by Eliza Lloyd
Once astride Titan, he glanced toward Katrina, disappearing over the horizon. Two others had joined the small party. Her other sons, most likely.
Mark followed Katrina’s lead and turned away, not looking back either. Their aimless jaunt continued, but soon he felt Lucy’s heavy weight in his arms. She’d fallen asleep, her head hanging awkwardly. Obviously, she was bored with the crop of nobles on display in their three-wheeled push carriages.
“Home it is then.” He propped her against his shoulder, her face buried at his neck. “Lucy, don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t mind having three sons myself.”
* * * * *
“I don’t understand, Mother. You’re going to Russia without us? You always said we would go with you. To meet our relatives,” Ivan said.
How could Katrina explain it to Ivan without revealing her true reasons for leaving them behind?
Because your uncle demanded it?
Because I was caught in an indiscretion?
Her choices were simple: make herself look bad or make Peter look cruel.
She hadn’t the heart for either so she would go quietly. The reality was, she had wanted to return to Russia for years. The other reality was that she and Mark would eventually part. Why not do so when they were at the height of their happiness rather than wait for him to find another paramour? Or a wife.
She was not experienced in this sort of liaison, but really, what noble actually married his mistress?
Katrina had sent her lady’s maid to clean and polish the boots she wished to take with her on the lengthy trip. One of Katrina’s smaller trunks was propped open on the bed and two larger ones, lids braced against the wall, were being packed. Ivan had brought the proceedings to a temporary halt.
“I don’t want you to go. None of us do.”
“Ivan! Stop. I am going. You and the boys are staying with Uncle Peter and he has promised to take you to Scotland, where you can spread your wings without me nearby to nag you about being careful. I expect he will allow you any number of liberties that would horrify me.” And his motivations would be dishonest, allowing them freedoms in order to curry their favor, which in turn might endear Katrina to Peter. Such flawed male logic, if that was what he thought. A certain dark spot in her heart still churned with anger toward Peter.
“We could hunt in Russia just as easily.”
“I suppose you can, but not this trip. And weren’t you the one who was so adamant about not going to Russia with me?”
“Well, I didn’t know you would leave without us. Or so soon.”
She caressed his cheek. “So, my boy isn’t so grown-up after all?”
“Mother!”
“I will be there and back in no time at all.”
“Then take us with you.”
“Ivan, no more of this. The decision has been made.”
And it was hard to hear Ivan’s plea. The news had been announced without preamble.
Then Ivan braced his arms behind his back, looking all manly and in charge of Klee affairs. “Is Uncle Peter making you do this?”
“Why do you say that?” Yes, why was he saying that? Had Peter said something to which young boys should not be privy, especially about a parent?
“I am not blind, Mother.”
“That could mean any number of things.”
“I know he wants to marry you.”
“Then you should also know that I don’t want to marry him. I don’t love him.” Ivan wore a frown. “You will understand someday soon. There are times when a person must marry. For duty, for safety, for the protection of children. But not always. Your father left me, and us, in a satisfactory way. I don’t need to remarry.”
“You want to be alone?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You are saying nothing. Mama, I am not a child anymore. What am I supposed to say to Sergei when he wants to know why you left us?” He shrugged. “Claud won’t ask,” he said, stating the obvious.
He flopped on his mother’s bed, his hands braced behind him. Such a difficult age, she knew. No longer a boy, not really a man. He used “Mother” at every address, unless he was upset.
“I thought you didn’t want to go.”
“I didn’t. But I didn’t think we would be here without you either. Is he making you leave?”
Katrina sat beside him, surprised by his intuition regarding his uncle. “Would it matter if he was? Have I not expressed this very desire for years, since you were a little boy?”
“I thought mothers put their children first.”
“You needn’t heap unnecessary guilt upon my person.” She rubbed his arm, hoping to soothe his sudden insecurity. “He is your guardian. He, of all people, will care for you as I would.”
“Except he isn’t you.”
“All right, enough. I must finish the packing. Weren’t you riding horses with Claud and Sergei this afternoon?”
“The horses are coming over from the mews.”
Ivan jumped from the bed and tugged at his jacket. He bit at his lip, ready to say one last thing. His head hung, as if he were ashamed; his booted toe poked at the lines of the Savonnerie carpet. “Mama, I know it’s none of my business…”
“Go on,” she said, while arranging muffs and gloves and scarves by color.
“I overheard you and Uncle Peter. That day after we returned from Surrey. Talking about Lord Compton.”
She couldn’t look at her son, but she continued her task with automata-like precision. Once she’d seen a mechanical musical elephant perform tasks with more grace than she was exhibiting at the moment.
“And what about Lord Compton?” she asked.
“Uncle Peter said…does Lord Compton want to marry you?”
“No, nothing like that. He is my particular friend.”
“And Uncle Peter is jealous of that friendship?”
“In a way. It is an adult matter, Ivan.”
“I understand adult matters,” he said. At fifteen, he probably did, but Katrina wasn’t ready to think of her son…that way. Not yet.
“You might think you do. Let’s have no more of this discussion.”
“Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
She dropped the scarf she held, strolled toward him again and cupped his shoulder. “Because adult matters often involve ambiguities that aren’t clear to the parties involved, let alone to a young man who has never experienced such decisions. I would trust you with the truth, but I don’t want to hurt you or to cause any disrespect or concern for those involved.”
He was old enough to suspect, if not understand.
Ivan had seemed too old to hug for the past few years, but she took him in her arms anyway. “I love you. And I love Claud and Sergei. For you, I would go to the ends of the earth. Russia is not so far in comparison.
“Now sit with me. Syadyem na dorozhku! Let us remember what is important.”
Chapter Ten
It was one thing for a mistress to dissolve an affair. It was quite another when he was involved and said mistress cut all contact without so much as a by-your-leave.
Mark thought back on the return carriage ride from Henley-on-Thames, and he had a thousand arguments with himself about why he was such a poor choice for Katrina Klee. How had he allowed such an accident to occur?
He knew, knew, Katrina would be finished with their arrangement after suffering such injury. Well, the old adage was true: Play with fire and you get burnt.
Neither of them were truly sexual adventurers. Something had caught fire between them and nothing was taboo as they explored together. It was a strange, exhilarating time, each open to suggestion and demand. Maybe it was wrong to pursue such erotic passion. Mark wondered if he would ever again experience such raw, untarnished pleasure.
But after meeting Peter Klee, Mark wavered. Yes, he’d been careless with such a fine treasure. No, Katrina didn’t really want to end their affair. How did he know this?
Hell, he didn’t.
&n
bsp; He wanted it to be true, therefore it was.
Since their meeting at Hyde Park, she’d missed three of their scheduled evening rendezvous. He’d truly believed their separation was temporary. He had not taken her first note seriously.
How did a gentleman proceed? Take her at her word? Allow her to slip away?
A gentleman would not stalk a woman who had handed him his congédiement.
However, there were multiple reasons, reasons he could understand, why she might want to end their liaison.
Did it matter, though? Their association wasn’t considered proper. They were not acting as a lady and a gentleman in their agreement. They were involved in an illicit affair, one that would be roundly condemned by any who knew. Mark’s mourning period for his wife was months from ending; Katrina’s sons would be publicly humiliated by such a disclosure. And what of Peter Klee’s embarrassment at such a revelation? All of the Klees would be tainted.
It bothered him most that he’d been careless with her—and that should have been enough to adhere to her wishes to leave her alone—but it was her brother-in-law who troubled Mark. Had he a say in Katrina’s personal decisions? If so, why?
“More coffee, my lord?”
Mark swept the chinaware toward the footman and watched as the black brew gurgled into his empty cup. The fumes were pleasantly strong.
“Thank you,” he said. Mark poured the cream and dropped in the necessary lumps of sugar. He swirled the mixture while musing about his muse.
Muses weren’t necessarily about creativity, as they were so often described. Mark found Katrina to be a source of inspiration, and it would be unfair to say she inspired in only the physical sense.
He carried his coffee into the library and set about writing Katrina a note. It took him all morning to fill his waste can with crumpled pages, containing lines of drivel. Had any man thought so long and hard about a former mistress?
With one final push, he jotted an easy note that conveyed only one thing. Would she be available to ride with him in his open carriage tomorrow? There would be no reason to decline such a reasonable request.
He scattered sand over the ink and watched it dry. Before he changed his mind, he sent a footman to deliver the message to Katrina.
About the time he decided to ride to his sister’s home at Bedford Square, the messenger had returned.
“Well?” Mark said.
“My lord,” the footman said. “The household is not accepting messages for Lady Klee. Evidently she has departed London.”
“Departed? Did they say when she would return?” It wasn’t the footman’s fault, but damn he was irritated.
“No, my lord.”
Well, hell. What else could go wrong? Finding Katrina had been the difficult part, or so he’d thought. Keeping her was nigh impossible.
He dismissed the footman with a wave of his hand, glanced at the note and threw it to his desk. He was actually hurt by this turn of events, if by hurt one meant a knife to the heart.
* * * * *
Christina Conover, the new marchioness of Dane, welcomed him into the Red Room, a sitting area reserved for the family and one in desperate need of renovation. No one who was anyone retained such outré colors in this day and age, but Mark excused Lord Dane, knowing what he did about Dane’s past. Mark suspected every room in the house was decorated in shades of red.
“Grace is going to be very hurt that Lucy is your favorite niece. Of course, you’ll be leaving her your entire unentailed fortune,” Christina said, followed by a wicked grin. Grace’s children were just as beautiful and intelligent, though Mark thought they were a bit afraid of him, spending so little time in London.
“She’ll get her fortune from Dane, and mark me, he had better not short change my darling girl. Where is she?”
“Asleep. Nanny Jocelyn took her upstairs not fifteen minutes ago.”
A servant entered the room, carrying the refreshment tray. Mark leaned forward to lift the teapot and poured.
“So, what brings you to my doorstep? Without an invitation? I can barely move you with the promise of Cook’s best pheasant.” Her brows arched in question, but she wore a smile and was happy to see him.
Mark wrapped his hand about the cup, rather than take hold of the delicate handle. He might snap it off in a fit of annoyance. Sitting across from Christina did not alleviate his angst. She had captured her marquess heart and soul, from the first moment Mark thought, though he knew Christina was not aware of the marquess’s intense, dark feeling for her until much later.
Christina’s cup rattled in the saucer. Mark’s gaze jerked upward to see she was staring at him with pointed interest. “Well?”
“Well what?” he asked in return.
“Why have you come?”
“Can I not see my sister without a reason?”
“Some people, maybe. Not you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mark? What has gotten in to you?”
“I shouldn’t have come.” He set his saucer and cup aside, but he didn’t stand. He braced his elbows against his knees. He intended to depart, but little good that would have done. He’d sought out his closest sister to answer an old question: what in the hell did women want?
“Dane has never mistreated you, has he? Hurt you in any way?” he asked lamely. It was none of his business, but somehow their situations seemed entwined. And there were rumors, at least there had been rumors before the pair had married.
“I can see you are in a mood; therefore, I will not answer such an impertinent and inappropriate question.”
He plucked up an almond biscuit and shoved it into his mouth followed by a gulp of tea. “Should I apologize then?”
“Dane’s past is none of your business. It is ours and we have resolved matters to my satisfaction. That should be enough for my brother.”
“My mistress threw me over,” he said, not bothering to glance at his sister. She would think he was to blame anyway.
Christine sipped her tea and then stared right through him. “I see. And you think insulting me and Dane will bring her back?”
“Lord, no, Christina. I just thought…I thought you might offer me insight.”
“I am still absorbing the shock of you having a mistress so soon after Susannah’s death.”
“Men have mistresses.”
“With a statement like that, I can understand why you no longer have yours. Were you such a bore with her?”
“I did not want to be alone. Surely that is understandable?”
“Just so you know, if Dane told me such a blunt, unfeeling statement, I would likely commit some crime upon his person.”
“Not if I beat you to it. So, you have no sage words?”
“Into why she left? How would I know? I didn’t even know you had a mistress. And don’t tell me who it is. I prefer the anonymity. Better to meet ton widows and not have to think about what might be happening with my brother. Oh, she isn’t married, is she?”
“Of course not.”
“So, what is the problem? That your mistress threw you over or that this particular mistress threw you over? Come to think of it, I’ve never known you to have a mistress. Yes, I can see your conundrum.” She tapped the side of her teacup.
“It’s not simple.” How did he explain that he was entwined with Katrina in a very physical odyssey, yet on the most earthy, base level he might actually need her?
“Yes, it is. Find another mistress.” Christina was rather flip, but considering their mutual decisions regarding the Compton family’s future, she had license.
“Would you have accepted such advice about Dane?”
The dark marquess walked in the room just then, his boots clicking on the hardwood floor as he strolled to Christina’s side. “Did I hear my name mentioned?”
Mark stood and bowed. “Lord Dane.”
“Compton.”
Dane bent to kiss his wife’s cheek. There was a strong magnetism between the two of t
hem. Mark didn’t understand it and wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen the affection for himself.
“Mark is here requesting I solve his myriad problems with an affaire de coeur.”
“Does anyone have that much time?” Dane said seriously. Christina obligingly laughed at her oh-so-witty husband’s bland comment.
“Perhaps I should make my departure,” Mark said. While he appreciated that Christina thought the sun and the moon existed because of and for Dane, Mark had yet to warm to his brother-in-law. The reasons could fill a cheap penny dreadful.
“No. Please. Maybe I can provide the benefit of my expertise,” Dane said.
Dane wore an indecipherable smile, everyone in the room knowing, yet unwilling to acknowledge the depravity with which Dane had filled his life. Christina raised her brows, waiting for Mark to proceed into the obvious trap—one which Mark could not escape if he so much as went near. Christina would not forgive him if he besmirched Dane’s character, as if he really could blacken Dane’s name further. Hence the trap.
“I appreciate the offer, Dane, but I must be going. Christina.” He bowed.
“Let me walk you out,” Dane said.
As they entered the foyer, Dane said, “Sometimes the answer is so close to our nose, we cannot see it.”
Mark had tiptoed out on an invisible rope those months ago, handing over Christina’s address in Scotland, trusting Dane with information that could have ruined them all and hurt his sister tremendously. She’d hidden in a quiet little nest—one Dane would have never found without Mark’s help. Why had he done it? How had he trusted Dane when all signs suggested Dane had the blackest of souls?
Mark stared at him, wondering if he could trust his brother-in-law a second time.
“I never did express my thanks,” Dane said.
Mark glanced back into the sitting room at his sister, who’d plucked up a basket of sewing. What he’d done had made his sister happy. Extraordinarily happy.
Their marriage was certainly unusual. Rarely did a woman lift the husband’s respectability, but such was their start. A miracle of light indeed.
“She deserves every joy. I’ll trust you to make sure there is never a dark day in her life.”
