The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe (4 page)

 

C
HAPTER
S
IX

S
he hadn't intended to go to church. She'd hoped to spend Sunday as she'd spent every other day this week, at the castle. With John.

Who was different from anything she had expected when she'd embarked on this journey. He was a hero. A man who was tall and strong and looked invincible. As if he'd weathered storms. Could make the wind bend to his desire.

But inside, he'd walled himself off as much as he had sequestered himself within the ruins of the old castle fortifications. To protect himself from the ugliness he'd seen at war and the unwelcome knowledge that people were animals and that duty and country and honor could fall away in an instant.

His expression, the language of every curve and line of his body, made the horrors she'd passed over in newspapers into reality.

It wasn't a mistress he needed, but a friend. Someone who would be as solid and true as the rock that surrounded him. As straightforward as Jasper.

Who didn't lie to him. Or intend to seduce him for money.

He'd hate her if he ever knew.

Her chest constricted at the thought.

From a seat in the second to last row of the church, she caught sight of John entering. The ache in her chest grew until she realized she'd been holding her breath, nearly gaping at him.

Half naked, he was a stunning man but this was the first time she'd seen him fully clothed—complete with waistcoat, cravat, coat, and hat.

Devastating. Every man should look like that in his clothes without need of artifice.

His head turned to the left. His gaze caught hers and then he nodded, a slow smile curving the far side of his lips. She wanted those lips. To tease them, run her tongue over them.

She was in a church, for goodness sake!

Oh, Lord
. There was his mother standing next to him, watching Angelina leer at her son. Mrs. Martin's eyebrow raised slightly in question but Angelina schooled her features into a neutral expression and looked vacantly through the other woman.

Then John, his mother, and the entire moment moved on. As she had requested, he didn't approach her, nor force an awkward (and unnecessary) introduction.

But seeing him with his mother was enlightening. They shared the same coloring, although Mrs. Martin's dark brown hair was lightened by gray. And as she had the first time they met in London, Angelina itched to suggest coloring it to hide that telltale sign of age. The gray made her nervous.

But where John was tall and broad, with strong, defined features, his mother was petite and wispy, fragile-looking.

Not that Angelina would make the mistake of thinking the woman actually fragile. No woman without iron for her bones would advertise in the paper for her son's mistress. Or perhaps it was foolishness. Yes, if John ever found out, it wouldn't only be Angelina he'd resent. At least the ties of blood might let him forgive his mother.

The church grew crowded. A woman with two children pushed past Angelina into the pew. A farmer's wife, perhaps. The woman gave her a brief, curious look but made no other acknowledgement.

Angelina stifled a sigh and shifted slightly in her seat to catch another glimpse of John where he sat a dozen rows in front of her.

S
unday was always exhausting. John joined his mother in the front right pew. In the front left pew sat Mrs. Ellis and her three young daughters. As usual, John went through the motions, made the necessary comments and noises. But whereas the last two dozen Sundays he'd focused inward, thought of measurements and supplies, today he thought of Angelina. Counted the different shades in her hair, from near white to a sunny gold to a very pale brown. Today, when he'd passed her as he walked down the aisle, that shining mass was pulled up into one of those knots ladies loved. He imagined it down. Wondered how long it was, where the last curl would settle. He looked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of her. Admired the way she sat, back straight but relaxed, the way her lips moved to shape the words of a hymn or prayer.

A sharp pain pierced his knee and he shifted away from his mother's hand.

“Attend,” she hissed.

But the memory of Angelina's pale eyes stayed.

After the service was over, the reverend stopped them, chatted with John's mother. John looked around the emptying church but didn't see Angelina. Disappointment struck him hollowly.

John joined his mother inside the carriage that stood outside, as he did every Sunday, and looked out the window at the familiar landscape passing by as if it were that of Spain or France.

“You are acquainted with that Whitcombe woman who is staying at the inn?” He tensed at the question. Yet, talk about Angelina was inevitable. Gossip traveled quickly in small towns.

“She came to draw the castle,” he said, thinking of Angelina sitting on the damp grass, bent industriously over her sketchbook. He still hadn't seen any of her work.

“Ah, just the once?”

“No . . .”

He finally really looked at his mother. There was nothing about her that appeared unusual, but he remembered the earlier sting of her hand against his knee. Her nonchalance was too studied.

“She must be a great artist. You seem to admire her?”

“She's quite lovely,” he said carefully.

The gaze that met his was suddenly very sharp and he shifted uncomfortably, as if he were a boy of five and had done something wrong.

“Are you having an affair with her?”

He choked on air.

“Mother—”

“What? How do you think you were born? Your father might be gone these last ten years but I still remember that look.
That
is the look you were giving Miss Whitcombe.” She sounded very satisfied. “It is also the look she was giving you.”

“Miss Whitcombe is conducting an artistic study of Yorkshire ruins—”

“No.” His mother cut him off with a gratingly knowing laugh. “What she is, is an unmarried woman—as I can best tell—who is traveling
scandalously
alone.” He wanted to deny it but the words were truth. Of course, what he truly wanted to deny was the tone of his mother's voice, the insinuation that demeaned both him and Angelina. “And while I believe the company in Auldale is all that can be desired, I don't imagine there is much for an
unknown, unmarried woman traveling alone
”—the emphasis his mother placed on those words left no doubt as to what she thought of such a thing—“to find of interest for a week.”

I wanted to draw the castle but today . . . today, I just want you.
Angelina had said that only five days earlier. It seemed ages ago. But both she and his mother were wrong. What Angelina had wanted, had needed, was a place to retreat, retrench. A place where she didn't have to trade sexual favors.

“We are not . . .” He trailed off under the intensity of his mother's hawk-eyed interest. He wanted to deny everything, because there was no affair. Yet, how did one describe the intimacy that existed between Angelina and him? “This is ridiculous,” he finished.

Silence. His mother's expression was unreadable.

“Well, I don't begrudge you it at all,” she said at last. “God knows you've risked your life and deserve some pleasure. But I beg of you . . . to not get too attached, or be quite so . . .
admiring
in public. This is Auldale, after all, not London. Scandal does not merely fade away.”

He deserved some pleasure? What exactly did that mean? Last week he had taken pleasure in the achievement of his mind and body, the triumph over destruction by man and time. Now pleasure was more complicated. He looked forward to Angelina's visits, to the brief touch of her hand on his, to the look in her eyes when she watched him at work, or when they sat on the floor and shared a meal.

But this other pleasure . . . yes, he wanted it.

The thought, the feeling, had hovered around him this past week, since that first moment he'd seen her kneeling in the great hall, but he'd pushed it away again and again.

Yet there was a pleasure too, in the simple acknowledgement of desire. Even if he never acted upon it.

Yes.

He wanted Angelina.

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

I
t was early on Monday when Angelina rounded the curve into the castle's clearing. She was eager to see him but nervous all at once, as if that one day that had passed had frayed the threads between them. She made no pretense at drawing but knocked once on the door for the sake of politeness and then entered, glad that he never thought to lock the doors.

The clattering was in full effect. As quietly as possible, she crossed the hall, placed the basket down and approached the archway to the kitchen. She stood there, leaning against the stone, and watched him. He'd nearly completed the scaffold, would likely have been done if not for her daily distractions. Now he was several feet off the floor, securing a board to the growing frame. He was bare-chested again, only the braces that held up his trousers obscuring the view. She liked watching him at work, seeing those muscles move with each effort. Beautiful. The sort of sight that made her
want
to draw.

Jasper noticed her first, slowly rising from his place in the corner. He came over, panting. Licked at her feet.

Then John stopped hammering and looked down over his shoulder.

She tilted her head to the right and smiled up at him.

His face seemed to brighten.

“You're here early,” he called down, making his descent. He leapt to the floor the last couple of feet, startling her.

“Do be careful! I'd hate to think of you being here alone with a broken leg.”

He approached. She could see that his hair was damp, as if it hadn't yet dried from the bath. He smelled like lye and exertion. “You'd worry about me?”

“Most definitely,” she said immediately. But she knew he was innately competent and self-sufficient.

He leaned his hand against the wall. Desire knotted tightly in her stomach. They were so close, him looming above her, all bare skin and heat. She wanted to press her lips to that skin, to taste that place where neck met shoulder. But she couldn't. Not yet.

“I missed you yesterday.”

His eyes were soft, and she melted a bit inside at the gentle tone of his voice. It matched the way she felt inside, the reason she'd forgone her lazing about the inn room and had hurried out to see him. Ridiculous. A silly sentimentality, but there it was.

“Did you have a nice evening with your mother?”

He dropped his hand, ducked his chin.

“I'm almost done with the scaffold,” he murmured, as if he were embarrassed. Then slightly louder, “I brought the London papers. By the fire . . .” He gestured with a small wave of his hand.

“Oh!” Excitement overtook every other emotion. She'd purposely tried to avoid thoughts of what was happening in London but she was intensely curious. “Thank you.”

He nodded, and turned without saying anything else. She stood there for one brief moment, torn between running to the papers and the idea that perhaps there was more that had to be said. But he was already ascending the scaffold.

She slipped out of the room, settled down by the fire, on the pallet where he had slept just hours before.

As he'd said, there was an assortment of papers, from the
Times
to weekly journals. She skimmed the front pages, down the numerous columns, skipping advertisements and political news. What she wanted was theater gossip, news and reviews.

At the tapping of nails on stone, she turned her head, smiled at Jasper trotting over to investigate what she was doing. He pressed his nose close to her, sniffing, and then turned to the basket of food. He made a little whining sound, and stared at her with pitiful pleading eyes, but she waved him away. He whined insistently a bit more and then finally, tail down, settled down a few feet from the basket.

Back to the paper.

She read a much-delayed review of the Adelphi Theatre's last performance of their season. And then pored over the detailed descriptions of Covent Garden's Shakespeare celebration. The festivities sounded wonderful and everyone had been at the theater that night to see Kemble portray Coriolanus. Kemble could play a witch and people would flock to see him!

A few minutes later Elizabeth Duncan's name was there before her in bold, black ink. Acknowledged by the fiercest critics to be a sensation.

Angelina froze. Heat filled her head. Her skin buzzed. She'd been able to pretend it didn't matter so much, that by the time she'd finished her sojourn in Yorkshire, the episode with Lizzie would have passed and Denham would have moved on to a new lover.

But this—this was different.

She was going to cast up her accounts. She needed air.

“Angelina?” She heard John's questioning voice even as she stumbled from the room, darkness creeping at the edges of her vision.

The cool air was perfect. She stopped where the small rise began its descent, stared southward, toward London.

She breathed deep. It had been foolish of her to pretend that Lizzie Duncan was the only problem. No, Angelina and Denham had parted ways before he'd even noticed the other actress. An amicable split, everyone said, because Angelina had ensured everyone thought so. Because she had gone out of her way to continue flirting with Denham, to point out young women who might appeal to him, so that she didn't look abandoned and desperate.

Which she was.

There was a trick to catching a jaded nobleman's eye and it was to be rare, in demand, unavailable. Three months after Denham handed her her ÿonge, the only man to proposition her had been Fredric Gallant, and he'd done so mockingly. He wasn't even interested in women.

Then the Lizzie situation had arisen, and the flirtatious relationship Angelina maintained with Denham had backfired.

She felt John's presence at her back although he didn't speak.

John. Who she'd been hired to seduce. Who had turned down her blatant attempts at seduction and resisted her more subtle ones.

She whirled around.

“Why?” She demanded. “You look at me sometimes as if you do desire me, but then nothing. Why won't you touch me?”

Touch me!

He stared at her.

She stepped closer till she was a mere breath away from him. His neck was taut with tension.

“What's wrong with me?” The emotions swirled within her, the anger and despair rising and she wanted to give in, to feel it all in her voice, her body. Let go.

The wind was playing with her hair, whispering against the skin of her neck.

“Nothing's wrong with you.”

“Then kiss me.”

On the stage, he would have grabbed her. It would have been dramatic and passionate. She would have thrown back her head in mimicry of wild abandon.

Now he stared. And she stared back, daring him.

The touch of his fingers stroking the hair at her temple was warm. Her breath caught in her throat. Then the back of his fingers caressed her cheek.

Kiss me?

She searched his expression, wanting. There were his eyes, warm, brown, like the earth. Below—the strong lines of his face, the distortion of the scar.

He pressed his palm to her cheek. Her breath rushed out in a sigh, and she let her head rest, lie heavy against his skin.

Closed her eyes. There was that sweet, cool whisper of a spring breeze, the warm strength of his hand, the sounds of his breath. The heat of his—

The first touch of his lips feathered against hers. Gentle, barely more than skin against skin.

She pressed herself against him, reaching up, snaking fingers through the thick strands of his hair as she urged him to deepen the kiss, to give desire a chance.

Desire
. The word was like flint, striking flames within her, and suddenly she was aware of the firm muscles of his chest against her breasts, the rough edge of his scar against her lips.

She opened her mouth, sucked him in. His arms encircled her, tightened around her.

Finally.

She slid her hand down, over the bare muscles of his chest. The contact was electric.

She lifted up on her toes.

More.

She was in his arms, her body pressed against him. A wonder. A discovery. She was soft in all the right places. She dragged her teeth over his lower lip, sucked it in to her hot, liquid mouth. His cheek resisted.

Conscious thought catapulted back into his mind. Too aware of his mouth, which no longer stretched with the same mobility as before the wound received at Waterloo, as if after making it through the years of war relatively unscathed, he needed a lasting physical reminder.

He settled his hands on the curve of her hips to push her away but stopped. Pressed his fingers down through layers of fabric. Bare, she would feel lush, silken under his hands.

The way she tasted under his tongue. It was new, strange to kiss, but he had the feel of it now. The feel of her.

Velvet heat. Scrape of teeth, the sharp pleasure of her tongue against his. A surprise. A delight.

He lifted her against him, urged her hips closer to his as he ran his hand down, bunching fabric in his hands, wanting skin, bare, soft skin, wanting the damp heat at the center of her.

“John.” Her breath whispered against him and that sensation, too, intoxicated.

He was lost in the folds of her dress, the excess fabric, the barrier of woolen stockings. But he could feel the shape of her legs and they were perfection.

“John.” Her voice cut through the haze and he stilled, relaxing his grip, letting her skirts fall back to the ground. He rested his head against the top of hers. Caught his breath.

“I'm sorry,” he said finally, reluctantly stepping back. “I was carried away.”

She laughed, the sound a breathy, shaky thing. “Oh, I was too. And I don't want to stop . . . but perhaps we could resume inside, by the fire.”

He ran his hand through his hair roughly, trying to force clear thought into his head. He wanted to do what she said but something tugged at him. He wanted nothing more than to pick her up, take her inside and lay her down on his bed, strip every single layer of clothing off of her. But with space between them, with the growing clarity of the brisk air, he remembered the way she had looked when she first turned on him. Distraught. This kiss was about more than the passion between them.

She was shivering now, too, without benefit of her coat.

“Let's go in,” he agreed.

She smiled and took his hand, leading him back inside. Her hand was light, delicate, and his skin where the pads of her fingers touched him prickled.

She walked slowly, glancing over her shoulder every few feet, shyly and yet seductively. He followed her, questions hesitant on his tongue. He wanted to know what had upset her, but what right did he have to pry?

Yet her distress had made him uncomfortable. Had reminded him that these moments were temporary. Soon she'd leave.

Angelina stopped abruptly before the fire, where the sound of Jasper's snores mixed with the crackling of the burning wood. She turned toward him, running her fingers over his wrist as she did. Then she reached for him with her other hand.

He caught her hand in his, and swallowed hard at her questioning look.

“What happened?” he asked. His stomach was tight with tension.

She pulled his hand toward her, pressed kisses on his fingers, small nips and licks of her tongue that made his body feel alive with sensation. He closed his eyes to savor it. Why was he fighting this?

Still, he pulled his hand away, stepped back.

“What?” she demanded. “Why do you keep stopping? I
know
you want me,” she said pointedly. “I
felt
your desire.”

A desire still rampant but tempered by this other instinct.

“We need to talk.”

He gestured to the floor, to the bed, which was a dangerous place, more so today than it had been during any other of their unconventional discussions. She rolled her eyes but sat. As she lounged there, the hems of her skirts seemed higher, as if she were purposefully taunting him with the curve of her calf.

He sat as well, reaching to the spread-open copy of the
Times
to push it aside.

She laughed, a sound tinged with bitterness, and pressed her hand down flat on the newsprint.

“You wanted to know what upset me,” she said.

He looked down at the paper, which her palm obscured, with a sense of dawning understanding. Of course, news of London would not be entirely welcome. He had thought to please her, but the gift had been careless.

She let out an irritated sigh and pushed the paper away. “You have the most overdeveloped sense of responsibility,” she complained, as if she had read his thoughts. “It is not
your
fault that I am jealous and petty and cannot bear to hear of that woman triumphing on the stage.”

He tried to imagine her as the jealous woman she described, one caught up in a hard-scrabble competition. He knew there had been a desperate sadness to her those first days she had stepped into his life, but she'd relaxed, seemed to take to this strange idyll as much as he had.

“Now,” she said, her mood seeming to switch instantaneously from bitterness to seduction. “What did you want to talk about?”

He felt a bit foolish. She had answered his question; what more was there to say?

“Are you intending to reject me again?” she asked softly, incredulously. “Even after that kiss?”

“Angelina.”

“Are you saving yourself for marriage? Or is it because I've been with other men?” He listened to her voice ideas that had never once occurred to him. “Or maybe I'm too forward? You prefer to be the one in charge. Is that it, John? You like to be
in charge
?” The way she emphasized those last words hinted at something he could hardly fathom, a world of depravity he'd heard mentioned by drunken soldiers but never explored.

“God, no,” he denied quickly. “You are perfect. I . . . I don't want you to feel you
have
to be with me.”