Comfort and Joy (22 page)

Maeve’s eyes widened in surprise, but she did not object

“I’ll help you to your room.” Placing his hand in the small of her back he guided her to the hall. Once they were out of earshot, he whispered, “I’ll come to you tonight as soon as the house is asleep.”

Chapter Twelve

The flickering mass of candles cast a fanciful dancing light tripping across the cabbage rose wall covering. A warming fire crackled and burned in the fireplace.

Maeve donned one of her beautiful new silk and lace negligees. The pale blue fabric was like the shifting shade of a late summer sky. Its silky softness caressed her flesh, making her feel like a femme fatale.

But where was Charles?

To put an end to her fidgeting, Maeve sat down at the rosewood dressing table and brushed her hair to a coal-black sheen. She hummed as she brushed, a Christmas carol she especially liked, one she found comforting in both melody and lyric, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Sometimes she hummed it slowly and sometimes she gave the carol a more spirited rendition.

Tonight humming did not help to soothe her nervousness. With each moment that passed, Maeve’s excitement and anticipation doubled. She sprinkled violet water behind her ears, at her pulse points and beneath her breasts. And waited.

She checked her appearance in the mirror. And waited.

Charles promised to come to Maeve’s rooms after everyone was asleep. Inherent in his promise was the thrill of being in his arms before the clock struck midnight. Charles wanted her! He might even be falling in love with her. Maeve’s heart beat a feathery tattoo. Expectation bubbled up within her like a warm, foamy surf. She could barely contain herself, was completely unaware as the volume of her humming increased.

If Charles did not care for her, he would not have saved her from attending the séance, a sentence just short of death. Further, if he had no feelings for Maeve, why would he risk his mother’s wrath by sneaking to her rooms?

Winning Charles’s heart meant everything to Maeve. With the support of his love, she could brave whatever insults came her way from a society which frowned on their marriage. Every lesson she took, every rule of etiquette she learned, every move Maeve made, was directed to becoming a part of her husband’s world. Ultimately, she sought to become accepted by Boston society.

Maeve lived for the day when she would hear Charles say I love you.

Tonight, a fire of hope burned brightly within her, along with another, smoldering fire. ‘Twas the heated passion Charles stirred and drew from the very depths of her being.

Since she had heard Stella’s door close nearly an hour ago. Maeve felt safe in opening hers a crack, leaving it ajar for Charles in welcoming invitation. She wondered how his afternoon had passed, if he thought of her as much as she thought of him.

Maeve could hardly wait to stroke her fingertips through the crisp dark curls of his chest and feel the steady, strong beat of his heart. She craved the taste of him, the pressure of his lips on hers. She yearned to dive into the enveloping warmth of his smoky gray gaze. A rocking shudder swept Maeve’s body. The humming stopped. Gasping for breath, she bolted up from the dressing table.

A sound in the corridor sent Maeve rushing to the opening of her door. She peered through. Across the hall, Stella’s door opened. Holding a fully lit, blazing candelabra high above her head, the New York widow stepped out into the corridor. Close behind, yapping ferociously at her heels, Stella’s wee imitation of a dog jumped up and down like a marionette on a string. Not much bigger than a rat, Stella’s pet could not defend her mistress from a tomcat.

Maeve regarded the pale woman with growing irritation. Why wasn’t she asleep? Although she hated to admit it, Stella looked quite lovely. Her blond hair tumbled beyond her shoulders in thick sausage curls. Locks gone astray fell clear to her cleavage and brushed against her soft green satin dressing gown. A gown trimmed with feathers. Feathers enough to cover three grown peacocks edged the collar, cuff, and hem of Stella’s gown.

Stella’s large doe eyes widened. “Charles, is it you?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, it is I, Stella.”

Maeve watched through the crack as Charles sauntered toward Stella. Elegantly dressed in a burgundy-and-gold dressing grown, he carried a wooden bowl filled with grapes. He must have dropped the bowl. Where had he found grapes? And what did he intend to do with them? Maeve’s heart raced faster than hummingbird wings.

“May I ask what you are doing on the guest floor?” Stella asked in a soft, singsong tone. Before he could answer, she gasped as if the answer quite suddenly had come to her. She wrinkled her nose. “You came to see me, did you not? We haven’t had the opportunity to speak alone, to be alone, for that matter.”

And if Maeve had her way there would never be any such opportunity for the merry widow.

“No, we haven’t,” Charles agreed. “We must make time to do that.”

“I have time now.” Stella stepped back and gestured to her open door. Babe, the vicious Pomeranian, barked nonstop.

“My wife has her rooms on this floor as well.”

“If she were truly your wife, she would share your chamber, Charles. Why keep up this pretense with me?”

Maeve’s heart palpitated wildly, furiously. Stella was attempting to seduce her husband! The cream of New York society knew Charles was a married man. How dare she offer such a wicked invitation to a man whose wife’s door lay only a few yards away?

Charles hedged. He sounded uncomfortable, as if something large and bitter lodged in his throat. “Well, actually, I, ah, came to make sure Maeve had gotten over her headache.”

Maeve breathed easier as Charles gently rejected the merry widow’s proposition. Her husband owned an honest heart. He possessed a full measure of integrity, unlike Stella, who Maeve suspected of being spawned by Satan.

“I’m certain Maeve sleeps,” Stella told him, sotto voce. “I’ve not heard a sound from her rooms since I retired. She’ll never know if you pay me a visit.”

“She will. She’s, she’s Irish, you know,” he offered in a hapless explanation.

Indeed she was Irish! And Maeve’s Irish temper presently teetered on the brink of an all-out explosion. In a grave effort to suppress her rage, she gritted her teeth and agitatedly fanned herself with an open hand. It did no good, angry thoughts spun in Maeve’s head as her temperature rose.

Stella did not mean to give up. “She’s Irish and I, I am starved.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charles dipped his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

Maeve apparently wasn’t the only one who did not understand Stella’s hunger. She’d witnessed the woman enjoying a full dinner just hours ago.

Lowering her eyes and purring like a feline in heat, Stella took the role of coquette to greater heights. “I’m a widow, starved for affection,” she explained in a husky voice. “If you would come to my rooms for just a short time, I would appreciate your kindness, Charles. And I would be certain you left a happy, satisfied man.”

Saints above! Maeve’s heart slammed against her chest. The nerve of the woman! Stella was no better than the dreaded vampire faerie. Once a vampire faerie attached herself to a mortal man, the unfortunate male could not bear to be touched by another woman.

Maeve could barely restrain herself from leaping out into the hall and pulling Charles to the safety of her room.

Charles’s dark brows gathered in a deep frown at the bridge of his nose. “You flatter me, Stella. But you forget I’m a married man.”

“Why do you keep up the sham? All who live beneath this roof know that your marriage was an unfortunate accident. You were a victim of circumstance. Do you believe your mother will allow such an unsuitable match to last much longer? Come into my rooms and see what is in store for you at the end of your so-called marriage.”

The end of his so-called marriage? Incensed beyond the risk of revealing herself as an eavesdropper, Maeve called out as sweetly as possible — under the circumstances. “Charles? Is that you?”

“Ah, Maeve is awake,” Charles remarked quite cheerfully. To Maeve’s great satisfaction, he sounded relieved to be rescued from the claws of the female predator.

“Yes,” Stella sighed.

He thrust the bowl of grapes into Stella’s free hand. “And may be in pain.”

Maeve was definitely awake and quite definitely in pain. With hands on hips and toes tapping, she waited.

Her mortified husband backed away from Stella toward her door. “If you’ll excuse me. Ah, thank you again for your...kind offer.”

Charles burst through Maeve’s door, slammed it shut, and pulled her into his arms. He brought his mouth down on hers with a fierceness he could barely control. But the sweetness and softness of her comforted him, calmed him. His bruising kiss dissolved into a tender meeting of lovers lips.

His body ached for her, had been aching for her since this morning when he left the bed they’d shared at Ashton Pond. And there had never been a day so long as this one.

Throughout the day Charles’s thoughts returned again and again to Maeve. While engaged in yet another argument with Martin, he pictured Maeve’s blond instructor holding her, whirling her round in a romantic waltz. While he sought to put his own mark upon the company his father had built, another man danced with his wife. She had passed the day without Charles, doing what? Had the hours passed pleasantly or in turmoil? His mind seemed never without a thought of her.

But now Maeve was in his arms and all felt right with the world.

His heart hammered with the force of a runaway locomotive. Even when Charles raised his lips from Maeve’s, his heart continued to fly on wings of its own. He looked down into her eyes. The sparkling light had died. Their lovely blue color had darkened to a purple hue. A small, worried frown wrinkled her porcelain brow.

“What is it?” he asked, more disturbed by her apparent distress than he cared to be.

“Your mother. What do you suppose your mother plans to do about our marriage?”

He shook his head. “What can she do? My marriage is none of her concern.” Tamping down an uneasy feeling in his gut, Charles guided Maeve toward the bed. “It’s not something I wish to think about at the moment.”

Maeve teased her lip. “Beatrice feels that you deserve a, a better wife. I know she does.”

“Who could be better than you?”

“Please be serious.”

To Charles’s great consternation, Maeve’s eyes misted. “Should I allow my mother to direct my life?” he asked.

“Like your father attempted to do?”

Dear God. Did this little bit miss nothing? Her bluntness chafed.

Charles rubbed his forehead, looking over her shoulder as Maeve blinked back her tears. Her bed lay in his direct line of sight. The covers had been turned down in invitation.

This was no time to be discussing marriage or his mother. It was definitely not what he came to do. Gathering Maeve into his arms, Charles spoke softly into her ear. “Mother will do nothing until after the holiday season.”

“And after, what can she do?”

“We shall worry about that later.” Grinning, he tweaked Maeve’s nose, attempting to shift the atmosphere from leaden to light. And take her mind off of what mattered not at the present. “At the moment I am bent on taking you to bed and ending your suffering.”

“Suffering?” Maeve stepped out of his arms.

“Needless worry is a form of suffering.”

“‘Tis not needless worry. Stella wants you,” Maeve said with what appeared to be a pout. “She has marriage on her mind.”

“But I do not want Stella,” Charles assured her. What use had he for a pale matron of polite society when he had the colorful Maeve within his arms?

She smiled then. A sliver of light crept into the dark blue of her eyes. “How do you intend to end my suffering?”

“By making love to you until dawn.”

“What if Stella is counting the minutes you pass with me?”

‘‘Then let us hope for her sake that counting minutes is like counting sheep, and she will soon find herself fast asleep.”

With a light peal of laughter that sent tingling waves of warmth skittering through him, Maeve led Charles to her bed. Gone was the red flannel nightshirt and in its place a blue gown that hinted of every alluring curve beneath its silky folds. The near-transparent fabric softly draped against Maeve’s full, firm breasts and generous hips. With each move she made, his excitement grew. His body heat intensified.

Charles drew an unsteady breath.

Maeve came to a stop beside the bed and turned to him. With a secretive smile on her lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes, she pulled the sash of his dressing gown.

He’d never seen a woman’s eyes reflect the undisguised pleasure he saw in Maeve’s as her gaze drifted from his eyes, to his chest, to the hard evidence of his manhood. Charles’s heart felt afire, his body aflame with desire. It was all he could do to stand still.

“You are a feast to a woman’s eyes, my love. My Charles.”

Dear God, she had no shame! He loved it!

Maeve’s murmured statement sent Charles’s body into turmoil. His heart drummed. The aching heat in his loins nearly doubled him over. The bottom dropped from the pit of his stomach and his pulse pounded like a madman’s.

He crushed Maeve against him. Her breasts, soft and pliant, pressed against his chest, creating rippling tremors of fire. She circled her arms around his neck, grinding her hips against him. In a blurry haze of passion, Charles fell to the bed with Maeve. He tasted her, relishing the delicious, tart peppermint flavor of her.

Driven by a fever he couldn’t control, Charles devoured the rosy buds of Maeve’s breasts as she held him, stroked him, cradled him. All thoughts of languid lovemaking were lost to a frenzy of desire. He could no more stop the passion that fired him than leap to the moon. And when Charles buried himself inside Maeve’s deep, moist warmth, he spilled his seed and cried her name.

He was a new man.

“Charles,” Maeve whispered minutes later as she lay snuggled in his arms. “What were the grapes for?”

* * * *

The following evening, not long after dark, five sleighs filled with holly, jangling with a cacophony of bells and piled with young, laughing, and singing bodies, carried Spencer Wellington’s party from his Beacon Hill home to the ice-covered pond in the Common.