Lady Knightley's Secret

He felt the bed go down slightly under her light weight, and instinctively sought one of those infinitely capable hands. ‘I’m a selfish devil, because you must be tired, but just sit with me for a while.’

He couldn’t see the smile which played around the exquisitely formed lips, but couldn’t mistake the gentle understanding as she said, ‘I know you must be concerned about tomorrow, Richard, but everything will be all right…I know it will.’

He brushed his thumb back and forth over the soft skin, easily detecting the small bones beneath. How often during these past weeks had he held these tapering fingers for comfort and support? He would know these caring hands anywhere. He had not infrequently marvelled at the fact that such a slender creature could be so strong, manoeuvring his six-foot frame in those first early days when he had been too helpless to do anything for himself. He had learned from Sergeant Hawker, the old rogue, that she was a very pretty young woman; knew too, from Mary herself, that her long hair was the colour of sun-ripened corn and that her eyes were blue. Such a delicious combination! But he had never looked upon what Hawker considered the sweetest smile in Christendom…Would he ever be privileged to see it?

‘I wish I had your confidence, Mary.’

Her soft laughter had a teasing quality. ‘You will see,’ she assured him again. ‘Call it the gypsy in me that knows.’

He was still far from certain, but knew he was probably being too pessimistic; behaving like a spoilt child, as Mary had told him in no uncertain terms on more than one occasion during these past weeks. Darling little scold! His sight hadn’t been permanently damaged—the doctor had assured him of that. His eyes had been inflamed, certainly, and everything had been just a blur, but the condition was only temporary. His eyes had needed only resting and nature would effect its own cure. Tomorrow, when the bandages were removed, he would see again. He must believe that! Surely life wouldn’t heap the torment of blindness upon him on top of everything else?

He found himself experiencing that same gnawing ache of grief, infinitely more painful than any one of the several wounds he had sustained during his years in the army. It had been just over two weeks since Mary had read that letter informing him of his brother’s tragic death. He still found it difficult to accept that, when he did eventually return to England, Charles wouldn’t be standing outside the ancestral home waiting to greet him, as he had done so many times in the past; that dear Margaret wouldn’t be there either, nor little Jonathan. A racing curricle, driven at breakneck speed, had forced his brother’s carriage off the road and it had tumbled down a ravine. Because of some mindless fop’s attempts to win a wager, Charles and his wife, and their nine-year-old son, now lay six feet beneath the earth.

Learning about the tragedy so soon after seeing so many comrades fall at Waterloo had been almost too much for him to bear. He had come perilously close to losing the will to live; might well have not survived his injuries; might never have attempted to come to terms with his tragic loss if it hadn’t been for Mary.

Mostly gently coaxing, but occasionally rounding on him like a spitting virago, Mary had somehow managed to transfuse a small part of that indomitable spirit of hers into him, lifting him from the nadir of despair, and instilling in him a determination to face up to the responsibilities which had been placed upon him by his brother’s untimely death. It would take a long time before he got over his loss; perhaps he never would, fully; but, for the sake of the baby niece he had never yet seen, he must face the future.

Charles and Margaret had considered their baby daughter too young to make that long journey to Derbyshire to stay with their friends, and had left her in the care of a close relative residing in London. Thankfully, Juliet was too young to understand the tragedy which had struck. Now it was up to him to ensure that her life was as carefree and happy as possible by taking the place of the father she would never remember.

He automatically reached out for his sweet preserver with his other hand and, pulling her down against his chest, ran his fingers through that long mane of silky hair which always smelt so deliciously of lavender-and-rose water. ‘What would I have done without you, you darling girl!’

Without conscious thought he removed his hand from her hair to run an exploratory trail down her cheek, brushing gently against the outline of her jaw before taking a hold of the softly rounded chin and raising her face. He lowered his head and his mouth retraced the path his fingers had taken before coming to rest on soft lips, invitingly parted.

He had intended nothing more than a brief display of his genuine affection for this wonderfully caring young woman, but as he felt those soft lips tremble deliciously beneath his own, as he became acutely aware of the firm young breasts pressed against his chest, his need returned with an urgency, reigniting that fire of desire in his loins. Before he realised what he was doing, he had eased her into the bed beside him and was peeling away that last flimsy barrier of her clothing with hands that now shook slightly in their urgency to touch every last inch of her.

It must have been this loss of sight which had finely tuned his other senses, he decided, for never before could he recall touching skin so satiny-smooth, so beautifully unblemished. She was perfect. Her breasts reacted instantly to his caressing touch, hardening and inviting his lips. Her soft moans of pleasure as he ran his fingers down to the softly swelling hips was music to his ears, a delightful encouragement for further intimate caresses.

Not for an instant did it cross his mind to wonder why the hands which began to explore the triangular mat of dark hair covering his chest were trembling slightly; nor did he consider the very real possibility that the body which reacted so deliciously to his gentle caresses might not be that of an experienced woman, but that of a hitherto untouched female who was responding quite naturally to a knowledgeable man’s tender lovemaking. It was only when he eased himself on top and inside her and heard that betraying tiny cry of pain that the truth dawned on him. But it was all too late now: his need too urgent for him to stop.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mary?’ he asked gently when at last he lay beside her once more, and cradled her head on his chest. ‘Did I hurt you very much, my darling? Had I known, I—’

‘Had you known, Richard,’ she interrupted, ‘I suspect you wouldn’t have made love to me at all.’

He wasn’t so certain. He wasn’t a man accustomed to curbing his natural desires. A string of mistresses over the years had satisfied his needs, but he had never before tampered with innocence. Maybe if it had once occurred to him that she might be untouched he wouldn’t have reached a point where he was incapable of stopping, but it was rather too late to question the wisdom of his actions now. There was only one course open to a man who possessed any degree of honour.

He brushed his lips lightly over her forehead. ‘We’ll be married just as soon as I can arrange matters.’ He felt her stiffen. ‘What’s wrong, Mary? Don’t you want to marry me?’

‘More than anything in the world, Richard!’ It was like a desperate cry from a loving heart. ‘But—but you know next to nothing about me.’

‘I know that you’re one of the sweetest scolds I’ve ever met,’ he told her laughingly. ‘I also know that your hair is blonde and your eyes are blue.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she murmured, a distinct catch in her voice, as though she were finding it difficult to speak. ‘That’s always been your favourite combination, hasn’t it, my Richard?’

‘How do you know that? Has Sergeant Hawker been gossiping again?’

She didn’t respond to this, but asked instead with that bluntness which so characterised her, ‘Do you truly want to marry me?’

‘Of course!’ he answered without a moment’s hesitation and only hoped his voice hadn’t betrayed his grave misgivings. ‘Besides, now that I’ve come into the title it’s essential I produce an heir. And I’ve come to know you well enough in these past weeks to be certain you’d make a wonderful wife and mother. So, we’ll take it as settled.’

There was no response.

When Richard woke again it was to discover himself alone and that portion of bed beside him quite cold. By the tramping of feet in the passageway outside his room—which sounded like a regiment of infantrymen parading up and down—he knew it must be morning, a morning he had been longing for and dreading by turns; a morning that, no matter whether he would see again or not, would change his life forever.

Raising his arms, he rested his head in his hands and gave vent to a heartfelt sigh. He was honest enough to admit that for a newly betrothed man he certainly wasn’t experiencing untold joy; honest enough to admit, too, that Mary wouldn’t have been his ideal choice for a wife. He liked her very well, probably more than any other woman he had ever known. She was both kind-hearted and amusing, and for all that she spoke with a pronounced West Country accent she was far from uneducated.

It had been she who had penned the letter to his London solicitors in response to the one they had sent informing him of his brother’s tragic demise. He had also learned from Sergeant Hawker that she had spent many hours with him improving his reading and writing skills. But this, he was only too well aware, was hardly sufficient reason to suppose that she would make a suitable wife for a baronet. The truth of the matter was, of course, that she was totally unsuitable. She could have no notion of what was expected of her. Those vicious society tabbies would have a field day at her expense when they discovered her former station in life.

‘But you know next to nothing about me.’ He frowned suddenly as Mary’s words echoed in his mind. It was true: he knew absolutely nothing about her life. She had received a good education. He knew this from the numerous conversations they had had when she had spoken intelligently on a wide range of topics. She might well be the daughter of some country parson or practitioner. If this did turn out to be the case then the outlook was not all doom and gloom. She could be moulded and taught the ways of his social class. Added to which, she must surely come from a family with sufficient means to have been able to afford to hire this house for several weeks. Was she the daughter of a wealthy merchant, perhaps? But it was pointless speculating, he told himself. He would discover all he wanted to know, and perhaps a great deal that he didn’t, when she visited him next.

The door opening interrupted his thoughts. ‘Mary?’

‘No, sir. It’s me.’

He recognised his sergeant’s rough voice instantly and smiled. ‘What brings you here so early, you old rogue? And what the devil’s that confounded din?’

‘The servants be moving some trunks, sir. Captain Munroe be leaving us this morning. We be the last two ’ere now.’

‘Where’s Mary?’

There was a tiny pause, then, ‘She be a bit—er—busy at the moment, sir, so she asked me to see to you. High time I took up me dooties again. I can get about well enough, even though the old knee’s still a bit stiff. Now, sir, I’ll just pop this towel round you and give you a bit of a shave.’

No sooner had this task been completed than the doctor arrived, and Richard, for once not having Mary there offering comfort and support, found himself grasping the bedclothes. Not once during any one of those many cavalry charges in which he had taken part could he recall being in the grip of such intense fear as he was in those moments when the bandages were removed and he opened his eyes for the first time since that never-to-be-forgotten last battle.

At first all he could detect were dark, blurred shapes. It was like trying to peer through a thick London fog, but then, blessedly, the mists slowly began to clear and the concerned face of his sergeant staring down at him gradually came into focus.

‘I never thought I’d experience pleasure at seeing that ugly phiz of yours, Hawker. And I have to say it hasn’t improved any since last I saw it!’

The sergeant, far from offended, laughed heartily as he moved across to the window so as not to impede the doctor’s further examination. He looked down into the street below, his amusement vanishing as he gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, and then watched as the carriage pulled away from the house.

‘Where is Mary?’ Richard asked again, making his eagerness to see her very evident.

Giving a guilty start, Hawker looked back across at the bed. ‘She’s—er—just this minute stepped out for a bit of air, sir.’

‘Well, when she returns to the house tell her I’d like to see her.’ Richard smiled at the choice of words. ‘Tell her I’m longing to see her.’

The sergeant didn’t respond, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before this gallant commanding officer realised there was something amiss.

The moment he had been dreading came early that evening when he brought Richard his dinner.

‘Where is she, Hawker? Why hasn’t she been to see me today?’

He saw little point in trying to conceal the truth any longer. ‘She be gone, sir.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘She be journeying back to England. She left in the carriage as soon as she knew you were back to normal, as yer might say.’ He couldn’t bring himself to add that it had been he who had signalled to her from the window.

Richard experienced such a maelstrom of conflicting emotions that it was several moments before he could think clearly. ‘Did she say why she had to leave so suddenly?’