Boundless

by Lynne Connolly

  He would discover everything in time. The brooch, her confession, and her old childhood friend Sir Jeffrey Creasey were all linked somehow. Sir Jeffrey could be the person who’d deflowered her, or he knew who had done it, and held that knowledge over her. Adrian had done his homework, and from the dates Sir Jeffrey had married and left to join the army when he was eighteen, which would have made Livia not yet sixteen. While country girls thought nothing of marrying at fifteen, these days society preferred to wait until the young lady was at least eighteen. If Sir Jeffrey was the one, he’d done Livia no favors. And that was deliberately putting the situation mildly.

  He went outside, where, not surprisingly, her family lingered in the hall. “You may come back in. Thank you. Livia has recovered. A temporary attack of nerves, that is all.”

  It would have to be. Because, virgin or not, he determined to have her.

  Since they were so close, he’d make a visit to Doctor’s Commons next. He might as well arm himself for any event that came his way.

  Chapter 10

  Taking five days to travel to their country home tended to be about normal for the Shaws, especially when December had arrived with gray skies and almost constant drizzle. Was cold rain the most miserable weather in the world?

  As she stared up with relief at the grand front of Haxby Hall, something inside her fell away. The tension that affected her every time she visited London. This was home. She had expected it to be so for the rest of her life.

  Except that she’d actually signed the marriage contract. Persuaded that the document was not a final decision, she’d let her family and most of all, Adrian cajole her into signing. Their constant assurances that she could draw back if she wished proved an incentive, rather than a deterrent.

  Ever since she’d had her doubts. Now she was home, that scene in Andrew’s office felt like a dream.

  She had made one confession, but not the other. His easy acceptance of her non-virgin status came as a relief and a concern. If she’d imagined that fact would deter him, she was sadly mistaken, and now she had to face the possibility that she truly was about to marry. Unless she made that last confession.

  But she suspected even that might not put him off. He was right, of course, she’d used that excuse for too long. She could have confessed it before and received absolution, but she had never met a man she’d wanted to tell. And knowing what she had gone through, her parents had not forced the issue. With her money and her powerful network of relatives, a thin piece of skin was no bar to marriage.

  However, the story that had seared its way through London the day before they left was certainly a bar to any marriage with the Duke of Preston. A scurrilous tale of Adrian and his friends in the St. James’s Club, roaring drunk with whores on their laps. If Adrian could not refrain even for a day, then she would not go through with this marriage. And so she would tell him.

  The skies found the extra impetus to increase the power of the rain, which pattered down on her bare head with the promise of more, so she lifted her skirts and scurried up the stone staircase to the top where the family butler waited for them. “His grace has arrived, your ladyship,” he told her, in a voice of doom.

  “Which duke?” After all, she knew rather too many. Her sister Drusilla had just married one. And perhaps she did not want the answer to be the one she expected. A few days to collect herself and prepare for the Christmas season would be useful.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Preston.”

  Garland closed the front door behind her since she was the last person to enter. The chill of the Great Hall invaded her. Nobody stayed here for long in the winter. It was situated at the wrong side of the house for the sun to reach it, particularly when the days were short. Already the sky was dimming. Or maybe another rainstorm was on the way.

  Her mother was handing her cloak to the maid, but rather than follow suit, Livia gave them a vague wave and scurried up the stone staircase, heading for her room. She did not have to think about where she was going, despite Haxby being such a warren. The stairs up to the second floor were carpeted, so her outdoor shoes puttered up them. Finch might not have arrived yet, having traveled up yesterday when the rain was at its worst. The family had elected to wait another day at the comfortable inn rather than face the floods.

  Flinging open the door to her bedroom, she discovered she was right—Finch had not arrived. Either she climbed out of this damp, creased riding habit on her own, or she called for a maid.

  Her traveling trunk stood in the center of the room and her dressing case was laid on the table. Her jewelry would be with her maid, but she could manage without it. She touched the brooch pinned to her jacket. She had the piece she cared most about.

  “You’re here.”

  Spinning around, she confronted the man leaning against her door jamb, his hands thrust in his breeches pockets. Her heart missed a beat, then throbbed harder as if to catch up. So her reaction to him remained the same. A pity. She’d tried to suppress her foolish emotions where he was concerned. Tossing her head, she tried to appear cooler than she felt. “Indeed. Well observed.”

  His smile broadened. “I arrived late last night. I tired of the carriage and rode the last twenty miles.”

  She took a step forward, drawn, as always, by his vitality. “You must have been drenched.”

  “I was, but fortunately I’m waterproof and this house is very well run. They had a hot bath ready for me within half an hour of my arrival.”

  The vision that shot to her brain was instant and unstoppable. Adrian naked, in a tub filled with steaming water before the fire. Herself leaning over him, dressed in something diaphanous. His hands on her, drawing her down, a wicked smile on his face.

  Hastily she turned away, going to the dressing table and lifting the lid of her dressing case. The gleam of cut, polished crystal and shiny silver greeted her. Finding her hairbrush, she stroked her fingers over the monogram engraved on the back.

  “You’ll need that re-engraved, will you not? Or perhaps I should buy you a new set.”

  Of course he would know what she was thinking. “But you won’t have to. I’m not changing my name, after all.”

  “Are you not?” Unbidden, he entered the room. At least he left the door open.

  She should be alarmed, but she wasn’t. The walking scandal entered her room and approached her, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable.

  He took the brush from her unresistant fingers and laid it back in the case, annoyingly finding its slot, although he did not look away from her. That smile would be the death of her.

  Taking her hands, he lifted first one to his lips, then the other. “I missed you.”

  She returned his smile. “Would I could believe that. I heard of your adventure before you left London.” She hardened her heart. She could not do this and she had to tell him.

  He raised a brow. “Which particular adventure?”

  “The one in the St. James’s Club. Five nights ago, was it?” She pulled her hands away from him, determining to wash them thoroughly. “You had a whore on your lap.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “And where did you hear that from?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, yes it does. Ask one of your brothers. Lord Malton was there.”

  She gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Marcus?” Her oldest brother was deeply in love with his wife. Or so she had thought. Did he, then, engage in this orgy?

  “He was engaged in the same activity I was.” His mouth thinned into a straight line. “Ask him.” He scanned her face, his dark eyes hard. “Come to me when you have satisfied your curiosity. And do not believe everything you hear.”

  She stared after him, before quietly closing her door and setting her back against it. She sensed hurt in his anger, and she felt in the wrong. But she had only spoken to him about something that had eaten her up since
hearing about it.

  She had no reason to doubt what she’d heard. But if Marcus had been there—what had happened? And if she confronted Marcus with what she knew about the orgy and Marcus confirmed it, what would she say to Viola?

  During a woman’s pregnancy, some men would leave their wives alone, and they’d seek out whores to feed their urges without bothering their spouse. Was Marcus one of those?

  A knock came on the door. Had he come back? But no, it was Finch, here at last with a harassed expression and the promise of a hot bath. She busied herself lighting the fire laid ready in the hearth, chattering that she had forced the driver to get up at dawn so they would get here in time. Livia hadn’t even noticed the chill in the room. She’d thought the chill came from her heart.

  A man who thought nothing of consorting with whores would not become part of her life. Ever.

  * * * *

  Marcus didn’t arrive until the next day. During dinner the night before, Livia emulated her mother. She behaved with perfect decorum, smiled politely, but heard very little. Pleasing a headache, she went to bed early, leaving Adrian holding court and charming her whole family.

  This would be the worst Christmas she had ever experienced. But she would not allow anyone to see it. If dignity was all she had left, then she would use it for all she was worth. But she could not use it for long. The strain became too much and by the next morning she had a real headache.

  Although insisting Finch prepare her clothes for the day, and allowing her maid to give her a wash-down, she had to stop in order to vomit into the slop pail. Finch insisted on putting her back to bed, behaving more like a nurse than a lady’s maid.

  Livia felt so awful she let Finch do it, and suffered a visit from her mother, assuring her she would be fine. “The journey beat me down,” she said.

  “And the stress of recent weeks.” Lady Strenshall patted her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll cope with it. Now relax.”

  “Is Marcus here yet?” She desperately wanted to get to her brother before Adrian did. Otherwise she wouldn’t trust anything Marcus told her. Men stuck together, everyone knew that, and she owed this to herself as well as to Viola.

  The story had involved raucous goings-on and a great deal of whoring and drinking. If it was true, her betrothal was at an end. She would not stand that kind of behavior. But Marcus?

  That worried her more than anything else. Her own heartache faded into insignificance next to the duty she would have to perform. Because Viola was a friend as much as she was a sister-in-law. Livia could not live knowing that Marcus was consorting with whores. Dangerous too, considering the diseases those women often carried. But to see Viola giving her heart to her husband, knowing otherwise, Livia couldn’t bear that. She was no saint. She knew she would slip up one day.

  “No, they are taking their time. They set out late because of the rainstorm, but they will be here tomorrow.”

  Livia sighed with relief. Although tempted to pour out what she had heard to her mother, she decided to keep her secret to herself, until she had spoken to her brother. Perhaps she should speak to another of her siblings. Drusilla would arrive with her new husband in time for Christmas, and Val was already here, with Charlotte. They had settled so well together it was as if they’d been married for years, even though they’d had trouble. Which was putting matters mildly. But while time had healed Val of his greatest excesses, she doubted Adrian would ever find the same thing. His wildness was deep-seated, part of him. “I should be better by tomorrow.”

  Lady Strenshall got to her feet. “You’ll be fine tomorrow. Ready to greet him, I’ll wager. Meantime, you’ve left your duke to his own devices. That might not be wise.”

  That was so much what Livia was thinking, that she started. “Then keep him away from the maids.” She tried for a smile, but she only managed a weak one.

  “Be sure,” her mother said, her hand on the door. “Be very sure of this step you are taking, Livia. There is no coming back from it. If in six months you discover you have made a mistake, you must deal with it the best you can. Do not come running home with your tail between your legs. Shaws do not behave that way.” A ghost of a smile flitted across her features. “However, I have heard no complaints from the housekeeper yet, and believe me, if there were any, I would hear.”

  So at least Adrian wasn’t seeking solace for her absence with the maids. Livia should be thankful for that, but for the life of her she could not.

  * * * *

  The next day Livia rose bright and early, and hovered at the front of the house, waiting for her brother’s arrival. She might have to wait all day. But the sun had come to dry the grounds after the rain of the past few days, and the Home Park looked freshly washed. The ground would be muddy, otherwise she’d don her oldest clothes and boots, and go for a walk. That would shake the cobwebs free.

  Slipping into a small room at the front of the house, she found a book and settled for a solitary day. She would not call attention to herself, and Adrian would not find her here, in the parlor that had been laid out as an afterthought. The builders had left the space during some alterations, and her mother had put a chair and table in here. Although the day was chilly, she spread a blanket around her shoulders and she was comfortable enough.

  Her book, however, proved less than engrossing.

  The sound of someone walking down the hallway reached her ears, and a door opening. Not her door, thankfully. But it would only be a maid, or rather, a footman, because the sounds were somewhat heavy.

  Then her door opened and Adrian stood there, gazing at her gravely. He closed the door and stood against it. “Livia.”

  Livia pulled all her dignity around her as her heart quickened its beat. “Yes?”

  “I promised myself I would stay away, but I could not.”

  “How did you find me? Who told you where to find me?” Only Finch knew. If she had taken a vail from Adrian, Livia would dismiss her immediately.

  He shook his head slightly. “Nobody. I have investigated every room on this floor. This is the third corridor I have tried. This place is more confusing than Hampton Court maze.”

  “I know the key to that,” she said, when she should really keep her mouth closed. She didn’t want a conversation, for heaven’s sake.

  “I wanted to assure myself that you were well. I worried for you.”

  She shrugged, and closed her book, resigned to the loss of her quiet day. “I had a headache. I get them sometimes.”

  He swallowed. “I see. I have them too, from time to time. They used to worry me. I’m glad to hear you’re recovered.”

  “Why do headaches worry you? Everybody gets them. Especially a man who drinks and whores too much.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck in a curiously endearing gesture, the lace falling from his wrists, obscuring his features briefly. “I deserved that. But I don’t drink and whore as much as you seem to think.”

  Rage seared her. “How dare you say that when you were caught in the act so recently? Could you not refrain even for a few days? Do you need—that so much?”

  Even worse, he smiled, that intimate expression that seemed to indicate they were sharing a secret. They shared nothing. Neither would they from now on. Better to make the break now and ask him to leave before the family expected to see her with him. Before he grew too close to her heart. “No, I do not. Livia, I will tell you something you may choose not to believe. It is up to you, but you must choose the person you want to trust.”

  She frowned and forced her anger down. If she did not listen, she would regret it, because his expression hinted at something deeper, something he would not tell most people. With her society mask firmly in place, she gestured to the other chair in the room. He nodded, flicked the skirts of his coat back—dark green today, wonderful against his bronzed features—and sat. “I find that where I would have left another woman t
o stew, I cannot with you. I don’t know who told you that story about the St. James’s Club, but it is only partially true. Perhaps the person who told you had their own reasons. I do not know. But I cannot allow you to create trouble with your brother and sister-in-law.” He grimaced. “No, I’m not so noble. I want to tell you for my own sake, because I don’t want to lose you.”

  “When you allowed the whore to sit on your lap, that was when you lost me.”

  He nodded. “I would not blame you for giving me up then. After all, I appealed to your affections, did I not? However, you did not hear the second half of the story. Usually the St. James is a reasonably sedate place. Gentlemen meet there for conversation, cards, and company. Not for whoring. It’s set above the coffeehouse, and the membership is small. I went there in the company of your brother Malton as I am not a member. We sat with a few others at a table and set up a quiet game of whist. Someone was celebrating.” He shrugged. “The celebration spilled over and several women approached us. One ‘fell’ into my lap.” He regarded her gravely. “That much is true. But what is also true is that I tipped her off my lap, gave her a guinea, and told her not to come back.” He met her gaze, wouldn’t allow her to look away. “Livia, I only take one woman at a time. I do not take whores indiscriminately.”

  “I heard different.”

  “I’m not surprised. I am the walking scandal. I can’t do anything without it being marked down to my bad character.” He gave a tight smile. “It has even proved useful on occasion. I have never cared what they said about me, not until now. Who told you this story? Your brother?”

  “God, no!”

  He touched his finger to his lips. “Think about that too. Your brother does not make any secret of the way he feels about his wife. He adores her, does he not? Do you truly think he would do this to her? Dandle a whore in public, for everyone to see? In truth, he did the same as I did. It was a trivial incident, soon over, but the room was full. Stories circulate, especially when most of the people in the room were blind drunk.”