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

by Deborah Wilson

  “Did he say anything else?” Lucy asked Irene. Her eyes held apology. She clearly didn’t wish to trouble Irene anymore. “Anything?”

  Irene closed her eyes and then shook her head. “Stay away from you all and keep my portraits. That’s it.”

  The room fell quiet for a long time.

  Then Clive slammed his hand on the table. “The throne.” He smiled. “The throne.” He jumped to his feet. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” Had he gone mad?

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  5 9

  * * *

  James was watching Clive suspiciously. “We have thought of it. We looked for the throne. Garrick check it himself. If the book were there—”

  “No, the throne!” Clive shouted. “The portrait.”

  “What are you talking about?” Irene asked curiously. She hoped her husband’s mind hadn’t cracked.

  He smiled at her. “There was a painting of you and your father. You were sitting on his lap. He was sitting in his throne.”

  “You think the book is in a portrait?” Kent obviously thought Clive crazy.

  “Not the book, but maybe another clue,” Clive said. “Why else tell Irene to not sell the portraits?”

  “Because he’s vain?” Garrick offered.

  “No. He didn’t tell me to keep any of him. Only me.” Irene looked at Clive. “If you’re right, it’s the only portrait of me that hasn’t burned, since it’s at the mansion.”

  Chairs scraped back. All the men looked at one another.

  Cass said, “I’ll stay here with the women. You all can go.”

  “Are you sure?” James asked him.

  “They’re safe with me,” her cousin replied.

  Clive kissed Irene before he left, a grin on his lips. “This is it. I can feel it.”

  Irene believed he might be right. The frame was far too heavy for her to carry. Maybe there had been a reason for that. Maybe there was something hidden inside. “I hope you’re right.”

  He kissed her again. “I am.” For a time, he held her face and simply stared at her.

  Irene feared he’d tell her the words she’d been begging to hear, but now she wanted them less than anything else. She wouldn’t believe him if he said it. Thankfully, he all he said was, “I’m right.” Then he left with the others trailing behind.

  Irene closed her eyes and told herself that what she had in life was enough. It was more than she deserved. But it hurt all the same.

  Lucy broke into tears once they were gone and the women all crowded around her. She reached out and took Irene and Nora’s hands. “I pray this is it. I don’t think I can bear this hunt anymore.”

  “Let’s pray they find it then,” Nora said right before she bowed her head to do just that.

  * * *

  “No!” The shout rang out from all the men as Kent picked up the frame and slammed it to the ground. Clive tackled him at once.

  “My wife is in that portrait, you fool!”

  “I don’t care!” Kent pushed him and then rolled onto his hands and knees. His dark hair fell and blocked his face. “We needed to get inside that frame and couldn’t find a way in.”

  Clive glared. “And if your shattering it damages the contents—”

  “He did it!” James cried.

  Both men turned around as James pulled out a sheet of paper from the frame. It looked like a torn sheet.

  Marley and Garrick were working to break the rest of it apart.

  More paper fell to the ground. Clive gathered and scanned the pages. Garrick. Kent. Marley.

  “These are yours,” James said, holding a group of sheets out to Clive.

  Clive gave what he had to the others.

  Kent gave the papers he collected to James.

  The men all stood in a circle and read the papers that marked their names, their sins, and a list of witnesses and their letters about their crimes. If anyone had found this before Clive, his world would have been shattered worse than the wood around their feet.

  James chuckled. “Half the stuff on here I completely forgot I did.”

  Marley grunted and glared as he shuffled through his papers. “He kept better records than my guardian angel, I’m sure.”

  Kent laughed and then waved the paper in the air. “My father’s confession is in here. He must have given it to Irene, because he knew she’d likely have reason to come after us one day. She’d have done anything to marry you.”

  “And if she married Clive, she’d have gotten to know us.” James nodded. “It makes sense. Cassius was supposed to keep the rest of the book. Irene was supposed to get the notes of those who’d be close to her.”

  A portion of the frame was still intact.

  Kent picked it up and broke it in half. Then he reached in and pulled out more sheets. He glanced at it, frowned, and then rolled it up. “That said Lucy. No one is looking at this.”

  “If those are our wives, burn it all,” James declared.

  Clive agreed.

  Burning the papers left Clive feeling better than he had when they burned the portraits.

  Yet something still bothered him.

  Irene had almost learned the truth today about Olivia and it hadn’t been from him.

  There was a shout from down the hall and then Mr. Crow came in. He had a gun and wore a wild grin. “I knew you all would lead me to it. Where’s the book?”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Clive asked. “There are children here.”

  “That won’t matter! With the book, I’ll have so much power I can do as I please! Give it to me.”

  Clive’s eyes went to the fireplace.

  Crow looked in the same direction and gasped “No!” He sprinted to the flames and dug his hand in the scraps that were left of their sins. “The book! What have you done? You idiots! This was worth more than gold! What have you—” He crumbled to the floor.

  Kent had knocked him out swiftly. Then the earl straightened and said, “That felt almost as good as burning the papers.”

  Clive let out a breath. It was done.

  Mostly.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  6 0

  * * *

  Irene was jolted from her thoughts when Clive’s hands landed on her shoulders. Then she felt his mouth brush the back of her neck. She fisted her hands as shock and arousal washed over her. She’d never stop wanting him. That had been proven last night.

  After the celebration, they’d made love. The moment Clive had gotten her alone, Irene had had every intention of pretending a megrim, but he’d been far too impatient for words. She’d given over at the first touch and continued to offer herself to him until the early hours of the morning.

  Then she’d woken as she was learning was their custom. He clung to her like a life raft out at sea. She ate and read until he was awake. They joined their friends later. Lucy teased Irene and said she had a feeling that Clive II was on his way. Irene wanted a baby, but the words had reminded her of how she’d gotten into this mess to begin with.

  She refused to settle for less, yet now all she was doing was settling for less. Clive didn’t love her. She could wait a hundred years and he’d never say it on his own. It had been a full day since she’d come to her decision to accept what she had, yet now she wasn’t sure she could.

  It wasn’t enough. Part of him wasn’t enough, especially when she could feel him give her everything else. They were so close, but that secret kept them apart. She’d have to find a way to get him to love her, because she wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t. Her love was eternal.

  “Are you ready for your painting session?” he asked.

  She spun around and nodded. Her heart raced with pain as she stared into his brilliant eyes. “I’m ready.” She started for the door, but Clive’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  He glared at her head and then into her eyes. “Where’s the hairpin?”

  She stiffened. “I decided not to wear it.” She didn’t want it in the painting anymore. The bird was now noth
ing more than a tainted reminder of their false past. “I’m sure Lucy can correct it. My hair is black. It should be easy.”

  “No. I want you to wear the bird.” Clive moved past her toward the vanity. His eyes searched. “Where is it?”

  Irene sighed and went her trunks. She dug out a black velvet bag and emptied it into her hand.

  Clive watched her as she returned to him.

  He took the pin from her fingers and began to put it in her hair.

  “Clive, really, I don’t wish to wear it.”

  “The portrait is for me. I should choose if you wear it or not.”

  Irene began to tremble with anger and hurt. She wanted to toss the bird out the window. She wanted to toss him out the window. Tears burned her eyes.

  Clive grinned at the pin. “Better.” Then he looked at her and his smile fell. “Irene, what is it?”

  “Nothing.” She tried to move past him, but he caught her shoulders.

  “No, something is the matter. I want to know what it is.”

  “It’s n-nothing.” She told herself not to cry. She puffed out her chest and took calming breaths. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s because of what I said, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  His lips thinned. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. I know you do. I said I regretted stealing the hairpin.”

  Her stomach turned. How had she forgotten that? Of course, he regretted it. His reputation had been ruined far too greatly for him to marry Olivia.

  That was it. She was done. She couldn’t go on like this.

  Clive grabbed cheeks. “Irene, I don’t regret it. Actually, it is just the opposite now.”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  He looked at the pin and closed his eyes before he sighed and looked at her again. “I look at that hairpin and I’m reminded of the moment my life changed for the better. I.. stole that pin for someone else, Irene. I don’t want to say the woman’s name, because I don’t wish for you to hate her, but I did it for the sick sort of love that I’d felt for her. Yet, you have taught me what real love is. True love makes you better. It is not perfect, but it is something you can be proud of.” Pain slashed across his features as he closed his eyes and groaned. “Forgive me, my love. I didn’t say anything earlier, because I was afraid you’d leave me, and I loved you too much to tempt fate.”

  Irene gasped.

  He opened his eyes. “I love you, Irene. I love your heart and the passion you have for others. I love the way you look. No woman has ever tempted me as you do. When I think I’ve finally gotten enough of you, I haven’t. You give and you give and I’m a glutton for your love.” His hands tightened on her face. “Forgive me, my beautiful wife. Forgive me for being weak and selfish. Forgive my past and share your future with me.”

  Tears ran down Irene’s cheeks. “Clive…”

  His eyes filled with worry. “Don’t leave me, Irene. My soul could not bear to go on without you. You are everything to me.”

  You are my home.

  Out of all the bad she’d thought of in the last twenty-four hours, she hadn’t thought about Clive’s words from the carriage. As they’d watched their house burn to the ground, Clive had called her his everything. He hadn’t even been upset that he’d lost everything. Not really.

  She was his home.

  She was no consolation prize.

  “Forgiven,” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head on hers. “Thank you, Irene.”

  They stayed like that for some time. Then Irene smiled. “Alice told me about Olivia and the hairpin yesterday.”

  He pulled away. “Is that why you were sad?” He cursed. “I should have known! If that girl wasn’t already locked away in Bedlam…”

  When they’d taken her out of the basement, Alice had looked wild and mad. She’d scratched herself and had pulled out some of her hair. The authorities had declared her insane and taken her away.

  “It’s over,’ Irene said. “It’s all over.”

  Crow had gone to prison as well and though they hadn’t found the book, he’d shouted to anyone who would hear that the Lost Lords had burned it.

  “Is it?” Clive asked. The men had decided to allow that lie to spread. No one needed to know the book was still out there, and Irene prayed for the soul who found it.

  “For us, it is,” Irene said.

  There was a knock on the door. A maid came in. “Lady Ganden has requested your presence in the studio. It is urgent.”

  Irene wiped her face and smiled at Clive. “We better hurry.”

  “Wait.” He lifted her chin. “Alice told you the truth and still, you didn’t leave me?”

  She shook her head.

  He looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  She laughed. “Because, that is not how love works, Clive. It can’t be. Otherwise, it would not be love.”

  He stared at her. “Then thank you for loving me. It couldn’t have been easy.”

  She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “If it were easy, it would not be love either.” She took his hand. “Come. It’s time for me to sit still for an hour while you read.”

  He groaned and followed her into the hall. “I feel like we should make love to memorize this moment.”

  She laughed loudly. “Later.”

  His blue eyes glittered. “Promise?”

  “Always.”

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  Keep Reading

  From: Deborah Wilson

  To: Beloved Readers

  Subject: Next book in the series

  Hi lovelies!

  Thank you for reading Pain of The Marquess, which is book 09 in the Valiant Love series.

  The next book is targeted to release on 22nd July.

  While waiting for the next breathtaking book in the series…

  I believe you will love to read the previous book in the series, which I had such a good time writing it.

  Flip the page for a special first look at the previous book.

  Thank you for reading my books and letting me serve you doing what I love!

  xx Love,

  Deborah Wilson

  Author of Valiant Love series

  PROLOGUE

  London, England

  March 1821

  Lady Ebba Blanc walked into the drawing room. Her parents hastily jumped apart, an amusing combination of humor and guilt on their visages. Ebba’s mother, the Marchioness of Paxen, couldn’t manage to meet Ebba’s eyes. Her cheeks and lips were red, a telling sign that, had her parents not been married and been caught at a much youngster stage in life, whatever they’d been up to would have been scandalous indeed.

  Lord Paxen cleared his throat and straightened just as his wife covered her mouth, cutting off a fit of giggles.

  “Yes, my child,” her father said. “How can we help you?” He tried, very hard she was certain, to make his words firm and less whimsical.

  Ebba pressed her lips together to hold back her own smile. It was no wonder she was odd. Her family was very odd indeed. As the seventh child of Lord and Lady Paxen, Ebba had often been overlooked, for a parent only had so much attention to give before it ran out. She’d had even less, because her parents were so deeply in love with one another. If they hadn’t been wealthy enough to afford the army of servants who saw to the house, Ebba and her siblings would have been forced to fend for themselves altogether.

  “Perhaps, I should come back later,” Ebba offered.

  Her mother giggled again, as though she were a girl of thirteen and not a woman of fifty-three.

  Her father cleared his throat again. One more of those and Ebba would start to be concerned. “No, that’s quite all right, my dear.”

  My child. My dear. Ebba often wondered if her father knew her name. There were days when he called her everything but Ebba, even going through her brothers’ names before reaching hers.

  Ebba walked across the spacious pale blue a
nd yellow drawing room before taking a seat across from her parents. Once she was in place, nervousness crowded its way into her blood and stole her breath. Her parents had distracted her from her earlier apprehension, but now that she had their attention…

  “Ebba?” Her mother leaned forward. “What’s the matter?” Lady Emma, the Marchioness of Paxen, was not a classic beauty, but there was something appealing about her face. Her words held sweetness and ingenuity that all admired. Her father more than anyone else.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Ebba told her. “I simply wanted to talk to you both.”

  Her parents shared a look and then they turned back to Ebba.

  “What’s this about?” Lord Paxen shifted and suddenly all the flickers of humor left his gaze. Lord Alexander Blanc was a very handsome man and, as the story went, he’d been quite a rake before marrying Ebba’s mother. It had been a love match in every way. No one could break them apart. Not scandal. Not Lady Emma’s parents. Nothing.

  And now, nearly thirty years later, they were still happy. Still head over heels in love.

  Ebba was happy for them. All she wanted was her own happiness.

  Unfortunately, her form of happiness went against the beau monde’s laws of what was and wasn’t socially acceptable for a young lady.

  As if reading her mind, her father said, “This is about that theatre, isn’t it?”

  Ebba felt her eyes widen. One would think that after having seven children, there was no way for a father to know what his daughter was thinking. Yet Lord Paxen had always been sharp.

  Ebba licked her lips. “I’ve been offered the part of Lady Macbeth.”

  Her mother gasped.

  Even her father looked amazed. Everyone knew what it meant to get such a part. Her father didn’t even enjoy the theatre. He would rather live his life than watch someone else act it out, yet he knew that only the best actress in London got to play Lady Macbeth. The part was usually reserved for more seasoned actresses, but sometimes, it was given to whoever deserved it most, and Ebba had worked very hard before going against what was expected of her and trying out for the part.