The Officer's Temptation Ch. 06

The mud splattered his boots and rain pattered against his hair. Marlowe shrank into the slim warmth provided by his wool overcoat, watching his feet as he walked. The weather had taken a turn in the last few days, stealing away the last delicious drops of summer heat, replacing them with insidious chill and damp. The leaves were turning quickly now-- yellow creeping around their edges, gilding their tips. It would not be long before true autumn began. And with it, the Hughes and the Jennings would be slipping away to the Italian Peninsula, hopefully to find more dulcet climes.

His injured hand ached with the cold. Perhaps it would not be so bad, to travel south again, towards the outstretched arms of the sun. Or then again, perhaps it would ruin him, remind him of the Spanish heat, the cannons, the taste of dirt in his mouth and the smell of iron and blood in the air. He wondered what Arabella would do without him, how would she pass the time? Would she still ride through the cold, dead woods, pale as a ghost upon her horse? Or would she curl herself in front of the hearth, to do needlework or to knit or some other cozy domestic task? Would she miss him as she said she would? Would he miss her?

It had been bothering him, of late. Arabella. His pulse quickened as he saw her in his mind's eye--her dark green eyes dancing over him, her lips, full of lies and promises, her hair like a cloud of gold. His stomach knotted. He remembered what she had said about finding a way to join him in Italy. The words had only been spoken once--in a moment of passion, no less. Had she meant it when she had said that she would find a way to join him? Did he want her to mean it? As much as his body pined for her, he had his cares. A child, for one. They had not been careful at all in their lovemaking. What would she do if she conceived? Would it be his or her husband's? What would he do? Marlowe had always thought vaguely of being a father. Of course he would have his own sons and daughters one day, that was a certainty. But he wasn't sure what he would feel if he could not be close to his own child, could not ever dare admit his paternity, could not share the joy of getting to know his own offspring--to teach his son to ride, help his daughter name her dolls... And if Nicholas ever found out?

He realized he had fisted his hand again and tried to relax his fingers, flex the muscles. Best to stop thinking about it, to proceed carefully in the future and to hope for the best. He flexed his fingers, sending a sharp pain through his tendons, up his wrist and jolting up to his elbow. Why was he thinking so much? It had never been his way. He hadn't thought when he was a boy-- he just... acted. He certainly hadn't thought when he had enlisted. Hadn't thought when he had crossed the fields of battle-- only shot and swung his sword and lived and breathed. When had his mind become so clouded?

A sound behind him caught his attention. A carriage was approaching through the mud. He sighed as he saw its device, and stepped off the road and into the wet grass, wiping the rain from his eyes. It rolled to a stop beside him. The door swung open. "I say, Hughes, would you care for a ride?"

Marlowe looked up the black clouds above him and cold raindrops fell into his eyes. He sighed. "Balfrey. How could I refuse on such a day as this?"

He climbed up and the carriage bounced on its axles. Nicholas, Lord Balfrey, sat across from him, black eyebrows raised. His long dark hair seemed to be in a more intense state of disarray than usual, the humidity frizzing his loose curls. Nicholas knocked a signal to the driver and the carriage lurched down the road as Marlowe wiped his own damp hair from his forehead.

"Out in this weather?" Nicholas inquired politely. He seemed smaller than he had a week ago, stiller, the spark of his life subdued. Perhaps it was only his dark hair and clothes against the dark leather of the interior, the shadows of the clouded day that darkened his eye and hovered at the low corners of his lips.

"Out to the pub. I go mad if I don't leave home often enough."

Nicholas nodded. "It is difficult to spend too much time with one's parents." His hand tapped a small rhythm on the seat. "But appreciate them while you have them, Hughes." He sank back into the cushions, crossing his legs and arms, shoulders hunched. Melancholic as ever, Marlowe thought. A few moments of silence passed between them, while memories drifted, unwanted through Marlowe's mind of Nicholas as a boy. How quiet he had been then, always the more cautious, the more responsible of the two. How had he ever earned himself a wife such as Arabella?

"How is married life treating you?" inquired Marlowe before he could stop himself. He wished he could take the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth. To his detriment, he was clearly feeling more himself now that he was drying out from the rain.

Nicholas smiled at him dryly. "You've met my wife, Hughes. What did you think of her?"

A delicate question if Marlowe had ever heard one. "She's very vivacious. Not the type of wife I ever thought I would see you with." And if Marlowe were honest with himself, which apparently he was making an unfortunate habit of, she, however Marlowe admired and lusted for her, was less of a wife than a man such as Nicholas deserved.

Nicholas smiled again. Marlowe could not tell if it was a true expression. "Yes, she burns as fiercely as a flame, though guessing her moods is like dancing with the wind. She lights me up as well, Hughes. Sparks something inside of me I can't explain." He had been leaning forward as he spoke of her. He slumped back again when done as if the words had been compelled him, roused him forwards. "Forgive me. Perhaps I have said too much of a personal matter."

"It is nothing," said Marlowe. Nicholas didn't have to apologize or explain. Marlowe understood. "Congratulations," he said stiffly, "you sound very happy."

"Is it happiness?" Nicholas wondered, looking out the gray window. A moment passed. He turned his gray eyes back towards Marlowe. "She was rather taken with you, you know."

Marlowe's heart skipped a beat. He stretched his hand out on his thigh. His fingers were long and pale. The scar tissue glinted like silver moons where the shrapnel had been removed. "Oh?"

"You played her savior in the woods. She couldn't walk for days, poor thing, but she was so grateful to you for helping her back so that everyone else could enjoy themselves."

"Any gentleman would do the same," Marlowe said stiffly. He knew himself to be in dangerous territory. He licked his lips. "She spoke most highly of you," he said. "Asked me for stories of you when we were young."

A smile split Nicholas's face and this time, it reached his eyes. Marlowe grimaced internally. Were lies coming so easily to him now? Was it wrong to spare his friend's feelings? Was it wrong to mislead his friend so that he could bed his wife? Yes, on that count, it most certainly it was.

"I've heard that your family and the Jennings are planning a tour of the continent."

"The Italian peninsula," Marlowe said. "Miss Jennings has her heart set on seeing some of the great works of art from the Italian masters. And my mother is eager to please Miss Jennings, if you understand my meaning."

"A charming girl," Nicholas said knowingly. "Very sharp."

Marlowe flexed his fingers again, thinking of Miss Jennings's quick wit and easy nature. "She's very accomplished," he admitted. "A painter. And such a lovely singing voice."

Nicholas looked at him astutely. "Is your mother the only one eager to please Miss Jennings?"

Marlowe felt his color coming up. He pulled surreptitiously at his collar. "She's a charming young woman."

"Speaking of, I do believe that she invited my wife along on your tour."

Marlowe swallowed hard. "Is that so?"

"Lady Balfrey has been practically begging me to go. It's all she thinks of."

"And will she?" Marlowe scarcely knew what he preferred, so contorted was his psyche with lies and desires and half-conceived truths.

"Yes, of course," said Nicholas thoughtfully. "I find it difficult to refuse her almost anything she asks for. And myself as well. I only have to return by January. But we shall have plenty of time to join you."

"Excellent," said Marlowe, finding, as the carriage slowed, nearing the drive of his family home, that his voice was curiously flat. Silence settled between them. Nicholas watched him from the shadows, still and unreadable. There was something in his eyes Marlowe couldn't fathom. A sadness, perhaps.

The carriage lurched and bumped on the gravelly path that led to the house. Marlowe licked his lips. "I'm sure we will have a most excellent time."

"Do you miss those times?'

"Pardon?"

"When we were young?"

Marlowe paused, thrown off his guard by the question. "I've never considered it. I do find myself thinking back to those times more often now than I did before the war." He felt self-conscious after saying it, though he did not know why. They had reached the end of the drive. The carriage bumped to a stop. "Thank you for the ride, Balfrey."

Nicholas nodded but held up his hand. "It's been so long since I've been home," he said in a faraway tone. "I regret that I let our friendship lapse in the time that I was gone. It has been wonderful to see you again, Marlowe... Lieutenant. It reminds me of happier times."

Marlowe stiffened, his hand reaching for the door. "I could have been more steadfast in my own correspondence as well," he realized. "You know I was never much of a writer. I was sorry to hear of your father's passing. I should have said it sooner."

Nicholas looked out the window and nodded as if to himself. "No apologies necessary." He turned and smiled, if rather sadly. "I look forward to Italy," he said. "I do miss the sun on these rainy days."

**********

"Kate! Katherine, darling!"

Miss Jennings concentrated on the paper in front of her. Her lips compressed into a thin line as she guided a charcoal pencil over the page. Marlowe watched her intently, studying the thin spray of freckles across her nose, the flick of her sapphire eyes over the page, the slim hand that guided the pencil.

"Katherine!"

Another thick line on the paper. Her dark lashes fluttered in annoyance.

"Miss Jennings, dear!" This time it was his mother's voice intruding down the hall, accompanied by the sound of her slippered feet down the parquet.

Marlowe grinned as Kate, Katherine, Miss Jennings, rolled her eyes. "I do believe you're being summoned," he said to her from across the round table. He laid down the newspaper he had been pretending to read while he watched her draw.

She sat the pencil down just as Marlowe's mother appeared in the room. "Miss Jennings, dear, your mother sorely needs your advice."

Miss Jennings swiveled her head over her shoulder. "Tell her that I have told her several times to take the green one for evenings and the white muslin for mornings." She leaned her head in her hand, smudging charcoal against her rosy cheek.

"She is asking now about parasols, dear. She is trying to narrow her selections down to just three or four."

Miss Jennings gave Marlowe a long-suffering look from her seat but arranged her face into a pleasant expression before rising. "Do pardon me, Lieutenant. My mother is having a parasol crisis, it seems. She's been all aflutter with the packing. I simply must rush to her aid." Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she smoothed out her skirts, noticing too late that she left another smudge of charcoal against the white fabric. Her mouth rounded into a little o as she saw it.

He smiled at her. "Think nothing of it. And tell your mother, if my opinion counts for anything, that I have always favored that pink one she has. You know... with the tasteful ribbon trim or what have you."

Miss Jenning's eyes went wide in amusement. The parasol in question was a monstrosity that she had privately mocked--a steep and tasseled concoction in pink silk with appliqued flowers and ruffles and more than its fair share of beadwork. "I'll be sure to convey your message," she said graciously.

Marlowe's mother sat across from him at the table, taking Miss Jennings's place. "Since when have you been concerned with ladies parasols, dear?" she said, pursing her lips.

Marlowe shrugged and reached across the cherry-topped table, pulling Miss Jenning's loose-leaf papers and pencil towards himself. "I thought you would be pleased I was taking an interest." He absently twirled the pencil between his fingers and sat it against a blank page, trying to draw the curving prow of a ship. The motion felt good, if painful. It seemed to challenge the stiff muscles in his hand. He frowned at the pencil, trying to make it move as smoothly as he had seen Miss Jennings do it.

"I am pleased." She folded her hands on the table, watching Marlowe as he drew. "Curiously pleased," she said. "And interested to see if you continue to be pleasing during our trip to the continent."

"I shouldn't hold out hope for it, Mother," he said pleasantly.

"Impertinent boy," she said, but there was a tone of affection in her voice.

He looked up from his drawing and was surprised to see her smiling at him. He suddenly realized that her dark hair was lightening in her later middle age. Strands of silver-gray shone amongst the brown, softening her face, which had seemed so stark when he had been a boy.

He noticed movement at the doorway. The Jenning's butler was entering behind her. "A message for Lieutenant Hughes," he announced, holding a silver tray towards Marlowe. Marlowe reached for the small folded paper that sat upon it.

"From whom?"

"From Lord Balfrey, sir."

Marlowe's hand froze for an instant, but he forced himself to take the paper. What could Nicholas want with him? He unfolded the letter quickly. It was in a feminine scrawl. Meet me in the glade. -A. He licked his lips and glanced up. His mother was watching him. "I must take my leave, Mother."

She looked at him, baffled. "Is everything alright with his lordship?"

"Yes, of course. I am merely going to meet him in the village to discuss some details of the trip. I expect that I will be home before you."

"You should take your leave of Mrs. and Miss Jennings, of course. I'm sure they will be disappointed that you are going so soon."

He nodded curtly as the butler fetched his hat and overcoat. His mother accompanied him to the large bedroom where Mrs. and Miss Jennings were looking through a heap of belongings. Miss Jennings's smile faltered as she took in his appearance. "Surely you aren't leaving so soon, Lieutenant? We could use a cool head such as yours in these trying times."

"Do stop your teasing, Kate!" her mother chided from behind a bed piled high with colorful dresses. "This is no laughing matter!"

"Oh la, Maman, we are only leaving for a few weeks. You do not need to take your entire wardrobe!"

"I hope you'll forgive me for leaving so soon," Marlowe said, mostly to Miss Jennings who was giving him an impish smile.

"He's off to see Lord Balfrey," his mother supplied. She crossed the threshold and went to look at the pile of clothes. "You really must take this blue silk, Susan. It will bring out your eyes."

"I have the blue cotton. Should I take the silk as well?"

"You can never have too much silk," his mother countered, running a delicate hand over the garment.

"Do men not have such trouble packing?" Mrs. Jennings inquired. "I do apologize for being so distracted, Lieutenant."

"It is not necessary for women to have such trouble packing, maman, but you do insist on making a fuss," said Miss Jennings, folding up a pale shawl.

"I confess that I will leave such matters to my valet," said Marlowe. "I am sure that he will ensure that I am properly outfitted."

"Can you trust a valet to know about foreign climes?" questioned Mrs. Jennings. "At any rate, I am not a little surprised that you are away, Lieutenant. It is chaos in this house. I assure you, we are much more often cool-headed." Queenie, the pug, barked at her feet as if to reinforce her point.

Miss Jennings gave him an exasperated look. "Do take me with you," she pleaded. "I do not know how much more packing I can take."

"Oh hush," said her mother. "It is unseemly to tease in such a way."

Something tugged in Marlowe's chest as he looked at the scene. Lovely Miss Jennings torn between amusement and irritation with her fretting mother. His own mother, sitting as refined as a queen upon a luggage trunk. He smiled at their tableau all in a pleasant sort of amusement as he realized that he didn't want to leave. The thought shook him. He knew that Arabella would be waiting for him, but somehow, he wanted to linger here, in a place he thought he would never be, with people he had been determined to dislike.

"You must pass along my regards to Lord Balfrey," said Mrs. Jennings. "We are so excited to know that he and his wife will be joining our little party. Though I have barely seen the pair of them since he told us."

Marlowe straightened and tipped his head. "Of course. I must be on my way."

He took one last look over his shoulder as he left the room. It was of Miss Jennings, whose dark blue eyes sparked with mischief, her lips caught halfway in a smile.

*******

He saw her clothes before he saw her. They were neatly arranged in the grass, set safely away from the flowing stream and the small pool. Her horse was tied up nearby. The mare's ears flicked as Marlowe approached. He quickly dismounted and led his own horse by the reins, tying him up nearby. Arabella watched him from the water. The droplets were dripping between her pale breasts, sliding down over her nipples, small and pink as rosebuds. His cock stiffened in his trousers at the sight of her, his water nymph, waiting in the glade.

"Arabella," he said. His heart thudded just looking at her. He had so much he wanted to say, but the look in her eyes made him forget. "You shouldn't have sent that note," he choked out. "It was too risky."

She made a pouting face. "I missed you," she said. "You are so often with the Jennings these days. Never with me." She moved her own hand to her breast, pinching the nipple, massaging the firm globe. Her lips parted in a sigh.

"My mother is planning the voyage with Mrs. Jennings," he said. "And you know that it is risky for us to spend time together in the presence of your husband." He hadn't realized it, but he had taken a few steps towards her. His mind felt slow, stupid, as if he truly were under some spell.

Her voice was husky. "He isn't here now," she said, stepping forwards in the pool. Her breasts bounced slightly with the motion. He licked his lips as her narrow waist appeared from under the water which slipped in rivulets down her skin.

"You must be freezing," he said.

"You will warm me up." She was out of the pool now and reaching for the flap of his trousers. In seconds, his cock was in her soft hands, and she was sliding his length up and down. He was going mad for her, he truly was. He had wanted to tell her how he was afraid to do this anymore, of what it would do to Nicholas, of what it could do to his reputation, to hers... But instead of saying anything, he pulled off his jacket and waistcoat, tugged his shirt from his breeches.

There were tiny chill bumps on her skin. He raked his hands over her arms, pulling her small hands from his cock. He needed to be inside her, to feel her delicious warmth all around him. In a few awkward motions, he freed himself from his boots and breeches. The air was cold on his naked skin. She watched him with heavily lidded eyes.

"Marlowe," she purred as he kissed her neck, lowering her to the grass. She opened her legs for him and he plunged into her hot, wet core, hips searching for release against hers. "I cannot wait to spend every day with you."