“Have I?” Obadiah quavered. “I wish I could think I have been. I still remember how Mr. Glossop screamed that night. I never had much liking for Master Bertie, but it was a terrible way for any young fellow to die. I lay awake sometime wondering if I could've done things any differently that night. If I might've moved a little faster, done something to save him.”
“Regret is the poison of life, Mr. Jones.” Lord Mandell said. “But I fear it is a curse that many of us are doomed to experience.”
He smiled sadly and passed on his way, leaving Obadiah staring after him. This surely had to be one of the strangest encounters Obadiah had ever had on Clarion Way and yet, for a moment he had felt an odd kinship with Lord Mandell. It was almost as if the marquis really understood Obadiah's feelings of guilt and remorse over what had happened to Mr. Glossop.
And to think he had once fancied the marquis such a hard, cold man. He had much more of a liking for Lord Mandell's cousin. But lately it was Mr. Drummond who seemed less than kind, distant and curt. The last time they had met, Mr. Nick had actually snapped at Obadiah to get out of his way.
Obadiah meandered on his way up the street, slowly shaking his head. It only went to show. One never knew any man as well as one thought one did.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Twilight had faded into darkness by the time Anne approached the marquis of Mandell's gate. Clutching the heavy bundle of cloth to her chest, she eased back her hood, peering up at his house. A faint glow of light shone through one of the lower story windows, but the rest of the stone structure appeared dark and forbidding.
She wondered what madness had compelled her to come. Their parting earlier today had been so abrupt. He might not want to see her. He might not even be at home. It was absurd, her conviction that he paced the shadows of this vast and lonely house, just as she had been pacing her empty bedchamber these past hours.
Yet the conviction was strong enough to carry her past his gate, up the steps to his front door. He needed her tonight. She was as certain of that as of her own aching need, a longing that she finally dared acknowledge.
Before her courage could desert her, she shifted her bundle under one arm, lifted her hand to the brass knocker and sounded it. Only then did it occur to her to wonder what she would say when her summons was answered, especially if by a shocked and disapproving butler like Firken. Yet she could not imagine any of Mandell's servants being easily scandalized.
All the same, she felt relieved when the door swung open, revealing the familiar and reliable figure of John Hastings.
“My lady Fairhaven!” The young man's eyes widened in surprise, but he struggled to conceal it.
“Is his lordship at home?” she asked.
“Yes, milady.”
“I need to see him.”
Hastings cast a doubtful glance toward the darkened regions of the house behind him. “It is very late, milady. I don't know if the master would be—”
“Please,” Anne said, raising her eyes to his.
Hastings hesitated a moment more, then stepped aside to allow her to enter. “My lord is in the drawing room,” he said with a solemn bow. “Will it please you to wait here while I announce you?”
“No! I think it would be better if I just went in.” She dreaded Mandell having opportunity to fix his mask of hauteur in place, or worse still, simply refuse to see her.
Hastings nodded in silent understanding. “The drawing room is through that door at the end of the hall.”
Drawing a steadying breath, Anne stepped forward. Mandell's entrance hall was as austere and unwelcoming as she remembered it. But as she crept farther into the house, the silence was broken by the distant sound of music. Someone was playing upon the pianoforte and with a great deal of mastery.
She glanced back to Hastings who stood behind her in the shadows. “Is Lord Mandell alone?”
“Always, milady,” the footman said with a sad smile.
Anne continued on her way, her heart hammering with every step. When she opened the door, the music seemed to assault her in a great wave, echoing off the rafters with all the power and majesty of thunder. The velvet draperies were drawn, the room dark except for the fire blazing on the hearth and the branch of candlesticks atop the piano-forte, their glow reflecting upon the glossy rosewood surface. Absorbed by his playing, Mandell did not even look up when she entered.
His hands rippled over the keys, the notes ringing out with a hard, angry brilliance. It was as though all the passion, the torment, the longing he kept guarded in his soul flowed out through his fingertips, finding expression in a storm of music that took Anne's breath away.
Closing the door quietly behind her, she crept forward. The candles illuminated his profile and the sheen of his midnight satin dressing gown. He wore nothing else but his breeches, the robe parted to reveal a glimpse of his hair-darkened chest, the strong cords of his neck. His face was a study in intensity, his lashes lowered to veil his eyes, a flush staining his high cheekbones, his lips half parted.
She walked toward him, captured by the fury of his music as much as if he had seized her in a fierce embrace. She stood beside him and still he did not look up until he reached a place where his fingers faltered.
His brow furrowed in concentration as his hands moved back, trying to repeat the phrase. It was at that point that he sensed her presence. The music died away on a final jarring note that reverberated about the room, finally echoing to silence. He stared at her as though gazing at an apparition as she brushed back her hood.
“Anne!” He shot to his feet, the darkness in his eyes replaced by an eager light. He reached for her, his own hands a trifle unsteady, and all Anne's doubts were swept aside. She knew she had done right to come.
She awaited his touch with breathless anticipation. But as he recovered from his initial surprise, he seemed to recollect himself. He drew back, frowning.
“How did you get in?” he asked. “And what the devil are you doing here?”
“Hastings admitted me,” she replied with more calm than she felt. “I came to return this to you.”
She thrust toward him the bundle she had carried tucked under her arm. He appeared puzzled until he shook out the heavy folds and recognized his own caped greatcoat, the one he had draped about her shoulders the night they had first made the pact between them, the pact that had nearly made them lovers. She wondered if the garment stirred for him the same memories as it did her. It was difficult to read his expression.
“I have had it hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe all this time,” she said. “I kept forgetting to give it back to you.”
He tossed the coat over the back of one of the chairs. “You came here alone?”
“Yes, it is only a short walk from Lily's to here and—”
“You little fool!” The sudden flare of anger in his eyes put an end to her explanation. “There is a murderer on the loose and you decide to go for a late night stroll?”
“The street lamps are all lit and the watchman was making his rounds.”
Mandell clenched his hands, looking as though he wanted to shake her. She hastened to add, “Perhaps I did behave a little unwisely. But it doesn’t matter. I am in no danger now.”
“That is a highly debatable point. How long have you been standing there?”
“Only a few moments. I was listening to you play. A symphony by Beethoven, wasn't it? You did it so magnificently. I wish you hadn't stopped.”
“I could not recollect any more. I play by memory only.”
Her gaze flew back to the pianoforte, noticing there were no sheets of composition propped in the music stand. “You don't read music? You play that way by ear?”
He shrugged. “I never took any instruction. Some musical accomplishment is tolerable, but a gentleman should hardly perform as though he were obliged to earn a living at it like some opera-house player.”
The acid words seemed to be an echo of someone else's sentiments, not his own. He stepped away from the
pianoforte and disconcerted her by asking, “Why did you really come here tonight, Anne? And don't tell me any more nonsense about returning that cloak. You could have dispatched a servant to bring it back days ago.”
Her cheeks heated. If he did not understand why she was here, she hardly knew how to begin to tell him, especially when he was fixing her with such a hard stare.
“You left so abruptly today,” she said. “And you seemed so distraught about your friend. I was worried. I wondered if you had heard how Sir Lancelot is faring.”
“He may live, but I doubt he'll ever recover.”
“Do they know yet who is responsible for the attack?”
“I am,” Mandell said harshly.
When she looked at him, startled, he added, “I don't mean that I was the one who pierced him through, but I might as well have done. I allowed him to accompany me last night and then got so drunk that I forgot all about him. I abandoned him at that wretched tavern, leaving him to the mercy of some damned brigand, some murderous phantom , whatever or whoever this accursed Hook might be.”
Mandell's lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Briggs hated jaunting about such low places. He only came to try to protect me from myself. Because I once did him a misplaced kindness, he conceived this notion that I am somehow worth saving, a mistaken idea that you seem to share. Is that why you came, Anne? To be my ministering angel? You cannot minister to the devil, my dear.”
His words were hard, jeering, inviting her to share in his self-condemnation. But one look into his eyes was enough to see how Mandell damned himself.
His face was taut with the strain of the past hours. A few dark strands of hair drooped over his brow. Anne had longed to smooth them back ever since she had entered the room. Closing the distance between them, she gave way to the impulse now, caressing his forehead.
“I came to you because I thought you might need a friend tonight,” she said.
He tensed at her touch and caught her hand, holding it in an iron grip. “My friends pay a high price for the privilege of my company. If you don't believe me, ask Briggs. He could tell you—that is if he were still able to speak.”
“I am prepared to take the risk, my lord. I am not afraid.”
“You should be.” He kissed her hand brusquely and returned it to her. “Go home, Anne. You need not worry about me. I am not likely to go off into a decline over Briggs. I am after all a cold-hearted bastard. I will have forgotten all about the poor fool by tomorrow.”
Would he? Anne wondered. Or would what had happened to Briggs become one more painful memory for Mandell, buried only to resurface, haunting him in his dreams? His mouth, she suddenly realized, had never been suited for such hard mockery, but had always been formed for a more sensitive cast. She brushed her fingers lightly over his lips. He flinched as though she had burned him.
He retreated, saying, “I will summon Hastings to escort you home.”
“No.” Anne began to undo the fastenings of her cloak.
Mandell stared at her, What the deuce had come over Anne? Even she could not be so innocent that she failed to realize the temptation she was putting in his path, coming alone to his house at such an hour, rising up before him like a golden-haired vision, the better part of his dreams. Ever since he had glanced up from the pianoforte to find her so close, he had burned with the longing to pull her into his arms, seek comfort from her sweet lips, find solace for the emptiness in his soul.
He was doing his best to resist the selfish urge, but she was not making it easy for him. She brushed back the folds of her cloak and Mandell's mouth went dry. She had on the clinging gown she had worn that night to the theatre, the one that revealed all her womanly curves, the low décolletage exposing the soft white swell of her breasts.
Desire shot through Mandell, so intense it was painful. “Anne,” he said hoarsely. “What folly is this? Do you have any idea what you are about?”
Her eyes met his, those blue depths startlingly clear. Mandell's breath caught in his throat as he realized she knew full well what she was doing. The longing in her gaze reflected his and a deeper emotion that he was too afraid to explore.
She allowed her cloak to drop to the floor. “I want to stay with you tonight, my lord,” Her voice was low, but filled with a quiet determination.
Mandell summoned up all the self-control he possessed. Clenching his jaw, he retrieved her cloak from the floor. He managed to drape it around her shoulders, touching her as little as possible.
“You are confused, Anne,” he said. “I suppose it was that foolish game we played in your sister's drawing room that has brought this on, making you see me in a different light. But I assure you I am still what you once deemed me, a libertine with no honor and no heart. I cannot change. I thought I made that clear to you this afternoon.”
“I am not looking to change you, Mandell.” She cupped his face between her hands. Standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his in a questing that stirred him more deeply than the most passionate embrace. Every muscle in his body tensed with the need to respond. But he held himself rigid, making no movement to enfold her in his arms.
She glanced up, her lips quivering in a tremulous smile. “Does my boldness shock you, my lord? You once told me I could be whoever I wished with you. Do you now deny me that permission?”
“I never gave you leave to be a fool,” he rasped. When she slipped her arms about his neck, he swore. He sought to thrust her way, but his arms seemed curiously lacking in strength.
“Anne.” He gave a hard laugh that was more of a plea. “Self-denial is not one of my virtues. It took me years to locate my conscience the first time. I don't think I can do it again.”
“Let me be the keeper of your conscience then,” she whispered. She melted against him and breathed kisses along the line of his jaw.
Her lips were too warm, too close, her slender frame fit too perfectly against his body. He crushed her in his arms, his mouth claiming hers. Her lips parted, her tongue mating with his in a kiss that stole away his reason and resolve. The fiery embrace burned away everything but his hunger for her.
“Anne! Anne,” he groaned, burying his face in the shining gold strands of her hair, making one last effort to bring her to her senses. “I can offer you nothing but heartbreak. Leave me while you still can.”
Looking up at him, she shook her head. “You have made me realize some truths about myself, Mandell. I feel like I have lived my whole life in a dream, and someday I am going to wake up an old woman with nothing to look back on but days spent stitching samplers by my fireside. I want something better to remember, Mandell.”
“I can give you memories if that is what you truly want,” he said sadly. He only prayed that they would not be remembrances as full of bitter regret as his own.
Mandell's hands shook as he lit the candles, dispelling the darkness in his room. He could not help reflecting how different this was from the last time he had brought Anne to his bedchamber. Now it was Anne who appeared sure and confident while he felt more awkward than he ever had, even in the raw days of his youth.
The irony of this was not lost upon him. She was seducing him tonight, his prim and proper Anne. Yet he had always flattered himself he was a man of iron control. He could resist the charms of any woman if it pleased him to do so.
He glanced to where Anne stood waiting by his bedside. Her face was pale except for the soft rose that stained her cheeks. Her hair tumbled down her back like a veil of gold.
Yes, he could resist any woman, but this one.
She glided toward him, her eyes as soft and luminous as the candle flame. He held out his arms and gathered her to him, for the moment content to do no more than strain her close to his heart.
It was she who drew back. Solemnly, she gathered the fullness of her hair, brushing it over one shoulder to expose the fastenings of her gown. Turning her back to him, she waited for him to undress her, her breath coming quickly.
Mandell's throat thickened
with some emotion that had nothing to do with his desire. His fingers moved over the ribbon ties of her gown with a reverence that made him clumsy.
It seemed to take him an eternity to work through the layers of her garments, during which he was aware of nothing but her soft breathing and the thundering of his own heart. He pushed aside the fabric of her gown and chemise, baring the smooth ivory skin of her back,
Bending, he trailed kisses along the ridge of her spine up to her shoulder blade. Anne leaned back against him with a long rapturous sigh. Then she turned and began easing her gown down over her arms.
His pulse racing, he watched her garments, one by one, fall to the floor. The full white globes of her breasts were outlined in the candlelight, the slender line of her waist, the swell of her hips.
She stood before him, her only adornment her golden sheen of hair. Mandell worshiped her nakedness with his eyes, her supple body a white silhouette, the mysteries of her female form intensifying his desire. She seemed a woman more born of mists and dreams. He half feared if he touched her, she would vanish, leaving him alone in the darkness. He stroked his fingers tentatively along the curve of her cheek.
“God, Anne, you are beautiful. If it were only within my power to make you see how beautiful you are.”
“It is enough that you make me feel that way,” she whispered.
He drew her close to him, capturing her lips in a kiss that was lingering. Somewhere within him a fire raged, a fire that demanded he possess her immediately. But the desire was overruled by a greater need to take things slowly, to make this night last forever.
He kissed her temple, her eyelids and her cheeks, his hands running down the length of her back, delighting in the feel of her skin, as warm and smooth as silk. Her face flushed, Anne tugged at the belt that held his dressing robe closed.
She undid the knot and parted the satin folds of the garment.
Her fingers skimmed his chest as she worked the robe off his shoulders. Mandell drew in a sharp breath. He had never liked to have a woman undress him, finding the notion too strangely intimate, leaving him less in control of the lovemaking.
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