Marriage of Lies Page 13

  The first evening, at Lady Danforth’s, the arrangement had happened fortuitously. Sharla could not stand watching Ben far on the other side of the room, out of reach. She caught his eye then moved out of the room and into the front hall. There were many other rooms, all of them empty and dark. She slid into one, as Ben came up behind her and shut the door, enclosing them in darkness.

  Holding her against the door, Ben kissed her until her knees were weak. His body was all that held her upon her feet.

  The weakness and throbbing heat in her body was frightening in its intensity. Sharla had heard whispers about women enjoying lovemaking, from matrons and married women who had tut-tutted about the pleasures of the flesh and how they contributed to moral turpitude.

  How could this be wicked? It was delightful!

  She could easily imagine Ben kissing her when there were no layers of cotton and corset in the way. The tips of her breasts tightened at the thought. What would it feel like to have his naked body against her?

  Even trying to imagine what his body might look like when he was completely unclothed made her tremble with pleasure.

  If this was wicked, then she would be an unabashed wanton!

  Yet the long, deep kiss had ended and the risk in their dalliance forced them to emerge from the darkened room and return to their roles.

  Wakefield had been oblivious to her absence or her heightened state of need when she returned. Her duplicity made Sharla uneasy. Guilt speared her…until she looked at Ben and remembered what his lips had been doing to her only a moment ago.

  They coordinated their invitations, trying to find ways to meet in public that did not compromise them. As they were from the Great Family, the invitations flowed steadily and sometimes Sharla saw Ben three or four times a week.

  At every occasion, they would come together for a few moments, to whisper of their love, their hands gliding over each other’s bodies.

  The first time Sharla had slid her fingers beneath Ben’s shirt and touched his hot flesh, she had shivered for a day afterwards. The sensation was intoxicating. So was the feel of his hand on her breast, although the constricting corset and layers of underthings reduced the sensations.

  As the weeks rolled by, Sharla grew more daring, more driven. Her experience grew. She began to understand that the peculiar aching of her body was a woman’s response to lovemaking. She chose to believe it was a perfectly natural reaction and not the province of whores.

  The overwhelming need that possessed her when Ben touched her and sometimes when he stood near her, hinted at the ultimate end of lovemaking. The emptiness of her body, the throbbing between her thighs, helped her draw together the whispers and hints she had gathered over the years, building her understanding.

  With comprehension came frustration. Sharla wanted Ben to take her yet his rigid control and concern for her would not let him.

  The curtailing of the natural conclusion to their lovemaking was not the only frustration.

  Seven days ago, they had met at Salcombe’s birthday party and contrived to slip into the Duchess’ morning room unnoticed. Ben’s lips roamed over her face and throat and shoulders. Sharla wore a new evening gown, one of the French style gowns with a low neckline. Ben took full advantage of the inches of flesh she had on display.

  Sharla gripped his jacket, only just holding herself up. Then, wanting more of him, she slid her hands inside the jacket and found the heat of his body under her fingers. The softness of his waistcoat.

  She ran her fingers down the length of his thighs, exploring the shape of them. She had done this many times and gained the impression of limbs thick with muscles. Then she would remember her only glimpse of Ben in the boxing ring. The heavy muscles of his upper body were equally proportioned in the lower body.

  Shuddering with the need to have him, Sharla pressed her palm against his thigh and slid it upward, until she felt for the first time the thick shaft of his manhood, outlined under the fabric of his trousers.

  Her body leapt. Her heart thrilled.

  Ben groaned and gripped her wrist, pulling her hand away.

  “No, please, don’t stop,” she whispered, reaching for him.

  Ben turned away with a soft curse. He kept his back to her, his head down, breathing hard.

  Coldness replaced the heat in her. Her wanting ebbed as she studied the tight lines of his body.

  “If I don’t stop, I won’t be able to stop. Do you understand?” He looked at her over his shoulder, then turned away again.

  Sharla squeezed folds of her dress in her hands. “Then we are doomed to this eternal wanting?”

  “We both agreed that is the way it must be.” His tone was bitter.

  “There is no solution, is there?” she whispered. “There is no way we can ever be together. Truly together.”

  Ben turned to face her once more. His hand trembled as he tried to smooth his hair back with the heel of his hand. “There is one way,” he said heavily.

  Her heart leapt.

  Ben shook his head, as if he had felt her hope flare. “We could…run away.”

  “Where could we go, where we would not be outcasts?”

  “America. The colonies in New South Wales. There are ways.” He did not say it in a manner that sounded hopeful.

  Her heart sank once more. “I suppose we would have to change our names. Pretend we were married.” Distaste was thick in her mouth.

  “Worse,” Ben said. “We could never see or speak to anyone we know, ever again.”

  Elisa. The twins. Jack and Will. Vaughn. Everyone in the family. Swiftly, the faces flashed through her mind. To never see or speak to anyone ever again…how could she do that? No more Gatherings. No more pranks or laughter or understanding. Just the cold judgment of strangers in a faraway land.

  “I don’t want to run away,” Sharla said tiredly. “If that is the only way I can have you, then I don’t think I want you at all.”

  Pain showed in his eyes, making her heart hurt more. “Sharla…”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I thought these moments would be enough. I thought seeing you would be enough. Now I know better. I know what I want. I want you…and I cannot have you and it breaks my heart.”

  “At least, this way, we have moments.”

  “Moments that hurt, once they are over.” Sharla shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore, Ben. I can’t lie to my husband. I can’t live with the guilt. My body is still pure, yet in my heart, I have sinned as completely as any adulterer.”

  Ben flinched. “I will not be the cause of your downfall.”

  “I have already fallen.” Sharla took a deep breath. Cold emptiness was all that was left inside her. “I do not like myself very much right now. As much as I want you, I must ask you to stay away from now on. Don’t pursue me, Ben. Don’t press me.”

  He reached for her arm. His fingers were hot against her skin. “I love you.” His voice was low. Wretched. “Because I love you, I would rather cut off my arm than hurt you. I will let you go as you wish. But know this…” His eyes were heated, the way they were when he spoke of something close to his heart. She had learned that, these last few weeks. She had learned how deep the passion flowed in him and thinking about it now made her heart break.

  “Know that if you want me, Sharla, I will come. You have but to ask. If he…if he hurts you again, you can come to me. Even if you merely fear he might, come to me. Promise me you will.”

  “I promise,” she whispered.

  Ben let her go.

  It took all her courage to walk from the room and return to Wakefield’s side, yet she did it.

  Wakefield smiled at her when she sat next to him.

  Her self-loathing was complete.

  * * * * *

  Sharla stared blindly at Wakefield where he lay in his bed, as the agony of the last six weeks replayed in her mind.

  You should not give up on your friends, Sharla, Wakefield had just said.

  “I have no friends,�
� Sharla said truthfully.

  Wakefield studied her. “There’s Benjamin,” he said, at last.

  Sharla breathed slowly and deeply, as tears threatened, making her vision blur. Whatever the cost, she would not cry. Not in front of Wakefield, not because he had merely mentioned Ben’s name. It would hurt Wakefield if he glimpsed even a hint of the truth.

  When she thought she could speak without giving herself away, she said, “Ben is not a friend. Not anymore.”

  She blinked again, her vision clearing. She tried to smile at Wakefield. “I am your wife, willing to help in whatever way you need. Sleep, Dane. I will keep everyone from your door while you do.”

  He looked startled again. “You called me Dane.”

  Sharla twisted the lock of hair until it hurt. “Is that inappropriate? I can stop.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said, his tone careless. He closed his eyes. “I don’t mind at all.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Out of sheer desperation, Ben tried visiting Israel Smith’s public bar in Whitechapel, to see if he could distract his thoughts that way. Everyone there knew him and he was greeted as a long-lost friend. He could have gone all evening without paying for a drink, if he’d been hard up for cash. He didn’t let the well-wishers deprive themselves of hard-earned coins, though.

  He might have bathed in the warmth of their regard and felt he’d come home, yet it would have been a lie.

  For two hours he lingered, trying hard to enjoy himself. Instead, his uneasiness grew. It became overwhelming when Israel Smith pulled Ben to one side and asked him to take another fight.

  Ben curtly refused, picked up his hat and escaped the smoky bar. He stood outside, breathing in fresh air and feeling as though he had made a narrow escape.

  Cabs did not eagerly ply their trade in Whitechapel. Ben would have to walk until he saw one. He didn’t mind. The exercise might help erase her from his thoughts, even though the softness of her lips and her scent seemed to linger like echoes. If he thought about either for long, his body would respond. Then he would recall how sweetly responsive she had been to his touch. How she had arched against him, goading him to even more daring explorations.

  Then his body would stiffen and throb and leave him aching for hours at a time.

  Not even the rotgut served by Israel Smith sufficed to rid Ben of her memory.

  The crunch of boots on the road behind him warned Ben he had become complacent. This was Whitechapel, where everyone kept up their guard.

  There were five of them. They leapt on him in the dark patch between two far-strung gas lights and dragged him back into a narrow alley to finish it. Five was too many for Ben to tackle on his own.

  Four of them grabbed his limbs and held him spread-eagle, his joints stretched to breaking point. “Don’t let ‘is fists loose,” one of them muttered, “or ‘e’ll end us all!”

  The warning was flattering and also told Ben that these were not casual robbers. They had sought him out. Possibly, they had followed him from the pub.

  The fifth stood taller than Ben and heavier. He sized Ben up, cracking his knuckles. “‘e don’t look much, does ‘e?”

  Ben tried to dislodge the grip they had on him. It was no use. Undernourished they might be, yet they still had wiry strength and combined, they were too strong to defeat.

  He braced himself.

  The fifth man smiled. “Easton Wash sends ‘is regards.” He sank his fist into Ben’s belly. It hurt, despite preparing himself. The next five minutes were bloody and brutal. When Ben’s eye was closed over and the other almost the same, when a red film colored his vision and when he could no longer disassociate himself from the pain, he heard the rattle of a hackney cab on the street at the end of the alley.

  They had stopped holding him down when he had fallen to the cobbles and had turned to kicking him, instead. Ben could have run free, if he could run at all.

  The approach of the cab gave him a spurt of energy and determination. He lurched to his feet, staggered to the end of the alley and into the middle of the road. Behind him, the bruisers shouted at each other to get ‘im, damn yer ‘ide!

  Determination would take him no further. As the horse reared up over him, hooves flailing, Ben collapsed back upon the cobbles and passed out.

  * * * * *

  When Mayerick showed Rhys Davies into her morning room, Sharla jumped to her feet. “Rhys! What on earth…? I mean…”

  Rhys held up his hand. “This isn’t a social call, or I would have written, first.”

  “Business, then? Wakefield is in the library. I can—”

  Rhys shook his head. “I don’t know who else to ask. Can you…would you mind stepping out to my carriage for a moment? Bring your butler, if you feel the need.”

  “With you, Rhys?” She smiled.

  He didn’t smile in return. Instead, he turned and left the room again. Sharla picked up her skirt and hurried after him, out onto the street. It was mid-morning and a bright, late July day.

  Rhys opened the door of the big Davies carriage and stepped back.

  Sharla’s heart thudded in warning as she stepped to the open door and looked in.

  Ben was lying on the back bench, his arm hanging, the knuckles against the floor. A plaid blanket lay over him. It did not disguise the disfigured, bloody mess of his face.

  “Oh my dear sweet Lord!” Sharla breathed.

  “He didn’t come to work yesterday,” Rhys said. “This morning when he failed to meet appointments, I went to his rooms and found him on the floor just inside his front door.”

  Sharla climbed up into the carriage and bent next to Ben. She was afraid to touch him.

  “I can’t take him home, Sharla. His mother…Annalies…she would panic and call the wrath of the royal family down upon whoever she thought was to blame. Their retribution would likely make some innocent party suffer. I would not have her go through that agony at all.”

  “You did right to bring him here,” Sharla told him. “We will take care of Ben discreetly. The Princess will not learn of this.”

  “Thank you.” Rhys hesitated. “Do you know why this might have happened, Sharla?” His tone was that of a father in as much agony as that which he wanted to spare Annalies.

  Sharla looked at him. “No,” she lied, with not a shred of guilt for the falsehood. “I have no idea.”

  “He was moving with a rough lot, for a while—”

  “He stopped that, months ago,” Sharla told him.

  Rhys let out a breath. “Good,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “Come out of there and I’ll take him into the house.”

  Sharla stepped out again and glanced around for nosy neighbors. It was barely ten o’clock and everyone who loved their gossip would be in Hyde Park, whispering to their friends. Only the Wakefield household was at home right now.

  Rhys was tall, yet slender. He had strength, though, that Sharla had seen displayed on rare occasions. He used it now to carry Ben in his arms. Although Ben was not a small man, Rhys showed no strain.

  Sharla opened the front door for him and moved into the hall ahead of him, calling for Mayerick.

  The library door opened and Wakefield stepped out. “I heard the rumpus,” he said. His gaze fell on Rhys and his burden and his eyes narrowed.

  “We must care for him,” Sharla said. “Rhys cannot take him home. Ben’s mother would be devastated.”

  Wakefield came closer, examining Ben. “Any mother would be, seeing that face. Put him in the room next to mine, Sharla.” He stepped out of the way.

  “This way, Rhys,” Sharla murmured, shaking off her shock. She had expected to have to argue to get her way and keep Ben here in the house.

  Mayerick hurried up the stairs in front of them and had the bedroom door open by the time they reached it.

  Sharla shoved the covers aside on the bed and Rhys put Ben on the sheet. Ben gave a soft groan. His eyes remained closed. Both of them were swollen and dark red, almost black in places. Everywhere, t
here was blood, including all over his clothes. It was impossible to tell what injuries he had.

  Wakefield bent over him. “Mayerick, we’ll need ice water, rags, and hot soapy water. Lots of it. Bandages, too. All that you can find.”

  “Tear up a sheet if there are none,” Sharla added.

  Wakefield glanced at her. “Yes, do that,” he added. “Go quickly.”

  Mayerick hurried away, his face working with the range of his emotions.

  Wakefield took off his jacket, further startling Sharla. “Rhys, help me pull the bed out from the wall. I need to be able to stand on either side of it.”

  “You’ll treat him, then?” Rhys asked curiously, speaking the question that was at Sharla’s lips.

  “I know something about treating cuts and bruises,” Wakefield said with an icy calm. “I presumed that if you do not want your wife to learn about this, you would prefer the fewest number of people be aware of it.”

  Rhys considered him for a moment. “Very well,” he said, removing his own jacket.

  The two of them pulled and pushed the bed until it jutted out into the room, accessible from both sides. Ben didn’t move or make a sound. His stillness was frightening.

  Mayerick returned with his footmen in tow, carrying the supplies Wakefield had requested. The ice clicked against the side of the bowl as they moved.

  “Thank you, everyone. You may leave,” Wakefield told them, discarding his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.

  Shedding relief as he moved, Mayerick turned and shooed the footmen out with silent waves of his hand. He shut the door behind him.

  “You, too, Davies,” Wakefield said.

  Rhys’ lips parted. “Me?”

  “It may not seem so, but I am being kind,” Wakefield told him. “You have no need to stand there and watch every single hurt reveal itself. Go home. Take comfort in the knowledge that Ben is being cared for.”

  Rhys’ jaw worked, which made his cheeks hollow, and his high, stark cheekbones stand out. “It’s not just cuts and bruises you’ve experience with. It’s beatings like this. You know what you will find.”