“I came when I found your note in my room.”
The male voice was only paces away, and Anne froze in surprise. A chill washed down her skin. The hour was much too late for anyone to be about.
“Thank you for coming. I felt I had to speak with you.”
Prudence! Or was it? Anne backed through the curtain and stood breathless on the other side, certain her heartbeat could be heard a mile away. Was this a tryst? Who was the man?
“It is not wise to meet in secret,” he said. “You are an unmarried woman, and I—”
“I know. I am sorry. But I had to see you alone.”
Anne leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. It was Mr. Walker. Oh, this was dreadful.
“Are you well?” Prudence’s words were soft and fearful.
“Well enough. You?”
“I am all right. It pleases me to see my sisters again.”
“Yes. They were kind to me this evening.”
“Neither of them would do anything to hurt you. Nor would I. Please understand that. I simply . . . I wanted to talk to you.”
“I do understand.”
Knowing she should go, Anne found she could do nothing but stay, her back pressed against the wall and her breath shallow. It was wrong for these two to meet in such a way. It was secret and shameful and a terrible sin.
Yet she could hear the longing in the voices of the two, and for some unexplainable reason she responded to their pain.
“I think of you every day,” Mr. Walker said in his graveled voice.
The woman sniffled. “And I, you.”
“I saw him speaking with you. He gave you his attentions in the carriage. And tonight at dinner, you were speaking to him.”
“He is nothing to me. I swear it!” Prudence was audibly weeping now. “Oh, what shall we do?”
“You have my love. But we are too far apart. You are young. English. Wealthy.”
“None of these things matter to me!” Prudence whispered through her tears. “I must tell my sisters. They will give me their blessing. I know they will! My eldest sister gave up her title to marry the man she loved.”
Mr. Walker let out a low groan of smothered anguish, and Anne collapsed against the wall. How terrible. How wonderful. How hopeless.
She knew she would never have a love like that, such depth of passion. To think that poor Prudence had given her heart to the blacksmith!
What if Ruel were in love with some woman in such a way? Impossible. He had made it clear he was annoyed by the society of others. Perhaps he was incapable of true love and uninterested in even the pretense of affection. Ruel had felt no serious qualms about marrying—and later divorcing— an impoverished housemaid with no family ranking and no dowry. Anne meant nothing more to him than a means to gain wealth.
“I never think about anyone’s affections or disaffections toward
me,”
he had told her. Of course not. Every flirtation was a sham, every sweet word a lie.
“I must go.” Mr. Walker pushed back the curtain and stepped into the corridor as Anne pressed against the shadows. He ran through the hall to the stairs. Never looking back, he vanished down the narrow passageway. In a moment, she heard a door shut somewhere below.
Eyes closed, Anne leaned back against the wall and sighed. Poor Prudence had sobbed softly behind the curtain for some time, but Anne dared not step into her presence and reveal what she had overheard. At last, Prudence had sighed, sniffled one last time, and closed her door.
Anne’s legs felt stiff and cold when she finally moved. Her impulse to fling herself into Prudence’s arms and pour out her heart to her friend had faded. Clearly her friend had problems of her own, and this was not the time to burden her with Anne’s dismal lot in life.
Anne brushed her fingertips over her cheek as she crept down the stairs to her quarters. What a great muddle she had made of her life. What an equally great fool she was. How could she have thought Ruel’s kiss in the garden held any real ardor? Worse, how idiotic to have responded to that false passion with feeling of her own.
She had melted into his arms and shivered at his touch. For longer than an eternity she had drifted in rapture. She had actually been deceived by her own charade! How silly!
Not only had Sir Alexander believed his brother was in love with Anne . . . not only had all the company gathered in the drawing room believed it . . . not only had Prudence believed it . . . but Anne had believed it, too! What a buffoon she was.
She stepped into the drawing room of her suite and shut the door behind her. The air felt stuffy and humid, so cloying she thought she might be sick. Stepping out of her slippers, she walked to the window and opened it. As she gazed down onto the green, crescent-shaped park, she thought of Ruel’s words to her not long before—the way he had recalled looking down on the grand comings and goings of this great city. He had seemed gentle then, almost like the little boy he had described. But all the while he had been thinking about another woman.
“Sleepless?”
Anne sucked in a breath and whirled around. The man himself reclined on a settee near the fireplace, his great gray eyes luminous in the moonlight.
“Lord Blackthorne! But you . . . I thought you were—”
“Awaiting your return? I was.” He cocked his arms behind his head. “Perhaps you might share with me your whereabouts for the past half hour.”
“I . . . I went to see Prudence.”
“Miss Watson—whatever for?”
“I wanted someone to talk to.” She met his bold stare.
Despite her recent conclusion that he must have some woman languishing for him, Ruel was not behaving the least bit lovelorn. In fact, he seemed his usual cocksure self.
She sat down on the window seat. “And you, sir? Where were you this past half hour?”
“Here, of course, wondering what my wife was up to,” he replied. “I remembered something I had forgotten to tell you. As you know, in less than a fortnight, the Season will be well under way. Everyone will be in town, and we shall have hardly a moment for private conversation. Anyone of significance in the military, most of the peerage, and usually the regent himself spend the evenings attending one or more balls. The most influential gentlemen in England go to these ridiculous dances, and our own presence is crucial. So is our performance.”
“Performance?”
“It will be our labor to convince all of Society of our undying love,” he said, coming to his feet. “We must be as one. Husband and wife.”
Anne held her breath as he walked toward her. Still dressed in his white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow and collar loose, he loomed huge and dark in the dimly lit room. His curly black hair spilled over his brow and onto his neck. His eyes never left her face.
“There are things you should know about me,” he said.
She nodded. “I understand you have many secrets,” she said in an effort to portray sympathy. “Tell me everything.”
“Tongue. I loathe it.”
“What?”
“Pickled, boiled, garnished with brussels sprouts—no matter how it is prepared, I refuse to eat tongue. Cannot bear the stuff. You should know that about me. Turnips. I never touch them. Head cheese. I find it revolting.”
“Head cheese? But . . .”
“Despite what that blasted Miss Pickworth has written about me, I never touch strong drink.” He began to pace. “I am partial to gingerbread nuts with my tea—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Me, of course. If we are to convince everyone of our love, we must know about one another. Turkish delight and treacle are particular favorites, and I am fond of trifle. I like my coffee black, my tea the color of caramel, and my toast piping hot. You?”
Anne swallowed. This was not at all what she had expected. All she could think of was Prudence and Mr. Walker in the corridor. The tears . . . the anguish . . . their forbidden love. Anne had convinced herself that Ruel must have some beautiful woman stashed away waiting for him. And now he was speaking of tongue and brussels sprouts!
Worse, he had stopped his pacing and begun walking toward her. His black hair gleamed silver in the moonlight. His gray eyes drank hers. “Anne,” he said, “what do you like?”
“Everything,” she said quickly.
“Everything? That is unusual.”
She gulped down a bubble of air. “Except eels. I despise eels.”
“Do you sugar your tea?”
“Two lumps.”
“Coffee?”
“I do not drink it.”
“Your favorite color is . . . pink.”
Remembering the dress she had worn that night, she smiled. “Hardly. Blue.”
“Green for me. The color of the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Florida. My favorite book is Chaucer’s
Canterbury
Tales
. Yours is—”
“The Bible.” Their words overlapped, and he chuckled.
“Of course it is. Tell me, Anne, have you ever read Solomon’s Song?”
“I heard a sermon on it once. My father says that book is a dramatic interpretation of Christ’s love for the church. Christ is the bridegroom, and the church is the bride.”
“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’” Ruel murmured in a low voice. “‘His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.’”
“It is meant to be symbolic.”
“Symbolic? I should like to hear your father interpret this: ‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks. . . . Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely. . . . Thou hast ravished my heart—’”
“Stop!” She put out her hand. “You are hovering close to sacrilege.”
“I am only reciting what I read as I waited for you.” He gestured to her Bible on the nearby table as he sat down beside her on the window seat. “It quite mesmerized me to think of you reading such poetry, my dear. ‘Thy neck is like a tower of ivory,’” he resumed quoting. “‘Thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon . . .’”
Ruel reached out and gently stroked her neck with the side of his thumb. Anne shivered, paralyzed with confusion. How could he? How could a man so much in love with one woman be able to woo another with such ease? He was a rogue. With his warm breath, magic fingers, and silken words, he wove his evil spells, and she fell under them like a sailor hearing a siren’s song.
“‘How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love,’” he whispered, taking her hand and laying it across his palm. “‘Thy stature is like to a palm tree . . . and the smell of thy nose like apples; and the roof of thy mouth like the best wine.’”
His lips covered hers, and what could she do? Anne had thought of nothing but his mouth all evening . . . nothing but the brush of his rough cheek against hers.
“Wicked man!” She shoved him back and turned away from him on the window seat. “You wicked, wicked man. You vowed never to touch me, but you come into my private quarters and attempt the most boldfaced seduction. You misspeak the very Scriptures in your unholy aim! Have you no conscience? You use and abuse every poor woman who falls prey to your charms. You are horrid! Leave me at once.”
“Anne—”
“Do not talk to me, sir. I feel disgust at the sound of your voice.”
“Anne, I spoke the Scriptures as they were written. I cannot believe those words are some high symbolic portrayal of a holy bond between Christ and the church, no matter what your father preached. Those words are words of love from a man to his bride.”
He left the seat, knelt beside her, and took her hands away from her eyes. “Wanting the man you married is not wrong. It is no sin to desire your own husband, Anne. Passion and ardor—if one can believe Solomon’s Song—are sacred.”
“Passion and ardor! Yet, as you said yourself, your reputation with women preceded you on the day we met. That sort of passion is not sacred! It is sinful!”
“I cannot deny my past. But I never took anything that was not offered.”
“You are disgraceful.”
“Anne, look at me.”
“I cannot. You repulse me.”
“I entice you.”
“You are repugnant.”
“Tempting.”
“Lies!” She grabbed the shirt fabric on his shoulders and squeezed it into fists. “Lies!”
“Truth.” He leaned forward, taking her mouth again, pressing her against the window. “Love me, Anne, I beg you. Love me.”
His fingers slid into her hair even as tears squeezed from the outer corners of her eyes. She let him kiss her and hated herself for it.
“Anne, I have desired you from the moment I heard your voice,” he murmured. “The way you wove that magic tale for the little girl in the kitchen. A duchess, you called that child. I wanted to make you my own duchess. I wanted to know the touch of fingers that could make lace as you make it. Please, Anne, do not be frightened of me. I am your husband.”
It was true, she realized. Horribly true, and if she had not been so willful, she might have prevented it. But now she was a wife and this man her husband. And oh, why did his kisses stir her so?
“Tell me you want me,” he whispered. “Say the words, Anne. I will not take you unwilling. You must desire me as much as I—” He stopped and kissed her temple again. “Your hair is damp. You are crying.”