Lord of Regrets (17 page)

His grandfather was right. There was too much, perhaps, that Marcus did not understand, to which he had not yet turned his mind. He was more apt to pay attention to Canning, to the domestic economic issues and matters of trade that war did not affect. Which, Marcus realized, had been foolish of him. This war, colonies gathered or given up, maritime rights, all the negotiations and fine points about which Castlereagh had gone to discuss with Metternich and the Tsar earlier in the year, would affect his coffers.

“That is why I am here, in any event. Do you still have need of me?”

His grandfather studied him, his thick, scraggling eyebrows veed in a frown.

“No longer the same need,” he murmured, barely audible. And as Marcus strained to hear, he understood that this thin, quiet voice was a way in which his grandfather wielded power as well. “But you may be of use.”

Marcus clutched at the bundle of fur that squirmed against his chest, his grandfather’s words echoing in his ears.

“
Likely nothing will happen at Chatillon. From what I know, these plenipotentates are struggling not to expire with boredom. Castlereagh has done the deed already in forestalling the decisions made at Frankfort, but to Chatillon you will go. I have correspondence for you to deliver. Afterward, you will join Castlereagh at his camp as an attaché, in reality as factotum, but the opportunity is a good one. I want you known by the men before the real negotiations come about. And if the Tsar gets his way and enters Paris, I want you there when it happens.”

“
I had intended to send another,” his grandfather had explained, looking bemused for the first time. “There is a man there who will contact you. Gerard, he is called.”

“He is French?”

“He is my man,” his grandfather had insisted. “There are few men I trust, but Gerard owes his loyalty to me.”

“Do you trust me?” Marcus had felt compelled to ask.

“Would you have told me about your daughter, forsaken your inheritance, even if you hadn’t found her?”

“I am not here to discuss my wife or my daughter,” Marcus had said, steadying himself against the abrupt switch of topic.

“Your father was a scapegrace as a youth and a dishonor as a man. You may not be. I don’t believe you are.”

“My Lord.”

The door to the townhouse swung open, interrupting Marcus’s thoughts. His butler stared at him as he crossed the threshold.

“What, Logan? Ah yes, this little thing. Where is my daughter this evening?” But it was a pointless question, and Marcus was already halfway up the stairs when he heard the man say, “The schoolroom.”

Leona was in her bedroom, in fact, tucked away into bed, Natasha by her side reading her a story. The sight of his wife punched the air out of his chest, but it was only a momentary setback, for Leona jumped up in her bed.

“Puppy!”

She raced toward him, and he transferred the squirming animal into her arms, focusing only on his daughter, forcing his gaze to stay low and not look at his wife.

“Careful, there, she’s only four months old and quite fragile.”

“Oh, look at her!” Leona held the dog like a baby, and the catlike little thing seemed almost to purr, resting her silken head against the small arms that held her. His daughter walked carefully back to the bed and sat down. He skimmed across Natasha’s profile as he followed Leona’s progress. “What is her name?”

“They were calling her Blackie for her coloring, as the rest of the litter was tan and white, but I rather thought you’d like to name her, as she is yours.”

“Mine?” Leona didn’t look up from the pup, but her face shone with excitement. “Oh, you’re mine,” she murmured to the dog, and for a moment his heart was breaking in a completely different way. “I shall call her Puffin. Thank you, Papa!”

“Papa,” Natasha repeated scathingly. “That isn’t a doll you’ve just brought to buy her love. It is a living creature that needs taking care of––”

“Peace, Tasha!” Marcus cried, backing toward the door. He knew his daughter watched, listened, though her head was bent close to the little dog. “I am leaving.”

“I will take care of her. I swear I will!” Leona looked at him, her large eyes pleading, asking him to believe.

“Ladies don’t swear,” Natasha sniped, and Leona flinched. For the first time, a seething anger grew in Marcus’s gut. This was the woman whom he loved? Then Natasha added more gently, but not enough to erase the previous sharpness, not nearly enough, “But yes, I’m sure you will. Only you will need to take it out for its needs and find the right food for it and where shall it sleep?”

He crept out of the room, but just as he reached for the door, he heard, “Marcus, did you not even think that the puppy will need a lead?”

He shut the door behind him. He needed to find Pell. He had a trip for which to pack.

Chapter Twenty-One

Natasha avoided Marcus the rest of the evening. She took her dinner in her room. Readied herself for sleep and slipped under the covers of her own bed. Marcus did not come for her, did not open the door between their rooms once. Her fierce satisfaction was tempered by emptiness. Her bed was nearly the match of his, although her bed linens were of a more feminine design and no trace of his scent warmed them. But she was aware of the space, of how large, how different the bed felt without his body curled around hers, warming her from the winter chill.

Marcus. She didn’t want to think of him.

She awoke early, before the chambermaid came with the morning chocolate, upon which Natasha, following her mother-in-law’s habit, had become indulgently dependent. Pulling open the heavy draperies, she let in the weak gray light and stood by the frosted glass, shivering. The bedrooms were at the rear of the house, and she had a view of the square-walled garden and the mews beyond.

And a view of Marcus’s traveling coach, the same one that had conveyed them from Little Parrington to London, making its jerky progress down the narrow lane. She became aware then of the noises of the house, footsteps in the hall, on the main stairs, not the servants’ ones.

Marcus. He hadn’t mentioned that he was leaving London.

She slipped into her dressing robe, clutching it close over her bedclothes, and hurried into the hall. Empty. The sitting room at the front of the house was empty as well. She heard the grunts of men exerting themselves on the floor below, the
clang
of things being moved, and the whisper of conversation.

From the top of the stairs, Natasha caught a glimpse of two footmen carrying a large trunk across the threshold and out into the gray morning fog that swallowed them up.

There was Pell, following the men, pointing, directing, ensuring all of Marcus’s belongings went wherever he wanted them to go.

But where was Marcus?

Natasha went down the stairs, the banister sliding under her hand in her haste. The hall was empty too, cold from the wind sucked in by the open door, which knocked noisily against the wall with each new gust. Shivering, she lengthened her stride. The breakfast parlor was empty. The dining room as well. As she rounded the corner staircase again to head to his study, Marcus stepped out into the hall.

The wind caught him in its grip, and for a moment, hair tousled, cape flapping, caught in the half shadow of the corridor, he looked––

Her heart was stopped up with how darkly handsome he looked.

“Where are you going?”

The soft brown of his eyes had hardened into something fathomless.

“To France,” he said, and his voice, also, was different, rougher, scraping along her skin. His hand twitched. The motion pulled her gaze to the crisp white envelopes stacked in his hand. “Yes, I was leaving these for you, for my mother, and for Leona.”

“You didn’t say you were going anywhere.” She felt stupid, incredibly stupid, as if anything he said wouldn’t make sense.

He kept moving forward, and she backed up against the wall to make way for him. He passed her, a large shadow of a man, a stranger. She followed him back to the entryway where the butler stood, holding Marcus’s hat and gloves.

“It’s the middle of a war,” she said, pushing for a response.

Marcus said nothing. He set the three letters down on the hall table. He played with the envelopes for a moment between his fingers.

Natasha moved closer, until the newel post of the banister was to her left. She leaned against it, waiting.

Finally Marcus turned to her, strode the five steps back across the marble floor.

“Don’t pretend you will miss me, wife,” he said, his voice low and quiet, chilling her far more than the late-winter air.

Natasha stiffened and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. The air, the world, was swirling about her, and she searched for something to stop it, to make it stable.

“No, I won’t pretend. But you drag us here to London and then you leave, before anyone awakes––”

“You’re awake.”

“Without telling anyone or saying where you are going or when you will return. You’re leaving me stranded here––”

“Not stranded. There is an account for you at my bank from which you may draw at your leisure. My man has been instructed, as he does for my mother and my cousins, to add to it quarterly. If you wish to stay in London, you may. If you wish to move on to Woodbridge, you may do that as well. I expect you will enjoy the Season, however.”

“You’re abandoning me.”

Fury etched itself in every line of his face, in the stance of his body.

“What, in the name of God, do you want from me?” The words were half growl, half whisper, and all pushed at her. Then the storm ended so suddenly that its absence was deafening. He drew himself back, cold, stony. Immovable. “I have been commissioned to assist in the negotiations of peace at Châtillon-sur-Seine. I will return when I have performed my duty and am released from my obligations there. Please give Leona my love.”

He swiveled on his heel and stalked to the door, taking his hat and gloves from Logan before he was swallowed up by the thick morning fog. Then the butler closed the door, cutting off the howling wind.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Natasha couldn’t shake the idea that Marcus had left because of her. That he had abandoned her. That stupid thought again. She should be happy.

“He left because of you.” It was a moment before Natasha realized it was Leona who had said the words so accusingly. She stared at her daughter—at the little hands fisted, the tone so bitter and lost—as if the girl was a stranger. It was like that night weeks ago when Leona had first learned her father lived. The last few peaceful weeks of truce with her daughter were gone. Was this how it would be forever? Had she lost both her freedom and her daughter’s love? Perhaps it would have been best to let Marcus have his daughter and to have kept her freedom.

She shook the thought away as soon as it formed, hating herself for the very idea. She would be bad as Marcus then.

“Well,” Kitty said the moment Natasha entered the breakfast room the next morning. She fixed Natasha with her inscrutable gaze, so similar to that of her son. “It seems Marcus has been bit with wanderlust these days and cannot settle in one place. And so changeable, too.”

Natasha took her seat, ignoring the leading tone in the other woman’s words, the suggestion that Natasha had something to do with this––which perhaps she did. After a long, restless night during which she had wondered at the conflicted emotions at his sudden absence, she now understood that she had been living her life in reaction to Marcus since the very first moment they had met. Her emotions were wildly disparate and irrational. Whereas in her youth, she had found the pull of impulse to be utterly romantic, now it was an irritant, a compulsion. Thus, she reminded herself harshly, if she were to feel anything, it should be happiness that she had been granted a respite from Marcus’s presence.

“I understand that his grandfather has sent him to Lord Castlereagh as an attaché.”

Kitty laughed. “Yes, that is what Marcus writes, but with the earl, events are rarely what they seem. Landsdowne is the head of our family. I suspect soon enough you’ll find that extends to you as well.” She pointed to a still-sealed missive tucked half under her plate. “
That
is from the earl.”

“Does he write to you regularly?”

“No.” Kitty raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lip lifting as well. “He must want something from me.”

“I saw Marcus this morning,” Natasha said, moving to the sideboard to fill a plate.

“Did you? Logan tells me he left at some ungodly hour. Ah, I was right. Lord Landsdowne wishes us to attend upon him.”

“Us?” Natasha lowered the serving spoon with which she had been about to set broiled eggs upon her plate. “I thought he didn’t approve of the marriage. I thought…”

Kitty laughed hollowly. “Welcome to the family.”

Natasha lifted the spoon again, slid the eggs onto her plate, and then slowly placed the silver utensil back down, careful to keep the clatter of metal against metal to a minimum.

The day would be interesting at the very least. She could likely face no additional humiliation at the hands of the old earl, and she was curious to finally meet the man whose will had so greatly affected her life.

The event, too, contained a sense of inevitability—another man pulling the strings of her life. But what could a woman do to gain her freedom when she had already determined not to run again?

In the afternoon, their carriage rolled past elegant wrought-iron gates and across uneven paving stones until finally, with an uncomfortable jolt, it stopped. They exited the carriage, descending into the cold winter day, its sky low above their heads. Natasha had only an impression of the vastness of the large gray stone building before she was walking through tall open doors into the entry hall.

The footman in his dark but stately Landsdowne livery led them to an empty sitting room, already warmed by a fire.

“Lord Landsdowne will be here momentarily,” the footman said before he left. “May I send in tea?”

“Yes, please do,” Kitty said.

The room was large, decorated ornately in the style of the last century. Above the mantel over the fireplace was a family portrait of a young man, his wife, and two small boys.

“He wants to impress you, I believe,” Kitty said quietly.

Natasha laughed, a short, breathy release of air. “I can’t see that he would want to impress
me
.”

Kitty gave her a sidelong glance and that small smile, which Natasha understood meant her mother-in-law thought her a bit stupid. But Kitty’s glance slid past Natasha and up to the portrait, and a very different expression crossed her face.

“He was a handsome child, my husband. The one on the left.”

Natasha swung her gaze back to the picture of domestic bliss, studied the angelic expression painted on the young boy’s face. He was young enough there that he still wore a dress.

“Who is the other boy?”

“Edmund. His younger brother.” With a rustling of her skirts, Kitty moved, sitting on one of the sofas. With new questions in her mind, Natasha joined her.

“I didn’t realize your husband had a brother.”

“I left a copy of Debrett’s for you on your bed table. The page on the Templetons was even marked.” Kitty’s voice was filled with unmistakable derision.

Natasha flushed. Then she lifted her chin. She had not joined the family of her own free will. She owed them no loyalty and no interest, no matter the name she now bore.

A maid entered the room carrying a tray of tea and cakes. Her dress beneath the white apron was a steel blue that matched the livery of the footmen. Her shoes, when they peeked out from beneath her skirts, were a highly polished black. The contrast of that inky black against the white of her petticoat and then the steel blue, when the maid bent to put the tray down, was lovely in its own way. Much the way Natasha had thought the contrast of the houses in Little Parrington against the foamy sea was lovely.

When the maid was gone, disappeared around the corner of the open door, Natasha could no longer politely avoid her mother-in-law. Or the thick silence.

But when she looked up, she found Kitty staring at the painting.

“They were close, and Edmund died shortly after Marcus was born.”

A faint rumbling sounded down the hall and then came closer. Kitty turned back to Natasha, suddenly more alert, out of the mist of memory in which she had clearly been ensconced.

As the noise grew louder, Natasha heard squeaking as well, discerned the clear sound of a wheel and the soft tread of footsteps.

“That will be Lord Landsdowne,” Kitty said softly. “In his Bath chair, of course.”

It was hard to sit still with anger radiating through her body and swallow that anger down. But it was not this man’s fault that Marcus had made the choices he’d made. It was not his fault.

Then Lord Landsdowne was there in front of her: a frail, elderly man hunched in his chair, being wheeled toward them by one of those well-dressed footmen.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said in an unexpectedly strong voice. The footman placed the chair in the space between the two sofas, in reach of the table. Then the earl waved the man away. “Kitty, I see you are well.”

“Yes, my lord,” Kitty said. “May I present to you my new daughter-in-law? Lady Templeton.”

“It is an honor to finally meet you, Lord Landsdowne.”

“My grandson was remiss in not bringing his lovely new wife to meet the head of his family. But clearly he is deeply in love with you. Come, shall we have tea and you’ll tell me about how you met?”

Natasha snuck a quick glance at Kitty, who merely leaned forward to pour tea.

“I believe Marcus has told you that I was his mistress five years ago.”

Although Kitty made a choked sound and the teacup she held rattled against its saucer, Lord Landsdowne merely nodded.

“And how did a sheltered young lady like yourself make the acquaintance of my grandson? From what your father has intimated––”

“My father?” Natasha interrupted.

“No need to be alarmed,” the earl assured her with a placating smile. “Your father joined me at my club. I found him a man of perfect comprehension.”

Natasha stared. It was as if there had never been any strife, nothing the matter. Only this frail, charming older gentleman who seemed nothing like the manipulative myth Marcus had made him out to be.

“I don’t understand.”

“Come, Natasha, is it?” He waved away the cup of tea Kitty offered him and leaned forward in his chair. “I won’t pretend that I was happy my grandson married you. Perhaps if your father were still on good terms with the Emperor Alexander, but as it is, not the most illustrious marriage. I would have chosen someone more suitable for the next Earl of Landsdowne, for a man soon to be consorting with the most powerful men of Europe. But we are where we are.”

And where was that?

He paused, settled back into his chair and gestured for the tea, which Kitty handed him as if she had known that moment would come.

Natasha forced herself to pick up a pastry––a slice of cake dipped in powdered sugar––and place it on a plate. She had no interest in the sweet, but piece by piece she ate it all the same, waiting for him to continue.

“Family is family. I feel certain it must be your gentling influence that has opened Marcus up to the opportunities our family can offer him.”

The cake stuck in her mouth, lay thick on her tongue. From the earl’s placid expression, she couldn’t tell if he was expressing sarcasm or if he truly believed what he had said. She swallowed hard.

“Natasha’s presence has brought an entirely different air to our little home,” Kitty said.

“You see, Natasha, I am a pragmatist and I am quite willing to believe that there is good that may arise from this unexpected, unadvised union. I will host a dinner Thursday night in your honor. Your parents will be there as well.” He said it as a statement, as if she should be pleased that he would do such a thing on her behalf.

“You are too kind, my lord,” Kitty said, saving Natasha from choking over the conflicting emotions.

The earl only nodded, watching Natasha. His gaze was sharp, his expression polite and respectful. He had laid his cards down on the table, out for her to see. Why should she hate the man?