Lord of Regrets (3 page)

Chapter Four

“Why are we leaving, Mama?” Natasha felt the resistant tug on her hand as she led her daughter out of sight through the shadow-dark, narrow alley between the joiner’s and the draper’s, then past the Ellis cottage, and toward the tree-lined fields of Lord Parrington’s estate. She continued onward. They couldn’t slow down. “We didn’t get our shoes.”

“We’ll get them tomorrow.” Or never. Perhaps by morning, if she could borrow the pony cart from the rectory, she and Leona would be gone. Fear propelled her forward. Fear and something like a tingling anticipation, an awakening. Which brought more fear.

The rectory
. The thought of Mr. Duncan calmed her. She had champions here. Marcus could not sweep into a small village like Little Parrington, commit an act of murder, and have no one the wiser. He had made no secret of his being here, so what did he want?

Safely beyond the concealing line of trees, Natasha began to break hold of her distress and think. It was Saturday afternoon. Mary, the girl who helped, would not be back until Monday. For the first time in four years, Natasha regretted the location of their cottage, a good mile from the village, past the church and the vicarage, tucked in between Lord Parrington’s wheat fields and Mr. Welsh’s dairy farm. She had never felt threatened before, not even when there had been the occasional alert of a French prisoner of war escaped from Norman Cross.

Marcus looked the same. Older, of course. Five years could change a man, and he had looked gaunt, the lines of his face more defined.

Heat pounded at her face even as her heart sped. She was too aware of her thighs as they brushed and caught in the layers of her clothes, of her chest, which rose and fell sharply with each breath. She was too aware that everything in her, each inch of her body, had recognized Marcus––as her lover. He was
not
her lover.

She should have heeded the seamstress’s warning. Time had dulled her defenses. Natasha had forgotten about running, had begun to imagine a more settled life.

“I can’t run anymore,” Leona wailed. Natasha almost laughed, her daughter’s words so echoed her own thoughts. She slowed, swept Leona up into her arms, and walked briskly across the field. Her daughter’s slight weight grew heavier with each step, but thankfully the house was just in sight. Natasha had stayed off the main lane on the chance that Marcus would follow them. With any luck, Marcus would not know where she lived and no one would inform him.

Not that she had that sort of luck. It was only a matter of time.

When she reached the gate, panting from exertion, sweating despite the cold, her arms ached. But the focus on physicalities had momentarily cleared her mind of fear. She let Leona down and slowed her pace.

Maybe it was an accident that he was in Little Parrington, village of two hundred and fifty-four souls. Or perhaps, he was merely curious. Perhaps there was nothing sinister at all about his appearance.

Natasha threw away the foolish thoughts even as they passed through her head. She might not know exactly what he wanted from her, or what sort of danger he was to Leona, but she did know that he was a danger. She had created a life for herself here and his very presence underscored the lie that life was.

She stopped for a moment and stared at the modest two-story cottage she had called home for the last four years. The rent was minimal, the housekeeping manageable, and when spring came again, the fields would bloom with beauty. This had been an idyllic refuge.

Perhaps she had grown complacent, had forgotten to be watchful, but that did not mean she needed to stay. She would not lay down her defenses and give in to whatever it was he desired.

She knew how to survive. Surely, too, she knew how to fight.

The afternoon passed slowly. She knew that he would come. Fear and anger warred within her, and she paced the floor, nauseated and trembling. Her behavior frightened Leona, but there was little space outside the darkness within her to calm anyone else. When finally she heard the sound of a carriage, Natasha tucked Leona in her room and told her to stay there.

Then she opened the upper-story window. There was a safety in the height and distance.

He had made his way up the lane, stopped several feet from her front door at the sound of her window opening. It hurt to look at him, so familiar but so strange. In the apothecary, she had only had one stunning glimpse. Now he was before her and far too real.

Her instincts had kept her here, waiting for his arrival, for a confrontation that could possibly free her from a life of hiding. Seeing him now, she knew she should have run.

Beneath his beaver hat, his dark hair curled around his neck. The tip of his nose was pink but the rest of his face didn’t reflect the chill of the day or the blush of the setting sun. His gaze upon her was dark, intense. She remembered
before
, the warm, melting attention of his glances and the softness of his brown eyes. She remembered his embrace, the cocoon of his arms, of their bed. And she remembered the excitement of a life with him, when her every emotion was dependent on him and her smiles linked to his. If she were closer, she’d be able to see if any trace of softness remained, or if, on that last day so long ago, he had hardened his heart and never looked back.

Whether it was from the memories or his presence, she thrummed everywhere in her body, ridiculously awake. Despite the winter day, everything outside seemed so clear and bright, as if she were looking through droplets of water. And like one of those droplets, she felt round, wet, and womanly.

“I know about the codicils,” she called out, needing the sharpness of her words to pierce the spell that had stricken her. She had learned of those damning additions in Exeter when, too heavy with child to pretend she wasn’t, she’d finally adopted the guise of a widow. People talked to widows more, confided things, gossiped with them. The London society pages featuring the inheritance plight of Viscount Templeton had triggered the plans of every matchmaking mama.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Natasha continued, hoping something she said would make him turn around and disappear into the fast approaching night. “Leona believes her father is dead. Please, leave us in peace. We are no danger to you.”

“Danger? Is that what you think?” The wind picked up, and though she saw him speaking, she could no longer make out distinct words. She struggled to make sense of the fragmentary sounds. “Of course…you…think…D…Lord, my love…”

She heard the last word as if the wind had pummeled her with it.

“Love?” she interrupted, fury winning out over her fear. “How dare you?”

She was angry, so very angry, and the urge to run downstairs and hit him with her fists or with the broom or with anything that would hurt consumed her so greatly that she clenched the casement to keep herself still. She couldn’t go near him. Not here where they were alone. Though if she could help it, he would not know that she and Leona lived alone, that there were no servants to call to for help.

He was looking around as if he planned to grab the ivy cords that coated the walls and climb his way up to her.

“At l…let me sp…you,” he cried out.

Desperation welled up. She needed to get him to leave.

“If you must speak to me,” she called out, “come to church tomorrow. I’ll see you there.” The church felt like a talisman. With all the villagers and the reverend to watch over her, she’d be safe there.

For a brief moment, the wind stopped and she heard his words clearly.

“Church? But you never went to church.”

Natasha laughed bitterly. “You see, Lord Templeton, we’re strangers.”

The wind picked up again, and she shut the casement against its sudden force. She was still nauseated, still trembling, and she’d just made a deal with the devil.

…

Her wariness pained him but Marcus could not blame her. He’d had five years to think about what had passed, to regret his actions. In all that time, he had worried about her and wondered how she would survive on her own. He had never expected to find her living a normal, quiet life, as if the past had never happened. As if she were really some innocuous widow with the ridiculous name of Prothe.

But had there truly been a Mr. Prothe? He pushed the unwelcome thought aside, focused on what was important:
she would not run
. When the wind proved to be the precursor to a short yet fierce winter squall, that thought comforted Marcus through the long, howling evening and sleepless night, through his morning ablutions and Pell’s ministrations. It comforted him as he trudged across slippery stones and muddy lanes, through the lingering drizzle and pervading damp, the half mile to the Church of All Saints, presided over by the Reverend Mr. Duncan, who stood just inside the open door greeting the few parishioners that straggled in out of the cold. Marcus exchanged courtesies, introducing himself while maintaining that aloof demeanor that ensured no unwanted questions would be asked. He needed time, and he knew his actions would reveal his purpose in Little Parrington soon enough.

The church was near empty, perhaps due to the inclement weather. The edifice itself was some two hundred years old. Not ancient by any measure, but still a respectable age. The smell of the watery brine that had claimed the original building seemed to cling even here within these stone walls.

Natasha was already inside, sitting in the fifth row. On her left, to the far side of her, he could see a small pink bonnet over blond hair. To her right, she had left a space. Or rather, space enough for several grown men. Despite the curious stares of the parishioners, Marcus hung his overcoat at the back of the church and strode down the aisle.

When he reached Natasha, she refused to look at him. He bowed out of habit and out of derision at himself. Then he slid into the pew and sat down next to her.

“Good Morning, Natasha.” He watched her lips purse, but still she wouldn’t look at him. However, the little girl did, her chin resting on her fist with undisguised curiosity. “Good Morning, Miss Leona.”

Just as he would not say Mrs. Prothe, he would not call his daughter by some other man’s name.

Leona tugged on her mother’s sleeve while staring at him. “It’s the man from the shop, Mama.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I am Lord Templeton.” He held out his hand, reaching across Natasha. It was rude, he knew, ungentlemanly, but by leaning forward he could catch Natasha’s scent, her heat; he could force her to pay attention to him.

Wide-eyed, Leona reached out and took his hand, and he wondered at the tiny fingers and ridiculously soft skin.

Natasha’s gloved hand came up quickly, knocking loose the grip of their clasped hands. “He’s a stranger, Leona. We don’t speak to strangers.”

Marcus knew Natasha had chosen the church to make it more difficult for them to talk, but that did not mean conversation was impossible.

The rector had reached the pulpit. Aware that the man watched them carefully even as he began the service, Marcus stared straight ahead.

“Why are you here?” she whispered, forestalling his own words.

In the periphery of his vision, he saw that her palms were flat on the wood bench, fingers curled over the edge. He slid his hand over, rested it on hers, closed his fingers around her fingers. A five-year-long tension began to unknot inside him. His words came out as a sigh of longing.

“Natasha, I’ve been looking for you every day since you left.”

She didn’t move her hand away. She didn’t move at all. And Leona watched them, out of the corner of her eye, even as her head was bowed over her prayer book. His
daughter
.

“It makes no sense,” Natasha whispered. “You will lose your estate.” Then, her voice grew more urgent, her hand restless beneath his. “But I won’t tell anyone. I never intended to.”

His heart ached at her words, at her attempt to convince him she was no danger to him. This was not the same Natasha who had yielded to his every thought. She’d had a life here without him, a life of which he knew nothing. If only––His hand felt almost empty, or was that his soul?

“There was no Mr. Prothe, was there?”

She didn’t answer. Her lips mouthed the words of the psalm.

He stroked the inside of her gloved palm with his thumb. Her silence was his answer and contented, he sat through the rest of the service. He didn’t let go of her hand, not even when she fidgeted and pushed. She wouldn’t be free of him unless she made a scene, and with the rector glancing toward them every so often, he knew she wouldn’t. Content to have her hand in his, Marcus didn’t speak again.

But when the service ended, she pulled away with force.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“No.” Natasha stood. He stood as well. “We aren’t leaving just yet. Mr. Duncan is expecting us.”

“Then I shall call on you this afternoon.” He didn’t need to press the issue, to make her more wary than she already was. He needed to woo her. To prove to her that he was not the same cowardly boy who had feared his grandfather’s wrath––to prove he had made himself worthy of her trust and her love. Though it had been years since he’d courted a lady, the last having been Natasha, he knew that his efforts thus far had been poor.

After a long moment, by which time the Reverend Mr. Duncan had reached their side, she said, “Tomorrow would be better.”

Marcus bowed, thanked the rector for the service, and took his leave. He would need to pick his battles. After five long years, tomorrow would be soon enough.

He trudged back the half mile, hunched against the wind. It was early February, the coldest winter in memory, but he welcomed the numbing pain.

At the inn, he headed straight for the stables where he found his coachman playing cards with Phineas and the inn’s stable hand.

“Saddle Juniper for me,” Marcus ordered.

“I know the light’s deceiving with the storm and all,” the stable hand said, “but it’ll be dark soon. Look out for the cliff.”

Marcus watched Phineas pull two of the saddles.

“No,” he barked. “Only mine.” He didn’t want or need company. Unless it was
her
company. In almost thirty years of life, he never had.