* * *
Now whether she believed in either Mr Orchard’s story or Killiney’s dreams, ’twas of no consequence. The point of going to the ruined castle was to make Killiney see he needed not a dream mistress, but the warmth and desire of a real woman.
’Twas only the next day she realised the extent of the task.
He wasn’t cold to her. Indeed, he was mostly as he’d always been, but that was just the point—could his dream really mean so much? After their secret night in the tower, how could he speak so affably to Elizabeth? As if they’d never kissed, as if she were merely a passing acquaintance.
All the day they sat in the drawing room across from one another. James ignored them both, brooding in the corner over some letter he’d received, and with every opportunity for signaling and discreet glances, Killiney did nothing. Not one meaningful look did he give her. When they spoke, he didn’t question her with any genuine curiosity. He goaded her into talking about Vienna when ’twas plain he didn’t care, and as she described it, his eyes glazed over with distant thoughts. His mind was elsewhere. On angels, no doubt.
The longer this went on, the angrier she became. Still, she let on nothing. She kept her composure and try’d to remain aloof, until finally she could take no more; by eventide, she’d grown tired of having him ask about Mozart’s premiere of The Abduction from a Seraglio and portraying it for him in the greatest detail, only to see him gaze steadily at the table. Why should she accommodate him? For what reason should she fill the air with empty words, behaving as if she felt nothing?
She took her supper upstairs. She try’d not to think about his amiable disinterest with as much force of will as she could muster until, catching his voice at the foot of the stairs, she heard him arguing again with her father.
“I know, my lord,” Killiney fairly shouted, “but I’ll just check on him anyway. I’ll only be a moment.”
A stabbing sensation went through Elizabeth. He was checking on his horse. Should she follow as before? His demonstrations of boredom, his apathetic questions, had he orchestrated these things in the name of keeping their meetings secret?
He was stroking his horse’s nose when she arrived in the stable. She rushed in noisily, fully expecting to throw herself into his arms, but when he looked up sharply at the sound of her feet, her hopes faded.
’Twas plain he’d not been waiting for her.
So she told him she’d come to discuss their arrangements. How did he intend to conceal their liaison? Or would he tell James, confess the whole of it?
Killiney cocked his head to one side. “Broughton knows nothing, my Mary,” he said. “Not of the dream, the potion, or of us.”
With that, he turned back to the horse with affection, but Elizabeth hardly noticed his disdain; she was too stunned by what he’d said. He’d used her middle name.
You must understand, both Killiney and James used their middle names, and almost as if they regarded that use as a mark of superiority, of privilege. For Killiney to have called her thus meant just one thing—that he considered her his equal.
Nonetheless Elizabeth was furious. Not because he’d bestowed this honour, but for the way he’d used it to temper his words: James knew nothing, and wouldn’t, so long as Killiney had his way.
With her face flushed with anger, she accosted him. “Am I not good enough to be your wife? Can that be why you call me Mary?” She watched as Killiney studied the bits of weed in the stallion’s mane. He picked at the burs; he try’d to untangle the strands until she thought she’d go mad with waiting. “Are you listening to me?” she asked, grabbing his arm.
With her touch, he turned. All the fire, the contemptible fury she’d expected to see, all that was missing when he swung his gaze to hers. Leaning toward her only a little, his eyes travelled slowly over her features. His stare seemed as intimate as a caress, and her pulse quickened when he stroked the hair away from her shoulder.
He kissed her then. Pulling her close, his strong hands found their way to her hips. His silken mouth breathed against hers, imploring, ever more hungry to receive her until at last she could withstand no longer. How could she be angry? ’Twas as if he needed her from the depths of his soul, and she gave him everything, all he asked for in that kiss until she thought she would die, loving him so.
When at last he’d withdrawn, she heard pain in his voice. “Do you know how weary my heart is, my Mary?”
She shook her head.
“I think tomorrow I’ll sleep the whole day through,” he said, stepping away from her. “That should cure me of weariness, I’ll wager: twenty-four hours in the arms of an angel.”
And before she could say a word, he’d turned her around, walked her back toward the house in the dark. His angel, his wife…like torture, it was. She hated him, despised his need for an imaginary woman, a piece of fiction, a fantasy.
Still she said nothing. After all, that was exactly what would persuade him of how he actually loved Elizabeth—nothing. She’d wait for the potion to do it, because when no angel presented herself, who would be there to console Killiney? Who’d kiss him the way he needed to be kissed?