by Liz Carlyle
She slid her hand around his arm. “Go on in, Geoff,” she managed. “I’m fine. Truly. I need to keep an eye on Lucan and Miss Rutledge.”
Geoff said nothing to that, but his eyes darkened. He was still watching her intently.
“You cannot read me, Geoff,” she said, dropping her voice. “You can no more see into my world than I into yours. Is that not the one precious gift we shared? That drew us close? Go to your beautiful bride, and be happy.”
He looked down at her through a sweep of dark lashes, his gaze suspicious. “But when do you get to be happy, Anisha?” he murmured. “Tell me that, and my happiness shall increase tenfold.”
She managed to laugh. “Just this morning Janet reminded me somewhat testily that I am a rich, beautiful widow with a family that loves me,” she said. “I have all the happiness I require. Go inside, and let us all toast your happiness, for we wish it so sincerely.”
With a chary glance, he patted her hand, gave a curt nod, and slipped away. Anisha let out a sigh of relief. She lingered another moment, until Miss Rutledge went in on her father’s arm, Luc following some twenty paces behind.
It was a wise distance, she judged. Mr. Rutledge was a handsome, athletic-looking man who carried himself with a sort of lethal grace and looked nothing like the rural squire he was purported to be. As with Rance, the gentleman appeared outwardly affable, but his smile was edged with something a little less benign than good humor if one looked closely.
Anisha wondered just what his wife had told him. A tempered version of the truth, perhaps. But it had been enough to put a steely glint in Lucy’s father’s eye.
When all the others had gone in, Mr. Sutherland gently took Anisha’s hand and laid it on his arm. “Come, my girl,” he said. “We are bringing up the rear, I’m afraid.”
Anisha leaned near and lightly kissed his cheek. “I was waiting for you.”
The Preost laughed, and together they went in. Anisha made her way around the room on his arm, grateful for his company. She had always been one of Sutherland’s favorites, she knew, and until recently she’d spent a good deal of time in the St. James Society’s reading rooms, which Sutherland oversaw.
In time, the health and happiness of the bride and groom was toasted, and a fine repast laid out in the dining room. Lucan filled Anisha’s plate, then seated her at an empty table for six in the withdrawing room. Almost at once, Rance came in with Frederica Rutledge.
He looked at Anisha a little uncomfortably, then, left with no alternative, approached to put Mrs. Rutledge’s plate down.
“Lady Anisha,” he said, drawing out a chair for Mrs. Rutledge. “May we join you?”
“Why, nothing would please me more,” she said.
He excused himself with a slight bow and returned to the dining room.
“Lord Lazonby is very kind, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Rutledge, watching him over her shoulder.
Anisha’s gaze left the bull’s-eye she had mentally painted between Rance’s shoulder blades. “Quite, yes,” she agreed.
“Lucy, however, was rather cowed by him,” Mrs. Rutledge confessed, dropping her voice. “I trust you received my note this morning?”
“I did, thank you.” Anisha cast a glance at Mr. Rutledge, who was seated with the bride’s cousins. “But your husband has a rather strained look about his eyes. Is all well?”
“Not remotely.” Her smile was wan. “Though he would never ruin Anaïs’s special day, Bentley is wildly angry. Lucy has survived his wrath, but only just.”
“I wonder he doesn’t blame my brother,” she remarked, her gaze falling to the linen napkin in her lap. “He would have every right to do so.”
“Of course he does, a little,” Mrs. Rutledge acknowledged. “But mostly he just blames himself.”
“Himself?” Anisha jerked her chin up. “I cannot imagine why, particularly when he wasn’t even present.”
Mrs. Rutledge cast her husband a fond but faintly exasperated look. “I’m afraid my husband enjoyed a terribly misspent youth,” she said. “His indiscretions were legendary, and his family nearly torn apart. He fears the twins take after him.” Here, she stopped and heaved a sigh. “Which, honestly, they do. We’ve had years of nonstop roguery out of that pair.”
Not for the first time, Anisha let her eyes drift over Frederica Rutledge’s remarkably beautiful eyes and dark hair. “You must have married frightfully young.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Rutledge’s cheeks turned faintly pink. “I’m afraid I was one of my husband’s indiscretions. The last one.”
Lightly, Anisha’s fingertips touched her mouth. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I am not usually so gauche. Your age—or your husband’s past—is none of my business.”
At that, Mrs. Rutledge laughed. “Well, let us just say I am a few years older than you.”
“Not many,” Anisha remarked in a low undertone.
“Not too many, perhaps.” Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes danced with good humor. “As to Lucy, I have left her father to deal with her indiscretion.”
Anisha’s heart sunk. “What will he do to her?”
“Nothing she does not deserve,” said Mrs. Rutledge grimly. “Lucy is going into service.”
“Into service—?” Anisha was appalled.
“In a manner of speaking,” Mrs. Rutledge clarified. “She’s to be a companion to a distant but dear cousin who is presently short of funds. She’ll also serve as a sort of governess, too. Lucy will not be ill-treated for an instant. Isolated, yes. Underpaid, terribly. But it will all do her good, I daresay. If Lucy were to remain in Town—or even Gloucestershire—she would simply insist on kicking up her heels until she took a serious tumble.”
“Oh,” said Anisha, her face falling. “Oh, dear.”
Mrs. Rutledge reached across the table and laid her hand over Anisha’s. “Lucy needs a purpose in her life, and this will give her one,” she said reassuringly. “Yes, Lady Anisha, I was married very young. Much younger than Lucy is, for this is her second Season and still she will not settle down. And yes, my marriage turned out brilliantly. But honestly, what were the chances, when circumstance, not choice, threw us together?”
“Not good,” Anisha conceded.
“No, not good,” the lady returned. “I will not try my luck again. And I will not have my family torn apart, either.”
For the first time Anisha saw the grim, nearly ruthless determination in Frederica Rutledge’s eyes. Here was a mother who guarded her cubs like a lioness, and the realization ratcheted the lady up about six notches in Anisha’s estimation. And she realized, too, that Mr. Rutledge’s reactions had likely been tempered by his wife’s resolve. She might not have worn the trousers in the family, but Anisha rather doubted he would have dared gainsay her wishes.
Just then, Rance returned with a plate but half full and a wineglass filled with something a good deal darker than wine ought to be. Mr. Sutherland followed on his heels, smiling all around the table as he drew up his chair. As always, his calm presence softened the tension, and the four of them nibbled and talked politely of weather and politics until eventually Frederica Rutledge excused herself to attend the bride, who meant to change from her wedding gown.
Sutherland murmured something about having left his prayer book in the parlor and vanished on Mrs. Rutledge’s heels. Anisha watched Rance from across the table, taking a perverse satisfaction in the bleak look about his eyes. The lines about his mouth, too, had deepened, and on the whole there was a worn, almost dissolute air about him today.
She had half expected him to make his excuses and follow the Preost out. But a scoundrel though he might have been, no one had ever called Rance a coward. He watched Sutherland go, then set his now-empty glass down with a determined thud.
“You received my letter?” he murmured without directly looking at her.
“How could I not when your footman brought it straight to my door?” she said in a grim undertone. “Brought it, mind you, before your scent was off my bedsh
eets. No, Rance, it did not get lost between the hall and my sitting room. Was that what you had hoped?”
He lifted his broad shoulders, as if his formal morning coat felt too tight, and for once he did indeed look to have been poured into it. “It was not, perhaps, the most diplomatic thing I’d ever written,” he acknowledged.
“But was it heartfelt?” she asked bitterly. “That, you know, is the only thing that matters.”
He looked across the table at her blankly.
She laid her fork down with a sharp chink! “In other words, when you used the phrase ‘a terrible mistake,’ ” she clarified, “was that indeed what you meant?”
“Anisha.” He looked at her darkly. “That’s precisely what it was. Yes. A mistake.”
“And when you said I should ‘look elsewhere in my romantic pursuits,’ ” she whispered, “that was, indeed, what you wished?”
“I believe we have covered this ground before,” Rance said, his voice dangerously soft. “In fact, we have nearly worn ruts in it.”
“But that was before you took me to bed.”
“Which was a mistake,” he answered firmly.
“So we are back where we were a week ago, then,” she murmured. “Is that it?”
He looked away, refusing to hold her gaze. “We cannot go back,” he said quietly. “That’s why it was such a devilish mistake. I have . . . tainted things between us, Nish. I have suggested something that was—”
Here, his words broke, and he shook his head.
“Suggested something that was never your intent?” she supplied a little tartly. “So there will be no marriage proposal forthcoming, then. Having lured you into my bed, I still can have no expectation of being the next Countess of Lazonby. Oh, dear. And I was already stitching the new monogram on my pillowslips.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched dangerously. “I need another whisky,” he said, jerking from his chair.
“No, you need to come out into the garden with me,” she replied, tossing down her napkin. “What I have to say to you cannot be said in here.”
“Why stop now?” he said grimly. “Half the room is watching us.”
But he led the way through the house, almost slamming the back door open with the flat of his hand. With one last glance to ensure no one followed, Anisha matched his long, purposeful strides out into the brilliant sunshine, into the depths of Miss de Rohan’s garden, all the way back to the apple tree where only minutes earlier love had reigned and eternal vows had been spoken.
Rance set his back to the trunk and leaned against it, as if he expected to be a while. “Go on then,” he said quietly, rolling his shoulders again. “You once said that I would do nothing but disappoint, Nish. And you were right. So have at it. But it won’t change a thing.”
They were the very words Janet had spoken, but Anisha heeded them no better now. Instead, she paced across the grass before him, trying to form her words, but temper and frustration had seized clarity from her mental grasp.
“Here is the problem,” she finally said, stopping and turning to face him. “You do not have the right to patronize me, Rance. You do not have the right to decide how I live my life, what manner of risks I run with my name, or who I bed when—”
“No,” he interjected coldly. “In that, you are regrettably correct. But I get to choose who I bed, Anisha.”
Anisha felt herself suddenly trembling inside. “And you . . . and you do not choose me,” she said. “Is that it?”
“I do not,” he said tightly. “And I am not accountable to you, Anisha, for my choice. Not unless you find yourself with child.”
Anisha stiffened her spine. “Oh?” she said, her voice arching. “And if I do, then what?”
“And then you know what,” he said harshly. “And may God help us both. And may God help Tom and Teddy.”
“Oh!” she said hotly. “Would it be so very terrible, Rance? To be married to me? To be a father to my boys?”
For an instant, his face froze. His expression went utterly blank.
“Would it?” she demanded. “Go on, Rance. Tell me you don’t want me. I am not even asking you to marry me; indeed, you presume a vast deal to think I’d have you. But tell me you don’t desire me. Say it straight to my face.”
But the blank expression remained fixed upon his visage, as if he’d been carved of pale marble. Something inside him had shifted, and though he moved not a fraction, Anisha could all but feel the anger rolling through him like waves before a storm.
“Whoever marries you, Anisha, can account himself fortunate,” he finally said. “But it will not be me. Would it be terrible? Not for some men. Myself, I have never contemplated marriage. The institution would suit me very ill.”
To her shame, she almost lunged at him. “Oh, my God, you are such a liar!”
He caught her upper arms in his hands, his arms rigid. “Anisha,” he rasped, giving her a little shake, “is there anything about me—anything you know, or anything you have seen—that would suggest to you that domestic life would suit me? Have I ever remained sober two days running? Or a whole week faithful to one woman? Ask yourself that, for God’s sake, before you go spinning us some fantasy in your mind.”
“So you have no wish to confine yourself to bedding just one woman,” she said. “Is that it? Go on, say it!”
“Anisha, be silent.”
“No, I won’t be!” she cried, trying to jerk from his grasp. “I won’t make this easier for you. And this isn’t even about marriage. In that, yes, you flatter yourself. But go on, Rance. With a straight face, tell me you do not care for me—”
“Anisha, hush!”
“—or that your body doesn’t ache for mine,” she said, speaking over him. “Just try to say it. For you’ll be a liar if you do. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Felt it in your touch. Even now lust shimmers off your skin like—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Nish, lust is just lust!” he interjected. “Men feel it for half the women that cross their paths.”
“Lust is not just lust with us, Rance,” she warned him. “The Upanishads teach us that all of a man’s life is written. You and I, we are destined. And most days, I am as unhappy about it as you.”
“Don’t talk to me of your goddamned stars and Vedic nonsense,” he growled. “I don’t believe in any of it.”
“Oh?” she challenged. “Then tell me you do not forget all others when I’m near. I know the truth of this, meri jaan. Sometimes I despair of it.”
He cut her off with another shake, his fingers digging into her arms, the skin around his mouth going white with rage. “Madam,” he said tightly, “you try my restraint at your peril.”
“And you, Rance, you try my sanity!” she cried. “I am sick to death of—”
His mouth was on hers in an instant.
Somehow it was her back that was set against the tree and Rance was kissing her with a roughness she could not have imagined. The force of his body held her tight to the tree as he dragged his mouth over hers, raking her skin with the stubble of his beard and driving her head back against the bark as he thrust inside her mouth.
This was desire, raw and unleashed. Dangerous in its heat. And all she could think of—strangely exult in—was the fact that Rance burned for her.
She thought again of Coldwater, and of her doubts. But having Rance in her bed—his kissing her now with no restraint—had utterly shattered them. Shattered her pretensions, too, and swept away the little scrap of herself she’d held back from him.
She was lost to him. Had been lost for a long time.
On and on the kiss went, desperate in its heat. He claimed her, possessed her, pressing his every inch to hers until her breath came in gasps and her knees shook. Rance’s nostrils flared with lust and with rage, his brilliant blue eyes wide, as if daring her to look into them.
She did look. And realized at once she had pushed him too far.
Setting her hands to his shoulders, she shoved, but it was an impossibility. Somet
hing had shifted between them; the balance of power, perhaps, until he possessed it all and she held none. He shifted his thigh, urging it hard between her legs. She could feel the thick length of him swiftly hardening against her body.
At last she shoved him hard with the heels of her hands, then pounded at him. Rance tore his mouth from hers and finally stepped away, his breathing rough, his eyes still wild with something caught between lust and anger.
“Rance.” She must have looked horrified, for the color drained from his face.
“God damn it, Anisha!” he said, half turning away from her. “Just damn it all to hell.”
“Kindly stop cursing,” she said, but her voice trembled. “Besides, I didn’t do anything.”
“No. No, I did.” He dragged a hand through his curling, over-long hair. “For God’s sake, Nish, can’t you see? There was a . . . a line in the sand between us. And now it’s gone. And I’m sorry. I never wanted this to happen.”
“And I am sorry, too,” she whispered, gathering herself. “I’m sorry your life is such an awful mess, and that you do not trust me to make the right decisions for myself.”
“Nish, it isn’t—”
“It is,” she cried, coming away from the tree. “It is precisely that, Rance. You do not trust me to make even that most intimate and personal of choices—to choose a lover. To choose you. But here is the truth of it, my dear: beyond having you in my bed, I do not know what I want. Not from you. Not even from the rest of my life. The stars aside, I know only that I want what’s best for my children.”
“If you want what’s best for them, Anisha,” he replied, “then you know those boys need a father.”
“My boys had a father!” she cried. “A father whom they scarcely knew, and who scarcely spared them a passing glance. But for good or ill, I’ve had to bury him, and now it’s left to me to decide what my boys need—and thus far, I’ve done a more than adequate job of it.”
To that he said nothing, but instead shoved his hands into his pockets and started almost blindly into the depths of the garden.
“Rance, I know, even if you do not, that you would never bed me for sport,” she said behind him. “On some level, you care for me, and it goes beyond the physical. But I’d sooner be boiled in oil than beg you for anything. You cannot keep playing this game, my dear.”
