Lord Greywell's Dilemma (21 page)

She gathered her full skirts with one hand and settled the baby against her shoulder. Francis stood watching as she walked toward the house. A variety of emotions passed over his face, but she didn’t see any of them. Even at the side door she didn’t look back, and he slowly retraced his footsteps to the stables.

* * * *

Francis was aware of the tenuous nature of the relationship between Elspeth and himself. He liked the ideal of an impossible love between them, but he was also very strongly physically attracted to her. So he wisely chose to arrive that evening after she had put Andrew to bed and was free for the remainder of the evening. Guessing correctly that this latest news would render her even more susceptible to his advances, he nevertheless moved very slowly. It was not that he guessed Elspeth was a virgin. The thought had never occurred to him. She was, after all, married to Greywell, and Francis, not one for paying overmuch attention to the proprieties, would not have considered the possibility of there being no consummation because of the recent death of Greywell’s first wife.

It was a warm summer evening, with a light breeze blowing through the North Drawing Room from one of the doors to the terrace which had been left open. Elspeth had taken a seat on a chair, rather than the sofa, which had been her practice for the last few weeks. This prevented the proximity with Francis which had led to that one reckless evening, and she continued to feel it was a necessary condition of their meeting. On this occasion Francis didn’t take a seat at all, after the brandy had been brought, but wandered over to the French doors and stood looking out into the fading evening light.

“Would you like to sit on the terrace and watch the sunset?” he asked. “It’s a little stuffy inside.”

There seemed no reason not to join him on the terrace. True, there was only the stone bench for them to share, but it was still light outside. The rich aroma of summer flowers lingered with the heat of the day, and Elspeth stood for a moment at the railing looking over a neatly tended bed of antirrhinum, sweet peas, calceolaria, and linaria. Farther along there were larkspur and petunias, nasturtium and foxglove, their colors only dimly visible in the fading light. She hadn’t cut any flowers for the drawing room that day, being too preoccupied with other matters.

“I often come here in the evening,” she said, looking out now over the rolling lawn to a stand of trees on the north. “It makes me feel more a part of Ashfield. At Lyndhurst I roamed about more, taking strolls in the evening to use up some of my excess energy, but Selsey looked totally distraught the one time he found me returning from a short walk. Perhaps he thought I might have fallen and hurt myself, or been abducted by some brigand. I don’t know, but I stopped doing it so I wouldn’t worry him.”

Francis smiled at her. “I’m sure he’d consider you perfectly safe with me. Why don’t we walk as far as the trees?”

Dew hadn’t really settled on the grass yet, and Elspeth’s light rose-colored slippers were perfectly adequate for crossing the lawn. Francis took her hand, in an ostensible effort to prevent her from falling, should there be anything so dangerous as a hole in the ground. As they strolled along, he quoted poetry, not his own, on the beauty of the night. There was something soothing about black velvet skies and ivory moonlight. Elspeth allowed herself to relax under the influence of his melodious voice and the magic of the night. Actually, there was only a bit of a moon, and it cast very little light after the last of the sun’s rays had disappeared from the sky.

When they reached the trees, Francis gazed down at her for a long moment. “I remember a path through the trees to a clearing.

“Yes,” she agreed, “there’s a path, but it will be a little dark to see.”

“We’ll manage.”

Elspeth knew then that she should refuse. The intensity of his eyes was a sure sign of some other intent than a mere stroll through the gray-barked beech trees. The ground underfoot was covered with the silky husks from the budding leaves, a soft cushion on which to lie down if one chose. But Elspeth didn’t refuse to follow him. With her hand still in his, he led the way through the small forest to the dimly lit clearing. Almost no light penetrated the thick foliage, but her eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness.

Without a word, Francis removed his coat and spread it on the soft beech husks, motioning for her to join him. Elspeth gingerly lowered herself to a sitting position, spreading the skirts of her dress down over her ankles. Francis was momentarily touched by this modesty and seated himself slightly apart from her.

“This is a very upsetting time for you,” he suggested tentatively. “You must be worried about Greywell. I’m sorry I couldn’t find out any more for you. Perhaps tomorrow will bring some news.”

He reached out to stroke her hair in a comforting gesture, as she might have done with Andrew. But his hands lingered at the nape of her neck, caressing the silken skin there. “You’ve had a great deal of responsibility over the last few months, Elspeth. You deserve a chance to relax and forget all your worries.”

Elspeth stared at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her mouth felt dry and her throat had begun to ache with suppressed emotion. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry, but his sympathy was almost unbearable somehow. Just for the moment she wanted to lay all her cares in his lap, to escape from the constant confusion of her thoughts. Why should she have to worry about whether what she wanted was right or wrong? Hadn’t she earned a few minutes of release? She turned her face to him expectantly.

He did not immediately kiss her. Instead he put his arms around her and hugged her to him, rocking her gently, like a child. “My poor, sweet love. What a lot you’ve had to bear! I wish I could be the one to make it all right for you.” He kissed the top of her head while he stroked her back with long gliding movements of his fingers. At first she could feel his fingertips only through her thin dress, but soon they were above the material on the bare skin of her back. She shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, concerned.

“No. Not at all.”

“It’s a warm night,” he murmured, at last bringing his lips down to meet hers. He could feel her lips tremble under his, but it was with an eagerness that instantly aroused him. Still, he cautioned himself to proceed slowly. She could be startled as easily as a wild animal by any abrupt demands.

It was then he conceived of lovemaking as poetry. He hadn’t actually looked at it quite that way before, and he considered Elspeth the inspiration for this new vision of what he’d always thought of as a basic physical necessity. Not that in the ordinary course of things Francis was particularly highly sexed. If he could find a willing woman once every few months, that was quite sufficient for him.

But Elspeth was different; he had known it all along. She was a woman among women, an inspirer of poetical fancy, a guideline to the resources of the soul. He was so incredibly moved that he actually composed verses to her body as he began to explore it with his sensitive hands. Nor did he keep these verses to himself. Francis, in the throes of both love and poetry (as well as lust), shared with her each new metaphor (or euphemism) that came into his befuddled brain.

Elspeth was equally intoxicated. As his hands strayed to her waist and then slowly upward, she could feel her body tensing with a wild mixture of painful delight. Her mind accepted his murmur of orbs of snow and ivory hills without really attending. His touch on her breasts even through the light gown sent an incredible feeling of excitement through her.

Was this what it was, then, that had made her father’s Fanny cry out as she had? Why, it wasn’t pain at all, but an urgency so great she could scarcely contain the crazy desire to moan. But the memory of her father with Fanny brought with it a warning bell in her head. What she was doing wasn’t right, and though at the time that didn’t particularly seem to matter, Elspeth fought for some sanity. She was lying on his blue superfine coat, and she forced herself to concentrate on the button that dug into her back.

Firmly she pushed him from her, eyes wide and misty. “Francis, I’m sorry. I can’t. I shouldn’t.” Elspeth drew herself, shakily, to a sitting position.

Francis silently ground his teeth and struggled to his knees. “No, yes, well, I suppose you’re right. Here, let me help you up.” He stood over her for a moment before offering his hand. Francis had seen the desire in her eyes, and he wasn’t quite ready to believe he’d been defeated. But when he had her on her feet and attempted to kiss her again, she turned her face away.

“Please, Francis, no.” She straightened out her skirts with a meticulous care that annoyed Francis, but hardly managed to calm her. When they arrived back at the house, she bid him goodnight.

Chapter Eleven

A messenger arrived at Ashfield the next afternoon. Elspeth had not yet decided what to do about Francis; that is, whether or not she would see him again. She very definitely wanted to, but she knew what would eventually happen if she did. So she was sitting in the Summer Parlor at the back of the house, trying to justify her desire, when Selsey appeared at the door to announce in a rather quavering voice that the messenger had been instructed to deliver his message directly to her. Elspeth paled but allowed no other sign of her alarm to show.

“Please show him in here.”

“He’s come all the way from Brussels, milady.”

“I suspected as much. We’ll give him refreshment as soon as I’ve spoken to him, Selsey.” When the old man turned to leave, she added softly, “I’ll let you know as soon as possible, Selsey.”

“Thank you, milady.”

The messenger was hardly more than a boy. He entered the room with a nervous look behind him, as though he feared being trapped in the elegant, unfamiliar surroundings. Elspeth swallowed hard before rising to face him with a smile meant to put him at his ease. “I’m Lady Greywell. You have a message for me.”

“Yes, milady.” He reached into a worn leather pouch slung over his shoulder. What he withdrew was a single sheet of paper, with a plain blob of sealing wax.

If the message had been from Greywell himself, he would have used his seal to close it. Elspeth received the sheet of paper with trembling fingers. The handwriting was not familiar to her. She was too agitated to search out a letter opener, but carefully broke the seal so as not to tear the paper and lose any portion of the message it contained. Her eyes blurred momentarily before coming to focus on the short message:

Lord Greywell has been injured at Waterloo, but not seriously. His right arm is incapacitated and he has asked me to write saying we will return to Ashfield as soon as possible. He sends his regards to you and his son.

It was signed by Greywell’s valet.

Elspeth felt the tears stinging at her eyes, but she smiled at the messenger. “Thank you. We’re all very grateful for your speed. Selsey will show you to the kitchen, where you can get a good meal.” She dug in her reticule for a suitable gratuity for the lad. “If you can take the time to rest here, the staff will show you to a room.”

Selsey was waiting near the door and entered almost immediately when she rang. “Please take this young man to the kitchen. He’s brought us the news that Lord Greywell was injured at the battle of Waterloo, but not seriously. Greywell and his valet will be returning to Ashfield as soon as possible, so we should set things in motion for his return. Perhaps you would send Mrs. Green to me.”

“Very good, milady,” Selsey said, his shoulders once again squared. “That’s good news indeed.”

Left alone, Elspeth found her hands still shaking slightly, and she dropped onto a straight-backed chair with a sigh of relief. Andrew still had a father—and she still had a husband. There had been a moment, when she saw the unfamiliar handwriting, that she had been sure he was dead. Why would someone else be writing at such a time? Somehow she couldn’t bear the thought of his being dead, not only because of Andrew. but because of herself. It wasn’t that she had any affection for him, really; it was that her guilt would have been horrendous if he had died while she was carrying on a flirtation, or worse, with Francis Treyford.

The message had finally shocked her into the enormity of her behavior. She, who had always led the most blameless of lives, had allowed temptation to distract her from her obvious duty, from the most elementary of obligations. When she married Greywell she had made a promise, and to not honor that promise was a grievous fault indeed. Elspeth was sunk in a morass of self-abasement when Mrs. Green entered the room.

Together they arranged what needed to be done before Greywell returned. Elspeth tried to disregard the housekeeper’s close scrutiny during this interview. If Mrs. Green was interested in how this news affected Greywell’s wife, Elspeth had no intention of behaving in any way which would give her the slightest information. When Mrs. Green expressed her thankfulness at his lordship’s safety, Elspeth smiled and said, “We are all greatly relieved. Andrew will benefit from having his father around again. The poor child probably won’t even remember him.”

“That won’t take long to remedy.” Mrs. Green excused herself, but before she left the room she added, “A boy needs a real man to look up to, I always thought.”

Was that some comment on Francis? Elspeth wondered. But she didn’t let the remark distract her. Instead she went up to Andrew, explaining to him that his father would soon be home. Though the child didn’t understand, it made Elspeth feel better just to say it, over and over. The knowledge was something she wished to impress on her mind.

Francis came during the afternoon. The day was muggy, and Elspeth had Andrew sleeping on a blanket in the shrubbery where he got at least a whisper of breeze. His own room was too warn on days like this, even with the windows open. Elspeth had heard someone ride up to the stables, and she felt sure it was Francis, but there was no way she could avoid him now. This was the time to speak seriously with him, to make him understand she had accepted her responsibilities and would no longer dally with him, if that’s what they’d been doing.