Let Me Be The One Page 19

  He lifted his head enough to reach the tip of her breast with his mouth. He heard her soft moan. She had earned something for herself, Northam thought, and giving her pleasure would be his best revenge.

  Chapter 8

  Standing at the bank of arched windows in the gallery, Northam had an unobstructed view of the guests gathered on the lawn for the archery contest. Targets had been placed on bales of hay near a stand of trees so even the most wayward arrow would have little chance of doing anyone injury. There were five targets, three of them traditional concentric circles of varying diameters and colors. The remaining two, in honor of the anniversary of Wellington's victory at Waterloo, were rather skillful renderings of Boney himself, powerful and glowering in his commander's full regalia.

  Northam noticed that the women invariably aimed their bows at the bull's-eye. The men, when they were not giving advice or making wagers on the women's shots, sent their arrows flying toward Napoleon's cocked hat.

  The archery contest was the last outdoor entertainment planned for the Battenburn rout. Northam knew that some drawing room amusement would take place that evening, but he had no idea what Lady Battenburn had arranged. Even Elizabeth said she did not know. Earlier in the week that same response from Elizabeth would have been met with skepticism on his part; however, he had observed a certain lessening of the amity between Elizabeth and their hostess, a coolness that was not easily measured except by what no longer occurred between them.

  Northam had not seen Louise draw Elizabeth to one side to ask her advice or whisper a bit of gossip. They were also less likely to be together in the same clutch of laughing women. Lady Battenburn had disagreed with Elizabeth on two occasions, both of them very public and rather pointed. What struck Northam was Elizabeth's good-natured acceptance of the rebukes. She neither defended her position nor offered a witty reply. She took the sting out of Louise's words by graciously accepting them. Except for the fingers that curled into gentle fists at her sides, Northam might have been fooled into thinking she had actually taken them to heart.

  To the best of his recollection, this shift in the relationship between Louise and Elizabeth had taken place following the recovery of the snuffbox. Northam could imagine that Lady Battenburn was distressed that it had been found in such a manner, but what she thought Elizabeth could have done differently to avoid that end continued to elude Northam.

  It was also that same night that he had visited Elizabeth's bedchamber. He could not help wondering what Lady Battenburn knew about that evening. He was unable to convince himself that Elizabeth had shared any part of that night with her friend, but he recognized that his thinking was not entirely clear where Elizabeth was concerned. She might have been moved to tell Louise that he had extended a helping hand in the mistaken belief she was in need of it. It was more doubtful that she would have mentioned that he had offered to place her under his protection, first as his mistress, later as his wife.

  Still harder to conceive was Elizabeth relating any of the intimacies they had traded in her bed. Far less difficult was the act of bringing those intimacies to mind. With very little effort he could summon the fragrance of her hair, the feel of it under his fingertips, the taste of her skin on his lips. The back of his neck prickled with the sensation of her nails making a tracing at the tip of his spine. He could feel the weight of her as she lay stretched along his full length. There was a stirring in his groin as he once again recalled the sweet hot suck of her mouth.

  His eyes followed Elizabeth now as she took her place at the line to make her shot. With efficient, expert motions she took an arrow from the quiver and notched it. Like all the participants, she wore gloves and a leather guard to protect her hands and the vulnerable inside of her extended forearm. Northam thought she looked far too fragile to accomplish the task she had set for herself, yet he had every confidence that she would succeed.

  As fluid and graceful as the moon goddess Artemis, Elizabeth drew back the string and raised the bow and arrow in a single, effortless motion. She held it extended, taking careful aim, then released two fingers on the string and let the arrow fly. By the immediate applause of her admirers, Northam knew she had found the target squarely at its center. He did not confirm the arrow's flight; his eyes remained on the slight curve of her body while he imagined the tremor she had absorbed at the taut bow's final release. He felt it too, a rush of intense pleasure that had nothing to do with this lawn entertainment.

  Northam took one step toward the window and for a moment laid his forehead against a cooler pane of glass. He closed his eyes. He could feel himself inside her again, buried deep, held tightly, her slender body under his in a curve as fine and taut as that bow's. And then the release. Her cry. His groan. Their mouths fused, still hungry, straining for the last remnants of pleasure.

  As deeply as they had drawn from that well, nothing was changed by it. Elizabeth had sent him on his way, still refusing his offers of help, protection, or marriage. Their last intimacy, coming as it had in the first hint of dawn's light, only served to make Elizabeth more resolute. Though she said nothing to him, he knew she realized he had not withdrawn from her that final time. It was the only thing she had truly asked of him in exchange for that night's pleasure, and in the end he had willfully denied her that peace of mind. If she understood how purposeful he had been, she still leveled no accusations at his head, but appeared to be saving the recriminations for herself.

  At the window, Northam straightened but did not step back. Elizabeth was giving up her place at the line for Lady Powell. They chatted briefly, and then Elizabeth turned and walked back to the large blue-and-white canopy that had been erected to protect the guests from the sun. All of the splendid grace that Elizabeth had shown with her bow was absent as she limped toward the tent.

  This awkwardness of gait struck him anew. It was easy to forget that she had any limitations when he observed her at archery or on horseback. And he had intimate knowledge that there was nothing at all hesitant or faltering about the way she moved with him and against him. He had massaged the small of her back while she lay on her stomach, her head turned to the side away from him. He thought her eyes were closed, but when he leaned over her and peered closely, he saw moonlight reflected in the gold shards. He had laid his mouth softly against her temple as his hand reconfigured its shape to match the curve of her hip. She said nothing, but her breathing had quickened.

  It should have satisfied him, this immediate response to his touch, but then she had turned so that her face was bathed in silver-blue moonshine, and he glimpsed such a stark look of aloneness in her features that it twisted his insides. Here he was touching her, sharing her bed, her body, savoring the very air she breathed, and she felt nothing so keenly as her own aloneness. It was perhaps in that moment that Northam appreciated the depth of Elizabeth's isolation. What had come afterward did nothing to ease it. When he left her room that morning he realized he had come to feel only a little less alone than she.

  Northam watched Elizabeth take a seat in the same circle as Lady Battenburn. His view was only that Louise acknowledged Elizabeth's presence. There seemed to be no exchange beyond that initial greeting. Elizabeth laughed at something Lady Heathering said to her and while it drew Louise's attention, it did not draw a comment.

  What then, Northam wondered, was the source of Lady Battenburn's coolness toward Elizabeth? Certainly there had been nothing like it directed toward him. Harrison was also unchanged in either his dealings with Elizabeth or his wife. It was probably just as well. There could be nothing gained by stepping into the middle of a misunderstanding between two women. Invariably they quickly repaired their rift and the well-meaning but hopelessly ill-equipped meddler was left to lick his wounds.

  Northam had had four days and nights to consider what Louise might have overheard in Elizabeth's room that evening, either from the hallway or from the other side of the sliding wainscoting panel. If Lady Battenburn knew for a fact that Elizabeth had been with someo
ne, Northam told himself that her response, whether she approved or disapproved, would have but one outcome: overwhelming concern for Elizabeth's welfare.

  He wondered why, then, it still felt as if he were trying to convince himself of the obvious.

  * * *

  Elizabeth hoped her laughter was not forced. She believed that Lady Heathering's observation was meant to be amusing but she was not entirely certain. She had been listening with only half an ear, and it was inevitable that sooner or later she would be caught out with an inappropriate response. Right now it seemed that she had been given a reprieve, for Lady Heathering was repeating her comment for others to hear, and they gave her the same amused approbation Elizabeth had.

  Resolved to keep her attention focused, Elizabeth turned politely toward Lady Powell when she returned to her chair, and inquired as to her success on the archery field.

  "Oh, but I have not seemed to acquire any skill at the thing, no matter how much instruction I receive," Lady Powell said. She opened her fan and languidly waved it in front of her face. "My last shot went into the woods and scattered an entire flock of birds from the treetops."

  Before Elizabeth could respond, Lady Heathering noted slyly, "Perhaps, dearest Grace, it is because you so enjoy the instruction that your form does not improve. I have a suspicion that your arrows may fly off into the boughs again and again, but invariably you never miss your target."

  Lady Powell did not deign to comment, but her flush was no longer strictly the result of her previous exertions.

  "Southerton has been attentive, has he not?" Lady Heathering continued. "It is a shame that we all leave tomorrow, though I suppose there is every chance Southerton will be attending the Hulltons' ball in August."

  The exchange went back and forth between the two ladies with occasional comments from others in their circle. Elizabeth felt her attention wander even while her head swiveled to acknowledge one speaker, then the other.

  Northam's absence at this entertainment was both a relief and a distraction. She found herself looking for him at odd moments, glancing back at the manse as though she might spy him at one of the windows or striding toward them across the lawn. Southerton explained his friend's decision not to participate in the contest as an indication of his complete lack of skill with a bow and a desire not to embarrass himself in front of others. Although she had not asked for any such explanation, Elizabeth listened to it out of deference to South and accepted it for the same reason. She had no doubt it was a complete fabrication.

  She did not blame North in the least for not wanting to spend the afternoon in her company. She did not want to be with herself either. In the last four days they had managed to find separate interests. She was reading while he was riding. She attended the musicale while he explored the boxwood maze at the center of the garden with Lady Heathering. She played whist partnered with Southerton. North played at more serious cards with Lord Battenburn and his cronies. Elizabeth wondered what was occupying his time while she pretended to listen to careless conversation and play at a pastime in which she had little interest.

  She had hoped he would not occupy so much of her thoughts. That, it seemed, was the wishful thinking. In truth, it was difficult to let any other thoughts intrude. She fully appreciated how many functions in the course of living were accomplished without her conscious direction. If she had had to choose between breathing and thinking about Northam, Elizabeth suspected her lungs would not have drawn air.

  Her response to him remained a source of discomfort. It could not be easily explained by the fact that she had held herself aloof for so many years. How much was Northam responsible for breaching her defenses and how much had she intentionally lowered them? She had never once considered that she could be so receptive to the intimate attentions of another man. For years she had wandered on the fringes of life, thinking herself not merely immune to pleasure but without capacity for it. Now she wondered if she had just been afraid.

  It was not so simple an explanation as that. She was still afraid. Deeply so. Yet in spite of that she had once again allowed herself to know the joyous coupling and robust passion that was possible between a man and a woman, this time without the complications of love. She could not say if it was better or worse, only that it was different.

  She liked Northam. She had from the first, and nothing he'd done changed that. Indeed, Elizabeth told herself that if she had liked him a great deal less she might have accepted his offer to be his mistress. She would have had to have no regard for him at all in order to become his wife. He was fortunate that she thought so well of him.

  His offer to help her, even when he could not comprehend the nature of her difficulties, did not come as a complete surprise. The colonel's interest in her would have made Northam sensitive. She had anticipated that overture. The other offers were far more troubling. Elizabeth could feel her relief rising in steady increments as the time for their parting neared. Tomorrow morning Northam would take his leave. In spite of what she said to him, she knew she could avoid a second encounter. There might be only one carousel, but he would never meet her if she was at the center of its operation. She only had to convince Louise that was where she needed to be and the rest would take care of itself.

  "I'm not at all certain you can trust Southerton," Lady Heathering was saying."Have you ever noticed that he talks a great deal and says very little? I rather think it is by design, though what his purpose might be I cannot say."

  "He likes to hear himself," said Lady Powell, not unkindly. "I hardly think it is the ruler by which I should measure his trustworthiness."

  Lady Heathering waved her hand, dismissing this. "You do not take my meaning, Grace. It is..."

  And so it went, just beyond Elizabeth's awareness, words flying like arrows over her head with an occasional strike at the center of her heart. She felt the impact now when the subject turned to trust.

  "Trust me, Elizabeth." It was the last thing North had said to her before he left her room, and because he put it to her with such gravity she believed she could give him no response but the one she knew to be the truth.

  "I do," she had said. She could have left it there, allowing him to complete the step that would have taken him beyond the door and out of her hearing, but she found herself unable to do that. She owed him one more truth whether he wanted it or not. "But you must never trust me."

  He had looked as if he wanted to argue. Elizabeth had closed the door on him to prevent that and turned the key for good measure. Since those parting words they had traded less than a dozen sentences. Elizabeth had not suspected she could feel such a loss at a thing she knew must come about.

  She lifted her head now as Southerton approached. Her smile was warm and unwavering. Only she knew that a pistol at the base of her skull could not have pushed words past the lump in her throat.

  * * *

  The guests at Battenburn gathered in the largest of the first-floor drawing rooms for the evening's surprise entertainment. There had been whispers about it all afternoon as Lady Battenburn let delicious hints drop like cake crumbs. Some said it was to be a special visitor, one invited just for this evening. Others believed it would be another game of twisted questions and enigmatic answers. There were those who wagered it would be charades and those who gambled it would involve cards.

  When Lady Battenburn announced the entertainment all who had engaged in speculation discovered none of it was entirely without foundation. There was indeed a guest and an opportunity to pose questions. No doubt, Louise told them, there would be some charade among the assembly as it would be difficult for all of them to tell the truth. And, finally, cards would be turned over and fates revealed.

  "We are very lucky tonight," Louise said to her hushed audience, "to have engaged the services of Madame Fortuna. I have it on the most reliable authority that her prognostications are without peer. She correctly foretold Napoleon's fall, exile, and subsequent assumption of power. She predicted it would be Elba that wo
uld hold him. It has occurred to me that with such successes in her background, the small matter of the Gentleman Thief should pose no problem for her."

  She smiled gaily and without guile, as if the matter of using the fortune-teller to sniff out the thief had just occurred to her. Whether or not her guests believed that this was the case was of no concern to her. She had their complete attention, and it was this position at the center of everything that gave her such satisfaction. She glanced over the assembly and briefly acknowledged her husband's reserved smile, Lady Heathering's excitement, Mr. Rutherford's skepticism, Southerton's amusement, and finally Elizabeth's look of complete resignation.

  Embracing her triumph as if it were a tangible thing, Louise lifted her hand and indicated the rear entrance to the drawing room. At her gesture two footmen opened the doors and revealed Lady Battenburn's most lauded guest to the gathering.

  Northam could not quite believe that it was Madame Fortuna. Expecting to see an old woman bent by time, he was confounded to see that while he had aged, she had moved forward through the years apparently unscathed. He was ten again, sitting across from her at the table inside her covered wagon, the crystal ball between them. Her graying hair was caught in a silk scarf. Copper earrings dangled from her long lobes and almost brushed her hunched shoulders. She wore a black dress and a purple shawl that was held in place by an enormous lapis lazuli brooch. Her hands were slender, rough-knuckled, and he remembered what they had felt like cupping his face.

  It was only much later, after he and the rest of the Compass Club had left, that North realized she had never once touched him.

  Southerton excused himself from Lady Powell's side and weaved through the guests to reach North. He stood just to one side and slightly behind his friend. His voice reached North's ear quietly. "She looks exactly as I remember her. How is that possible?"