Lord of Regrets (4 page)

Dispassionately, he eyed the men who still stood, their game left untended, as they waited for Marcus to leave or to give orders. Their presence, this room with its warm fire and casual comfort, angered him. He didn’t know why and that angered him even more.

He left them, entered the main part of the stables with its rows of stalls, mostly empty but for his four horses.

Phineas had readied Juniper, and the bay now stood quivering by the open door. The horse was ready for a ride, regardless of the dark, regardless of the cold, and Marcus understood exactly how he felt. Sometimes a man simply needed to move, to feel he was faster than the world around him.

He mounted Juniper and led him out. The overcast sky was tinged with the last pink of day. He took the path, slush over frozen earth, toward the water. Crepuscular creatures scurried in the winter-bare brush that edged the way. With the early dark of winter, it felt far later than it was.

He reached the cliff’s edge just as the sky turned to steel and the water shimmered in the diffused light of the full moon. That moon, tucked as it was behind swift-moving clouds, was not visible, but still, Marcus felt like howling.

He’d been single-minded in his desire ever since he’d left London. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy.

He led Juniper south, till he reached a passable way down to the beach. They picked their way over rocks and roots, over vegetation that clung in dark, sinister shapes to the cliff. When he reached the sand, the roaring of the North Sea echoing his thoughts, he let Juniper have his head and flew.

Different. Natasha was different now; he knew that. She’d had to survive on her own, create a new identity and a new life. Yet those changes were merely the delicate hewing of life––the marble a sculptor chisels away to create a masterpiece, the platonic ideal waiting to be discovered. Just as he had loved her five years ago, he would love this more pure version of Natasha.

Marcus had changed in five years as well. Heels driving Juniper on, wind biting at his cheeks, he clung to that thought. He knew what he wanted and he went after it. He let no one stand in his way. He was no longer the coward who lived in his grandfather’s pocket.

…

Natasha spent the afternoon and evening wondering if Marcus would come despite her demand that he not. It would be so like him to ignore her wishes, to force his will and impose upon her. However, she was older, stronger. She was not the same foolish girl who had fallen prey to his sweet words and sweeter caresses.

With Mary gone for the night and Leona safely asleep, Natasha lay in her own bed, staring into the dark. Here, alone, she could admit to herself that the touch of his hand in the church had scared her. Even separated by the thin layer of her glove, it had carried intoxicating memories.

And with Leona on her other side, they were almost like any other family attending church. Only, they weren’t. And the conversation on the way home from church had made it very clear. As her cottage was en route to the vicarage, Mr. Duncan had driven them home in his carriage.

“Lord Templeton’s arrival seems to have upset you,” he’d said, and she had shied away from his probing words.

She had known this moment would come. Mr. Duncan would never ask her bluntly what Marcus was to her, but he would want to know.

“Yes. Yes, it has,” she had admitted.

“Forgive me, Natasha, it isn’t my place, but as your reverend—” He’d broken off, shaking his head. “No, as someone who places your happiness in esteem, if you wish to confide… If I may be of assistance.”

“Mr. Duncan, please.” The lie had swelled in her chest but she forced herself to think of it as if it were the truth. “I knew Lord Templeton before…” That was the truth. That she could say, awkwardly phrased as it was, with no guile. “But he was not a friend to me when I found myself alone and in a delicate condition.”

When Mr. Duncan’s face had darkened in anger, she had realized what he assumed. If only that had been it, but Marcus had threatened so much worse. Would he have gone through with it? She wondered for the millionth time if she could have reasoned with him. If there had been another way.

“What happens when we die?” Leona had interrupted then. She had been tucked between them, playing with the decorative tassels on her mittens, and Natasha had wondered what her daughter thought.

“Well, when a human dies, he or she goes to heaven,” Mr. Duncan had answered. “If the person has been good.”

“But do they keep their memory? Or do they forget?”

Leona’s insatiable curiosity, her constant barrage of questions, seemed to be even greater whenever the rector was around, as if the girl knew that he had more answers than her mother.

And Leona would be right. Her mother had no answers.

But she couldn’t let Leona know. “They don’t forget, sweetheart. I would never forget you.”

“Does my father remember me?”

The question had pained Natasha and she had avoided Mr. Duncan’s inquisitive gaze. Could not meet Leona’s eyes. Marcus’s arrival had made her hard-won life a lie.

“Your father was not there to see you born. But, I am certain––I am certain he remembers you.”

The tears had stung at Natasha’s eyes. Without looking at him, she had accepted Mr. Duncan’s handkerchief.

That thin cloth had felt like safety, like a bond to Little Parrington that Marcus could not break. He would not disturb her life here. He would not succeed in whatever nefarious plot he had in mind.

But in the quiet of night, in the solitude of her bed, she could admit: the damage was already done.

Chapter Five

It was difficult to continue on as if nothing had happened, as if her life would not forever be marked by Marcus’s presence. Natasha was exhausted, sleep impossible with the terror that gripped her.

There was Marcus, just across town. There, also, was the great unknown. What did he want? She could not keep avoiding him forever. At some point, she would either need to run or face him. Yet all she wanted to do was hide, make time still until he left town, until her future was decided.

There had been moments, early on during the last five years, when she had wanted to die, if only to put the memory of their love behind her. Then there had been times when she wanted to keep that memory tight, to never forget that she had loved him, that she had loved. But mostly, she lived in shadow, her emotions––other than her love for her daughter––stagnant. It was as though after five brief months of a newly awakened body and awareness of all the carnal pleasures life had to offer, she had become unsexed.

But here was Marcus, sending her into turmoil, into the wild extremes of emotions she hadn’t felt in years. She should have heeded the warning and avoided the danger, leaving when she’d had the chance.

She didn’t know what he wanted, but he said he loved her. She would not go back, never trade in her hard-won, false respectability for a life as his mistress. And his appearance made no sense for there were those codicils. Would he truly give it all away simply to have her in his bed again?

She shook her head, physically throwing the unnecessary ruminations from her mind. It didn’t matter what he wanted. What mattered was what
she
wanted and what would keep Leona safe. Perhaps if he had found her in that first year, when her emotions were still wild and reactionary, a promise not to hurt the babe would have lured her back.

She had loved him so deeply that she still felt the echo of that love as a wound on her soul. It was a wound that had made her question her every judgment these last years because, if she had chosen so poorly in him, if her heart and instinct had been so wrong, in what could she trust?

On Monday, Mary returned. The girl’s cheerful presence buoyed Natasha’s confidence. Marcus would call, but he would not find her defenseless. She did not
have
to see him. It was market day in the next town. The skies were clear for once, and there was no reason to wait at home for Marcus to call when she could take Leona for an outing and buy some much-needed goods.

She sent Mary to the vicarage to borrow the dogcart, dressed Leona and herself, and waited with anxiety, hoping that Mary would arrive before Marcus. Perhaps she would purchase a horse and cart of her own at the market. Natasha had resisted the convenience because it was an expense that would eat away at her meager savings, but now she realized just how much she had trapped herself.

They arrived at Burnham Market. The large square, as usual, was set up with its row of stalls. All sorts of people frequented the market from lesser gentry to farmers, servants, and itinerants. Natasha knew there must be hundreds of women like her across England, pretending to be something they were not for the mere facade of respectability, but there was no way to advertise for or discover such kinfolk. Even to do so would defeat the purpose. However, bearing a disguise meant that Natasha had no
people
, no history, no background. It left her an island, even in a crowd.

She bought duck and partridge, butter and eggs, and a pasty for Leona, who stared at each stall as if it was a new world to discover. Natasha wondered when she had last looked at the world through such innocent eyes. No, no need to wonder. She had kept that sort of innocence until the day Marcus had driven her from London with his violence.

Natasha stared at the horses, stamping and walking in their corral. She had had such dreams when she was a child. Her father had fed her stories of his homeland, of malachite and mountains, princes and tsars. Russia had seemed a far more magical world than London. Paris, too, the city of her mother’s childhood, had held its own mystique, though less magical and more sensuous. The best of everything, her mother had said. Pastries, fashion, music, art. The best taste in the world was to be found in Paris. Her papa had agreed, for he had left Moscow to study art in Paris, and that was where he had met Mama.

Then, there was the other side, their lives battered by the winds of a capricious fate. Her father had also made Russia seem barbaric. As Natasha grew older, layered in with the fairy tales were stories of massacres and assassinations: her father’s family winnowed down to one branch by a cousin, her parents pushed across the channel, seeking safety from the cruelty of the uncivilized masses who were revolting in Paris.

All around her in this market town were those people, the same sort of uncivilized masses her father had disparaged. She was now one of them, and she knew dreams were useless down in the tumult of daily life.

With the sun at its highest point in the sky, Natasha loaded the reverend’s dogcart with their purchases. Leona clambered up onto the seat and waited expectantly, clutching a twisted paper filled with sweets in her hand. How had her parents felt each time they decided to run? Like her parents, Natasha had fled and might flee again. In that case, a horse would be useful.

But despite her fear, Natasha was curious. A small, barely acknowledged part of her wanted to hear him declare his love again, to have another memory, another small triumph in the affairs of the heart. Therefore, she would not flee today.

…

When he came to call that afternoon, the maid told him she wasn’t at home. Marcus was tempted to push the young girl aside and search for himself, but he held back, thanked her, and left. Clearly, despite her words, Natasha was determined to avoid him. He was equally determined to speak with her.

He bided his time in town until hours later, with the moon bright and the frozen night howling with wind, he climbed over the wooden fence that delineated the cottage’s garden. Perhaps this had once been a groundskeeper’s house, or that of a tenant, but now it was a small enclosure amid acres of farmland.

What he was about to do was against the law. True, but a necessity. If he left the choice in Natasha’s hands, he would never get close enough to speak with her alone.

He was prepared to climb the thick ropes of ivy, but a last-minute test of the rear door found it unlocked. He would have to warn her of that.

He crept inside, followed instinct up to the first floor. The house was quiet, no sound of servants, and he wondered if the maid he had seen earlier was only part-time help. In the five months during which Natasha had been his mistress, he had showered upon her jewels he could barely afford. Foolishly, some would say. Now he was glad, for the funds had clearly cushioned her retreat. He hoped they had. He couldn’t bear to think about what she must have undergone these last five years if they had not. All the same, he needed to know the narrative of those intervening years with a desperate curiosity.

There were three doors. He tried one and, with a cursory look, found the room empty. The second, which he slowly opened, wincing at the one creak of protesting wood, hid Natasha’s bedroom.

In the glow of the still-red embers smoldering in the fireplace, he made out the large shapes in the room: an armoire, console, dressing screen. In the center, of course, was her bed, in which she slept, curled on her side.

How many nights had he let himself into their rooms in London? Joined her in the bed and woken her with kisses, with the touch of his fingers, his tongue between her thighs?

He closed the door behind him, watching her all the while.

She slept on, even when he reached her side and studied her face, the hair—hair that he knew to be silken and strong––that lay over her shoulders and pillows.

He couldn’t bear to wake her yet, so he lay down next to her, imagining that nothing had changed, that it was five years ago. Although he couldn’t convince himself of that illusion, he reveled in her closeness, in the moment of peace he knew would be broken when she awoke.

One kiss. His lips cried for one kiss before he woke her, before he needed to face reality and her wrath and to use words to convince her of his love.

He pressed his lips against hers lightly and then urged more when he felt her first sleepy response. How many times had he awakened her this way in the past? Not enough.

Her response was so sweet, so open, and he lost himself in it, in the taste of her, both familiar and strange all at once. He wanted more. He wanted to follow this kiss to its natural end, to the modulations of her body, but it wasn’t right. He needed to wake her, not take advantage of her in this way. He pulled back.

She reached for him, grasping, and he caught one hand in his own, drawing it to his mouth, murmuring around the fervent kisses he placed on the soft skin.

“Natasha, my love, wake up.”

She came awake all at once, jerking her hand back, scuttling out of the bed.

“Tasha.” He sat up, watching her, knowing if she bolted, he’d be right there to stop her.

“What are you doing here? How dare you—” She broke off, gasping, almost hysterical, and Marcus’s gut wrenched in agony. He was an ass; it should never have come to this.

Yet here they were.

“You wouldn’t talk to me, Natasha. What else was I to do?”

“Not break into my home. Not frighten me half to death. For that matter, not be here at all!”

“Natasha,” he pleaded.

“Leave me alone,” she cried, wrapping her arms around herself, glancing toward the door.

He stood quickly. She backed up, and he followed her.

“It was a mistake, Natasha.” He needed to get the words out, the hard, rough words that cut his throat with his stupidity. “I came to my senses by the time the physician came. But you were gone.” She was shaking her head, trembling from either the cold or fear. “It was a mistake, Tasha.”

She met his gaze, and there was something in her expression that made his heart ache. She retreated again. And again, he followed.

“I’ve missed you so much.” He backed her up against the wall, held her in the hard cage of his arms even as he rained kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her neck. He felt her arms flutter uselessly at her sides and knew he had only a few moments to urge her, to use the knowledge he had of her body, her responses, before she found a way to push him back and break away.

…

His words still ricocheted in her head––in her stupid, stupid heart––even as his touch, his lips, teased her, melted her. She was so weak. From that first moment that she had seen him, vivid and dark in the apothecary, she understood that the years of dormant desire were no more. He had stolen in, found her at her most vulnerable, and she still craved his touch as if nothing had ever happened. As if he hadn’t threatened her sweet Leona’s life. Even as anger burst within her, his lips trailed across her neck. She surged within herself, trapped and torn apart by her conflicting desires.

She wanted this.

She was born to want this.

Five long years of just her own meager pleasure, no man inside her, filling her, completing her. And here Marcus was, touching her, like in one of her countless dreams––the dreams she had tamped down, denied, forced into hibernation. Here he was making her come to life again, as if she were that eighteen-year-old girl first discovering the feel of a man’s hand against her inner thigh and his lips on her breast. First understanding that lovemaking was one place where a woman could find true equality, true power.

She wanted this.

She could have it. Take only the physical and keep her heart sheltered. Use him the way she had been used by him. She could have this moment and then leave.

The realization swelled up within her, beguiling and liberating. She pushed his cheek with hers until he lifted his head, met her eyes with his own. His tight grip loosened, and she took his face in her hands, filled her own yawning need with a kiss.

Fire licked at her skin, scorched down into her belly, swept away the moment of decision. She fumbled at his clothes until he fell on the bed shirtless. And then she stared at him for one hot moment in the cool gleam of moonlight, at the lean length of his chest above his pantaloons. She had forgotten how beautiful he was, how she had hungered for just the taste of his skin, for the feel of him straining under her hands. She knew she could torture him and pleasure him all at once.

She unbuttoned the falls of his pantaloons and grasped the length of him, which nearly made her bend over with heartbreaking need. So much of her love for him had been bound up in this, in his touch, his body, the way they moved together. Echoes of that love surged up within her, painfully sweet and desperate. She pushed any emotion other than the physical away and clenched him between her thighs.

She rode him, used him, reveling in the sensation of him hard and thick within her, finding her pleasure, taking it greedily. And when she collapsed over him, gasping and trembling, his large, warm hands clasped her hips. He turned her, upended her world, till her head fell back upon the pillows and he sank back into her, hard and demanding, drawing out her climax as he sought his own. She knew the sounds he made; their familiarity stung at her eyes and built the swirl of sensation up into a large, gaping, desperate, despairing cry, which melded with the guttural moan of his release.