The Officer's Temptation Ch. 09

He licked his lips. She did resemble Kate. If he lowered his lashes and looked through them, the resemblance was so close that he could see her. The way she had looked that day after the rainstorm, that translucent dress sticking to her skin. His breathing sped up as Arabella ran her delicate hands over the woman's neck, sloping over her shoulders to the swell of her full breasts. She cupped them lightly, ran a fingertip over her nipples, causing them to pinch into little buds. And then slowly, watching Marlowe the entire time, she lowered her lips to the whore's breast, flicking out her nimble tongue against the areola before sucking it into her pink mouth.

The whore moaned slightly, biting her lip and taking her other breast in hand. Marlowe was frozen to the spot, watching as Arabella kissed up the pale neck. Their mouths met. They kissed each other softly, lips sweeping over lips, tongues lightly slipping against each other. The whore reached behind Arabella as they kissed, undoing the buttons that ran down her back. When she could reach no further, she flipped her around, kissing her neck as Arabella arched against her. Her dress crumpled on the floor. And then her shift. She wore no stays.

Now both naked, Arabella ran her kisses down the other woman's belly, pulling her down to the floor. She flicked her eyes at Marlowe, and then both women began inching towards him. He was frozen in the chair, watching as they approached with hungry eyes. He had no idea what to do, and then he felt two pairs of hands on his crotch, unbuttoning the flap of his trousers, slipping out his rock-hard cock. He groaned as Arabella slipped her mouth over the head, hungrily sucking him in while the whore flicked her tongue along the side of his length. The whore who looked remarkably like Kate. Her face flashed in his mind's eye. The dancing blue eyes and playful smile. The little freckles that dotted her cheeks.

"No," he gasped. He pulled himself straight, popping himself right out of Arabella's welcoming mouth.

The dark-haired woman pulled away in confusion. Arabella looked up in alarm. He pushed her lightly away and stood, painfully tucking himself back into his trousers with gritted teeth. Arabella jumped to her feet beside him. The whore slumped on the floor, a flicker of boredom crossing her face. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness.

"What are you doing, Marlowe?" Arabella's eyes were intense as she searched his face.

He put his hands gently on her shoulders. "What I should have done the first time. I'm sorry, Arabella, but I can't do this."

An expression of pure shock struck her features. "What do you mean? I'm giving you everything that you could possibly want!"

Exasperated, Marlowe rubbed his eyes. "This isn't what I want." He waved his hand vaguely around the room. "I am tired of this, of lust and lies; this deception! Go home to your husband."

She scoffed. "Don't fool yourself into thinking that this sudden change of heart has anything to do with Nicholas. It is not as if you have suddenly developed a conscience! This is all about that silly little chit!"

Marlowe picked her shift up off the floor and threw it to her. "Get dressed. They are expecting you in the gardens. I can not think of what you meant to achieve with this ill-conceived notion, this farce of affection, but this can never happen again. You and I are finished." He felt a wave of relief break over him as it said it. It was as if a spell had been broken.

Arabella yanked her shift over her head, mussing her blonde curls. When her face reappeared, the anger had drained away and her features had shifted into something closer to despair. "It was no face, Lieutenant. I wanted to show you what you have with me. I can do things that your Miss Jennings would never even dream of!" A shadow of some emotion crossed her eyes and she blinked rapidly. "I love you. I thought you knew that?"

"You do not," he said tenderly. He was surprised at the calm in his own voice. "You do not and you never have." He looked around the room. The whore was picking at her fingernails, watching them with a disinterested expression. He wondered if she even spoke enough English to follow the thread of the conversation. "I do not know what this is, but this is not love. Love is not lies." The realization was wrenching in his gut. He closed his mouth tightly, afraid of the emotion that was welling up within him. He stood, woodenly reaching for the door. "Do you want me to find you a hackney?"

"Get out!" she wailed. "Just go!"

He did not look at her face as he shut the door behind him.

***********************************************************

It had been three days since Marlowe had abandoned Arabella in the brothel. Three days with his stomach in knots as he waited to find out what she would do-if she would confess the whole sordid truth to Nicholas, or worse, to Kate. He had avoided her as much as was possible, skipping outings, trying not to look at her pale face over shared meals. When he did catch her eyes, they were cold and flat. He had no idea what she was thinking or what she could be planning.

He'd had no more strength to go through another round of the charade tonight, so he'd gone out, and that was how he found himself slumped against the wall of the tavern and staring into the drink in his hand. He had made less progress into its depths than he would have liked. His mind was churning and his mood kept flying from relief at finally having shaken Arabella off to utter despair. And the question of Kate was still too much to think about. They were just friends; they had promised each other. But still, he was noticing something strange in his chest when he thought of her. And when he thought about the things that Arabella might say to her, well that was enough to make him reach for the bottle again.

Someone plopped themselves down onto a bench in front of him and Marlowe almost knocked the bottle of wine completely over in alarm. "Fuck, Balfrey! What the devil are you doing here?" He clenched his hand into a fist, expecting the worst, but Nicholas appeared calm. He was not carrying a sword, nor any pistol or dagger that Marlowe could see. He supposed that Nicholas might have one hidden. A secret dagger through the heart was no less than he deserved. Marlowe eyed him warily, but Nicholas only leaned forward on his elbows.

"You mother missed you at dinner." Nicholas pushed his dark hair from his eyes. It had always been prone to flopping. Much like Marlowe's stomach.

"It's kind of her to care." He took great care to pronounce the letters individually. If he weren't such a worm, he would have been proud of himself for the lack of slurring.

"We all missed you at dinner."

An image of Arabella's flushed face flashed in his mind. "I doubt that."

"What is with this attitude, Hughes? I thought that I was supposed to be the pensive one. You're supposed to be the fun one with the devil-may-care attitude."

Marlowe made a non-committal sound and finished off the wine remaining in his glass. "I am the fun one. I'm drinking ." The wine was not a good vintage. It was rather sharp around the edges and burned his throat on the way down. It only made sense-he was not in a very nice tavern. Consequences, he thought darkly. There were always consequences.

A serving girl had found her way over to Nicholas. She passed him a glass, and he served himself from the bottle. Marlowe wished that he had thought to intoxicate himself more thoroughly before having this conversation. He'd been avoiding Nicholas as studiously as he had been Arabella. But still, Nicholas did not look angry. Upset, perhaps, but not as angry as he should have been if Arabella had finally told him the truth. And If they weren't going to be dueling, then he might as well drink some more, he thought as he poured himself another glass, nearly emptying the bottle. It made a dull chunking sound as he replaced it on the table.

"Christ, save some for me, will you?"

"Sorry." Marlowe tried to put as much feeling into it as he could, to convey his wretchedness without actually admitting anything to his friend. He wondered how much time would have to pass before he was able to relax, knowing that Arabella would take their secret shame to her grave. Of course, that all depended on if there was a child...

Nicholas sighed. "Hughes... I wondered if I might speak with you, as a friend."

Marlowe's eyebrows raised, but Nicholas took it as an invitation. "It's my wife. I need your advice, Hughes. She's... she's been so distraught."

Marlowe's throat was so dry that he almost choked on the wine. "Do you know why?"

Nicholas rubbed his palms together. "Do you remember I told you that I thought she might be with child?"

Marlowe clenched his jaw.

"She found out that she isn't."

His heart felt like it almost stopped beating in his chest. The air seemed to leave his lungs. And for a moment it was as if the world faded from sight. He slumped backwards with his head against the wall. "Oh," was the only sound that he was able to breathe.

Nicholas mistook his reaction for discomfort. "I know, I shouldn't bring you into all of this. You don't need to be thinking of my wife's ah... courses or know the goings-on of our intimacies, but Hughes, I have no idea how to console her. She has completely withdrawn."

Marlowe put his hands under the table. He couldn't seem to stop them from shaking at the news. He was truly free of her. Thank God in heaven for his mercy, but there would be no child! Everything was going to be alright. "Why are you telling me this, Balfrey?"

"Because I don't know what to do." Nicholas sighed. "This will sound silly, but I never thought that it would be so hard to please one's wife. Or rather, I always thought that I would be the difficult one, withdrawn and hard to reach. But she has drawn everything out of me!" He buried his face in his hands.

"I don't know that we should be discussing this, Nicholas. How could I possibly offer you advice? I have no wife of my own."

"I don't need advice." Nicholas poured himself a second glass of wine. His dark eyes were glossed over, distant and sad. "I just need... Well, Hughes. I just don't...I don't know who to talk to. Or how to talk to anyone. Or how anyone ever lives with the weight of these thoughts, these cares that society insists are not to be shared. With whom can I speak? My father is dead. And if he were not, the best he could say to me is 'buck up, boy, do not trouble yourself over a woman.' And my friends! The men at the club, the men at parliament, what are our conversations but politics and business and vast platitudes of nothing? And without Arabella to speak to... The weight is crushing me, Hughes. I thought that if anyone could understand it would be you, who knew me as a boy. Perhaps we do not have the understanding we once did, but I can tell that something has been troubling you as well."

Marlowe rubbed a thumb between his brows. "I understand, Nicholas. I do."

"Then why should we not discuss it? Are we meant to be statues, stone and cold and unable to react to our fates?" The shadows seemed to dance across his face. "When did things change? We used to be as brothers."

When had things changed? Marlowe didn't know. When had it transpired and how? Slowly or all at once? When had he begun to chafe at his life, the empty nights and long afternoons, the riding and the gambling, the smoking and the drinking and the endless games of cards? He had longed to be away, further away than London, further than England. He had wanted to do something that had mattered, something important and adventurous. And when he had tried to speak of it to Nicholas, of his plans to join the army, he hadn't understood. Nicholas was at home in parlours and gardens and studies filled with leather books. He didn't even like the bustle of London, always wanted to be in the country where the days were so slow that Marlowe felt as if he were drowning between the ticks of the clock. How could Nicholas have understood?

And so the resentment had grown, and the former Lord Balfrey had died, and Marlowe, who had never been good at recognizing, let alone voicing his own emotions, hadn't known what to say, how to console his friend, who had always been quiet and introverted. And so he had left to find the adventure that he craved, the action that could distract him from that well of deep discontentment that had opened up in him. "We've always been different," he finally said. His hands had stopped trembling. He rested them on the table and looked at the scars.

Nicholas scoffed. "Yes, and how could I forget it? I always wanted to be like you, you know. To be strong and brave."

Marlowe raised his head. "I'm neither. I am foolish and weak."

Nicholas ignored him. "I was so jealous of you. Always bold and carefree. You could talk to any stranger in your path while I was meek and afraid."

Marlowe laughed darkly. "And I was jealous of you. I wanted to be important. I wanted to be wise and clever. And since I could be neither, I wanted to do something that mattered."

"So did I!"

"But you are in parliament! You do matter! You get to shape the very law, use your intelligence, to make decisions that matter. What did I ever do with my mind?" Nicholas couldn't answer that. Marlowe could tell by the firm line of his mouth that he was searching to find an answer. He laughed darkly. "Exactly. I did nothing. And so I went off to fight in other men's wars."

Nicholas crossed his arms. "You are full of potential, Marlowe. I have longed for the day when you would wake up and seize it."

Marlowe thought of Kate's comments about studying architecture. "Maybe I am getting closer."

Nicholas gave him a wry smile. "Then in the meantime, maybe you could turn your mind to helping me understand my wife."

Marlowe grimaced and swallowed a long draught of wine. "What do you think I know of women?"

Nicholas laughed darkly. "Everything! Our entire lives no matter where you have gone, you've turned a pretty pair of eyes." He sighed and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm afraid to say that I was worried that even my own wife might prefer you to me if she were offered the choice."

Marlowe nearly choked on his drink. "You mustn't say such things."

Nicholas shrugged. "Have you ever been in love, Hughes?"

"I thought I was. But now I think not."

"It is not as pretty as the poets have proclaimed. Oh yes, it can be fair, it can lift your spirits and make you soar. But it is also responsibility, a never-ending burden."

"Surely it does not always have to be so difficult." He thought about Kate, her smile, and the crinkle around her blue eyes when she laughed. He felt strangely calm around her. Could love feel like that, and not like the difficult mire, the tangle of feelings that he had felt with Arabella?

"Perhaps." Nicholas sighed heavily. "I can only tell you what I feel. I would move the very mountains if I could to make that woman happy."

"But you cannot."

"I cannot."

"Then what is there left to do?"

Nicholas's lip curled in a sardonic smile. "Drink."

"You stole my idea." But Marlowe said it half-heartedly. His chest was feeling lighter than it had in months and nothing was looking less appetizing than the cheap and bitter wine he had been drinking.

Nicholas eyed him thoughtfully. "What sorrows have you been trying to drown? You've never been one to discuss your feelings at length, Hughes, but I hope that you know that I can be trusted."

Marlowe winced, knowing that he was the one that was not worthy of anyone's trust. "It's nothing."

"A woman?"

He fiddled with his cup, but the non-answer was response enough for Nicholas.

"Miss Jennings, then?"

"Why does everyone think that there is something going on between Miss Jennings and I?" he snapped. "She is simply a dear friend."

Nicholas cocked a brow. "Are you lying to me or are you lying to yourself? I hope you do not think me so caught up in my own sorrows that I am blind." He frowned. "Forgive me for my impudence, but I seem to be saying all manner of improprietous things tonight, so I might as well speak plainly. Miss Jennings seems quite taken with you, Hughes. Any fool can see it. What did I tell you about always having a pretty pair of eyes following you? And Miss Jennings is quite the beauty."

"She's more than her beauty."

"So that's how it is," Nicholas mused.

"No. Even if I... Even if she... " He frowned and pushed his fingers through his hair. "She's too good for the likes of me, Balfrey. Even if she did think of me that way. What could I possibly have to offer her? She is so kind and clever and good. And I'm..." he gestured his hands at the table, at the bottle of wine that they had unfortunately drained. "I'm nothing."

Nicholas sighed. "You're not nothing, Hughes. When did you stop being such a cocky bastard?"

Marlowe tensed his hand reflexively, spread it flat on the table. "Some things will take the confidence straight out of a man." He thought for a moment he could smell the dense scent of the earth, metallic with blood. He blinked rapidly and the sensation was gone.

Sympathy flashed over Nicholas's face. "I know the war must have been difficult. You can talk to me, you know."

Marlowe grit his teeth. "I do not like to think of it, and yet it is always there, just behind my thoughts, waiting to be remembered."

Nicholas nodded slowly. "For me, it's my father's death. And that is only one death. I can not imagine what you have seen."

Marlowe's gaze fixed on a spot across the room. His eyes blurred for a moment, but he took a deep breath. "We should go home. I'm tired of drinking."

Nicholas snorted. "The bottle is empty, anyways." They rose on their feet, scraping the benches against the wide wooden planks of the floor. Nicholas gave him a mournful look. "I'm sorry for disturbing your solitude tonight. I just... " His hand curled into a fist beside his thigh.

Marlowe left some coins on the table. "It turns out that I did not mind the company. And Balfrey, I am sorry about Arabella.." The words made him feel sick, but he pushed away the guilt. There would be time to sort through that later. "I'm sure things will improve between you soon."

Nicholas did not respond, only pressed a hand against his shoulder before walking away.