She hesitated in her rocking and her brows drew together as confusion spread across her face.
Seizing on the change, he murmured, “It’s Edward. Your friend. Your protector.” It was true. He was. And it was more certain than anything ever had been in his life. She had been destroyed by another man, just like the girl his father had so brutally murdered. Just like that girl he had not saved. Now his very blood depended on protecting this woman. It was what he had been waiting for his whole life.
Blinking slowly, she lowered her eyes to his. Her body slowed its rocking. “Edward,” she repeated carefully, her voice barely audible.
“Yes. Edward.” He lifted his hand slowly, trying to draw her attention. “Look at me,” he said softly, yet firmly.
Still shaking, she slowly turned her face to his. Her eyes widened in horror and recognition. “Oh—” She swallowed back her tears. “Edward.”
Relief hit him as hard as a pugilist’s blow. She’d come back to herself, away from whatever nightmare had stolen her away. It was a sweeter feeling than he had ever known.
“I—” The slender muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed again. “Forgive me.”
“Cease asking for forgiveness. You’re not at fault for any of this.” How he longed to explain she never need ask for his forgiveness. It was she who needed the apologies. Apologies for a world that had taken her innocence and brutalized it until she was this broken woman.
But she wasn’t broken. Damaged, certainly, but not undone. He knew it. Even now, blessed awareness and intelligence shone brightly in her violet eyes. And strength. Who else was as strong as she, who had survived so much?
Mary looked down and her fingertips traced over her thighs. “I don’t know what to do.”
He smiled, a gesture meant to assure. The very effort to turn his lips felt foreign, but it was important to set her at ease. “For now, all that matters is that you are here with me.”
Edward started to reach out to her. She flinched and hugged herself tightly. He pulled back, holding his hands out to show he meant no harm. “I only wish to comfort you.”
She lifted her fingers to her brow, worrying her forehead before nodding.
His muscles ached as inch by carefully bought inch, he reached out his hand and gently took hers in his. “Will you tell me what happened just now?”
Her fingers were still for a moment, then returned his grasp. “No.”
His heart grew heavy, though he couldn’t help but feel a small measure of relief that she’d accepted his touch. “I wish to help you.”
Her face contorted into a map of pain. “Perhaps—” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Perhaps you can’t.” She stared firmly into his eyes. A sad knowledge filled her young eyes with shadows. “Perhaps no one c-can.”
Her lips trembled and her face twisted with the effort of speech. “Not even God,” she said.
“I refuse to believe that.”
A dry smile curved her mouth into a mockery of a grin. “Ever the optimist?”
“I will not abandon you in this, Mary. I’ve made up my mind.”
The smile faded, replaced by dead acceptance. “I won’t bring you happiness, Edward.”
“I don’t seek happiness.”
“Then what is it you do seek?”
“Freedom,” he said, feeling the need for it so deep in his gut his body burned. “From the past. From memory.”
And as he looked down upon her white, exhausted face, he saw recognition . . . and realized that that was what she was seeking, too.
Her Grace Clare Darrel née Ederly exited St. Paul’s to the peals of glorious, booming silver bells. A crowd of onlookers as large as that at any royal wedding surrounded the flower-bedecked ducal coach that would escort her to her wedding breakfast.
An elated smile tugged at her lips, accompanied by a large dose of pride that sent her heart swelling. She had brought her family back from the brink of ruin by marrying a man almost three times her age. But such considerations were nothing when the man was a duke, especially one of such standing and distinguished demeanor.
She beamed at the large crowd of eclectic Londoners that had come to see the new duchess, glorying at how many stood upon the steps. It had been some time since she had known such delight. For years, she had lived under the fierce commands of her father, and now she was free. Finally, she was going to be a powerful woman in her own right. Nothing was going to stop her from being the most popular or influential duchess since Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.
“Why didn’t you wear the diamonds, my love?”
Clare tore her gaze away from the adoring crowd and gazed up at her handsome husband. “My mother requested that I wear her pearls. She was wed in them.”
He smiled. “That was most devoted of you.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgement. Indeed, there had been no more obedient daughter than she.
“But now you are my wife and as such you shall devote yourself to me and my wishes.”
His words were warm, but she couldn’t help feeling the censure in them. “Of course, Your Grace. Do forgive me.”
“Forgiveness granted.” His fingers tightened about her arm, pressing into her soft flesh just a degree more than possessive doting. “Always do as I ask, and you shall know only the greatest happiness in the world.”
“Of course, my husband.” She smiled up at him as sweetly as she knew how, certain it would be simple to please the old man with her smiles and pleasant nature. Surely. Her mother had assured that the duke had lavished his last wife with untold treasures. He would doubtless do the same with her. She could hardly keep her excitement at bay.
“Now to the wedding breakfast,” he said, his eyes shining down on her with all the love any girl could ever hope to see in a husband’s eyes. “We mustn’t keep the royal family waiting.”
Clare nearly laughed aloud with delight. She barely could believe the Prince and Princess of Wales had attended her wedding! All of Clare’s friends were filled with envy. Happiness was finally hers for the having. At last, she would be the woman she had always dreamed of becoming.
T
he books towered all around her. Hundreds of them. Mary stared in awe at the beautifully leather-bound copies of more novels than she could ever have imagined, stacked carefully on the mahogany shelves. This must have been twice the size of her father’s library.
Several titles jumped out at her.
Pride and Prejudice
,
Les Misérables
,
Tom Jones
,
Wuthering Heights
,
Villette
. . .
How long had it been since she had slipped a book into her hands and vanished into a story? Years. So many years and stories lost. Hesitating, her fingers curled into her palms, aching to touch them, but unsure whether she should.
She’d almost stayed in her room, but after being locked away for so long, she couldn’t ignore her new relative freedom. Slipping down Edward’s wide stairs had been thrilling, and the first room she’d found was this one.
A sanctuary.
She took a step forward, her slippers sliding over the deep red and cream Turkish carpet. The long hem of Edward’s dark navy dressing gown trailed behind her.
Wearing his clothing hadn’t bothered her the way she thought it would. Surprisingly, the lustrous feel of the velvet and silk traced over her skin easily, as carefully as his own touch. She hugged the gown a little closer and glanced to the tall windows.
Though the drapes were pulled back, exposing London’s dark night, lantern light spilled in over the carpets, dancing with the candles that flickered from the many candelabras throughout the library. The lights surrounded her in a soft glow, giving the room an ethereal feel of magic and hope.
In this room she felt so warm, so at ease . . . Well,
more
at ease. She was still unsure of her position and what Edward truly thought of her and what he might think if he found out the truth.
“Do you enjoy reading?”
She jumped, then whipped toward that deep voice.
Edward stood in the door, his shoulder pressed against the frame. His white linen shirt was open slightly at the neck, a careless posture.
It was all so strange. Being free and being here with him. She should have been terrified. But she wasn’t. Not at all. “I do.” She folded her hands tightly before her. “If the book is good.”
He pushed away from the door and took two steps forward, close, but still far enough away to allow her space. She appreciated his effort. She imagined everything he did was calculated, even the decision to take only two steps.
He tilted his head to the side, his dark eyes molten in the firelight. “And what makes a book good?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly. No one had cared what she thought. It had been years since she’d had any sort of casual conversation. Eva, her friend in the asylum, had sometimes talked about normal things they had done in their lives, but it was always laced with bitterness, since both of them had been so sure they’d never be able to do those things again.
She scarcely knew where to begin. She glanced up at the books, studying their golden titles. “I suppose a book is good if it can pull you into its world, so our world disappears. That the characters become as real as you or I.”
He nodded. “And it must somehow touch our hearts.”
She gaped at him.
Touch our hearts?
Could such a man as he care for such a thing from a book? “You like to be moved?”
“Of course. I often find it is far easier to be moved by a book than life.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
His brows lifted. “How so?”
“Well, you seem moved by me.” The moment she said those words, she wished she could take them back. As she understood, some men were truly averse to speaking of their feelings.
“Ah. Yes. But you are special.”
“That is certainly one word for what I am.”
He let out a gentle sigh. “You are far too self-disparaging.”
“I don’t see how.”
He held her gaze. “There is something within you that shines with strength and beauty.”
She looked away, unable to bear the admiration in his eyes. She’d nearly killed herself in his house. An accident, granted, but that hardly made her something wonderful. Quite the opposite.
“Mary?”
She didn’t reply. Her throat was tight.
“You don’t see it now, but you will. How marvelous you are.”
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Mary tensed.
“Be easy,” Edward said. “It’s simply a repast. I had it ordered for here when I saw you slip in.”
A footman entered the library, his hands laden with a large silver tray.
Mary took a step back toward the fire, creating more distance.
The young man in green livery silently walked to the large walnut table near the windows and carefully set the tray down. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”
Edward nodded.
As quickly as he’d entered, the footman vanished.
Mary pressed her lips together, avoiding the plates but unable to ignore the scent of rosemary wafting toward her. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” he said easily. “But won’t you join me?”
Finally, she turned toward the tray. Two cream and gold porcelain plates waited. Salmon, asparagus, and small potatoes in parsley sauce stared back at her. “I suppose it would be the height of rudeness to deny you something so simple.”
“Exactly.” Though the sudden lightening of his eyes suggested he didn’t find this moment simple at all.
She couldn’t quite fight the smile that pulled her lips. He was trying so hard. The least she could do was reward his efforts. Tucking his large robe tighter about her frame, she crossed to the table and sat in one of the massive, ornately carved walnut chairs. “I should hate to be rude.”
Edward smiled, a sudden, full smile that only added to the shocking lightness in his dark eyes.
She paused. “You’re smiling.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You. Your smiles—from the few I’ve seen, they’re usually a bit forced. They don’t reach your eyes.” She stroked her hands over her robe, then forced herself to enjoy his own moment of vulnerability. “This smile did.”
A soft laugh rumbled from him. “How strange, but I think you’re right.” That smile still played at his lips, warming his usually harsh face. “It must be you.”
“Don’t tease,” she said. But she wondered. There was an affinity between them already, as if their souls understood each other’s pain. It was the only reason she could fathom for how easily she seemed to trust him.
“I’m not, Mary. I do—I think it’s your presence.”
Unable to form any sort of weighty reply, she nodded and said simply, “Then I am glad.”
Edward strode up to the table and sat beside her. Quietly, he passed her one of the plates. Then, from the crystal carafe, he poured two glasses of water.
His air of relief that she had joined him, that she hadn’t run from the room, was so palpable she might have laughed, but that earnestness touched her. He truly was determined to see her well.
He lifted a silver fork, then lifted his brows as he gazed from her hand to her fork. A dare.
She narrowed her eyes at him, but took up the heavy fork. It was odd, but she suddenly felt overwhelmed by the beautifully prepared food before her. She’d eaten gruel, porridge, horrible soups made from lord knew what. Now the perfectly cooked salmon and delicately arranged vegetables seemed to represent a life she’d lost.
“The salmon is from one of my estates in Scotland.”
She slowly lowered her fork to the fish and carefully chose a small bite. The scent of butter and that rosemary filled her senses and suddenly she felt a great wave of hunger. With more eagerness than she thought capable, she placed the fork in her mouth.
Flavors exploded on her long-neglected palate. A groan of pleasure came unbidden and her eyes widened.
Edward laughed. A deep, delighted sound. “You like it?”
She met his gaze as she chewed and then she was smiling again. “I do.”
“Then I am pleased.”
Next she chose potato. Butter dripped delicately and her mouth watered. “You are easy to please, it would seem.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he countered. “But whatever gives you pleasure? That pleases me greatly.”