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

by Deborah Wilson

  He scoffed. “I am not trying to get you alone.” He looked offended by the very thought, but she knew it was for show. “I only meant that the house was far too big for one woman.”

  “So then perhaps I should share it. With a man?” She was thirty. A spinster, far past the age where anyone would care about her virtue. Aside from Cecilia, who still hoped Irene would marry, the others thought she should find a friend. A special male friend who could keep her company at night. Such things were rarely frowned upon if kept quiet.

  He leaned into her. “I am not implying that we have an affair.”

  She shivered at the words. “Then what are you implying?”

  “That you’re alone. You, alone, in a home as grand as yours will draw unnecessary attention. You should think about moving to a smaller apartment.”

  She gasped and wondered if he knew about her visitor. Quickly, her mind worked to see if he were the man who slipped through the windows of the house, sometimes the same window, sometimes not, and managed to make it to her room without trouble. He’d only encountered her footman once. The footman had been found beaten and gagged. She hadn’t put another footman before her door again.

  But it couldn’t be Clive. The man who accosted her was bigger, a giant of a man.

  It wasn’t Clive who came to her at night… though she wished it was.

  “Your apartments are smaller,” she said. “Do you think we might both fit?”

  His nostrils flared. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what? Reading your mind?”

  He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Trust me, our thoughts are nothing alike.”

  Her heart stopped but only for a moment. Then it flipped and beat heavy like a drum. Doubt stirred in her mind like it often did, but she put it aside, focused on him, and grounded herself in the truth she was certain of. He was hers. He belonged to her. “Were you truly interested in my father’s paintings?”

  “I was, and I am.”

  “Then we should set up a time.” Perhaps, this was the key to getting a proposal from him. Once they were alone…

  “I would like to bring my friends. Garrick and the others,” he said. “Their wives. You could bring your friends as well. We could have a small party. That is, if you don’t mind it, of course.”

  “Of course.” Her plans sailed away on the waves of despair. “I shall arrange it.”

  “Excellent.” He held out his arm. “Shall I escort you back to the ballroom?”

  She took the arm he offered and wished she never had to let him go.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 7

  * * *

  Clive watched his mother, Lady Angelini Benn, stir her tea and smiled. They were in Twining’s tearoom, an establishment that had been open since 1706. The fragrance of ancient herbs and brews was soaked into the walls and floors. It was founded by Thomas Twining during a time when tea was such an expense that only the wealthy could take part in it. The best families in London had sat in this room and while tea was far more affordable than previously, Twinings was still a place to see and be seen. There were other patrons at other tables, all dressed in their finery and carrying on conversations with their friends.

  Clive would have preferred a coffee, but since his mother was not allowed in a coffeehouse, the tearoom would do.

  He sipped his own creamed tea as he held his mother’s gaze.

  Her smile was beautiful. He looked nothing like her. His mother had dark hair and solid gray eyes. She’d had more admirers than most during her first Seasons. Those admirers grew after her husband’s death two years later. At forty-seven, she still stopped hearts. “Is there a reason you wished to meet this morning?”

  “Can’t a man see his own mother when he wishes to?”

  She laughed and sipped her brew. His eyes were drawn to her hand. She wore no jewelry, not even a wedding band. For years, his father’s had sat on her hand. Now it was gone. “You’re such a good son, Clive. I can’t imagine how I became so lucky. Have you found a wife yet?”

  Clive grinned. “I’m surprised you waited until we got our tea to ask.”

  His mother sighed and caressed the side of her porcelain cup. “I would like see some grandchildren.”

  “You have grandchildren,” Clive said. He had nieces and nephews. Fifteen in total. He never saw them, though he knew their names and ages. He sent gifts as well. Money and toys for the children. His mother had an entire family he had no part of, thanks to his stepfather.

  “But you are my eldest,” Angelini said. “You’re my firstborn.” He was the child of the man she’d loved. “I would like to see your grandchildren before I die.”

  “You’re too young to speak of death,” he told her. “And far too healthy.” He’d made sure of that. As a boy, he’d worked hard so his mother could have the very best of everything. His family had been impoverished but never had his mother gone hungry. Even now, he provided for her, though Clive knew she was unaware of it.

  “There’s no guarantee that I won’t die tomorrow.”

  Clive’s heart gave out. He struggled to speak. “Are you… are you ill? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I’m well.” She lifted a hand to stop him and laughed. “I’m well, Clive. I only meant that your father died far sooner than anyone believed he would. Tomorrow is not written in stone, my love. We must live for the moments in our grasp.” She tightened her fist at the last.

  That had been a new philosophy of his mother’s, but six years ago, she’d been a different woman, a woman who would have never gone against her husband’s wishes to see her eldest child. She still hadn’t been to his home. She wasn’t allowed there. Lord Edmund used Clive’s tainted past as a means to keep him and his mother apart.

  She’d obeyed her husband back then. Clive had never felt more alone than that time after he’d stolen Lady Irene’s hairpin. He’d been abandoned by his mother, the only person he’d loved more than Lady Olivia. Lady Olivia had rejected him as well.

  At the age of twenty and six, Clive had contemplated giving up on his miserable life. He’d drunk himself into oblivion one night, entered a gambling den with the last of his shillings, and bet it all.

  And while three sheets to the wind, he’d won a fortune. Mr. Maltsby had been there that night, the gentleman who’d own the Gentleman’s Society bank. He’d convinced Clive to invest all his money into a business venture. Feeling hopeful, Clive had given him everything.

  And had then been informed days later that he’d lost it all. This had been a lie, but he’d not discover this until years later.

  Being ruined and without a shilling to his name, Clive had

  thought it luck when Mr. Goody had come along and taken him away. Clive had been kidnapped like the others, but he’d put minimal effort into getting away from Mr. Goody. Clive had wanted to die, but fortunately for him, Mr. Goody had wanted him alive.

  Clive didn’t know if he’d still be breathing if Mr. Goody hadn’t kidnapped him. He’d only ever told the other Lost Lords that his time with Goody hadn’t been terrible. They’d looked at him strange, but none of them knew the truth of Clive’s past.

  But perhaps, Lady Irene did. What else had her father said to her? What else had Van Dero been aware of? Clive planned to find out.

  With those terrible days behind him, Clive looked at his mother and was glad he was no longer poor. He owned a fortune. He could get her anything, take her anywhere, or simply keep her as happy as possible, grandchildren excluded for the moment.

  “Are you sure you’re not keeping something from me?” she asked.

  Clive lifted a brow. He was keeping a hundred things from her. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I am keeping from you, and I will tell you whether that is true.”

  She poured another cup of tea from the china pot in the middle of the table. “Have you taken interest in a certain woman?” Her eyes caught his as she set the pot back down.

  Was she speaking of Irene? Clive groaned. “There is n
o woman.” But he was glad to know his mother was paying attention to him. “I’ll let you know when that changes.”

  She smiled. “All right.”

  Clive leaned forward. “Now, tell me, what has changed in your life since we last spoke? What has Otto gotten into recently?” Otto was Clive’s oldest nephew and the worst troublemaker, or so his mother had told him. Clive prayed the boy didn’t take after his grandfather, Lord Edmund.

  Lady Angelini’s eyes widened as she began to tell Clive about all she’d done since they last met a month ago. This was their time together, his few hours of normalcy until he returned to his other life, the life his mother knew very little about. She asked him to tell her what he’d been up to and Clive told her what he could. He spoke about his friends and their children, who called him uncle. In the end, his mother’s eyes misted as she stood and hugged him.

  “You should come by the house,” she said suddenly.

  Clive was surprised by the invitation. His mother was aware of Clive’s strained relationship with the man who’d raised him.

  His mother blushed. “Not today, but in a few weeks. Edmund will be gone.”

  Understanding dawned, though only slightly. Was his mother truly willing to go against her husband’s wishes and allow him into their home?

  He hadn’t been there in years. “I’ll come.” There were moments he became that small boy who still craved his mother’s attention. He wouldn’t pass on a chance to be with her, if she were willing to take the risk...

  “If not, I’ll still see you in a few weeks,” she said.

  “A few weeks.” He kissed her cheek and wrapped her cloak around her tighter at the carriage and then saw her inside. She waved as the team of horses took her away.

  As usual, Clive’s heart lurched as though trying to go with her. Yet it couldn’t. Clive’s stepfather would stand between them until the day he died.

  Clive couldn’t count the many times he’d thought to try and fight the man, but he had a feeling the outcome of such a battle would not be the one Clive wanted.

  So, he’d take what he knew was guaranteed to him. He’d wait a few weeks and see his mother again.

  He was standing on the sidewalk, still staring at the path his mother’s driver had taken, when he heard someone call him.

  He turned and was surprised when Lady Olivia English approached him. She had a maid and footman behind her. They all looked out of breath. Had she run? “Lady Olivia.” He bowed and then moved to allow a pair of men on foot by. The gentlemen entered the tearoom.

  Lady Olivia moved with him and curtseyed. “My lord.” She looked up. She was just as perfect as she’d been six years ago. Her eyes were a cool green, wide and tilted at the ends. Her hair was the color of English sunsets, a burnt gold. She’d always been a slightly round woman, which made her every feature soft and her dimples pronounced no matter her expression. Her cheeks were stained from her exertion. Her breaths were quick. “I was hoping we could speak.”

  He hadn’t spoken to her in six years. He couldn’t imagine what she wished to speak about, but he showed her back into the tearoom. She was married and had a maid present. No one would think they met for any reason other than business.

  They sat in the chairs he and his mother had just occupied. His back was to the wall. His eyes were toward the door but staring at her. “Thank you for meeting with me. Lady Ruth saw you in the teahouse with your mother and sent a footman for me. She’s rather forgetful. I’m terribly surprised she remembered. I thought I’d miss you.”

  He had no idea who Lady Ruth was, nor why the woman would send a missive to Olivia about where to find him. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen her. It was likely a year ago at some party. She and Clive did not keep to same circles. She belonged to his stepfather’s set and thus, he rarely saw Olivia and her husband, Mr. Adam English. Their gatherings were more for the untitled who were relatives of members of the peerage. Clive’s mother had kept her title, Lady Fawley, as was her right since her husband had no title to give her.

  When Olivia began to fiddle with the spoon that a waitress had brought over, Clive asked, “You wished to speak to me?”

  “Yes.” She wet her lips and, once upon a time, Clive would have felt an insatiable hunger for her from that action. He didn’t know why he didn’t feel it now. He thought it possibly to do with her husband. She reached into her receptacle and pulled out something Clive thought he’d never see again.

  The hairpin.

  It was just as hideous as he remembered.

  The back was simple, but a glistening gold bird with blue gem eyes and ruby wings sat at the end of a spiraling metal spring. It dangled at an angle for long seconds before it settled. Those powerful tanzanite eyes glared up at Clive.

  He felt a climbing urge to jump up and run from the object but managed to remain in his chair. “You kept it?”

  “It had gemstones. Of course, I kept it. What else was I supposed to do? If I sold it and another lady wore it, Lady Irene or one of her father’s servants might have recognized it and would have begun to ask questions.”

  He pulled his eyes from the bird to study Olivia. “What you going to do with it?”

  “Give it to you.” She pushed it forward with a finger. She clearly knew how tainted the object was as well.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Then give it back to Lady Irene.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you mad? I will not—”

  “I saw you together last evening at court,” she said.

  “You were there?”

  “You didn’t see me?”

  He shook his head. He hadn’t. He hadn’t paid attention to anyone but Lady Irene. His mind had been filled with the information he’d gathered from her. Van Dero knew too much. Most believed Fawley’s family had been poor before Lord Edmund’s arrival, but that was not so. Clive’s father had simply been frugal. He’d been religious and hadn’t believed in having excess. He’d collected few things. Their home had been absent of the art that filled the walls in nearly every other home in London and the country. Clive’s father’s habit of spending had left Clive and his mother a fortune on his passing.

  Then Lord Edmund had come and cleaned their accounts in one sweep. Then he’d convinced Clive’s mother of his love and gotten her with child repeatedly in order to hold her hostage in their marriage. Lady Angelini would never leave her husband or the seven children they’d had together.

  “I waved at you,” Olivia said. Her brows were pinched. “You looked in my direction. Surely, you saw me.”

  “I didn’t. Forgive me.”

  She pursed her lips. The expression was adorable, and Clive found himself grinning at their shared past. He’d been a fool once. He’d loved her with a desperation that defied logic. He’d stolen a hairpin from another lady’s head for her.

  What had he been thinking to allow himself to be talked into such an act? Olivia could never wear the hairpin. Just like she implied, people would have recognized it. It was simply that awful a jewel. For a long time, he’d blamed Olivia, making her the reason his life had fallen apart. All he’d wanted was her. He’d needed her. He’d felt so alone when Olivia had offered his first touch of feminine comfort in years.

  He was glad such emotions would never have control over him again.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  0 8

  * * *

  “But surely, you noticed me.” Olivia’s mouth was still a thin line of displeasure.

  Was she still going on about that? “I didn’t see you. The court was crowded.”

  “You found Lady Irene quite easily.” It almost sounded like an accusation. “Though how anyone can miss the odd woman is beyond me. Did you tell her?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?” She leaned back in her seat. “I didn’t know you two were so close. It’s likely the flowers. You did always like flowers.” She sniffed and then fanned her face. “Fresh flowers always make my head ache.”
<
br />   “We’re not close.”

  “You left the ballroom with her.”

  Olivia had been watching. Why? Was she jealous? He hoped not. It would taint his imagination of her. She was wed. What he did should be of no concern to her. “I did step away with Lady Irene. We talked.”

  “About the hairpin?” she asked. “Have you ever spoken to her about the hairpin?”

  He thought. “We’ve spoken about it but never you. I would never tell anyone that you have it.” He would never tell anyone how big of a fool he’d been to steal a jewel from one woman in order to give it to another.

  Olivia relaxed, though her brows still looked troubled. “Of course, you wouldn’t. You’re far better than that. Do you know her friends believe you were in love with her the night you stole the hairpin? They’ve gone on about it for years.”

  He hadn’t known Irene had shared her feelings with her friends. He groaned. “Irene is convinced of what she believes.” He shrugged. “Why are you giving this to me now?”

  “I don’t want it.” Her eyes dropped to the bird, and she shivered. “You have to take it. Give it back to her.”

  He frowned. “I’d rather not.” Then he reached out for it. “I can toss it into the Serpentine.”

  Her hand shot out and covered the hairpin before he could touch it. “Are you mad?” Her eyes were wild. “It’s worth a fortune.”

  “Then you sell it.”

  “I already told you I cannot. You must take it back to Lady Irene.”

  He’d given Irene enough hairpins in the last few years. He’d not present her with this one, the one she believed he’d been keeping by his bedside. “You can send it to her. You can have a footman drop it at her front door. No one need know it came from you.”

  She shook her head. “It would present too many questions. She may go around asking who discovered it. No, it is best you give it to her.” There was yearning and fear in her gaze. “Please, Clive.”

  His stomach turned, recalling the last time she’d begged him for something. It had been the same hairpin, only now she wanted it returned to the owner. “Why? What’s going on?”