The Officer's Temptation | A Regency Romance

Chapter Five: A Lesson Unlearned

Marlowe could feel his heart banging in his chest. Its rhythm was as quick and uneven as a horse's gallop. The darkness pressed all around him, consumed his sight. He sensed Arabella near him, heard the small creak of the table behind her and the rustle of her silk dress as she pulled away from him and fiddled with her clothing. The smell of damp earth was thick in his nose, clotted with the warm musk of their bodies. Sweat was beading cold against his chest, causing his linen shirt to cling to his skin. His hands fluttered at his sides. He put them to use tucking his hem into his trousers, buttoning the flap on his breeches, smoothing his hair.

The voices were still outside--he strained his ears to hear. It was the lilting clop of the lower classes, not the rounded speech of the dinner party guests. Servants, then. He looked towards Arabella to reassure her, but could see only the faintest outlines of her features, the soft, silver curve of her cheek, wan as a crescent moon. He felt for her hand, but she yanked it from his grasp. The moments expanded, the voices grew louder. He prayed to God that the servants had not seen the flicker of light in the shed, but then abandoned his prayers mid-thought, chest tight with shame as he realized that he was praying to not be caught in the act of lying with another man's wife.

He cursed himself for his own reckless stupidity. The moments passed. The voices began to fade. The pressure in his chest eased and he felt his limbs loosen in relief. Arabella sighed beside him and leaned into his body. Lightening hot pain shot through his injured hand. He hadn't realized that he had been clenching it against the rough edge of the table. He swallowed, tried to steady his nerves. "I'll make sure they are gone," he whispered a moment later. She touched his arm in agreement.

He cracked open the door and blinked against the comparative brightness of the moon-lit night. The house lawns stretched before him, dark gray against the deep blue sky. There was no one in sight. No lanterns bobbed from the expanse of woods from whence they had come. The house windows were shut, though light still flared from their depths.

He opened the door wider for Arabella. "There's no one," he said. She slipped out, closing and latching the door behind her. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the key in the lock, but he heard it click as it turned home.

"Oh Marlowe," she whispered. "I was so afraid someone would find us!"

He touched her soft shoulder in reassurance, although it rankled him. The whole adventure had been Arabella's idea, after all. "It's alright, darling. Let's go on up to the house." He passed another hand through his hair, slightly damp and curling from his exertions, and took a breath of the sharp night air, trying to dislodge the musk of the dust from his nose.

They walked in breathless silence, clinging to each other's hands. As they passed a small line of box shrubs that delineated the small gardens, Arabella paused, pulling a hand through the branches. She came away with a handful of small, waxy leaves and immediately deposited them in her hair. "Since we are supposed to be coming from the wood," she said by way of explanation. "And my ankle, remember. You had better carry me.

"Of course." He had completely forgotten her convenient lie. He gathered her into arms. She threw her arms around his neck and leaned in close.

"I wish we could always be like this," she sighed. Her breath was pleasantly warm on his neck as he carried her towards the house. He thought of her lips, the pleasure he had felt encased in them. His neck and chest burned hot with the memories.

The door was in sight now, open against the night air. A lone maid was in the parlour, picking up a serving tray that had been left abandoned on the low table when the party had retreated on their walk. The cups on it chinked as she started in fright to see Marlowe suddenly appear at the door, the lady of the house swooning in his arms. Arabella groaned weakly. "Set me on the sofa, if you please, Lieutenant Hughes." Her voice was low and formal.