‘Marcus? No, of course not, that is ridiculous. Matthew
, please listen to me.’ Of all the accusations he could have thrown at her this was the most unexpected but the most difficult to disprove. Her protestations of innocence died on her lips. What can I tell him? That there is no other man? But he knows I am hiding something from him… Henrietta bit her lip as she searched for the right words, wary of plunging even further into a web of deceit, even as she realised her silence looked like guilt.
‘No, lady, you listen to me.’ And he stopped her protests and explanations with his mouth.
Pinned into the yielding goose-feather mattress by Matthew’s implacable weight, Henrietta struggled to free her lips, her confusion overtaken by a sudden flame of anger. Why should he demand love from her when he wouldn't, couldn't, show any in exchange, only desire for her body? But he was too strong for her, her fists beat impotently on his broad back but it made not a whit of difference.
His mouth was warm and pliant on hers, his tongue a sweet invasion – and then he eased back, looking down at her. Suddenly she was no longer angry, her hands no longer beat on his back but spread, compelling him closer again. She desired this man, and if he wouldn't believe her when she told him there was no other man, then she would convince him with her body.
Matthew's hands no longer gripped her shoulders. One was buried in the mass of her hair, the other stroked the sensitive hollow at the base of her throat where the strings of her nightgown had come undone. Henrietta let her hands travel, guided by instinct to the hem of his shirt, slipping trembling fingers under the soft cloth until they discovered and stroked the hot flesh of his hard-muscled back.
Matthew's lips moved across her temple, into her hair, his breathing almost a groan, a demand.
‘No, kiss me again,’ she demanded fiercely in her turn and he did as she asked, his mouth hard and urgent.
His hand moved over the soft stuff of her gown to outline, mould, the swell of her breast. This was sensation beyond her knowledge, her expectation and her dreams. So, this was the mystery Alice had hinted at, the pleasure between two lovers. There was no longer any holding back, no shame at being with him like this. He was her betrothed, would be her husband in a few short weeks.
‘Matthew.’ His weight shifted, his mouth and hands left her and she waited, eyes closed, trembling with expectation for what must surely follow. Nothing happened. 'Matthew?' Her eyes flew open in disbelief.
Matthew Sheridan sat, his back against the far bedpost, regarding her enigmatically. Only his ragged breathing was not controlled. ‘Now, madam, when next you see the beribboned gallant who has your affections, think of me and of what has just passed between us. And I warn you, Henrietta, I have no intention of being a complaisant husband. I will kill any man I find you with, you have my word on it.’ He swung his legs off the bed, unlocked the door and left without a backward glance.
*
As dawn broke Henrietta gave up all attempts to sleep. She padded across the waxed oak boards and threw wide the casement and stood letting the crisp early morning air clear her fuddled head. Below there were the first subdued sounds of the household wakening and from the fold of the hill behind she could hear the shepherd's lad whistling up his dog.
Ribbons of mist threaded themselves between the trunks of the apple trees in the orchard and in the park a small herd of deer cropped the short turf, nervously alert to the slightest hint of danger.
Henrietta retreated back to bed, collecting the scattered pillows as she did so. She lay back, gazing out of the window at the house martins swooping past, and tried to order her thoughts in daylight.
Matthew believed she was in love with someone else. All her evasions and her guilty conscience had made him suspicious. She'd been right to think him acute, sensitive to her mood. Henrietta realised her fingers had strayed to the broken string of her nightgown and she felt the flush suffuse her face at the recollection that evoked.
How could she have let herself melt into his arms, anger and bitterness banished by the touch of his lips on hers? How could she have responded so wantonly? She had no knowledge of men, of the arts of love, only the words of poets to hint at the mystery. Matthew was playing on that innocence, using his own experience to bend her to his will, despite her reluctance to marry him.
Suddenly angry both with herself and him, Henrietta sat up straight and threw the pillow at the bedpost as if Matthew still lounged there. Now she knew what he was about she could guard her own feelings. She would have to accept this marriage and with it the loss of all she held dear to a stranger, but he would never have her true self.
This suspicion that there was another man could perhaps be turned to good use, however painful it was, she mused. At least if he suspected her of having a lover he was hardly likely to be on the watch for political intrigue.
None of this rational thought was any comfort while the papers were in the casket. For the first time Henrietta saw them as a source of real, life-threatening, danger. The moment she attempted to pass them on, but then she would be a spy in the eyes of the present government, and in Matthew's. He thought her wary of him because she had a lover, but in truth she was afraid he would think her a traitor.
She had almost dozed off when Alice bustled in carrying a ewer of hot water and fresh towels. ‘Another fine morning, Mistress.’ The smile on her freckled face faded and died as she took in Henrietta's appearance. ‘Mistress… Henrietta… what happened?’
‘Nothing, Alice.’ How could she begin to explain? ‘I don't know what you mean.’
‘But the master was here for over an hour last night. Surely he… you – ’ She faltered into silence.
‘We talked. We have a lot to discuss.’
‘He had not the look of a man who had come for conversation. And the strings of your nightgown are broken.’ Alice leant forward and straightened the neck of the garment.
‘He kissed me.’ Henrietta managed to make it sound like a brotherly goodnight kiss.
Alice gave her the hand-glass. ‘Look at your mouth, the marks of his evening beard on your neck.’
Henrietta regarded the silvery reflection. Outwardly the face that looked back at her was unchanged, but inside nothing was as it had been. After only three days Matthew he had turned her existence upside down, changed her in ways she couldn't begin to calculate.
Alice perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you saying he didn't lie with you?’
‘He did not.’