He had given her that.
Pray God he had not given her more.
They should be safe.
Once he was sure she was deeply asleep, he eased her out of his arms and onto her pillow, but rested there, studying her. At the different angle she still looked young, but now he could see her firm chin. The body he’d tangled with had not been childish at all, but that of an active, strong woman.
A truly remarkable woman.
He’d respected her for a year now, but she had led a pampered life and retained a streak of childish willfulness that was undesirable. He’d wondered how she’d behave when truly tested.
Today he’d found out.
Magnificently.
She’d faced danger coolly at his side. She’d killed for him. She hadn’t foolishly made a fuss over it.
Last year she’d stirred his interest with her bold challenge to him, and even more with her victory, but he was not a man to be pulled into folly by an intriguing young woman. In the past few days, however, she’d shown she was his match in every area. She’d amused and alarmed him with her quick wit and understanding, her boldness and courage, her problems and needs.
Then she’d teased that dangerous kiss. Their kiss. Still, he’d remained in control. Not seriously threatened. Until tonight.
Unique.
Shattering.
Forbidden.
He looked at the multifaceted blue stone on his finger. Part of her gaudy armor against the world. It was a pledge ring, he knew, not just of affection but of protection. A bond of mutual loyalty and trust.
Putting the ring to his mouth, he looked at her, recognizing that here, unexpected and unwanted, lay his mate.
No, not unwanted, but impossible.
Sappho had said he was incomplete, that now his family was cared for, he had a void. No. She’d said that the void had always been there, covered by other demands. Other passions.
It had seemed nonsense, but now he saw that as usual, she was right. Unsuspected, he hungered for closeness, love, and intimacy. His siblings had not been a duty, but a necessity, and their needs had allowed him to resist marriage.
But now he faced temptation unprotected.
He had called her “love.” Twice. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.
Too late he saw how much wiser it would have been to have avoided this. He should have sent her back to her room.
He could even have brought her in, plied her with port, soothed her agitated nerves, and sent her back to bed.
Instead he had given in to the hungers burning inside himself, hungers he’d lived with for days now, thinking they were safe. That he would be, as always, in control of the machine.
Hubris, with predictable results.
A need as raw, as painful, as skinless flesh.
For protection, he left the bed and pulled on his clothes again, trying to recreate barriers, to cloak the pain. At the same time, he struggled to rebuild the guards around his mind.
This was all a result of peril and proximity. It would fade when he was back in normal days. Tomorrow they would arrive in London, and Diana would attend the Queen’s Drawing Room. From there, she would move into the Queen’s House. He would see her only briefly and in company.
They’d be late arriving in town, though. An excuse to put off her presentation for a few days—
Folly. The sooner she was within court circles the better. If all went well, she would return north within weeks, and they need never meet again. He would regret not being able to visit Brand at Wenscote, but it was necessary.
What if Diana returned to London for pleasure one day?
Then he would travel elsewhere. Paris was open to him again. Or he could go north when she came south. He laughed to himself at the folly of such a silly dance, but it would be the only way.
He closed his eyes for a moment, not trying to deny the pain. For him, and for her. Pain, however, was part of life. Fear of it did not govern an honorable man.
And in time, even the worst hurt faded and became bearable.
In shirt and breeches, he climbed onto his side of the bed but lay beneath only the coverlet, separated from her by sheet and blanket. He was unable to resist turning toward her, however.
As if sensing him, she rolled to face him, still asleep, and her arm reached out beneath the covers. Finding nothing, it stilled and she sank back into deep sleep.
He resisted the urge to kiss those parted lips, but lay watching her until, at last, the candle drowned in wax, and darkness brought him rest.
Chapter 17
Diana awoke in a state of peace and pleasure that turned to momentary confusion. Because someone had just kissed her.
She blinked up.
The marquess.
Bey.
She smiled and tried to untangle her arms to reach for him, but he stepped back. “It’s nearly dawn. We must get you back to your room.”
Instantly she recognized that the guards were fully in place. Wiser so, but horrible.
Groping around, she struggled to straighten her shift beneath the covers even though he had stepped away to look out of the small window. The pearl-gray sky was just beginning to brighten with yellow, orange, and pink.
He was completely dressed, even to his cravat and coat, and she felt slovenly as she slipped out of bed in the one creased, stained garment. She wrapped the pink checked coverlet closely around herself before saying, “Ready.”
He turned and came to her as if they were a proper lady and gentleman about to leave for a stroll. She noticed then that the sapphire ring was not on his hand. Of course not. No tomorrows. But she knew he would keep it safe.
There were a thousand things to say, and yet none. She had pushed for that dangerous voyage with the implicit promise that they would return to shore today, would create no lasting, entrapping bonds.
She would keep that promise if it killed her.
He opened the door and glanced out, then turned back. “All safe.”
She walked toward him, past him, but she couldn’t resist a pause, a look. A plea.
All lightness gone, he put his hands to her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. “We left the safe path. If against all odds there is a child, you must tell me.”
She shook her head. “You know you cannot marry, and we cannot openly acknowledge a bastard. If I conceive, it will be my concern alone.”
“That isn’t true.”
“But we must make it so. Don’t fight me on this, Bey.”
“Don’t give me orders, Diana.” But it was said without rancor, and, devastatingly, he put his arms around her and held her close, resting his head against hers for a moment.
When he straightened, there was no trace of weakness in his face. “Adieu, Diana.”
“Adieu, Bey.”
She did not look back as she hurried across the corridor and into her room. Clara still slept, so Diana quietly opened her jewel box and chose a ring at random to replace the one she’d given him. Then she slipped into bed beside the maid to lie staring up at the dark beamed ceiling, reliving, remembering…
Relinquishing.
Dressed in her stained gown, Diana joined Bey at breakfast. They were, thank heavens, not forced to make small talk, as Sir Eresby appeared again with reports and questions. Apparently he’d sent someone to make inquiries at Ware, and discovered that the assailants had been seen there, and were French. What’s more, they had been with a Frenchman called de Couriac.
Bey made no difficulty over telling Sir Eresby that they had dined with Monsieur de Couriac and his wife in Ferry Bridge, that Monsieur de Couriac had been taken ill, and that the couple had left in the night.
The stocky, serious magistrate clearly did not approve of any of it. “Could he have held a grudge, Lord Rothgar?”
Bey raised his brows, entirely returned to aristocratic hauteur. “Over his illness? The food was provided by the inn, sir, not me. And who would plan murder over that?”
“What else could be c
ause for such a cold-blooded plan, my lord?”
“I have no idea, Sir Eresby. However,” he said, rising, and extending his hand to Diana, “we must be on our way. Lady Arradale is expected at the Queen’s Drawing Room today.”
Diana gave him her hand, resisting the urge to curl her fingers around his, pitying the poor baronet so dauntingly put in his place.
Sir Eresby rose and bowed. “Of course, my lord. My lady.” He didn’t completely buckle however. “I will send to London if there are further questions.”
Good for you, thought Diana as she let herself be led out of the dining room and to their coach. The scarred panel, however, shocked her back to yesterday.
“Are you all right?” Bey asked quietly.
“Yes, of course. I had forgotten.”
They shared a glance about what had wiped horror from memory.
Then she looked away. “I’ll be glad when our baggage catches up with us. Clara has done her best with this gown, but some of the dirt simply will not come out.”
A metaphor for her life, that, she thought as she climbed into the wounded carriage. Not dirt, but changes that could not be reversed. Nor would she want them to be, even with the peril they brought.
Clara and Fettler were already sitting opposite her. Bey took his seat, and in moments they were on their way to London.
They did not talk, did not even pretend to read. Did not look at one another. As for that, he could be staring fixedly at her all the way, for she refused to look at him. It was not just the pleasure of the night which had left her adrift, it was the closeness, the intimacy such as she had never experienced before.
Rosa had warned that women had a tendency to fall in love with the men they made love to, but there was more to it than that. Quite by chance, Rosa and Brand had found each other, like two parts of a broken whole. A fit so perfect that all other matches instantly became impossibly flawed.
You or no other.
Bey was her lost half?
He and no other?
She recognized it to be true. He was the lost part of herself suddenly found, rashly fitted for brief moments against raw edges, which now bled afresh.
Why not? her rebellious side suddenly demanded. Why could they not have the completion, the wholeness, that was every person’s right?
Was it not worth striving for?
Determined now, she analyzed the practical problems.
Her independence. That was nothing. She knew he would respect that.
But what of her appearance of independent power? Heaven above, the Marquess of Rothgar could overshadow anyone, and in a way that would work to her advantage. She would gain from having him as mate, as equal half. He would certainly feel no need to inflate himself by lording over her.
So what of geography?
That was both their enemy and their friend. They would have to find ways to divide their time between north and south, between his responsibilities and hers. It would mean separations, but being alone on her estates would help her to retain authority there. A lesser, ever present husband would be a much greater threat.
Truly, though she hadn’t thought of it before, a great husband would serve her better than a lowly one.
It was, perhaps, possible after all.
She slid a glance sideways, borne on fledgling wings of hope. And collided with despair.
Her problems might have melted away, but his had not. His reasons for not marrying were as strong as ever.
She looked out of the window again, at the increasingly busy road and more frequent villages and inns that told her they were close to London.
Close to parting.
He was resolved not to carry tainted blood into his ancient line. He had not contradicted her when she’d said he could not marry her if she was with child, and she knew how agonizingly difficult that would be for him.
He accepted all his responsibilities—even a rebellious countess who was only a distant connection by marriage. His love for his family ran deep, and he was wonderful with children. The thought of rejecting his own child must be impossibly painful, and yet he was prepared to do it to keep to his firm resolve.
She prayed with deep sincerity that she not conceive. It would be terrible for her, but intolerable for him. No wonder he’d been so emphatic that they could not make love again.
She decided at that moment that if she did conceive a child, he would never know. She would find a way to hide the pregnancy and then foster the child out to someone on her estates. She would be able to keep an eye on it, though it would break her heart not to be able to claim it, love it, as her own. For his sake, however, she would do it.
Tears stung, and she fought them down, but they welled again. Wealth, power, love, and two strong wills, and what did it bring them? Two lives lived in separate, bleak landscapes, when a garden of sunlight and laughter lay in sight, almost in reach.
She thought of the automaton, traveling swaddled like a babe only inches behind her. For a mad moment it seemed that their unborn—pray God never to be born—son lay in the boot of the coach, crying for release.
Her fighting spirit rebelled. There had to be a way!
What, though? A marriage without children? Though the idea pained her, she would do it. However, Elf’s helpful leaflet on preventing pregnancy made it clear that there was no way to be completely safe, even if he always spilled his seed outside her. The aim was only to space out children to make life easier for the woman and her family.
Lud, but if medicine offered a way for her to be rendered infertile, she’d accept the knife as the price, even though she’d weep for the children—their children—who would not be born.
She risked another quick glance at his somber, classical features. Of all the precious parts he might bring to a child, only one tiny part was suspect.
As if touched, he turned to her, asking silent questions. What distresses you? Can I help?
Muted by the servants, she replied with a slight shake of the head, and turned again to the safety of the window. Market gardens now, worked over like worker bees by people gathering vegetables for the crowded city. Their coach had slowed because of the crush of traffic moving into London, coaches, carts, and people on foot.
If only they could stop, freeze here, where at least they were together.
In London they must part, and a king awaited to be pacified, to be escaped unwed. For she knew now she could not marry another, even to escape an insane asylum.
You or no other.
The busy road slowed them, even though vehicles made way for the crested carriage. People in the street turned to watch the grand coach and outriders pass by, and her attention was caught by one couple.
A small child stood between them, hands in theirs like a link in a chain. The little girl pulled her hands free and obviously demanded to be picked up. The father did so, smiling. Her arm went confidently around his neck as she pointed to the coach, chattering.
They were close now, and Diana couldn’t help but smile and wave at the little girl. She saw her own handful of rings flash in the sunlight, and the child’s eyes and smile widen with delight as she waved back.
The coach moved on, leaving the family behind. Doubtless they thought they’d just seen the most fortunate of people, those who lived blessed and golden lives, when instead she felt like a beggar at their table.
Hard to imagine herself and Bey strolling down a street as a family like ordinary people, but easy to imagine him carrying a cherished child. As with little Arthur, he would be loving with his own children. As with his brothers and sisters, he would be a rock around which they could build fulfilling lives.
Being a rock must be so cold and hard.
The sudden shift was like the cracking of a dark wall, letting in the light. This was wrong. It was all wrong, and there must be a way to set it right, not just for her own sake, but for his. Especially for his. He deserved more of life, this magnificently generous man, than the cold land to which he had exiled himsel
f.
He needed, in fact, to be rescued.
As simple streets became fashionable, she hunted for a way. She failed, but did not give up. They were two wealthy, clever, and powerful people. There had to be a way.
Fashionable streets and fashionable people intruded however, and she had to break the silence. “My lord, surely I cannot go to court like this.” She touched her stained gown.
“Of course not,” he said, but as if he truly hadn’t thought of it until then. A victory of sorts, she supposed, to have distracted that controlled and logical mind.
“The baggage carts should have arrived,” he said. “If not… Elf has left some clothes at Malloren House.”
Diana had to fight a giggle. She and Elf were of a different build and height.
A rueful reflection of her humor warmed his eyes, but instantly, they cooled. “If your baggage has not arrived, we will send your excuses to the queen.”
Excuses meant more time. More time with him. More time to discover the way. Perhaps, despite promises and willpower, another night.
“We’re entering Marlborough Square,” he said as the coach turned between rows of modern houses and into an open space.
She looked out at tall brick houses with dark railings in front, and lines of trees. There was even a pretty garden in the center, complete with duck pond. “It’s lovely. I didn’t expect so much greenery.”
“There are many parks in London, too.”
What banal conversation, and yet it was the best they could manage.
“This is Malloren House,” he said as the coach turned into a courtyard in front of a mansion set apart from the terraces to either side.
She took refuge in teasing. “Only to be expected that you would have the largest house in the square, my lord.”
“But of course. I own it all. No credit to me, however. My grandfather took a dislike to living in the crowded older parts of London and bought the land. As he planned his country estate, the fashion for these squares started and he decided to build it. My father completed the work.”
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