Lord of Regrets

by Sabrina Darby

  Beneath his beaver hat, his dark hair curled around his neck. The tip of his nose was pink but the rest of his face didn’t reflect the chill of the day or the blush of the setting sun. His gaze upon her was dark, intense. She remembered before, the warm, melting attention of his glances and the softness of his brown eyes. She remembered his embrace, the cocoon of his arms, of their bed. And she remembered the excitement of a life with him, when her every emotion was dependent on him and her smiles linked to his. If she were closer, she’d be able to see if any trace of softness remained, or if, on that last day so long ago, he had hardened his heart and never looked back.

  Whether it was from the memories or his presence, she thrummed everywhere in her body, ridiculously awake. Despite the winter day, everything outside seemed so clear and bright, as if she were looking through droplets of water. And like one of those droplets, she felt round, wet, and womanly.

  “I know about the codicils,” she called out, needing the sharpness of her words to pierce the spell that had stricken her. She had learned of those damning additions in Exeter when, too heavy with child to pretend she wasn’t, she’d finally adopted the guise of a widow. People talked to widows more, confided things, gossiped with them. The London society pages featuring the inheritance plight of Viscount Templeton had triggered the plans of every matchmaking mama.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Natasha continued, hoping something she said would make him turn around and disappear into the fast approaching night. “Leona believes her father is dead. Please, leave us in peace. We are no danger to you.”

  “Danger? Is that what you think?” The wind picked up, and though she saw him speaking, she could no longer make out distinct words. She struggled to make sense of the fragmentary sounds. “Of course…you…think…D…Lord, my love…”

  She heard the last word as if the wind had pummeled her with it.

  “Love?” she interrupted, fury winning out over her fear. “How dare you?”

  She was angry, so very angry, and the urge to run downstairs and hit him with her fists or with the broom or with anything that would hurt consumed her so greatly that she clenched the casement to keep herself still. She couldn’t go near him. Not here where they were alone. Though if she could help it, he would not know that she and Leona lived alone, that there were no servants to call to for help.

  He was looking around as if he planned to grab the ivy cords that coated the walls and climb his way up to her.

  “At l…let me sp…you,” he cried out.

  Desperation welled up. She needed to get him to leave.

  “If you must speak to me,” she called out, “come to church tomorrow. I’ll see you there.” The church felt like a talisman. With all the villagers and the reverend to watch over her, she’d be safe there.

  For a brief moment, the wind stopped and she heard his words clearly.

  “Church? But you never went to church.”

  Natasha laughed bitterly. “You see, Lord Templeton, we’re strangers.”

  The wind picked up again, and she shut the casement against its sudden force. She was still nauseated, still trembling, and she’d just made a deal with the devil.

  …

  Her wariness pained him but Marcus could not blame her. He’d had five years to think about what had passed, to regret his actions. In all that time, he had worried about her and wondered how she would survive on her own. He had never expected to find her living a normal, quiet life, as if the past had never happened. As if she were really some innocuous widow with the ridiculous name of Prothe.

  But had there truly been a Mr. Prothe? He pushed the unwelcome thought aside, focused on what was important: she would not run. When the wind proved to be the precursor to a short yet fierce winter squall, that thought comforted Marcus through the long, howling evening and sleepless night, through his morning ablutions and Pell’s ministrations. It comforted him as he trudged across slippery stones and muddy lanes, through the lingering drizzle and pervading damp, the half mile to the Church of All Saints, presided over by the Reverend Mr. Duncan, who stood just inside the open door greeting the few parishioners that straggled in out of the cold. Marcus exchanged courtesies, introducing himself while maintaining that aloof demeanor that ensured no unwanted questions would be asked. He needed time, and he knew his actions would reveal his purpose in Little Parrington soon enough.

  The church was near empty, perhaps due to the inclement weather. The edifice itself was some two hundred years old. Not ancient by any measure, but still a respectable age. The smell of the watery brine that had claimed the original building seemed to cling even here within these stone walls.

  Natasha was already inside, sitting in the fifth row. On her left, to the far side of her, he could see a small pink bonnet over blond hair. To her right, she had left a space. Or rather, space enough for several grown men. Despite the curious stares of the parishioners, Marcus hung his overcoat at the back of the church and strode down the aisle.

  When he reached Natasha, she refused to look at him. He bowed out of habit and out of derision at himself. Then he slid into the pew and sat down next to her.

  “Good Morning, Natasha.” He watched her lips purse, but still she wouldn’t look at him. However, the little girl did, her chin resting on her fist with undisguised curiosity. “Good Morning, Miss Leona.”

  Just as he would not say Mrs. Prothe, he would not call his daughter by some other man’s name.

  Leona tugged on her mother’s sleeve while staring at him. “It’s the man from the shop, Mama.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I am Lord Templeton.” He held out his hand, reaching across Natasha. It was rude, he knew, ungentlemanly, but by leaning forward he could catch Natasha’s scent, her heat; he could force her to pay attention to him.

  Wide-eyed, Leona reached out and took his hand, and he wondered at the tiny fingers and ridiculously soft skin.

  Natasha’s gloved hand came up quickly, knocking loose the grip of their clasped hands. “He’s a stranger, Leona. We don’t speak to strangers.”

  Marcus knew Natasha had chosen the church to make it more difficult for them to talk, but that did not mean conversation was impossible.

  The rector had reached the pulpit. Aware that the man watched them carefully even as he began the service, Marcus stared straight ahead.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered, forestalling his own words.

  In the periphery of his vision, he saw that her palms were flat on the wood bench, fingers curled over the edge. He slid his hand over, rested it on hers, closed his fingers around her fingers. A five-year-long tension began to unknot inside him. His words came out as a sigh of longing.

  “Natasha, I’ve been looking for you every day since you left.”

  She didn’t move her hand away. She didn’t move at all. And Leona watched them, out of the corner of her eye, even as her head was bowed over her prayer book. His daughter.

  “It makes no sense,” Natasha whispered. “You will lose your estate.” Then, her voice grew more urgent, her hand restless beneath his. “But I won’t tell anyone. I never intended to.”

  His heart ached at her words, at her attempt to convince him she was no danger to him. This was not the same Natasha who had yielded to his every thought. She’d had a life here without him, a life of which he knew nothing. If only––His hand felt almost empty, or was that his soul?

  “There was no Mr. Prothe, was there?”

  She didn’t answer. Her lips mouthed the words of the psalm.

  He stroked the inside of her gloved palm with his thumb. Her silence was his answer and contented, he sat through the rest of the service. He didn’t let go of her hand, not even when she fidgeted and pushed. She wouldn’t be free of him unless she made a scene, and with the rector glancing toward them every so often, he knew she wouldn’t. Content to have her hand in his, Marcus didn’t speak again.

  But when the service ended, she pulled away with force.
<
br />   “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No.” Natasha stood. He stood as well. “We aren’t leaving just yet. Mr. Duncan is expecting us.”

  “Then I shall call on you this afternoon.” He didn’t need to press the issue, to make her more wary than she already was. He needed to woo her. To prove to her that he was not the same cowardly boy who had feared his grandfather’s wrath––to prove he had made himself worthy of her trust and her love. Though it had been years since he’d courted a lady, the last having been Natasha, he knew that his efforts thus far had been poor.

  After a long moment, by which time the Reverend Mr. Duncan had reached their side, she said, “Tomorrow would be better.”

  Marcus bowed, thanked the rector for the service, and took his leave. He would need to pick his battles. After five long years, tomorrow would be soon enough.

  He trudged back the half mile, hunched against the wind. It was early February, the coldest winter in memory, but he welcomed the numbing pain.

  At the inn, he headed straight for the stables where he found his coachman playing cards with Phineas and the inn’s stable hand.

  “Saddle Juniper for me,” Marcus ordered.

  “I know the light’s deceiving with the storm and all,” the stable hand said, “but it’ll be dark soon. Look out for the cliff.”

  Marcus watched Phineas pull two of the saddles.

  “No,” he barked. “Only mine.” He didn’t want or need company. Unless it was her company. In almost thirty years of life, he never had.

  Dispassionately, he eyed the men who still stood, their game left untended, as they waited for Marcus to leave or to give orders. Their presence, this room with its warm fire and casual comfort, angered him. He didn’t know why and that angered him even more.

  He left them, entered the main part of the stables with its rows of stalls, mostly empty but for his four horses.

  Phineas had readied Juniper, and the bay now stood quivering by the open door. The horse was ready for a ride, regardless of the dark, regardless of the cold, and Marcus understood exactly how he felt. Sometimes a man simply needed to move, to feel he was faster than the world around him.

  He mounted Juniper and led him out. The overcast sky was tinged with the last pink of day. He took the path, slush over frozen earth, toward the water. Crepuscular creatures scurried in the winter-bare brush that edged the way. With the early dark of winter, it felt far later than it was.

  He reached the cliff’s edge just as the sky turned to steel and the water shimmered in the diffused light of the full moon. That moon, tucked as it was behind swift-moving clouds, was not visible, but still, Marcus felt like howling.

  He’d been single-minded in his desire ever since he’d left London. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy.

  He led Juniper south, till he reached a passable way down to the beach. They picked their way over rocks and roots, over vegetation that clung in dark, sinister shapes to the cliff. When he reached the sand, the roaring of the North Sea echoing his thoughts, he let Juniper have his head and flew.

  Different. Natasha was different now; he knew that. She’d had to survive on her own, create a new identity and a new life. Yet those changes were merely the delicate hewing of life––the marble a sculptor chisels away to create a masterpiece, the platonic ideal waiting to be discovered. Just as he had loved her five years ago, he would love this more pure version of Natasha.

  Marcus had changed in five years as well. Heels driving Juniper on, wind biting at his cheeks, he clung to that thought. He knew what he wanted and he went after it. He let no one stand in his way. He was no longer the coward who lived in his grandfather’s pocket.

  …

  Natasha spent the afternoon and evening wondering if Marcus would come despite her demand that he not. It would be so like him to ignore her wishes, to force his will and impose upon her. However, she was older, stronger. She was not the same foolish girl who had fallen prey to his sweet words and sweeter caresses.

  With Mary gone for the night and Leona safely asleep, Natasha lay in her own bed, staring into the dark. Here, alone, she could admit to herself that the touch of his hand in the church had scared her. Even separated by the thin layer of her glove, it had carried intoxicating memories.

  And with Leona on her other side, they were almost like any other family attending church. Only, they weren’t. And the conversation on the way home from church had made it very clear. As her cottage was en route to the vicarage, Mr. Duncan had driven them home in his carriage.

  “Lord Templeton’s arrival seems to have upset you,” he’d said, and she had shied away from his probing words.

  She had known this moment would come. Mr. Duncan would never ask her bluntly what Marcus was to her, but he would want to know.

  “Yes. Yes, it has,” she had admitted.

  “Forgive me, Natasha, it isn’t my place, but as your reverend—” He’d broken off, shaking his head. “No, as someone who places your happiness in esteem, if you wish to confide… If I may be of assistance.”

  “Mr. Duncan, please.” The lie had swelled in her chest but she forced herself to think of it as if it were the truth. “I knew Lord Templeton before…” That was the truth. That she could say, awkwardly phrased as it was, with no guile. “But he was not a friend to me when I found myself alone and in a delicate condition.”

  When Mr. Duncan’s face had darkened in anger, she had realized what he assumed. If only that had been it, but Marcus had threatened so much worse. Would he have gone through with it? She wondered for the millionth time if she could have reasoned with him. If there had been another way.

  “What happens when we die?” Leona had interrupted then. She had been tucked between them, playing with the decorative tassels on her mittens, and Natasha had wondered what her daughter thought.

  “Well, when a human dies, he or she goes to heaven,” Mr. Duncan had answered. “If the person has been good.”

  “But do they keep their memory? Or do they forget?”

  Leona’s insatiable curiosity, her constant barrage of questions, seemed to be even greater whenever the rector was around, as if the girl knew that he had more answers than her mother.

  And Leona would be right. Her mother had no answers.

  But she couldn’t let Leona know. “They don’t forget, sweetheart. I would never forget you.”

  “Does my father remember me?”

  The question had pained Natasha and she had avoided Mr. Duncan’s inquisitive gaze. Could not meet Leona’s eyes. Marcus’s arrival had made her hard-won life a lie.

  “Your father was not there to see you born. But, I am certain––I am certain he remembers you.”

  The tears had stung at Natasha’s eyes. Without looking at him, she had accepted Mr. Duncan’s handkerchief.

  That thin cloth had felt like safety, like a bond to Little Parrington that Marcus could not break. He would not disturb her life here. He would not succeed in whatever nefarious plot he had in mind.

  But in the quiet of night, in the solitude of her bed, she could admit: the damage was already done.

  Chapter Five

  It was difficult to continue on as if nothing had happened, as if her life would not forever be marked by Marcus’s presence. Natasha was exhausted, sleep impossible with the terror that gripped her.

  There was Marcus, just across town. There, also, was the great unknown. What did he want? She could not keep avoiding him forever. At some point, she would either need to run or face him. Yet all she wanted to do was hide, make time still until he left town, until her future was decided.

  There had been moments, early on during the last five years, when she had wanted to die, if only to put the memory of their love behind her. Then there had been times when she wanted to keep that memory tight, to never forget that she had loved him, that she had loved. But mostly, she lived in shadow, her emotions––other than her love for her daughter––stagnant. It was as though after five brief months of
a newly awakened body and awareness of all the carnal pleasures life had to offer, she had become unsexed.

  But here was Marcus, sending her into turmoil, into the wild extremes of emotions she hadn’t felt in years. She should have heeded the warning and avoided the danger, leaving when she’d had the chance.

  She didn’t know what he wanted, but he said he loved her. She would not go back, never trade in her hard-won, false respectability for a life as his mistress. And his appearance made no sense for there were those codicils. Would he truly give it all away simply to have her in his bed again?

  She shook her head, physically throwing the unnecessary ruminations from her mind. It didn’t matter what he wanted. What mattered was what she wanted and what would keep Leona safe. Perhaps if he had found her in that first year, when her emotions were still wild and reactionary, a promise not to hurt the babe would have lured her back.

  She had loved him so deeply that she still felt the echo of that love as a wound on her soul. It was a wound that had made her question her every judgment these last years because, if she had chosen so poorly in him, if her heart and instinct had been so wrong, in what could she trust?

  On Monday, Mary returned. The girl’s cheerful presence buoyed Natasha’s confidence. Marcus would call, but he would not find her defenseless. She did not have to see him. It was market day in the next town. The skies were clear for once, and there was no reason to wait at home for Marcus to call when she could take Leona for an outing and buy some much-needed goods.

  She sent Mary to the vicarage to borrow the dogcart, dressed Leona and herself, and waited with anxiety, hoping that Mary would arrive before Marcus. Perhaps she would purchase a horse and cart of her own at the market. Natasha had resisted the convenience because it was an expense that would eat away at her meager savings, but now she realized just how much she had trapped herself.

  They arrived at Burnham Market. The large square, as usual, was set up with its row of stalls. All sorts of people frequented the market from lesser gentry to farmers, servants, and itinerants. Natasha knew there must be hundreds of women like her across England, pretending to be something they were not for the mere facade of respectability, but there was no way to advertise for or discover such kinfolk. Even to do so would defeat the purpose. However, bearing a disguise meant that Natasha had no people, no history, no background. It left her an island, even in a crowd.