Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance)

by Wendy Lacapra

  He couldn’t stop the storm from gathering inside his eyes.

  “And you are so wrong if you think I can turn away without loss. And if you haven’t heard anything else, hear this—I love you.”

  He snatched back his handkerchief, scourged his cheeks, and then tossed it back into her lap.

  “You can’t love me,” she insisted. “You just want to please me.”

  He chuckled bitterly. “Not anymore, I don’t.”

  She flinched. “It wasn’t love. It was only passion.”

  “I told you before, you can share passion with most anyone with whom you share a spark.”

  “I won’t share it with anyone else.”

  “Ah, but you will.” He lifted his shoulders. “And so will I.”

  Her eyes wounded. “Markham!”

  “I won’t accept your censure. You are the one tossing everything away.”

  He lifted her off the table, set her on her feet. “Go.” He backed away. “Go out there into the world and seek. But don’t expect this to happen every day. And if you regret tonight just a little…” He adjusted his waistcoat. “Well then, good.”

  “Markham,” she whispered.

  He was done with negotiations. “I’m finished.”

  Cognac wouldn’t help tonight.

  This called for Lizzy’s gin.

  He strode outside into the dark.

  …

  Clarissa had wept so much during the night she’d soaked not only Markham’s handkerchief, but her pillow as well. She’d listened for him, but he hadn’t returned. He’d meant it when he’d said he was finished.

  Clarissa folded the last of her dresses and placed it carefully at the top of her trunk. The less the servants saw of her this morning, the better. Her face remained a tear-stained mess.

  She glanced out the window down to the tree-lined drive. The whole of Southford—and a kind, sensual, man, unafraid to explore the unknown—could have been hers.

  No—she shook off the maudlin notion.

  Not hers.

  Everything would have remained his. Her time here could only be borrowed. As his wife, she’d be reduced to a vessel with nothing of her own.

  She would rather wear rags of her own than exist in borrowed clothes, even though she suspected she’d relive last night in her nightmares, probably for the rest of her days.

  The door to the corridor flew open, and Julia entered.

  “What did you do?”

  Though of a completely different complexion, when Julia was angry her eyes flashed just like Markham’s.

  “Julia, what has passed between your brother and me is private.”

  “I do not know what passed between you, and, frankly, I do not care. But how could you let him leave Southford in such a bad state?”

  She swallowed. “He takes his own counsel.”

  Julia grunted. “Markham doesn’t drink to excess. Ever. But last night, he got drunk and he brawled with Addy—who everyone knows is always drunk and belligerent and doesn’t mean half of what he says.”

  She closed the trunk. “Markham ought not to have fought him, then.”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “Of course he ought not to have fought. Why, even after Rayne marched into the library and told Katherine about the bet and then Katherine told Markham I asked Rayne to kiss me—”

  “You asked Rayne to kiss you?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes, I asked Rayne to kiss me. You probably don’t notice because he’s your brother, but he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—and well Rayne—lout that he is—isn’t my point. My point is that Markham had good enough reason to pummel your brother, since I was only just eighteen and Rayne had far more experience. And yet Markham remained in complete control.”

  She lifted a brow. “I apologize on behalf of my brother.”

  “What about Markham? Lizzy had to bring him home in Smitty’s cart. The entire parish is talking about it.”

  “As I said,” Clarissa repeated, “he should not have—”

  “You’ve ruined his good reputation, Clarissa.”

  Clarissa raised her brows. “My, you can be theatrical.”

  “This”—she waved her hand—“is not theater. No one wanted anything to do with Southford after how my father behaved. Do you know how young Percy was when he became earl? Between his youth and my father’s stupidity, no one, no one would listen to him, no matter what his title. No one would extend credit. And no one would sign a lease, even though the rector himself was a trustee.”

  Clarissa stilled.

  “What did Markham do?”

  “He worked hard to restore trust. Katherine made plans, and he made connections. The rector, of course, helped, and later, Bromton, but it took years. And now, people are whispering that he’s lost control—just like my father.”

  Clarissa closed her eyes.

  “Make things right. Dine with him at the Pillar, and everyone will see this was just a lovers’ quarrel. That they’ll forgive.”

  “No.”

  “Why? Eventually he’ll give up his stupid fear of marriage, and then the two of you can wed.”

  His fear of marriage? “He already asked. I refused.”

  Julia’s eyes went wide with horror. “Oh no, you didn’t. You couldn’t!”

  “Apparently, neither of us truly wishes to marry.”

  “I understand men are tiresome…but Markham’s different. You and he belong together. I know.”

  Julia was wrong. She didn’t belong anywhere. Least of all here.

  Where she’d driven a good man out of his mind.

  “Do you really want to have Rayne as a brother?”

  Julia blushed.

  “You didn’t consider that, did you? And I don’t want to lose myself.”

  “You won’t lose yourself. You’ll make something new together.”

  Ah. Now she could see what had tempted Rayne. Inside the firebrand beat the heart of a romantic.

  Thinking straight was impossible when a romantic came near—they were magnets to a rational person’s inner compass, forcing a needle to skew from North. And when impassioned, romantics—like Julia, like Markham—became quite irresistible.

  “Julia, you have always known who you are. You always know what you want. You are fearless, and I don’t want you to change. But that is not me.”

  Even if that’s how Markham had once seen her.

  At the door, Bromton cleared his throat. “The carriage is ready.”

  Clarissa exhaled. “Thank you, Bromton.”

  “Wait!” Julia glanced between them. “What’s happening?”

  “Lady Clarissa is returning to London,” Bromton said calmly.

  “She cannot travel alone.”

  “She’s not,” Bromton said. “She’ll have her maid. And the rector’s wife is joining her. We will stay until the end of the week, as planned.”

  “But—”

  Bromton raised a brow.

  “There’s no need for that look, especially when you know just as well as I do that Clarissa’s making a terrible mistake.”

  “The mistake is Lady Clarissa’s choice.”

  “Oh, very well.” Julia huffed. “But you, Clarissa Laithe, are more foolish than your brother. And those are words I never thought I’d say.”

  …

  Markham winced at the sound of a knock against his bedchamber door. Why did everything sound twice as loud this morning?

  “Are you dressed?” Katherine called.

  Markham glanced down. “In a manner of speaking.”

  He was wearing the clothes he’d been wearing the day before. And they stunk.

  “Doesn’t sound promising,” Katherine said.

  “We have to go in,” Julia said. “If he’s naked, we’ll just look at the floor.”

  “Devil take it!” Markham exclaimed. “I’m decent. You can come in if you wish.”

  The door creaked open and then suddenly, he was flanked by two sisters. Honestly, how did F
arring survive with all of his?

  “Hello, Percy.” Katherine jostled his shoulder with hers. “We didn’t want to leave you alone.”

  “Shall I pour you a finger of cognac?” Julia offered.

  “Definitely not,” Markham replied. There wouldn’t be any joy.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Julia mouth, “This is bad.”

  Shouts sounded in the courtyard. He placed his hand against the glass.

  “The coach is ready to depart?”

  “Yes,” Katherine replied.

  His sigh whiffed out the remaining flicker of hope.

  “Ah, Percy. You’ll heal. Once we get back to London and—”

  Markham silenced Katherine with a look.

  “Surely you’ll be able to find some entertainment,” Katherine added softly.

  No. Eventually, he must marry, but he would not go back to treating sexual favors as gifts easily bestowed.

  He must return to London, of course, but he’d do so only to perform his Parliamentary duties—and to destroy a certain page of that blasted betting book at Sharpe’s. However, his days as Hearts had ended. Whenever possible, he would remain here at Southford, out of Society.

  He had a reputation to repair among his neighbors.

  He’d succeed, eventually.

  In the end, he knew who and what he was—a man who lived in service to both his family and his land. Honest service. Loyal and stalwart service.

  He forced down the lump that had gathered in his throat.

  “I’m finished with Society.”

  “This is bloody mad!” Julia exclaimed.

  “Julia!” Markham and Katherine cried together.

  “What?” Julia folded her arms. “Sometimes everyone is so stupid there’s nothing left to do but utter an awful word.”

  Markham half smiled. “She could have chosen worse, Kate.”

  Katherine lifted her brows. “No doubt she says worse in her mind.”

  “Oh, I do, believe me.” Julia tapped her temple. “You don’t want to hear what goes on inside here.”

  The rattle of carriage wheels brought their attention back to the drive. All three stepped closer to the window.

  How right it seemed that the leaves had started to brown. That his breath fogged against the glass. The carriage rattled down the lane. She didn’t look back.

  She hadn’t even sat close enough to the carriage window to be tempted.

  “Well.” Julia sighed. “Someone out there must know how to mend a broken Hearts.”

  “I don’t want to mend.” He paused until the quiver in his voice ceased. “That carriage contains the only heart I want.”

  Both sisters murmured words of sympathy, and each wrapped a comforting arm around his waist.

  He let them murmur and fuss.

  It did not lessen the regret and the pain, but it helped a little to know someone deemed him worthy of care.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clarissa unlocked the door to Rayne’s townhouse. When the door opened, she turned back to the carriage and nodded to the coachman. He pulled forward, on his way to deliver her trunks around the back.

  If she could not set up her own household, she intended to live alone here. This time, she hadn’t allowed Philippa to change her mind.

  She was, in fact, a fallen woman—even if no one but she and Markham knew.

  If she wanted to return to Rayne House, she would return to Rayne House. And when Rayne came back, if she wasn’t with child, she would ask to join him on his next adventure.

  By then, she would know.

  Julia’s scolding had been a revelation, although she’d needed time to fully absorb the blow. Markham had always been so silver-tongued. So glibly cheerful—with his dimples and his winks. How was she to have known what he’d faced, how he’d struggled?

  She chewed her lip. She could have tried to think the best of him…the same way he’d seen her in her best light.

  Before the folly, anyway.

  She’d wanted him to cease his attentions, but she hadn’t anticipated just how wretched his hatred would feel.

  And what if there was a child?

  She held her stomach. A forced wedding would be the worst possible outcome.

  Her lower lip quivered, remembering the frigid impassivity of his gaze.

  She took off her gloves as she strode through the entry hall into the morning room. She parted the curtains, but the light only lifted the room from near total darkness to mere gloom.

  The house smelled different.

  Felt different.

  As if she wasn’t the same person who had lived here before.

  “Clarissa.”

  She swiveled around. Then she screamed.

  “Good Lord, Clarissa! It’s your brother, not a ghost.”

  “Rayne?” She recognized the voice but not the visage. Her heart thudded against her chest as she approached him. She swept long, messy black locks out of his face, and eyes identical to hers stared back. “Rayne!”

  She launched herself at his chest.

  Of course, his arms remained frozen at his sides. Because they weren’t the Stanley siblings. The Laithe children did not, under any circumstances, embrace.

  Ever.

  She clung to him regardless.

  The butler appeared, raised his brows, and then silently backed out of the room.

  Perhaps they had never embraced, but Rayne remained the only constant in her life. And after she’d shunned Philippa’s counsel and wounded Katherine’s brother, Rayne might be the only one to whom she could turn.

  Tentatively, he returned her embrace.

  And then, the dam broke.

  She wept deep, gulping sobs into his shoulder. Sobs for the childhood they’d never really shared. Sobs for the life she’d trained for that hadn’t happened. Sobs for the love she felt for Markham and hadn’t had the courage to acknowledge.

  Oddly enough, Rayne allowed her to cry. He murmured comforting things that made little sense—like the fact that he’d missed her, that he shouldn’t have left her behind.

  When she’d wrung herself dry, she pulled back. “I cannot believe you’re here.”

  “I am here.” He wiped away her tear with his thumb.

  She stepped back.

  What had happened to her brother?

  He’d always been smooth-skinned, almost to the point of being glossy. And, once he’d aged out of his fascination with amphibians, he’d maintained a cultivate air of refinement—perfect hair, a perfect shave, and a perfect hauteur few among his peers dared challenge.

  He’d been silence and reserve, his life a series of balance sheets carefully tallied and always, always tilted in his favor.

  Though clean, he now appeared as gruff as a feral dog. She glanced past him to the mirror. She was one to talk. She was a mess, too. Hair black as Rayne’s, spilling from her once-neat twist in wild wisps. Nose red, eyes puffy.

  She narrowed her eyes at her brother.

  He held up his hands, suddenly wary. “Now, Clarissa.”

  He should be wary. Her surprise and relief transformed into fury.

  “Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?”

  He swallowed. “Clearly, more than I anticipated.”

  “How did you think I’d feel?”

  “Relieved?” he suggested.

  “Relieved you left or relieved you returned?”

  He shrugged. “Both?”

  “In two years,”—she shoved his chest—“I received two letters. Two!”

  “Nineteen months,” he replied. “And mail is notoriously unreliable.”

  She folded her arms. “How many letters did you write?”

  He flashed a guilty glance. “Two.”

  “Rayne, you are the only family I have left in the world.”

  “I know.” His gaze softened. “I regret not asking you to come with me, I swear.”

  How many times had she wished he’d asked her to leave with him? But if he had, she ne
ver would have—she swallowed—fallen in love.

  “I did not even know where to write.” She turned away. “Did you even think of me? Did you think of me at all?”

  Over her shoulder, he handed her a handkerchief—one of several she had stitched for him as a child. She scowled down at the fabric. Did he, too, think a handkerchief could make everything right? She slanted Rayne a glance.

  “If you think this will soften me…”

  “It doesn’t? Not even a little?”

  She glanced down at the linen. Rayne had kept it. Carried it with him during his travels. That counted for something, she supposed.

  “You are probably right.” She dabbed at her eyes. “But do not consider yourself absolved.”

  He snorted. “I never believed it would be that easy.”

  He moved to the back of the room. When he returned, he was carrying two glasses.

  “What is this?”

  “Sherry, of course.”

  Of course, she’d hoped for cognac.

  She tossed back the contents.

  He glanced at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Thirsty, are you?”

  “Don’t even think about criticizing me, Lord Two-Meager-Letters. And no explanation of where I could write.”

  His gaze shuttered. “Your letters wouldn’t have made it to me anyway. I moved around a good deal.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” He grasped her by her hand and led her to a covered settee. “Let’s sit.”

  He smiled—and not just any smile. He smiled the smile that had made Diamonds infamous, the one that melted ladies faster than lit candles.

  “I’m immune,” she scoffed, but couldn’t help a small smile in return.

  “So,” he said, “tell me what I’ve missed.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Absolutely. I’ll just summarize the last two years—

  “Nineteen months.”

  “Over a small glass of sherry and be done.”

  “How is the estate?”

  “Thriving, no thanks to you.”