Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4

by Lynne Connolly

  What he saw now was a startlingly beautiful woman. She had glossy blonde hair in an arrangement that looked like a simple swirl of curls and pins, but he’d wager it took an hour to do, and expensive though tasteful clothes. When she sat, she draped her hands over her fan on her lap, one on top of the other, the nails manicured and polished. Just like her. She could be sitting for her portrait.

  “I came in my crested carriage,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I was not,” she replied, “but thank you.” It would tell the world he was visiting her. With her mother in residence and the lady a widow past her first youth, the visit would be perfectly acceptable, if the other woman was present. She was not, but nobody need know that.

  “You should not give up,” he said softly. “If you give ground now, you may never have the liberty of returning.”

  “I may not wish it. I have an excellent property in France.”

  “You came back for a reason. May we not help you to achieve it?”

  She shook her head, the two ringlets artfully escaping from the curls gathered at the top of her head grazing her neck. “I am perfectly content. Except—” Her upper teeth grazed her lower lip before she spoke again. “I am concerned for Marcus, of course.”

  “Do you believe the woman?”

  “Do you?” Her eyes opened slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her so carefully he’d have missed it. She got to her feet, laying her fan aside. “Would you like tea?”

  The tea was ready made in the pot. Most ladies made a rigmarole of spooning the leaves into the pot and pouring in the hot water. Harry liked the lack of fuss. “Yes, please.”

  She lifted the delicate china teapot, adorned with a pattern of beautifully painted spring flowers, and poured the liquid into two porcelain dishes, set in their deep saucers. Everything she did was so graceful, so elegant that she was beginning to annoy him, in a perverse way. He wanted her to spill some drops of tea or put the teapot back on the silver tray crooked. But of course she did none of those things. She placed the dish and saucer precisely on a small table by his side. Then she took her own to a similar one by her chair, where she’d deposited her fan.

  “I believe her,” Harry said. “You know she visited me the day before yesterday?” Virginie nodded. “Of course, your mother chaperoned. She will have told you.”

  Her eyes widened again. “She did not tell me.”

  A surprise to him. Why would her mother keep that interview secret? “The lady came to see me. Rhea Simpson, the daughter of one of my tenants in the north. Unfortunately, Miss Simpson is the daughter of Sir Samuel Simpson, a landowner, not a villager. She claims Lyndhurst seduced her, clandestinely married her, and she gave birth to twins. She appeared sincere.”

  “I cannot believe it!” she burst out, distress creasing her brow for a bare instant before she took a breath and the marks smoothed. “How could he…”

  “My dear, gentlemen do such things.”

  She turned a look of total limpid disinterest on to him, her blue eyes pools of tranquillity. “And why should you care about such matters?”

  “Because I care about you.” He spoke the truth, he realised with a touch of shock. He did care, more than he should. Not for the glossy surface, but he detected something beneath, something worthwhile, different. The only way he would discover that was to get close to her. That part was instinctive, and he didn’t yet trust it. She was beautiful, desirable; even now, half London wanted her.

  She tilted her head to the side. One of those damnable curls fell over the naked part of her shoulder to graze the skin above her gauzy neckcloth. So tempting. “What is she like?”

  “I only met her once. Ask your mother.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  He let his mind return to the interview. “Attractive, practically dressed, although that might have been because she’d been travelling. Worried, naturally. What do you want me to say?”

  She fingered the slightly worn brocade on the arm of her chair. “Just that. I was curious, that’s all. You could say she’s my rival. If she’s truly the mother of his children and his wife, of course he must deal with her.” She glanced aside, but he was beginning to understand those slight movements. She was avoiding meeting his eyes. He didn’t know why, but he saw that instant of vulnerability and grieved for it. She could not appear in public like this. All the little signs would display her distress to more people than just him. It would seal her fate.

  “Lyndhurst denies marrying her, and she has confessed that although he promised, they never conducted a ceremony.” That had come out late last night, after intensive questioning by Amidei, but the lady had stuck to the rest of her story. She wanted retribution. She wanted marriage. “That isn’t your scandal.”

  Turning her head to face him again, her eyes were bright, her brow smooth. “No, it is another woman’s problem. But I care more for that than for my troubles. After all, I have money, and a place I can go to. She is disgraced, an unwed mother. Only one solution remains to her. She must marry. Preferably the father of her child, which for all intents and purposes is Marcus.”

  She had surprised him with that statement. Caring more for another woman was not a trait Venus was known for. Perhaps it revealed the part of her that was Virginie. In that case he liked that part, and he wanted to discover more about her.

  He made a rash promise. “I will do everything I can to help. If Lyndhurst is responsible, he needs to pay attention to his duties and marry Rhea Simpson.”

  She nodded, her features cold as stone. “And I will not conduct an affair with a married man.” A muscle at the corner of her mouth twitched. “I know what I’ve done. Eros shot me in an attempt to break an enchantment I’d cast on the woman he loved. But he used a lust spell. However, I considered Marcus a candidate, and I allowed myself free rein.” Lifting her hand, she drifted her fingertips over her mouth. “I fell deeper for him. Perhaps we could have our happiness after all. Neither of us was attached, so what was the harm?” She closed her eyes and sighed, then opened them again. “Now the thought of giving him up is hurtful.”

  He didn’t tell her she was no longer under Eros’s spell. Now was not the time. He noted the way she tried to distance herself from the statement, even while she was saying it. “You are addicted to him.”

  At least she laughed, although the sound was mocking. “You are a fool. I control love—I do not succumb to its spell.” She smiled. “I should be able to overcome this small setback, should I not?”

  Harry smiled reassuringly. “You should indeed. I cannot help, having nothing to do with the softer emotions.” Except forge armour for her, and she would probably not thank him for that. “I came to inform you that the Pantheon is rallying around you.” At her frown, he explained, “We are putting it about that the woman who helped you out of the ball is not your mother. You were distressed, and she stepped in to help.”

  “But she is my mother,” Virginie said. “I won’t deny her again.”

  Chapter Six

  With a sense of regret, Virginie watched the man who had gallantly rushed to her aid. Did he but know it, but the box containing the rose was resting in her pocket. She had been concerned it might get damaged or lost in the packing. Why she should care so much for it defeated her, except it was a beautiful object. When she’d first seen it, its beauty had suffused her with feelings she’d considered lost, emotions she’d pushed aside. He deserved the truth, at the very least, except when she’d told him, his dark gaze had hardened.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said.

  Harry shook his head. “I’d like to know more.”

  “You deserve to. You may do whatever you wish with this.” She glanced away and caught sight of her tea. It would be nearly cold by now, but she lifted the dish and sipped the liquid, just for something to do. She replaced it in its saucer rapidly. The small distraction had served its purpose. She had the story in her mind and she could relate it without too much fal
tering. She had her pride left. Just about all she had.

  “Thirty years ago my mother was staying in the house of the Duke of Boscobel. She was already expecting a child, and when the duke saw this, he was keen to recruit her. On the night of the explosion, she gave birth and the child became imbued with the spirit and essence of Venus. The duke wanted to take her away, to foster the baby, but she escaped. The duke continued to search for her, so she went into hiding. Unable to contact any of her kind, anyone she could trust, she changed her name and her station. She became a housekeeper, a domestic servant.”

  She had no shame saying the words. She never would again. “I was reared in the kitchens of the gentry. She worked for the people a level below the aristocracy. Most of the Titans had taken titles and property, and they would be less likely to discover her. It was for me, she said.” She smiled. “I believe her. She worked hard for me. She put me in the way of the old Duke of Clermont-Ferand when he visited England. Then she refused to let me go for anything short of marriage. He married me, so I wasn’t an outcast then. Nobody in France knew and she wouldn’t come with me. She could have.”

  Virginie had rarely met anyone who listened as well as this man. He remained perfectly still, his gaze trained on her. It was almost like talking to herself. But not quite. “My husband lied and lied, but France’s obsession with rank is even worse than it is here. He was not welcome at court, and that made him unhappy. So I worked to become the perfect duchesse.”

  Spreading her hands, she motioned gently, indicating her appearance, then returned her hands to her lap. She showed nothing of the horror that had been her marriage bed. Suppressing her shudder, she vowed yet again never to think of it. Her husband was kind to her in every other way.

  But Harry had seen. This perceptive man had seen something in her nobody else had detected. “The marriage was distasteful to you.”

  “No more than a woman of twenty marrying a man of seventy. The French don’t think as much of that age difference as the British, but even there they gossiped. Everyone gossips. It means nothing.”

  “It can mean a great deal. If you leave now it might mean everything.”

  “Not everything. I’m still rich, still titled.” If she told him of her plans he might deter her.

  “Do you always run away?”

  She glared at him, really saw him. He had uncrossed his legs and was leaning forward, his elbows resting on them. “What are you saying?”

  “That you are running from your problem. You are giving the gossips grounds for more malicious stories. You’ll make them worse.”

  “Them?”

  “The people gossiping. They will move to the next topic. They always do. But your case will give them confidence. Who knows who will suffer next?”

  “Obviously I must break with Marcus. Considering my attributes, it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  He grimaced. “You did not cast the spell. You merely perpetrated it. It’s like an oyster trying to get rid of the piece of grit that just grows and grows.”

  “That piece of grit becomes a pearl.” She wasn’t wearing her pearls today. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery, not having the heart to do so. Today saw her in the bare minimum she considered necessary to show her face outside her bedroom door. Weariness had swept over her when she considered her wardrobe for the day. Why bother? Nobody would come.

  “The oyster thinks it’s a nuisance. Who’s to say who is right?”

  For the first time in days, she smiled. He smiled back, startling her. That expression changed his harsh features. His eyes lit and creases deepened at the corners of his mouth. “True enough. Then I need to rid myself of the pearl. Or the piece of grit.”

  “It won’t be easy.” He took a deep breath. “Kentmere is sure this obsession is none of his doing. He tried to remove the enchantment and failed. He says nothing of his spell remains. So either you, as the goddess of love, are perpetuating it for yourself, or someone else has taken advantage of your vulnerability.”

  She’d known for a while that Eros’s spell had gone, but it had proved a convenient excuse. She must finally accept that the affair had finished and move on. “Once I’m out of the country—”

  “You still mean to go, then?”

  “Of course. What remains for me here?”

  He got to his feet and held out his hand. Like an idiot, she took it. He enclosed her in warmth, the heat of his body glowing through her. Gazing at his face, she let him draw her up, close to him. Too close for propriety.

  “This,” he said softly. Cupping her cheek, he bent his head and kissed her.

  Oh, such a lovely kiss! He caressed her so gently, she barely felt his lips on hers. Slowly, so slowly he deepened his embrace. He circled her waist with his arms and held her steady.

  What should she do? Pull away? He deserved at least this for his concern. Thoughts raced through her head, and then, when he stroked his tongue along her lower lip, she forgot everything.

  When she opened her mouth, he slid his tongue inside, tasting her, but keeping his hold firm. He tasted of darkness—smoke and tar and things she should hate, but he made them delicious. He drew her, and she went, yearning for more, but he kept their kiss gentle. Totally unlike her frantic meetings with Marcus.

  A chain inside her broke, loosening her links with Marcus a little more. It had been happening ever since Harry gave her the rose. She was thinking more rationally than she had since the beginning of her affair, but she still felt the fatal attraction for Marcus.

  Harry bore none of that. She kissed him because she wanted to, not because she had to. Had to or die. Consequently the pleasure was more delicate, and something she could savour. When she recalled times with Marcus, a confused blur of passion, clandestine meetings and excitement greeted her. Nothing she could remember in detail. A faint sense of shame overshadowed it all.

  None of this marred her kiss with Harry. Although she’d mocked him, even insulted him, here he was, patiently her friend, and holding his tremendous power back so he could bestow a kiss of—what, affection?—on her.

  Harry appeared so relentlessly male, and undeviating in whatever purpose he put his mind to. She’d have thought he would have taken what he wanted and left it to someone else to pick up the pieces, but his kiss was far from rough or uncivilised.

  She’d reckoned without the rose. Someone who understood nuance and gentleness created that thing of pure beauty that had insinuated its way into her pocket. How could she have discounted that?

  Harry finished the kiss as gently as he’d begun it. He drew his lips from hers with clinging reluctance. She stayed in his arms, staring up at him, as if they were both lost in a bubble of their own creation.

  She came to with a start when the door opened, but she refused to pull away. That would imply she had something to be sorry for, and that was a kiss she wanted to remember with fondness, not guilt. She’d had enough of people pointing and gossiping behind their fans.

  Turning, she let Harry lower his arms and move away from her. He did it carefully and slowly.

  It was her mother. She didn’t appear surprised. Dressed in her usual simple clothes, today of forest-green over a modest hoop, her mama regarded them closely. She closed the door quietly behind her. Then she curtseyed in response to Harry’s bow.

  “Why choose to reveal yourself now?” Harry demanded. Why would the woman come out of hiding at this time? To choose to work for the Olympians in the club?

  “It was time,” she said calmly, which explained precisely nothing.

  “I understand the relationship between you and the duchesse is not what you let the world believe,” he said.

  She nodded. “That is true, my lord, as far as it goes. We did not let the world believe anything. But I could not stand by and see my daughter shamed in such a way. That woman must be lying.”

  “Rhea Simpson?” Harry shook his head. “She is the daughter of one of my tenants, but I don’t know her any better than you do. I tend to belie
ve her, although her method of exposing her secret was a trifle dramatic. I cannot understand what she believes she has won with this tactic.”

  “A duke,” Mrs. Davenport said. “She will win a duke.” She studied him, her face impassive. “You are an immortal.” Her voice held no query.

  “Yes,” Harry agreed. “And I will do what I can to support Virginie in this trial.”

  Mrs. Davenport’s eyes turned fiery. “She needs no help. She may do as she wishes. She’s a goddess. Who would argue with that, looking at her?”

  One dark brow went up. “We are not invulnerable, as the Titans proved in the past. We are not without enemies. Could one of these have sent Miss Simpson, or did she come of her own accord? At this stage we cannot know, although I intend to find out.”

  “Sir?”

  “She normally lives on my property. I will go north and discover what she is about.”

  Virginie turned her head sharply and met his steady gaze. “You would do that?”

  “And more,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Davenport, you know your daughter’s plans?”

  She folded her lips tightly together. “Yes, I do, and I do not approve. Gods should not flee in the face of human opposition. It is wrong.”

  He paused and studied her for a moment before his next remark. “Why, Mrs. Davenport, you are not suggesting your daughter fights this opprobrium, are you?”

  Mrs. Davenport folded her arms. “Of course. It is the natural thing to do.”

  “What do you plan to do?” he asked softly. Although he’d taken a step away from her, Virginie still felt his warmth. The minutes she’d been enclosed in his arms had felt the safest of her life—a novel sensation.

  “I will not leave my daughter again. Society knows the worst. Let it talk. It will anyway.”