The Marriage Act (21 page)

Chapter Twenty

There are...many incitements to forsake truth:
the need of palliating our own faults and the convenience of imposing on the ignorance or credulity of others so frequently occur;
so many immediate evils are to be avoided
,
and so many present gratifications obtained
,
by craft and delusion
,
that very few...have spirit and constancy sufficient to support them in the steady practice of open veracity.

—Samuel Johnson

Walking back to Stanling Priory with John, Caro turned their conversation over in her head. Though at first it had vexed her that he’d refused to reveal more of his sexual history after exploring her own romantic past in such detail, the more she thought about it, the better she felt. She had to say one thing for John. He was excellent at keeping secrets.

Not in the way she kept secrets—or
had
kept secrets, for she meant to honor her promise to him. No, when she kept secrets they were
from
people, while he kept secrets
for
them. He hadn’t kissed and told about his sexual conquests because it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, and despite his anger at her following their wedding night, as far as she could tell he’d never breathed a word about her misconduct or the problems in their marriage to anyone, his brother and his valet included. How could she help but be grateful for that?

And while she might not have learned much about his first sexual encounter, she knew something about her own, something she’d never admitted to herself before. As much as she’d believed at the time that she was in love with Lawrence Howe and thought John too old and a near-stranger—as muddled as all that champagne had left her—she’d felt something for him. Not
love
, nothing that fanciful, but after they’d consummated their marriage she’d felt connected to him in a way that had made his anger afterward that much harder to bear.

For five years she’d refused to admit such a thing to herself, but it was true. Though her memories of that night were sketchy and incomplete, she was certain he’d been patient with her that first time, and that his kindness had touched her. For that matter, the act itself had been far different than she’d expected, closer and more tender, leaving her curiously moved.

Perhaps that was why it had hurt so much and shaken her so badly when he’d refused to forgive her after she’d made the mistake of running away to Lawrence. Not that her own manner had been any better.

On the morning after her misbegotten attempt to flee, the second day of their marriage, John hadn’t spoken a word to her. Not one word. She’d begun the day offering justifications and apologies, alternately insisting she hadn’t done anything wrong and then pleading for his forgiveness, but by dinner she’d given up and left him to spend the meal and the evening in frosty silence. She wasn’t sure where he’d slept, in his dressing room or in one of the smaller bedrooms, but he certainly hadn’t slept with her.

* * *

The third day, the eve of their departure for Vienna, he’d appeared in their bedroom at an early hour, perfectly dressed, ramrod-straight and with a face like marble. He’d coldly informed her she wouldn’t be accompanying him when he left to take up his diplomatic post.

Her heart had plummeted. She’d hoped she’d be able to talk him around once his anger cooled, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen. “Are you sending me back to Papa?”

“No. Like it or not, you’re still my wife. You’ll stay here at Halewick. But I can’t take you to Austria with me, not when you can’t be trusted.”

His voice was so cold, her relief that she wasn’t being sent home in disgrace had quickly given way to a feeling of insult. And she—being seventeen and as angry at herself as she was at him—had flared, “Good! I think I’d vomit if you were to touch me again!”

He’d gone white about the nostrils. After a brief pause he’d said, “I suppose it’s fortunate, then, that there’s no danger of that.”

He’d bowed, turned on his heel and started for the door.

“Are you going to tell my father we hate each other now?” she’d called as he reached for the doorknob.

He’d stopped, but he hadn’t turned around to face her. Instead he’d merely said, his back to her, “You tell him.”

In the days and weeks and years that followed she hadn’t told her father, but neither had John. Now she realized what a dreadful botch she’d made of things, not merely attempting to run away to Lawrence Howe, but then compounding her error by behaving like a spoiled child. John had been cold and angry, but she’d given him good reason to be, and good reason to think she couldn’t be trusted after the way she’d kept changing her story again and again. And still he’d kept her secret.

Walking arm in arm with him now, she looked up at his face and said impulsively, “I’m glad we’re sharing a bed again.”

His brows flashed higher in a look of surprise. “So am I.”

Her heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. Perhaps that strange German word—
Torschlusspanik
—no longer applied, and the gate wasn’t going to close on her chance for happiness after all. Surely John must be feeling at least of little of what she was. She knew he was a good actor, but there was no one to see them here—not her father, not her aunt and uncle, not even Ronnie or Sophia—and even so, he was looking at her with a warmth in his dark eyes that made her senses tingle.

She leaned her head on his shoulder and gave his arm a squeeze. “I’m
very
glad.”

* * *

When they reached Stanling Priory, no servant was manning the front door. John helped Caro off with her cloak, then shucked off his greatcoat. He looked back and forth. No one else was nearby.

“Come with me,” he said in an undertone, grinning. He took Caro by the elbow and steered her into the cloakroom, a small, oak-paneled room with boots and pattens lined up at one end and coat hooks ringing the walls. “I can’t take it anymore. I have to have you, right now.”

She gave him a startled look. “What—here?”

Would she turn him down? As much as he might want her, they’d come to Stanling Priory to convince her father they were happy together, and rogering her in secret wasn’t going to further that aim. “Yes, here. Now.”

Despite her evident surprise, she appeared to find the idea exciting. Her eyes shone, and unless he was much mistaken, her nipples had gone hard beneath her gown. “Why not go upstairs?”

“To our rooms? I can’t wait that long.”

She laughed. “Really, John, it won’t take two minutes for us to run upstairs. Even then, my family is likely to wonder what we’re—”

“Two minutes is two minutes too long.” He covered her mouth with his hand, backing her against the paneled wall, where coats hung like silent spectators on either side of her. “Do you want to do it? Yes or no.”

She was giggling against his palm. “Yes,” she answered when he removed his hand. “But we have to be quick.”

“Oh, I can be quick.” He was already unbuttoning the fall of his trousers, freeing his erection. “You have me hard enough to break rocks.”

He wasn’t exaggerating by much. His erection twitched with every beat of his heart. After five celibate years in Vienna, he seemed to be making up for lost time.

She glanced down, and when she looked up again, she was breathing faster. “We really shouldn’t...”

It was a halfhearted protest, and it was clear she was making it purely for form’s sake. “No, we shouldn’t. But right now I don’t much care.” He lifted her skirts, gathering the merino in a bunch at her waist with his left hand. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

She did as she was told. With his free hand he teased her open, fingering her, dipping into the wetness already gathering at her entrance, slicking it over the little bud where her pleasure concentrated. “How do you get so wet so quickly? Dear God, you’re a miracle of nature.”

She looked simultaneously shocked, amused and impressed by his ardor. “Have you gone mad?”

“I think I have, a little.” He replaced his hand with his erection, sliding himself back and forth against her slick folds until her mirth changed to a little whimper of need. He wished he could spend all day coaxing that sound out of her, but—quick. She wanted quick.

Positioning himself against her entrance, he buried himself inside her. It was so staggeringly pleasurable, he had to lean on the wall behind her until he’d regained his equilibrium. “Oh, damn, that’s good.”

“
Shh
,” she cautioned. “We have to be quiet.”

He’d thought the spontaneity of such an encounter would appeal to Caro, but it had him excited too, and he was already panting. He began to move in her with long, deep strokes. “At least the walls in here don’t squeak.”

Now it was her turn to cover his mouth. “John,
shh
. What if someone hears us and comes to investigate?”

He tried to say “That might be awkward,” but the words came out muffled against her palm.

She burst into laughter, and he playfully shushed her in return.

Soon they were both laughing, convulsed by the absurd necessity of remaining quiet even as he thrust into her again and again, the coats on either side of them swinging slightly with his rhythm. He lost himself in the tight, wet squeeze of her, the softness and the warmth, and between the hilarity and the lust, it felt so good he wondered whether it might be more bliss than an ordinary mortal could bear.

Smiling dizzily, she closed her eyes. “Ah, just like that. That’s so...Oh, don’t stop, Johnny, I’m going to...”

She’d never called him
Johnny
before, had never been so fast in the grip of desire that she couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Seconds later she was contracting around him, clutching his shoulders and leaning her head on his shoulder, gasping and quivering as she spent.

That was all it took to set him off. He’d ushered her into the cloakroom with a combination of urgency and crudeness, aware now that Caro liked a dash of wildness with her trysts, but as he finished emptying himself into her, such a wash of tenderness swept over him that all the lecherous mirth of a few moments before evaporated.

Weak-kneed, he kissed her temple and whispered reverently in her ear. “Darling, beautiful Caro. You’re the most perfect creature God ever made.”

He felt foolish afterward, for speaking with so much naked sentiment and while still basking in the afterglow that followed such an outpouring of lust. He knew she wasn’t really perfect—perfect creatures didn’t lie or scheme or turn insulting, and Caro was capable of all those things. Forgiving her shouldn’t mean blinding himself to reality. It was likely to prove dangerous, letting down his guard.

But at the time he said it, and for quite some time afterward, he meant every word. In fact, he wished there were some better compliment than
perfect
.

* * *

They left the cloakroom separately, John giving Caro an earlier start in case anyone should be nearby and apt to wonder what they’d been doing in the cloakroom together. Walking through the Priory and up the stairs, he had to school himself to appear offhand, though his senses were still humming.

He could remember thinking that while Caro was beautiful, it was a pity her character didn’t match her looks, but he was beginning to think her character might be the best thing about her. For a girl who’d first impressed him as sweetness personified, she had an impressive amount of spirit. How many young ladies would have agreed to a tryst like the one they’d just enjoyed? And as maddening as her lying had always been, at times he’d been secretly impressed by her inventiveness—or if not impressed, at least entertained. There was nothing dull or ordinary about Caro, and he felt less dull and ordinary when he was with her. Sometimes, arguing with her had been as exciting as it was infuriating.

He liked it better when they didn’t argue, though...

He was on his way to his dressing room when Miss Fleetwood popped out of the shadows at the top of the stairs. “Why, Lord Welford,” she said in a voice that was clearly meant to sound surprised but actually sounded as if she’d been waiting some time for him.

“Miss Fleetwood.” He bowed.

She smiled prettily. “I was wondering how soon you were going to get back. Did Caro tell you I wish to cut your silhouette?”

“My valet mentioned it this morning. Perhaps after dinner?”

“I have time to do it now, if you’re free.”

“Actually, I was on my way to my rooms.”

She took a step closer, until she was standing mere inches from him, almost chest to chest. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

“I did. The parkland here is beautifully situated, and Lady Welford showed me the bridge over the—”

He broke off, startled, as Miss Fleetwood flung her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him from knees to shoulders. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t speak of Caro!”

What on earth...? He quickly unclasped her arms, setting her gently but firmly at arm’s length. “Miss Fleetwood, you forget yourself.”

“I don’t! You must know how I feel. You’re all I think about!”

He frowned. “Then you need to find something else to think about. I apologize if, in offering you some civility, I gave you the mistaken impression I had a particular interest in you, but I’m married.”

“I realize that, but anyone can see Caro doesn’t love you.”

Was that true, or just wishful thinking on Miss Fleetwood’s part? He’d been telling himself he and Caro were growing closer at last, but then, Caro wanted everyone to think they were in love...”I never discuss the state of my marriage with anyone but my wife. Even if what you say were true, I would be no less married.”

“I knew you would say that. You’re more loyal than Caro deserves. But I love you and she—”

“That’s quite enough, Miss Fleetwood. The more you say now, the more you’ll regret it later. Even if I were free—and it’s impossible for me to stress too strongly that I’m not—I’m too old for you.”

She threw herself at him again, clinging to him with her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, please don’t say that! You’re not too old for me. I’m only five years younger than Caro.”