by Louise Allen
Gregor went out, looking far from chastened, leaving Lina confronting Quinn. ‘Your arm must be hurting,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a powder for it?’
‘Are you trying to placate me?’ he demanded.
‘I am trying to help you, you infuriating man,’ she retorted. ‘Won’t you at least go to bed and rest?’
‘No, I am going round to speak to the vicar at St George’s about a licence.’ His eyes challenged her to defy him.
Lina shrugged. ‘As you wish.’
‘Indeed, as I wish. We will speak more of this after dinner.’
She wanted to shout at him, or box his ears. Instead she went and stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘You bull-headed man. I am glad you did not get yourself killed.’ Then, while he stared at her, she walked out of the library and out of his life. The taste of his cold skin went with her on her lips, a fragile reminder that was already vanishing.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ Prudence appeared on the landing with a bag in her hand as she reached the top of the stairs. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’
Probably as the result of having no air in my lungs, Lina thought. She had known she must do this, but it seemed so physically painful now she had, that she wanted to cry. ‘Getting up so early, I suppose,’ she said, trying to banish the fantasy of walking down the aisle of one of the most fashionable churches in London with Quinn waiting for her at the altar rail.
She heard his voice in the hall and went to the banister rail to look down. Whyte was helping him ease into his coat while a footman waited, hat, stick and gloves in hand. Goodbye, my love.
St George’s was not far away; she must move quickly now.
Within fifteen minutes she and Prudence and their bags were in the hall. ‘I am visiting my aunt for a few days, Whyte,’ she said, praying that Gregor was not about to come down. ‘Prudence is accompanying me. Can you call me a hackney, please?’
‘Yes, ma’am. What shall I tell his lordship?’
‘Oh, he knows all about it,’ she said, smiling brightly.
Prudence looked startled when Lina said, ‘Belle Sauvage’, to the driver and she realised she was going to have to take the girl some way into her confidence.
‘May I rely on your discretion, Prudence?’
‘Yes, ma’am, of course.’
‘I am leaving Lord Dreycott without his knowledge.’
‘Oh, lord, ma’am! And I thought him such a nice gentleman, too.’ The girl looked aghast.
‘He is. He wishes to marry me, I do not wish to marry him.’ Prudence’s mouth dropped open. ‘A few months in Norwich should suffice for him to realise what a bad idea it is.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Prudence muttered, obviously convinced that her mistress was all about in her head. ‘He’s not going to be best pleased, ma’am.’
‘I know,’ said Lina, imagining Quinn’s reaction when he found her gone. He was not easily going to accept his will being thwarted, but that would be all he would feel. He would recover soon enough from that.
‘Where is Miss Shelley?’ Quinn enquired as he and Gregor went into the dining room. ‘There are only two places laid.’
‘Miss Shelley left to visit her aunt this morning, my lord. With Prudence.’ Whyte frowned. ‘I had understood you were apprised of the fact, my lord.’
‘Of course, it slipped my mind,’ Quinn said. Hades, the woman will have me in an early grave, never mind at the altar at this rate.
He ate with no apparent haste, but rose without taking any port. Gregor got to his feet. ‘The Blue Door?’
‘There is no need for you to come,’ Quinn said. ‘Stay and do what you can to make this seem normal. I do not want talk amongst the servants.’
By the time he had reached The Blue Door he had calmed down a trifle. His arm hurt like the devil, which did not help his temper, but he reminded himself that women set store by things like weddings. He should have consulted Celina first about the venue. But it was not like her to flounce off in a sulk. Perhaps she wanted to do her planning surrounded by women.
‘Good evening, Lord Dreycott.’ Madam Deverill was in the salon, elegant in deep blue satin.
‘Good evening. I wish to speak to Celina.’
‘She is not here. No—’ she raised a hand when he began to turn towards the stairs and gestured him into the office ‘—I give you my word, I do not know where she is just now and I have not seen her since yesterday evening.’ Her fine blue eyes scanned him with the wisdom of one with long experience of studying men. ‘Your duel went well?’
‘It did. I have a flesh wound, but that is all. Celina was not happy about the duel and then I was clumsy over the arrangements for the wedding.’
‘There are several things Celina is unhappy about,’ Madam Deverill remarked. ‘The marriage most of all.’
‘You surely agree with me that it is the best thing for her?’
‘Not if you do not love her. Celina is not a young woman who would ever tie herself to a man for security, or money or title. She has a sweet, affectionate heart and the sense to know what would break it. You would, it seems.’
‘You want me to pretend to love her?’ Quinn demanded, feeling something almost tangible slipping through his mind, just out of reach as he tried to catch at it. His stomach felt as though he had been punched in the gut. He had been so certain she would be here. He would have seduced her back to Clifford Street, seduced her up to bed and made love to her until she was incapable of saying anything but yes.
‘Of course not! Lina wants no lies from you. Her parents’ marriage was based on lies and that ended in tragedy. If you cannot love her, then leave her alone.’
‘Love works two ways,’ Quinn retorted, goaded. ‘I am supposed to love her, but she…’ His voice trailed away. Why did he feel dizzy? It must be the loss of blood. Celina’s aunt just looked at him and said nothing. ‘Where has she gone? I know that you know.’
‘Come here.’ Clara Deverill reached out and, compelled by something in those blue eyes, so like Celina’s, Quinn stepped forwards and put his hands in hers. She drew him close, his nostrils filling with the same subtle and provocative scent that Lina used. She said nothing, simply stood and looked deep into his eyes. ‘I hope she will forgive me if I am wrong,’ she said at last. ‘Do you give me your word that you will not seduce or bully or frighten her into marriage?’
‘Yes. You have my word.’ Then how will I get her back? But he had sworn. Somehow he must manage with this handicap if it was the price he had to pay to find her.
‘She has gone to Norwich on the stage. I believe there was one at noon.’
Quinn looked at the clock. Half past nine. He could not catch her on the road now. ‘When does it get in?’
‘It takes about twelve hours, so she will be there at midnight or thereabouts. I gave her money, Quinn. She will be able to stay at a respectable inn and then find decent lodgings. You will pursue her?”
‘I cannot leave things like this. I must be sure she is safe, end this.’ End what? Not an affaire, not even a friendship, although he wished it were. All he knew was that he missed her, and he worried about her and he wanted her happy, even at the expense of his own happiness.
Quinn went home, packed a bag, summoned a chaise and four with postilions and set out at midnight feeling more uncertain than he had done since he stepped on to French soil ten years before.
It was not until he woke from an uncomfortable doze to find himself in Thetford at half past eight in the morning that it occurred to Quinn to wonder how, exactly, this marriage had become a matter of his own happiness. It was the right thing to do, his duty, and it would certainly not be a burden to be married to Celina. But, happiness?
The nagging feeling that he was probably running a fever pursued him through Wymondham and into Norwich. He was not thinking logically, he could not seem to plan, and his emotions felt painfully raw. Where was she? Was she safe? How unhappy had he made her that she had to flee?
It was almost noon before the chai
se drew into the yard of the Maid’s Head, hard up against the walls surrounding the cathedral close. This, the postilions told him, was where the stage from the Belle Sauvage set down its passengers and it was also a most respectable inn, so with any luck Celina had decided to put up there. Quinn climbed down, favouring his arm, which was giving him hell. He set his teeth and walked towards the door, then had to catch the young woman who hurried out of it into his arms. ‘My lord!’
‘Prudence.’ The realisation that he had found them swamped the pain in his arm and sharpened his voice. ‘And where, might I ask, is Miss Shelley?’
‘Up…upstairs, my lord. Third door on the right, my lord. A private parlour.’
Thank goodness for that. He had feared finding her in some common tap, her pocket picked, at the mercy of every rake and petty criminal in the place.
He flung the door open, all reasonable thoughts forgotten as the anger of relief took over. She sat by the window, looking out on to the busy street below, but she spun round on the chair as the door crashed back against the panelling.
‘Quinn.’ There were tear tracks on her cheeks and that only infuriated him further.
Why do you want to leave me if it makes you cry? Am I so bad that this is preferable? Quinn threw his hat and his gloves away from him. ‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’
‘Starting my new life,’ she said with a calm that took him aback until he saw that her fingers were pleating the fabric of her skirts into tight creases.
‘I have come to take you back.’ He strode across the floor, pulled her to her feet and shook her.
‘Don’t do that!’ she shouted at him. ‘You will hurt your arm, you idiot man.’
‘My arm be damned.’ The fact that it was agony, and he suspected that he had burst a stitch, did nothing to calm him. ‘I am an idiot? What do you call careering about the countryside by yourself like this?’
‘I was on a perfectly respectable stagecoach with a perfectly respectable maid and I am now in the best inn in Norwich. I am safe, I have money in my pocket and I do not need you.’
The last five words sank in as they glared at each other from a distance of perhaps a foot.
‘Then why are you crying?’
‘Because I am tired, and I have left my aunt, and it is just beginning to sink in that I am not in danger of being hanged and because I need peace and you will not let me have it.’
Celina twisted in his grip and he felt another stitch go. He should free her. Part of his mind knew that, but not the part that was in pain, and confused and needing…needing something he did not understand.
And it was there in her eyes, too. A question, a yearning. Conflict and desire. Quinn yanked her hard against his chest and took her mouth in an open, brutal kiss. Celina struggled, kicked him, drummed her fists on his chest and he ignored every blow, fixed only on the heat of her mouth, the taste of her, the erotic struggle of her tongue against his.
Without breaking the kiss he bent and lifted her off her feet, an ungainly, struggling bundle of skirts and furious woman. He shouldered open the inner door and dropped her on the bed, falling beside her without care for boots or his arm or the fact she was trying to knee his groin.
He pinned her hands above her head, using his weight to subdue her and stared down as she lay panting beneath him. It was still there, the heat that was not anger, the trembling that was not fear. He kissed her deep and hard and without mercy. When she stopped struggling he lifted his head. ‘Tell me you do not desire me. Tell me you do not want this.’
‘How dare you force me?’ she spat. ‘How could you?’
‘Was I forcing you?’ he asked. ‘You know how to bite me. You could have told me to stop. You could have screamed. Look.’ He pushed himself up, bringing her with him. ‘Look in the glass on the dressing table.’ Their reflections stared back, his intense, his face pale, his mouth swollen, as hers was. She was wide-eyed and panting and the hard peaks of her nipples showed against the fine fabric of her gown.
‘Fear,’ Celina said. ‘Anger.’
‘Desire,’ Quinn replied, brushing his hand against her breast. ‘Need.’
It was as though all the fight had gone out of her. Celina turned from the betraying glass, turned from him. ‘Whether I desire you or not has nothing to do with it. Nothing. Nor does the fact that it would not be a wise marriage for you to make. I do not want to marry you, Quinn, for reasons that are all to do with me, not you. Please.’ She turned to him, imploring, and his heart turned over in his chest. ‘Please let me go.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Let her go? It was impossible. Quinn stared at Celina and the world came back into focus. Crystal clear, sharp and as painful as a shard of glass. It was impossible and that was why he had to do it.
‘Yes,’ he said and got off the bed. ‘Yes.’
‘You will let me go?’
It did not seem to give her much pleasure, he thought, struggling to read her face, realising that he had understood neither her, nor himself, for days.
‘Yes,’ Quinn repeated and finally understood why. He sat down again. He could feel blood soaking into his shirt under this coat sleeve, but it did not seem very important now. ‘I love you. I cannot force you to do what I think is right. You mean too much to me.’ He watched her face in the mirror, unable to look at her directly, as though her rejection would turn him to stone. ‘I love you and so I will let you go.’
‘Oh, Quinn.’
‘Don’t cry,’ he said, helpless. It seemed even freeing her could not make her happy. ‘Tell me what you want and I will do it, only do not cry.’
‘Marry me? Please,’ Celina said and saw the fact that she was smiling through the tears register at last. ‘Quinn, I love you.’ She knelt up and put her arms around his neck and finally he turned to look into her eyes. There it is: love. Can he see it in my face, too? How did I ever hide it?
‘You love me? But why would you not marry me when I asked you?’ He seemed more baffled than angry
‘I could not bear to marry you, live a polite, civilised lie, knowing you were only doing what you thought you must,’ she said, cradling his face between her palms, looking deep into his eyes. ‘If I did not care it would not matter—I suppose we could have rubbed along, you would have your mistresses and your adventures, I would have comfort and security. But loving you—it would have broken my heart.’
‘Celina.’ He said her name like a vow as he kissed her, a feather touch, a caress. ‘I did not understand what I was feeling. I have never been in love before. All I knew is that I wanted you so violently—I am sorry if I frightened you.’ She shook her head. ‘I told myself I must marry you for your own good and then, just now, I realised that if I really cared for you, and not for myself and my pride, then I must let you go. Because I love you.’
‘I knew when you brought me to London,’ she confessed. ‘I realised on that journey. And I knew I had to hide it because I could not bear for you to have to pretend, or be kind or pity me.’
‘Why did you stop trying to prevent me duelling?’ he asked as he traced her brows with his finger, followed the whorl of her ear as though discovering her all over again. My explorer. My adventurer and I am his new found land.
‘I almost tried moral blackmail, pretending I would marry you if you did not fight. I realised I could not do that to you, not if I loved you. Because your honour told you to challenge Langdown and your honour is everything to you.’
‘You are everything to me,’ he whispered, his voice husky. ‘You have my heart and my soul and my honour in the palm of your hand. I have the licence. I told them at St George’s that we would marry in a month because I thought you would want to buy bride clothes, plan properly. But we can wed where, and when, you want.’
‘St George’s,’ Lina said, leaning in to touch her lips to his. ‘The first of June and there will be roses everywhere.’ She felt suddenly shy through the happiness. ‘Quinn, do you want…now, I mean?’
; ‘To make love to you? Yes, I do.’ He caught her back and kissed her hard, possessively. ‘But shall we wait for our wedding night? I made love to you once before, lay with you. That filled me with guilt, but now I can remember those few moments when we were one with wonder—and anticipation. There has been no-one for me, since that moment, and now there never will be. Only you.’
‘Only you,’ she repeated, awed by what she saw in his face, the need for her, the control he would exert if she wanted that. ‘Yes, I would like to wait, Quinn.’
‘I love you,’ he said as he lay back on the bed, arms flung wide, his face smiling and full of joy.
‘Quinn! Your hand!’
‘What?’ He held out his right hand, grimacing at the blood. ‘Damn, the stitches have gone. That must have been when I picked you up.’ His grin was rueful as she jumped off the bed and ran to pull the bell cord. ‘Perhaps it is as well that we are resolved on patience, I suspect I would not be able to do justice to just how I feel about you, my love.’
‘I suppose there is no point in asking you to take care, is there?’ Lina asked. Life with Quinn would always be like this—she must just become used to it. A tamed wolf was only a lapdog; she wanted hers wild and free.
A maid put her head around the door. ‘Find my servant, if you please, and have hot water sent up and the doctor called.’ She turned back to the bed and helped Quinn off with his coat. ‘Thank goodness you chose swords; at least it is a clean cut and not a festering bullet wound.’
Worrying about Quinn’s wound helped bring Lina down to earth for the rest of that day and into the next morning. The doctor came and went, Quinn refused to be sensible and to rest, which she assumed was likely to be the pattern for their married life, and instead swept her out shopping, his arm in a dashing black sling. Prudence followed at their heels, organising packages to be sent back to the Maid’s Head, carrying the precious Norwich silk shawl he insisted on buying.
They ate dinner in the private parlour, hardly speaking. Lina found herself reaching out to touch his hand, looking up to meet his eyes. It all seemed too wonderful, too precious to need words.
