Mary Balogh - Slightly Wicked

“No,” she said feeling suddenly breathless.

“That is my feeling too,” he said. “The landlord and his good lady have been feeding us well. We will somehow have to build up an appetite to do justice to the dinner they are doubtless preparing for us. Can you think of a way we can do that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Only one?” He clucked his tongue.

She smiled. She felt pretty in her new bonnet, her gift to him was lying in his pocket, and they were on their way back to the inn to go to bed again. There was all the rest of the afternoon left, and there was all night ahead of them. She would make it an eternity.

She glanced up at the sky, but already there were breaks in the clouds and blue sky showing through.

She would not look. There were hours left yet before morning came.

“Look at it,” she said, her voice filled with soft wonder.“ Have you ever seen a more glorious sight?”

She was at the open window of their private sitting room, both elbows resting on the sill, her chin cupped in her hands, watching the sun set beneath an orange, gold, and pink sky. She was wearing a striped silk dress of cream and gold in what he was coming to recognize as her characteristic simple yet elegant style. Her hair, loose down her back, seemed dark in contrast.

He was constantly surprised by her. Who would have expected an actress to marvel at a sunset? Or to show such bright-eyed delight in a bonnet that was exquisitely pretty but by no means either ostentatious or costly? Or to giggle over a cheap, ugly snuffbox and spend the last penny of her traveling allowance on it? Or to make love with such obvious personal enjoyment?

“Ralph?” She turned her head and reached out one hand to him. “Come and look.”

“I was looking,” he told her. “You were part of the picture.”

“Oh, you do not need to keep on flattering me,” she said. “Come and look.”

He took her hand in his and moved up beside her at the window. The trouble with sunsets was that darkness followed quickly upon their heels. Just as the trouble with autumn was that winter was not far behind. And what was making him so maudlin?

“The sun will be shining tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes.”

Her hand tightened about his. “I am glad it rained,” she said. “I am glad the stagecoach overturned. I am glad you did not take shelter at the last town.”

“So am I.” He slipped his hand from hers and draped his arm loosely about her shoulders. She leaned in against him, and they watched the sun disappear over the edge of a distant field.

He wanted to bed her again. He fully intended to do so, as many times during the night as his energy would allow. But tonight he did not feel the urgency he had felt last night or the lusty exuberance he had felt this afternoon. Tonight he felt almost—melancholy. It was not a mood he was accustomed to feeling.

They had indulged in two energetic bouts of sex after returning from the shops—on clean sheets, he had observed. They had slept a while and then dined in private. She had acted the parts of Viola and Desdemona for him. And then she had noticed the sunset.

It was getting late. Time was running out, and he felt regret that he could not pursue their affair until it reached its natural conclusion, perhaps in a few days, perhaps not for a week or longer.

She sighed and turned her head to look at him. He kissed her. He liked the way she kissed, relaxing her mouth, opening it for him, responding to him without demanding mastery. She tasted of wine even though she had drunk only one glass this evening.

It was while he was kissing her that he conceived his idea. His brilliant idea. His obvious idea.

“I am coming with you tomorrow,” he said, lifting his head.

“What?” She gazed back at him, heavy-eyed.

“I am coming with you,” he repeated.

“On the stagecoach?” She frowned.

“I’ll hire a private carriage,” he said. “There must be one available here somewhere. We will travel in comfort. We—”

“But your friends,” she said.

“They will not send out any search parties,” he told her. “They do not even know exactly when to expect me. I’ll come with you to York. I have a burning desire to see you act on a real stage with other actors.

And we are not finished with each other yet. Are we?”

She stared at him. “Oh, no,” she said. “I could not so inconvenience you. A private carriage would cost a fortune.”

“My purse is fat enough,” he said.

She shook her head slowly, and he had a sudden thought.

“Is there someone waiting for you?” he asked her. “Another man?”

“No.”

“Anyone else, then?” he asked. “Anyone who is likely to be offended by my accompanying you?”

“No.”

But she continued the slow head shaking. He considered another rather lowering possibility.

“Are we finished with each other?” he asked her. “Or will we be after one more night together? Will you be glad to be free again and on your way alone tomorrow?”

The head shaking continued, he was relieved to see.

“I want more of you, Claire,” he said. “More of your body, more of you. I want to see you act. I will not stay forever, only for a week or so until we are both satisfied. You are an independent woman who does not like to be tied to one man—I can see that. I am a man who enjoys brief affairs and then is content to move on. But tomorrow is too soon. Besides, you really cannot be looking forward to climbing into a stagecoach again and taking your place beside another bony holy man.”

Her head was still. For a moment she half smiled.

“Tell me you want more of me,” he said, moving his mouth closer to hers.

“I want more of you.”

“Then it is settled.” He kissed her swiftly. “We will leave here together tomorrow. I will come to York and see you act. We will spend a few more days in each other’s company, perhaps a week. Maybe longer. As long as it takes.”

She half smiled again and touched her fingertips to his cheek.

“That would be very lovely,” she said.

He set his hand over hers and kissed her palm. Who would have thought yesterday morning when he left Aidan’s, bound for Grandmaison, that he was riding straight into the arms of a new mistress and a hot affair? He had cursed the mud and the threatening rain, but both had turned into blessings.

“Ready for bed?” he asked.

She nodded.

He was feeling rather weary. Four times last night and twice this afternoon had taken some toll on his stamina and doubtless on hers too. But now tonight need not be as frantic as he had expected. They need not stay awake all night, taking full advantage of every moment. They had days and nights ahead of them, as many as they needed.

“Come, then.” He took her hand again and led her in the direction of the bedchamber. “We’ll enjoy long, slow love-making and then sleep, shall we?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and husky and curling about him with a warm, sensual promise.

It was already light outside though it was probably still very early. The stagecoach was to leave from the posting inn at half past eight, the landlord had reported last evening, though he had assumed that Mr. and Mrs. Bedard would not be traveling on it.

They would not. But Judith Law would if she possibly could.

She could not go with Ralph. Where would they go?

The adventure was over. Her stolen dream was flat and empty. Dull pain settled like a heavy hand on her chest. Soon she must wake him and suggest without seeming too urgent about it that he go out to hire a private carriage. She did not have the courage to tell him the truth or even another lie. She was too much of a coward to tell him no, that she would not go with him, that she would continue her journey alone and by stage instead.

Telling him the truth would be the honorable thing to do and perhaps the kinder.

But she could not bear to say good-bye to him.

He had slept deeply all night long after they had finished making slow, almost languorous love. She had lain beside him all night, staring upward, occasionally closing her eyes but not sleeping, watching the window for signs of daylight, willing the night to last forever to prolong her agony.

It was hard to believe that just two mornings ago she had been the Judith Law she had known all her life.

Now she no longer knew who Judith Law was.

“Awake already?” he asked from beside her, and she turned her head to smile at him. To drink in the sight of him, to store memories. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm,” she said.

“Me too.” He stretched. “I slept like the proverbial log. You certainly know how to wear a man out, Claire Campbell. In the best possible way, of course.”

“Will we make an early start?” she asked him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed to the window.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” he reported after pulling back the curtains. “And hardly a puddle left in the yard down there. There is no reason to delay. Perhaps I should go out in search of a carriage as soon as I have dressed and shaved. We can breakfast afterward, before we leave.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” she said.

He disappeared behind the screen and she could hear him pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl.

She willed him to hurry. She willed time to stand still.

“Have you ever had sex in a carriage, Claire?” he asked. She could hear laughter in his voice.

“I certainly have not.” Just two days ago the question would have shocked her beyond words.