"So you thought it was your duty," he repeated, a harsh edge settling into his voice. "Not good enough. I do not require your pity. I do not want your pity."
"But it's not that at all. What it is—"
"Not another word," he said in the same voice he must have used to command his troops.
She could not contain a gasp. "You're rejecting me?"
He pulled in his breath and, frowning, turned his face away. For a long moment he seemed to be fighting for control. When he looked back, his expression had softened. "Can you not understand pride is all I have left? Don't dismiss it lightly." He reached to gently brush her cheek with the back of his hand. "You've beauty, grace, intelligence—everything a man could want. Ah, Flora, you have no idea how much I would give to have you come to me because you loved me. But that's not the case, is it? I would even settle for your coming to me out of desire, not loving me but wanting me as a woman needs a man. What I shall not settle for, not now, not ever, is your coming to me out of pity."
Flora felt like crying, she was so shaken, so utterly shocked by his rejection. "Then we shall never—?"
"Never, unless you truly want me. If there comes a time when, like tonight, you feel you must extend your charity to this pitiful cripple, be advised I want none of it."
She stood confused, deeply wounded, astounded he had refused her. Well, she had her pride, too. She managed a tremulous smile. "Very well, Charles. You can rest assured I shall never bother you again."
"Oh, Flora, you cannot possibly know..." An expression close to anguish crossed his face. His arms started to reach for her. He pressed them tightly to his sides. "Are you all right?" he asked, his composure restored. "The last thing on earth I want to do is hurt you."
She steadied herself, trying to regain her own composure. "Of course I'm all right," she managed with supreme dignity. "Forgive me. It was just a passing fancy." She retrieved her candle. "Good night, sir, I shall be fine."
As she turned to leave, he asked, "Will you come riding with me tomorrow?"
"Of course," she answered over the lump in her throat, and swept from his bed chamber, head held high. In the hallway, she had to pause because her knees shook and she felt sick in the pit of her stomach. A large portrait of Dinsmore hung on the wall. She had passed it many times before, but tonight something made her pause in front of it and hold her candle high. Until now, she had given the portrait nothing more than a cursory glance. It had simply been the portrait at the end of a long row of portraits of Dinsmore's esteemed male ancestors. They were all unsmiling, dating back to the first Lord Dinsmore, a heavy-set man wearing an expression of insufferable arrogance, who glowered at the world from beneath a ridiculously long, curly, black wig.
In the current Lord Dinsmore's portrait, he stood in the time-honored manner in which military men were portrayed: resplendent in full uniform, sword at his side, carriage erect, plumed hat held under one arm. His expression matched those of his ancestors: cold, stern, unyielding. Just another utterly boring old portrait that she hardly looked at, and yet...
For the first time, Flora looked beyond the obvious and took in the whole of the man. He had been handsome once, in fact, devastatingly attractive with a strong, square chin; high, intelligent brow; eyes the beautiful blue of glacial ice.
She could feel the vitality of him, as he stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, utterly sure of himself. One could easily tell this leader of men did not suffer fools gladly and that he exuded power, vigor and forcefulness—all the traits women found attractive in a man. What a catch he must have been. High-ranking ladies must have been charmed into bed by the dozens.
But now...poor man, what a terrible comedown.
How she got back to her room without breaking down, she didn't know, but when she reached the security of her own bed chamber, all the humiliations and crushing defeats she'd suffered the past months came crashing down upon her. First Richard, now this. Never had she felt so low.
Rejected by a crippled old man
! No matter he was handsome once.
And the worst part was, it was all her own fault. How could she have been so unthinking, so unfeeling as to not recognize the man had his pride.
It served her right.
She fell on her bed and started to cry, partly out of humiliation, mostly because she realized she would never be the carefree, impetuous Flora again. She had learned her lesson. From now on, she would be more considerate, and most certainly think twice before she unthinkingly plunged ahead and did something so utterly stupid.
How she wished she could talk to Lord Lynd. How she would love to lean her head on his broad shoulder and pour her heart out. He would no doubt be amused—probably call her a milksop and a fool again—yet she knew she'd find tenderness and understanding in the comfort of his voice, as well as his arms.
The trouble was, she might have grown up tonight, but even if Lynd lectured her from dawn to sunset about how foolish was her obsession with Richard, she knew she could not forget him.
Oh, Richard
. Would there ever come a time when the taunting image of his handsome face didn't haunt her dreams every night? As long as she loved him, she had no control over her heart. She might tell herself how prudent, how circumspect she would be in the future, but if ever the time came when she could have him...
The whole thing was impossible, of course. She was married now, and marriage was a trap from which there was no escape, not ever.
But if some day she could have Richard–on any terms, legal or otherwise, moral or otherwise, she wondered what she would do.
Lord help her, she didn't know the answer.
* * * *
Next day, the smell of autumn hung in the air as Lord Lynd rode his horse behind Flora's and Louisa's. Although the ride had been planned, Flora had tried to beg off. Her husband was ill again, she said, claiming she should stay by his bed. They'd insisted Flora come along, so here she was, looking exhausted, Sidney noted. Beyond exhaustion. Something was wrong.
"Lovely day," Louisa called as she urged her horse to a canter and dashed ahead up the trail.
"Indeed," he called after her, then slanted a glance at Flora, who was not riding her mount in her usual carefree style, but instead seemed slumped in the saddle in a defeated pose. He reined his horse closer. "You don't seem yourself today
."
"I'm not," she answered almost in a whisper. At first she appeared not to want to talk, but finally with a surprisingly bitter accusation in her voice she told him, "You were wrong, sir, about Lord Dinsmore. That's all I care to say on the subject."
"Let's stop a moment." Concerned, Lord Lynd took her reins and stopped both horses at a fern-filled spot by the side of a stream. He slid off his horse and reached to help her down. She allowed his assistance without protest—unusual in itself, he thought, since Flora, always independent, took pride in dismounting with grace and flare.
After they'd settled on flat rocks, facing each other by the stream, Lord Lynd said, "Now, why am I wrong, Lady Dinsmore?"
She tilted her nose in the air. "It's a personal matter between Lord Dinsmore and myself, and I don't care to discuss it."
Yes you do
.
Curse women and their idiotic sensibilities. "You mean, you at long last found your way to his bed and something went wrong?"
"Must you be so blunt?" She glowered at him. "You are rude beyond all measure."
He crossed his arms and glowered back. "It may interest you to know there are parts of the world where the sexual act is an ordinary topic of conversation, not whispered about as if it were something shameful."
She dismissed his comment with a wave of her dainty hand.
"Be that as it may, we're in England now and such things are simply not discussed."
"You sound just like your mother." There, that should raise a breeze.
"Oh!" Her face scrunched in a frown. Hotly she declared, "I am not my mother."
"I know. Forget I said that. Actually you're right. Such matters are never discussed in England, and there's the pity. As for your new...uh, relationship with Lord Dinsmore, may I suggest, high time?"
"Oh!" She looked as if she were ready to take a swing at him with her riding crop. Then she surprised him by bursting into tears.
Suddenly everything became clear. "He rejected you
."
She gasped in surprise. "How did you...? Oh, now, you really are being rude."
Sidney felt the urge to express his opinion concerning Englishwomen and their ludicrous false modesty concerning the marital bed. However, for the moment he could not. The shock of this new revelation suddenly hit full force and he felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. He felt relief. Joy, almost. How disgusting. Indeed he should feel deeply ashamed over such dishonorable feelings and should instead feel nothing but sorrow that Dinsmore, his old friend and mentor, had a troubled marriage. He knew why. Of course he knew why. There could be only one answer, which he doubted Dinsmore, with all his pride, would care to share.
She ought to know.
He took a moment to collect himself, then addressed her softly. "Tell me what happened."
She cast him a look full of resentment. "Do you recall when you told me I'd be well advised to remove my head from the clouds?"
"I do."
"And how I'd never find a finer husband than Lord Dinsmore? You asked me if I could look beyond that poor, scarred face—give him a chance."
"I do recall."
"Well, I decided you were right—Amy, too. So last night I let him know that I would...you know, and you know what happened?"
He could guess but waited for her reply.
"He misunderstood. He didn't want me, Lord Lynd." Flora's face twisted. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "Oh, it was by far the most humiliating moment of my life. Worse even than when—"
Her abrupt halt did not prevent him from surmising she meant when Richard jilted her. Sidney watched as a single tear overflowed, coursed its way through tangled thick dark lashes, down the peachy softness of her cheek. His heart ached with sympathy, as well as guilt. If he hadn't encouraged her... But little had he known. The usual platitudes rushed to his lips: She shouldn't take it personally, Dinsmore wasn't feeling well and all that rot, but he was sure he knew the answer. She should know it, too. He would have explain. God's blood, but this would be hard, telling a young naive Englishwoman the facts of life.
"I have often thought," he said, "that along with the lessons in music, watercolors, and embroidery that you young ladies
receive, a course in male anatomy should be included.
She brushed at her tear with the palm of her hand. "And why do you say that?"
"Because then you would know that men have certain...er, problems that arise from time to time—or, to put it more bluntly, don't arise." He paused and looked at her closely. "Do you know what I mean?"
"I am not that naive, sir."
Good. She wasn't blushing. "Then you should also know that men are quite sensitive about such matters. Loathe to discuss them because of their pride."
"So you think...?" She was gazing at him, intensely interested.
"I think such could be the case with Lord Dinsmore. Why else would he reject a woman beautiful as you?"
"Don't flatter me."
He knew he shouldn't, but he reached the back of two fingers to touch her cheek. The whole of him tingled as he ran them gently down over her delicately carved facial bones, past her exquisitely dainty nose, over her musk-rose flesh, moist from the tear, to her determined chin. "I don't flatter you. You are a desirable woman. No man in his right mind would not want you."
"Then why am I so miserable?" she cried and bent toward him. "Everything I do is wrong!"
"Ah, Flora..." To take her in his arms would break his code as a gentleman...
But she needed him...
A pox upon his code as a gentleman. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Her head dropped to his shoulder. He felt the movement of her breathing, heard a gentle sniff as she fought her tears. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest—felt the arousal that he most certainly had no trouble with, but above all else, he must not lose his grip. She needed his comfort and advice, not his lust. But, oh God, how good to feel the seductive curves of her body in his arms at long last.
Flora felt a marvelous sense of contentment as she snuggled in Lord Lynd's powerful arms. She would not allow herself to cry. Tears were a weakness she wanted no part of, but still... How wonderful to let go, just once, and drink in the comfort of his nearness. Thus, they stayed, she didn't know how long, until finally she looked up and found his gaze upon her, soft as a caress. "You must think me very weak and very silly
."
"Far from it." He let her go and moved away, but not too far. "I suspect soon you'll have a heavy burden to carry, my Flora, but you're strong. Naive, perhaps"—an amused twinkle lit his eye—"but I've not a doubt that you, with your stubbornness and fierce determination will prevail." He took her hands. "Rise above the hurt. You must know Lord Dinsmore loves you. Always remember, the most important thing in life is to learn how to give love and how to let love come to you."