“Cecil is an idiot.”
That made him laugh, a little. “He is, rather.”
His smile faded. “I talked Jones into going with me to Africa. He didn’t want to go, but I talked him into it. All part of that charm of mine. And being the sort of chap who won’t take no for an answer, I managed it.”
“You must not blame yourself, Stuart. You mustn’t. Jones loved Africa. He wrote to the other servants, and sometimes Reeves would tell me what he said. He may not have wanted to go at first, but he had the time of his life there, in your service.”
“I know that, but I just—” His eyes glittered, and he dabbed savagely at them with his fingers and thumb. “I miss him.”
She reached out, touched his hair, his cheek. “Of course you miss him.”
He leaned back against the desk, hands propped on the edge. “Do you know why I wanted to go to Africa in the first place? As I said, I was so damnably cocky. Even a continent wasn’t big enough to conquer me, by God.” He stretched his leg out sideways beside her feet, staring at it. “I never got malaria, or blackwater fever, or dysentery, or even a snakebite, but in the end, Africa still managed to put me in my place.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m sorry, Stuart. So terribly sorry. About Jones, about your leg, about—”
“I’m sorry about Jones, Edie, but I’m not sorry about my leg. I may limp for the rest of my life, but I’m not one bit sorry about that, and I’ll tell you why.” He straightened away from the desk, rising in front of her. “If that hadn’t happened to me, I might never have come home, except in a box, and I would never have known that the best thing I ever had in my life was right here. It’s true that I never met a woman I couldn’t win, but I also never met a woman who really mattered to me. Until I met you.”
She made a choked sound, and she was terribly afraid she was going to cry now, and any of her hard-won composure would go utterly out the window. “Stuart—”
“The night we met, when I first looked at you, I felt as if Fate were forcing me to stop and pay attention. I felt as if Fate were saying, “Look, really look, at this girl, because she’s important. She’s going to change your life.” Later, when you followed me out to the maze, I thought the impression I’d gotten was because of the money, but I was wrong. You asked me once what I could possibly want from you. What I want, Edie, is to know my life hasn’t been an utter waste of food, water, and air. That everything I took for granted means something even if I almost threw it all away. That I can do good in the world rather than just have a good time. But most of all, I need to know that there is one person in the world who needs me, whose life is better because I am in it. I want that one person to be you. I love you.”
Joy rose up inside her, joy, relief, and a poignant, sweet tenderness. “Stuart—”
“I’ll sign the separation agreement, if that’s what you want. But I’m asking you not to give up on us, Edie. And I won’t care if it takes ten more days, or ten years, or the rest of my life, but I promise you that before I die, I’ll make you know that you are safe, always, with me. Even when I want you so badly I can’t sleep, I’ll wait until you want me. I promise.”
He stopped, and she waited, but when he said nothing more, she finally spoke. “Is that all?”
A gleam of defiance came into those beautiful gray eyes. “Yes.”
“Good.” She cupped his face in her hands, rose on her toes, and kissed his mouth. “That’s my answer.”
He frowned, and shook his head, telling her she’d just confounded him again. He opened his mouth, but she forestalled him, for she simply couldn’t bear letting him do all the talking.
“I’m staying,” she said. “I’m not leaving, not ever. And if you’d have let me get a word in, I’d have told you that the moment I walked through the door.”
“But what about this?” He turned to pick up the separation agreement.
She snatched it out of his hand. “Keating sent it to me because I’d asked for it when I saw him in London, but I haven’t even read it, and I’m certainly not signing it.”
With that, she tore the blasted document in half and tossed the pieces in the air.
He swallowed hard, his eyes looking steadily into hers as half-sheets of paper floated down around them. “Are you sure you want to stay? Even after what happened in the feathers?”
“That wasn’t your fault. I had a bout of panic. It happens. It will probably happen again.” She knew she had to talk about this, so that he would understand and not blame himself. This moment was what she’d been preparing for ever since he left.
She took a deep breath, clasped her hands together, knuckles to her lips, hoping for the words that she’d been striving to find for days, the words that would explain what had happened to her that day in the feather house. “Remember when we played chess, and you said that if I talked of him, I should look into your eyes so that I would recognize the difference?”
“I remember. In hindsight, I realize I could hardly have expected you to see me as any different from him, but at the time, I was very angry with you for thinking he and I were in any way alike.”
“I know you were angry. But it was right of you to say what you did, because after that, whenever we were together, and I looked into your eyes, I would remember what you said, and it helped me to not be afraid. That afternoon, in the feather house, everything was—”
Her voice broke, and she had to stop for a second before going on. “It was wonderful, Stuart, all of it, until I couldn’t look into your eyes or see your face. When you . . . when you came on top of me, it . . . it reminded me of before, with him. Because I couldn’t see you.”
Pain shimmered across Stuart’s face, and it felt as if her heart were tearing in half because she hated causing him pain, but she could not stop now, or she wouldn’t have the courage to say it all. And it all had to be said, so he would understand. And afterward, they would never have to talk about it again.
“He shoved me down on a table, he pushed up my skirt, he ripped down my drawers.” She spoke quickly, forcing words out. “I told him to stop. He didn’t. He came on top of me and . . . and did it. It happened so fast, and I was so shocked. I kept saying stop, but . . .” She shook her head and lifted her hand to the side of her face. “His face was buried against my neck, so I couldn’t see him, and he never looked at me, not until afterward when he got up. And then, when he did look at me, he just smirked. He defiled me, rolled off me, buttoned his trousers, and smirked. He said we’d have to do that again one day. He didn’t even pull my dress back down before he left.”
She watched Stuart press his fist to his mouth, and she knew he did that only when he was in the throes of great emotion and trying to hold it back. She knew what he felt was pain, pain on her behalf, and she rushed on, “None of that matters anymore. It’s just that—”
“It matters, Edie,” he said, lowering his fist. “By God, it matters. He will pay.”
“My point is that when you and I were in the feather house, when you . . . you . . . moved on top of me, I started to panic, but I could still look into your face, so . . . so it was all right. But then, you buried your face against my neck.” She paused, blinking hard, striving to hold back tears. “I couldn’t look at you. I couldn’t look into your eyes. I couldn’t . . . remember the difference.”
“I see.” He drew a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, I see.”
“I wanted to tell you all this straightaway, tell you what happened, why I was crying. I wanted to try and explain, but I couldn’t, Stuart. I just couldn’t tell you.” A sob erupted from deep inside her, and with that sob, the composure she’d worked so hard to maintain dissolved, the hard, tight knot of fear and anger and shame inside her cracked completely open, and she started to cry. “I’ve never told anyone.”
His arms wrapped around her at once, and he held her ti
ght as her tears came out, tears she’d tried to suppress for six years, tears that had come squeezing out of her that afternoon in the feather house, tears that she knew hurt him, too. But she couldn’t stop them. They poured from her, soaking into his white linen shirt and pique waistcoat as his hand smoothed her hair and his voice said her name over and over, and the pieces of that hard, tight knot inside her floated slowly away into space and disappeared.
At last she was able to lift her head and pull back. She sniffed, and when he handed her his handkerchief, she took it.
“I swore I wasn’t going to cry,” she said as she dabbed at her face. “I know you were off in London flaying yourself for what happened between us, but I needed time to . . . to compose myself. I knew I had to explain, but I didn’t want to cry while I did it because that would make it even harder for you, and I didn’t want to make you feel even worse—”
He cupped her face. “Don’t ever worry about me,” he said savagely. “Ever. If you need to tell me about it, or about him, then tell me. I’ll endure it. If you need to be alone, tell me so. Cry your eyes out anytime you like, pummel me with your fists and curse his name, throw plates against the wall or—hell—throw them at my head. But no matter what, don’t ever worry about whether or not any of it will hurt me. Do you understand? And if what happened in the feather house ever happens again, if you ever feel that panic while we are making love, grab me by the hair, yank my head back, and shout, ‘Look at me, Stuart, damn you!’ ”
A sound that was half laugh, half sob, came from her throat. That speech was so absurd and his ferocity so touching, she couldn’t help it. “I’ll try, I promise.”
“Is there anything else that makes you afraid, or reminds you of him? Whenever you think of anything, you must tell me.”
She thought for a moment. “Don’t ever, ever wear eau du cologne.”
“Ugh.” He made a face. “I shan’t, so you’ve no need to worry.”
“Thank heaven for that.” She dabbed at her face a few more times with his handkerchief. “Goodness, ten whole days to regain my composure, and it was no help at all in the end, was it?”
“But what do you feel, darling?” His fingers reached up to glide across her cheek, brushing her freckles. “What do you feel?”
She considered. “Relief,” she said at last, pressing a hand to her chest. “My God, such relief.”
That pleased him, for the corners of his eyes creased a bit in a hint of a smile. “Good.”
“Still, I must look a fright now, and it’s such a shame, because I had a surprise all planned for your return.”
“A surprise?”
“Yes. And I have been looking forward to it for days, so you have to go now and let me fix my face.” She folded his handkerchief and set it on her writing desk. “Let’s both change for dinner, shall we? And then I want you to meet me at the bottom of the stairs.”
“But what sort of surprise is it?”
“I’m not telling.” She turned him and began pushing him toward the door. “You’ll have to wait.”
An hour later, after a few compresses of cold tea leaves prepared by Reeves, Edie’s face looked almost back to normal. The puffiness was gone, her eyes were no longer red, and a dusting of powder covered any remaining hints that she’d sobbed her eyes out. Laced into a blue silk evening gown, her curly hair piled up in a pretty way, with a few tendrils around her face, Edie thought she might even look rather pretty.
“Reeves, you’re a wonder.” Edie stared into the cheval mirror, amazed. “Thank you.”
The maid smiled, meeting her eyes in the glass. “The wonder is your finally letting me put a dab of powder on your face and a bit of rouge on your lips.”
“No padding in my bosom though. I don’t need it.” She paused, smoothing silk. “So I’ve been told.”
She laughed, and her maid laughed with her, the two of them almost like girls giggling together before a ball.
Reeves adjusted the fluff of lace at her shoulder. “It’s good to see you happy, Your Grace,” she said.
“I am happy.” Edie nodded, realizing just how true it was as she said it. “Though one would hardly have guessed it an hour ago.” She smiled. “I confess, Reeves, I do like being the fetching thing he looks at across the table.”
The maid smiled, remembering their conversation about that. “He’s a good man, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” she agreed with all her heart. “A very good man. Speaking of him, I’d best go down, or I won’t have time to give him his gift before dinner.” She turned away from the mirror and started out of the room, but she paused by the door. “And Reeves?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Take the evening off. I shan’t need you until morning. And keep Snuffles in your room with you tonight.”
With that, she left her bedroom and went down to meet Stuart, and when she saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for her, when he turned and saw her in a pretty blue dress, his expression made her glad that her life had turned out just this way.
“I bought you something while you were away,” she said when she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve been dying to show it to you.” She grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”
She led him down the corridor, past the library. He didn’t say anything, but when they passed the music room and the billiard room, he knew there was only one possible destination.
“The ballroom? Edie, why are we going in here?”
“You’ll see,” she said as she pushed back the doors. “Come on.”
He followed her into the glittering, gold-and-white ducal ballroom, but he barely stepped through the doors before he stopped in astonishment, staring at her gift to him. “Mrs. Mullins’s music box?” he said. “You bought it?”
“I did. Now, you stay right there.” She walked over to the instrument, which was sitting on its matching table against the wall, and pushed the knob. A moment later, the strains of Strauss’s Voices of Spring floated through the room.
She turned and walked back toward him, stopping at what she judged was nearly the same distance they had been apart when they’d first seen each other at Hanford House, and when he smiled a little, tilting his head and giving her that quizzical look, her breath caught in her throat.
“There are second chances, Stuart,” she said. “And this is one of them.” She paused, waiting. “I’m here. The orchestra is playing Strauss. Come and dance with me.”
“What? Here? Now?” A hint of what might have been panic crossed his face. “Edie, I told you, I can’t dance anymore.”
“You can’t waltz now, I know. But since I can’t waltz either, not to save my life, I don’t mind. You needn’t spin me all around the room. But you can sway with the music and hold me in your arms, can’t you?”
He opened his mouth, shut it again. His eyes glittered, he blinked once or twice, and it was a moment before he could speak. “I think I can do that,” he said at last.
He came to her, not the athletic, graceful leopard of the ballroom at Hanford House but her very own wounded animal. Her husband. Her lover. Her best friend.
He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
“You may,” she said, equally grave, and together, they walked to the center of the floor. When he took her right hand in his and put his left hand on her waist, she lifted her own free hand to his shoulder, just as she remembered from all her previous dancing experiences.
But that was where the similarity ended. Her partner was taller than she was, he didn’t push her or propel her or try to control her movements. It was he, not she, who moved slowly, awkwardly, trying not to step on her feet. It was hard for him, she knew, and painful—physically, and probably emotionally, too, and she stopped after only a few steps, for it was enough to illustrate the point she wanted to make.
&nbs
p; “I think this is going to take a bit of practice,” she said.
“Yes,” he muttered, still staring down at their feet, looking terribly self-conscious.
“But that doesn’t matter, Stuart, because we have our whole lives to get it right. Don’t we?”
He looked up, those beautiful gray eyes piercing her heart, looking straight to her soul. “Yes, we do.”
“I love you,” she said and kissed his mouth. “I think I’ve loved you from the very beginning. But I was too afraid to let myself feel it.”
“I think I felt the same.” His hand came up from her waist to curve at the back of her neck, and he pulled her close.
She kept her eyes open just so she could watch his close, just so she could see those thick, dark lashes come down. Then she closed her own eyes, inhaling the scents of sandalwood soap and him. And then, his lips touched hers, and she savored the taste of his mouth.
Stuart, she thought. My love.
She pressed closer, and when she felt him, hard and aroused against her, she relished that, too. She loved him, the man that he was and everything that meant.
At last, she pulled back. “Stuart?”
He lifted his hand to smooth her hair. “Yes?”
“About this lovemaking business.”
His hand stilled against her hair. “Yes?”
She bit her lip, considering how best to say what she wanted to say. “Since we’ve been talking of practice, I just want to warn you that as far as lovemaking goes, I fear it’s going to be a bit like dancing for me, or . . . or skating on ice.”
How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days Page 29
