No Place for a Lady (38 page)

He sighed, commiserating in part with her frustration, but unwilling to change his mind. This was the best way to handle the situation, and they both knew it. It was only her pride that kept her from accepting it.

He stepped to her. She would not want him to touch her, but he did anyway, taking her hands in his. She did not struggle long. She needed his caress as much as he needed to touch her. In the end, he drew her hands up to his face, kissing them with tenderness. "I will return shortly. We can discuss this as much as you like then."

"But it will be too late. You will have already dealt with Teggie."

"True. But I am willing to learn from you, listen to your opinions." He hesitated, then finally chose total honesty. "You may have a point, Fantine. Unfortunately, we do not have the time for you to convince me. It is nearly noon. I must speak with Teggie before he realizes that his latest attempt has failed."

"I will go with you." Her words were firm and determined.

"You cannot. The man has a great deal of pride. This must be done between gentlemen." He pulled her close, cherishing the feel of her body. "We will speak more tonight. When you can use all your skills to persuade me."

He felt her stiffen, and she jerked out of his arms. "You cannot think that I will grace your bed this night."

"Why ever not? Surely you cannot mean this disagreement will destroy what we mean to one another. Last night was..." He struggled for a way to express the splendor of their night together. "It was..."

"It is over." She stepped away. "Marcus, I shared your bed because I love you, because I wanted to spend a final night with you before committing myself to Mr. Thompson. This was never meant to be more."

He gaped at her. He blinked, he frowned, he even had to remind himself to breathe. He wanted to speak, wanted to express his outrage, but he could manage no more than one startled, horrified exclamation. "Mr. Thompson!"

"Yes. He is kind and intelligent and a good match. He has promised to ask for my hand, and I intend to accept."

His mind whirled. "But you love me!"

"Yes, I do. And I intend to marry Mr. Thompson."

"But we just..." He could not say it. He could merely point mutely at the rumpled bed. "You love me!" Then he frowned. That was not at all what he intended to say, but his mind kept returning to that fact. "You love me?"

"Yes."

He stepped forward, anger starting to sear through his mind. "You love me!" His tongue twisted out of his control. "Me!"

"You have said that!" she exclaimed, clearly as exasperated as he with his inability to express himself.

"But I never thought you would love me. I didn't think..."

"Well, I do." She was clearly upset with the notion.

He stepped forward, joy shimmering along his skin like fire. "I think... I think it is wonderful!"

"Of course you do," she snapped. "You are a man!"

She would not allow him to hold her, but neither could he stay away. So he hovered near her, his hands outstretched. "You cannot marry Mr. Thompson," he said firmly. "Not if you truly love me."

She bit her lip, and for a short moment, he saw all the fear, all the insecurities that haunted her. Then all was wiped away by a resolve as firm as any he had ever witnessed. "Understand this, Marcus, I do love you. I always will. We shared a night I shall treasure for the rest of my life. But I will marry Mr. Thompson, and nothing you can do will prevent it."

He shook his head. "I do not understand."

"Do you not? Think of the women of your class. They marry for position all the time."

"Of course, they do," he snapped, his anger once again outstripping his reason. "But you are not one of them."

She lifted her head, her eyes blazing, and he knew he had said the wrong thing. "On the contrary," she said, her voice colder than he could ever imagine. "I am one of them now. Or I will be the moment I marry Mr. Thompson."

"I forbid it!"

She merely laughed, and suddenly he was glaring at her, furious enough to shake her, angry enough to hurt her. But not with his fists. He lashed out against her smug certainty, positive he could puncture it with a single statement.

"What if you now carry my child?"

She shook her head. "I took steps to prevent it."

"What steps?" he exploded.

She shrugged. "It does not matter. There is no child. There never will be. At least not yours."

She said it so firmly, her words so matter-of-fact that he had no choice but to accept it. Still his mind rebelled. He had not even imagined a child between them until barely a moment before, yet now that he had, the fact that she would never carry one infuriated him. The thought that she might one day carry Edwin's...

"You cannot marry Edwin!"

She lifted her chin. "Do you intend to throw me in jail?"

"Of course not!"

"Publicly disgrace me or disown any association with me?"

"No!"

"Then you cannot stop me." She turned away from him and began dressing.

He would have stayed to fight with her. He would have spent as much time as it took even if it meant throwing her on the bed now and making love with her until she relinquished her ridiculous plans. In fact, he intended to do just that, but at that moment the clock struck twelve.

Noon.

And it would take some time for him to dress and prepare to confront Teggie. He had to go now.

He took one last look at Fantine. Her head was bent, her hair falling over her face as she pulled on her stockings. He was somewhat reassured when he saw that her hands shook. At least she was not unaffected, at least the thought of leaving him was painful to her. He still had some hope.

But he could not stay. Wilberforce's life rested in his hands.

"This is not over, Fantine," he said softly, part of him begging with her, part of him demanding that she listen. "We will discuss this again."

She looked up, and he read a kind of empty resignation in her face. "You may talk all you wish, my lord, but I shall be planning my wedding."

He looked at her, feeling torn between pulling her into his arms and his duties to England. "Fantine," he said, his voice nearly breaking on her name, "I must go."

"And I must marry Mr. Thompson."

Then she turned away from him, pulling open the wardrobe as she searched for an appropriate gown. He hesitated a moment longer, but what could he say? What was between them was too complex, too knotted to examine in a moment. It had to wait.

A man's life was at stake. His country's stability.

With a sharp curse, he stomped away, nearly slamming the bedroom door in his haste. The sooner he dealt with Teggie, the sooner he could return to Fantine.

He would deal with her. He could never allow her to marry Mr. Thompson. Or anyone else for that matter.

She was his.

* * *

Fantine stared unseeing into the wardrobe. Her hand touched costly silks, beautiful cambric, the soft muslin of his sister's gowns, but all she felt was the empty room.

He had left her. As she had once predicted, Marcus had chosen England over her. She understood his choice. Indeed, she did not wish to sacrifice Wilberforce just so she and Marcus could bandy the same argument back and forth.

Still his absence cut at her. As did his lack of faith in her ability to handle Teggie. He had not trusted her last night, and this morning he had rubbed her nose in her powerlessness.

Gentleman to gentleman
. Rich man to rich man.

Fantine let her hand
drop
to her side. She could follow Marcus. Indeed, that had been her intention when she began dressing. But suddenly, she felt very tired. It seemed as if she had spent her entire life running. Sometimes she was chasing someone like Teggie, but usually she was running away. Her childhood had been spent avoiding her mother's lovers who would take a child just for variety's sake. Then later, she ran from Ballast or Hurdy or others equally dangerous. Even after she had learned the subtle skills of manipulation, there was always another man to avoid. Even Penworthy used her to solve his problems within London.

She was tired of it. Tired of the games between men—gentlemen or thieves. What about the women? What about her? She was smart, capable, and more than a little canny. Why could she not wield power just as effectively, just as mercilessly as a man? What did they have, besides a pisser, that allowed them to control her life?

The answer was clear. They had power. Money, influence, and their sheer numbers gave them the control. In order to become a force on her own, she needed at least one of the three.

She had no money, nor did she lead anyone except perhaps Nameless and his gang of boys. As for influence, she had nothing but a passing friendship with Wilberforce.

Wilberforce.

She slowly lifted her head, as her mind replayed her own thoughts. Who was Wilberforce except one of the most influential MPs in all of England? Penworthy and Marcus had already invested a great deal just to keep the man alive, and he did not even appreciate it. If ever there was political influence in one man, it was in Wilberforce. Nearly all the charitable projects in the rookeries bore his name. The elite spoke of him with reverence. If she could get him on her side, put his name to any one of her dreams for the rookeries, she could make an enormous difference there. She could create a school for the children and teach them a trade, something other than thieving and whoring. She could start a kitchen, providing food and warmth for those who need it. Or better yet, she could help find jobs, matching employers with workers, especially if she could guarantee the employees would be honest and respectable.

Possibilities spun in her mind, each of them more ambitious, more wonderful than the next. But could she do it? Could she get a crippled, old man obsessed with stopping slavery to throw his enormous influence behind her?

She did not know. But, by God, she would try.

With that in mind, she returned to the wardrobe, this time choosing a dress with more care than she had ever done in her life. After all, it had to be good enough to impress an evangelical MP.

Chapter 21

Marcus knocked ponderously on Lord Baylor's door, then let his gaze wander to Giles as the boy walked his horses. The grays were lively, easily dwarfing the child, but Giles was firm as he led them to a nearby park. He had orders to exercise the horses until Marcus finished his business with Baylor. But Marcus could not even begin his business until someone answered the door!

Turning back to the knocker with an impatient frown, Marcus pounded again. Would nothing go right this day?

He sighed, thinking that perhaps nothing had gone right since he had first met Fantine. Or perhaps he had that backward. Nothing had been right until the day she had sauntered into his life.

She loved him.

The words still echoed in his thoughts, filling him with a warmth and a wonder he could scarcely credit.

She loved him.

And he would marry her.

Marcus paused, surprised at himself. This was not the time to make such a decision. His father had spent three days fishing and another day in church before he finally decided to offer for his mother. How could Marcus suddenly resolve to marry while standing outside a murderer's door?

But he did. He would marry her.

His mother could think it ridiculous. Fantine was beneath both his dignity and his station. But of late, he had come to think such things were not all he once thought. After all, Fantine had no station and very little dignity, yet she sparkled in his thoughts and he had fallen completely in love with her.

Marcus froze, the knocker lifted in preparation of banging once again. He did not move. He did not even blink. He merely stared at the faded paint and let the shock wash through his system unimpeded.

He was in love with Fantine. Certainly he had said the words before. Had thought them on more than one occasion, but he now realized that emotion had been like a child's word. He loved her as he loved his toy boat or his favorite horse.