A small voice within her whispered this was wrong. That is was not too late. She could tell him to stop, break away, and retreat to her own room. But she gave the voice little heed. Perhaps it was the sweet port, the violent storm, his wife’s callous infidelity, or the fact that she could give him something he had been refused for far too long. Something he deeply, desperately wanted. Or perhaps she simply allowed herself to be swept away in the moment, on a foreign feeling of power and desirability.
His hands slid up under her arms, then slowly downward, following her curves, her rib cage, the deep indentation at her waist and slight flare of slim hips. He sighed deep in his throat, as though the feel of her feminine shape was somehow satisfying. He tilted his head the other way, renewing his kiss with ardor.
The youthful stolen kisses and timid touches she had once shared with Fred seemed like child’s play in comparison. She stood on her tiptoes—he was so much taller than she—allowing her shy fingers to touch the hair at the nape of his neck. Then she slid her hands tentatively down his shoulders to his chest. Without breaking their kiss, he pulled his arms away and struggled out of his formfitting coat. He ripped off his waistcoat, sending buttons clattering to the floor. Heedless, he grasped her hands and laid them on his chest. He still wore a white shirt, but the fine cotton did not conceal the hard muscle beneath. She ran her hands up over his shoulders and down the ropey muscles of his arms before returning to his chest. She had never touched a man before, except Freddie many years ago. His skinny, wiry frame had felt nothing like this.
Sir John lowered his head, kissing her neck, her shoulder. His hands once again ran firmly up her sides until the heels of his hands brushed the swell of her and she gasped. He returned his mouth to hers, perhaps afraid she was about speak reason into the unreasonable, and stifled any protest with his kiss.
Suddenly he reached down, placed one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and swept her up into his arms with apparent ease. He carried her to his canopied four-poster bed.
He laid her down atop the bedclothes and covered her with his warm weight. Propping himself on one elbow, he brushed away a lock of hair from her brow and looked into her eyes. “Beautiful Hannah . . .”
Had he called her his wife’s name by mistake, or no name at all, she might yet have resisted him. But the sound of her given name in his deep voice, said with such feeling, such warmth . . . She was lost. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned up to kiss him, and held on.
Hannah awoke with a start sometime later. Outside, the storm had subsided, but it was still dark. What had awakened her—had a door slammed? Had Lady Mayfield returned home at last? Then suddenly she remembered. Where she was. With whom. And what they had done. All the desire and heady power dissolved into guilt and shame. And fear.
Pushing Sir John’s arm gingerly from her waist, she swung her legs over and climbed from bed. She still wore her stays and shift, though he had worked her gown off her shoulders and tossed it onto the chair. She stepped into the gown and pulled it up over her shoulders and straightened her skirts as best she could. Her hair was down, the pins who knew where. She hoped whichever housemaid found them would assume they were Lady Mayfield’s. Hannah crept around the room until she found her stockings and shoes. She slid on her shoes barefooted and bunched the stockings in one hand. She went to the main door, listened, and hearing nothing, slowly opened it. She allowed herself one last look at the slumbering Sir John, but could see little save a dim outline in the dark room. The candle lamp had long since burned itself out.
She slipped from the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She tiptoed toward her own room at the far end of the corridor and had nearly reached it when a shadowy figure carrying a candle appeared from around the corner. She stifled a gasp.
It was Mr. Ward. Mr. Ward, who often looked at her in a manner that made her uncomfortable, now glanced significantly from her, down the dark corridor. Had he any idea which room she had come from? She prayed not.
He looked at her with suspicion in his small eyes, or something even less flattering.
“Miss Rogers . . . What are you doing wandering about in the dark?”
She hoped he did not notice the few buttons at the back of her frock were not fastened. Hopefully her unbound hair covered the omission. “I . . . I thought I heard a door shut,” she faltered, trying in vain to keep her voice steady. “Is . . . Lady Mayfield home at last?”
He studied her expression by the light of his candle. “Yes, which you would know if you had been to her room.”
“I did not go in. I did not wish to wake her.”
“I doubt she is asleep. Her poor lady’s maid has just been called from her bed to undress her. For the second time this evening no doubt.”
She despised the man’s leering innuendo. Though he was probably right.
“Then she is in good hands,” Hannah said, attempting a casual tone and reaching for her door latch. Suddenly his hand shot out and descended over hers like a claw. She looked up at him in alarm.
He stared boldly into her face, as if daring her to protest. “Miss Rogers. Hannah. Perhaps we should . . . talk. In private.”
Did he think he held some power over her? Was he threatening her, or simply hoping to take advantage of this unexpected encounter in the middle of the night?
“It is late, Mr. Ward,” she said coolly. “Anything you have to say to me can wait until morning. Now I must bid you good night.”
She wrenched the door open, stepped inside, and quickly shut it behind her, turning the key in the lock. She pressed her ear to the wood, hearing nothing over the loud beating of her heart. One minute . . . two . . . Finally she heard his footsteps retreat.
But she feared she had not suffered the last of his advances.
She did not see Sir John until the next afternoon. One of Marianna’s female friends called, and while they were ensconced over tea and gossip in Marianna’s boudoir, Sir John discreetly sought out Hannah in the library. Her stomach tensed at the sight of him. What would he say?
He closed the door behind them and began quietly, “Miss Rogers, I am deeply sorry about last night.”
She ducked her head, ears burning. “As am I.”
“I should have found the strength to stop myself. But I acted selfishly, and I apologize.”
She managed a wooden nod. What was she supposed to say? What could she say? The more he regretted it, the more her own regret mounted.
He stepped closer. “I have never done the like before. You are a gentleman’s daughter—a clergyman’s daughter—which makes it all the more inexcusable. Were it in my power, were I not a married man, I would do the honorable thing. Since that is not possible, I am at a loss as to what to do. If there is anything you need. Mon—”
She cut him off. “Do not offer me money, I beg of you. That would make me feel even worse. Like a payment for services rendered.”
“Oh . . .” He hesitated. “I see. Well. I did not intend it that way.”
A single knock sounded and the door was opened before Sir John could reply. Mr. Ward stuck his head in, like a jack-in-the-box. It might have been comical save for the timing and his suspicious expression, as he looked from one to the other.
Sir John said evenly, “Miss Rogers and I are discussing a few things, Mr. Ward, but is there something you needed?”
“Ah . . . No, sir. That is, I can wait. If you are in the middle of something . . . pressing.” His brows lifted in expectation.
A weasel, Hannah decided. The man looked like a long-necked weasel.
“Not at all.” Sir John crossed his arms. “What is it?”
Hannah spoke up, forcing a polite formality. “Thank you, Sir John. I will make a note of it. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall leave the two of you to your business.”
Hannah didn’t know if companions in most houses ate dinner wit
h their mistress and her husband, but Lady Mayfield insisted upon it. It gave her someone to talk to, she said. And the presence of a third party forced her stern husband to remain polite and dissuaded him from engaging in serious conversation, like asking her where she had been and with whom, and confronting her behavior. Then again, it was not very common for a married woman to hire a companion at all. But there was little common about this marriage.
The three of them sat at table together as usual that evening. Sir John at the head, Lady Mayfield to his right and Hannah across from her. Most of the time, Lady Mayfield directed her chatter across the table at Hannah, effectively ignoring Sir John. Occasionally, she directed a question his way, or a bit of news, or a barb.
That night, however, Marianna Mayfield’s gaze swung like a pendulum from Sir John to Hannah, brown eyes speculative above her raised wineglass. “You two are certainly quiet.”
Neither replied for several moments.
Then he said, “I suppose it was the storm. Neither of us slept well last night.”
Her arched brows rose high. “Neither of you?”
“Well, I don’t know how anyone could sleep through all that thunder and lightning,” he clarified. “Did you, Miss Rogers?”
Hannah licked dry lips. “No, I did not fall asleep until quite late, I’m afraid.”
“Pity.” Marianna smiled. “I slept like a lamb.”
Hannah felt Lady Mayfield’s gaze linger on her profile. When she glanced up, the woman was watching her curiously. “Perhaps that was what Mr. Ward meant. He told me he thought you . . . missed me . . . last night. He said he found you wandering the corridors quite late in search of me.”
“I heard your shutters banging, and went to shut them.”
Her brows shot up once more. “Really?” She glanced at her husband, eyes sparking with mischief, but not, Hannah thought, suspicion. “Sir John mentioned he shut them.”
Hannah felt her cheeks warm, but strived for a casual air. “We . . . did so together.”
“The shutters made quite a racket,” Sir John added. “Which you would know. Had you been here.”
Another course was laid, and Marianna changed the subject, to Hannah’s great relief.
Likely to avoid more such awkward encounters, Sir John took himself away for a time, visiting his other properties. His absence gave Marianna the freedom she relished, but it added guilt to Hannah’s already aching conscience—that he should have to leave on her account.
He returned several weeks later. Hannah saw little of him, for he spent the majority of his time in his study or in Mr. Ward’s office. She wondered what sort of business or arrangements kept the two men so busy.
She found out soon enough.
Marianna stormed into the drawing room that afternoon, eyes blazing.
“I cannot believe what Sir John did.”
Alarm jolted Hannah. Had Marianna found out somehow?
“Has he not mentioned it to you, either?” Marianna asked.
Hannah stared at her mistress. “Mentioned . . . what?”
“He has let a place in Bath. Do you know how I longed, how I begged to live in Bath when we first married? But no, he would deny me. And now, now that I wish to remain here, now he says we will go, whether I like it or not.”
“Why should you not like it,” Hannah murmured distractedly, her mind spinning with the news and what it would mean for her.
“Don’t be coy, Hannah. You know perfectly well why.”
“But would you not enjoy all the entertainments Bath affords?”
“I admit the plan has some appeal, if only for a few months. Bristol is so dreary in the winter. In Bath, there are balls in the assembly rooms, and concerts. And the very best people come for the Bath season. I should enjoy more variety in society. It won’t be the same as the London season, of course, but might prove diverting. . . .”
“I am sure it shall, my lady.”
Marianna inhaled an audible little gasp. “I shall have to order new gowns!”
How quickly Marianna had resigned herself to the move. Far more so than Hannah.
On her way upstairs to change for dinner, Sir John caught her in the hall.
“Miss Rogers, may I have a word with you in my study?”
Her breath hitched. “Of course, Sir John.”
Swallowing hard, she followed him across the hall and into the masculine chamber.
“Leave the door open, if you please.” He gestured her forward toward his desk. Quietly, he said, “Less chance of gossip if we leave the door open. And I shall be able to see if anyone nears the door while we talk.”
Was gossip all he was hoping to avoid? Was further temptation to be avoided as well? Or did he find her revolting now that she was ruined?
She clasped her hands and waited.
He looked down at his desk as if gathering his thoughts, his fingers rolling and unrolling a scrap of paper. “I hope you will not be offended,” he began, then looked up at her. “I have taken the liberty of finding another situation for you, Miss Rogers.”
She stared at him in surprise.
“A friend of mine, Mr. Perrin, has a widowed mother in need of a companion. She is an old dear, and I have spent many a happy hour in her company. I would not have arranged it, if I did not think the two of you would suit one another. I honestly think you would enjoy the post. It will be far less . . . complicated.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep tears at bay. Irrational creature, she inwardly chastised herself. For it felt like a rejection.
His eyebrows tented in apology. “Please know I am not dismissing you. Not in that sense. Not for anything you’ve done.” He glanced toward the door. “Rather for what I fear I might do should you remain.”
The mantel clock ticked and ticked again. He did not find her revolting after all. It was small comfort.
Her throat tight, she managed, “I understand.”
“I hope Bath will be a new start for Marianna and me. What sort of a hypocrite would I be if I did not forgive her indiscretions and offer her a second, third, hundredth chance?”
She forced a wooden nod.
“I hope putting a little distance between her and a certain man will help, yes. But I also plan to make full use of the Bath season, and escort her to all the entertainments, all the pleasures of youth she has no doubt missed in my quiet company. I don’t know if it will help. But I must try.”
Again she nodded, heart aching, the words she longed to say fading away. After all, he was a married man. She had already refused his money, and really, what else could he offer her? He and Marianna had enough problems as it was. She wouldn’t drive another wedge between them.
“She is my wife,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I took vows. For better, for worse.”
Unable to speak over her burning throat, Hannah bobbed a shaky curtsy, turned, and slipped from the room.
After dinner that evening, Sir John remained in the dining room over a glass of port, while the two women withdrew to the drawing room.
Marianna glared at her. “Sir John says you have no wish to go with us to Bath. Is that true?”
She delivered her prepared explanation. “It is not that I don’t want to go with you, but that my father is here.” My father is here . . . Hannah thought, the very reason I should leave! Before he realizes and breaks his heart. For though little more than a month had passed, Hannah already suspected the truth of her situation.
Marianna’s lip curled. “Nothing says you have to remain near your father. I never wanted to see mine once I moved out, I can tell you. Come, Hannah. Whomever shall I find to replace you? I need you. You cannot be so disloyal.”
“It isn’t a lack of loyalty, my lady. I assure you. But Sir John has found a suitable position for me here—very kind of him really—so I might stay. You won’t
need me—you shall have a whole new retinue of friends and so many dances and concerts, you won’t even miss me.”
“Of course I will. Why don’t you want to come—really?”
“My lady, if your husband thinks it best that just the two of you go together, then we must bow to his wisdom and preference in this matter. Perhaps he wants to keep you for himself, to have more time with just the two of you. It is quite romantic, really.”
“Keep me to himself, yes. Romantic, no.”
Sir John walked past the drawing room at that moment.
Lady Mayfield tilted her head and waved her hand. “John! Hannah thinks you don’t want her anymore and are casting her off.”
He stepped back and paused in the threshold. His gaze flicked to Hannah before returning to his wife.
Hannah’s face burned. She said hastily, “I did not say that, my lady. Please do not put words in my mouth. I only meant that we should comply with Sir John’s wishes in this regard.”
“John. I said I would try and I intend to. But I had no notion you meant to deprive me of Hannah as well. To drag me to a new city with no companion? I shall be terribly lonely.”
“And your husband will not suffice in this role, I take it?” he asked dryly.
“Have you ever? Take no offense, John, but you are not much given to conversation, or society, or games, or fashion, or any of the things I like.”
“I will try.”
“John. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I think it only fair to warn you. Who knows from what quarter I might have to seek solace if Hannah isn’t there—whom I should turn to for companionship?”
The sweet doe-eyed words carried an edge of threat.
Sir John locked gazes with his wife, then turned to Hannah. “Apparently, my wife cannot live without you, Miss Rogers. Nor be accountable for her actions if you do not accompany us to Bath. Will you come? I cannot force you, of course. You are free to refuse, to take the other situation I arranged for you. But if you wish to come . . . you are welcome.” The veiled message seemed clear. The invitation delivered with little enthusiasm. He wished her to refuse.