Lord of Regrets (7 page)

Chapter Nine

After his visit the day before, Marcus knew Natasha would eventually say yes. He had never really doubted that. They had been apart due to his foolishness and cowardice, and now that he had found her, they could be together as they’d been meant to be.

When the carriage rolled to a stop outside the church, Marcus descended. A handful of villagers stared at him.

It made him long for home, for Sussex with its familiar towns and neighbors. Even long for London, where in that bustling international metropolis, everyone and no one was a stranger.

The rector was by the door, greeting people as they arrived. His stare was far less welcoming than the last time they had met. Duncan clearly saw himself as a rival for Natasha’s affection. Although the rotund parson hardly seemed much competition.

Just when Marcus thought they would stay stuck at the congested entrance to the church forever, making strained chitchat with his supposed rival for Natasha’s affections, the arrival of more of the congregation eased their way forward. As his party made their way to the first pew, he found no sign of Natasha inside.

Where was she? If she was now as pious as she seemed to claim, surely she would be there. A handful of parishioners entered, followed by the closing of the heavy church doors and the rector’s steady steps up the aisle. With a prickling of sensation in his skin, Marcus realized she would not be coming. He felt at a loss, empty, and the four walls of the church became a prison. There existed, as always, the possibility that she had fled. But the memory of her near submission the night before was strong within him. More likely, as he knew she had no carriage, it was the still difficult conditions of the roads that kept her home. Surely his man would have come to find him if she had taken flight.

The rector, having gained the pulpit, seemed to peruse the congregation, until his attention rested upon Marcus and then quickly moved on.

His lips set grimly, Marcus settled into the hard pew and counted the minutes until the service ended.

Two hours later, he traversed the snow-packed road back toward Natasha. His thoughts were full of wind and snow and the scent of horse. He was traveling on instinct, on the need to see her face at least once this day. By the time he dismounted, that instinct had grown into wild emotion and lodged in his throat. When she opened the door, he simply stared at her, wordless.

She stared at him in silence, too, pressed her hand to her temple as if it pained her. He saw everything pass across her face in that instant, all the doubts and all the yearning. The shadowed half circles beneath her eyes revealed her sleepless night and though he hated to see her this way, weak from strain, he recognized the signs of incipient surrender.

He wanted to take her into his arms, assure her she could fall into them, rest on his strength, trust in him. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her and kiss away the lines of tension around her mouth. But if he were to woo her truly, he couldn’t force this moment.

“You weren’t at church.”

“I have a headache.” She said it softly, as if the very words pained her.

“Can I be of service to you? Do you need a doctor––”

“No,” she interrupted. “I am not quite up to entertaining this afternoon.”

He studied her face again, nodded at last. “Forgive me.”

As he rode back to the inn, he kept that last sight of her in his mind, eyes wide and moist, lips parted in complete understanding of the absolution he sought.

Monday morning, after being assured by his man that Natasha had not stirred from her home, Marcus withdrew Juniper once more from the stable and took him for a ride. The bay had never been one of his usual mounts, but he’d come to admire his stamina in the past week. The countryside in this corner of Norfolk, even at the height of winter, was beautiful. The gently rolling slopes seemed almost flat at a distance, but there was uniqueness to each bit of snow-covered earth––broken up, he knew, into some twenty-odd tenanted farms as well as the estate’s own land. Parrington’s lands were well tended, a fact that even the starkness of February could not hide.

He took a more circuitous route than usual, coming out upon the road to Norwich several miles from Little Parrington. He was in no hurry to return to the inn.

He was avoiding Natasha. Not because he didn’t want to see her. No, his instinct, the one he had honed these last years in numerous business negotiations, was telling him to stay away. He had made great strides in his courtship, but sometimes a strategic retreat garnered more progress than a continual push forward. He would go to her as the sun set.

He slowed Juniper to a walk, letting the horse catch a breath. His own chest rebelled in pain at the frozen air even as the pace of his heartbeat slowed.

He heard the distant thunder of hooves and led Juniper to the side of lane. A few moments later, from behind the bend in the road, a man came racing along, urging his mount on with his knees. Marcus had only a momentary impression of horse and rider as they passed. Then, with a flurry of slush, the man slowed, turned his horse around, and came trotting back to meet Marcus.

As he neared, the man pulled his hat off and wiped at his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Templeton! It
is
you. I thought my eyes were deceiving me. What are you doing in the neighborhood?”

Lucas Aubrey, Earl of Parrington. The lineage ran instantly through Marcus’s head as if he were reading Debrett’s. The travel-worn man before him looked far more like his earlier forebears than his more recent ancestors. Just like those who had crossed from Normandy with the Conqueror, Lord Parrington was a warrior and had proven it in the early days of the fighting in the Peninsula. He was battle-scarred and brawny. Cropping his hair close didn’t disguise the bald, scarred patch where stray metal had pierced the skin. Marcus had heard the story; everybody had. The man was a hero.

And now that hero was panting from recent exertion as much as the horse he rode.

“I’m in the area on business, but more specifically, to visit an old friend.”

“Oh?” Parrington frowned, as if he were thinking through his acquaintances, both the nobility and gentry of the neighborhood. He was too well-bred, however, to press Marcus for a name, and Marcus did not supply one. Their horses were apace now, and the whinnies and grunts were far noisier than the solitude of the morning that Marcus had enjoyed.

“How much longer will you be stopping in the neighborhood?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Well then. Come to dinner. Tomorrow night, I suppose. By the time my sister arrives with the carriage…” He trailed off. “My sister and I are stopping for a fortnight before we travel on to London.”

Marcus remembered Lady Alinora. He had met her briefly during a trip to London the last season. The young woman had been one of many his grandfather had suggested for a wife since she possessed a large dowry. A large dowry or a significant political connection were the two assets his grandfather emphasized, and preferably both at once, such as were found in the case of Lady Jane Langley. And those requirements were exactly why his grandfather was adamantly opposed to Marcus marrying his cousin Charlotte as Marcus’s mother desired.

“Yes, thank you. I’d be delighted.” Marcus forced himself to accept with a smile. He hoped the weather would hold till Wednesday. Another storm was a painful thought. Even more painful was the idea that he would have to wait to see Natasha until the next night. But after this many years of patience, Marcus rather thought he had learned the art.

Chapter Ten

Monday dawned bright and sunny, and yet Natasha awoke with the same dread that had consumed her ever since she had watched Marcus building a snowman with Leona.

It had been hard to speak to him after that. She had pleaded a headache and asked him to leave. Thankfully he had left easily, only not without touching her again, his hand on her back, his lips soft and gentle at the corner of hers.

Those kisses, that day, had tortured her all night so that when Sunday came, her headache and exhaustion were real. When Marcus had shown up at her door, damp and disheveled from his ride, she had nearly broken down before him. Yet from somewhere deep inside, she had managed to dredge up the fortitude necessary to turn him away. After she’d watched him and his horse disappear into the white-laden path, she’d taken to her bed with the sort of dark despair that claimed her whenever she thought of the past. She had always shrugged the weakness aside, because there was Leona, vulnerable and dependent. Now, even the thought of her daughter did not keep her strong; the despair colored her present and her future. There was no escape.

Marcus was asking her to forgive and forget five years of her life. To negate everything she had thought real, everything that had propelled her forward, that had brought her to the safety of Little Parrington.

A false safety because, after all, he had found her here.

She dragged herself to the kitchen to prepare a cold plate for Leona, but she couldn’t bring herself to do more than that. There were decisions to make. Or rather, one decision to make. To give in to. Gripped by this darkness, she could not even name the question.

Mr. Duncan arrived in the early afternoon. She watched him walking up the road. He was likely wondering why she had missed church the day before, when she of all his parishioners was present without fail. He could not know that that presence had in part been due to her guilt, her need to repent the sins of her past and the sins of her present, the lies she continued to keep every day to protect her reputation and that of her daughter. She had shared with him only the strength she gained from the prayers and the ritual, the hope it gave her for Leona’s future.

She felt little of that hope now.

Natasha wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders and left her room. She descended the stairs but Leona was already there, pulling open the heavy door. It slammed back against the wall and let the frozen wind sweep into the house with a rush.

“Mr. Duncan, Mr. Duncan!” Leona shouted as she ran outside toward the rector. Natasha reached the door in time to watch the rector wrap her daughter up in a hug.

Her daughter loved the rector as if he were indeed her father, and Natasha knew that he had a deep fondness for the girl. Otherwise he would hardly be willing to spend so much of his time educating her.

This hug, which pulled at her heart and made her dizzy with confusion, was so different from the tentative interactions she had witnessed between Marcus and Leona out in the snow.

Mr. Duncan stood and took Leona’s hand. Together they walked down the lane back to the house. As they approached, Natasha realized that his joviality seemed strained.

When he finally stood before her, Natasha saw an expression that reminded her of Leona’s the night she had learned she had a father still living.

“What is it, Mr. Duncan?” she asked, her words of welcome discarded under the weight of her unease.

He let go of Leona’s hand and seemed to think over his words. He wet his lips.

“Won’t you come in?” she said finally. “It is so good of you to call. I had the headache yesterday and” ––Natasha wasn’t sure why she was rambling, but in the face of his odd behavior, she grew nervous— “…and I have
torta
!”

Even the mention of
torta
didn’t change his expression. He followed her into the house.

“Are you going to teach me more Latin, Mr. Duncan?” Leona asked, as if she had no idea about the strange undercurrents. “Lord Templeton taught me ‘
Fortitudo fideles vocat.
’”

“Did he, Leona?” he said distractedly.

“Yes, it is his family motto. It means ‘courage calls the faithful ones.’”

“I know what it means.” It was the most curt Natasha had ever heard the rector be, and she called upon her own courage, a quality that felt foreign of late. She wished she could send Mr. Duncan away, return to her bedroom, close the window shades, and forget that day passed to night and then to day again.

As they were about to cross the threshold of the sitting room, he encircled Natasha’s wrist with his hand. She stopped at the touch, shocked and surprised, and whirled around to face him. He let go immediately, his own expression equally shocked.

“Mrs. Pr…” He began and then his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “There was no Mr. Prothe in the army register. Did you not say he died in Lisbon?”

The wood floor rolled beneath her feet as if the sea had suddenly swept inside and claimed this land as well. Natasha forced herself to remain where she was, to keep her expression neutral.
Courage
. But she was not a Templeton. And the bravery of her Russian ancestors was far too barbaric for a polite sitting room. She looked for something to say, something to redirect him, and found refuge in anger.

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Digging up information about me?” She felt Leona’s confusion and intense concentration on this unusual conversation.

“Information that doesn’t exist.” He wasn’t going to let her get away with anything other than the truth.

Yet the truth could be anything and the rector would not know. She could say that Mr. Prothe was missing, that she had claimed him dead to receive an annuity or an inheritance.

“He didn’t die,” Leona shouted, tugging on his arm. “My papa didn’t die.”

Heat flooded Natasha’s body even as she froze in place. Or she could simply let her daughter do the talking. “Hush, Leona.”

But his face had lit up like a hound on the scent. “Let the child speak. Let the truth come out.”

It was hard not to cry, not to crumple before him, but Natasha fought the burning flush of horror. “Why are you doing this?”

He faced her again and this time he looked embarrassed, almost apologetic. “I couldn’t protect you if I didn’t know. You lied to me. To the entire village. But I never guessed…” Mr. Duncan turned back to Leona. “Who is your father, darling?”

“You’ve met him! It’s Lord Templeton.” Finally, too late, Leona looked up. Natasha could only shake her head at her daughter. Leona’s eyes widened, and then her forehead crumpled. Natasha knew the moment that her little girl remembered she wasn’t supposed to talk about Lord Templeton.

A short huff of air escaped from Duncan, dragging Natasha’s attention to him. The last warmth left his expression as awareness dawned.

“Is that true?”

For one brief instant, she thought to lie to him. But she couldn’t forget that this was the man who had helped make Little Parrington a home and who treated Leona as if she were his own. Pinned by his familiar gaze, Natasha was drowning. She could hear the North Sea roaring in her head.

“He’s been supporting you.”

“No.” The idea of having been Marcus’s dependent all these years was anathema to her. “I left him when I knew about––”

She stopped and looked at her daughter. This wasn’t a conversation to have in front of the girl.

“Leona, I want you to go to your room while I speak with Mr. Duncan.”

For a moment, Leona seemed as if she would protest. Furious and frightened all at once, Natasha gave her that look, the one that always worked, and Leona left. She would deal with her daughter later. The girl already felt betrayed. How much more would this story hurt her if she were to hear?

“You were his mistress?”

Natasha couldn’t answer him. The tears burned at the back of her eyes, and she fled into her sitting room, looking for something, anything to give her stability, to hide from the shame of her choices. She found only the same furniture that was always there. The same wall, the same still life of a vase above the mantel.

He followed her, as she had expected he would.

“You lied about everything.”

“No, I didn’t.” She faced him again. She had so many sins that she would not own to more than her due. “Only about being married. And Sussex. Before Leona, I’d never left London. Everything else, my parents, everything else is true.”

She watched him mull over her words, pace back and forth. She waited for his response, his judgment or his absolution.

Finally he spoke, still not looking at her. “What does he want from you?”

“To marry me.” The words embarrassed her, made her feel as if she were giving something away.

“Then you should,” he said. He looked angry, his jaw tense, everything in his face forming a V downward.

“No, I can’t.” Despite her protest, she wasn’t quite certain anymore. “I hate him. For making me afraid. And I pity him for being who he is.”
And
I
…but she didn’t know what she felt, not enough to say any more. Her legs felt too weak and she sat down on the settee by the fireplace.

“Did he beat you? Was he cruel?”

“He wanted to kill her,” Natasha blurted out, five years of the secret and the pain rushing out. The minute the words left her, she wanted them back. She wanted everything back, because the hurt that had dulled this past week now flourished.

She peered at Duncan, who looked confused but no less upset. Suddenly Natasha wanted him to leave. Now he knew everything about her. All the ugliness of her life––her loose morals, her weakness. He was thinking, working through everything, and she knew when he arrived at a conclusion, he would look on her as the worst sort of sinner.

He moved closer, took the other chair by the fire. The moment felt more intimate than she wished. “Explain to me.”

Explain what?
Her mind blanked, all thoughts scattered to the corners of her mind. She pulled at them, took a deep breath, and finally focused.

“His grandfather has stipulated in a codicil in his will that if he has a bastard child, he will lose his inheritance. Marcus wanted me to”––her voice broke on the words––“kill the babe within me.” For an instant, guilt assailed her, as if she had betrayed Marcus with her words. Which was ridiculous, as Marcus was the one who had betrayed her.

“That’s…”

She had thought the rector might say barbaric, but he stopped, continued in a more even tone.

“Now he wishes to marry you.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“You know I love Leona as my own.” Blood rushed to Natasha’s head and she stared at him, stunned. She understood, then, where he was leading. His generosity made her even more ashamed. Then that shame turned to anger.

“But she is not yours.”

“And who’s to say she’s Templeton’s?” he said harshly.

Natasha flushed. “I’ve been with no one else but him. It was a foolish mistake.”
Five months of a foolish mistake, repeated over and over again
. Her flush grew hotter.

“I didn’t mean that, I meant…I meant those codicils you mentioned. Does he intend to reveal the child’s status? And even if he does, would such a move be fair to her?”

She grabbed a handful of her dress, crushing the fabric in her agitation. “I don’t know.” She felt like Leona when her daughter was tired and temperamental.

“Let me protect you with my name,” he said, softly, urgently.

Her hands unclenched and the tortured fabric fell free. There it was, boldly said. Perhaps it was not Solomon’s choice, but she felt torn and confused nonetheless. He knew all about her and still he wanted her.

“I don’t care about your past, about Lord Templeton,” he insisted. She didn’t believe him. He might not care in this charged instant, but he eventually would.

Yet her utmost goal must be to keep Leona by her side. By marrying Marcus, she would ensure that, but then as well, she would be marrying a villainous man. Oh, perhaps not villainous; she didn’t know anymore. But she would spend the rest of her days in disquiet and distrust. At least if she married Mr. Duncan, she would have a dependable, respectable life with a man of whom she was very fond.

Of whom she had been very fond.

“Let me protect you.” He took her hand in his own, brought it to his lips, breaking the boundaries of propriety yet again. He moved as if he would drag her closer, try to claim her lips as well.

She held back.

“Will that be enough?” Could he protect her with his name? Would Marcus let her go that easily?

She realized then that her doubt of the rector was enough. He had gone out of his way to spy on her. There was no one she could trust. No one upon whom she could rely.

The line of his mouth thinned and his jaw clenched; this changing expression signaled a man realizing he would not get what he wanted. He dropped her hand. For the first time Natasha was afraid of him, afraid of her own judgment once again. He was not exactly the man she had thought him to be. Even if she chose to remain in Little Parrington, life would never again be the same.

“I go to have dinner with Lord Parrington this evening. Lord Templeton will be there. I shall explain to him that he is not welcome.”

“No,” she exclaimed in shock, hating herself for her indiscretion. “Please, you will say nothing.”

Her chest hurt. She felt trapped, her worlds colliding into each other. She needed to escape. She could take Leona and run, perhaps out of England. Then Marcus would never find her. But though her parents were immigrants, she had never lived outside of England and the thought was frightening. Especially in wartime.

Courage calls the faithful ones. She had courage––she had fled before, escaped from the second floor of a London townhouse, made a life for her child and herself. She could do it again, even on foreign soil. She knew she could.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan, your offer is most kind, but I cannot accept.”

“Think it over, Mrs. Pr…what should I call you?” Derision laced his voice and the last lingering traces of guilt fled Natasha. Plans. She needed to make plans.