Of course, that might be due to those kisses.
Diana scowled at him.
The play—a farce about the usual misunderstanding between lovers—did not improve her mood. Her aunt laughed aloud at several parts—due, Diana suspected, to Mr. Marsett whispering a translation in her ear. Certainly he whispered something that had her aunt smiling at him as if infatuated.
She thought about pretending illness so that they must return to the inn. Only she had a disgustingly healthy constitution. And her aunt knew it. She tried yawning and pretending to be sleepy, but her aunt seemed so caught up with Mr. Marsett that she did not even notice.
Alarm tightened inside Diana.
She knew the signs—she had seen them often enough in her sister, Henrietta, who wore her heart for all to see. But she had thought her aunt past the years of folly—and beyond the age of losing her heart.
It must be a passing infatuation. Or the wine and the gaiety around them. Yes, that would account for it.
Forehead bunched tight, she glanced at Mr. Marsett, at his strong profile bent close to her aunt again. If only she had the reassurance that he would act a gentleman, that he had only honorable intentions. But she had caught him now twice with his arms around her aunt, and he had not said a word as to what he intended. What gentleman acted so callously? None she knew.
And there had been that awful scene she had witnessed between them, where they had sliced at each other like two duelist with sabers. Bring them into and adventure was one thing, but she could not allow Mr. Marsett to drag her aunt into heartache.
Her determination to do something deepened. And she saw her chance.
The flickering torchlight that lit the stage pulled a flashed gold from those who stood at the edge of the square, watching. Turning to her aunt and Mr. Marsett, Diana whispered, her tone urgent, "Soldiers!"
Paxten stiffened and his hand instinctively moved to grip Alexandria's. He glanced in the direction that Diana had indicated and saw nothing more than men standing in shadows near the stage. Then the first act ended, applause rang out, and one man stepped from the shadows.
Gold braid glinted from a uniform. Paxten let out his breath.
"They have found us?" Alexandria asked, her voice barely audible over the clapping and whistles of the crowd.
He shook his head, the tension easing from him. "No. He's infantry, by the looks of him. Not cavalry."
This did not seem to reassure Alexandria. "Perhaps we ought to retire?" she suggested.
Paxten glanced at her. He stood to help her and Diana to their feet, and he saw them back to the inn, finding ways to slip easily thought the crowd. But on the steps to the inn, he paused and leaned closer to Alexandria. "Go on up. And you need not wait for me."
He had started to turn away, but she reached out and caught his sleeve. "Just what do you intend?"
He smiled at her and brushed a finger across her cheek. "Only to have a drink or two. Do not worry, ma chére."
Alexandria knew exactly what he intended and she did not let go of his sleeve. "We spent the last few nights sleeping on the ground and the days driving in a donkey cart, and now you plan to go off drinking with the very men we have been avoiding! Have you lost your reason?"
"Yes, years ago. And if I stand those brave fellows to enough ale, they will lose theirs and I might find out where they are posted and if there is any such thing as a port in the north of France that is not overrun by too many uniforms."
"This is not—"
"Woman, you argue too much!" With a smile, he pulled from her grip. He spun her so that she faced the inn and his hand slapped across her rump. She whirled around again, only to find that he had disappeared into the crowed.
For a moment, she thought of going after him. But she would not abandon Diana—nor could she trust that her niece might not follow.
Shaking her head, she took Diana's arm and started into the inn and up the stairs.
"I suppose one must admire his bravery, but he is rather reckless," Diana said when they stepped into their room.
Alexandria moved to strike a flint and light the single oil lamp. When she had the wick burning, she turned it low and said, "Reckless rather implies that he gives no thought to his actions. I suspect he calculates them, actually, and then settles on the most dangerous course possible."
Diana sat down on the bed and picked at the partly embroidered shawl. "You sound as if you admire that trait—a little at least."
With a sigh, Alexandria sat on the bed next to her niece. "Admire? Yes, I suppose I do. There is something attractive about the notion of taking life in bold strides."
"But you do that."
Alexandria shook her head. "No, I am someone who thinks and calculates, and then settles for prudence. Which has its own satisfaction, I suppose. But perhaps it can become too comfortable to take the safe route."
"Well, do not start to tell me that you are dull! Father is dull, but not you."
Alexandria smiled at her. "Thank you, dear. But I am afraid I am, and I come by it rightly. Do you know, I do not think your grandmother, my mother, ever once raised her voice in her life. Never. She was the most terrifyingly perfect lady. She used to call her husband—your grandfather—Mr. Edgcot. Always. I never saw them so much as touch each other. And I must have been nine before I realized my father actually had a first name—some relative explained to me then that I had been named for him and that his Christian name was Alexander."
"Is that why you—why you allow Mr. Marsett to kiss you? Because you want to be bold?"
Alexandria shook her head. "No. If I were to be as bold as I'd like, I would—" she broke off, and smiled. "It is not that. It is just that, well...it is just that with him I cannot seem to help myself. He swept into my life once. And though I did my best to avoid him, fleeing to the countryside even, he still came after me. However, looking back upon it, I do not think I made it that difficult for him."
Curling her feet up on the bed, Diana asked, "And then what did he do—after he found you?"
"Oh, he courted me. As if I was a girl and he...well, I had never known anything like it. Or like him. It did not matter to him that I had a husband, or a family, or that his own family disapproved of him. He was like...like facing a force of nature. One might resist, but eventually one had no choice. And I do not think I really wanted one."
She glanced at her niece. "He insisted when we met again, that second time in the countryside, that we must start over. So he wanted us to live the day backwards." She smiled at the memory. They had started again with a kiss, and dancing, and then dinner, and so on. She stared at the steady flame of the lamp, but her vision focused on other memories. "And there was the time that he insisted we finish our croquet game in the rain. And the time he spent hours collecting wildflowers for me, only to have his horse eat them as he stood with his bouquet behind his back. And then that time in the upstairs picture gallery when he—"
She broke off that recollection, for she could hardly recount to her niece the full story of just what had gone on in the upstairs picture gallery.
"He started to call me his Lady Scandal, and he teased that knowing him would teach me how to be as boldly scandalous as he. And then I heard that name floating about London when I returned. I have no idea how gossips seem to know everything, servants talk perhaps, but they do find out."
"You care for him, don't you?" Diana asked.
Alexandria drew in a breath, then she nodded. "More so than I have for any man I have known."
"Do you love him? Does he love you still? Will you marry him?"
Rising, Alexandria kissed her niece on the forehead. She wished she had the answers. Instead, she had a hundred more questions herself. However, she smiled at her niece. "Dear one, I have learned one thing over the years, and that is that questions answer themselves if given enough time. For now, we have a soft bed and I say we make ourselves comfortable and leave Mr. Marsett to find his own way back."
Diana caught he
r aunt in a sudden, fierce hug. "I do not want him to hurt you—you are too kind to be hurt!"
Smiling, Alexandria smoothed a hand down her niece's golden hair. "We hurt ourselves, darling. And a heart is never much good to anyone if it is kept in cold storage. Do try and remember that. It is too easy to think about protecting oneself, and we forget in the process how to live."
#
Paxten staggered back to the inn late enough in the night that he wondered if he should even bother with sleep. The sun would be up soon. The dimming of the stars told him that. But he'd had enough of drink, and of loud laughter, and more than enough of swaggering boasts.
It had taken a few rounds to get those infantrymen talking. And they had insisted on returning the favor. After that, he could not get them to stop talking.
The First Consul, it seemed, looked to England as his next conquest. An obvious ambition, given that Bonaparte had already had his struggles with the English fleet. Still, it surprised Paxten just how rapidly Bonaparte had been ready to move troops to the coast. But was that not the man's genius—to act when others stood undecided? Or perhaps to plan when others sought only to enjoy peacetime.
Tired of thinking about it, he climbed the stairs, one hand pressed to his side. Bonaparte, thank the saints, had nothing to do with him. And he had gotten what he needed—the information that most of the troops seemed to be headed to Boulogne. Which meant that it would be wise to make for Dieppe. Alexandria would probably argue with him over such plans.
He smiled at the thought as he let himself into the room. And he paused in the doorway.
She had left the lamp lit for him, the wick turned so low that it gave off no more than the faintest glow. Coming into the room, he shut the door. He slipped off his shoes and padded across the floor.
They made a picture as would stir any man's imagination—two lovely women in bed. Diana lay on her side, facing away from her aunt. Alexandria lay on her back, her face relaxed, one slim, white arm laid over the covers.
He stared at them a moment, drink slowing his thoughts but doing nothing to blunt the wave of lust that rose in him. He hesitated only a moment as to where he would sleep. A gentleman would take one of the pillows and lay on the floor with noble sacrifice. But when had he ever done what was right? And he had his aching side to consider.
After blowing out the lamp, he felt his way to Alexandria's side of the bed. He lay down next to her. Breathing in her scent, he rubbed his lips across her cheek. The longing for her lifted, tightened in him, became almost unbearable. Odd how she was the one woman with whom he had actually ever been able to sleep the night through. But, Mother in heaven, would he end up only sleeping with her and nothing else?
This revenge of his seemed to be taking a greater toll on him than it had on her so far.
Smiling at the joke of it all, he fell asleep. And into dreams of the past.
#
She lay in his arms, the winter sky brilliant over them and water lapping softly at the side of the barge. Pillows lay under them, and the remains of dinner littered the damask-covered table set in the bow. Behind them, behind the curtain of the open-topped canopy, the two boatmen he had hired steadily pulled at their oars. The curtains also screened the side of the barge as it cut through the dark water of the Thames.
Brushing his lips across her forehead, he murmured to her, "We could be in Venice, you know. On a gondola."
Alexandria's lips curved in a smile, one he felt against his own cheek for she lay close in his arms. "Could we now? And would it be perhaps warmer than a January night in England? Remind me, next you invite me to dine, to bring a fur-lined cloak."
He grinned and pulled her closer. "Why do we not dine next in Venice instead?"
She sat up a little and turned towards him. The moon had set and he could see as little of her expression as she must see of his. His heart beat faster. He had not wanted to force this choice on her, but he had no choice himself now. His cousin, the distinguished head of his family, had seen to that. Paxten had been asked to leave—he must go, or his cousin would see him gone. But Paxten could not bear to go without his Andria.
"What are you asking?" she said, her voice now utterly serious.
He took her hand and began to stroke her fingers. "You know what. Come with me, Andria. A world awaits us."
"But I—"
He rushed on, interrupting her words before she could say no to him. "Bring your son, if you like. Bring whatever or whoever, but come with me. I—"
He broke off. He had almost told her that he must go. But he would not use that with her. He wanted her to come with him because she wanted it. He stared at her, at the pale oval of her face. She had never once told him her feelings—never said if she loved him, or cared. But he had not needed that, not so long as he could hold her in his arms and make her sigh and shiver and fall apart under his touch.
But he would not have that if he left without her. His hand tightened on hers. "Come with me. There is a ship bound for Naples that sails from London next week."
She turned away.
Sitting up, her took her face in his hands and turned her so that she had to look at him. "I love you, Andria. You're my treasure, my sleek doe! Ma trésor. Ma biche."
He wanted to take her away with him—take her whether she willed it or not. For her, he would break any rules. Society's. His own. For her, he would change his life. Once they fled the country, that dull husband of hers would have no choice but to divorce her. And then they could marry. Yes, he would marry her.
But he did not want to face her with that. He might frighten her.
Please, he willed in his soul.
She looked up at him and asked, her voice steady, but he could feel her breathing quicken, "Do you really want me that much?"
"Ah, more than that much. Tell me you will come! Tell me you love me! Promise me you will meet me and leave England with me!"
She took in a breath, and turned to look at the dark water before them and the dark shoreline. And she bowed her head and said, her voice a rough, unsteady whisper, "I'll come. Where shall I meet you?"
#
Paxten woke with a start, his throat tight and the betrayal almost smothering him. The feeling swamped him, bitter and sharp as if she had vowed just last night to meet him and leave England with him. He threw an arm over his eyes.
And he remembered that he lay in a bed in an attic room in the north of France.
Sitting up, he glanced around him. He was alone.
Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he tried to put the dream away. Had it been a dream? Or a memory? He searched now for an answer.
He could recall the elation of the moment, the sense of victory that had swept into him. The relief. He had kissed her, and he had made plans with her. Or he thought he had. She had been oddly quiet. He remembered that. But she had said she would come with him. She had promised.
But had she ever said those words he had wanted? Or had his mind put in those words, "I love you."
Frowning, he rose. His mouth seemed filled by dry wool and the ale sat heavy in him. His mouth lifted at one corner. He might want to wallow in the past, tearing it apart yet once again, but his body had its own demands, all of them centered in the moment.
He found a chamber pot under the bed and made use of it. With his clothes on but untidy, he went outside to dunk his head in the fountain and wash the dreams and delusions from his mind.
Perhaps she had said that she loved him, perhaps not. However, while he could wash the ale from him, he could not rid himself of the bitterness she had left him. His fist clenched. He wanted peace again. He wanted the scar she had left on him eased. And he knew but one way to get that.
He would have those words from her. He would make her say them. He would pull them from her, force her to be the one who gave in and told him that she loved him. And when that happened, he would laugh at her and walk away, as she had once turned from him.
His mouth pulled down and he narrowed his e
yes at the world around him. Perhaps this might not ease the ache in him, but he wanted her to die inside as he once had. He had loved her, but she had destroyed that. Still, he could burn for her. And he would. And she would burn again for him. He would make certain of that.
Ah, that damn solider of General D'Aeth ought to have taken better aim a few nights ago. If he had, the world would have been a safer place for his Andria.
#
"But we are not that far from Boulogne. Why must we now turn for Dieppe?"
Paxten turned to glare at Diana. The protests had come from her, not from Alexandria as he had expected. Before he could answer the girl, Alexandria did so, her tone mild, "Really now, Diana. He has already explained about the soldiers." She turned to him. "Paxten, when we do get back to London, do you think this is information the Foreign Office will want to know? I mean about French troops being sent to Boulogne?"
Paxten's mouth twisted. "I would be surprised if they did not know it already. Not all the English fishing boats in the Channel look for fish, you know."
She frowned. "And what will they think of a French boat headed to English waters?"
He gave a shrug. "They will think it carries contraband—such as good French wine. But it will have us on board, as well."
That answer seemed to content the ladies.
They slept that night beside the road. Oddly, no one complained. Not even when they had to make do with stale bread for breakfast. Paxten put it down to the fact that earlier a column of soldiers had ridden past them. Alexandria had sat utterly still, and Diana had gripped his arm, her eyes wide, but with a glimmer of excitement in the blue depths. He had watched, tense, but not worried. The soldiers, all marching on foot, looked bored and he could not think they had anything in their orders other than to keep marching.
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