He had never felt more the need to confide in someone. Ironically, the first person who came to mind as a trusted confidante was Mary herself. How could that be? Despite the suspicions that had plagued him through the night, she remained the person he wanted most to open his heart to. He longed to trust her, but could he?
He forced himself to lie still, but sleep continued to evade him.
He dredged up every story and titbit of gossip he could remember about William Cranston. Mary’s father had visited Rothley Hall on a number of occasions during Lucas’s childhood, before his relationship with the old marquis had turned sour over an allegation of cheating at cards. Lucas had been away at Oxford at the time. The occasional story had filtered down south since then: tales of drunkenness, violence and—according to his father—theft. A charming individual if even half the tales were true. Why on earth would Mary voluntarily return to such a despot?
Eventually, a tap sounded at the door and Mary’s voice announced she had brought his luncheon tray. He abandoned any thought of sleep. He needed to understand, but hesitated over how best to broach the subject.
He would eat his food and then he would try to find out exactly why Mary sought protection from a man she should despise and fear.
Chapter Thirteen
As soon as she set foot in the room, Mary sensed Rothley’s constraint. She was surprised to find him still in bed, but made no comment as she laid the tray across his lap. She had heard Trant tell Ellen his lordship had been at the brandy. In her opinion, it served him right if he had a sore head as a consequence. She would not waste her sympathy on someone whose ills were self-inflicted; neither did she excuse his bad manners in not acknowledging her beyond a muttered ‘Thank you’.
The intimacy they had shared last evening might never have happened. How she wished she had not gone back to his bedchamber afterwards. He would still be ignorant of her identity and would not now be treating her as an unwelcome intruder. She choked down the threat of tears. She could not bear this atmosphere.
As soon as Lucas began to eat, Mary headed for the door.
‘Don’t go, Mary. Stay and bear me company.’
His tone was brusque. Mary hesitated, unsure how to deal with this new Lucas. She forced a smile. ‘Is that an order?’
His dark brows contracted. With his unshaven jaw and tousled hair he looked dangerous—piratical almost—but also sinfully attractive. Her heart beat faster against her ribcage as she imagined caressing his stubbled cheeks and tasting his lips. Despite his less-than-welcoming mood, she still tingled at the memory of his touch, still yearned for him to hold her. She tensed, feeling her false smile fade.
‘No. If it sounded like one, I apologise,’ he said.
Mary hovered near the door until Lucas beckoned to her. ‘Come, Mary. Sit here. Please.’
For one brief moment she considered leaving, but what would that achieve? She must face his questions at some point. Better to get the worst over with, than to fret about what was to come. She crossed to his side and sat by the bed, watching as he continued his meal. He concentrated on his plate, shooting an occasional brooding glance in her direction.
‘I understand you’ve been unwell this morning,’ she said, more to break the silence than from a wish to know how he felt.
‘Not unwell, merely tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
Neither did I. She had been thinking about her father and worrying over Lucas’s reaction to their conversation of the night before. Rightly so, it seemed. It had, as she had feared, affected their relationship—their growing friendship, she told herself firmly—and not for the better. Still, what did it matter? She would have to leave soon. The day was drawing ever closer—the day when she could no longer delay setting off on the final leg of her journey to her childhood home.
‘What do you do with yourself, when you are not here pandering to my whims?’ Mary jumped as Lucas’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I feel very isolated, stuck up here whilst everyone else is going about their daily business.’
It was not the subject he wished to debate, she knew. That—the matter of her father and why she would choose to return to such a man—loomed large and unspoken between them.
‘I help Mrs Lindley and the others where I can,’ she said.
Silence reigned once more and Mary could feel his eyes on her. She tightened her lips and plaited her fingers in her lap, squeezing until the skin over her knuckles shone white.
‘What is it you are not telling me? I can hear in your voice you are hiding something.’
She couldn’t tell him the truth. When she wasn’t with him, she was with the children. The old nursery at the top of the back stairs had been utilised as a temporary schoolroom, where she sometimes played with and read to the children and taught Toby his letters and numbers, and helped Emily with her speech. She was improving all the time, but still Mary worried over how little time she spent with them. When she was with Lucas the children spent their time in the kitchen with Mrs Lindley or accompanied Susan on her lighter duties.
Mary sighed. She could tell by his expression he wasn’t about to drop the subject.
‘It has been difficult, since you spoke to Mrs Lindley about making changes.’ That, at least, was the truth. ‘I appear to be in everybody’s bad books,’ she went on. ‘I have tried to explain, but they cannot—or will not—see their workload will be vastly improved with the changes being made. But I cannot blame them altogether. From their point of view, I instigated the changes and then I was unavailable for most of yesterday, leaving them with all the extra work. By the time I visited Jenny and then came up to see you in the afternoon, they had finished and were busy in the kitchen.’
‘You are not a servant. You should not be doing menial tasks.’
‘I am no delicate flower, either. I am happy to help out where I can. I have become used to it, over the years. Do you not turn your hand to so-called menial tasks on occasion? When there is too much work for your men to handle?’
Lucas shrugged. ‘Once in a while,’ he acknowledged. ‘I take your point, although how my household is run is not your concern.’
‘Is that a reprimand?’ The old Mary—conciliatory and cautious—would never have confronted her father or her husband in such a way, but she had no qualms about challenging Lucas in the face of such an unfair comment. She had asked for his support in changing the routine of the household and he had given it, even to the extent of instructing Mrs Lindley about them.
He looked directly at her for the first time since she had entered his room. ‘It was not meant to be.’
He ran one long-fingered hand through his hair, ruffling it even further. Mary’s thoughts flew to the night before, feeling again the silkiness of his black locks slipping through her fingers. An unbearable ache squeezed her chest.
‘I chose my words badly,’ he was continuing. ‘What I meant to convey is that you are not responsible for the household in the same way in which I am responsible for the estate. I am sorry. Blame it on tiredness. I am not myself this morning.’
‘Well, that is good news,’ Mary said with an attempt at levity, ‘for it is now the afternoon and I shall expect an immediate return to the jovial, articulate Lord Rothley I have become used to.’
‘Minx!’
He smiled at her, but it appeared forced and, all too soon, he lapsed once more into brooding silence, his full attention on his food.
Despite his current mood, she realised her original wariness of Lucas had vanished, to be replaced by...? Here her newfound insight collapsed. She glanced at him. He was staring at the window, arms folded, his mouth a hard line, his dark brows lowered. As she watched, his chest rose and he moistened his lips.
‘Should I call Trant?’ she said quickly, keen to delay the dreaded conversation about her father. ‘Would you like to go to the Blue Room?’
‘No. Not yet.’
Silence reigned once more, the tension in the room palpable. Nerves churned her s
tomach and she felt her heart thump against her ribcage. She thought frantically for some way of diverting him from the subject of her father.
‘Mary...’
Mary looked up and their eyes fused. Her name hung in the air between them. Desire curled deep within her as awareness flared in his eyes. Her blood quickened and fire coursed through her veins. She licked at dry lips. Dark eyes followed the movement, then lifted to penetrate, it felt, deep into her soul.
Distraction.
That would work and she had no need to pretend. She dropped her gaze, fixing hungrily on those smooth lips that could tantalise and tease in a way she had never felt before, nor imagined could exist.
Without volition, she reached out, touching his cheek, the stubble prickling her skin. His breathing suspended as she feathered her fingertips along his jaw, lingering over the strong cleft in his chin. She raised her eyes to his as her fingers inched upwards until they lay against his firm, beautiful lips. Warm air moistened her skin as he exhaled. As she watched, his lids lowered and he kissed her fingertips, each in turn, his lips soft and gentle.
His hand lifted. Long fingers threaded through her hair and cradled her skull as he eased her closer, angling her head. Her hand moved to his chest, the hair at the open neck of his nightshirt rough to her fingertips. She felt his heartbeat, strong and fast, as their lips met. She leaned into the kiss—a slow, sensual caress of the lips. A gentle nip to her bottom lip, followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue encouraged her to open to him and he explored her mouth with leisurely strokes. Her breasts were heavy and tender, craving his touch, and hot desire pooled deep in her belly but, all too soon, he took his lips from hers. She whimpered in protest. He bent his head, resting his forehead against hers, and gazed deep into her eyes.
‘What is happening between us, Mary Vale? Are you a sorceress sent to bewitch me?’
His breath caressed her sensitised lips. Mary suppressed the shiver of her response.
‘I do not know,’ she whispered. ‘I only know it cannot be.’
He straightened, his hands on her shoulders, pushing her from him. There was vulnerability in his expression: vulnerability and pain. She had no time to wonder at that, for he was speaking, a new determination in his voice.
‘Your father...our conversation last night... I need to understand why you are going back to a place where it seems you were unhappy.’
What could she say? She was going back purely for the sake of her children. She had no other choice. It was that, or the workhouse. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not for the first time, she wondered at his aversion to children. It still made no sense to her. To hide her consternation, she went to the fireplace, fussing around, poking the fire and adding more fuel.
‘Leave that!’
Reluctantly, Mary returned to the side of the bed, determined to mask her discomfort as he scrutinised her from head to toe. That loving moment between them might never have happened. Mary’s head reeled. No words would come.
‘I will repeat my question,’ Rothley said in a soft voice. ‘Why do you go to him, when it would seem you are unlikely to be made welcome? Why not get a post? You could be—oh, I don’t know: a governess? A housekeeper maybe? You have been used to work. Or is that the reason?’ His eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. ‘Have you had your fill of working hard for a mere pittance and long for a life of idleness and riches?’
Mary was left confused and floundering as she tried to adjust to this mercurial change in Lucas. One moment he was full of sympathy, the next he was condemning her. Perhaps she had given him cause, after the way she had behaved.
Let him believe the worst of me. I shall be gone soon and his opinion of me will no longer matter.
To her dismay, the thought of never seeing Lucas again—to never again feel his lips take hers or experience the sensual, urgent craving they invoked—twisted like a knife in her heart. In near despair, she tried to deny those thoughts: they were false, conjured up by her weak body and its base needs, masquerading as true feelings.
If that is true, a small voice of dissent whispered inside her head, and what you feel for Lucas is purely physical, why did you not accept Simon Wendover’s offer?
She had no answer to give, neither to her conscience nor to Lucas. She remained silent, lowering her eyes before the accusation burning in his.
‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘Is that it? Are you as fickle as the rest of your sex, wanting a man for the sole purpose of keeping you in luxuries?’
Stung, Mary glared at him. Why was he attacking her?
‘You must know that is not true! If I was such a woman, would I not have accepted your offer?’
‘You have been at the Hall sufficient time to realise there are no luxuries to be had,’ he said bitterly. ‘Hard work and going without awaits any soul who allies themselves to me.’
‘How little you know me, if you believe riches and an easy life to be my goal. I am not afraid of hard work.’ She took his hand, gripping it with the urgent need to convince him. She could no longer deny her growing feelings. She could not bear his bitter tone. ‘You know...I have read it in your eyes...my feelings...how I feel...’ Her voice faltered. How could she even think of saying such a thing? Could she really admit to her growing regard for him? Would that not be the same as throwing herself willingly upon his bed?
His dark brows scowled, but his eyes still exuded pain. A memory surfaced. The memory of a name, uttered in despair, cried from the hot, dark depths of fever.
‘Who is Julia?’
His eyes flashed and his face darkened. Mary’s courage almost deserted her, her stomach twisting as she fought against her instinct to retreat. She needed to understand why he was so ready to believe the worst of her motives. His feverish mutterings had revealed enough for Mary to know his memories of Julia were not happy ones. She couldn’t deny it had piqued her curiosity. And stirred her jealousy. Had Lucas been in love with Julia?
‘What did you say?’ he growled. ‘Where did you hear her name?’
Mary gritted her teeth. ‘Julia,’ she said. ‘I asked who she is. You spoke her name in the woods and during your fever. I have told you of my past; now I am asking about yours.’
A part of her stood aside, marvelling at her own courage. Again, this was not the Mary of old. She realised with pride that, having relied on her own resources for some time, she had grown stronger. She lifted her chin, holding his gaze, seeing beyond the fury in his eyes and his lowered brow.
‘It is a reasonable request.’
‘I am entitled to know about your past. You are a part of my household...’
‘But I am not in your employ. I am not a part of your household in the sense you imply,’ Mary pointed out, determined not to be intimidated. ‘Why should I not ask you a question? If it causes you pain...’
A loud wail suddenly rent the air, then was cut short. The house fell silent, almost as though it held its breath.
‘What the...?’ Lucas half-rose from his bed, twisting awkwardly, then flopped back again with a curse. ‘A thousand curses, that hurt!’ he groaned as he clutched at his shoulder.
Mary stood frozen, shocked into temporary immobility by the sound of Emily’s cry.
‘What on earth was that?’
Mary was spurred into action. ‘Nothing,’ she gasped as, frantic, she rushed for the door, visions of her beautiful daughter, crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs or flattened by falling masonry in this ruin of a house, crowding her mind.
‘Mary! What...?’
She slammed the door shut behind her and looked up and down the landing outside his bedchamber. The cry had sounded close. Biting back a sob, she headed for the stairs. There, at the top of the staircase, stood a guilty-looking Toby, with Emily clutched in his arms, her sobs muffled against his chest. Susan, looking frantic, was hurrying up the stairs towards the children.
‘Toby!’ Mary gasped. ‘What happened? Is Emily all right? What are you doing up here?’ She took Em
ily from Toby’s grasp and folded her young daughter into her arms, comforting her.
‘Ooh, ma’am, I’m sorry. I turned my back for a moment and they were gone. Is Emily hurt?’
Toby’s head hung whilst he scuffed his foot against the bare boards of the landing floor.
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he said as a lone tear trickled down his cheek.
Mary was overcome with remorse at the sight of her forlorn little boy. She had been neglecting her children again whilst caring for—and lusting after—Lucas. Despite their welcome at the Hall, the servants were still virtual strangers to two young children who had only ever been used to the care and nurture of their mother.
‘Toby, lovey, it’s all right, I’m not cross with you. Why are you up here?’ She crouched down and wrapped her arm around Toby, who nuzzled into her shoulder.
‘I wanted to see where you were, Mama,’ he said, his voice muffled. ‘I was scared the bad man will hurt you. And Em’ly followed me!’ He lifted his head and bent an accusing stare on his sister. ‘I told her to go back to the kitchen, but she followed me up the stairs, so...’
‘He pinch me!’ Emily’s voice rose into another wail. ‘Toby pinch me, Mama!’
‘Hush, Emily...’
‘Be quiet, Em’ly!’ The panic in Toby’s voice was clear. ‘Stop it or the bad man will hear you...’
‘Too late.’ The sardonic drawl sounded from behind the small group clustered at the top of the stairs. ‘The bad man has already heard.’
Chapter Fourteen
Lucas stood on the galleried landing, leaning against a wall to take the weight off his injured leg, and glared at the group gathered at the head of the staircase.
‘Would someone care to tell me what is going on?’
The small boy took one look at him, screamed and then clutched hold of Mary, whilst the child in her arms cried even harder. The children, no doubt, were the product of her marriage to Michael Vale. A shaft of jealousy ripped through Lucas, shocking him with its strength. He clenched both his jaw and his fists against the unaccustomed emotion. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Susan back away from him, her face pale.
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