Her mind whirled.
But she stayed in the shelter of his arms, eyes closed, letting that lovely rumble of a voice pour over her. Her arms stole around him. Perhaps just a few moments. She let out a ragged breath. It had been such a long day.
Tightening his arms, Paxten rested his head on hers and closed his eyes. His poor Andria. Never to have slept under the stars, nor to have had the joy of sturdy clothing that could be worn without a care, nor to have traveled anywhere without an army of servants to both see to her and hem her in at the same time. So much that was new—too much perhaps.
And she had been worried for him.
He smiled.
He ought to use this, he knew. He had been looking for her to show some vulnerability, to show some flaw he could exploit, and now he had such an opportunity, he wanted only to hold her and tell her that it would be all right.
Ah, what a lie that was. What was ever right in this world? Least of all him. Or anything between them?
He knew the moment she relaxed, felt the stiffness slip away from that slim, straight back, heard her breath come easier and soft now.
Leaning away from her, he looked down and brushed a strand of hair from her face. The setting sun turned her hair into a nimbus of gold around her head. He had wanted her hair loose, and now he remembered how it curved around that strong chin. He cupped her face with one hand. She had her eyes closed still, and her lips parted as if expecting the kiss he intended. Ah, so she knew him, too, it seemed. How easy they fell into this reading of each other.
He started to bend to her, but he heard Diana's light chatter.
Alexandria must have heard it, too, for she bolted from his hold. The languor of a moment ago vanished into that brisk English tone of hers. "I suppose if we are to camp tonight, we shall need a fire. I certainly hope you know how to make one, for I have no idea."
The corner of his mouth tightened. The practical Lady Sandal had returned. Well, he could wait. He had what he needed—that small opening. He could work on that, widen it. Play on her concern for him. And when the moment arrived, he would know just how to shatter the protection she wore around her heart. He would then make certain that his Lady Scandal truly earn that name he had given her.
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By the time he had a fire built he had exhausted the last of his strength. Diana and Alexandria had gathered wood at his direction, coming back with small armfuls of slim branches instead of anything that would burn hot and long. He almost went off to handle the task himself, but he knew his limits. He had reached them. Instead, he used what they brought, pulled out the blankets from the cart, and prayed for fair weather.
The fire crackled, doing more to cheer them than it did to warm, and Diana's bright voice filled the evening as they ate the meat pies. The girl was a wonder. She seemed to mind nothing. How had anyone in Alexandria's starched family ever spawned such a changeling? He had met Alexandria's younger brother, a bookish fellow with no interest in anything much beyond the towers of Oxford. But Alexandria's parents had pushed him into society, as they had their daughter. Alexandria's brother had dutifully gone and married as his family arranged. Ah, how well Alexandria's parents matched his own cold-blooded, English relatives.
As if echoing his thoughts of family, Diana asked suddenly, "Were your parents émigrés, Mr. Marsett?"
He glanced at the girl, her face pale in the firelight, hair glimmering like gold. "If you mean did they flee the Revolution as did so many, then no. My mother was English, and my father was dead long before the old regime vanished."
"Oh, I am sorry."
He smiled and stretched out beside the fire, laying on his good side to ease the ache on the other. "Nothing to regret in that, ma petite fille. He was sixty when he married my mother, and he died in his bed ten years later—a happy man, I expect."
"Really, Paxten!"
At Alexandria's prim words, he grinned at her. "Yes, really. Her family, however, did not find such a marriage so nice. A Frenchman, an older Frenchman, shocked them, I think. Even if he had land and titles—and he did. She had a child—me, of course—and had no idea how to manage without him, so she went back to England. Then came the Revolution, and the land and titles went."
Diana leaned forward and firelight flickered over the concern on her lovely face. "How awful. Have you never wanted to get them back?"
He drank the last of the wine from the bottle. "Ah, but to do so I would have to become of use to the current ruling power—that means Bonaparte. And I think the only use he might have for a half-English Frenchman is as a spy."
"That's ghastly!"
She sounded so genuinely appalled that he smiled. "But pragmatic, is it not? The First Consul has ever been that. It is, however, too much work for my taste. Besides, my English cousins pay me well enough to stay far away from London, and so I do."
"They pay you...but that is absurd."
"Why? They dislike the scandal I stirred up, and they want to make certain I do not come back to embarrass them more. Trying to force a man into a duel is not a nice thing, after all. But then neither is trying to run off with his wife."
"Thank you, Paxten, I think we have heard enough on such an old and tired topic," Alexandra said, her words clipped.
"Oh, but I haven't," Diana protested. "It sounds fascinating."
"There, you see, Andria. Why do you not tell her your part of that old and tired topic? Surely it can serve as a moral lesson if nothing else."
"There is no lesson to give, thank you very much. Diana, if you must know the story, Mr. Marsett and I shared a...a flirtation."
"Ah, yes, we did nothing but play cards."
Alexandria shot him a warning stare. "There was talk, but there always is talk in London."
"And there was that duel that did not happen—by the saints, I have never seen a man so determined to talk his way out of a duel as was your Bertram. I nearly shot him on the spot just to make him stop talking."
Diana frowned. "But that would have been terribly unsporting."
"Ma fille, I did not harbor sporting feelings towards Lord Sandal. He was a bore. And a...."
"Thank you, Paxten, for your kind assessment of my late husband."
He grinned. "Come, Andria, you never loved him either. You ought to be at least that honest with us—and yourself."
"That may be, but I also do not care to malign him now that he is passed on and unable to defend himself."
"Ah, but he was unable, or unwilling, to defend himself when alive. The blunt truth, ma fille, is that your aunt nearly ran off with me."
Diana smiled. "Really? How wonderfully romantic."
He shook his head. "No, not very. The word to remark is nearly. She made the practical choice, not the romantic one. And—"
Alexandria's voice cut across his flippant tone. "I had a son to consider!"
Paxten sat up, the amusement gone from him. "Your son wasn't your reason to stay—he was your excuse! Admit it. The boy was already gone from you. He was sent to Eton. You had nothing to hold you, except that you could not give up your title and position. You let duty chain you to them!"
She glared at him, firelight reflecting hot in her eyes. "I stayed to keep my son from being shamed by me."
He met her stare, eyes black and shadowed, and his voice dropped to a growl. "You lied to me once. Do not expect another lie to find a home with me."
The fire crackled. Sparks flew to the stars overhead. Paxten kept his stare locked on Alexandria, his eyes narrowed. Even in the light of the flame, he could see the patches of angry red on her cheeks.
Diana rose suddenly, hugging herself, her face shadowed, but strain in her voice as she spoke. "Do you know, I think I shall go to bed. I've a pillow and blanket in the back of the cart. Good night, aunt. Mr. Marsett." She dropped a quick curtsy and scooted away into the darkness, to where Paxten had left the cart, its shafts propped up to keep the bed in the back of it flat.
Blinking, Alexandria pushed a hand through her ha
ir and looked away from Paxten. Now they had made a scene in front of Diana. How did the man managed to bring out the worst in her? And why was she attempting to defend a position that proved her right for having had to hurt him?
"I beg your pardon," she muttered, staring at the fire.
He let out a long breath, and his voice came to her, sounding as weary as she felt. "No, I should beg yours." He gave a dry chuckle and she glanced at him. "Every time I promise myself I shall behave, and then I cannot wait to claw at you. Ah, but perhaps you were right not to come with me back then."
She wet her lips and said, her voice soft, "I wanted to."
He said nothing.
She tucked her feet close to her and rested her chin on her knees. "I had even packed my things that night, to leave with you just as we planned."
His voice came out of the darkness, low and rough, but without accusation, just resignation. "You changed your mind?"
Pausing, she drew in a breath. She kept her stare fixed on the fire, seeing not the flames, but her younger self. A girl really, unhappy in her marriage and in love with a dashing young man whom she adored. He was right. Her son had gone off to Eton the year before. The parting had been one of the things that had left her life so hollow, and herself so vulnerable to Paxten. So in need of someone who might care for her.
Now she needed him to understand, as he had not been able to when last they parted.
"Yes. Yes, I did. Perhaps I ought to have pleaded a headache and not gone, but I had to be the hostess that Bertram wanted—there to greet everyone. To make the circuit around the room with Bertram. He always went into the card room as soon as he could."
She pressed her lips tight. Sap popped in the fire. She shook her head. "He seemed not to have a sense of anything being different. I was terrified he might. Not for fear he would make a scene. Chetwynds do not make scenes. But that he would discover my intent and simply refuse to allow it. He could do that. Just pretend it did not exist. I had this irrational fear he would do that with me—have me carried off to one of his country estates and simply shut me up and forget me. But he said nothing, just smiled at everyone as we went around. And then he went into the card room. And I left to meet you."
"To tell me good-bye, you mean."
She swallowed hard and could not look at him. She could not face the anguish she heard in his voice, could not bear to see it on his face.
"That was not my intent, even then. I—oh, it is no excuse, and I do not expect forgiveness. I cannot forgive myself. But I cannot change it either. I stopped to look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to look good for you. And so I stopped to fuss with my hair and make certain my necklace lay straight. I had on the topaz that you had given me. You know, Bertram never even noticed, other than to remark that I ought to buy myself yellow diamonds instead of such shabby gems."
She shook her head, the heartache so old, so faded, but still there. Such a silly little thing. Was that how one's life always changed? In one single instant when the world shifted?
"I heard them talking as I stood there. I do not even know who they were, other than they were two of the usual catty sorts of ladies one meets in London. Gossiping away as ever."
"About you?"
"About Jules actually. Do you know, I had though it poetic fiction that one could be held still by fury. But I could not move for the anger. I could only listen to them go on and on about the 'poor boy' and how awful it would be for him. They, of course, had scented something. Bertram had not seen it in me, but they had.
"'Do you think she'll run off with him?' one of them said." She mimicked the voices she had heard that night. "'Oh, Lady Scandal—of course she will. But it will be little Lord Scandal who grows up to bear his mother's shame.'"
She broke off the story, for her throat had thickened. How did she put into words the agony that had filled her? The shame. She had seen exactly what her son would endure if she put her desires first. The gossip. The taunting. And he was already so withdrawn and isolated. So different from other boys. If only she had had other children, who....
There she was again, deep in regret.
She had not been able to do it. Perhaps she ought to have. Perhaps she should have kidnapped Jules from Eton and fled with Paxten. He could hardly have been a more neglectful as a stepfather than Bertram has proven as a father.
But her courage had faltered.
"Even then, I still intended to meet you. I sent a maid for my cloak. But when I saw your coach outside, I...oh, I am sorry."
The fire was dying. Hot embers glowed but the flames flickered low. She could not bear to bring up that horrid scene between them. She had thrown on her cloak and had gone out to tell Paxten she could not leave—and his anger had ignited her own. They had been so awful to each other that night, flinging accusations at each other.
She had struck him even. She closed her eyes.
Paxten's voice drifted to her, quiet, but without the rancor that had once tainted his words. "You gave me so many promises before that night."
Opening her eyes, she looked at him. "I did. And I kept none of them. And I ought to have given you more patience. More kindness. I knew you had to leave."
He shook his head. "Yes, but I brought that on us by trying to force Sandal into that duel—was there ever such a mad notion as that? I knew my cousin would not tolerate it. But I went ahead anyway. And, of course, so did he."
"So it was he who gave you the idea that you must leave England. I thought as much."
"It was not so much an idea. He told me to book passage, or he would arrange such matters. And I had no wish to wake up one morning in the bowels of some ship, possibly in chains."
"Good heavens! No wonder you sounded so desperate that last night. Why did you not tell me then?"
"Ah, but I did not want my lack of choice forced on you. I had to leave England. I wanted you to come because you would, not because I must, but because you would. And you had said you would. Besides, what would it have changed?"
Nothing. Nothing.
She shook her head. "I am sorry. So very sorry. It seems I cannot say that enough. But why did you never return? You told me once that if we had to part, you would come back to me. That you would wait until I had my freedom." She winced as she heard the desperation in her voice—she sounded so much like a woman in love still. She had not been that for years.
He laughed.
Her mouth tightened. She could have hit him for finding cynical humor in this when she had shown him her scars. Sobering, he said, "Ma chére, I meant that divorce you said you would ask for from him, and which you never did."
"Oh, I asked! I demanded it. It nearly gave him heart failure when I did. His answer, when he could speak again, was that Chetwynds did not divorce. He refused to speak of it again, after that night."
Scorn laced his words. "How polite of you to ask. You could have sought a divorce from him, ma chére. It would not have been easy, but you could have forced him into giving you what you wanted. And even if he did not, I would have heard if you had separated."
"I could have forced him into going before Parliament to petition for such a thing? He explained what such actions entailed and when he was done, I could see it would be years if ever that such a thing could be achieved. I…it was impossible!"
A log shifted on the fire, sputtering into the dirt. Was he right? Had she not tried hard enough? Should she have just packed and left? She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Perhaps she ought to have put their love before everything. Only she had not been able to do so.
She glanced at him, at his dark eyes and pale face, at the burning light in those eyes and the hard set to his jaw. Could she at least make it easier for him? She wet her lips. "You are right. I failed you. You needed someone who loved you more than I ever did."
Paxten glared at her. The admission, the words he had so long wanted to wrench from her, thudded into him like lead. Impatient with her—and with himself—he stood. Diana had the right of it—the
y all ought to have been in bed hours ago.
As he rose, he forgot his injury. His sudden movement pulled an ache from his side and startled a gasp from him. He stood still to ease the pain and at once Alexandria was there, hardly more than a shadow in the darkness, holding on to him and concern in her voice again. "Do you need that bandage changed? Is it wrapped too tight? We ought to have had it off while there was light still. I can...."
"Merde," he muttered, choking out the word on a dry laugh, and then put his arms around her and kissed her.
CHAPTER NINE
So you did not love me enough? he thought as his mouth covered hers. His arms closed around her, trapping her. She did not struggle in his hold and he almost wanted her to. He wanted the excuse to force her to face the truth. To make her see. He intended to prove her a liar, once and always with him.
Her lips parted and he forgot what he had intended to prove. Forgot words: things said or wished unsaid. He forgot things done or left undone. Everything vanished into the hot taste of her, the soft moan pulled from her as she gave to him, the scent of her like spiced flowers.
His hands closed on her waist. He wanted to drag her down to the ground. Wanted hot skin pressed to hot skin, and her trembling, and the pleasure they could give to each other with only the stars to see and the grass to hold them. He wanted other memories, not the bitter ones that lay between them. Not the hurt they had given each other.
By instinct he started to sink down, pulling her with him, but as he bent a brand of pain flashed up his side. With a gasp, he broke the kiss to put a hand on his injury, muttering curses in French, and holding her now with his other hand to steady himself.
"That must be seen to," she said, her voice thick with passion, but with a firm hand now taking hold of his.
"There's no need."
"I have tended a son through falls from his first horse and childhood ailments, so I ought to be able to manage a fresh bandage for you."
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