was real, it was real, he was here, his strong arms holding me to him, his lips tenderly, urgently devouring my own, his warmth, his smell, his lean, sinewy body real, mine, no dream to disappear at dawn.

Need, desperate need, became a torment inside, for me, for Hugh, our bodies crying for immediate release, but it was not to be, for Hugh had waited too long to plunge and thrust and squander this precious time with instant gratification. Gently, firmly, he held me away from him, and he smiled and kissed my throat, my chin, the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my brow. He stroked my hair and lifted it with his hands to savor its weight and silky texture, and all the while I was trembling inside, a weak, hollow feeling in the backs of my knees, the pit of my stomach, warmth glowing and spreading throughout my body as he tugged at my hair and tilted my head back and finally covered my lips with his once again, kissing me tensely, tenderly, holding me tight.

Shadows spread and light faded and the walls were dark gray now and the air was filled with a blue-mauve haze that deepened by the moment. Slowly, expertly Hugh unfastened the back of my bodice and I stepped out of my high-heeled shoes, kicking them aside. I freed my arms from the sleeves and Hugh pulled the bodice down slowly, bunching the muslin in his hands, sliding it over my hips. I moved slightly and the dress fell to the floor to be pushed away with my bare foot. I closed my eyes, certain I would swoon, and my breasts swelled, nipples tight and straining against silk, and suddenly the silk was no longer there and my breasts were free and silk was slipping over my skin, falling to my feet. His right arm curled firmly around my waist, supporting me, he caressed my breasts gently with his left hand, fingers stroking, squeezing, and then he cupped his palm under my right breast and lifted it and leaned down to kiss the taut pink nipple and then lifted the left and encircled the nipple with his teeth and bit down lightly and licked it with his tongue.