Pain of The Marquess: (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book)

by Deborah Wilson

  “She’s bound to be out tonight,” Kent said. Fear and uncertainty was changing him. His eyes opened and his harsh gaze fell on Clive. “It wouldn’t take much to frighten her. Our spy could make sure no one got close enough to touch her.”

  “We’re not discussing this.” The very thought of hurting a woman who was completely on her own angered him. His mother had been that way once. After his father had died, she’d been little more than food for the wolves, and they’d devoured her. “Does no one feel any guilt about what we’ve put her through? She’s lost everyone who means anything to her.”

  “Of course, we do,” Marley said. “However…”

  “It wasn’t our fault her brother and father were corrupt,” Kent finished for him.

  “But she’s alone,” Clive said.

  “Then marry her and take control of her possessions,” James said for what seemed like the millionth time. This endless suggestion was how the others had begun to call Irene his fiancée. “I’d like a look into Lord Van Dero’s finances anyway. If he was bold enough to kidnap five lords, I’m sure he was involved in other criminal activities as well. Your Lady Irene could be involved in it and not even know.”

  Your Lady Irene.

  Clive rubbed his temple. “I’m not marrying that woman.”

  “Why not?” Marley asked with a smile. “None of the rest of us can marry her, and she’s already in love with you. Are you certain you have no lingering feelings for the woman yourself?”

  Clive glared at the grinning room. “I wonder if any of you realize just how irritating you can be? I’d have abandoned the lot of you had we not all suffered under the hand of Mr. Goody.” Mr. Goody had been the man who’d held them hostage. It had been his home where the five had been chained, fed, and kept like animals.

  Garrick chuckled. His cerulean eyes glowed. “Now, you’re stuck with us.”

  Clive moved to the window, stood right next to James, and looked out, giving Garrick his back. “I liked you better before you learned to talk.”

  Garrick’s continued laughter made Clive smile in spite of his annoyance at his friends. Part of him thought to marry some other lady, any other lady, just so they’d leave him be, but he had a feeling they wouldn’t. Not these men. They could drive a man to drink.

  It was part of the reason they’d been outcasts from Society. Clive as well. He loved them terribly.

  “We should start getting ready.” James said. “We will all be expected at court.” He turned to Clive. Light came through the window and had no effect on his onyx eyes. “Try being more kind to your lady. Charm her. Get the answers we need. Even if she doesn’t have the letter herself, she might know where her father hid it.”

  Clive nodded and looked away.

  When he’d been a young man, more than anything Clive had wanted a simple life, but God had held other plans for him. Then Mr. Goody had taken him and since then, he’d learned to master moving through life and seeing it all as a complicated puzzle.

  But the world of court etiquette had been purposefully designed to make ladies and gentlemen question their every act, so for Clive, it was a puzzle within a puzzle and the question became, how did one court a lady without actually courting her?

  The answer was not so complex. He couldn’t. He was certain that Irene wouldn’t lead them to the letter. Mr. Crow would. Therefore, he would do what he usually did, what he’d learned to do as a boy.

  He’d keep up the pretenses until everyone around him was satisfied.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 4

  * * *

  Irene’s heart fluttered as her eyes caught sight of Clive making his way toward her. She knew it would happen. The minute she stepped away from her friends, he approached. She kept her gaze direct. She allowed her smile to bloom. Her every breath became labored, and she felt her cheeks color as he drew closer.

  His gait was steady, determined, as were his eyes. She loved his eyes. They were a gorgeous blue shade and just as dynamic as the man who looked through them. Flaxen locks and pale striking looks made him even more impressive.

  He wore bright colors for court. His jacket was pale blue, as were his breeches. The style and precision in the cut made his shoulders seem impossibly broad and his limbs toned. A touch of pride swam around her belly at the thought that he was hers.

  He was hers where it counted. The heart. The kiss they’d shared had seemed more dangerous than walking off a cliff, yet she’d fallen either way. She still fell. Every time she saw him, her body was caught in an endless spiral of lust, love, and complete devotion. There was no one else in the world for her.

  She would never settle for anyone else.

  In truth, she’d fancied him long before the kiss but had kept that truth to very few. In the end, she’d been surprised when he approached her and since then, she’d never been the same.

  Usually, when in attendance at a party, Irene looked around in hopes of discovering her assailant. She was certain he was highborn but knew nothing else about him. The entire situation made her uneasy, but as Clive drew closer, the unease quieted.

  She offered her hand when he stopped before her. The people, music, and laughter faded into nothing as she stared into his eyes. She pulled in a breath when he took her hand with his free one and kissed the air above her knuckles. The other hand held his signature stave. She rarely saw him without it. His lips never touched her; they hadn’t since that night six years ago, but her dreams at night were never satisfying until the memory of that fateful moment.

  He would never know what he’d done to her that day. He would never understand how much he meant to her.

  “Lady Irene.” His voice was as rich as hot chocolate.

  She let him know her thoughts with her eyes. “Clive.” She hadn’t called him Lord Clive or Lord Fawley since the night he’d stolen her sense. She’d informed him that there was no reason for him to be so formal, but he never stopped being so.

  She often thought that what held Clive back was her father. Her father had detested him. Irene had only been out of mourning for two months. Did he think she needed more time? Perhaps, he thought it best to respect her father’s wishes and leave her alone, but he didn’t leave her alone. Not completely. He seemed always to be there now, approaching her more often than ever before.

  When he looked at her, his eyes were never still. There were a hundred thoughts racing through his mind and a question lingering in his raised brows as though he couldn’t understand her. Did he wonder how she could still love him after all this time? That was simple. What man could compare to Clive? The answer was no one. He was everything.

  “How are you, my lady?”

  She most certainly was his lady. She thought his concern the kindest thing. Many said he looked like an angel. She agreed but didn’t see him as the angels painted in softer moments from the Bible. Irene could see him with a flaming sword instead, righteous power seeping through the veins of his hard limbs.

  She felt nervous while being the center of Clive’s attention. “I’m quite better now that you’ve finally approached me.”

  He chuckled and his shoulders relaxed. His expression also seemed less intense. He seemed unsure of whether he should be baffled or amused.

  She extended her hand again, and he offered her his arm. They began to stroll through the crowd. They gained a few looks, but no one watched them with the belief that anything powerful was at work. On the outside, they were unevenly matched, yet on the inside, their hearts beat for one another.

  Anyone who looked at them looked away without much to note. Except for Cecilia, who brightened before she turned to speak to her husband. Irene looked up at her escort, the love of her life, and found his eyes were on her. No one ever watched her as much as he did. At first, it embarrassed her, but now, she embraced it just as she’d learned to embrace herself.

  He walked slowly, making it easy for Irene to keep with this steps. The stroll, the talking that would lead to bickering. It was their r
outine. She adored their routine. She adored anything that had to do with Clive.

  “You have a habit of saying the first thing that comes to mind. Do you ever hide what you’re thinking?” he asked.

  Sometimes. “Why should I hide the fact that I am made glad whenever you are near?”

  “Because that is what polite Society encourages us to do. We are act indifferent.”

  “But indifference doesn’t make my lord smile. Me being myself makes you smile.”

  He studied her again. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

  “I know everything I need to know about you.” Except how to move their courtship along.

  He released a sound of disagreement and turned his eyes away. Those eyes. She’d once spent an entire day mixing various shades of paint just so she could find his eye color. It had been taxing work, but by the time she was done, she’d had an entire bowl of it.

  She’d stored as much as she could. She’d had her private closet painted the deep shade of blue. Now, whenever she dressed, she imagined his eyes on her, watching her every ribbon come undone, her hair falling from the pins.

  She’d never had a single libidinous thought until him. That had to mean something.

  He looked at her again and stopped.

  She turned to face him and waited for whatever he would say.

  “What do you know about me?” he asked.

  They stood by a wall with a pillar at her back. There wasn’t much privacy where they were. Clive had only ever taken her to a such a place once, the day he’d kissed her.

  And what had she learned about her lover since that day?

  “I know Garrick is your best mate.” He’ll likely stand with you at our wedding.

  He nodded.

  She laughed, pretending he’d just agreed with what she’d thought. Then she thought of absolutely everything she knew about him and felt a tear gather in her right eye.

  “What?” He moved closer. “What’s the matter?” His hands remained at his side while he watched her with a deliberateness that often made her uncomfortable.

  “Your father died when you were young.”

  He stiffened, though only she would know since she was touching him. To anyone else’s eyes, he still seemed relaxed.

  She went on, “Your mother remarried quickly. The man she chose to raise you is a fool.” Anger squeezed her lungs.

  Clive’s eyes flashed. “Did you just call Lord Edmund a fool?”

  “I did. Anyone who hurts you is a fool.”

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 5

  * * *

  No matter how many times Clive spoke to Irene, watched her, stared into her eyes, nothing ever measured up. Irene was the just one of the many pieces in his life that didn’t fit, no matter which way he turned her. She claimed to love him. He was certain she cared for him, but she didn’t know him. How could she?

  Lady Irene Hiller. She had an interesting look about her. She was not pretty, but the strangeness of her features called many artists to paint her. It was reported that she was painted every year. Many thought it her money that attracted the painters, but Clive knew that wasn’t so. Irene was different. Painting her was almost an honor now amongst the artist sect.

  Her jaw was masculine, yet youthful. She might have passed for a boy were it not for her long lashes and that mouth. It was bowed and full. Her nose widened at the tip. Her eyes were dark and small. Her brows were black, and since they ran into one another, they became a prominent feature on her face.

  She wore her hair in a combination of curls and braids. The braids were always done with a bright ribbon woven in the loops and the curls were a shining mass that she pinned at the top of her head and then set vibrant flowers into. Flowers and ribbons were common hair additions for women, but Irene often looked more like a vase than a woman.

  Never before had he cared about a woman’s hair, but he often wondered just how long it took her lady’s maid to do it. She was a piece of art. A forceful and cunning piece of art.

  He’d asked her if she always said what was on her mind. She hadn’t answered him, but then there had been no need. The answer was yes. Irene believed in the truth, so when he spoke to her, he expected it.

  But it was hard to absorb the present heat in her eyes, her anger toward a man she didn’t know. All she knew was that Clive had been hurt by his stepfather and thus, he was now her enemy.

  If only she were aware of the pain her own father had caused him.

  This was yet more evidence that Irene was not aware of what Lord Van Dero had done. She couldn’t be. She adored him too much and too boldly than any lady before her and hopefully after.

  “What else do you know about me?” he asked anxiously. Perhaps, he’d find the true reason for her feelings for him.

  “Lord Edmund wiped your accounts clean while you were yet a babe.” She sighed and looked at him with growing pity. “Then he left you and your mother alone… for a time.”

  Clive felt exposed. “Who told you all of this?” He hadn’t even found out that truth until a few years ago. Her mother said she’d sent him away, vexed, but then she’d begged for him back. She’d feared being alone more than anything. What was she to do with a babe on her own?

  Now Lord Edmund controlled her.

  “My father told me about you,” Irene said.

  Her father? Rage burned in Clive’s lungs. He grabbed her arm. She gasped and he loosened his hold. Then he started away from the room, taking her to a gallery.

  The hall was not empty of others, but there were less present since most of the ton wished to be close to the royal family and make acquaintance with people of Society they’d yet to meet.

  He stopped Irene when he knew they were somewhere they’d not be overheard. “What did your father say about me?” What did the man know?

  Slowly, she took her arm away from him. Her small black eyes were direct. “I do not appreciate being dragged around like a child.”

  “I’m sorry. I simply—”

  “Don’t let it happen again.” Her voice was soft, but there was forcefulness in her gaze. That look could make one apologize even if they were sure they were not in the wrong. Clive, however, was.

  “Forgive me.”

  She smiled. “Forgiven.”

  Just like that. She didn’t make him grovel or beg; she didn’t hold it against him for a length of time. He’d asked for her forgiveness, and she’d given it to him. Was it simply her nature or was it because he was him? He was her… He didn’t know what she believed he was to her.

  He didn’t dare try and come up with an answer to that. “What else did your father know about me?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He only told me that much, because…”

  He waited for her to finish. Irene never left her thoughts unsaid.

  She crushed her gloves against her skirts. “He believed you took my hairpin because you needed the money from selling it. He thought your lack of wealth the only reason you’d taken the hairpin.”

  He said nothing.

  “Is that the reason?” Her small chest rose and fell. There was fear in her visage, but she didn’t look away.

  It would be so easy to crush her now. He could end this infatuation. He could tell her that their one night of intimacy had been about nothing more than the value of her purse.

  But that wouldn’t be the truth.

  He hadn’t loved her. He didn’t love her now. He would never love her. But neither had money prompted their kiss six years ago. “No, money was not the reason.”

  Irene relaxed and then smiled.

  Guilt hit him, because he knew what she was thinking. She thought that perhaps he had kissed her because he wanted to, because he wanted her. He’d allow her to think this for now. The men still believed she was in possession of the letter about Kent. Clive had to make sure that letter never saw the light of day.

  “Did you sell the hairpin?” she asked.

  “No.”

&nbs
p; Her smile widened. “I knew you wouldn’t. Do you keep it by your bed?”

  “No.”

  She laughed, so certain he was lying. Her voice reminded him of a flock of doves, their wings fluttering about madly in the wind. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but he didn’t like that she knew so much about his past. Had Van Dero written down anything about Clive? Or the other men? Suddenly, he was worried.

  Suddenly, he had another reason to get closer to Irene.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 6

  * * *

  “With your father and brother gone, it must get lonely having that entire house to yourself,” Clive said.

  Irene watched him shuffle from one foot to the other. His demeanor also seemed to shift.

  Was he saying that he wished to share it with her? It was quite forward. “I’ve many friends who visit quite often.”

  “Have you thought to sell the house?” he asked. “And perhaps, you could even sell a few of your father’s belongings. From what I recall from my one visit, the art is extravagant. I wouldn’t mind having another look at the pieces myself.”

  He had only ever been in her father’s home once. He and his friends, the Lost Lords, had all come together to speak with her father. She’d become enraged by the late hour. Her father had been ill, more than usual that week. His body had been weak, but the men, including her father, had all insisted on meeting. She’d been curtly dismissed from the room… but not before she and Clive had shared a moment, a look, and a few careless words that had revived Irene’s need for him after so long.

  Yet tragically, on that same night, her brother had died in a laboratory somewhere on the other side of the city. Her father had told her that a man had broken in to take some nitrous oxide.

  Was he actually interested in the art or did he simply wish to be near her, alone in an intimate setting? She laughed, certain his true intentions had more to do with the latter.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You’re a terrible flirt. You’re trying to get me alone.”