Edith Layton (9 page)

“Done, then,” William said, flustered. “It’s only that I’ve never dueled. I mean,” he lied when he saw Wycoff’s eyebrow go up, “at least, never by such rules before.”

“Are you sure you’ve used a pistol before?” Wycoff asked gently.

“Sure as I’m sure of eye,” William said through clenched teeth. He clapped on his hat and stormed out the door.

“He’ll cheat if he can,” Annie Truesdale commented. “Beware.”

“Annie, you wretch, what
are
you doing here?” Wycoff said with amusement. “Usually you take your money and run.”

“I run out of money too quickly,” she said cheekily. “Thought I’d try my luck with you again, too. Well, but he wanted someone to swear to it, and was willing to pay me extra for my time. Do you blame me?”

“No, needs must go when the devil drives. But I’m sorry, my dear; as you heard, my interest is otherwise engaged. As to that, Perkins let me know by letter that you’ve been uncommonly interested in me and my affairs. Now why is that?”

“I suppose I was miffed when you turned me down. We would have been lovely together…but as you will.” She shrugged, sending the fine feathers on the hood of her cape drifting around her face. “When I saw you take up with that chit in Richmond and drop her as fast as you took up with her, I became interested. She said you were talking about buying property and settling down, as though you were a single man. Until you twigged to her past. What this? says I to myself. The Lord of Adulterers refusing the favors of a delicious tart? Because she is a tart? Then he really is thinking of settling down? And he with a wife as famous as he for sporting? I didn’t know she’d died, my condolences,” she added belatedly.

“Thank you,” Wycoff said solemnly.

“I suppose it’s true, for otherwise you wouldn’t have said it, and invited people to look it up,” she added hopefully.

“It is. And so you were interested in my courtship because you thought there was money to be made from it. You thought I was trying to set up a harem?”

“No, only to take another wife, like the fellow said. And too,” she said, dimpling at him, “I held out a hope you might change your mind and settle for a female who knew what she was about. I’m faithful so long as the money comes in, and you have enough to see me to the next century. And I wouldn’t have minded sharing the honors, especially with an ocean between your first wife and me. Even without one, for you’re an attractive fellow, my lord. Money isn’t everything—but to find it and pleasure in one package? I knew it was too good to be true.”

“It was too bad to be true,” Wycoff said. “Going to try your luck with Bellows now?”

“Why not?” she said with another shrug. “He or whomever else I can find.”

“Good night, then, and good luck, though I’d suggest you avoid me in future. I won’t seek retribution, but I’m not best pleased with you.” He turned from her. “Perkins, there’s a room next to mine, bespeak it please. I’ll see you later. I’ve much to do now.”

“Indeed, so I perceive. I hope you may settle matters.”

“I shall earnestly try.”

L
ucy had gone to the library. Wycoff knew she would. She had too much courage to run from him, too much pride to go to him, and there was too much her clever mind would realize had been left unsaid. And she certainly wouldn’t want to share what she had to ask with the gathering in the front parlor. Everyone was still there discussing what had happened, now further titillated by the presence of Annie Truesdale, holding court in their midst like the society lady she was capable of playing—in a parlor, if not on a stage.

“Better than charades, singing, or cards, I seem to have turned Ames Hotel into a playhouse,” he said as he came into the library, easing the door quietly closed behind him. “Are you angry with me? I didn’t mean it to happen. You must know that.”

Lucy kept staring down into the small fire in the hearth that had been laid to take any chill from the night. She was standing before it, hands folded. He looked down at that meekly bent head, knowing what was going on in it, hating that—knowing there was nothing meek or mild in her thoughts, prepared for that.

“Look at me,” he asked softly.

She raised her head. There were no tears on her cheeks, and none glittering in her eyes. But she was very pale, her indigo eyes the only color in that lovely face. Annie Truesdale was dazzling in her brightness and color. Lucy was no shy violet in comparison. Rather, he mused, she was like a lily or a camellia: sumptuous but pure, and overwhelmingly sweet. No artifice about her, on her face or in her heart. She deserved the truth. Even though he didn’t know if his hopes could survive it.

“I’d like to take you in my arms and let my lips speak for me,” he said, “but even if you’d allow it, there’s too much that has to be said. Yes. I’m truly a widower, let that fear out of your heart. Yes, I’m actually a nobleman; it means something to me, but is nothing to us. Yes, I was an adulterer. And yes, I’d give anything to be able to deny it.”

“Did you try to? Maybe not with me,” she said, her eyes searching his, “but with that other girl? With any woman? Were you really seeking a second wife before your wife died?”

He hadn’t lied, he yearned to take her in his arms, kiss that troubled brow and then those soft
lips, and then…. Every word he said now would make that less possible. He wanted her. Lies wouldn’t help. Truth wouldn’t either. He looked away, into the fire. That was where his thoughts would take him.

Leaping shadows from the fire gave his face its only expressions. His silence told Lucy more than he knew. Her heart sank.

He took a deep breath. “I married young,” he finally said, “and well. It was where my family’s wishes, fortune, and heritage led me. She was handsome in her fashion, clever, and well bred. I didn’t dislike Harriet, nor did I love her. Neither emotion was expected of us. I thought we would grow to love. I was, as I said, a young man. A practical, dutiful one. And an idiot, as it turns out.

“We had a boy in short order, and then a girl, with some difficulty for Harriet. There were no more children, the physicians said it wasn’t likely. I was, if not happy, then at least content. And still young, I remind you. As was Harriet.” A muscle ticked in his lean jaw as he composed the words, as few as he could say and tell it.

Lucy stood still, eyes on the fire, waiting for him to go on, bracing herself. The words she kept hearing in her head were the ones she’d heard Annie Truesdale say to him in the hallway. “Too good to be true.” Yes, so he was, and so her foolish futile dreams had been, of course.

When he spoke again, it was softly, and to the flames.

“We were staying in London. One day I came home to find she’d entertained a lover. I met him leaving her bed. She confessed, telling me he was not the first, nor would he be the last. She was neither ashamed nor contrite. It was her option, she said. I had my heir, didn’t I? It wasn’t possible for her to have another. She’d done her part. Now it was time for her to enjoy herself, and that meant taking lovers. Not for sensual pleasure. She didn’t care for the act that might bring her to it and never had done, she confessed, no matter who was involved. But because it was the fashion, it was exciting and amusing. And her right, as she saw it. As her friends saw it. And as her mother had promised she could one day.

“What was I to do? Divorce is next to impossible. Literally. You know that. I had other options,” he said with a travesty of a smile. “I could argue with her. I could beat her; many men in my position would. I could take her to my country estate and lock her in her rooms. I could become a monk. I considered all my options. Except for beating. Only a swine would hurt a woman, or anyone who hadn’t an equal chance of hurting him back. In any event, I cannot, could not strike a female.” He shrugged. “And all it would have netted me was a beaten and unfaithful wife. Because none of my other options worked.

“Three years,” he said too casually. “Actually three and a half years of celibacy. It wasn’t easy. Although I no longer desired her. But I didn’t find it easy. Monks at least have God to comfort them of a lonely night. I had nothing but suspicions. Because
she continued to flout me at every turn. It shrivels a man, body and soul. So,” he said, turning from the fire to the dark unknowable depths of her eyes. “I finally let her go. And went my own way. We both were unfaithful, yes. You look at me with such big eyes,” he said a little savagely. “The world didn’t end. Society didn’t even blink. It
was
the fashion. The thing to do when there’s nothing else to be done for many of our class.”

“That woman, she called you the lord of adulterers.”

His eyebrow raised, his lips quirked. “Lucy,
you
eavesdropped? Let she who is without sin…” he misquoted waggishly. “Well, but I’m flattered you cared enough to. Annie flattered me, too, or hoped she did. No, my sins were more modest. Well known, but not so spectacular. My
affairs
weren’t so numerous as they were notorious, and that’s the truth, however it diminishes my reputation.”

She gave him no answering smile. His own faded. “It’s only that some men are luckier in their associations, or desires,” he said seriously. “They either keep taking and discarding nameless women no one they know will ever meet, except at a brothel or in the streets. Or they settle down with mistresses in comfortable, long-lasting liaisons, just as though they
were
second marriages. I did neither. I…kept seeking. For what I never found. So there it is.”

“No, it isn’t,” Lucy said, “You didn’t answer my question.” She ducked her head. “You don’t have to, you know.”

He made an impatient gesture. “For God’s sake, give me that much at least. You deserve to know whatever you would. What is it?”

“Mistresses weren’t common in my circles,” she said, embarrassed, but determined. “At least, I don’t think so, but of course I’ve heard of such things. I asked something different.” She hesitated, then looked him fully in the eye. “Your wife was gone when we met. But…
were
you looking for another wife while she still lived? Would you have done that? Gone from adultery to bigamy?”

The fire hissed and sighed, dying, because it was very late.

His jaw clenched. He paused, as though fighting some inner battle. Then, visibly, gave up. He shrugged. “Yes. I’d have done that. I was ready to become a bigamist if it meant I could know love just once in my life.” He heard how that sounded, threw his head back and laughed, but there was self-mockery in it. “Poor, misunderstood philanderer. But I never enjoyed it, you see. It was always a lonely, guilty pleasure for me. I just never allowed myself to see that.”

“You finally saw it because of that girl you mentioned?” Lucy asked quickly.

He checked, surprised, and stared at her.

“The one you said was a girl with no womanly wiles?” she persisted, reminding him. “The one you told me about when we were here last. When you said I was a woman with no womanly wiles?”

“You remembered that, too?” he asked, obviously pleased.

She remembered everything he’d ever told her, but she wasn’t going to tell him that now.

“No,” he said, “I told you about my friend Gilly. She married a man I’m now pleased to call another friend of mine. I was thinking of something—different.”

He paused, knowing he couldn’t discuss it. It wasn’t a thing he was proud of, though it had set him on the path to live a life he could be proud of. The woman he was remembering had been a pretty creature, married some years, flirtatious and bored, he’d thought, and well up to snuff. She’d actually seduced
him
. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a likely candidate for an amusing temporary liaison. He’d never been more wrong.

It was pleasant until the end of the act they’d spent weeks building to. But when he’d drawn back from that final embrace, troubled because she’d grown cold when it had been too late for him to do anything but go on, she’d wept, inconsolable. Appalled, he’d tried to comfort her. And learned she’d taken him only to spite her husband, and had never wanted any man but that stupid fellow who’d betrayed her.

He’d felt dirty under his own skin. No other woman had shown him anything but delight. She’d been desolate, railing against herself, hysterical, beating her breast, tearing her hair. He’d had to
restrain her from hurting herself. She’d cried as though her heart had been broken. He supposed it had been. He’d helped do it.

That
was what changed him, sent him on his mad quest to America. Not the girl he’d mentioned to Lucy. She’d been a young woman with no pretensions and great difficulties. He’d liked her and wondered if he’d love her one day. He’d wanted to help her and had seen the possibility of her helping him in the process. Because his last liaison had been with that unfaithful wife. It had unmanned him. He’d been celibate since. Not from lack of bodily desire. But because now he needed his mind, heart, and body to agree. They had not. Until now.

Now he had to be careful, because the look in Lucy’s grave eyes chilled him. “No, not her,” he said quietly, telling her as much of the truth as he could and still remain a gentleman, and a man. “I saw myself through the eyes of another woman, one who used me as I used her. It made me see the emptiness of it all and the life we led. Too many women,” he agreed. “But don’t get the wrong idea. I assure you I didn’t go to orgies, or want to. I was monogamous in each liaison, which was fidelity in a fashion. Gads! What a conversation.”

Her eyes kindled. “It’s all right,” she said bitterly. “I was married. People seem to think that makes me able to discuss any personal physical matters, be able to face any unseemly thing.”

He winced. “I don’t expect you to discuss unseemly things.” He saw her expression. “But you
think it’s unseemly, don’t you? It is. I suppose that’s why I’ve lost you, isn’t it? Yes, right. How could I?” He corrected himself. “I haven’t actually any claim to you, have I? But you must realize I was contemplating making one.”

She ruthlessly quashed the surge of hope she couldn’t help feeling. “It must have been terrible for you. But it makes no difference, or rather, it makes all the difference. However you came to it, you were adulterous.”

“
Was
,” he said. “Why do you think I uprooted myself, went into exile? I’ve been celibate a long while…Gads! That sounds like begging, doesn’t it? Maybe it is. But I’ve been seeking, not wenching. I may yet surpass my three year record—oh, sorry, speaking of such virtue is unseemly too, I suppose?”

She didn’t smile. Head down, she paced away, talking as though to herself. “I’m not a very religious person. That’s not it. Well—not entirely. And people can be redeemed for most sins right here on earth. That’s what they said in Sunday school. So that’s not it, either.”

She wheeled to look at him. He stood so tall and strong, so powerful in pride and carriage, seemingly able to carry the world on his shoulders. But she was done with
seeming
. “Why didn’t you tell me straight off?” she demanded.

“For some reason I wasn’t eager to introduce myself as a famous libertine,” he said with a twisted smile. “And I wanted to start with a clean slate. I do, Lucy, that much I promise you.”

“Promises and lies,” she muttered. “I’m accustomed to those. That’s just it! I tell you straight out I can’t risk myself or Jamie. I’m here, miles from home, alone, with only myself to protect him. Because I leapt without looking. Francis was well intentioned too. But see what happened? A husband shapes a woman’s life. I suppose it works the other way ’round too—just look at your marriage. But I can’t afford to take any more risks. Oh, Wycoff—I mean, my lord—you must know how much I enjoy your company. I’m honored by your attentions…” Her eyes widened. “I haven’t misunderstood? Your—intentions were not…?”

“They’re honorable,” he said.

“I’m surprised you’d choose me for such attentions, with your advantages and the whole world in front of you,” she said honestly, “but I believe you. There’d be no point in your dissembling now. But all the untruths and omissions that went before…”

“I’d choose you because of who you are, Lucy,” he said. “I see in you a friend as well as a lover. There were no lies between us. Only omissions. I’d have told you all my past life—when I was surer of you. I never lied.”

“I won’t either,” she said. “It’s my past as much as yours. I’m flattered, and
so
tempted, believe me, even knowing what I do.”

He saw her shivering, and reached out toward her impulsively. His hands dropped away as she went on.

She shook her head. “But it can’t be. Because even a kindly man can be a despot; look at poor Francis. I don’t mean he was a bad man, but he had absolute control over my life and changed it forever. I can’t allow that possibility again, unless I can be sure…” Her voice faltered, thick with suppressed tears. “But if even the most innocent man can fail me…And you are, you admit it yourself, so
very
far from that.” She paced away again.

She hadn’t realized how many hopes she’d placed in him. He’d come into her life like a shooting star, suddenly, illuminating her world, exciting and inspiring her. That had happened before. But the only arguments against Francis had been that she hadn’t known him very long, and that her mother had hopes for a favorite of her own. There’d been no forewarning about his constancy. He’d no dark history with women. She’d heard him talking to his friends. His only intimate experiences with women had been those many young gentlemen of fashion or young officers in the Navy might have had. Women in London, women in port. From what she’d heard and overheard of his reminiscences, all women he’d bought. Reprehensible, yes. But they’d been few, and far between. With no pretensions to his heart. But Wycoff!