Adrian caught his breath.
“No! I swear it.”
“Who is more important to you, Adrian? The little Papist woman on the throne who snaps her fingers and you come running, or your whore, who no doubt also snaps her fingers and you come running.”
A flash of anger shot through him and he felt his hands bunching into fists. The last thing he wanted was to lose his temper with her, but he could not accept her insult.
“I really am not happy about you forcing the desk open,” he said. “If you wanted to know what was there, you had only to ask.”
“After you had removed the evidence of your infidelity you mean?”
“Elizabeth, there has been no infidelity. You have to believe that; I love you too much to ever want to deceive you like that.” He pulled her close to him, then kissed her lips and his heart sank when she made no response. “What prompted you to break into the desk? You must have had a reason.”
Her eyes met his, still sad, tears still brimming.
“I did not break into your desk,” she replied at last. “That was your mother’s doing.”
“Mother? Why would she do that?”
“She said she was looking for an address for your brother. I too had no idea you corresponded with him.”
He released his hold on her and sat down in the chair, looking up at her with a hope she might be ready to give him a smile.
“Why the hell did she not simply ask?” He demanded, then let his voice drop. “It is no secret. And why would she want to know, anyway? She has disowned him, she said she wanted nothing more to do with him or Frances! Now she has gone interfering instead of being open about her wishes and caused all this distress between you and I.”
“All I see is that she has done me a favour. I would never have known about your mistress otherwise. I would have trusted you too much to go scrabbling about in your desk.”
He took her hand and pulled her down to sit on his lap, put his arm around her waist and rested his face on her bosom.
“I have no mistress, Elizabeth. I will not deny that I loved Marianne, I will not deny that she is still dear to me, but the only woman I love is my wife. I cannot say it any clearer and I cannot believe you would think I would ever betray you.”
“I thought Elliot would never betray me as well, but look how he behaved. You do not understand; I need to be able to trust you completely and now that trust is gone. Why did you not tell me about her? And about your brother? If you wanted secrets, you should have said so at the start.”
Now he turned his face to look at her, drew her head down and kissed her deeply. “I did not come all this way to argue with you; I came to see you because I could not wait to be in your arms. Can we go to bed, please?”
Her eyes met his, but they were still sad and tears still glistened. He knew she would refuse him, for the first time since he had known her, she would refuse him.
“You have not been bedding me,” she said. “How am I supposed to believe you have not been bedding her?”
“Because I swear to you, I have not.”
“You were very eager to move to London without me.”
“I did that for you,” he argued. “I thought you would feel safer without me here. Please, Elizabeth; I love you.”
She slipped from his lap, went to stare out of the window at the grounds outside, at the beautiful gardens, at the blossoming trees, and she felt a deep sadness. That melancholy was as bad as when she saw Elliot’s family taken away to prison, when she learned what had happened to them. She felt it was an ending, just like then, and she had no idea what to do about it.
“Sweetheart, what are you saying? Are you telling me you no longer love me?”
She made no reply. She had not felt the same about Adrian since he had accepted the Queen’s proposal, even though she knew he had no choice. Just thinking about him serving that odious woman placed a wedge between them which she fought desperately to ignore, but now, knowing he loved another woman, whether that love was physical or not, was just too much.
“Please, Adrian. I need time to decide what to do, how to feel.”
His eyes widened in shock and he stood up and moved to stand behind her, put his arms around her waist and tilted her back to rest against his chest.
“I swear to you, Elizabeth. There is nothing between Marianne and me, not any more. I will take you to see her if you like, let her tell you.”
“It is not just her,” she answered. “It is what you are doing. I cannot forget you are working for the Queen who would viciously destroy everything we believe in.”
“Would you rather I joined those victims? Because that is the alternative.”
“No, it is not. We can still escape, go to your brother.”
“What of Mother? She cannot make such a journey and if left here she will be arrested.”
“She is ill, Adrian,” Elizabeth answered. “That is why she wanted Mark’s whereabouts, to write to him. She is dying.”
“No.”
“Yes. She has but a few months and when she dies, you will do as I ask? We can go to your brother?”
He gave a heavy sigh; nothing had changed. He still could not give her what she wanted.
“I have to protect the estate for our son,” he said. “Mark had nothing to leave behind; I do. Mary cannot live forever.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes meeting his and showing him that sadness once again.
“It seems as though she already has,” she replied. “But if you will not leave, I will always wonder if you are with your whore.” He held her arms, but she shook him off. “How do I know it is not her who is keeping you here? How do I know it is not her you will not leave?” She paused and turned away from him. “Please go. I do not think I can live with you after this.”
“Elizabeth, please,” he said, his voice rising in anger. “You know I have no choice. Or do you doubt that? How can you doubt my fidelity to you?”
“You should have told me about this woman,” she said. “You should not have let me find out like this. You say she is dear to you?”
“Yes, but not as a lover, not any more.”
“Then why have you kept her letters? And why do you still correspond with her?”
She waved the letters in his face as she spoke, the jealousy eating away at her until she could not think clearly. And he had no answer for her.
***
His return to London was a journey made with anger in his heart and he was unsure at whom his anger was directed. He was angry with Elizabeth, yes, angry that she had found his secret and that she doubted his word. But he was also angry with the Queen for forcing him into this position, and angry with himself for not being willing to flee as his wife had wanted and for not telling her about Marianne, or at least destroying her letters.
No, it was not Marianne who was keeping him in England. It was fear of the unknown, fear of the long and dangerous sea voyage and an unwillingness to give up everything his family had owned for generations. He was sure if he could wait long enough, the Queen would die and her sister would restore England to the Protestant faith.
As soon as he got back he began a letter to Marianne, intending to tell her to write no more, that his marriage was in jeopardy, but when he had finished he felt ashamed and cowardly. Did he not have the courage to tell her to her face? He tore up the parchment and went out again, mounted his horse and rode the short distance to Marianne’s rooms.
He had not seen her since his marriage, a very long time and he expected never to see her again, but there was no other honourable way to break this news to her. He had hoped she might have met someone else during that time, and were it not for her letters he might have convinced himself that is what she had done. But it seemed she remained alone, a fact which caused him a dart of shame. He should never have built her hopes as he had, but then he had no idea that was what he was doing. She was like a doll to him, a toy instead of a human being and he had never realised that until th
e damage was done. How could he ever explain that to Elizabeth?
He tied his horse to the rail outside the building with its white walls and black beams, with its overhanging upper windows and he noticed for the first time that the building and the street was not so very different from the one in which he had found Marianne.
He peered into the premises on the ground floor, where a wine bar once operated, and saw it was now a tailor’s shop and inside sat a young man sewing fine cloth. There were many suits of sumptuous materials hung about the walls and Adrian was pleased. It seemed a far less dangerous sort of firm for Marianne to be living above.
A lot had happened to him since he had found Marianne on that dingy street. He recalled his first sight of her, recalled how his mind had been full of Frances and how she and his brother were faring on their journey to the new world. He remembered the fragile figure of the little blonde girl who leaned against the door jam, looking terrified. He had always been pleased with himself for rescuing her, for giving her a life, and he hoped he was not about to lose her respect; he was already certain he had lost Elizabeth’s.
Her rooms were at the top of the stairs and for the first time ever, he knocked and waited for a reply. The door opened and she stood before him, unchanged, the same pretty, pert face, the same shiny blonde hair, the same milk white skin on her shoulders and arms.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise when she saw him.
“Adrian,” she said.
Hesitantly, he looked passed her to be sure she had no company, no other man in her chambers, but as he stood looking she threw herself into his arms, just as though they were still lovers. He did not expect that; he had not thought much about the sort of reception he would get at all, but he definitely did not expect this.
“Marianne,” he hugged her, kissed the top of her head. “I am sorry. I had to come.”
“I am glad you did. I have missed you.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, her lips warm and soft on his, and he felt his own arousal. He had never intended that and it frightened him.
“Marianne,” he said, pulling her arms down and pushing her gently away. “I have something to tell you.”
Her huge, blue eyes found his and fixed on them for a moment, then she took his hand and led him inside, closed the door and led him to the bedchamber.
“How have you been?” He asked.
“I have been well, thanks to you. I have everything I need, except you. I have missed you, very much.”
“I have been forced into a position at court. I wrote you about it.”
She dropped her gaze to look at her hands where they were clasped together in her lap.
“Is that why you have come? Am I a suspect?”
“Of course not.”
She stood before him, too close, and put her arms around his waist.
“I heard that when you moved to London your wife stayed in Surrey.”
He frowned, wondering where her question was leading.
“She is safer there.”
Marianne’s fingers found their way inside his shirt and she leaned forward and kissed his chest.
“I hoped that with her there, and you here, you might have found the need to visit me,” she said, and he felt the soft skin of her fingers caressing his flesh. “I hoped you might have wanted to visit me.”
He took her wrists and once more pushed her gently away.
“I have come because my wife has found your letters and now believes you are still my mistress. I have come to tell you…nay to ask you…not to write again.”
“Is that her order? The Adrian Kennington I knew would never allow a woman to order him.”
“That is not it at all,” he protested. “She was hurt and angry. I never want to see her hurt like that again. As it is I still have to persuade her there is nothing between us.”
She took his hand and moved to sit on the bed, pulling him down beside her. She placed her hand gently on his thigh and ran her fingers along it, her eyes resting on the muscles at the top and she smiled.
“Is there nothing between us?” She whispered.
Adrian was confused; he had not come here for this. His mind was telling him to leave, to remove himself from the temptation, while his body told him to stay. His memory showed him the nights when he had shared Marianne’s bed, when he had enjoyed her body and loved her. In those days he had believed no one could ever take her place and he still felt the guilt that he had to discard her after all.
She leaned toward him, still stroking his thigh as her lips found his, then her other hand slipped beneath the silk of his open shirt and gently scratched the flesh near his breast.
He should have resisted, his mind wanted to resist but his body had other ideas and his lips came down on hers and kissed her deeply, his hand slipped inside her bodice and held the soft, smooth breast he remembered so well. Why should that breast feel different from his wife’s breast? He had no idea, but it did and his treacherous memory insisted on showing him things he had no wish to recall.
He took his hand from her bodice and put it on her shoulder, started to push her away, but the power he might have found to resist drained away as her hand moved a little further up his thigh. It had been a long time since he knew the pleasure of his wife’s bed and his mind flew back to the days between Frances and Elizabeth. For a moment he was no longer the husband and father with the wife he adored. He was Adrian again, the young viscount who was free to love whoever he chose, and he chose Marianne.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Elizabeth watched Adrian ride away, she clenched her fist over the letters from Marianne. Was she imagining that these were love letters? Was she so insecure she could not accept they were the remnants of a dead love affair, nothing to rouse her jealousy or her concern? Was she right to be angry that he had told her nothing of this woman or their continued friendship? She could not fully accept he was helping the Protestant cause, not when everyone knew his mentor in this venture was a close friend of the papist Queen. She remembered Elliot, how she trusted him, how she never suspected he was a secret Catholic. Perhaps Adrian, too, was a secret papist intent on destroying everyone who did not agree with them.
But she knew Adrian much better than she had known Elliot. She lived with him, had borne his children; he was not like Elliot.
She glanced once more at the letters, clutched in her hand, and a stab of jealousy shot through her. She turned to the door and hurried down the stairs and into the kitchens. Several servants looked up from their work when they saw her on the balcony and they all curtsied and bowed as she made her way down the spiral staircase and towards one of the ovens.
“My Lady?”
One of the cooks was standing beside the range and the surprise at seeing her there was clear in her expression.
“Is this oven alight?” She demanded of the woman, who nodded. “Open it, please.”
The woman stood holding the oven door, her hand protected by a heavy cloth, and watched Elizabeth feed the flames with the sheets of parchment and paper, with the letters from Marianne. When she came to the last one, she hesitated over the address at the top, then crunched it up into a ball and threw it into the flames with all the others.
She felt relieved to be rid of them, felt that somehow she was also rid of Marianne. But that was not enough. She sat in the grounds for an hour or so, just watching the gardens and the people going about their business, and she knew she would have no peace until she had seen this woman for herself, until she had spoken to her, learned what she had which was so important to her husband.
Did he speak the truth? Was there nothing between them now? If he did, was it wrong of Elizabeth to throw away her marriage because he had kept the woman’s existence from her? She was devastated to think he was keeping secrets and the more she considered it, the more she clung to the hope that he spoke the truth, that their marriage was not over, that it could still saved.
She called a manservant to accomp
any her, went outside to the coach house and stables where she waited while a coachman prepared the carriage. She climbed inside and travelled toward London and the rooms of Mistress Marianne.
***
Adrian lie on his back, his arm around the naked shoulders of his former mistress while her head rested on his chest and her lips caressed his flesh. Their clothes littered the floor, her hair cascaded about her shoulders and the touch of her flesh against his was making him feel light headed. He cursed himself for a weak fool! He should never have done this, should never have responded to her advances, should never have taken her to bed and made love to her. It was one secret he would share with no one, ever.
“Marianne, I am sorry. I should never have allowed that to happen.”
“You must have wanted it to happen,” she answered softly. “You must have missed me as I missed you. Are you saying you did not enjoy it?”
“Of course not. But I am married now and I love my wife. I never intended to be unfaithful to her.”
She turned her head and kissed his nipple, moved up and sucked on his neck.
“She will never know,” she said. “It was inevitable, do you not see? We should never have parted. I can share you, I love you enough for that. Does she?”
That is when they heard the creak of the floorboard outside the door. There was no knock, just the sound of the door opening and Adrian raised his head to see the figure who stood in the doorway, her familiar face almost wild with rage, her fists clenched, her eyes wide with fury.
“Elizabeth?” He whispered, hoping desperately he had fallen asleep and this was nothing more than a bad dream.
“So, there is nothing between you now?” She screamed. “You are only friends!”
He sat up and reached on the floor for his breeches, swung his legs out of the bed and pulled them on. He grabbed at his shirt and as he pushed his arm into the sleeve, he glanced at Elizabeth who still stood in the doorway.
There was no way out of this, nothing to convince her she was wrong this time.
“Darling I am so sorry.”
HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6 Page 60
