Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (15 page)

Now she was lower down his body her left hand, the one that was not pressed against his heart, was lower too. It brushed coarse hair, then hot hard flesh and Bella froze. Elliott simply took her hand in his and curled it around his erection. ‘Hold tight,’ he said, the lightness in his tone suddenly changing as she took him at his word. ‘Ah,
yes
. Arabella…’

She looked up. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back on the pillow as if he was in pain, but the low growl that came from his throat was one of pleasure and when she let him show her how to move her hand it became a gasp.

I am touching my husband and he is enjoying it. I am not inept, not clumsy.
It felt so good, so right, but she had no idea what to do next. ‘Elliott?’

He opened his eyes and looked at her, the deep blue almost black, the lids hooded, his lips slightly parted. For a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes and then he rolled, taking her with him until she lay beneath him. ‘Slowly, this time,’ Elliott murmured and began to enter her.

It was slow, and for the first time Bella discovered that there was pleasure, that her body would open to caress his and that she could move to find the right angle to cradle him. And then, mysteriously, it was too slow and she wanted him, wanted that hard, possessive thrust. ‘Elliott, please?’

The dark eyes smiled into hers as he moved, took her fully, and set up a rhythm that rocked her up, up into a place that was full of sensation, tension, aching need. She felt his hand slide between their bodies and touch her and the tight knot unravelled into sensation so acute that everything went black, she lost herself and fell.

And Elliott caught her and she felt him cry out and go rigid and then there was peace.

Bella found herself again, tucked against Elliott’s side, her cheek on his shoulder, his arm around her.

‘Arabella?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Do you need me to tell you that you have pleased your husband?’ She could not see his face, but she could hear he was smiling.

‘I do not think so,’ she said, her own smile ending in a kiss against the smooth skin below his collar bone.

‘Would you like to go back to your own room?’

Oh. No, I would not. I want to stay here with you and perhaps…
But it was not fashionable for wives and husbands to share a bedchamber and no doubt Elliott wanted his privacy and his rest now. After all, what had been a miracle for her was simply what he would expect as the minimum from a lover. He had been very patient with her.

‘Thank you, I think I would.’ Bella made her voice as polite and distant as she could. She must not spoil all that had been gained tonight by seeming needy or clinging.

Elliott was still for a moment, then he got up, lifted her in his arms and carried her through to her own bed.

‘Goodnight, my dear,’ he said as he bent and kissed her, and was gone.

E
lliott built on the lessons of that revelatory night during the next week. There were kisses when he came upon her alone, on the mouth, the hand, the nape of her neck if he surprised her, and at night long, passionate kisses when he came to her room and showed her how to listen to her own body and to read his. But he left her afterwards alone in her bed. She wished he would stay so that perhaps they could talk, relaxed and intimate together. She could tell him her feelings and perhaps he would reveal more about his hopes and fears and plans. But viscountesses did not hang upon their husbands’ sleeves and expect to behave as though they were partners in a love match.

And it was wrong and ungrateful to expect more than Elliott had already given her.

‘My lady?’ Gwen asked, her hand with the hair-brush suspended as she saw the expression on Bella’s face in the glass.

‘Oh, nothing. Just a foolish thought about something
I have no courage to do. I will go out and visit tenants today again, so my walking dress, if you please.’

The visiting was going well, she thought as she sat in the gig, one of the grooms at the reins and Gwen beside her. She would like to learn to drive, but Elliott would not hear of it, not while she was pregnant. And even on the estate she must take Gwen as well as the groom.

‘You are mollycoddling me,’ she had said, trying for a light tone, hoping he might say that he would come and drive her himself so they could be alone and she could watch him at work.

‘I am trying to look after you,’ was all he would say before he strode off. Breakfasts were becoming increasingly precious. Dinners were formal, just the two of them. More lessons in conversation, table manners, formality that continued into the evening and careful discussions of neutral topics over the tea tray, with the pulsing awareness of the bedrooms upstairs always at the back of her mind. And then the wonder of lovemaking and the lonely comfort of a luxurious bed.

‘Mrs Trubshaw’s, my lady,’ the groom said, pulling up in front of a cottage with a sagging roof and an overgrown garden. ‘You said you wanted to start here today.’

‘Thank you, John.’ Bella got down and made herself think about something she did have some control over. Mrs Fanshawe had told her all about the Trubshaws. Father had run off when pursued by the gamekeepers for poaching and had not been seen for seven months, the eldest daughter had a wasted leg and could only get around on a crutch, the son was rapidly heading along
the same path to crime as his father and Mrs Trubshaw was pregnant with the baby due at any moment.

‘A challenge, this household,’ she murmured to Gwen, who was carrying the basket Bella had packed that morning. Cheese, bacon, butter, some clothing, baby blankets and money should all help, but only in the short term.

The boy answered the door, dragging it open and staring sullenly at the visitors. ‘Good morning. Is your mother at home?’

‘Aye. My lady,’ he added as Gwen raised a hand to cuff him. Bella took a deep breath of fresh air and walked into the smelly, stuffy cottage.

‘That is a list of the repairs that I can see, so far.’ Arabella pushed the paper across the desk to Elliott. ‘I’ve been to the cottages where Mrs Fanshawe said the family’s need was greatest, so I may not have seen the worst of the buildings yet.’

Elliott picked up the list and studied it. Not only were faults listed, but often their cause.
Damp walls with plaster peeling: dense shrubbery too close and broken guttering
, he read against one entry. ‘You would appear to know what you are talking about,’ he commented. ‘I will get Turner on to these repairs at once.’

‘It is merely a matter of observation,’ Arabella said. He could tell she was nervous of his reaction; her hazel eyes were fixed on his with too much concentration. He had hoped, now that their lovemaking was pleasurable and relaxed, that she would relax with him during the day also, but somehow, with those fears laid at rest, she
was more, not less, distant. It was as well; this was exactly the kind of companionable, undemanding marriage he could expect from a wife who had been raised for it. ‘And here is the list of men and boys wanting work.’

‘I’m thinking of re-laying the carriage drive and there is almost half a mile of wall needing repair, so I should be able to give most of them some labouring, if nothing else.’ Elliott took the second piece of paper, reached to put it on another pile then focused on one name. ‘Young Trubshaw?’

‘He is only thirteen,’ Arabella said. ‘With his father gone he needs to be working, not hanging around getting into trouble.’

‘He does that. I’m not sure about him. Are you a soft touch for a pair of big brown eyes and an air of spurious innocence, Arabella?’ Her earnest look made him want to go around the desk and kiss her.

‘Willie Trubshaw looks about as innocent as a weasel,’ she said, making him laugh. ‘And I prefer blue eyes,’ she muttered.

‘Are you, by any chance, flirting with me, Lady Hadleigh?’ Elliott enquired, keeping his tone light despite the way his breath hitched suddenly, inexplicably.

‘I wouldn’t know how,’ she admitted with a candour that made him laugh. ‘But I am certain you could teach me.’

‘I don’t think you need lessons, I think you have the instinct,’ Elliott said, wondering if locking the study door and taking her here, now, on the hearthrug might not be thoroughly satisfactory. ‘And you are blooming, my dear.’

And that was no lie. Her bosom was delightfully rounded, the colour was in her cheeks, her hair was glossy and the slight curve of her stomach was unexpectedly attractive. He glanced at the hearthrug, his whole body tightening in anticipation.

‘Oh.’ Now she looked apprehensive at what she must be able to see in his face. Elliott got a grip on his desire. This was no way for a sensible married man to behave, and his wife was not a lightskirt to be tumbled on the rug.

He glanced at the pile of letters and invitations on the corner of the desk. His friends were seeking his company, writing to congratulate him on his marriage, inviting the Hadleighs to stay, hinting that they would be only too delighted to make her ladyship’s acquaintance.

Under normal circumstances, and with any other bride, he would have happily invited a houseful of them. After a couple of weeks of marriage he would have had no qualms about leaving for a day or two to attend a boxing match or a race either. But the thought of inflicting a houseful of sports-mad, fit, exuberant, sophisticated men on Arabella was ridiculous: she would be terrified of them. They would cheerfully flirt with her, which would alarm her, talk about people and places she had no knowledge of and fill the house with noise and activity when she ought to be resting.

Elliott shovelled the whole lot into a drawer. ‘Just do not overdo it, my dear,’ he said and she nodded, apparently meek. How relaxing life was now that he had a compliant wife, regular sex and he was getting a grip on the estate and Rafe’s chaotic affairs. Why, then, did he feel that something was missing?

‘I thought you might like it if we took the gig and a picnic and went and explored the estate today,’ Elliott said at breakfast the next day. Bella looked up, startled, from thoughts about how successful her breakfast strategy had been. She had hardly dared hope she could lure him away from his study every morning, but the delights of a proper cooked breakfast did not seem to have palled on her husband yet. If she could just get him into the habit, she thought, he would begin every day with a proper meal. Men were, in her limited experience, creatures of habit. Perhaps one could train a husband? Her mouth twitched at the thought of trying to tame Elliott.

The pointers had taken up their positions on either side of the fireplace and Toby was sitting on her toes, quivering with eagerness for a titbit. Bella surveyed the room with satisfaction: this was what a marital breakfast should look like. Even her wretched morning sickness seemed to have subsided and it was no longer a matter of willpower to remain in the same room with so much savoury food.
Almost thirteen weeks
, she thought. Her back ached a little and she was sure that at any moment her condition would become obvious to anyone who looked.

‘A picnic? I should like that very much.’ He smiled at her and she smiled back, a warm, happy sensation that she could not quite put a name to settling around her heart. She loved that smile—lazy and assured and intimate. He really was the most dreadful flirt when he put his mind to it, she thought fondly. Elliott was being
so good to her. The odd mood she had sensed in the nursery had not come back, he appeared to be satisfied with her in bed and his teasing kisses kept her in a state of quivering anticipation. She must continue to study to please him; he would not regret his honourable action if she could possibly prevent it.

‘I know a very secluded spot,’ Elliott began, something warm and heavy in his voice that had her looking at him in wild speculation. He couldn’t mean to make love to her
outside
, could he?

‘The post, my lord,’ Henlow said, proffering a salver laden with envelopes. ‘And yesterday’s
Times
and
Morning Post
.’ He placed a much smaller pile of envelopes beside Bella’s plate. ‘For you, my lady.’

‘For me?’ Who would be writing to her here?
Papa.
‘Thank you, Henlow.’ She sat regarding the post warily. Her day had hardly started and now she must read her father’s justified reproaches. Doubtless he would have disowned her. Bella turned over the top letter, then another and another until she had reached the bottom. She recognised the handwriting on none of them. The relief was intense.

But who were they from? The wax splintered as she opened the first. Madame Mirabelle,
Exclusive Ladies’ Milliner of Worcester
, begged the Viscountess of Hadleigh would forgive her presumption in writing to felicitate her ladyship upon her nuptials and entreated her ladyship to summon her to attend upon her at any time with a selection of hats the equal of any to be found in London’s Bond Street.

The next was from George Arnold,
Shoe and Boot
Maker to the Nobility and Clergy
, also soliciting the favour of her ladyship’s attention. Then there was a haberdashery store, a portrait painter and a furniture warehouse.

Bemused by the notion that her spending power was great enough to attract so much interest, Bella set them to one side and picked up another with a London frank. The one under it was similarly stamped. ‘London? I do not know anyone in London.’

‘That will be my paternal aunts, Lady Fingest and Mrs Grahame, writing in response to my letters to them,’ Elliott said, glancing up from his own post.

Bella opened the first. Lady Fingest expressed herself delighted that her nephew had married and extended an invitation to visit at the earliest opportunity. Her bride gift was on its way and she did trust dear Arabella would find it of use. The second, from her sister, was in similar vein.

‘They do not sound at all distressed that you have married a nobody,’ she said to Elliott.

‘I told them that you were a daughter of the church and a paragon of virtue. I have no doubt that they are so delighted that I am settling down respectably that the fact they have never heard of your parents is a mere detail.’

‘But I’m not a paragon,’ Bella said miserably after a swift glance round to make sure all the footmen were out of the room. ‘The baby—’

‘Which is another reason why we are not going up to Town until February. We can but hope that he is a small baby and can appear convincingly premature after an interval of a couple of months. People will do the sums, but by then it will be old news.’

‘But Lady Abbotsbury will know and tell them.’

‘I am sure she knows—there is nothing wrong with her eyesight or her ability to add up. I expect to get a stiff lecture and then to be forgiven. She likes you—she will not want to damage your reputation with the family.’

Reassured, Bella turned to the last letter. ‘It is from Mrs Baynton in response to your invitation for next Wednesday. She says they will be delighted. I am so—’

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Elliott flung a sheet of heavy, embossed writing paper down on the table, narrowly missing the marmalade. Bella craned to see it; there was an embossed crest with what looked like a mitre and crossed crosiers. ‘Your father has written to the bishop, complaining that I have seduced you away from your home and duty and demanding that he annul the marriage forthwith.’

‘He cannot! Can he?’ Bella gasped. Twinges of pain shot across her stomach and she flattened her hand to it. ‘Elliott?’

‘No, of course he cannot. There are no grounds. You were single, of age and of sound mind. We told no lies in obtaining the licence. The bishop expresses himself quite satisfied with our application. However, he wants to talk to me—presumably he is not happy to have an incumbent from another diocese threatening scandal.’

‘I am so sorry.’ She gazed at him, aghast. ‘I never dreamt Papa would do anything but disown me.’

‘He has lost his unpaid housekeeper, has he not? And you are out of range—this is the only way to punish you,’ Elliott said. ‘I will go to Worcester today; Bishop Huntingford invites me to stay until Monday.’

‘So long?’ She felt bereft. And guilty. So much for being a suitable viscountess.

‘I can hardly march in, insist he fits this into his doubtless extremely busy schedule and then bolt back here. If I stay for Saturday he will not want me to travel on a Sunday, so that will make it Monday. But it will give me the opportunity for a discreet word about your father—we will be able to nip any scandal in the bud, do not fret, Bella.’

‘What if Papa complains to his own bishop?’

‘Then he will write to Huntingford who will reassure him—all the more reason for me to put some effort into it now. I am sure your bishop is only too well aware of the foibles of his own clergy.’

‘Yes, I suppose he must be. Oh!’ The cramp clenched at her belly again. ‘Elliott—’

‘What is it?’ He was on his knees beside the chair, one arm around her. ‘The baby?’

‘I don’t know. Cramping pains. Not severe,’ she said, trying not to panic. ‘Twinges under the skin. But I have never felt anything like it before.’