Infinity might have an end, but love did not.
Chapter 21
EDWARD WAS LYING on his back on the bed, one hand over his eyes, one leg bent at the knee, his foot flat on the mattress. He was listening to the soothing sounds of birds singing and the curtain flapping at the window. The air was cool on his naked body, though not cool enough that he was tempted to pull up the covers. Angeline’s hand was in his, her arm against him. Both were warm.
He was relaxed. Utterly, totally relaxed in both body and mind. He had expected, when rational thought returned following the sex, that he would feel guilty. What he had done was reprehensible in every sense of the word. But instead he was relaxed. And happy.
Nothing had ever felt so right in his life.
He could have drifted off to sleep. He had chosen instead to float on the edge of consciousness, to savor the delicious feeling of rightness and happiness. Angeline was sleeping—he could tell from the soft evenness of her breathing. She had murmured sleepily when he disengaged from her and moved to her side, but then she had sighed and gone back to sleep.
Her hair was in a fragrant tangle over his shoulder.
Angeline Dudley. Whoever would have thought?
There was some pinkish dried blood on her inner thigh, he had seen, but no dreadful mess. He would clean it off afterward with water from the basin, if it would not embarrass her horribly to have him do such a thing for her. It struck him suddenly that the small intimacies of marriage, not just the sexual ones, were going to bring him enormous pleasure. It struck him that marriage was going to bring him enormous pleasure.
Why had he thought just the opposite even a week ago, even a few days ago? Even when he had looked forward to marriage with Eunice, he had not thought of it in terms of pleasure. But he did not want to think about Eunice. He hoped she really would not be disappointed when he announced his betrothal to Angeline. And he hoped she was not becoming infatuated with Windrow. But, no, surely not. She was far too sensible.
And then Angeline drew a deep, ragged breath through her nose and let it out slowly through her mouth with a sigh—a long, satisfied-sounding sigh. He turned his head to smile at her. He hoped she would not be assaulted with guilt when she came fully awake. She had a great deal more to lose from all this than he did, after all.
Though he had his life to lose if Tresham happened to find out. The thought did nothing to dim his smile.
She did not come awake gradually, however—unless the slow inhale and exhale qualified as gradual. By the time he had finished turning his head, she had abandoned his hand and was scrambling up onto her knees beside him. She leaned over him, one hand on the bed, the other on his chest, and her eyes sparkled into his. Her hair was a tangled cloud all about her.
“Now,” she said, “I am your mistress.”
As though it were the pinnacle of achievement to which all properly brought-up young ladies ought to aspire.
Good Lord! All his relaxed contentment fled out the window.
“You dashed well are not,” he said. Had she misunderstood? She could not possibly have. He had talked of marriage. He had told her he was going to make her another offer. “You are going to be my wife.”
“After you have asked nicely and I have said yes,” she said, “back at Hallings tomorrow or the next day. Today I am your mistress. Your secret mistress.”
“Mistresses get paid for their services,” he said. “We are going to be married, Angeline. Just don’t get any ideas about refusing me. I swear I’ll—”
“When we get up later to dine,” she said, both hands on his chest now close to his shoulders, her face hovering over his, her hair like a curtain on either side of them, “you will pay me—what is an appropriate sum? But no matter. It is merely a token payment. You will pay me one sovereign, and it will be official. I am your secret mistress. It sounds very wicked. It sounds delicious. Admit it.”
Indignation wilted and he laughed.
“Edward,” she said softly.
“Angie.”
“And that will be another secret,” she said. “Your name. I will only ever use it when we are together like this.”
“Man and mistress?” he said. “Employer and mistress? Is it going to cost me a sovereign every time? It could get expensive.”
“You can afford it,” she said. “You can afford me. You have to, do you not, for you cannot live happily without me. You have already admitted it. My price, though, is one sovereign to cover the first eighty years. After that we will negotiate.”
“In that case,” he said, “I will be generous and make it a guinea.”
“I will always call you Heyward when we are not alone together like this,” she said, “and no one will know. I will be your secret mistress all the rest of our lives and no one will suspect a thing. My brothers will always think you are nothing but a dry old stick and will pity me and wonder how I can stand such a dull marriage.”
“That is what they call me?” he asked her. He took her by the elbows and eased her down so that her bosom was against his chest and her face was a mere couple of inches above his own.
“That is it,” she said, smiling. “They have no idea, and they never will.”
Her eyes were bright with warm laughter and love. His own smile faded.
“Angeline,” he said, “that is precisely what I am, you know. I cannot countenance any wildness in myself or extravagance or drunkenness or debauchery or gambling or recklessness—apart from today, that is, when I have broken just about every rule I could possibly break. I will never change. I am just an ordinary man, a very proper man, a dull man. There will be very little excitement in your life if—when you marry me. If is no longer an option for you, I am afraid. But you must not glamorize me. You will only be the more disappointed when the truth becomes apparent to you.”
Her smile had softened. She laid her head on his chest, turning her face so that one cheek was against him.
“You still do not quite understand, do you?” she said softly. “I do not want you to change. I fell head over ears in love with you the first time I saw you just because you are who you are. You were there behind me at that inn before Lord Windrow came inside, were you not? Yet you uttered not one improper word. When he did, you chose to reprimand him rather than ignore him or leave the room. When he would have fought you, you pointed out how illogical violence would be under the circumstances, even though I am sure you could have beaten him and even though you then stood accused of being a coward. When he would have left, you stepped between him and the door and insisted that he apologize to me. And then, rather than speak to me when we had not been formally introduced, you left without a word. I did not know for sure until then that there were gentlemen like you. I had experience only with gentlemen like my father and my brothers and their friends. I did not want to marry anyone like them, for whoever I chose would not remain faithful for long, and how can there be marriage and parenthood and contentment and friendship and happiness and growing old together unless there is fidelity? Maybe my mother would have been different if my father had been. Maybe she would have been happy. Maybe she would have remained at home more. Maybe she would have enjoyed us—me. From the moment I saw you, I wanted you. I desperately, desperately wanted you. And not just someone like you, though that is what I had hoped to find when I left home, even though I doubted and still doubt that there are many such men. I wanted you just as you were, and I want you just as you are. I want you to live your dull, blameless life of duty and responsibility. I want you to be a very proper, perhaps even stern husband. I want you to make me feel you care. I want you to be a father who spends more time than is fashionable with his children. And in private, when we are alone together, I want you to be Edward, my secret and wonderful lover.”