Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride

by Mary Balogh

  Viscount Kersey looked nettled. “Well?” he said. “What do you have to say?”

  “A few things,” the earl said, looking about him, “which I would prefer to say in some privacy. By a stroke of good fortune I see that the first anteroom is at this moment being vacated. Shall we go there?”

  “Lead the way.” Viscount Kersey made him a mocking bow and extended one hand in the direction of the anteroom.

  The Truscott mansion had been carefully built for social occasions. There was a whole series of small, cozy anterooms opposite the ballroom, all interlinked by doors that could be closed for privacy or left open for greater sociability. The understanding was that some guests would wish for a quieter place than the ballroom at some point in the evening and yet would be uninterested in cards. The understanding was too that young couples who were involved in the marriage mart, as so many were during the Season, would perhaps wish a moment in which to steal a kiss without being observed by half the ton.

  Closed doors were not the rule. Closed doors suggested clandestine goings-on and might arouse scandal if left closed for too long a time.

  The Earl of Thornhill closed the door into the corridor outside. Viscount Kersey turned to face him, amusement in his face again.

  “It is a pity gentlemen gave up the fashion of wearing dress swords a few decades ago, Thornhill,” he said. “We might have had a spectacular clash of arms in here, might we not?”

  The earl stood just inside the door. He set his hands at his back. “I have to thank you, Kersey,” he said, “for making it so easy for me to acquire my wife. She is, I believe, the greatest treasure any man could hope to find.”

  Lord Kersey laughed. “That good, is she?” he said. “Perhaps I should have tried her out for myself a few times, Thornhill. Broken her in for you and all that.”

  “Have a care.” The earl’s voice was very quiet. “Be very careful, Kersey. The lady has been made to suffer indescribable humiliation, for which we are both responsible.”

  “Come,” Lord Kersey said, still laughing, “you must admit that I was a better player than you, Thornhill. The letter was masterly. At least, in the humble opinion of its author it was. I did not expect you to take on a leg-shackle with her, though. That fact will afford me amusement for many a long day.”

  “I will be brief,” the earl said. “I came to say this, Kersey. You debauched my stepmother, you ruined the lady who is now my wife, and you have cruelly toyed with the affections of her cousin, another and even younger innocent. You have nothing to fear from me as I have discovered to my cost since my return from Europe that I have merely reduced myself to your level by seeking to punish you and have hurt innocent people in the process. But if you come near any lady within the sphere of my protection or affection ever again, or if you say or do anything calculated to cause them public humiliation, I will slap that glove I spoke of across your face in the most public place I can find. I will not ask if you understand me. I do not believe imbecility is among your faults.”

  Viscount Kersey put his head back and roared with laughter. “I am in fear and trembling, Thornhill,” he said. “My knees are knocking.”

  “If they are not now, they will be before this night is out.”

  Both men turned their heads sharply to look in astonishment at the door to the next anteroom, which now swung open and crashed against the wall behind it. It must not have been quite shut, the Earl of Thornhill realized.

  The Earl of Rushford stood there, his eyes ablaze, his face almost purple. Behind him Thornhill had a brief glimpse of the shocked face of the countess. The two gentlemen with whom they had taken supper were hastily ushering their ladies out through the other door into the corridor.

  “Father!” Viscount Kersey said.

  A well-rehearsed melodrama could not have played itself out with half as much precision, the Earl of Thornhill thought. Well, so much for private rooms and private conversations. He wondered irrelevantly if the sound of a kiss carried from one anteroom to another.

  “Rushford,” he said curtly, inclining his head. “Ma’am.” He did likewise for the countess. “I have had my say here. If you will excuse me.”

  He turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The music was just ending, he could hear. Jennifer would need him in the ballroom.

  SHE KNEW HERSELF FOR the coward she was before the night was out. Those questions she had asked him during the first waltz, the ones that had gone unanswered, had repeated themselves in her mind over and over again through the rest of the evening. Not that she really needed to have them answered. But as long as they were not, as long as she could not hear the answers in his voice, then perhaps she could convince herself that they were still merely questions, that she did not know the answers.

  She would ask again as soon as the ball was over, she decided. And yet she did not ask in the carriage on the way home. They were alone together, and they traveled in silence. It was not that she had no opportunity to ask. But she did not. He sat as far to the right of the seat as he could and she sat as far to the left as she could. But he took her hand in his and held it so tightly throughout that silent journey that her mind became wholly focused on her pain. Or so it seemed. She welcomed the pain because it gave her mind something to focus on.

  She would ask him as soon as he came into her bedchamber, she decided when he had escorted her into the house and left her at the door of her dressing room after kissing her briefly and telling her he would be with her shortly. But she did not do so. By the time he came to her she was in her nightgown, and her newly loosened and freshly brushed hair was comfortable against her back, and she could feel only anticipation and desire. If she asked now, a treacherous part of her mind told her, everything would be ruined and he would not make love to her. Or if he did, she would not be able to enjoy it.

  And so she decided to ask him afterward, before they fell asleep. But making love took a good deal of time and even more energy. And making love reminded her that she did not want any of it to be true. Any of it, including what she knew beyond all doubt was true. She did not want it to be true because she wanted to love him. And she wanted to be free to enjoy this for the rest of her life. She did not want to have to cringe from him at the once nightly performance of her duty. She did not want it to become nothing but a duty.

  “My love,” he murmured against her ear when they were finished at last and she should have been the one talking. “My love, I have not overexhausted you?”

  From Aunt Agatha’s description and her own previous knowledge, she had not expected it to take longer than a few minutes at the most. And she had expected only a little discomfort to herself, certainly no expenditure of energy. But it had taken many times longer than a few minutes and yes, he had exhausted her and she had exhausted herself. She had not an ounce of energy left with which to utter even a single word. She sighed deeply, cuddled closer, and slept. She was asleep even before she could hear his answering chuckle.

  There was a strong suggestion of dawn light in the room when she woke again and realized that it was his lips feathering across one temple and down her cheek that had changed her dream into an erotic one and then waked her. She sighed sleepily against his chest and stretched her legs along his. They were strong, very masculine legs, she decided, and remembered how they felt against her inner thighs.

  All right, she told herself firmly as full consciousness returned. This is it. Ask him now. Get it over with. There will be no peace until everything is in the open.

  And then perhaps none ever again!

  But the questions must be asked. She took her face away from his chest and tipped her head back. He was smiling at her.

  “Good morning, my love,” he said. “I did not wake you by any chance, did I?”

  “Yes, you did,” she said. “What do you mean by it?” I am smiling, she thought helplessly. I am smiling at him.

  “Only to ask humbly,” he said, his smile becoming knee-weakeningly tender, “
if I might make love to you again, my wife.”

  “Oh.” The body had a frightening power over the mind, she thought briefly. She never would have suspected it before her body had been awakened to pleasure—just last night. Every part of her now leapt into instant arousal. She wanted him. She wanted to feel him—everywhere.

  “Only if you wish,” he said. “You must say no if you do not.”

  She realized suddenly and in total amazement that she was seeing his face through a blur. And then she felt a hot tear roll diagonally down her cheek to drip onto his arm.

  “Oh, Gabriel,” she said, “I do wish it. I do. Make love to me.”

  When it was over, she said nothing, though she did not immediately sleep and neither did he. They might have talked, but instead they kissed warmly and drowsily with their eyes closed. And she marveled at what she had learned—that he could make love to her with his hand and his fingers and bring her to madness and ecstasy over and over again so that when he came inside at last for his own satisfaction she could be a soft and relaxed cradle for his driving hardness and finally for his seed.

  She would ask him the questions tomorrow, or rather later this morning. Not now. Now was going to be one of the precious memories of her life. She was going to remember tonight as the night she had loved totally. She was going to remember it as the night before love died forever.

  But that was tomorrow. This was now. She slipped an arm about his waist and pressed her breasts more comfortingly against his chest. Their kiss was broken for a moment, but they opened their eyes, smiled lazily, and joined mouths again.

  18

  HE WAS GONE AGAIN WHEN SHE WOKE IN THE morning. Though it was not as late as it had been the day before, she was ashamed of the fact that she could sleep so late and had not even stirred when he left her bed.

  She felt very married this morning, she thought as she dressed and as her maid styled her hair. It was a curious thought. She had been just as married yesterday morning. Except that yesterday morning she had been embarrassed about meeting her maid’s eyes and embarrassed about having to leave her rooms to be seen by other servants, who would know. And except that this morning that somewhat tender feeling in her breasts and the slight soreness—though that was not quite the right word—between her legs, denoting that there was now a man in her life, were more familiar to her. And pleasant. She liked the feeling.

  Her eyes, reflected in the looking glass, seemed larger, dreamier. It would be wonderfully pleasant, she thought, to have a marriage free of troubles. She would enjoy having a man as companion and friend during the day and lover during the night. She would love having children of such a marriage.

  Lionel. She sighed inwardly and remembered what he had done last night, how his gesture had seemed sadly noble at first until she had analyzed his possible motives for doing such a thing. And until she had begun to wonder about his past. Somehow—and the thought was frightening because it broke a habit of thought she had developed over five years—somehow she did not know if it would ever have been possible to have had Lionel as a companion and friend. There had never been any sort of closeness between them. Whereas with Gabriel …

  With Gabriel she had always found it easy to talk and easy to listen. If only circumstances were different, they might have been friends. Of course, they already were lovers at night. It was far more wonderful than she had ever imagined it could possibly be. Probably they would continue to be lovers. He had said that he would insist she perform that duty once each night. Except that they would not really be lovers, merely a man exercising his sexual rights and a woman being obedient.

  If she was correct, that was. If she asked him again.

  She knew she was right.

  She was not so sure this morning that she would ask him again. Why not just keep quiet about her knowledge, or her suspicions anyway? Why not let it all slip silently into the past and hope that they could build something of a future at Chalcote? Perhaps she could bring him to love her. She knew he found her desirable already. And she knew he felt responsible for her. He had married her, had he not? And she knew that she loved him.

  The admission caught her unaware, and she found herself playing absently with her hairbrush after her maid had set it down. Yes. Oh, yes, it was true.

  She drew a deep breath and got to her feet. There was no point in planning what she was going to do or not do. She should know from experience by now the power that Gabriel’s presence had on her. She would not know until she was with him again whether she would be able to live with unanswered questions forever festering in her mind or whether she would find it impossible to ask those questions again even if she wanted to.

  There was a tap on the door of her dressing room and her maid answered it. His lordship was requesting the presence of her ladyship in the downstairs salon at her earliest convenience, a footman explained.

  The downstairs salon was used for visitors, Jennifer had learned the day before in a tour of the house. Who? Aunt Agatha and Sam? It was a little early in the day for them, especially the morning after a ball.

  The same footman who had delivered the message and run lightly down the stairs ahead of her opened the salon door, and closed it behind her when she stepped inside.

  The room was silent even though it had four occupants. The Countess of Rushford was seated to one side of the fireplace, with her husband standing behind her chair. Viscount Kersey was standing before the fireplace, his back to it. Jennifer turned instinctively to the fourth occupant of the room. Her husband was standing at the window, his body turned toward it, though he had looked over his shoulder at her entrance. She fixed her eyes on him as he hurried toward her.

  “My dear.” He took her hands in a strong clasp and raised one of them to his lips. He looked as pale as if he had seen a ghost. “Come and have a seat.”

  He seated her on a chair at the other side of the fireplace and then moved away from her—to stand behind her chair, she believed, though she did not look. She fixed her eyes on the carpet a short distance in front of her feet. They would present what would look like a carefully arranged tableau to anyone now coming through the door, she thought irrelevantly.

  “Ma’am.” The voice was the Earl of Rushford’s. “It was good of you to grant us some of your time. My son has something to say to you.”

  There was a long silence, which might have been uncomfortable if she had allowed herself to think or to feel atmosphere. And then Viscount Kersey cleared his throat.

  “I owe you a deep apology, ma’am,” he said. “I did not have the courage to tell either you or my father that a promise made five years ago was no longer appealing to me.”

  He stopped again and Jennifer thought of that poor naive girl with her dreams of beauty and love and forever after. That girl who had been herself.

  “I tried to win my freedom in another way,” he continued. “I saw your interest in Thornhill and his in you and I decided to help along your—courtship. I was the author of that letter, ma’am.”

  His voice was stilted and cold. Jennifer wondered how his father had persuaded him to come and make this confession. Power of the purse, perhaps? Had he threatened to cut off Lionel’s funds?

  “And the other matter too, if you please,” his father said now.

  Lord Kersey cleared his throat again. “While I was unofficially betrothed to you, ma’am,” he said, “two years ago, I was unfaithful with another lady—with the Countess of Thornhill.”

  “An ugly reality with which we would not have burdened you, ma’am,” the Earl of Rushford said, his voice harsh, “except that it concerns your husband, and you should know that he is not the dishonorable man you might have suspected him of being.”

  No one filled the silence that followed. The viscount shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “We will not distress you further by prolonging our visit, which is not, after all, a social call,” Lord Rushford said at last. “We have to make another call, on Viscount Nordal, you
r father. But you must know, ma’am, that I deeply regret my part in what happened four evenings ago.”

  “And I mine in what happened last evening,” the countess added hurriedly and breathlessly.

  “You may be sure,” the Earl of Rushford said, “that the ton will be informed quite as decisively as they were four evenings ago of the truth of the matter. And you may rest assured that you will not have to suffer the embarrassment of setting eyes on my son for at least the next five years. He will be leaving the country within a few days.”

  She did not raise her eyes from the carpet as they left, accompanied by her husband. Or after they had gone. Every part of her felt frozen. Mercifully so.

  HE HELD UP a staying hand when his footman would have opened the salon door to admit him again. He needed to catch his breath and order his thoughts. He had known that something very similar to this was going to happen. There had been those questions she had asked him at the ball last night. He had known that she would ask them again. He had been thankful that she had not asked them last night. He had wanted last night in which to give her something that she might remember as tenderness after the crisis was over.

  But he had known that it would come today. Or tomorrow. Or some time soon.

  Well, it was now. He nodded briskly to the footman and stepped inside the room again. He heard the door close quietly at his back.

  She was sitting where he had left her. She had not moved. She looked as if she had been turned to marble.

  “You had suspected?” he asked her quietly.

  “Yes.” A mere breath of sound. She did not look up.

  “Jennifer,” he asked, staying close to the door, clasping his hands behind him, “do you love him? Is your heart quite shattered?”

  “I loved the thought of him,” she said, addressing the carpet at her feet, almost as if she were merely thinking aloud. “He was so very handsome and fashionable. He represented the dream of love and romance and exciting living that I suppose most girls who live in the country dream of. For five years he was my life, or at least my hope and my dream. It is shattering, yes, to know that in all that time he did not care for me at all and that this year he was so desperate to be free of me that he would resort to lies and cruelty. It is shattering to feel so very unloved.”