by Gayle Callen
Mary Anne’s smile faded and she leaned forward beseechingly. “Lord Thomas is my risk.”
Elizabeth felt sympathy and understanding and worry for her. She’d thought the story of the painting would help, but perhaps it had only made Mary Anne think an evening with Thomas and his friends harmless compared to her own scandals.
“Why Lord Thomas?” Elizabeth asked, her voice softening with sympathy.
Mary Anne opened her mouth, but before speaking, a wealth of pain and resignation crossed her face. In a low voice, she finally said, “I’ve never told anyone this before.”
“Would it help if I held your hand?” Elizabeth asked gently.
That seemed to break the spell of sadness, for Mary Anne rolled her eyes. Then she sighed. “When I was fourteen, we visited my aunt and her husband. I had a sore throat one day, so I stayed home instead of going for a ride to see the countryside. I thought Uncle Cecil was working in his study.”
There was a strange, squirming feeling in Elizabeth’s stomach, and it took all of her willpower to speak impassively. “Go on.”
Mary Anne looked out the window, her mouth working for a moment. “Uncle Cecil came into my room. I was dozing, but I awoke, glad of the company,” she added bitterly. Her voice became a monotone. “I thought he wanted to read to me. Instead he wanted . . . he wanted . . .”
Elizabeth’s eyes stung dreadfully as she held back her tears. “Tell me, Mary Anne. You’ve never told anyone, and you should.”
“He held me down. He touched me . . . under my nightdress. I struggled, but I was small and he was—he was—” Mary Anne took a shuddering breath. “Before you feel too sorry for me, know that he didn’t ruin me. I flailed, and though he covered my mouth, a scream escaped. We heard my maid come running. He told me if I breathed a word, he would tell everyone it was my fault, that I wanted him to—to—”
“Just take a breath,” Elizabeth urged.
Mary Anne nodded and did so before continuing. “Then he stepped out of my door onto the terrace to escape. So I never told anyone. My father had recently died—how could I risk adding more to my mother’s pain? But I never went near that man again. When it was time to visit, I forced myself to be sick—vomiting quite convincingly, I might add. And I made certain he didn’t receive an invitation to your engagement party.”
Elizabeth didn’t care about Mary Anne’s reserve toward her. She leaned forward and gathered her into her arms for a hug. She felt the other woman trembling, but gradually it faded away.
“You were so brave, Mary Anne. You saved yourself.”
“But I let him take away my life,” she said. “I couldn’t even look at men for a long time. Instead, I focused on billiards, something I could control.”
“Why billiards?”
“Uncle Cecil plays billiards,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “And I mastered it.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Mary Anne asked, giving her a hard stare. “Part of me is so afraid every time Lord Thomas looks at me. But he’s always been a gentleman, and I won’t be alone with him at the Gardens.”
Once again Elizabeth hesitated on the verge of telling Mary Anne about the connection between her and Thomas. But Thomas seemed to be genuinely remorseful. She, too, was granted Peter’s forgiveness for her sins. How could she not give Thomas the chance to redeem himself?
“I still believe you should not go,” Elizabeth advised. “But if you’re determined to ignore my advice, don’t walk the grounds alone with him. You don’t want your reputation to suffer.”
“Don’t forget about the mask.”
“And don’t forget those aren’t foolproof. You could give yourself away.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s so obvious you love your family, Mary Anne. You never told them the truth, so they wouldn’t be hurt. They would have wanted to know—they would still want to know.”
“I’ll think about it. Now is there a message I can give to Peter for you?”
“Ask him to come visit me.”
* * *
When Peter appeared through the balcony doors early that evening, just as she was about to change for dinner, Elizabeth stared at him, drinking in the sight as if it were weeks instead of days since she had been alone with him. She didn’t care that he might have scaled her balcony—they were engaged, after all, she told herself. Peter had made her feel like the most important woman in the world, the center of everything he did. He could be serious and spontaneous, fun yet intelligent. He worked so hard to better himself, not knowing that he’d always been worthy enough in her eyes.
She didn’t know where to begin, what to say. In the end she simply locked the door and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. Their kiss was full of desperate longing, their hands touching and caressing and pulling at clothing.
He said her name against her mouth. “I know it’s early. I couldn’t wait to be with you. But it could be dangerous if we’re caught together.”
“We’re engaged. I don’t care. Love me, Peter. Please love me.”
She only wore a dressing gown, so it was he they had to struggle to disrobe. It was even more enticing since they had to be so quiet. At last they were naked in each other’s arms, broad daylight allowing them to hide nothing from each other.
Peter fell back on the bed, pulling her with him, and she gasped at the novelty of being above him. He pulled on her thighs until she sat astride him, across his hips.
“You’re already wet for me?” he growled.
“That’s good isn’t it?”
He gave a stifled laugh, then reached for her breasts. She found herself arching into his hands, her head thrown back, swept up in the sensations she’d only ever experienced with Peter. He played with her nipples, caressing and gently twisting, until she writhed on him, the feel of his erection hot and hard between her thighs. But he wasn’t inside her, and she wanted to be a part of him.
When she would have slid to the side, the better to have him rise above her, he shook his head and held her still.
“Help me inside you.”
Dazed, she blinked at him. “I can do that?”
He could only nod.
She lifted her hips, and for the first time allowed herself to touch that very male part of him that was so different from her. It was smooth and hot to the touch, hard, yet coated in the moisture from her own body.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” she said hesitantly.
“You could never . . .” His breathing was hard and fast, and he helped position her hips with his hands until at last she was able to ease down on top of him, taking him deep inside. It felt strange and wonderful all at the same time, especially when she could watch his pleasure, which almost looked like a scowl.
“My God, you feel incredible,” he said hoarsely. “Try to lift yourself up and down on top of me.”
Her legs were strong from horseback riding, and soon she found the rhythm that most pleased both of them. With her hands braced on either side of his head, she controlled all of their lovemaking, adjusting her body until the passion spiked dramatically higher. With his hands on her breasts, and his penis deep inside her, she reached for the pleasure, the release, shuddering through it, letting it take her away.
Then he let himself go, holding her hips hard against him as he thrust, his expression extreme with concentration.
And then she collapsed on top of him.
“Heavens, that was . . . amazing!” she said between gasps.
She loved the sound of his chuckle reverberating in his chest, and the way he combed through the damp curls at her temple with his fingers.
“I’m so glad you sent for me,” he murmured. “This was the best reason.”
“But it wasn’t the only reason, Peter.”
She slid off his body, then gathered the sheet up over her breasts as she sat facing him. Before she could speak, someone knocked on the door.
Wide-eyed, Elizabeth held a finger
to Peter’s lips and called, “Teresa, is that you?” When the maid answered in the affirmative, Elizabeth responded, “My head has begun to hurt. I’m going to lie down for an hour. I’ll ring when I need you.”
They both remained silent as the maid’s footsteps died away.
Peter came up on his elbows. “What’s wrong? Why else did you send for me?”
Though she had some trepidation about revealing Mary Anne’s secrets, Elizabeth could not keep them from him. As she looked into his face, she had a moment of clarity when she realized that her ease in talking to him, which she considered simply friendship when they were younger, showed her how deeply she trusted him, an almost scary connection that went beyond friendship. How had she ever thought she wouldn’t want such closeness with her husband?
She took his hand, gave him a faint, reassuring smile, and told him about the terrible abuse his sister had suffered. His look of disbelief and pain was like a stab to her own heart, and she understood why he could not simply lie in bed and take such an awful truth. He stood up and yanked on his trousers, pacing the room while she donned her dressing gown. She tried to take him into her arms, but he gently pushed her away.
“I just can’t fathom how someone could do this to a young girl!” he whispered harshly. “There is a special place in hell for such a man, and I’ll gladly send him there.”
“You can’t, Peter. It was her choice to keep silent, and her trust in me that she at last allowed it to be expressed. She doesn’t want revenge—and there’s no certainty she’d have it, for who would believe her? What she wants is to heal.”
“It’s partly my fault,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “If I’d have been there more, instead of running off every day to be tutored at Madingley Court—”
“It happened on a visit to your aunt and uncle’s home. I don’t even know if you were there. Regardless, you can’t possibly be with Mary Anne every moment. She made her choice to be silent then, and at last she’s getting up the courage to make a bolder choice.”
He came to a stop and stared hard at her. “What are you saying?”
“First, let me preface this by telling you that yesterday Thomas apologized to me.”
Peter scowled. “I saw him talking to you at the picnic.”
“Perhaps the fencing pushed him over the edge,” she said dryly.
He didn’t smile. “He deserved it. I wish I could have done more. What does this have to do with my—” His brows furrowed darkly. “I was worried about this. He’s sniffing after Mary Anne.”
“Sniffing is a very inappropriate word, Peter. They seem to be mutually attracted to each other.”
“Mutually attracted?”
“I told you she’s trying to get up the courage to be interested in a man. Surely you can now understand why this has been difficult for her.”
“But Wythorne?”
“He seems to have genuinely learned his lesson, Peter. He told me he wasn’t used to rejection, and dealt with it poorly.”
“Damn right!”
“He made a terrible mistake—just like I did. But at least no one else knows about the painting.”
Peter frowned. “I thought he said someone told him.”
“He lied,” she said brightly. “He was trying to convince me that only he could protect me.” She put a hand on his tense arm. “I lied to everyone I love. In some ways that’s worse. And I used you, Peter, which I regret most of all. You’ve given me a second chance. And weren’t you given a second chance by my cousin Matthew?”
Peter froze in the center of her floor and stared at her.
She went to him and put her hands softly on his chest. “I used you to try to have another man, the man I thought I wanted. It was reprehensible. Yet you forgave me.”
“The man you thought you wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve realized that he’s not the man for you?”
She gave him a nod, smiling tremulously. But he wasn’t returning her smile.
“Then you should know that I hoped you’d have this realization,” he said.
She blinked up at him in confusion. “What are you saying?”
“I felt you could never commit to me fully without knowing the truth about your infatuation with Gibson. You might have always looked back, wondering.”
“Peter, what did you do?”
“I told Gibson that you’d always favored him.”
She inhaled on a gasp. “Without consulting me?”
“I thought you wouldn’t have agreed. And you needed to know. This was your chance to have what you wanted, to discover the truth about your feelings.”
“And instead, you betrayed my secrets,” she cried softly.
Wearing a scowl, he shot back, “And you don’t call encouraging my sister to see Wythorne, a man who treated you so abominably, a betrayal?”
His words made her flinch. She was furious at herself when she had to dash away a tear.
“I’ve tried my best to help Mary Anne, at your request. I’ve had to walk a fine line between the both of you, for on becoming a woman’s friend, I cannot simply betray everything she confides in me. Perhaps I’ve betrayed too much already. She wants this chance, Peter. It’s her choice.”
He nodded and turned away to dress. She watched him, a sick feeling swirling in her stomach.
“We’ll talk again when our heads are cooler,” he said when he paused at the balcony doors.
She opened her mouth but didn’t call him back.
Chapter 24
Vauxhall Gardens was a mad wonder, both enchanting and overwhelming at the same time. Mary Anne, feeling safe behind her mask, walked at Lord Thomas’s side through the Grove, a grand park with an orchestra playing in a Gothic temple, trees lit with thousands of globes high in the branches, and walks meandering through supper boxes crowded with laughing patrons.
The night felt like a fairy tale, and she a princess, especially whenever Lord Thomas glanced at her and smiled.
They had left their party to walk alone amidst the crowd. Mary Anne could not believe how easy it was to talk to this man. Billiards had been their first conversation, but soon she discovered he liked some of the same books she did, and they shared the same irreverent humor about the ton.
The crowds started thinning the farther they walked from the Grove. When Mary Anne saw the white columns of a temple sheltered within the trees, she hurried up the steps to peer inside. When she turned back, he was coming up the stairs behind her, their faces level. She froze, her smile fading. But instead of that familiar feeling of dread at being so close to a man, she let the excitement rise inside her, drowning out the unpleasantness.
And then he leaned forward and kissed her, his lips gently touching hers. It was sweet and exquisite, just a brush of soft lips once, twice.
And then he pulled away, his expression suddenly remote. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re an innocent and you trusted me tonight, and I’m a man who’s committed too many sins.”
“And I am so very perfect?” she asked lightly. Trembling with her own bravery, she reached to touch his cheek. “Tell me what haunts you.”
He took a deep breath, and his shadowed eyes looked remote. “You should know all of the truth. I told you that Elizabeth rejected me, and that I did not take it well.”
Mary Anne nodded her encouragement, even as her stomach gave a twinge of dread.
“I lied and told her that someone . . . knew her secrets and would expose them, to try to force her into marriage with me to protect herself.”
She gaped at him, not ever imagining the truth.
“I had no right to try to bend her to my will. Women need to make their own decisions, or a marriage is doomed. But in my fury, I didn’t care about that. I thought she was wrong, and I was determined to make her see what was best. And instead I hurt her.”
Mary Anne knew the secret was the painting, and imagined Elizabeth’s fear of discovery, of ruin. It would have aff
ected her whole family, hurt so many people. Nausea roiled her stomach. She’d thought Lord Thomas was different, but instead he only wanted what he could take from a woman, just like her uncle. “Is that why Elizabeth was so suddenly engaged to Peter? Did she need to be engaged, to protect herself from you?”
“I don’t know the truth of their relationship,” he said a low voice. “But yes, she turned to your brother for help.”
Did Elizabeth feel any kind of friendship for her, or was she simply desperate? Did she care about Peter at all?
Instead of wallowing in her pain and confusion, Mary Anne at last realized that she didn’t have to accept such behavior from any man. She had the power to change her life, to put herself beyond any man’s reach for good.
“Miss Derby?” Thomas said her name, his expression one of confusion and worry.
Then she fled past him and began to run down the paths, back the way they’d come, disappearing into the crowd.
“Mary Anne!”
She heard his voice one last time, heard the panic, but she didn’t let it sway her. She’d seen the hackneys waiting out by the entrance.
She kept the mask on, half covering her face but for her mouth. The mouth that had just had her first real kiss.
She didn’t want those kisses anymore. She didn’t trust them. And she had the perfect way to make sure no man would ever think to court her again.
Only after she’d given the driver the address to Peter’s club did Mary Anne sit back in the hackney, cold purpose filling her.
After a private dinner with her family, Elizabeth retired to her room, knowing she wasn’t fit company. Her mother would only have questions, and she couldn’t answer.
She was concerned about her argument with Peter, the way they still kept things from each other—the way he’d tried to show her once and for all that William wasn’t for her.
The fact that he’d been right only irritated her. She’d already figured it out for herself—she hadn’t needed him to go behind her back and—
But as far as he had known, she was still pining for William. Peter didn’t want to be the man she simply settled for, and she understood that.
