“Damn it!” he groaned.
“What?” She gazed up at him as if thoroughly confused as to why he might be unhappy.
Staring at Jeannette’s wide eyes and her lips, swollen from his kisses, Treynor knew he couldn’t win. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to proceed; his need wouldn’t allow him to stop.
Finally, he extricated himself from her arms and stepped away.
She blinked at him in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“You’re not leaving….”
“Yes.” He quickly buttoned his jacket. “But I must be the stupidest bastard in the world.”
The war between his mind and his body was making him angrier by the minute. Why did his damned conscience have to intervene at a moment like this? At the very peak of sexual desire? How long had it been since he’d wanted a woman as badly as he wanted Jeannette?
Never
came the answer. And that terrified him. God, he prayed, not her. Anyone but her.
Silently, he railed at himself and cursed Jeannette, too. But, considering the situation, only one thing could set his world right again—besides another fifteen minutes with the count’s daughter.
He needed a good brawl.
Fortunately, he knew several members of the crew who’d be happy to oblige.
* * *
Helen crumpled the letter in one hand and tossed it into the wastepaper basket below the mahogany secretary where she sat in her study. She’d spent all evening composing the lines that had covered the perfumed sheet. Yet there seemed to be no good way to express what she had wanted, for many years now, to tell her son.
She stared out the second-story window near her desk at the moonlit, snow-covered box hedges and Greek statues in the gardens below and thought back to their last interview at the cottage near Liskeard. Treynor had been livid with rage. She’d made him that way. But she’d only been striking out at herself. By behaving as he expected her to—by being what he thought she was—she ensured his continued rejection and no longer needed to fear it.
Dipping her quill into the inkwell, she pulled her gaze away from the glistening snow and shadowy, leafless trees to start again. She’d never spoken of Treynor’s true father. His name wasn’t recorded in any journal or previous letters—none that she hadn’t destroyed. Even her husband, the marquess, did not know the truth.
She’d had a short affair with their stable master, but that had come at least a month after the pregnancy, as a purposeful cover. The marquess had not returned from the colonies as planned, and she’d been forced to do something.
When her husband finally did arrive, her condition was quite obvious. He was so embarrassed that she would take a servant into her bed he’d hushed it up as carefully as she’d guarded her own secret, until no one knew, really, where Treynor had come from.
“Ah, ‘ere ye are. Busy tormentin’ yerself again, I see.”
The voice of her housekeeper broke the silence. Surprised that Mrs. Peters was still up, Helen lifted her head. “It’s late, Elizabeth. What are you doing looking over my shoulder?”
“I don’t need to look over yer shoulder to know what you’re doin’. It hasn’t changed for years.” Her jowls wagged as she shook her head. “Ye closet yerself away up ‘ere an’ write an’ write as though ye might actually send a letter or two. But precious few make it out in the post. Writing them is just yer penance.”
Helen sighed. “Perhaps someday I will send all the ones I haven’t destroyed.”
“Ye need to forget the past.” The harsh expression on Elizabeth’s round face softened with love and pity. “Ye’ve punished yerself long enough. It’s been nearly thirty years.”
The sting of tears burned behind Helen’s eyes, but she’d become adept at keeping her composure. She knew her tears would never fall, not while she had a witness. “You may retire,” she said, using her most imperious voice. “I can take care of myself from here.”
But mere dismissal wasn’t enough to get Elizabeth to leave her in peace, not this night. “M’lady, per’aps I should ‘ave said these things before—”
“You didn’t need to,” Helen broke in “I can always tell what you think.”
“Then why not pay ‘eed? I might be an old, fat crone, but no one knows ye better. No one’s cared for ye longer.”
“I know.” Helen set her quill aside and pinched the bridge of her nose. Elizabeth had been her mother’s housekeeper when Helen was just a girl—and her only comfort for years.
The housekeeper moved beside her, her hand, chafed from so many years of work, resting on Helen’s arm. “One mistake didn’t warrant another. That’s why ye let the babe go. Are ye forgettin’ ye had to provide yer ‘usband with an ‘eir an’ protect ‘im from all the waggin’ tongues? Ye be’aved as befitted a marquess’s wife an’ ye gave no name to yer pain. Lord knows it wasn’t an easy sacrifice.” She paused as if waiting for a response, but Helen had nothing to say.
“An’ what of the boy’s father?” she went on. “Ye loved ‘im.” She frowned to stop Helen when she would have denied it. “But ye gave ‘im up, too.”
“He had a wife. What we did was wrong.”
“Ye think I don’t know that, m’lady? ‘Twas a sad business all around, but whether ye can justify yer actions now or no, don’t matter. ‘Tis over and done with.”
Wishing she could banish the regret as easily as Elizabeth relegated the whole incident to the past, Helen closed her eyes. “But you should see Treynor now,” she whispered. “He is so handsome and tall, in command of himself and others, always the perfect gentleman.”
“I can imagine, my lady.” Her voice filled with affection. “I knew there was somethin’ special about ‘im the first time I saw ‘im.”
Helen rubbed her eyes, eyes that were as tired as her heart. “Yet he carries the filthy label of bastard while the marquess’s heir, my second son, is drinking and gambling his life away.”
“‘Tis a disappointment, to be sure,” she pronounced.
“Tell me something, Elizabeth.” Helen fiddled absently with the corner of a fresh sheet of paper. “How could one small indiscretion affect my whole life and the lives of so many others?”
“That’s fate, m’lady. Ain’t no explainin’ it or understandin’ it.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“At least ye’ve been in contact with Mr. Treynor for the past several years, m’lady. Ye had to stand up to the marquess to do that. Give yerself credit.”
Helen shook her head. “I deserve none. I should have stood up to him long ago. He has never cared about me. His only concern is for our two sons and daughter, and making his mistress and the children they have created happy.”
“Now there’s a woman I’d like ter see suffer the consequences of ‘er actions.” Elizabeth’s lip curled as she crossed her arms over her considerable bosom. “She’s waxin’ bold, that one.”
“At least my husband leaves me to live as I choose,” Helen responded. “And I choose to reveal to Treynor, at last, the truth. He—” She broke off as her husband walked in without knocking.
“Ah. Thought I might find you here,” he said.
Helen experienced a sharp pang of irritation. He had his own quarters and insisted on complete privacy, a courtesy he rarely returned. But she was determined to treat him civilly.
“Good evening, William.”
Mrs. Peters—Elizabeth—slanted a knowing glance at her, said good night and bustled out. She always made herself scarce when the marquess appeared. She was too loyal to Helen for William to trust, and she had no interest in gaining his confidence.
“Milady. What keeps you busy on this cold night?”
She tapped her quill inside the inkwell so she could rid it of ink and set it aside. Out of habit, she also folded the letter to shield it from her husband’s view, although she didn’t care overmuch if he saw that it was addressed to Treynor. “I was just answering some correspondence.”
“And what do you hear from Georgie?” He moved closer, until Helen could smell the scent of the expensive tobacco he smoked. “Is he well at Oxford?”
Georgie, their youngest son, was by far Helen’s favorite, but she couldn’t avoid the truth. “I have received no word this week. But I am comforted by that. It means he is not in some sort of scrape that requires extraordinary amounts of money to fix.”
The marquess chuckled. “He will be a force to reckon with, our Georgie.”
“If he ever grows up. Is there something you require, William?”
The marquess eyed her shrewdly. “Brooding over the stable master’s brat again, are you? You spend all your evenings the same way. And it only serves to shorten your temper. A wife should not speak so to her husband.”
If he only knew how constrained she had behaved thus far…. “I prefer to think of it as getting to the point. You want something or you wouldn’t be here. Supper is the only time we see each other anymore, besides social outings. You normally sleep in Exeter with …what’s her name?”
“Clarissa.” The clock in the hall outside struck the hour of midnight as he studied her. “You were the one who set the boundaries on our relationship, not I.”
He referred, of course, to her infamous betrayal, but he’d dabbled with other women long before she’d become involved with Treynor’s father. In his mind, there was a great difference between their taking of lovers, but Helen had never conceded that point and never would. She’d agreed to her marriage, and done her best to honor it. Except for how she had neglected Treynor, she had few regrets.
“I will not argue with you, William, if that’s what you’re looking for. It has been a war of words for years on end.”
After setting her pen in its silver and marble holder, she put away the rest of her writing implements. She wouldn’t get a letter off to Treynor tonight. She’d sit and compose until the wee hours of the morning, as she did so often, and never find the right words to convey her feelings. Words weren’t enough to excuse what she had done.
“Clarissa is going to have another baby,” her husband announced without warning.
Helen closed and locked her secretary, then deposited the key in the pocket of her silk dressing gown. So that was it. “Oh?”
She looked up to search his face, but there wasn’t a single trace of sensitivity for what she might feel.
“I wish her well,” she said. Barely twenty-five, her husband’s mistress was still capable of bearing him many children. It wasn’t as if his infidelity would become less obvious any time soon. “Now, if you will leave me in peace.”
Instead of heading for the door, he fidgeted with the miniature portrait of Mary, their daughter, which sat on the table by the window. “You don’t care?”
Helen shook her head. She felt ancient. “I ceased to care long ago.”
* * *
When Jeannette awoke, she found herself swinging in the lieutenant’s hammock, half-naked and burrowed deep into his feather tick. The sun’s rays floated dust motes through the porthole above the bed, letting her know that night had long since passed.
With a groan, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a hand to her aching head. Her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry. And even with supreme effort, she couldn’t stop the memories of her behavior the night before from tumbling back to her.
Fortunately the lieutenant wasn’t in his cabin. She opened one eye and glanced around, grateful for that small blessing. Then she sat up and tried to get out of his bed.
The skin had peeled away from many of her blisters, leaving open sores. They made it difficult to dress. She managed as best she could, then looked around, hoping to find salve to ease the sting.
The lieutenant’s cabin was rather spartan. Besides the bed, a wardrobe, and the large trunk Jeannette had ransacked when she’d stolen away that first night, only a desk and chair competed for the limited floor space.
She rolled back the desk’s dark walnut cover to reveal multiple cubbyholes, none of which contained anything of medicinal value. A brass and marble inkstand and the letter opener she’d used before sat on a leather blotter. Various maps and a few coins were strewn about, and several letters were jammed into a slot. The corner of one revealed a woman’s flowing script.
Curiosity tugged Jeannette’s hand toward it. Treynor had never mentioned any of the details surrounding his personal life. She couldn’t help but wonder who the letters were from.
She sifted through the pile, surprised to find that most were signed by the Marchioness of Bedford, an older woman she had met in London once, a year ago. How had someone so high in society come to write him—and so often?
Shooting a guilty glance toward the door, Jeannette played with the perfumed sheets. She wanted to read what the marchioness had written, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to invade Treynor’s privacy any more than she already had.
She was about to stuff them back into their slot when the door banged open. Before it could slam shut, she dropped the correspondence like a handful of hot coals. But when she whirled to greet Lieutenant Treynor, she faced a sardonic glare. He’d seen what she held.
“Doing what women do best, my dear?” He shrugged out of his rumpled coat. A wince indicated injuries beyond the cut lip and purple bruise on one cheek she’d already noted.
“I wasn’t reading them,” she said, trying to appear composed. “I was looking for something to put on my hands.”
“Of course. My mail looks a great deal like salve.”
Jeannette grimaced as he hung his coat in the small wardrobe in the corner. “The letters caught my eye. That is all.”
He offered her a half-hearted grin. “Fortunately, spying is only one of a woman’s many talents.”
“And you like the others even less.”
He chuckled. “All except one.”
“I am sure I could never guess what that might be.”
“You already did—last night.”
She studied him. How badly was he hurt? “Thank you for reminding me. I should have known you would gloat.”
“You are just angry that you didn’t get what you wanted. But I am willing to remedy the situation, should you feel so inclined.” He sauntered closer, until she could smell the liquor on his breath.
“No, I do not feel so inclined,” she responded with a glower. “Judging by the damage to your face, you have been doing what men do best.”