Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (16 page)

As they came closer, trees and shrubs veiled his view. They were of a height and size, but one wore a fashionable white gown and an extravagantly wide hat tied with yellow ribbon. It successfully hid her face, but he didn’t think she was his lady. The other looked like a servant and carried a basketful of something dark. Blackberries?

Clearly neither was his lady.

His
.

No. Resolved not to be sucked into folly, he returned resolutely to his book. It was just the sort of material that usually interested him. He’d been reading for a while when the lock turned. He rose as she entered, damning the pleasure that instantly sparked at the sight of her. She walked toward him, and he noticed that her fingers were stained.

Blackberries? Had this, after all, been the woman in the smock in the garden? If so, why had she fallen into that deep embrace? What had distressed her?

How could he take away her pain?

“Is the book passing the time, sir?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.” He found himself studying her masked face, seeking emotion, seeking identity. Unless her mask was skillfully padded, it showed her features—round of cheek, a little short of nose, squarely firm of chin. The artificial coloring gave the illusion of reality, but the result didn’t look like a human being at all. Only the eyes did, and they were ordinary, showing no distress.

“My maid will bring your dinner shortly,” she said. “Beyond that, please try not to bother the servants here. They are few, and busy.”

“You’re leaving now?” He really shouldn’t feel as if his world would suddenly be empty. He had better control of his mind and his emotions than this.

“It is time.”

“When will you return?” Not,
will
you. She
must
.

Her hands moved. If she were a lady of less self-control, he thought they would have fiddled with her skirt. “Later. After dark.”

He let out his breath. “I’m glad.”

Her eyes met his, and he thought perhaps he would recognize them again, if they looked at him that way. “Are you really?”

She was asking things of him to which she had no right. No right at all. But even so, he put out a hand. “Very really.”

She just stood there.

“The idea is that you put your hand in mine.”

Her hands moved again, this time as if they would sidle off behind her, into safety. “Why?”

“Because then, you would have to be over here, close to me.”

“And what good would that do?”

“Then I could sit and pull you into my lap. I could hold you for a moment.”

He saw her tighten, almost pull in on herself as if threatened. “Why?” It was almost a wail.

“Why not? What frightens you? Remember, mistress mine, you are in command. I am but your humble servant.”

“You, sir, lack the concept of humility entirely!” But she walked forward, reminding him again of a wary bird, tempted by seeds, but afraid of the hunter. As one last movement, she put the tips of her fingers on his hand. The stained and chilly tips.

He waited.

With an audible breath, she slid her hand farther and wrapped her fingers tightly around his. He sat, then gently, he drew her down onto his lap and settled her there where, he was startled to think, she was meant to be.

He almost held his breath, so aware was he of danger. There was nothing for him here but a few hours of pleasure.

With another man’s wife.

Damn Sir Archibald, or whoever the man was.

He raised her hand to inspect purple fingertips, then sucked at them. “Blackberries. Dare I hope for blackberry pie?”

“Perhaps.” Her head was down, and he felt sure she was blushing beneath the mask, soft and relaxed as a child against him. What a charming, inconsistent mystery she was.

Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close as if she were a large child. He had no idea why he was doing it, but then he realized that he’d wanted to hold her ever since he’d seen that embrace in the garden.

She’d needed comfort then, and he wanted to give her comfort now.

Her glossy brown curls brushed his face, smelling faintly of flowers. Her other perfumes were vague and natural and already recognizably hers. This was danger and he knew it. All he courted here was pain. Tomorrow he would leave, and for a little while he’d ache from loss of her. But only for a little while. Once he was back in his real life, with work, friends, other women …

He held her closer still.

Soft and firm. A peach of a woman who made his mouth water. Her head nestled a little closer, settling on his shoulder as her breathing drifted slow and at rest. Her momentary peace was palpable and precious. He could give her this. It might only be a brief respite from whatever troubled her, but it was his to give.

He wanted to say many things, surprising things.

He wanted to tell her that he’d never held a woman quite like this before, that if a woman had been on his lap they’d been engaged in love play. That he wanted love play, but that for the moment, he valued this above all.

He wanted to ask her again to take off the mask and trust him, not only for the trust, but because he had a desperate need to kiss her, to join his mouth to hers in that most soul-deep melding.

He’d never thought of kisses in that way before.

He was tempted to tilt her head and kiss the painted lips of the mask in frail hope that it would be any kind of substitute.

He wanted to demand the reason for the mask, for the desperate embrace in the garden, for her hungry, bold, unpracticed insistence on sex. What were her troubles, her trials, her sufferings? If he knew, perhaps he could sweep them all away with a godly—or at least a lordly—hand.

He generally had little interest in his noble status and wealth, but it would be precious if he could lay it at his lady’s feet.

He wanted to pledge himself to her happiness. He wanted more. Only by desperate will was he preventing himself from begging her to abandon everything—her marriage, her life, her friends, her family—and run away to live in scandal and shame with him.

He breathed deeply, fighting to protect her from himself.

He’d never imagined he had such a foolish romantic quivering within. She would be ruined, and his pleasant life would be destroyed. He had work he enjoyed and which fulfilled him; leisure enough and friends to
share it with; a loving family; and the general approval of his fellow man. The last thing he needed was scandal.

There could be worse than scandal.

Perhaps her husband wasn’t too old to come after him and demand a duel. He’d doubtless be able to kill the man, but he wouldn’t. Honor would not permit that. Not when he was in the wrong.

Did he want to die for love?

Short of that, he could face a court case for alienation of affections. She and he would become the tattle of the town and he’d have to pay a punitive fine. He suppressed a groan at the thought of Bey’s reaction to such a sordid imbroglio.

There’d be items in the lower newssheets, crude illustrations on the windows of the printing shops. Speculative illustrations of him and his adulterous lover in their bed of sin. Coarse illustrations of a Yorkshire wanton, huge breasts and hamlike legs exposed.

If he were the nobody she thought him, it might be possible for them to steal a life together. Few people would care. A Malloren, however, was always a source of interest, and there were plenty of people eager to cast a dart at the Marquess of Rothgar, a power in the land and confidant of the King.

Their relationship simply couldn’t be.

He nuzzled her soft brown curls, assailed by loss, astonished to feel the sting of tears in his eyes.

Rosamunde leaned against him, fighting a desperate battle with tears. A few had escaped, but the mask would hide them. She would not sob, even though her chest ached with the swell of it.

She tried not to think, because there wasn’t a thought that wasn’t painful. One broke through, however, like a bell in the night. If only this could be, this closeness, day by day. This was her birthright. It was every person’s birthright, to have someone to hold them with tender care….

But then she found the strength to fight back.

If she wanted to be held with tender care, Digby would do that. Digby, her kindly husband, whom she was supposed to be helping here, not betraying in her heart. She fumbled herself desperately out of Brand’s arms, off his lap. After a startled moment, he helped so at least she didn’t fall.

“I have to go,” she said, knowing it was inadequate. She looked at him, suspecting that he’d see the unshed tears in her eyes. It was suddenly important, despite the folly of it, that he know about the tears.

“You will return?”

Were his eyes a little moist? Were they? What did it mean?

She should say no.

She should say farewell.

Now.

“Later,” she said, swallowing again. “It … it might be quite late….”

He put his hands together and bowed. “As you will, mistress. At whatever hour, I will be yours, be everything you desire.” There was no humor in it this time, however, nor in the words he added:

“But don’t forget. For our sins, it can only be until dawn.”

Rosamunde left the room with dignity, still fighting tears when out of sight. She would not cry. Not even in private. But she slammed the door of her room and ripped off the hot, sticky mask, then rubbed her face hard, forcing the tears back into the aching well where they belonged.

She would
not
cry!

If she started to cry, all would be lost. It would prove that all was lost….

Lost.

Lost.

No!
This
wasn’t important. It was a phantasm. Reality was important. Wenscote, and Digby, and all the people there. People she loved. Reality was the child who would save them all.

His child.

Brand’s child.

She seized the bedpost in both hands and squeezed it, letting the pineapple carving bite into her flesh, squeezing, squeezing until pain overwhelmed folly, until she could at last breathe again and stand calm, her purpose clear in mind.

No more risks. She might not risk discovery by returning tonight, but she risked something worse. Something deep in her heart that might shatter honor.

She would move to Arradale and leave only to go home.

She would let Diana manage the business of disposing of this inconvenient secret lover.

Inconvenient.

Secret.

Lover.

She sat on the bed with a defeated thump.
Why
had he held her like that? She wanted to wail the question, for it had caused such wounds she could imagine dying of them. Even so, she would not have missed his embrace, at cost of her life.

Indeed, now she knew the madness poets wrote of, the madness which drove men and women of power into the flames of disaster. But it wasn’t
love
. No one could love someone they’d known for such a brief while.

It was folly!

It was idiocy!

A weakness of the mind.

A conflagration of lust.

She must not return. She must go home to her husband.

But she, who had lived her life on moral principles, who had always had the strength to do the right thing, was burning with need and could not resist the flames.

Splashing cold water on her face proved too feeble a gesture against such heat and fire, and a tiny, despairing laugh escaped. Even if she could fight the fire, she must return. Not for lust, but because, quite simply, she had promised.

She would betray Brand Malloren in other ways—she had no choice—but not in that.

She had promised and she would keep her word. She would be his mistress until dawn.

Chapter 11

D
inner and an evening in stately Arradale should have been interminable, but Rosamunde found it a steadying time. Here were order and manners and convention to quench some of the unruly flames.

She, Diana, and Aunt Arradale were joined by her aunt’s companion, Mrs. Lampwick, an intelligent, self-composed woman; and Mr. Turcott, Diana’s secretary, whose devoted hobby was to research the history of this part of Yorkshire. Conversation at table was easy, erudite, and never touched on the emotions.

Except, Rosamunde thought, that there might be some sort of connection between Mrs. Lampwick and Mr. Turcott. It did seem, after all, that the lady had been helping the gentleman with some of his research. Though both were cool in their manner, sometimes she caught their eyes lingering on each other for a moment, or a range of excitement and intensity in their exchanges not shown when they spoke to others.

Would she have been so attuned to it a day ago?

As the meal progressed, it turned her gloomy. What a wonderful marriage those two might have—two equals with shared enthusiasms, together in everything, and free to love. Why was that denied her?

Because at sixteen, devastated by her wounds, she had run away from life, run behind the high stone walls of Wenscote. She had made her bed, however, and must lie in it. Choices must be lived with.

But I was only sixteen!

Even so.

The older couple disappeared after dinner, supposedly to separate occupations. Rosamunde wondered, then pushed such suspicions away. Just because she had become a wicked wanton was no reason to doubt the honor of two respectable, middle-aged people. If there was anything between them, they would move through the acceptable stages to the altar, not fumble and tumble among dusty family archives.

The mere idea must have made her lips twitch, for the dowager asked, “What amuses you, Rosamunde?”

They were in the drawing room, glorious with Chinese wallpaper, taking tea in tiny, delicate cups. As was her nature, Rosamunde told as much of the truth as she dared. “I wondered if there was a romance stirring between Mrs. Lampwick and Mr. Turcott.”

Aunt Arradale’s eyes twinkled. “You see it, too, do you? Yes, it is my dearest hope. Two more harmonious people cannot be imagined.”

“How lovely,” said Diana. “We must see what we can do to push them together.”

“They are old enough to manage for themselves, dear.”