Page 30 of Too Wanton to Wed
“We were young,” he said, his tone faraway. “In love. Thrilled to find ourselves on the verge of parenthood, of having a child to shower with all the parental affection we believed ourselves denied.” His voice was wry when he added, “We were children of privilege, you see. We had everything money could buy, and it still wasn’t enough.”
“All children yearn for parents, I imagine. No matter how expensive their toys.”
“Perhaps. In the end, it didn’t matter.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “There was never an opportunity to become a family.”
This time when he paused, Violet didn’t interrupt. She could think of nothing of value to say.
“The pain came early,” he said at last. “The contractions were too fierce, too frequent. By the time the midwife arrived, the morning sun was high in the sky and the bedclothes soaked with blood. Lillian’s head had crowned. Then came her tiny shoulders, an arm, her belly. As the sun highlighted each adorable feature, her baby-perfect skin browned and bubbled and blistered. The baby wailed in agony. Not healthy, newborn screams, mind you, but a wrenching shriek of unimaginable pain, like prisoners being tortured on the rack.”
Without thinking, Violet touched her hand to his arm. She hesitated awkwardly, not quite certain how to show her empathy through physical touch. He did not pull away. He seemed to be grateful to feel her fingers trembling against his shirtsleeve. Somehow, he understood.
“I saw what was happening,” he continued, his voice strained. “I snatched my terrified daughter from the midwife’s iron grip and swung her into the shadows. The blistering slowed, but the damage had been done. Lillian still bears the scars.”
Violet closed her eyes, and pictured Lillian’s exquisite long-sleeved gowns in a new light. The scars on her small face weren’t pockmarks after all, but rather a permanent memento of her birth.
“I dipped her limbs in cool water. Once the maids banished the sun behind thick curtains, I wrapped a cloth about Lillian’s sore flesh so I could bring her tiny face close to Marjorie’s. The baby finally stopped crying. But by then, Marjorie’s lips were blue, her skin pasty, her lungs silent. She never got to lay eyes on our child.” His shoulders twitched.
“What did you do then?” Violet asked quietly.
He stared at the candle flame. “Buried my wife. The midwife said I should bury Lillian as well, told anyone who would listen that Marjorie had died birthing the cursed spawn of Satan himself. Ridiculous, of course, but we are a small town, and most of the villagers believe in superstition, rather than science. A witch hunt was imminent.” He drew a shaky breath. “So I commissioned two gravestones and, God help me, spread word that my daughter had died as well. I am not proud of my actions, but it kept the pitchforks at bay during a time when I could barely fight my own demons.”
Violet trembled with horror. Not for what he had done, but for what he had gone through, what he had suffered. Could anything bring him comfort? Her hand slid up the warm muscle of his arm.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You did your best.”
He was silent. She could think of nothing more to say, so she gently stroked his arm with her fingers.
“It’s not enough,” he said brokenly. “It will never be enough.”
“No.” She grasped both his forearms, their bodies now just a whisper apart. “You are a good father, Alistair Waldegrave. Anyone can see how much you love your daughter.”
He trembled, but said nothing.
“Whether you believe it or not, she loves you, too.” Violet cupped his face with her hands, her mouth inches from his. How she wished she were bold enough to close the distance between them. To show him just how passionately she meant each word.
“She doesn’t love me,” he said, his breath mingling with hers. “How could she?”
“How could she not?” Violet replied, and pressed her mouth to his.
His response was immediate. Hot. Hungry. Not at all what she’d imagined his kiss to be. Infinitely, infinitely better.
Her entire body thrilled. Incredible. She wondered at her own pleasure. Why was she not recoiling from his touch? Was it because he had somehow managed to earn her trust? Or because he was in pain, and she could bring him pleasure?
She slid her palms from his cheeks to his hair, burying her fingers in the soft curl at his nape. Her mouth opened to his onslaught, devouring his kisses as much as he was devouring hers.
A part of her had wanted to kiss him from the moment she’d seen the curve of his lips and the emotion in his eyes. Perhaps what she’d truly been searching for hadn’t been an excuse to kiss him, but rather a reason for him to kiss her. Either way, it was perfect. Better than perfect. A real kiss, a real man, someone who valued her as more than a possession, someone with whom her body twined becauseshehad done the choosing. And, oh, how divinely their bodies twined...
Without lifting his mouth from hers, he gripped her hips. The taper fell from her fingers. The flame sizzled and winked out before the candle hit the ground. Although darkness engulfed them, she did not panic. His hands were rough, yet somehow gentle—everything she wanted and was frightened to want, all tangled into one. His grip was firm enough to feel, to know, to claim. And yet he wasn’t hurting her, hadn’t forced her, hadn’t done anything but open his heart.Shehad pulled him close to tell him with her tongue and the press of her body the things that her mind could not make words for. She was safe in his arms, and her only thoughts were of his kisses.
His splayed fingers caressed her spine, her waist, her hips. She reveled in the sensation of being held, of being treasured. Of feeling safe. She abandoned her grip on his hair in order to lock her arms behind his neck, to raise herself on her toes and lean into him so that he was supporting her with his strong body, while she supported him with the emotion in her heart.
He had one hand in her hair, the other at the small of her back. Her arms hugged him tightly, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her pelvis doing much the same against his thighs. Her limbs trembled from pure sensation. She hadn’t known it could be this way. Doubted it evencouldbe this way with anyone except this man, whose big heart had touched her soul. She had to know if there were room in his heart to feel even a fraction of that connection with her, too. If her heart could touch his, and return the favor. The caress of his tongue against hers made her tingle in all the other places she yearned to feel his touch. What would intimacy be like when fueled by shared passion? His kisses were hot and wet and dangerous. And with every kiss, she wanted more.
Panting, he tore his lips from hers, and God help her, she felt the loss in every pore of her body.
“I... We can’t,” he said hoarsely, then claimed her mouth in another long kiss before breaking free once again. “I want to, but we can’t.”
He untwined her arms from about his neck and placed them at her sides. Although it was now pitch black in the passageway, she felt as though he could somehow still see her, that the darkness helped him see straight through her clothes to her core. Her flesh heated at the thought.
