‘I might as well confess I was tempted to refuse,’ she said, her back to him, ‘but we do have matters to discuss and, to tell the truth, I am somewhat tired of my own company at mealtimes.’
His eyes roved her figure, following the path his hands yearned to trace—the slender vulnerability of the back of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the feminine back, narrowing into her neat waist before flaring out into curved hips. The soft globe of her bottom was provocatively accentuated by the satiny fabric of her pale-blue dress: one he now recognised as an old gown of his mother’s. Inadequacy swamped him. Mary deserved better than old cast-offs. She deserved new dresses and the fine fripperies the daughter of a gentleman ought to expect as her birthright. What would he not give to be able to provide her with such things? But he could scarcely provide for himself, let alone a wife.
Wife? Where on earth did that thought spring from? Unsettled, he forced his attention back to their conversation. He did not want a wife.
‘Do you not eat with your children?’ And, most particularly, I do not wish for a wife with two children in tow.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. ‘No, they eat in the nursery. Mrs Lindley likes things done the traditional way and, besides, they are usually in bed by the time I have my dinner.’ Her shoulders straightened. She turned around. ‘I didn’t say this earlier, but I am sorry you found out about the children in such a way. You were quite right; this is your house and you are entitled to know what is going on and who is living within its walls.’
‘Had you intended to tell me?’
‘Yes...well...that is, I would have told you, of course, had it become necessary.’
Lucas frowned. ‘Necessary?’
‘I had always intended to leave before you ventured downstairs. I knew you did not want children at the Hall. I could see no purpose in disturbing you without cause.’
Leave? He knew, of course he did, she must leave at some point—he had thought of little else since he had learned of the children—but to hear it from her own lips, uttered without, it seemed, any hint of regret, cut him to the quick.
He was not ready to say goodbye. The reasons why were complex. They were reasons he did not care to examine in too much detail.
‘Robert is of the opinion—’
‘We are leaving in the morning,’ she blurted out.
‘The morning? What...? Why?’ Lucas was across the room in a fraction of a second, barely registering the further shriek of protest from his leg. He grabbed Mary by the shoulders as he stared into her face. ‘You cannot!’ The words ripped from him. ‘The doctor...I am not ready to go downstairs yet. You are needed here.’
She can’t go. Not yet.
She stared up at him, her eyes wide, darkened by the dilation of her pupils, her lips parted enticingly. He paused on the verge of kissing her, belatedly registering her gasp and recoil as he had grabbed her. He eased his grip and stepped back. When would he learn? So soon after his vow to be more mindful, he had acted once again on impulse. He eased back, stroking his hands up and down her arms before holding her shoulders again. He bent his knees, bringing his face level with hers.
‘You have no need to fear me, Mary. Do you not know that by now? My words are just that: words.’ He spoke the truth. The thought of using force against her made him feel physically sick. Not since his disastrous altercation with Henson over Julia had he ever been tempted to lash out at anyone. Could Rob be right? Was he less similar to his father than he feared? ‘I speak hastily, without thought, at times. Please, you must not....’
There was a rattle at the door and Lucas swivelled his head to see Trant, carrying a loaded tray, edge into the room. He bit back a curse. Trant had always possessed an uncanny knack of materialising at the worst possible moment.
‘Beg pardon, my lord. Dinner is about to be served.’
Lucas straightened as Ellen followed Trant into the room with another tray loaded with yet more covered dishes and a bottle of wine. The servants crossed the room to deposit their trays upon the table and unload them. Trant pulled a chair away from the table.
‘Ma’am?’
Mary sat on the offered chair and Lucas took the chair opposite before Trant had a chance to perform the same function for him. He did not want formality. He had envisioned sharing an intimate dinner with Mary: good food and wine and pleasant conversation; a chance for them to get to know one another better.
‘Thank you, Trant. We will serve ourselves. There is no need for you to remain.’
Trant bowed. ‘As you please, my lord. There is only the one course, plus dessert.’ He indicated the dishes of nuts and sweetmeats clustered to one side of the table, next to the bottle of wine. ‘With your leave, I shall serve the soup before I go.’
‘Thank you, Trant.’
Trant set bowls of brown soup before them, then left the room, closing the door behind him. Silence reigned as their gazes locked, neither making a move to begin eating. Lucas cast around for the words to persuade Mary to stay.
‘I beg you to reconsider,’ he said, finally.
‘Why?’
Why indeed? Because I need you. Because I want you. Because I cannot envision my life without you.
‘I am still confined upstairs. As you have pointed out before, the Hall is understaffed. I do not wish to increase the burden on the servants.’
‘It is to your credit you think only of their welfare,’ Mary replied in a dry tone, concentrating on her bowl as she began to drink her soup.
‘I do not believe you are so eager to return to your father’s rule you will not welcome a few extra days’ respite here at the Hall. As soon as I am fully recovered you may continue on your journey.’
Mary raised her head and stared across the table at him. Lucas picked through his words. Selfish! Did he truly expect her to conform to his whims? To stay until he was ready for her to go and then meekly go back to a life she clearly dreaded? And what of the children? What future awaited them?
It’s not your problem. Let them go.
‘I did not mean that as it sounded, Mary.’
She pinned him with a glare. ‘Selfish and hard-hearted, you mean?’
‘Exactly that. I am sorry.’
She bent her head to her soup once more. The candlelight highlighted the golden tints of her hair, illuminating the stray strands that encircled her head like a halo. Lucas drank in the vision, mesmerised, until she glanced up and their gazes locked. His heart leapt in his chest at the unguarded yearning in her expression. Did he...could he...dare to tell her how he felt? He must, for only the truth might change her mind.
‘I do not want you to leave.’
His words hovered in the air between them. A light blush stained her cheeks as she shook her head. ‘I cannot stay. I am sorry.’
‘Why not? If it is the children...’
‘It is not the children. I cannot stay here. I must go to my father’s house.’
Not I must go home. She had run away, her father had not answered her letter after her husband had died and Lucas was well aware of Sir William Cranston’s reputation. She could not be impatient to return to such a life.
‘Why now? Why can you not stay longer? A few more days even?’
Mary shook her head; unshed tears pooled in her eyes, glinting in the candlelight. ‘I cannot.’
Her fear was tangible. Lucas pushed his chair back and rounded the table. He knelt by her side and reached for her hands.
‘What is it, Mary? Is it because of me? You must not fear me. I cannot deny I find you desirable, nor will I pretend I do not long to kiss you again, but I have promised you before and I mean it: I will take nothing you do not wish to give.’ He tightened his grip on her hands. ‘You do believe me?’
She tugged her hand from his and touched it to his cheek. ‘Of course I do. It is not you, Lucas. I...I...’ She swallowed audibly. ‘The longer I remain here, the harder it will be to leave. Do you understand? Not only for me but, more importantly, for the
children. They love it here. They are happy.’
‘Then stay a while longer,’ he urged.
Mary snatched her other hand from his grasp. ‘No. You are not listening to me. We cannot stay. The weather is getting colder, the days shorter. We need to leave before...’
‘I will take you to your father’s house, when I am recovered.’
Mary remained silent, her lips tight, a crease furrowed between her fair brows as she stared straight ahead.
‘Well,’ Lucas said eventually, realising he was not going to get a response, ‘can you promise me you will think about what I have said? For the sake of your children...’
‘Do not—’ she said, in a strangled voice as she speared him with a fierce look, ‘—use my children as a bargaining tool, for I know you have no care for their welfare. In fact, quite why you should concern yourself with my predicament is beyond my comprehension, for it can be of no concern to you what might happen to my family when we leave this house.’
Hurt by her outburst, although he had to accept there was an element of truth in what she said, Lucas rose to his feet and returned to his chair, marshalling his thoughts.
‘I do care about you, Mary, you must believe me.’
‘I know you care for what you see as an available woman to slake your thirst.’ Her bitter tone rocked Lucas to the core.
‘No! You are wrong. That is unfair. I care about what happens to you.’
‘Oh—’ her eyes, now full of remorse, regarded him ‘—I did not intend...that is, I am sorry to lash out at you in such a way. I did not mean to throw your kindness back in your face in such a mean-spirited way. It’s...no, I cannot say...I don’t know what...’ Her voice tailed away and she looked away again, but not before he had recognised her misery and, again, a hint of fear.
‘Very well,’ she said, after a pause, ‘I shall stay for a few more days.’
Lucas wondered again at the cause of her fear. If it was not him—and he believed her when she said it was not—then what was she scared of? If it was her father, why would she insist on going back earlier than need be? He could reach no conclusion, but he longed to gather her into his arms and hold her close, to comfort her and erase her fear. To his astonishment, the impulse was almost impossible to resist. It held no element of desire and he could not recall ever feeling as protective towards any woman, other than his own mother. Mary looked so lost and vulnerable sitting opposite him.
‘I regret you feel unable to confide in me, Mary,’ he said, ‘but I am happy you are not leaving tomorrow. Please, finish your soup before it gets too cold.’
They each spooned some soup into their mouths and then they both grimaced.
‘I think we are too late,’ Mary said, with a smile. ‘Mayhap the rabbit pie will have retained its heat? It smelled wonderful when Mrs Lindley took it from the oven.’
She rose from her seat and began to serve food on to two plates. Lucas pushed his chair back and started to rise. Mary held up her palm.
‘Sit still, please. I can manage.’
‘But...’
She fixed him with a rebuking stare. ‘I am here to help and you still need to rest that leg.’
Lucas sank back into his chair. She talked sense, as ever. She placed his plate—piled with rabbit pie, pork cutlets with greens, calves foot jelly, green beans and apple loaf—in front of him. Before she could move away, he clasped her wrist.
‘You are right, Mary. It is important I rest to regain my strength. Mayhap I need your help to eat my food?’
She bit her lip to hold back a smile, but her dancing eyes gave her away. Relieved to see her regain her usual good humour, he grinned up at her. ‘Well?’
‘I think not. The doctor has prescribed gentle exercise for your leg and your shoulder. Lifting your fork should provide that very nicely.’ Her smile was in her voice though she remained straight-faced.
Lucas released her wrist. ‘Killjoy,’ he said, with another grin.
They ate in companionable silence for several minutes, the tasty food commanding their full attention. Finally, Mary pushed her plate away.
‘That was a lovely meal,’ she said. ‘Mrs Lindley is a very talented cook. You are lucky to have her.’
‘I know. And now you are to stay a while longer, you will be able to enjoy her cooking all the more.’ At his words, Mary’s expression clouded over and he cursed himself for raising that contentious issue so soon after they had reached accord. She had agreed to stay—why could he not have let the subject lie?
‘I have agreed to remain but, of course, it does depend...’ She paused.
Lucas raised a brow.
‘It will depend,’ she continued firmly, ‘on whether my children are made welcome in this house.’
‘Welcome?’ Irritation stirred. He had temporarily forgotten about the children, eager only to ensure Mary’s continued presence in his life. The recollection of her deception shot to the surface of his consciousness. ‘And what, precisely, do you mean by that, Mary? Am I to invite them up here to play at spillikins?’
‘Do try not to be facetious!’ Two spots of vivid red stained Mary’s cheekbones. ‘I shall endeavour to keep them out of your way as much as possible. I have no more wish for them to be exposed to you than you have to them. But I must have your word that if your paths do cross, you will not frighten them. They are too young to understand that you will not hurt them.’
Her tone revealed her uncertainty and, despite Lucas’s belief that he was like his father, Mary’s doubts hurt. Badly.
‘I hope,’ he said, with a calm he did not feel, ‘you do not believe I would ever do such a thing?’
‘How am I to know what you might do if provoked? I barely know you. I do know, however, you dislike children...’
‘I do not dislike children. I have only ever stated I do not want children. It is not the same.’
‘Is it not?’ Mary looked away, staring towards the window at the inky void beyond. ‘Why would you not want children, unless you dislike them?’ She looked back, impaling him with her direct stare. ‘You must want an heir—doesn’t every nobleman wish to pass on his title and lands?’
‘I have a brother. He is welcome to fulfil that obligation.’
‘You have evaded my question, Lucas. Are my children welcome in your house? Will they be safe?’
Lucas clenched his jaw as he considered his long-held belief that children were not safe around him—he had never felt safe in his father’s presence, never knowing when a blow might fall. Could he really, if provoked, harm a child? He had lived so long with the conviction he was like his father, but now...
His understanding of his character was in disarray. Contrarily, although he was aware Mary did not know the reason behind his ban on children, it still stung that she believed him capable of hurting one.
But he could at least give Mary the reassurance she sought.
‘They will be safe. You have my word.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Thank you.’
Mary thrust aside her guilt at allowing Lucas to believe her reluctance to stay was driven by fear for her children’s safety. She had formed her own opinion of Lucas in the time she had known him. His words—hasty and ill considered though they undoubtedly were at times—were, as he had said, merely words. She had enough experience of living with men who thought nothing of raising a fist to enforce their rule to recognise he was not of their ilk.
Lucas said the children would be safe and Mary trusted him, but still she vowed to keep them away from him as much as possible. She might understand his angry words would not result in a raised hand, but Toby and Emily were too young to make such a distinction.
But she still feared Sir Gerald Quartly: the real reason she had felt compelled to leave the next day. And she had a message to convey.
‘Sir Gerald Quartly called to enquire after your health this afternoon.’
‘Quartly?’
‘I told him you were not yet fit for visitors
and he gave me a message to pass on to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘He said to remind you the Quarter Day is fast approaching.’
‘And?’
‘That was all. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘He is a neighbour, from the far side of the village, an old acquaintance of my father’s.’
That much she already knew. Lucas offered no further enlightenment and she could deduce nothing from his non-committal tone. Uncertain of his relationship with Quartly, she dared not confide her true fears to Lucas. She would stay close to the house and keep her wits about her. Surely that would be enough to keep her safe?
She watched Lucas through lowered lashes as he devoured her with brooding eyes, one long-fingered hand toying with the stem of his wineglass. Soon she must face the prospect of never seeing him again and the thought filled her with hopelessness. Every fibre of her being reached for him, but she fought the temptation. Not for the first time, she wondered whether it would it be more bearable to lie with him, to have the memory to sustain her through the hard years ahead. Or should she retain her dignity and resist the brief affair that was all she could expect from him? Either way meant heartache.
A tap at the door broke the silence and Trant and Ellen came in to clear the table.
‘Would you care for brandy, my lord?’
Lucas pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Not tonight, thank you. But you may bring the tea tray when you’ve finished here.’
Ellen, about to leave, said, ‘Mrs Lindley’s preparing it now, my lord. I’ll bring it up directly.’
Lucas stood and held his hand out to Mary. ‘Shall we sit by the fire?’
As his fingers closed around hers, Mary’s heart lurched. His touch was warm, igniting her desire. Only the knowledge that Ellen would soon return kept her from turning into his arms and pressing her body against the solid strength of his.
Mary sat in one of the chairs by the fire whilst Lucas sat opposite.
Mary and the Marquis Page 16
