Matthew slammed his sword back into the scabbard, his mouth a thin line of disgust. ‘No, I'll not kill him, but I'll give him the beating he so richly deserves for his impertinence. And as for you, madam…’
‘You shall not speak to her like that!’ She could hear Marcus hopping from foot to foot behind her, trying to get past and use his sword.
‘Oh, I lose all patience with you, Marcus.’ Henrietta turned on him in a swirl of plum-coloured silk. ‘Put up that rapier and get up to the house at once. I ought to let Sir Matthew beat you as you deserve for your foolishness, but your mother is both my guest and my dear friend, and I would not have her hurt with the knowledge of your folly for the world. Now go.’
She turned to Matthew as the youth disappeared down the stairs, ears scarlet with shame. ‘How could you suspect me of taking him as a lover? Just look at him. Yet he has courage enough to fight you. He is only a boy,’ she added softly, almost pleading. All she could see of Matthew was his rigid back, the leather riding jerkin taut across his shoulders as he stood, hands braced on the parapet.
‘Matthew?’ Henrietta touched his shoulder, then dropped her hand as he spurned her touch with a shrug. ‘What are you doing here today? I had not expected you until tomorrow.’
‘That much is obvious.’ He turned slowly to face her, his features set, his eyes hard.
‘Oh, give me patience.’ Henrietta stamped her foot with exasperation, raising a little puff of dust. ‘You're no better than Marcus. In truth you are worse, for you are ten years his senior and should know better. Or have you forgotten how stupid youths are? Marcus Willoughby is nothing to me but a childhood friend. You are my betrothed…’ She saw his eyes narrow and abandoned that argument. ‘And if I did wish to dally with him then give me credit for the sense not to do it in broad daylight, on top of this tower with his horse at the door.’
To her utter astonishment Matthew burst out laughing, his dark head thrown back. When the laughter died away the smile was still in his eyes, and something else, as he said, ‘My horse is in the stables.’
Henrietta felt herself turn pink. ‘Matthew…you are not suggesting that we..? Here? We cannot…’
‘Cannot what?’ He moved closer, his expression disingenuous. ‘What is it we cannot do?’
‘I…er, whatever you were suggesting. We ought to go in.’
He stopped just in front of her, so close that she could smell the Spanish leather of his jerkin, the warmth of his skin. The teasing smile played around his lips as he raised one hand and gently traced the line of her jaw. ‘Why? No one knows we are here, the parapet is high, the air warm.’ He gestured at the dusty leads. ‘I can spread my cloak for you.’ His voice caressed her, as insidious as the heat of the sunshine on her bare shoulders. ‘You have aroused my jealousy, madam, now you must assuage it.’
To lie with him here, under the open sky, to learn his body in the sunlight with the larks spiralling above them. The thought was as seductive as it was sinful. ‘Matthew…’ Her voice was almost a whisper, she was drowning in his gaze, then she saw the spark of devilment and her voice changed to indignation. ‘Matthew! You are teasing me.’
‘Did you think me humourless?’ The long fingers continued to caress her face, mapping every contour. ‘A dry, dusty, Puritan lawyer?’
Henrietta's heart was thudding, her lips parted, her brain a whirl with emotions, sensations. She struggled to cope with his verbal fencing while all the time the nearness of him was driving every rational thought from her head. ‘You said you were jealous,’ she managed to say, breathless against the lacing of her bodice which suddenly seemed constricting, over-tight. This was a dangerous, delicious game.
‘Jealous?’ he queried, stooping to brush his lips over her damp throat. ‘Of that puppy? He made me angry for a moment, that is all.’ His breath was stirring the fine hair behind her ear as his lips traced upwards. ‘But you, Henrietta, you have roused my blood.’
Henrietta stood quivering, transfixed as he caressed her with his mouth, anticipating with every nerve the clasp of his hands on her shoulders, the kiss that would follow.
Matthew was in no hurry and his very gentleness began to unnerve her. She wanted him to sweep her with him on a tide of passion so she didn't have to think, only feel. Inside she felt her desire, her attraction to him now touched by another feeling, a growing apprehension, a frisson of fear she couldn't understand.
He was no longer nuzzling her neck, but looking at her, brows drawn together in the beginning of a frown. ‘Henrietta? What is it? There's no need to be afraid of me, or is it marriage that frightens you? I know you are a maiden, that you must fear our wedding night. But I understand. Sarah – ’ A fleeting shadow touched his eyes. ‘Sarah was as young, as innocent as you when I took her to wife.’
That name, the name of his dead wife that had hung uns
poken between them every time they had met, was the charm breaking the spell that kept her fixed to the spot. How could he think a description of his first wedding night could be anything but painful to her?
Unless he needed to talk of it, relive it because he could not bear to let it go, to let the precious memory of that first time with Sarah be blurred by his lovemaking with her.
But she was not Sarah. Henrietta gathered up her skirts and ran pell-mell down the winding stairs, away from him, away from the woman she couldn't hope to replace in his heart.
She didn't know whether he tried to follow her or whether he watched her flight from the tower. All Henrietta wanted was the sanctuary of her room. Heedless of decorum, she fled up the driveway, skirts tangling in her legs, her hair coming loose from its pins.
Chapter Twelve
‘Henrietta!’ Her aunt's scandalised voice caught her as she dodged round a knot of serving maids to reach the stairs. ‘Child, come back this minute.’ She pushed the pile of linen in her hands into Martha's arms and hurried to her niece.
‘Come, my love. Up to your room.’ Aunt Susan took her arm and bustled her, unresisting, upstairs and along the cool, dark corridor. ‘Now, what's all this about?’ She shut the bedroom door and regarded Henrietta's disarray with alarm. ‘Your lace is torn, your hair come down, and your face – ’ Without waiting for a reply she tipped water into the basin from the ewer and dipped in a corner of linen cloth. ‘Let me clean this dust off. Where have you been, child, to get so begrimed?
‘Up the old tower.’ Henrietta sat quietly while her aunt wiped her face, just as she had when she was a child.
‘Whatever possessed you to go up the tower? No one goes there now and I am sure it is not safe. What if you had fallen on those stairs? We would never have thought to look for you there. Foolishness.’ She scolded on, still dabbing gently. ‘Matthew was looking for you. What a miracle he did not find you looking like this.’
‘He did find me. And Marcus Willoughby.’