Only Langdon wasn’t looking at her with disdain. He was looking at her with something akin to hope and woven within it were need and passion.
But being invited into his parents’ residence had awoken something within her, something she’d forced into the farthest corners of her mind, where it could remain dormant. However, tonight it was lumbering through her thoughts like a brown bear disturbed from its hibernation. And it was hungry. For all the things she’d been told she’d have when she grew up: a lordly husband, children, love. But she wouldn’t attain them with Langdon. She would be to him as she was to Hollie: something to be taken out on occasion and flaunted.
“I should probably make my way to my bedchamber now to avoid getting caught later.”
She started to roll over, but he stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. Why did it have to be so hard, so large, so powerful?
“I take it the answer is no,” he said somberly.
She gazed at him over her shoulder. “I don’t know that I want to be another man’s mistress.”
“Even knowing how things would be between us?”
“Is that what this was? An audition?”
“No.” He abruptly sat up, the sheets falling to his hips, his upper torso bared. How she wanted to run her fingers over every inch. Had she no pride? “No,” he repeated. “But if you can have something wondrous with me...”
His voice trailed off, his expression a bit thunderstruck and confused, as though he suddenly found himself immerged in a quagmire, the mud pulling him under, and he had no idea how it was he found himself in such a dire predicament.
“Everything isn’t always about sex,” she said quietly. She shifted and scooted until she was sitting up with her back pressed to a bedpost at the foot of the bed. “Three years ago, when I was nineteen, the thought of being a courtesan sounded exotic, bold, and daring. But it came at a cost I’d not considered. I’m no longer content, and I don’t yet know what will make me so. But I know I won’t find it with you, as your mistress. And you can’t have me any other way, can you?”
He looked away, shifted his position, like someone who’d been given a problem to decipher and was without the means to work it out. She knew the truth: if they’d been in London his family never would have welcomed her into their home. But this place, so far away from everything, was safe for doing what one ought not.
“I’m weary, Langdon. Is there a trick to getting to my bedchamber from here or do I just go out the way we came?”
“We can get there easily from here. I’ll escort you. But at least let me hold you until dawn.”
Chapter 23
The hours without monstrous rain were hardly sufficient for the roads to dry out completely. Hence the journey to London was a bit rough, with Langdon’s carriage bouncing more than it would have on a dry path. Although it seemed not to affect in the least the gentleman sitting across from her. Langdon barely moved as the coach swayed. While in contrast, on several occasions, Marlowe found herself curling her hands over the edge of the bench seat upon which she sat, clutching it, holding on for dear life, just as she’d held on to her balloon in the storm, just as she’d held on to Langdon last night when ecstasy engulfed her. Just like she wanted to clutch him again.
The sun had just begun creeping over the horizon when they’d returned to their respective bedchambers with no one else the wiser.
Marlowe had considered slipping into bed for a couple hours of sleep since most of her night had involved short increments of dozing off wovenbetween wild frenzies of lovemaking. Mistresses weren’t made love to. Neither were whores.
However, she couldn’t help but believe that was what had passed between them each time they came together. She didn’t know if she could claim to love him—love was an emotion she’d been determined to never feel because it made her too vulnerable. Love had clouded her mother’s judgment, because surely she should have insisted upon some proof her husband was who and what he’d claimed to be. On the other hand, why would she have ever suspected a lie?
Still, Marlowe hadn’t returned to bed, because they’d both agreed they needed to begin the journey as early as possible.
She was now wearing one of his sister’s traveling frocks, along with all the various accoutrements that went with it. She desperately missed wearing only his shirt, enjoying all the freedoms that came with it. At the moment, her breathing was restricted; she was wrapped in a cocoon. No, notacocoon, but several. The undergarments, the outer garments, even the coach had her hemmed in, so she couldn’t move about freely.
All she could do was watch him watching her, as if things needed to be said but were too dangerous to utter. Confessions that would make the parting all the more challenging.
Strangely, she’d found it difficult to say farewell to his family. They’d joined them for breakfast. How the legs of the sideboard didn’t snap with the weight of all the food spread out over it was beyond her imagining. By the time they were finished eating, the coach had been readied and was waiting for them, the yards of cloth that made up the envelope secured to the roof of the coach. She imagined how brilliant, bright, and colorful they appeared traveling through the countryside.
If they had any hope at all of not being noticed when they reached her terrace home, they would need to arrive beneath the cover of night. Like thieves. Which was how she felt. As though she’d stolen something precious—time with Langdon—and needed to return it. However, that was an impossibility. All those minutes were now part of her memories, to be hoarded away.
Looking out the window, she noted the sky—with fluffy white clouds dotting it here and there—was a serene blue, completely opposite to the tempest of emotions roiling through her. So tempted to accept his offer of becoming his mistress. So aware that it would bring misery because at some point he would have to take a wife. Would he discuss the selections with her? Would she discover who it was because of a notice in theTimes? Would they part ways? Or would he lead two very different lives? One with her? One with another? While she couldn’t remain mistress to a married man, could she let him go?
“A ride in a balloon isn’t nearly as choppy as your convenience,” she said teasingly, striving to rid them of the somberness that seemed to be traveling with them within the confines of the coach. “Presently I feel as though I’m bobbing along on the crest of waves.”
“I could ask the driver to slow but he worrieswe’ll get mired in the mud if he goes at too leisurely a pace. I imagine he is as much an expert at driving this conveyance as you are at handling yours.”
At his acknowledgment of her skills, she cursed the corset for preventing her from inhaling deeply and thrusting out her chest with pride. “I wish I could take you up someday. I always feel as though I’m made... of air.” She gave an awkward chuckle. “It’s impossible to describe.”
“I don’t know if I’d like having you made of air. I like you solid. I like the way my hand curls around the side of your waist or the nape of your neck. I like the silkiness of your hair running through my fingers. I like the weight of your breast in my palm.”
How differently would any of that feel, for her, for him, if they were among the clouds? Would she continue to experience the weightlessness she was accustomed to when caught in a stream of air? Or would he keep her anchored to the earth, even when she was above it?
