Lady Eve's Indiscretion (26 page)

***

Eve could not draw breath. She could only stare and cling to her husband's hand.

“I am going to faint.”

“You shall not.” Deene moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her, a bulwark against the roaring in her ears and the constriction in her chest. “Breathe, Evie. It's just one more horse.”

Oh, but not just any horse. Eve knew those gorgeous brown eyes, the deep chest, the little snip of pink skin on the end of the mare's big, velvety nose.

“She's white now, no longer gray. This is my Sweetness, isn't it? Tell me this is my dearest… oh, Husband.
What
have
you
done?
”

“I can send her back, if you'd rather not… I didn't want to upset you, Evie. But you'd asked, and I thought perhaps you'd worried…”

“Hush.” She turned in his arms to put her hand over his mouth, but then craned her neck to keep the mare in her sight. “Oh, hush. She will never leave my care again, never. You must
promise
me, Lucas. Right now, swear to me she is mine to keep.”

“She is yours to keep, always. I swear it, vow it, and promise it. It's in the settlements, it's in the bill of sale, it's in my last will and testament. She will always be yours to keep.”

That he would do such a thing and do it so thoroughly… Eve could not hold to her husband tightly enough, could not take her eyes from the mare even when tears made the horse's image blurry.

And while Deene stroked Eve's back and held her upright on her shaking knees, Eve did breathe. She breathed in, she breathed out, and she made a tremendous discovery. The emotion welling up from her soul made her lungs feel too small and her heart beat hard in her chest. It affected her perceptions, slowed down her senses of sound and vision, made her sense of scent more acute. In many particulars, her body was mistaking the moment for one of anxiety approaching panic.

Except… except her husband held her securely, and her mind understood now—seven years later—that the other casualty of Eve's great fall was well and happy. The mare was content, in good weight. Sweetness's eyes bore the same steady, clear gaze Eve had long associated with her, and her coat was blooming with good health and proper nutrition.

Eve's physical symptoms might resemble panic, but the emotions flooding her were gratitude, relief, and overarching all others, what she felt was soaring, unbounded, bottomless joy.

Deene did not rush her, so Eve knew not how long she stood suffused with happiness outside the mare's stall. The lightness in her body was… celestial, like flying over a whole course of jumps in perfect footing, from perfect spots, in perfect rhythm, to perfect landings.

Like riding this very mare.

When Eve had thoroughly abused Deene's handkerchief and probably her husband's poor nerves as well, she managed a question. “Is she sound?”

She felt the tension ease out of him, as if all through her weeping he'd been holding his breath. “Dead sound. She rides to hounds, Evie, and the squire who parted with her said she's his best afternoon horse.”

Sound, indeed. “All this time, all these
years
, I've wondered, but I haven't known how to ask. I haven't known whom to ask. I have prayed for this horse nightly, prayed she was not suffering a painful life, longing for her misery to end, or worse…”

He gently pushed Eve's head to his chest. “She has been in the care of a hounds-and-horses fellow by the name of Belmont, farther south of us. He gave her a year off then bred her twice. Her first foal has been under saddle for a year, which is probably the only reason he allowed me to buy her. Her progeny—both fillies—show every sign of having their dam's good sense and heart.”

“Then St. Just chose very well for her. I must thank him.”

“There's something else you have to do, Evie.”

Sheltered against Deene's body, Eve knew exactly what he intended to say. It should provoke all the panic she hadn't felt at the sight of the mare. It should have her ears roaring again and her hands going cold.

“You want me to ride her.”

“No.” He held her so gently. “What I want does not matter. I hope you believe that. What matters—the only thing that matters at all—is what you want, and what you want at this moment, Eve Denning, more than anything in the world, maybe more than you've
ever
wanted anything, is to be up on your mare again.”

There was… a tremendous gift in being known and understood like this. A relief from loneliness at a fundamental level. There was healing in it, and more joy, and also…
truth
. While Eve remained in her husband's embrace, letting that truth seep through her mind and heart, Deene went on speaking.

“I'll take you up with me—the mare is in quite good condition, she'll tolerate it for a bit—I'll put you on a leading line or a longe. I'll mount up on Beast and stay right at your stirrup, if you prefer. I'll walk by your boot. I'll lead her where no one else can see us, but, Eve, you want to get back on that horse.”

Eve felt tears pricking her eyes again, tears that had something to do with the horse but more to do with the man who'd brought the horse back into Eve's life.

She held on tightly to her husband even while she figuratively grabbed her courage with both hands. “I think astride will do for a start.”

She'd surprised him. When she glanced up, he was smiling down at her with more tenderness than she'd beheld in his eyes even under intimate circumstances.

“Astride makes perfect sense. The lads are under orders to stay clear of the loafing paddock, and I bought the mare's saddle and bridle when I purchased her.”

He'd thought of everything, bless him. And when Eve said she wanted to saddle up her own horse, Deene dutifully took himself off to fetch her a pair of boys' breeches.

“And, Deene, bring Beast along too. We can go for a ramble down to the stream.”

His smile at this pronouncement would have lit up the entire world—and it scotched any second thoughts Eve had about the wisdom of her decision. As Eve took down the headstall and lead rope hanging outside the horse's loose box, her smile was quieter but no less joyous.

***

War changed a man, Deene reflected, and not often for the better. He watched his wife knotting Aelfreth's signature red kerchief around the boy's head, and realized marriage was changing him too.

A soldier knew to be only guardedly protective of his fellows. The man sharing a bottle over the evening campfire might be taken prisoner by the French while bathing in a river the next morning.

The promising young lieutenant reciting ribald poetry at breakfast might be shot dead by noon.

When Deene had stopped recently to make a list—something he hadn't done in the years since Waterloo—he'd realized that, save for St. Just, Wellington himself, Kesmore, and several others, few of Deene's comrades-in-arms had survived the war.

This made the protectiveness he felt toward his wife somewhat easier to tolerate, but it did nothing to explain the shift Deene had felt toward everything from the weather, to his properties, to the children Anthony claimed to be raising on a tidy manor only several miles away.

Eve patted Aelfreth's arm and gave him some last-minute instructions before approaching her husband. “My lord, it's going to rain. Do we remain here or repair to the books?”

She was smiling at him—he had a whole catalogue of her smiles by now, both with and without her dimple—and she was ready to accommodate whatever his pleasure might be.

“We tend to the books.” He could have her to himself that way, and she made even something as tedious as ledgers more bearable. “Aelfreth and Willy can go for a mud gallop while we stay warm and dry.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.” She slipped an arm around his waist and wandered with him toward the house. “I've had a note from Louisa. She and Kesmore will be calling on us soon, and then I suppose the floodgates will open.”

“Must they?”

He liked her family, liked them a great deal, but he'd loved these weeks to get to know his wife and her smiles. He was developing some sense of her silences too, though, so he settled his arm around Eve's shoulders. “Tell me, Wife.”

“I should not resent it when my sisters observe the civilities, but, Deene, I do. I am jealous of my time with you.”

“How gratifying to know.”

She punched him in the ribs. “Rotten man. You're supposed to say you feel the same way.”

Of course he felt the same way. He did not admit this. Instead, as soon as they had gained the library, he closed the door behind them and locked it. At the one small, additional click of the latch, Eve looked up from where she stood by the fire.

“We're to attend our ledgers, Lucas Denning.”

“Quite. I've consulted my accounts and found it has been more than twelve hours since I've enjoyed my wife's considerable intimate charms. Almost eighteen hours, in fact, which deficit must be immediately rectified if I'm to concentrate on anything so prosaic as ledgers.”

“And what of luncheon? What of being conscientious about one's duties? What of—oof.”

He lifted her bodily onto a corner of the estate desk and stepped closer. “I am being conscientious about my duty to the succession.”

“No one could ask more of you in this regard, Husband, but it's the middle of the—”

As if they hadn't made love at practically every hour of the day and night. He'd worried at first about asking too much of her, and he still did. Eve never refused him, but neither did she initiate lovemaking.

Not yet.

“Kiss me, my lady. If you kiss me long enough, it will no longer be the middle of the day.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “You have made a wanton of me, Deene.”

“You worry about this?” Something a little forlorn in her voice had him lifting his face from the soft, fragrant juncture of her shoulder and neck to peer into her eyes. “You do. You worry that a perfectly lovely passion for your new husband is something untoward. What am I to do with you?”

She didn't contradict him. Didn't tease or flirt. She regarded him steadily out of green eyes shadowed by doubt. “I know I shouldn't fret over such a thing. We're newly wed, after all.”

He had the sense she recited that fact to herself in more moments of self-doubt than he'd perceived. Far more than she should. Was this why she never approached him with amatory intent?

Rather than increase her sense of self-consciousness, Deene started frothing her skirts up at her waist. “Tell me something, Lady Deene. Are you ogling the footmen hereabouts? There's one fellow in particular, the blond with the cheeky smile, with a nice set of shoulders on him.”

“Godfrey. He's sweet on the tweeney. Why would I ogle him?”

Deene set aside a moment's consternation that Eve knew the man's name and the name of his current interest. “Because he's devilish handsome, and I suspect some sort of relation to me on the wrong side of the blankets.”

“He's a boy. I do not ogle—Deene, what are you doing?”

“Removing these wildly embroidered silk drawers. Your sister Jenny should have a shop for gentlemen to patronize, where they might buy such underthings for their
ch
è
res
amies
.”

“She'd die of mortification first. Stop looking at me.”

Deene loved to look at his wife. In intimate places, her hair had a reddish tint to the gold, and her skin had a luminous quality. “Lie back, Evie, but tell me: If you are such a wanton, do you ever think of what it would be like to make love to, say, my cousin Anthony?”

She did not lie back. She glared at Deene as if he'd stolen her last bite of cherry tart. “Are you mad? Anthony is a nice enough man, and he bears a pale resemblance to you, but—I cannot think when you touch me like that.”

Like
that
was with just his thumb, ruffling her curls and glancing over the little bud at the apex of her sex. “You never think of anybody but me in these intimate circumstances, do you, Wife?”

“I cannot think—You're still looking at me.”

He intended to look a good deal closer, too. Had been thinking about it ever since he'd assisted her at her bath just a couple of hours earlier in the day. “A truly wanton woman would be seeing every man as an opportunity to copulate, Evie. She'd be restraining herself from flirting with everything in breeches, and on occasion, with other women too. She'd be eyeing the lads, the footmen, her husband, as if plagued by a hunger that knew no satiety.”

Deene kissed her, mostly to get her to lie back on the desk, but when he opened his eyes, Eve was studying him.

“And you, Deene. Do you find yourself interested in other women?”

He straightened and ambled over to the couch to retrieve two pillows. One he tossed to the floor for his knees—he intended to be kneeling for some little while—the other he placed in the middle of the desk blotter. This was a delaying tactic to allow him to choose his words carefully.

A man wanted to say the right thing, to be honest, but not more honest than he had to be.

“I desire only you, Eve Denning, and cannot foresee a time when I will desire anybody else but you. I desire you right now, in fact, and in less than five minutes, I will desire you even more than I do at this moment. My fervent wish is that your inclinations are similar with regard to the person of your husband. That you enjoy his attentions—and his attentions only, I might point out—makes you a devoted wife and the farthest thing from a wanton.”

She wasn't fooled. He could tell by the exact, curious angle of her head that she understood his words were only a limited reply. As Deene sank to his knees between her legs and breathed in the clean scent of his wife's intimate person, he realized he was not going to tell her he loved her until he'd also been honest about how far he was willing to go to achieve his ends where Georgie was concerned.

“Deene?” Eve's hand landed in his hair. “Lucas, what on earth are you—?”

He settled his mouth on the seat of her pleasure, and for long moments thereafter, the only sounds in the library were the cozy hiss and pop of the fire, and Eve's sighs of pleasure.

When he'd introduced his wife to one more avenue of sexual pleasure, Deene let her bring him off with her hand—something she had a positive genius for—then set their clothing to rights, unlocked the door, and ordered luncheon from the footman in the corridor.

Married life worked up a man's appetite.

“I do wonder, you know.” Even though she wasn't quite as prim and tidy as she had been thirty minutes earlier, Eve still managed to project an air of domestic calm.

“What do you wonder about?”

“Are all new couples as… enthusiastic about their marital duties as we are?”

Her question was fraught with insecurity, making Deene regret his earlier reference to the damned succession. “Ask your sisters, why don't you? I'm sure they're dying to hear what you think of marriage and of my efforts as a husband and lover.”

Her brows rose. “One doesn't think to discuss such things, even with sisters.”

“Yes, one does. I trust your reports will be flattering, so you can't accuse yourself of breaching any kind of marital loyalty.” He frowned at her. “Your reports will be flattering, won't they?”

She beamed at him. “They will be adoring, Deene. Gushing, breathless, and quite appreciative as well. Also lengthy—quite lengthy and fulsome. And you're right: Sindal, Hazelton, and Kesmore all needed either an heir or a spare. I'm sure my sisters will want to compare notes.”

Which wasn't at all what he'd meant. His muttered, “Hang the blooming succession,” however was obscured by a stout knock on the door. “Our staff knows not to knock softly when we're behind a closed door. That ought to tell you something, Wife.”

They spent the afternoon together in the library on the sofa, Eve with the household books, Deene trying to focus on the racing-meet schedule for the upcoming season.

While he mostly studied his pretty wife.

“I'll be going into Town tomorrow, my lady. Is there any errand I can run for you?”

She glanced up, a pair of his reading glasses perched on her nose. “You do not enjoy these visits to Town, Husband. Shall I go with you?”