Much Ado About You

“Tess,” he said, and plunged into her warmth.

She looked up at him, dazed. All that sleepy warmth had transformed into hard muscle, braced above her, shoulders rigid, his weight turned from sleepy male to—to—he surged forward again, and she lost her thought, clutching his shoulders.

It was all too fast…she would never be able to—to—whatever it was called. She hadn’t brushed her teeth. She hadn’t washed! Anxiety poured over her even as her legs pulsed with a lick of fire.

“Tess,” he whispered. She turned her mouth away. Her breath must be awful.

“I need to get up,” she said, the sentence ending in a squeak as he rode higher and a fiery wave threatened to suck her under.

He was kissing her jawline, his body still, almost still, except every part of her noticed that he had moved—moved a bit.

She clutched his shoulders, let her hands trace an unsteady path down his chest and then said, “I must—”

“Now I need you,” he said into her ear. His voice had none of the suave polish of its everyday lilt. He sounded hoarse.

Fire burst down her legs. He was moving again, hot against her, and it was clouding her brain, making her feel scorched, as if she were too close to some enormous fire.

“Don’t stop, Tess. Don’t leave.” His voice was hoarse, dark with need.

She couldn’t seem to get purchase in a spinning world. He pulled back, and she instinctively bent her legs and tried to follow him, up, up—Then he was gripping her about the waist, and she forgot about her teeth, about her breath, about washing, about anything but Lucius’s dark eyes and the way every move of his hips made her—

Sent her—

She rolled her head, frantic, meeting his every stroke, her eyes dark with desire and lust.

Lucius looked down, and in the very, very small portion of his brain that wasn’t given over to pure desire, thought: “Damn. I’ve fallen in love with my wife.”

But then her fingers slid down his back and fastened on his bottom and Lucius Felton—who never liked it when a woman touched him intimately—shuddered all over and lost every vestige of control, taking his wife with him, hard and fast, until she cried out—

And he cried out—

And fell on top of her—

And thought, I love you. But didn’t say it.

Chapter 35

October 10

Maitland House

Dearest Tess,

I am so sorry to tell you that Imogen is not yet ready for a reconciliation with you, her dearest sister. Lady Clarice has inadvertently worsened the situation (not, of course, having any idea of Imogen’s sense of guilt) by telling her that she chose Miss Pythian-Adams as a bride for her son precisely because Miss Pythian-Adams dislikes horses and presumably would keep Draven from the stables. Imogen now believes that if she had truly loved Draven, she would have allowed him to marry Miss Pythian-Adams, thereby saving his life. The lack of logic in this argument makes it hard to counter. Frankly, I’m worried about her. She does not seem fully to understand that Draven is gone, and sometimes talks as if she thinks he is merely out of sight, or traveling. She still does not sleep at night, but has taken to walking about the chambers they shared, talking to her husband (or rather, to his spirit, I suppose). She will not allow the bedding to be changed, nor his clothing to be removed. I am quite certain that she would refuse to move to your house, Tess, so I’m afraid we should give up our initial plan for the moment.

I think it would be best for Imogen if you continued to London with your husband rather than take us with you. Josie is well settled with her governess at Rafe’s house; Lady Griselda has declared an intention to stay with them as long as she is needed. I am here with Imogen, and while I maintain a hope that I shall join you in London once the season begins, I certainly cannot leave Imogen at this time.I know I will see you tomorrow at the burial, but I thought it best if you understood how it is with Imogen. I know it will give you pain if she is cold; please understand that she has only a frail command of her true circumstances at this moment.

Yours with all love,

Annabel

THE SILCHESTER DAILY TIMES

Six outriders accompanied the hearse, blazoned with escutcheons of the Maitland family. Fourteen mourning coaches followed, every horse caparisoned in black velvet, bearing the arms of the Maitlands. Lord Maitland’s lovely young wife and mother followed the deceased in the first mourning carriage; general distress was expressed by those who witnessed Lord Maitland’s young bride enter St. Andrew’s church for the burial. Some thirty private carriages followed the cavalcade. Among the mourners were the Duke of Holbrook, the Earl of Mayne, Earl Hawarden, and Sir Fibulous Hervey.

Burials of the very young are, by definition, heart-wrenching affairs. Tess couldn’t help comparing Draven Maitland’s funeral to that of her father. By the time her father died, he had had a full life with a wife, children, great successes, huge mistakes…Draven had only Imogen, and she had had him for under a month. Moreover, in the case of her father, those who loved him had accustomed themselves to the idea of his death.She knew why Imogen refused to believe that Draven was dead. One moment her husband was there, and the next he was gone. Gone. Tess held Lucius’s hand very tightly as she stared at the altar.

A bishop officiated, along with a dean and three or four priests. It was all very much grander than when Papa was buried; and yet it was all the same. They were both good-byes.

She glanced sideways at her husband. Lucius didn’t really understand. He had never lost anyone; his friends were well and healthy, and his parents were alive.

That was one thing she understood, and he did not. If he did not reconcile with his mother before she died—and Lady Clarice had said she was ill—his good-bye would be terrible indeed. Imogen was distraught because she felt guilt. Imagine the guilt that Lucius must suffer if his mother died, longing to see him, and he had not entertained her wish.

He had to overcome his pride.

She glanced at the line of his jaw, at his shadowed eyes. He would never overcome his pride.

She had to do it for him. She made it into a silent vow, spoken in her heart and sealed with a press on her husband’s hand. She would effect a reconciliation between her husband and his parents, if it was the only good thing she did in her life. She would not allow him to be driven mad by guilt the way Imogen was.

The service passed like a miserable dream, broken only by the sound of sobs from about the church. There was no sound at all from the pew before Tess: Imogen and Lady Clarice now possessed precisely the same rigid, frozen silence.

The wind was cutting as they gathered around the door to the Maitland tomb. Tess could hardly hear; her black bonnet flapped around her face. There was a sudden break in the wind, and she heard the bishop say, “henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit: for they rest from their labors.”

It was hard to imagine Lord Maitland resting. He never rested: always rushing somewhere, in speech if not on his feet.

Tess swallowed and leaned against Lucius. He bent down and murmured in her ear, “Are you feeling faint? Would you like to walk to the side for a moment?

There was no particular reason she should remain at the grave. Imogen was holding Lady Clarice’s arm. They were both staring at Draven’s coffin. It was impossible to read their faces. Tess couldn’t help Imogen; she couldn’t help either of them.