It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t calm or peaceful. The only similarity it bore to the fantasy she had once woven for him on that sofa in his library was that it was, in fact, dark. So dark that he could tell that Charity was crouched before him only because her cheek rubbed against his knee, because he could feel the press of her voluminous skirts against his trousers, the heat of her body wedged between his legs.
The wheels of the carriage clattered upon the cobblestone street, creating such a racket that Anthony could scarcely hear himself think. Which hardly mattered, as his thoughts—scattered as they were—grew increasingly dim as Charity slid her hands up the inside of his thighs once more.
“What are you doing?” he heard himself ask, even though the pounding of his heart in his chest beat out a tale of frantic hope. He bit back a groan as those delicate fingers traced the outline of his cock through the fall of his trousers. Another flick, and there was one more button freed of its moorings.
“It has occurred to me,” she said, “that it is every bit as important that one knows how to receive pleasure as it is to give it.”
“Is it?” he asked, and there was a telling hoarseness to his voice, his throat suddenly beyond parched. His thighs tensed anew as she loosed the last of his buttons, and the fall of his trousers opened at last, his cock springing free of the constriction. He couldn’t see more than the vaguest swirl of shadows in the darkness, but he damned well felt it when her soft hand, divested of its evening glove, clasped him.
“Oh, yes,” she said, and there was the warmth of satisfaction in her voice as she ran her hand in a smooth stroke from the base of his cock to the head.
His head fell back against the seat.
“Christ,” he said, his chest heaving with frenetic breaths.
“You have got to know what pleases you,” she said lightly as her thumb swirled about the head of his cock, collecting the slick drop of moisture that had welled there.
“Your lover will not be so experienced. You must tell her what you enjoy, what brings you pleasure.”
At this moment, with his hands curled around the edge of the seat and his fingernails biting into the rich upholstery, with his thighs hard as granite, tense and aching in the effort not to spill himself in her hand after only the lightest stroke, that list was a short one: he enjoyed all of it. Every bit of it, from the expert strokes of her fingers, to the hum of her wicked laugh, to the pitiless ache in his loins.
She asked, “Have you ever had a woman take you in her mouth?”
He gritted his teeth against the warmth of her breath as it coasted over the head of his cock. Her lips had to be only inches away from exactly that.
“No,” he managed to say, snatching at what scant breaths he could hold in his lungs.
“Pity.” It was a silky drawl, full of amusement, of delight. She was enjoying this as well, he realized. The sensual torture of it, and the act of inflicting it upon him. And he—he was enjoying her enjoyment. At least as much as one could be said to enjoy mingled pleasure and agony.
“Such a perfect cock deserves this sort of attention.”
A delicate flick of her tongue just across the crown. He thought he might have wheezed at the sensation as it scrambled his senses. Perhaps he had only groaned. It was a struggle only to scrape for each fractured thought, to remind his lungs to draw air.
Anthony sucked in a desperate breath, only to have it escape him once more as she swirled her tongue around his crown and drew him into her mouth. The lush heat of her mouth enveloped him, and her tongue caressed him in a mind-numbing, masterful stroke.
“There,” she whispered, when she released him from the seal of her mouth and fondled him with the firm grip of her fingers once more.
“What are you thinking?”
“I—” His voice emerged like the raw, guttural croak of a frog.
“I might die of this.”
A soft laugh, another delicious stroke of her tongue, and he fought to hold his seed lest she wrest it from him too soon. He managed somehow to pry one hand free of its death-grip upon the seat to reach for her hair.
A curl slipped through the light grasp of his fingers as she lowered her mouth to his cock once more, laving him in luscious heat. Her voice shivered along his shaft with the press of her lips.
“You can touch my hair.”
“I don’t want to ruin it.”
The earthy sensuality of her voice tightened his testicles.
“It’s already ruined,” she said.
“I don’t mind.” And then, in lower voice, rife with hunger, she added, “I touched yours.”
Yes, she had. He’d felt the scrape of her nails, the gentle clasp of her fingers guiding him. The tremble of them as he’d performed this act for her.
He didn’t have to tell her what he liked. She knew already. But she purred with satisfaction as he slid his fingers into the ruins of the intricate style she had once worn and petted her as she had him.
She had found a rhythm now, and his chest heaved like a bellows each time she swallowed him down, his heart thundering in his chest. He said, in between the rapid pitches of his breaths, “Just now—I can’t understand why men are meant to prize chastity so highly.”
God, he could feel her laugh in her throat, the ripple of it against his cock.
“Can you not?” she asked as she lifted her head once more.
“A man is meant to ensure that his heirs are of his blood, is that not so? Wives are for the begetting of children, and mistresses are for pleasure.”
“Hell,” he groaned again when one of her hands slipped into the open fall of his trousers to cradle his testicles, massaging the taut weight of them.
“They could just as well be one and the same,” he said breathlessly. If not for the prejudices that led men to make mistresses of women, and then to brand them impure for the very actions they themselves had solicited.
“Careful,” she teased.
“You’ll be branded a reformer with such thoughts as those.”
Probably he would, but just now, in this perfect, incredible moment, he could not bring himself to care. The rattle of the carriage wheels on the street disguised his desperate, heaving breaths, and he thought—she had been correct in that he could not have enjoyed this so fully in the garden. But now there was no one to hear him but the driver, who would have to battle the city noise to do so. And a damn good thing that was, because he had reached the end of his tether, his last fragile hold on what few threads of self-control he possessed fraying down to nothing as a spine-tingling pleasure coiled tight in his belly, slid up his spine.
“Charity,” he said, sliding his fingers out of her hair to give her the space to withdraw.
“I’m going to come.”
She made a soft sound of gratification in her throat—and took him deep, those lovely lips wrapped tightly around his shaft. A strangled shout tore itself from his chest and his head fell back as his whole body shuddered with the force of his climax. He spilled himself upon her tongue, and she swallowed him down to the last, without the slightest flicker of hesitation or reticence. Until he was utterly spent, breathing like he’d run a hundred miles, and wondering if she hadn’t managed to relieve him of his senses in addition to his seed.
Perhaps he would simply never be the same man again as he had been only ten minutes ago. And as he closed his eyes and struggled to reclaim his breath, he thought that whatever bits of him she had scrambled around and forever rearranged might well have been the greatest gift he had ever received.
Charity braced her hands upon his unsteady knees, rising from her crouch upon the floor of the carriage to sit beside him once again. She brushed out her skirts, peeled up the corner of the curtain at the window to judge their location, and settled back in her seat with a sigh.
“You’ll want to fasten your trousers,” she said softly.
“We’re nearing my residence.”
So soon? His fingers fumbled with the buttons, striving to put himself to rights even as the carriage began to slow, finishing with the last of them just as they lurched to a stop entirely.
“Wait,” he said as he heard her muffled movements, felt her move to rise from her seat. His fingers found her hair, slid through the tangled mass of it to cup the nape of her neck.
It was quiet now that the carriage had come to rest, peaceful and calm so late in the evening. His lips found the corner of hers, soft and gentle as she’d earlier instructed. Courting a response, seeking the bloom of her lips beneath his own.
There was just a moment when she yielded, a moment when her hands touched the wall of his chest, smoothing upward toward his shoulders. A moment when nothing else existed in the world but the two of them in a closed carriage, and a kiss that felt like a resurrection.
A kiss that ceased the moment the driver’s jump from the seat shifted the weight of the carriage, and he was forced to release her before they could be caught when the door opened.
Charity cradled his cheek in the palm of her hand.
“Perfect,” she pronounced.
“Just exactly perfect.” And then light flooded in as the door opened, and she stepped through the carriage door onto the pavement. She paused just there, a curious expression chasing across her features as she hesitated.
“Probably it is not my business,” she said, “but you ought to talk to your mother.”
“My mother?” An exercise in futility, that. They hadn’t had a single civil conversation since he’d come home again. “Why?”
“Something your sister-in-law said to me this evening, which has been weighing upon me. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say something.” And with a little wave of her hand and a flutter of her fingers, she was gone.
***
A few days later, Charity settled into a vacant chair within the cramped quarters of Mr. Fortescue’s office at half past one in the afternoon. He made a valiant effort, as he handed her a cup of tea, to restrain the glower that tugged at the corners of his eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles, conscious of the other occupant of his office—the estimable Bishop Fitzwilliam.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wincing over her tea cup.
“I really ought to have told you.” But she had never quite gotten around to it. She had, in point of fact, expected a representative of the Church to call upon her directly, but it appeared that they had been directed to her solicitor instead.
“You really should have done,” Mr. Fortescue said.
“I’ve had little enough time to prepare.”
“I don’t believe any preparation on your part is required,” Charity said.
“I assume the bishop is here to conduct some sort of interview involving the dissolution of my marriage?”
“You do realize I cannot, in good conscience, recommend that you pursue an annulment from a duke,” Mr. Fortescue said.
“Any reasonable woman—”
“Better an annulment than a divorce. For His Grace, of course,” she added, for the benefit of the bishop, who stared at her as if she were some manner of creature which he had never before encountered. Which she supposed she might well be.
“Really, it would be to his benefit if a quiet annulment might be obtained—to have the chance to put this inconvenient marriage well into the past and move on with his life as he ought.”
With a supercilious sniff, the bishop intoned, “Perhaps, given the nature of your vocation, Miss Nightingale, you were unaware that marriage is a sacrament. It is not to be undertaken lightly.”
“Given my vocation,” Charity repeated, with a serene smile, “perhaps I understand the sacrament of it better than most. In my experience, you see, men are wont to treat their vows with rather more flexibility than the nature of vows would suggest.” A slow, thoughtful sip of tea.
“Is it not curious, then, that a woman may find herself divorced on grounds of adultery alone, while a man is free to violate his vows with impunity, secure in the knowledge that his infidelity will not be judged deserving of a petition of divorce?”
Mr. Fortescue cleared his throat; a subtle warning that it would be wisest not offend the man whose assistance she wished to secure.
“I’m certain Miss Nightingale means only to say,” he cut in, “that marriage vows well ought to be held in the sanctity that they deserve, but that her marriage to the duke was never a true one, and ought not to be held to the same standard.”
“Yes, so the duke’s solicitor has informed us,” the bishop said.
“You’ll understand, however, why I find that a difficult thing to believe.”
Given her vocation again, she supposed he meant to imply. Men, particularly those who felt themselves charged with some sort of moral authority, too often seemed to think it their place to put her in hers. Too bad for him, then, that she simply did not care what he thought of her.
“Bishop Fitzwilliam,” she said, “We were—in a nominal sense—husband and wife for at most a few hours before we were separated, and neither of us in any condition or of any disposition to consummate our marriage. That was sixteen years ago, and until just recently, I had no reason to think myself anything other than a widow.”
“Non-consummation is not, strictly speaking, grounds alone for the dissolution of a marriage,” the bishop said, in a near-perfect echo of that same bad news she had first gotten from Mr. Fortescue some weeks ago now.
“There are other factors that must be considered—”
“Yes,” she said, “such as the fact that if the Church will not grant an annulment, you will be putting a duke and a war hero through the embarrassment of a very public divorce. I have weathered scandals enough myself, but that does not mean I wish to sully His Grace’s good name with one.”
Grudgingly, the bishop admitted, “I suppose that is decent of you.”
“Even I may lay claim to common decency from time to time, Your Excellency,” she said, and Mr. Fortescue stifled a sigh at the faint inflection of mockery within her voice.
“Miss Nightingale wishes only to do what is right,” Mr. Fortescue said, though he clearly thought she would be better served to retain her husband—and his title.
“Surely the Church can find its way toward invalidating this marriage, as it has never been a true one in any sense of the word.”
“The decision is not mine alone to make,” the bishop said.
“It is in the interests of the Church to safeguard the sacrament of marriage, though I suppose certain allowances may be made, upon occasion, for such an obvious mismatch.”
If he tilted his nose any higher, Charity thought as she bit back a laugh, she would soon have a perfect view directly up his nostrils.
“Rarely have I seen in all my years,” the bishop continued, utterly oblivious to Charity’s amusement with his unearned superiority, “so unequal a marriage. I suppose there is an argument to be made that to be so unevenly yoked may prove a stumbling block to His Grace.”
“Call it a lapse in judgment,” Charity suggested with affected sweetness.
“Made in a particularly fraught moment. Had we any inkling that there were the least need of it, we would have applied for an annulment much sooner.”
“Hmph,” the bishop said.
“And you do swear before God that you have never shared a bed with His Grace?” he inquired, the doubtful tenor of his voice suggesting she could not be relied upon to answer honestly.
A bed, no. Several other surfaces of varying degrees of comfort and recline, most certainly. But that hardly signified. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, what the man had asked.
“Our marriage remains unconsummated, and I do swear to it,” she said, and at least that was the truth. But it would have been a lie to say she hadn’t any regrets about that fact. That she did not return to her home most nights aching for a sort of fulfillment that could not be satisfied by only the strokes of Anthony’s fingers, or the caress of his tongue.
Probably some of her irreverence had crept into her voice, for Mr. Fortescue interjected, “Do consider, Bishop Fitzwilliam, that Miss Nightingale is voluntarily surrendering, out of the fondness of friendship that she holds for the duke, both her right to the title that is hers by virtue of marriage and any consideration of the financial support which she would otherwise be due.” He straightened in his chair, clasped his hands before him.
“I would have advised her against it, had I known the whole truth of the matter. But she is determined that she should do right by the duke whatever the cost to herself, and that is deserving of consideration, I should think.”
“Yes, well, it remains to be seen if the duke’s version of events aligns with Miss Nightingale’s,” the bishop said.
“At any rate, the Church’s opinion on the validity of the marriage is not yet made. When it is, you shall be so informed.”
Well, at least that was not an outright denial. As the bishop rose to his feet, ostensibly to conclude the interview, Charity hastened to say, “It is my understanding that the duke hopes to secure a wife, a proper one, once he is out of mourning. If the Church might see fit to render its decision quickly—”
The bishop shot her a quelling glance, and this time she did see straight up his nose as he lifted it.
“These things take time, Miss Nightingale. I would suggest that you accustom yourself to waiting.” He gave a nod—to Mr. Fortescue alone—as he quit the room.
Charity waited until at last she heard the sounds of the street outside and then the silence that followed. And then she issued a sigh and uttered, “Well. What an utter arse!”
Mr. Fortescue smothered a laugh in his hand.
“God,” he said.
“Thank you, at least, for waiting until he had left. He might’ve denied you an annulment out of sheer spite.”
“Yes, he did have rather a lot of it, didn’t he? One would think I was the very worst of sinners ever to walk the earth,” she said on a chuckle.
“Ah, well. All the more reason to grant the annulment.”
“And that is what you want?” Mr. Fortescue asked.
“I would have spoken with you privately in advance, had you given me the opportunity. But I must ask now. That is truly what you want?”
“Yes, I—” Charity cleared her throat of the odd lump that had risen in it.
“Of course it is what I want.” Wasn’t it? But moreover, it was what Anthony wanted, which was just as important.
But when, exactly, had his wishes grown to matter every bit as much as her own?
***
Charity sat at her desk that evening, staring down at the paper upon which she had written, Dearest Mercy. And nothing else. It should have been simple enough to pen a letter. She’d managed one to Felicity with no issues.
She had, however, left out any mention of Anthony. There was no reason she ought to have done, except…except that she had always been meant to be the elder sister. The one who had all the answers, who always knew precisely what to do in any given situation. Of course that had never been true—but it was what had allowed Felicity to have a life of her own, freed from Father’s cruelty and unburdened by the sacrifices Charity had made to keep the both of them safe.
It had been her responsibility, as the elder of them, to do so. She had never regretted it, nor resented Felicity for it. But she had spent so many years brushing away Felicity’s concerns, assuring her that all was well while just occasionally coming through a scrape by the skin of her teeth. She had never wanted to make her worries become Felicity’s. She had never known quite how she was meant to shed the persona she had adopted of the wise, self-possessed elder sister. How to be honest with Felicity in a way that she could not have done when they had been younger.
So she had—as she had always done—tactfully omitted any mention of this newest complication in which she had found herself embroiled.
But Mercy…Mercy had never relied upon her as Felicity had done. They had only discovered each other a few years ago. And they had, all three of them, become quite close in that time, but—
Mercy had been a friend first. It had happened gradually, as they had conversed through letters, seeking to unravel the tangled threads that connected their pasts. The feeling like the sisters they were had followed. But growing a friendship between them had come first. Just as Mercy had trusted her with a great number of her own woes and troubles, Charity expected she could do the same.
She dipped the nib of her pen into the inkwell, and wrote, I fear I may have gotten myself into a bit of a situation with a gentleman of my acquaintance.
Not quite the truth, she supposed, but close enough to it. She hesitated to put the whole truth of it to paper. Letters could be intercepted or mislaid upon receipt. Was it even wise to do so, before she had obtained her annulment? Would she be betraying Anthony’s trust by doing so? Best to keep it bland, then.
You will laugh, I’m certain, to hear of it.
There. That ought to avert the worst of whatever worries her first line might have provoked. But when would Mercy hear of it? She’d eschewed the Season this year, owing to the birth of her first child—her daughter, Flora. The baby was only a few months old at present, but as Charity understood it, learning how to be a mother—a good one, as God knew that they had not had the best example of one to learn from—was commanding the bulk of Mercy’s time and attention.
Mercy would not be coming to London at any point in the near future. The likelihood was high enough even that in the chaos of her new motherhood that she might not even find the time to answer Charity’s letter. But perhaps—
Perhaps a visit of some sort is in order in the near future. I should like to meet my niece.
And there. As close to a request for an invitation, as she was capable of managing. It was wisest, she had learned, to hedge one’s bets. And there was just the slightest niggling uncertainty in her chest that once she had accomplished her task, once she had obtained her sought-after annulment, that she might very well…desire a bit of respite from London. Just for a while. Just until Anthony had got his suitable bride, and the mere thought of it didn’t cause a dreadful ache behind her breastbone. Roughly in the spot her heart might have been, had she been in possession of one worth speaking of.
Most likely, by the time Mercy had received the letter and had found the time to respond, Charity’s inconvenient marriage would be a distant memory. Her annulment secured, her life her own once more.
They would laugh about it, she assured herself. Eventually.
But she thought there might be a part of her—a tiny, mostly insignificant part—that might be in need of a good cry first.