When his breath caught, when his pace quickened, so that her hips sank beneath his into the soft mattress, she swallowed, straining her eyes to see in the dark. When he suddenly stilled, buried deep in her throbbing flesh, locked with her in animal intensity, she wanted … so much.
But all she received was what she’d asked for.
His seed.
GODRIC CAREFULLY DISENTANGLED himself from Megs, rolling aside as his softening cock slipped from her warm depths. He wanted to stay, to perhaps hold her, and if she let him, kiss her.
But she’d made it plain that she did this without affection and he was not a raw lad.
So he stood and pulled the covers back over her form and when she made a small, questioning noise, he only said, “Good night.”
Turning, he scooped up his banyan and slippers by feel and exited her room.
He’d left a candle burning in his own bedroom and he was glad of the light now. It brought him out of the too-intimate darkness, made him remember who he was.
Who she was.
But even with the candlelight, he found himself at the dresser. His fingers didn’t shake when he fitted the key in the lock and he was inordinately proud of that fact.
He opened the enameled box. The locks of hair lay there, the same as always, and he reached to touch them but found that he couldn’t. His fingers were still damp from Megs’s skin.
“Forgive me,” he whispered to Clara.
At that moment he couldn’t even remember her face, the sound of her laughter, or the sight of her warm eyes. He was speaking to empty air.
Godric gripped the edges of the drawer, the corners pressing painfully into his palms, but still he couldn’t find Clara.
Somehow, he’d lost her.
He was alone.
He inhaled shakily and fished through the loose letters in the drawer with fingers that now trembled until he found the one he wanted.
2 November 1739
Dear Godric,
Thank you for the monies you made available to me. I’ve had the roof repaired and already the east wing has nearly stopped dripping! There is just one rather persistent leak in the tiny room just off the library. I’m not sure exactly what the room was used for. Battlefield informs me that a former lady of the house was locked in there after her husband became enamored of his (male!) steward, but you know how Battlefield likes his little jokes.
We ate the last raspberry out of the garden last week before cutting back the brambles. Everything aboveground has been killed by the frost, except for the kale, and I’ve never really liked kale. Have you? I confess I feel a strange kind of melancholy at this time of year. All the green things have gone to ground, pretending death, and I have nothing left but the frosted trees and the few remaining leaves, dead yet hanging on nonetheless.
But how dreary! I will not fault you if you grumble under your breath and fling aside my maudlin ramblings. I am not an entertaining correspondent, I fear.
Yesterday I went to tea at the vicarage, playing lady of the manor while being plied with very rich cakes and tea. You will not credit it, but we were served a kind of tart made from orange persimmons, quite pretty, but a bit bitter (I think the persimmons were under ripe) and, I am told, a specialty of the vicar’s wife. (So I could do naught but swallow and smile bravely!) The vicar’s youngest son, a babe of only forty days, was presented for my inspection and though he was a brave boy, my eyes watered for some odd reason and I was forced to laugh and pretend I had got a bit of dust in my eye.
I don’t know why I tell you that.
And again! I’ve dribbled into quite boring territory. I shall endeavor to mend my ways and be only cheerful in my next missive, I promise. I remain—
Affectionately Yours,
Megs
PS: Did you try the ginger, barley, and aniseed tisane recipe I sent you? I know it sounds quite revolting, but it will help your sore throat, truly!
Her postscript blurred before his eyes and he blinked hard, inhaling. This was who he’d done it for: Megs, who thought old crotchety butlers had any sense of humor, who ate bitter persimmon tarts to please the local vicar’s wife, and who cried at the sight of a baby and couldn’t admit even to herself why.