Page 62 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
He didn’t tell her that he loved her again. He had no need to. He simply gathered her up, as if she were a doll, spooning her gently. She felt his warm breath on her shoulder, the soft touch of his hand on her thigh, caressing her, as light as a butterfly’s wing.
When he reached for her face, tilting it back so he could kiss her at long last, her breath was already ragged and uneven. He kissed her with such hunger, like a man drowning, that she grew lightheaded and dizzy for a moment. She groaned, deep in her throat, as famished for his touch as he was for hers. It was as if it had been months since they had lain in each other’s arms, rather than just the previous night.
He had told her, over and over again, how deeply he loved her, that even though his memory had returned, that love had not changed. She had been hopeful that he spoke the truth, still unsure that it was indeed possible. That surely something would happen to snatch this delirious happiness away from her, again.
But now, with the feel of his lips on hers, and his touch on her skin, she knew without a shadow of a doubt. It was as if his body was communicating in a deeper way, than with mere language. Every caress, every kiss, was confirming what was between them. That it was indeed as strong and powerful and real as she had hoped it would be.
Her worst fears had been realised, and yet it didn’t matter. The last thread of her doubt unravelled, like a loose string, flying into the air.
He was hers, at long last. And she was his. Finally, after all these years, they were truly man and wife.
Chapter 23
Reuben glared at the door as he desultorily spooned the yolk from his boiled egg into his mouth. It was already fifteen minutes past the hour, and there was still no sign of either James or Adaline at the breakfast table.
His sister, Isabel, was here, absentmindedly scraping butter onto her toast. After she had finished, she reached for the small pot of Mrs. Hargreaves’ homemade marmalade, dolloping it onto the bread. She seemed miles away, as she always did nowadays. Reuben frowned at his sister. What had got into her lately?
“Our hosts appear to have slept in,” he said tartly, picking up his teacup. The brew was more bitter than he liked.
Isabel smiled dreamily. “Well, and why should they not?” she asked. “I think it is simply wonderful, how much time they are spending together now. A vast improvement on the amount of time James spent with Adaline prior to the accident.” She paused. “I think that I like him better, now. He was always so vague and distant when we first came here. Now I see the man that he used to be, when he lived in Liverpool again.”
Reuben’s lip curled slightly. His sister spoke the truth, and yet he did not want to hear it at all. Jameshadchanged significantly, since his fall. He was once again the happy go lucky man he had always been. It was as if the loss of his memory, those years that had been wiped from his mind, had reverted him back to the man he had once been, before all those events had occurred.
He thought back to the quarrel they had in the drawing room, last evening. The portrait of Lydia Hayward, that he had deliberately placed in James’ top desk drawer to jog his memory. He had known when he first arrived at Birkenhead Lodge that James kept it hidden high up, on a dusty shelf in his study. It had only taken ten minutes, when everyone had been busy elsewhere, to steal into the room and locate it.
It had been so dusty that the bright oil colours on the canvas had faded. Lydia’s flaxen gold hair was a muted yellow, now, and her pale porcelain skin a dull grey. He had hastily used his handkerchief to clean it up, restore it to its former glory. It was important that when James saw the portrait he was struck by her beauty, by the vividness of her colouring. That golden hair, those blue eyes.
It had worked. His friend had found it, almost immediately. And while he had not remembered Lydia, he had been intrigued enough to ask Reuben if he knew who she was. And he had told James the truth about everything…up to a point.
It had been almost pitiful, watching James’ shock and dismay over the revelations that he had never loved his wife. Reuben had told the story of how they arranged their marriage, and what had happened since, with a deep relish. It was only what James deserved, after all. Hehadtreated his wife abominably, neglecting her, and the truth hurt, did it not?
Lydia Haywardhadbeen the love of his life. James had lost his head over that woman, making an utter fool of himself. Reuben had tried to warn him, several times, that Lydia was not as serious about the relationship as James was, but his friend had ignored him. Reuben had been vindicated when the news had leaked that Miss Hayward was engaged to the Duke of Northumberland.
She had tossed James aside like he was a ragdoll that she had grown tired of playing with. Reuben had always known that she had upwardly social pretensions, that she fancied seeing herself as the lady of the manor. The son of a manufacturer, no matter how wealthy, was simply not good enough for her. Miss Lydia Hayward desired to join the nobility, no less. James had merely been a diversion, someone she had amused herself with until she spotted her prize.
What hehadn’ttold James, was his own role in it. How he had introduced Lydia to the Duke at a private dinner party he had hosted, deliberately not inviting James. He had fanned the flames by giving them ample time alone to make arrangements to see each other again. The night had ended on a highly satisfactory note, and he had gone to bed knowing it had been a job well done.
He had led the horse to water, and she had drunk deeply, as he had always known that she would.
He had tried his hand at Lydia himself, of course. Shewasa bewitchingly lovely woman, after all. But she had so coldly spurned him, threatening to tell James what he was doing, that he had backed off immediately. The bitch was confident and entitled. He had no doubt she would make good on her threat.
It had been a different kettle of fish with the sweet, shy Adaline, of course. She was so flustered by his advances that she simply did not know how to handle the situation at all. He had pressed home the point that James simply would not care, to make sure she did not consider telling him. It had been like he had pressed a button. Adaline was deeply insecure about how woefully James neglected her, and he knew that she would never deign to tell him, not in a million years.
Reuben glowered as he put down his teacup, thinking about it. James had managed to get not one, but two, exquisite women. He hadn’t even tried, with Adaline – she had simply fallen into his lap, as if the gods themselves had gifted her to him. And yet, he had moped and wallowed, like the little boy he was deep down. He had never seen the truth of what was staring him in the face with her.
Hedeservedto have her stolen away from him.
His hand tightened as he gripped the teacup. He thought the fine bone china might shatter into a million pieces, but he could not seem to control it. He was gripped with such a sour bitterness that it was all he could do to keep sitting at the table, pretending that all was well for the sake of his sister. That it was just another day in the paradise that was Birkenhead Lodge, by the sea.
At the thought of the house he was staying in, the house that James had purchased with the money from his father’s business, the bitterness intensified. Why did things always fall into his lap?
Here James was, in this beautiful house and estate, in the most spectacular location. He never had to work again in his life. While Reuben had to eventually return to Liverpool, to be his father’s lackey, working himself to the bone for the rest ofhislife. The gods had smiled on James Townshend, indeed. It was as if he had been born under a lucky star.
A beautiful home. A beautiful wife. It should be him, Reuben Montgomery, with all this, rather than James. The man had never appreciated what he had, prior to his fall. He had lived in a dream world, wallowing in his misery.
He had done him a favour, pushing him off that cliff.
Reuben put down the teacup. But it hadn’t panned out the way that he had envisaged it at all. The fall had been long, and the rocks treacherous. How the man had survived it was beyond him. He probablywouldn’thave survived it, except for that ship, sailing along the coast, that had spotted him.
