Married to a Perfect Stranger (14 page)

The next morning, Mary went downstairs singing. Even though John was gone from the house, from her bed, her mood was ebullient. Today, she wanted everyone on Earth to be happy. Thus, at midmorning, she summoned Kate to accompany her on a round of errands. The discontented housemaid looked surprised to be asked, since Mary most often sent her on her own or employed Arthur. But she fetched her cloak and a basket without demur, and they set off together in the crisp autumn air.

Mary chose a new spool of thread at one shop and a pound of tea at another, following a route she had plotted out in her mind. Kate walked beside her, looking increasingly puzzled by the nearly empty basket she carried. As they turned the final corner, Mary hung back a little to watch the maid's expression when they came upon the apothecary's establishment.

Kate was eyeing the narrow street with her customary dissatisfied expression. Her mouth was turned down, her blue eyes restless in her round face. Then she glimpsed the jars and bottles in the display window. She moved toward the place as if drawn by an invisible string. Mary watched her examine the labels on the tinctures, the packets of herbs, and the bottles of lotion. Her gaze rose to the sign above the door, then moved back to the array of products.

“I was thinking of purchasing some rose-scented lotion I noticed here,” Mary told her. “I thought you could advise me.”

Kate looked down from her superior height. For the first time Mary could recall, she seemed confused, or uncertain, and it softened that stubborn-looking jaw. “Advise you.”

It wasn't a question. Or, at least, it wasn't a simple question. Mary moved forward and entered the apothecary shop, the bell above the door jingling. The mingled scents of many flowers rose around her again.

Kate was right behind her, scanning the shelves and displays with an eagerness Mary also had never seen in her before. When the proprietor came out from the back, Kate turned, blinked, and went still.

Mary gave her a moment to absorb the man's handsome face and figure before she said, “Mr. Jenkins, I have returned, you see, to inquire about the rose lotion.”

With a small bow, he went to the display and picked up a bottle. “A fine choice, ma'am. Many of my customers swear by its soothing qualities. And of course the scent is most pleasing.”

“When I was here before, Mr. Jenkins told me that he gets his tinctures from country people with a great deal of experience in concocting,” Mary said to Kate. She turned back to the apothecary. “Kate has worked in the stillroom of the Duchess of Carwell.” Mary told herself that this was quite true. If it implied that the stillroom had been Kate's main job, well, that was not what she meant.

“Indeed,” replied the apothecary.

The two faced each other. Though Kate was tall, Jeremiah Jenkins was taller. Though her shoulders were rather square, his were broader.

Kate stepped closer, picked up another bottle of the rose lotion from the display, opened it, and sniffed. “Do you use almond oil?” she asked.

She sounded curt, almost suspicious.

“This particular lotion is made for me by a respected herbalist in Essex,” he responded. “She is pledged to use only the finest ingredients.”

“So you don't even know what they are?”

What was Kate doing? Mary wondered. She'd been sure the maid would admire Jeremiah Jenkins. He was so appealing. And unmarried—she should have mentioned that before they came in. Couldn't Kate see the possibilities for her future?

“All my sources are highly skilled and completely trustworthy,” replied the man sternly and rather like an advertisement.

“How can you be sure of that if you can't make up the preparations yourself?”

She was being positively annoying, Mary thought. “The lotion seems very nice to me,” she put in. Neither of them paid the least attention.

Kate put down the bottle, without replacing the top, and moved along the counter to a display of small dark vials. She opened one, again without asking, and sniffed. “Tincture of lavender. Brandy based. Vinegar is better. Good for the skin.”

She really was knowledgeable, Mary thought. But she was so arrogant about it. Was she
trying
to antagonize the apothecary? To what imaginable end?

Kate went through the same process with several other concoctions. Jeremiah Jenkins trailed along after her, replacing lids and tidying displays. Finally, Kate returned to the open bottle of rose lotion. “This seems well enough made,” she said to Mary, with a careless flick of her hand.

Not knowing what else to do, Mary purchased the lotion. Mr. Jenkins took her coins with a small bow. His thanks sounded slightly strained. And then they were out the door and on their way home. “I thought you would be interested in that shop,” Mary said to her maid.

“It was very interesting…ma'am.”

“Weren't you…rather critical, though?”

“I have to say what I think,” was Kate's firm reply.

There was no trace of doubt in her tone. Mary had known that her reluctant maid had little subtlety or tact. But she'd thought the various attractions of Jeremiah Jenkins—personal and practical—would work on her. It had seemed a perfect fit, a place for Kate to find contentment, even happiness. Apparently, she was off the mark.

* * *

At his office John found himself prey to random smiles. He forced himself to concentrate, but images from the previous night would drift back and tantalize him. Thoughts of Mary floated up between him and reports from Shanghai and Kowloon. Informants' notes were superseded by memories of her silken skin and ardent responses. When Conolly commented on his buoyant manner, John tried harder to hide his smugness. He finished his reports from the previous day and turned to the stack of mail awaiting their attention.

Right on top he discovered two heavy envelopes, one with his name written on the outside, the other with Conolly's. This was unusual. Information did not come in directly to them. Indeed, their names were not known to the far-flung sources of the Foreign Office. Quite the opposite.

Opening his envelope, he found a formal invitation for him and his wife from Lord and Lady Castlereagh to a Foreign Office reception in honor of the ambassador from the United States of America. Astonished, John checked the envelope again. It was indeed his name inscribed there.

Conolly had opened his as well. “Got the official summons, I see,” he said.

Dazed, John nodded.

“It'll be one of their crushing squeezes,” Conolly went on.

“I've never been invited before.” The words escaped John before he could censor them. Fortunately, only Conolly was there to hear.

Triumph swelled in John's chest. This stiff square of paper was an unmistakable sign that he'd been noticed and marked for advancement. He looked at the curlicues of text again. The date was two weeks away. He had time to procure a new coat. “Regular evening dress, I suppose,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Conolly nodded.

John attacked his work with renewed enthusiasm for the rest of the day, then he hurried home to tell Mary the news. Her reaction was all he could have wished. Her face lit, and she threw her arms around him. “It's a sign that they see how wonderful you are.”

“It's a step…”

“The foreign secretary himself has noticed you. That's far more than a step.”

He lifted her off the floor and spun her around, both of them laughing. “Buy a new evening dress,” he urged her. “Spare no expense.”

“I'll do my best to be a credit to you.”

John set her down and looked into her dancing dark eyes. “You'll be the loveliest woman there.”

Their lips met as naturally and joyously as if wild kisses had always been their gift. John pulled Mary tight against him. The feel of her body eagerly molded to his was dizzying. In that moment, he felt he had everything to celebrate and nothing to regret.

He dropped kisses down her neck. Impatiently undoing a row of tiny buttons, he pressed his lips into the hollow of her throat, let them wander over the swell of her breasts. He reveled in the way he could make her breath catch.

“Oh.” It came out on a gasp. “John.” A sigh. “Kate…will be…announcing dinner…”

“Deuce take dinner. Let's go upstairs.”

“Now?” Mary drew back a little, gazing at him through eyes blurred with desire. “That is a positively scandalous suggestion, sir.”

He cupped her lovely bottom and pressed her closer still. “Would you refuse me?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” she breathed, rousing him to an almost intolerable pitch.

Holding her close, he swept her up the steps and into her bedchamber. Turning the key in the lock, he faced her, absorbing the lovely, utterly enticing picture she made.

Mary felt as if his blue eyes were burning into her, heating her skin, igniting sparks of desire all through her. It made her want to throw off every stitch of clothing. For a moment she was shocked at herself, then she tossed her scruples to the four winds.

Holding his hot gaze, she finished the task he'd started with her buttons. Her gown fell open and slid to the floor. She sent her petticoat after it and stepped out of her shoes. Unfastening her chemise, she cast that aside, as well, and stood before him in only her silk stockings.

“Mary,” he groaned.

She found that some part of her delighted in his arousal. “I won't do all your work for you,” she murmured.

In two steps, John was before her. He knelt and untied one garter and then the other. Slowly, he slid her stockings down her legs and off one foot, the other. He looked up and caught her eyes again as his hands rose, caressing her calves, moving featherlight over her knees, and slipping along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Mary's legs turned to jelly. She swayed.

John stood and lifted her onto the bed. Then he resumed his previous occupation, his clever fingertips moving higher still, until they made Mary cry out at the incredible pleasure of his touch. She wanted more, and more. But she forced herself to pull back and sit up. “You too,” she panted, pushing his coat off his shoulders, down his arms. With a breathless laugh, he discarded it. Her fingers clumsy with longing, Mary unbuttoned his shirt, shoved it after the discarded coat, and turned her attention to the fastening of his pantaloons. She delighted in her husband's moan as she tugged them down.

John stepped back long enough to pull off his boots, and then he was with her, bared to her on the bed. He touched her again, and she went up in flames. Mary tried to reciprocate, but desire was overwhelming her now. She could only give in to the wave of sensation that rose and crested in a cascade of glorious release. She clutched John, urging him on; she wanted everything.

John's every faculty was saturated with passion. He fell into warmth, his wife's eager hands pulling him closer. She moved with him as he found his way toward an unbearable peak, and cried out with him as he lost himself in a torrent of bliss. He never wanted to let her go, he thought as it reverberated through him. He wanted this moment to last forever.

Afterward, they lay together, enlaced, as their pulses slowed and their breath lengthened. Mary's brain slowly regained rationality. “What will the servants think?” she murmured.

“It isn't their business to think,” said John. His stomach growled. “I'm starved,” he added.

Mary laughed. They untangled themselves and retrieved their scattered clothes. Downstairs, some minutes later, Kate smirked as she served them a somewhat dried-out dinner. Mary couldn't help but blush under her knowing gaze. In the kitchen below, pans rattled and banged, indicating Mrs. Tanner's displeasure at having her cooking spoiled. Mary felt self-conscious until she caught John's teasing look. Her cheeks reddened further then, but not with embarrassment. If the cook objected to her making love to her husband whenever she liked, the woman could find another position, Mary decided.

After eating, they settled on the sofa before the parlor fire, Mary's head on John's shoulder. She felt thoroughly sated and content. There seemed little need for conversation. They had said so much without words an hour earlier. She could stay right here, just like this, forever, Mary thought.

And so, of course, one of her household chose that moment to knock at the closed door. A rather tentative knock, to be sure, but perfectly audible.

“Yes?” said John.

The door opened and Arthur Windly appeared, skinny and subdued. “Kate said as how Mr. Bexley wished to speak to me,” he muttered.

Mary sat up straight. Kate had a malicious sense of humor, she thought. She had mentioned John's offer in the kitchen earlier today, when the cook was complaining again about Arthur's waywardness. But that did not give Kate the authority to send him up. “This isn't a good time…” she began.

“No, it's all right,” said John. “Come in, Arthur.”

“I never meant to eat the carrots,” he blurted out. “It was just that I got so hungry.”

John looked at Mary with raised brows.

“Arthur was sent out to purchase carrots on the day he stayed away so long,” she explained.

“There was a man in the Parish Hall talking about steam engines. He had pictures and all.”

“You were in the Parish Hall?” Mary hadn't dreamed of looking there.

“Perhaps we will make this man to man,” John said. He looked at Mary.

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. “Oh.” She rose. “Very well.” She walked to the door and pulled it almost closed behind her. Then, a bit guiltily, she lingered. She didn't think John would be too hard on Arthur, but she couldn't help but make sure. “I suppose everyone has told you that you did wrong,” she heard John say.

“Yessir.” Arthur's voice was barely audible.

“The household will always worry if you are out for such a long time and they don't know where you've gone. There are dangers in the streets, even though this neighborhood has few of them.”