by Julia London
“Heavens, no,” Lady Carey said. “If my husband were to discover you there, I cannot imagine his ire. And I think there is no one in London who may be trusted with such a delicate secret.”
“Nor do I, in truth.”
“I know it all seems impossible. But my mother once told me that we Hastings had a way of landing on our feet. She likened us to cats.” Lady Carey smiled suddenly. “When I was a girl, she would use coal to draw a kitten’s nose and whiskers on my face.” She laughed at the memory. “She always cautioned us to never forget that we Hastings girls are lucky, and will always find another chance. Some may believe our luck has run out since her passing, but I am optimistic.” She smiled hopefully.
“I am fully prepared to do as I said I would,” Harrison said.
“Oh, Mr. Tolly!” she said impatiently. “I think you have missed my meaning completely! You are too accustomed to solving all our problems. Do you recall the supper Edward hosted in honor of Captain Granville’s return from the war?”
“Of course.”
Her smile widened; her eyes sparkled. “Do you recall the seating?”
Harrison smiled, too. “How could I possibly forget it?” Seating thirty-six illustrious guests was daunting for the most seasoned of social secretaries. Unfortunately, neither he nor Lady Carey was very well versed in that sort of thing. “We spent two days in the formal dining room rearranging name cards.”
Lady Carey laughed with delight. “We moved Lord Rothbone a dozen times if we moved him once! We could not determine who would pay the price of sitting next to him.”
“‘I’ve a liking for haddock,’” Harrison said, mimicking the portly old Lord Rothbone, “‘but not in sauce. Haddock in sauce reminds one of gristle in bile.’”
“‘My husband does not care for gristle,’” Lady Carey said, mimicking the high-pitched voice of Lady Rothbone.
Harrison chuckled. “‘Have you venison, then? I should like a bit of venison. But not overcooked. Overcooked venison brings to mind a crofter’s shoe. Have you ever seen a crofter’s shoe? Quite a lot of muck and mire, as it were.’”
Lady Carey laughed roundly, pressing her palms against her belly as if to contain the laughter. “I think Lord Braxton has never forgiven us for putting Rothbone with him.”
“I can scarcely blame him,” Harrison said. “I could not bring myself to look the poor gentleman in the eye after that supper.”
She smiled fondly at him, then put her hand on his. The touch jolted Harrison; his hand fisted beneath hers. “I could not have done it without you, Mr. Tolly. I was lost when I came to Everdon Court, as green as summer grass and timid as a mouse. If you had not been here to lead me, I would have faltered badly.”
He remembered the young and inexperienced marchioness, wanting badly to do it all just so. “You give me too much credit, madam. You’ve always known what to do. I have not led you; I merely assisted you.”
“You are far too modest.” She removed her hand from his. “When my mother died, it was you who helped me make the arrangements.”
“That is the nature of my work for this family.”
“Perhaps. But like now, you went beyond your duties. I sat in your office sobbing like a child, and you sat beside me, your linen handkerchief at the ready.”
He had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her that day and hold her in that moment of heart-wrenching grief. But he’d had to make do by clutching his handkerchief.
“And what of the blue silk you brought from London? I had only heard of it from my friend Bernie, and you bravely ventured onto Bond Street in my stead and found one to match the description. You had a square of it tucked away in your pocket, as if you feared someone might see you with it. Yet you cannot imagine how thrilled I was with the square. I sent for the silk straightaway, and now it is my favorite evening gown, and all because you were kind enough to seek it out and bring it to me.”
Harrison was beginning to feel exposed. She’d worn that blue silk to attend a soiree at the Earl of Elmont’s. That evening, he could scarcely look at her in the silk without feeling the blood rush in his veins, pooling in his groin, making him uncomfortably hard as he watched her leave on the arm of the bored marquis. He recalled how she’d cast a smile at him over her shoulder, and had fluttered her fingers at her gown as if to ask him if he approved. Oh yes, he’d approved.
“Madam, you give me far too much credit.”
“I do not. I depend on you more than anyone.” She smiled so fondly that he could once again feel the blood begin to rush in his veins. “Truthfully, this is another time I want so desperately to depend on you, Mr. Tolly. But unfortunately, your help is not to be borne. Not this time. I expressly refuse to allow you to marry Alexa.”
Harrison arched a brow in surprise, and she lifted her chin as if she expected an argument. “Will you not?” he asked gently. “For if there is no relative that Miss Hastings may go to, no widow, no Good Samaritan to take her in, then for her sake, and for your sake, and particularly for the sake of that unborn child, she must marry and marry quickly.”
“Yes, yes, I agree. But not to you, Mr. Tolly.”
“I shall try not to take offense,” he said easily. “Have you someone else in mind?”
“Not yet. But I have my jewels with which to barter, and I shall think of someone desperate for them. I am not completely without connections.”
She was naïve. Harrison shifted a little closer. “Madam, forgive me, but I think you do not understand.” He leaned in, speaking softly. “Any man you may consider for your sister likely would not accept her child. And even if you found a man who was kind enough to see his way to it, he would not accept the child as his own. As much as it pains me to do so, I must say this out loud: Alexa is ruined. Without some agreement, without some promise of continued enrichment—which I can advise you in confidence that his lordship will not provide—there is no one who will touch her.”
Lady Carey suddenly turned about on the bench and faced him fully, her expression earnest. “How can you bear it?”
“Pardon?”
“I must know, Mr. Tolly. How can you offer yourself when your affections lie with another? When you have inherited! Do you not deserve to take your inheritance and make your own happy ending with your Lady X?”
Hearing her say those words startled him. “Lady Carey—”
She leaned in, her gaze locked on his. “Have you not witnessed enough unhappiness here to warn you against an arranged marriage? Do you wish such turmoil and despair for yourself?”
Her admission unnerved him; a nauseating mix of fury and sorrow filled his gut.
“This situation you would put yourself in is insupportable. You are a fine man, and you deserve a wife you esteem and children and the happiness that most people only aspire to. What you propose is madness! Do you fear my husband? Do you fear what he will do to you or to Alexa? Is that why you would turn your back on your Lady X, the woman you esteem above all others—”
“I cannot have her.” He said it more sharply than he intended, but he had to stop her before she enumerated the many, many things he would never know with her. His fingers curled into a fist against his knee. “It is as simple as that.”
She cocked her head to one side, seeming confused. “Why ever not?”
Did she truly not see why not? Did she not see how he looked at her now? Harrison swallowed and pushed down the urge to touch her, to say words that he could never say to her. “I think it is impossible that you can understand it so I beg of you to not even try.”
But Lady Carey was undaunted. She touched his fist. “I think perhaps you are the one misjudging the situation, Mr. Tolly. Are you certain you cannot have her?”
“Entirely,” he said firmly, and shifted just enough to move his hand from beneath her fingers.
Lady Carey drew a breath. “I beg your pardon. It is not my place to interfere, or to offer advice . . . yet I cannot help but tell you that I am certain Lady Martha woul
d be quite pleased. And if she is not, I would be happy to intervene.”
It took Harrison a moment to understand what she thought, and the realization shot him to his feet. “Lady Martha!” he exclaimed. “Good God, madam, please extend me the courtesy of assuming that I would be attracted to someone of greater . . .”—he could not think of the word that described the simpering, dull, Lady Martha—“vigor than Lady Martha! I have no regard for the woman!”
She reared back, her eyes widening with surprise. “But if not Lady Martha, then who?”
Harrison faced her, his hands on his hips, and stared down at her.
Something seemed to register in Lady Carey. Her lashes fluttered with a thoughtful frown, and her gaze dropped to her lap. “My goodness . . . does she . . . does Lady X know of your regard?”
“Apparently not,” he said dryly.
Lady Carey bit her lower lip. “But if she knew, she might . . .”
“She might what?” he asked impatiently. “Leave her husband and live in reduced circumstances with her reputation destroyed? No, madam. To confess my affection and esteem to Lady X is to compromise her completely, and I would never dishonor her.”
Lady Carey looked up then, her eyes full of understanding.
And sadness.
Harrison regretted saying anything at all. He should have allowed her to continue believing his affection lay with Lady Martha—
Lady Carey stood, and surprisingly, she touched his cheek. Harrison was so flustered by that single, soft touch that he was rendered speechless.
“Poor man,” she murmured. “I understand better than you know.”
Harrison was suddenly tumbling off a precipice. He’d balanced on that rim for all these years, standing practically on the tips of his toes, never falling into the abyss, but standing close enough that he could smell the roses that scented her hair, feel the softness of her touch. And now he was falling, falling so hard and fast that he couldn’t even say what happened next. He only knew that his arms were suddenly around her, and that his mouth was on hers, on lips that were as soft and succulent as he knew they would be, yet searing him like a hot coal.
He cupped her face, tasting her as he had longed to do all these years, his tongue against the seam of her lips, and then plunging inside her mouth, swirling about her tongue as he fell, tumbled, and disappeared into the desire he’d kept bottled inside him.
Lady Carey kissed him back, tumbling right along with him, her body rising up to his, pressed against his. She gripped him as if she feared she would fall, wrapping her arm around his neck when he encircled her waist with his arm to hold her there, to keep the feel of her shapely form against him as long as he could. His erection strained against his trousers, demanding he fulfill his body’s need to be physically sated. Somewhere in the depths of his conscience, he was acutely aware of the danger in kissing her, but in that moment he didn’t give a damn.
His hands roamed, sliding over the curve of her hip, up to her rib cage and to her breast, filling his hand. Only then did Lady Carey make a sound of alarm in his mouth. Only then did she recoil, jerking back and away from him.
“Oh my God,” she said hoarsely, and pressed her palms to her cheeks. “What have I done?”
The look in her eyes was of sheer panic. “Breathe,” he said to her.
“That should never have happened,” she said frantically. “What if someone had seen us? It was a mistake, a dreadful mistake!”
“Please do not panic—”
“It is too late for that!” she said sharply, and grabbed up her basket. She moved to pass him, to flee, but Harrison caught her arm.
“Madam.”
She looked up at him, and Harrison saw unbridled desire mixed with fear in her eyes. “Let go of me,” she said, and yanked her arm free.
She rushed up the path, the basket’s ribbon dragging behind her. What he had seen in her eyes was the worst sort of yearning. He knew, because it ran deep in his veins, cutting deep crevasses into him.
When she’d disappeared around the corner, Harrison groaned and ran both hands over his head.
“Goddammit.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the dowager house salon, a glum Alexa examined the pianoforte. She thought it out of tune, but her skill was only passable, so she wasn’t entirely certain.
Alexa’s mother had possessed a pianoforte that she had claimed had come all the way from the Palace of Versailles. Alexa didn’t know how her mother could have possibly acquired such a thing, but it was made of the finest wood and the keys were polished ivory. She felt confident that Mr. Tolly’s pianoforte had not come from Versailles. She rather doubted it had come as far as even York.
She sighed heavily and played a few notes.
Carlos undoubtedly had a fine pianoforte. His family was wealthy. Not that she’d ever inquired, but it was apparent. Carlos Alfonso de la Fuente lived in a castle overlooking Madrid.
Alexa had met him quite by accident. Lady Tuttle had taken ill one day, fainting dead away as she and Alexa had toured the gardens of the Plaza de Oriente. Carlos had come to the rescue out of thin air, speaking flawless English with a lovely accent, and had directed his servants to see Lady Tuttle to the hotel where she and Alexa were staying. When he understood they had no doctor, Carlos had sent his personal physician to see after Lady Tuttle. When the physician had declared Lady Tuttle must convalesce before resuming her travels, Carlos had offered a cottage that belonged to his family for Alexa and Lady Tuttle’s use.
And so had begun their torrid affair. He was tall and darkly handsome, with dancing brown eyes and a smile as sparkling as the Mediterranean Sea. He called every day to see after Lady Tuttle’s welfare, and within the week, he was escorting Alexa out into the streets of Madrid to show her about.
Alexa had never intended for anything to happen between them. Admittedly, she was taken by his physical beauty. And she’d been so grateful for his help and held in thrall by his buoyant company. But she was not prepared for how quickly she’d fallen in love with him! Her eyes teared just thinking about it. God help her, she had loved him.
He was charming and sophisticated. He’d taught her Spanish history and the Spanish language. He’d wanted to know everything about her, and he’d looked at her in a way that had made Alexa’s heart pound and her palms dampen.
One month turned to two, and two to three. Carlos grew bolder, teasing her with kisses and playful touches. And Alexa grew softer, welcoming each touch, smiling with pleasure when he kissed her. Then had come the day of rain, when it was too awful to go out but too tedious to remain within the two-room cottage Alexa shared with Lady Tuttle.
Carlos had come, and while Lady Tuttle slept in one room, Carlos led Alexa to a place she’d never before been—into a man’s arms, and his body into hers. It was physically magical, and emotionally enthralling. Alexa had felt as if she was his, and that he belonged to her. She’d never felt anything so deeply in her life.
Alexa continued to have intimate relations with him, assuming that they would marry. It wasn’t entirely her imagination; Carlos had said things such as, “One day, we will be like that old couple,” and point to an elderly couple strolling together. Or, “Our children will be fearless.”
Alexa had believed it with all her heart.
He spoke eloquently of his life and his work. He described where he and his family lived in an ancient fortress in the hills, which they had turned into a home. While Lady Tuttle snored down the hall, Alexa would lie in the bed with him, imagining his family. She imagined a raucous gathering of siblings, some married with children, others not. She imagined their family meals, and she imagined, heaven help her, she imagined sitting among them, one of the family.
“I want to meet them,” she’d said one day.
“Si, of course. When the time is right, mi amor,” he would say, and Alexa trusted him.
Lady Tuttle began to mend. She wanted to go home to England, to be near her son, and Alexa began to think abo
ut how she would tell the old woman she didn’t intend to return to England. She’d even penned a letter to Olivia with the news that she would remain in Spain with Carlos.
But she never sent that letter.
One day, Carlos did not come. Nor did he come the next day. By the end of that week, Lady Tuttle was determined to carry on with their tour, and Alexa was frantic—she knew by then that she was carrying his child.
She played another few notes on the pianoforte in the dowager house, then settled in with both hands to play a song she remembered from her childhood as her mind wandered through her memories of Madrid.
At first she’d been angry with herself for not knowing more about where Carlos lived. She’d wondered if he’d intentionally kept her in the dark, for she had only a few vague descriptions of where the house was. So it was astounding that she was able to discover where Carlos lived. It had taken a bit of ingenuity to find her way there—a discreet question to the florist who delivered his flowers to her, a smattering of Spanish words to help wend her way through Madrid’s crowded and confusing streets. But Alexa had done it—she’d found him.
She could recall standing at the bottom of the hill and admiring the old castle. It looked just as Carlos had described it, with wisteria climbing the walls and a fountain at the bottom of the drive. Alexa had walked up the hill to the gate. She’d intended to send a note in to him, and she’d never imagined she would see him standing on the drive, almost as if he was waiting for her.
But he was not waiting for her.
It was interesting, Alexa thought numbly, the things she remembered about that sun-filled morning. Such as his horse, and the saddle with the tassels and a red scroll embroidered on the seat. That the bougainvillea along the stone wall at his back needed trimming.
Alexa remembered with painful, searing clarity, that as she lifted her hand to call to him, a woman came bounding onto the drive. That was when she noticed the other horse, and that the woman was dressed for riding, as was he. And she was beautiful, with inky black hair and dark red lips. The two of them had been laughing and speaking in their native tongue at a pace Alexa hadn’t been able to understand.
