The last person Matthew expected to see at this hour was Rosamund. As if conjured from his fevered thoughts, she stood on the threshold, that cloud of pale hair shining in the candlelight, her eyes luminous pools of promise.
When he remained silent, drinking her in, staring like an urchin offered a guinea, she flashed one of her luscious smiles with those dimples that appeared just for him.
Standing on tiptoe and peering over his shoulder, she whispered, “Are Filip and Will here?”
He tried not to show his disappointment that she was after Filip or Sam’s servant and not him. He opened the door a fraction wider so she could see the candle on the small table, his quill, ink and paper. As he struggled to answer, she slipped in and stood in the center of the small room, looking about like a visitor at St. Paul’s. Clearly, neither man was present.
“Filip’s with Solomon and Thomas. Will’s playing cards with Wat in the stables.” Matthew looked at her, puzzled. “What do you want with them?”
“Nothing. I wanted to make certain you were on your own.”
Flopping on one of the beds as if for all the world this was her room and he the intruder, she gestured for him to shut the door.
He knew this was most improper, but he wanted to know why she’d come, especially when he thought they’d said as much as they could about the diary. A frisson of hope and need had begun to burn in his center, but he resolved to remain calm. To not touch her though his body and mind were daring him to do just that. How could he not? Here was Rosamund, in his room—well, Sam’s attic—alone with him. He could hear his heart in his ears. He wanted to draw her into his arms, inhale the fragrance that was hers alone, and yet he dare not touch her.
Instead he stayed by the door, folded his arms and, praying he sounded rational, asked, “And why is that?”
Leaning forward gingerly on her bandaged palm, swinging her legs a few times, Rosamund suddenly ceased moving and locked eyes with him. “Because I’ve something to both ask and tell you—though not necessarily in that order.”
Matthew hardly dared to look at her. “Go on, then.”
As he spoke, the space between them contracted, and the invisible thread connecting them wound tighter. Waiting as patiently as he could, aware of her with every fiber of his being, he raised his head when she didn’t speak. What he saw almost broke him.
Those great, wondrous eyes were aswim with tears.
“Rosamund—” he began, before she held up a hand to stop him coming closer.
“Please, I beg you—” She made a strange choking sound. “If you come closer I may not be able to say what I must.”
Matthew dreaded what she had to say lest it confirm the doubts and anxieties he’d been harboring. He stepped back to his position by the door.
“I need to tell you,” she began softly, “that ever since you made your offer of marriage to me, some time ago now, I’ve been giving it very serious consideration.”
Dear God, but he wanted to kiss the little furrow between her brows away. “Of that, I am glad.”
“Shush, Matthew, I cannot do this if you interrupt.”
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, trying to look serious though his eyes twinkled.
“But, before I give you an answer, I need to ask you some things and I want you to be entirely truthful with me, even if you fear what you say might hurt me.”
Matthew said not a word.
“When you leased the chocolate house to me, why did you do that?”
Caught unawares, Matthew blinked. “Because, because . . . you were an astute businesswoman; Filip and Jacopo sang your praises, and . . . and . . .”
She’d tilted her head to one side, studying him. “And?”
“It made sense.”
“Sense! I think there are many men who would argue the contrary.”
He sighed. “Very well: the truth. I wanted to keep you close.”
“Why? Because of Aubrey? Because even though he’d not yet returned, you knew he lived and what had happened between him and Helene?”
“Partly. I didn’t trust the scoundrel and, it turns out, with good cause. After Sir Everard died, I thought if I gave Aubrey the letters that would put an end to it all. I would be able to excise him from my past, and he would leave me alone. I also hoped it would mean he would leave you alone. I admit, I was concerned what he might do should he set eyes upon you.” He gave a wistful sigh. “As you now know, by the time I arrived in the colonies, he’d left. It wasn’t until I returned to London, understood he was here and intending to insert himself into your life, that I used them to extract from him a promise to leave you alone. Fearing exposure, like his father, he didn’t dare refuse me.”
They stared at each other.
“But,” said Matthew, taking one step closer to her, “I also leased the chocolate house to you for entirely selfish reasons. Just as I kept returning to the bookshop all those times in the hope I would see you, get to know you better, listen to you, look at you. Bask in the glow of your laugh, talk to you. I shared my business to ensure I could see you every day. It was the smallest of sacrifices. Forget profit, I was never a canny businessman anyway. I hoped to turn your head and win your heart.”
“I see.”
“But,” he went on, “my plan didn’t work very well, did it? You refused my offer of marriage.”
“Refused? No. Adjourned, yes.” She regarded him seriously. “Which brings me to my next question. A harder one, perhaps.” She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, straightened her back and, gesturing to herself, asked, “Am I like Helene?”
If Matthew had been astonished before, his capacity for surprise increased tenfold. “Are you like Helene?”
Rosamund frowned. “’Tis not a difficult question, sir. All I’ve heard since I became a Blithman was how much I resemble her. I have seen her portrait and can admit to a likeness. Before he . . . died, Aubrey went so far as to confuse me with his sister. I want to know do you think I am like Helene? Because, over the last few days, I’ve noticed a . . . can I say, a cooling of your evident interest, and I’m wondering if, in light of all that has happened, my similarity to your former wife is too much for you to . . . to . . . contemplate.” She lowered her gaze.
All of a sudden, Matthew understood the pain he might cause her if he did not answer this both carefully and truthfully.
“Madam.” He held his hands out like a supplicant. “When I first laid eyes on you, yes, I thought you did resemble Helene.”
Her face crumpled.
“Your hair, your brows—your coloring is most unusual. Your skin, the fine nose. But, within moments an understanding arose in me that my later meetings with you confirmed over and over. You are nothing like her except in the sense that a person in possession of cropped black hair and of the same sex may be like another with the same coloring and style. In the manner that one green gown with silver piping may be considered similar to another, but all it needs is two different people to wear it and they are nothing alike; just as one pair of brown leather shoes might be said to resemble another—all it requires is for one to sink into mud and there the likeness ends. It’s all superficial and meaningless except to those who are shallow and store weight by these things.”
With each example, he drew closer to her, until he was standing in front of her. “To me,” he said ever so softly, “you are as unique as each star in the sky and just as dazzling. Whether it be your wondrous dark eyes that draw me into your orbit, or the kindness of your spirit, which radiates from you with each and every word and action.” Kneeling suddenly, he took her hands in his and willed her to look at him. When she finally did, he drew in his breath.
“It took me no time at all to learn you were nothing like Helene, not to me; in fact, I forgot I ever considered it for a second. One had only to look beyond your obvious physical beauty and see the strong, courageous, sweet heart that beats beneath the apron, look into your soulful eyes and exchange words, ideas with you, to know that below those unruly locks is a clever, considered mind. Helene . . . well, while I do not want to speak ill of the dead, she was in possession of none of those attributes. Moreover,” he said, untangling her hands from each other and putting first one then the other on each of his shoulders, being very careful with the bandaged one, before sliding his own warm hands around her waist, “you are someone entirely different. I would be lying if I didn’t say I found Helene comely—I did. But I was young, swept off my feet by the gilded frame as much as I was by the picture it contained. What I failed to do, until it was too late, was understand its composition.”
He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “To me, you have never been Helene.” He chuckled at such a preposterous notion. “You have always been Rosamund, my Rosamund, my Lady Harridan. From the first moment I saw you, I knew what you were. I knew what you could be. I just prayed that one day, you might be mine as well.”
There was a gasp.
All he wanted to do was to kiss those soft, soft lips, but he could not. He kept his forehead against hers, his arms about her waist. He felt her tremble. There was an intake of breath, a tremor of shoulders and then they fell. Huge glistening jewels slid down her cheeks. It was almost more than he could bear—but he had to.
“Rosamund,” he said, his voice hardly audible. “Please, don’t cry. You see, it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
Unable to speak, she just sniffed in a loud and most unbecoming manner and nodded her head.
“When you were struck down by the fire . . . by Aubrey’s attack, and you were in and out of consciousness for a few days, you spoke of—nay, you relived, much of your past.”
Rosamund began to cry more freely. She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her.
“No, no, my love, I don’t tell you this to upset you, or make you ashamed. I tell you this to ask you something. Now, dry those tears. Here, allow me.” He used his thumbs to whisk them away. “It’s evident to me that for many years”—the words were faint, but the violence he wished upon the subject of them was anything but—“you were touched against your will, coerced into a giving of yourself that no one, least of all a man you called father, has any right to force. Bianca told me about your first night at Blithe Manor—the bruises upon your body. When I heard your screams and cries, saw you reliving those times, I understood why, even though I see you smile, hear you laugh, I had also sensed a troubling shadow deep within. Now I know what placed it there. Something within me broke. I thought of the moments I’d stolen a kiss from you, touched you, all the hours I desired you.” His voice was hoarse. “I understood that in doing those things, I was no better than the men who compelled you—under whose attention you suffered more than anyone should. I swore I would never again lay a finger upon you unless you gave me the right.”
Rosamund began to cry again. As he held her at arm’s length, Matthew could barely see her as his own eyes filled.
But he wasn’t finished yet.
“I love you, Rosamund. Whether you allow me the honor I request or deny me, it does not change the way I feel. I love you. I always will.”
“You still love me?” she asked, her eyes growing wider, unshed tears glimmering like diamonds as the light he feared extinguished began to shine forth. Her radiant wonder at his pronouncement encompassed them both.
“I never stopped. And, before I seal my love with the kiss I long for, I would ask again: Rosamund Blithman, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Rosamund gave a deep and delicious laugh, throwing her head back, letting it strike the roof and bounce about the room before coming back to reside in her sparkling eyes.
“No, Matthew Lovelace—I would not.”
The smile that had been growing on Matthew’s face disappeared so suddenly, it was if a candle had been snuffed. “But,” he began, as pain seized his chest and made his heart turn over beneath his ribs, “I don’t under—”
“Because that’s the last question I have for you.”
He shook his head in puzzlement. “What?”
Taking his hands in hers, she began to pluck at his gloves. She pulled off first one, then the other, and threw them aside. As she held his hands, she ran her fingers along the ridges, caressed the melted skin before kissing one desecrated palm, then the other. He inhaled sharply, his flesh goosing. He could not credit it.
Then she replaced his scarred hands about her waist, and wriggled so they sat just above her hips, and her knees rested either side of his middle. Having believed all sensation in his fingers was dead, he was astonished to find he could feel her—he could sense her through the fabric, as if she were a musical instrument and he the musician; her body was humming. He longed to pull the material away, touch her flesh.
Leaning in until her lips almost touched his, she took in his breath, his life force, allowing the scents of musk and cinnamon and the heady spiciness of chocolate she always associated with him to capture and hold her, as it always had—as he always had.
“You see, you were chosen for Helene Blithman to mask a terrible sin. I want to undo that by choosing you for myself. So I wanted to ask if you, Matthew Lovelace, would do me the honor of becoming my husband.”
Matthew made a choking sound.
“Will you promise to always touch me, hold me, love me?”
Matthew’s face was like a lanthorn, so richly it glowed. His smile matched hers for warmth, for joy.
“I will,” he growled.
Drawn by their words, their lips slowly joined, mouths melting as they sealed their vows. Years of pent-up desire, longing and fear were released in that one moment.
With trembling hands, Matthew twined his fingers through her hair.
As Rosamund fell back on the covers, her hair a shawl of pale gold upon which they both collapsed, laughter burst forth from her, unbridled, exuberant. It rose to the ceiling and cascaded about them until he had no choice but to join her merriment. Resting on his elbows above her, he melded the rest of his body against her, almost shutting his eyes as she rose to meet him.
Allowing her euphoria to wash over him, he watched the way it transformed her face, lifted his soul. He’d never heard anything quite like it. He felt as if he’d touched the heavens and been blessed by all that was holy and pure, so jubilant was her gladness. It lodged in his heart, and he knew the memory of that laugh, of real happiness, would never leave him. Warmed from within, he laughed with her before one kind of ecstasy was replaced with the desire for another.
Her eyes locked onto his, darkened, and her beautiful, perfect lips opened in a different sort of smile.
“Love me now, Matthew,” she whispered, and helped him unlace her gown as her fingers, some peeping from the tops of bandages, busied themselves with his clothes.
Matthew’s shirt slipped to the floor, his breeches following as his Lady Harridan, still laughing in a devilish, naughty way as her excitement grew, was liberated from the shackles that bound her to an old identity. Cut free, she became what he always knew in his heart she was—his.
Having given her soul to him, her body was surrendered. A gesture of love that took his breath away. Releasing her breasts, those bountiful, beautiful breasts, he did what he’d always longed to do, touched them, touched her. Gently at first, until her groans of pleasure were the permission he’d also been waiting for, emboldened him. Soon, her gown was but a memory, her body, her sweet, luscious body, was his for the taking—and, he thought, as he stared at the beauty being revealed, he’d never known such willingness, such passion, both borne of love.
Their lips joined and parted, reunited and followed the paths trailed first by eager fingers. Silken thighs opened and, as he stroked her, he once more felt that glorious humming, as if he’d immersed his hands in music and, in doing so, brought them, brought himself, back to life. He gave a burst of laughter, pulled her mouth to his as they explored each other with scorching, liquid tongues.
Their simmering flesh grew even hotter, their legs entwined, matching the conjoining of their souls. The world shrank to a tiny attic room as they searched and found, searched and found, as the bud of excitement extended into long ribbons of utter pleasure, before exploding outward in tiny stars of wicked shrieks, giggles and unbridled laughter. Effervescent bubbles of bliss and delight.
The narrow bed with its mussed sheets and blankets became a meadow of sweet flowers, showering them with perfume. The small fire transformed into a burning sun shedding light and warmth just for them as the hours slipped by and their ardor, far from being extinguished, grew and grew, expanding into a universe where only they existed.
Uncertain what he’d done to deserve such a woman, such a soul mate, Matthew sent silent prayers to God and the ancient ones that this coupling might endure.
It wasn’t until the embers in the fireplace were a distant mountain whose caldera offered a blaze to the pagan gods and the moonlight streamed through the window offering a road along which they might escape, that they lay beneath the covers, Rosamund’s head pillowed on Matthew’s chest. Their legs were a plait of flesh, their hearts beat together, but all Matthew could hear was, She’s mine, she’s mine and I am hers, hers.
A noise below brought them to their senses and another bout of laughter as they became aware of how exposed they were—Filip or Will could have walked in on them at any moment. Perhaps, whispered Rosamund in a faux-shocked voice, they already had.
Matthew wouldn’t have cared. Nothing and nobody could take away what they had, what they shared and would share again.
Nothing and Nobody. He began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Rosamund purred, her voice deep with satiation.
Matthew found it very arousing. He could feel her nipples pressed against his flesh, the soft curls of hair between her thighs nuzzling him, and he found it hard to concentrate.
“I was just thinking, remember when you said you were nothing, nobody? You could have been talking about me.”
Rosamund rested her palm against his heart. “Ah, but you’re Nobody with a capital N, which is a synonym for ‘Somebody.’ All who read your words fear them for the truth they tell and lest they become a target. I am nobody with a small n and therefore nothing.”
Matthew smiled. Her faith in him was only surpassed by his in her. “Have you never heard the expression, madam, nobody’s perfect?”
Much to his delight, Rosamund laughed, a clear, sonorous bell to which his very soul responded. “Truth is,” he added, “for a gentleman, I’ve nothing of real worth to offer you. You at least have a title. I have meager rents from some land, income from my penmanship; you deserve so much more, my lady. In that regard, I am Nobody with Nothing.”
“Then we are a fine pair, are we not? Lady Nothing and Mr. Nobody. Let us live on love and dine on passion—that can be what succors us.”
“Us perhaps, but what of Bianca? Ashe? Filip, Solomon, Thomas, Mr. Nick and Grace? The others who depend upon us for a living? What will they live upon? For I swear by all that is holy and unholy, I’ll not share you.”
The happiness that had encircled them briefly dimmed.
“Aye,” said Rosamund. “And there’s the rub.” She sighed. “What will we do, Matthew? We cannot impose upon Sam forever. I mean, I can find some work, I guess. Maybe I can find employ in one of the coffee houses still standing? I can sell the chocolate equipment, that will provide a small sum to tide us over for a while. You have your writing. There is much to record with the rebuilding of London. And didn’t you mention that the builders and all those looking to make a profit from the fire will have to be watched closely lest they exploit the needy? There will be a great deal for you to do.” She thought. “As for Bianca, well, she is unable to secure any work . . .” She didn’t need to tell him that. Because Bianca was deemed a slave, she had no rights; she could be purchased, but never paid.
“There won’t be enough to keep us, let alone those who need us,” said Matthew. He folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling, at the play of light across it. “If only we had enough to start again, to leave this place, this city, and make a fresh beginning.”
Images of the wreckage London had become replaced the lunar glow above. Not even the King’s grand plans for a new city could offer them a solution.
“It will be years before London returns to normal,” said Matthew.
“I hope it never does,” said Rosamund.
Matthew rolled over and looked at her in surprise.
She smiled. “I hope it’s reborn. I mean, isn’t that what it should be doing? Looking to improve? I said as much to Sam and his friend. Maybe that’s what we should do as well. Go somewhere we can have a better life. Where there aren’t so many memories.” So many shadows.
Matthew’s mind began to work fast. Stroking Rosamund’s face, running his fingers over her cheeks, marveling that the love he felt for her was not only returned and reflected in her eyes and her touch, but that it magnified his. He began to consider his options . . . their options.
“I do have shares in a ship,” he began. “Minor ones, but if I also work for passage, we could leave London . . .”
Rosamund put her hand over his, staying his fingers. “Leave? Where would we go?” she asked, her voice small but filled with possibility.
“Wherever we want,” he said, knowing that wasn’t entirely true, but wanting the romance.
“France is out of the question,” she said. “Holland, too. I don’t think I’d like Spain, for while I love Filip, I doubt I could settle in a Papist country, one as strict about faith as we are.” She ran her fingers up and down the line of hair from his navel to where the sheet rested just above his groin. If he didn’t stop her soon, the sheet would fall off. “What about a place where there is toleration?”
“Toleration?”
“Aye, for faith, for skin color,” she said. Her fingers became bolder. “Where women also have opportunities.”
“I’m afraid Camelot is too far.”
Rosamund laughed again before her face became thoughtful. “Did you like the New World, the colonies?” she asked, kissing his fingers one by one. “I heard there’s much can be done there, if one only has the ambition, the desire.”
Finding it hard to think, he chuckled. “Well, I’m not short on the latter, and if you keep doing what you’re doing, this conversation will be over. But ambition is all well and good—”
“We have that aplenty. Do you think we could start afresh there? Open a chocolate house?”
“I don’t see why not. My uncle oft writes there is much of merit there, especially for those prepared to work hard. The only thing stopping us is exactly what’s stopping us here—”
“Money,” they said in unison.
“We are officially the Nobodies with Nothing,” said Matthew.
“Oh, to be somebodies.” Rosamund sighed. “Imagine what we could do, Matthew. Sail into a new life along with Bianca, give anyone else who wanted to come with us a chance and give those who wanted to remain behind enough to build their futures upon.” She took his hand and placed it over her breast. “Till then, all we can do is hold our vision in our hearts.”
Stroking her breast gently, loving how she pressed her body into his hand, arched her back, he bent over her. “I can think of something else we can do as well,” he murmured and, once more, turned his long-held dream into a sensual reality.