King gave an unhappy huff of irritation. “I see. It’s that bad, is it? I suppose it must be if we’re back to my lord. Though I suppose I can’t honestly blame you.”
He swallowed down the desire to demand to know where she’d been, if she’d been with Ross Moyles, and what manner of man would have her traipsing about in this weather to meet with him in secret.
“I am sorry, Livvy. I had no right—”
“No, wait,” she said, stopping him in his tracks.
She moved towards him and took hold of his hands. King’s heart did a peculiar little somersault in his chest as her cold fingers held his and squeezed.
“At least, no, you didn’t have the right, but… but I can see how it must have looked so I wish to tell you something. I am not having an affair with Mr Moyles. There is nothing the least bit romantic between us, I swear to you, King.”
Something in King’s chest eased at her words and he nodded. “Very well.”
“You believe me?”
“I do,” he said, meaning it.
She wouldn’t lie to him. Now that he’d had time to cool off and consider that, he felt the truth of it in his bones. Livvy wouldn’t lie. Not ever.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him.
The desire to ask her what she was doing was palpable. He held his tongue, yet there was something that needed saying.
“Livvy, whether there’s anything between you won’t matter if anyone sees you alone with him. You’ll be ruined.”
She nodded, but looked unconcerned. “I know, but we don’t leave Boscawen’s land, and you only saw us because you’re a guest here. You may have realised by now, there is very little society to be had here. Especially at this time of the year.”
“You don’t mind it, though, do you? The quiet.”
“Me?” she replied with a smile. “No. Not really. Oh, when I was young, I wished to go to town and wear pretty dresses and dance but… but I always imagined I would come back here, or somewhere very like it.”
“My home is in Dorset,” he blurted out, wondering why on earth he’d told her that. Whatever the reason, he didn’t seem to be able to stop now he’d started and rambled on. “Wynford Castle. It’s in a shocking state. I inherited it with the title but didn’t pay it much mind until about five years ago. Too busy pickling my liver and creating the legend that is the King of Sin, I suppose. Except then I stopped. Drinking, that is. For a while, anyway. Obviously. I… I had some notion that…. Well, anyway, I was making improvements when my father… well, you know, the whole forced into marriage thing. I got the roof fixed, at least, but the rest is…. This place reminds me a little of home, actually.”
Except that his home was empty, with big echoing rooms and no children running about. No piglets either, for that matter, or attack crows, and certainly no Livvy... and once his father had killed any hope for the future, he hadn’t been able to bear going back there again.
“You love it there,” Livvy said, something in her eyes he couldn’t read.
King shrugged. “Once I thought that perhaps…”
He closed his mouth, uncertain what he might say if he continued. There was no point in making plans. He’d realised that a long time ago. It was foolish to think a man like him could have a home and a family of the kind that some men achieved...what dim-witted Charlie had right in front of him and was letting go to the devil, the stupid bastard. He didn’t deserve what he had. Not that King did either, but at least he knew it, and knew better than to try. If a fellow was going to have a wife and children, he must be steady and dependable, and he’d better bloody well protect them with his last breath or… or what was the point, damn it?
“King?”
He looked up, only then realising he’d stopped halfway through a sentence and had been staring into space like an imbecile.
“Charlie’s gone,” he said, gesturing to the study.
“Oh.” Livvy paled for a moment before pasting a smile to her face. “Oh, well. He’ll have gone to see his man of business. Perhaps he’ll come back with good news this time.”
She laughed and the sound quavered, and King wanted nothing more than to put his arms about her and tell her it would be all right. Not because he wanted to kiss her, to touch her, but because he couldn’t bear to see the worry in her eyes, and he longed to take it away. She rallied, though, as she always did, and smiled at him.
“I’d best go and see the children, they’ll wonder where I’ve got to.”
He nodded and watched her walk away, a sense of having come untethered nagging at him, though he didn’t know why. King had always cherished his freedom, except for that brief little moment a few years ago that he’d forgotten all about but… but that had been an aberration, nothing more. It was better to be alone and free to do as he pleased. Growing up, he’d got himself out of his father’s house as often as he could, staying at school for the holidays rather than going home, and he’d left for good the moment he was able. Having to explain himself to anyone, to be accountable to anyone, was abhorrent. At least having made his father too disgusted to look at him had given him freedom. Yes, freedom was everything. It was. Yet now that sense of freedom felt increasingly like loneliness, like a lack of purpose, as if he was adrift in unfriendly waters with no glimpse of safe harbour. He stared down the hallway in the direction Livvy had gone. Livvy and the children, and the bloody piglet, and… and they were nothing to do with him.
They were not his problem, and a damned good thing too, for there was sod all he could do to help them. King turned his back on them and walked off in the opposite direction.
After breakfast, Livvy took the children back upstairs and occupied them up with various endeavours. Harry had Latin exercises to complete and, though he hated it, he did not complain once. She wondered if Charlie had told him yet that he would not be returning to school and hated that Harry was probably putting a brave face on it so as not to worry her. Livvy had been helping Susan make over the blue gown King had said was too childish for her, and left the girl happily unpicking the stitching so it could be refitted to her more slender frame. Lydia and Rebecca were writing a story to read out later at bedtime, and Jane was busy doing some colourful illustrations. George was happily playing with his building bricks, and Birdie was in a sweet mood, so Livvy took her to Ceci to spend some time with her mama for a change. The baby gurgled and cooed for Ceci, which delighted her, and Livvy left them both to enjoy each other’s company.
To be fair, Ceci never minded the children when they were in a good humour, and only found them fatiguing and sent them away once they’d stopped being easy company. It was the way of things, Livvy knew, and if they’d had a governess and a nursery maid… No, she decided, that would be worse. She and Charlie had experienced both sides of such women, from the sweet and docile but ineffectual, to the downright cruel. She’d never leave the children to people she did not know and trust. What if she wasn’t here, though? What if she married a man who would support the children, but only at a distance? What if….
“Stop it,” she muttered under her breath. Likely she would not marry at all, so it was a moot point. Eventually Charlie would realise they could no longer afford to live here. They would have to let Spargo and Gelly go and let out the house, though who on earth would want it in this sorry state she couldn’t imagine. She closed her eyes and told herself not to be foolish. It was a beautiful property, even in such disrepair. No doubt some nobleman friend of Charlie’s would enjoy coming here to rusticate and sea bathe and enjoy the glorious countryside, just like King had.
King.
She would not think of him. She would not think of him standing in the hall, of his imposing height and his broad shoulders and the soft concern in his dark eyes, and the way everything seemed as if it would be all right when she was with him—even though that was nonsense. Perhaps if things had been different, if his father hadn’t cut him off, he might have come here, and she might have helped him, and he might have he
lped her….
“Stop it,” Livvy said again, angry now as she blinked back tears.
She paused in the corridor, staring out of the window at the grey sky and the darker grey of the sea underlining the horizon. She could see white horses on the waves and hear the distant crash as they thundered to shore. Reality was as grey as the view beyond the window, and she’d be a fool not to face up to it. She’d heard what King hadn’t said, that there had been a time when he’d hoped for a wife, for a family, but his father had made it impossible. Sooner or later, he would be forced to marry the girl the marquess had chosen for him, but he was waiting until such a time as he’d feel less of a monster to give in. No doubt when the girl was in her twenties, he’d have to let his father win. There must be an heir to the title, after all, and he couldn’t live on fresh air any more than they could. She felt certain his decision had made him despair, had driven him to drink, but with just a little help he’d pulled back before it was too late. He was a strong man, stronger than he knew himself if she had the right of it, honourable too despite his reputation, despite his own estimation of his character. King would survive; he might even be happy one day. She hoped so. She hoped so very much.
Livvy stared at the sea for a while longer, allowing it to calm her jagged mind, to smooth over the sharp edges of jealousy and resentment and quiet the erratic thoughts that made her bad tempered and restless. As she stood there, she heard music and believed at first she had imagined it. Turning towards the stairs she followed the sound, realising it was coming from the back parlour where their ancient piano was. Not that she’d ever heard it produce a sound like this before. The children practised on it and Livvy herself could manage a few lively songs for people to dance to, but Ceci was the only one who could play with any skill, when she could be roused to do so. This, though… this was something else.
Though she knew she ought not, knew her emotions were too near the surface to be anywhere near him, Livvy hurried towards the sound. For there was only one person in the house who could be playing such music, such a beautiful, sorrowful melody that made her want to cry and laugh all at the same time, and she had to see him. She wanted to see him so badly she knew it was a terrible, dangerous idea, but she was going to do it anyway.
It was in her nature to be honest with herself, after all, and honestly, nothing could have kept her away.
Chapter Thirteen
13th December 1818.
Music and melody and the means of undoing an unhappy earl.
King had found the piano by chance, some happy stroke of luck that he was not about to question, though why it hadn’t been pawned already he didn’t know. Once Walsh had told him of the family’s situation, King had noticed the spaces. There were picture-frame-shaped gaps on the walls, the paint or wall hanging exposed beneath a far brighter shade than elsewhere as the family’s paintings had been sold off. In every room there was a space, sometimes several, where perhaps there had been a chair or a pretty piece of furniture. The more he looked about the place, the more he saw, and yes, he was an appalling guest, the nosy kind, poking his beak in where it wasn’t wanted. There were too many rooms stripped bare, though, the layers being peeled away one by one. Lady Boscawen’s bedroom was the only one that remained untouched. He could see it happening to Livvy, too, could see the strain of hoping when experience had taught her not to be so foolish. Yet she kept on, kept hoping for better, striving for better, and not for herself but for those children whom she loved like her own, and whom she deserved more than their blessed mother did.
Something like rage swelled in his chest and he tamped it down. Not his fight. Even if it were, there was nothing he could do, nothing he could offer.
He sat down at the piano and smoothed his fingers over the keys, feeling a little of the tension in his shoulders ease as he did so. To his relief, and somewhat to his surprise, the piano was well tuned and cared for, and he ran through a few well-loved pieces before settling on something more personal and closer to his heart. Foolish of him, but he was a fool. He’d always been a fool, a dreamer, an idealist, until his father had finally taught him the lesson King had resisted learning, once and for all. Either he was the man the marquess wished him to be, or he was nothing. Anything King tried for that was his own, his father destroyed. Yet, he couldn’t destroy this. He could take back the piano, which had been a gift to him as a very young man, but not the music he’d written himself. That was his own, except it didn’t feel like it was his any longer. When he’d written it, he’d been foolish enough to hope, to hold on to a wistful longing, to believe there might be something more in his future, something rare and bright and hard to find, but he’d had that glimmer in the darkness. He’d clung to the fragile hope that he might find it for as long as he could. It had been lost to him too long ago now, drowned it in brandy as he let himself sink into the darker side of life, and yet here it was again, mocking him now, taunting him. Not that it mattered. He might as well never have seen it, seen her, for all the good it would do him.
He lost himself in the music, closing his eyes and letting it sweep him up and carry him away. When he played nothing could reach him, nothing could touch him. Prinny himself could have come and sat down beside him, and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Yet he knew when she opened the door, though she didn’t make a sound. He knew it was her, though the door was at his back. He felt her presence like the sun warming his face on a frosty day, like the room had lit up with the glow of her. Oh, for pity’s sake, how nauseating. He was turning into a bloody maudlin poet. Someone shoot him, for the love of God, and put him out of his misery.
“I’ve never heard anything so beautiful,” she said, standing at his shoulder.
“You don’t get out much,” he replied dryly.
She gave an impatient tut but ignored the comment. “Who is it by? I don’t recognise it at all.”
King shrugged. “Don’t remember.”
Livvy moved around the piano and sat down on the stool beside him, forcing him to shove up a bit to give her room. He huffed but did not stop playing, did not look at her, could not look at her. She sat close, too close, the warmth of her body like sitting too near to open flame. A flush of heat and want burned up the back of his neck and he tried to concentrate on the music. He could feel her looking at him, as if she had peered inside his brain and seen the tangled mess churning inside his head.
“You wrote it.”
He said nothing, and she gave a triumphant laugh.
“I knew it. You have hidden depths, don’t you, King? There you are, drinking and carousing and making all the world believe you the epitome of depravity, when all along…”
He halted abruptly and reached for her. His hands sank into the warm silk of her hair and he kissed her, hard and desperate and out of control. She made a little squeak of surprise and then, like always, she softened in his arms, utterly pliant, perfectly biddable, wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing closer. The fierce, prickly Miss Penrose was entirely his the moment he touched her and, oh God, didn’t that knowledge make him wild? Was it just him? Would she be this way for any man who touched her? No. No, she would not. She liked him, she… they… there was something between them, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what.
Liar.
“Oh, King,” she murmured, her voice so soft and sweet and loving, her hands in his hair as he kissed a path down her neck.
He pulled back, staring at her in alarm. Her blue eyes were hazy, gazing up at him like… like…. His heart crashed against his ribs like a trapped bird colliding against a closed window over and over, desperate for escape.
“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that.” Because he wasn’t what she needed, not even close. He’d ruined his own life, he’d not do it to Livvy too. He could never deserve the look he’d seen in her eyes.
“L-Like what?” she said, and yet he saw her face shutter up and become guarded at once, and something inside of him howled with m
isery. Her chin went up. “I’m merely following your lead. You’re supposed to be teaching me how to seduce myself a husband, aren’t you? I’ve had very little in the way of help and advice so far.”
“You seem to be doing well enough,” he said darkly, avoiding her gaze, knowing she was lying the same as he was. “And stop painting me in the colours of a good man. Just because I can play the blasted piano does not mean I have hidden depths. It is merely another means to get me what I want, another means of baiting the hook. The ladies love it, you see, as you have so clearly demonstrated.”
He gave a bitter laugh at the outrage in her eyes.
“I see,” she said, colouring a little.
“Yes, Livvy, now you see. My reputation sums me up to a nicety, I assure you, and you put yourself in harm’s way every time you are alone with me. What little shred of honour I possess is the only thing keeping me from taking what you are apparently all too willing to give. If this were not my friend’s home, to whom I owe a great debt, I would take it without a second thought.”
There was a taut silence during which King prayed for her to slap him or curse him, or run away and slam the door, anything but sit there in silence. Every second that ticked by was a second closer to him breaking, begging her forgiveness, and kissing her again, and then… and then where would they be?
“Nonetheless, you promised to help me,” she said, stubborn to the last. “So, playing the piano acts like catnip upon the ladies, does it? I wonder, does it work for gentlemen too? For I confess I have no great skill.”
Thank God, King thought wildly, for he needed a reason not to want her, a reason to force himself to move away and put space between them. Perhaps if she murdered a piece of music, something delicate and beautiful, he’d be so offended by the assault he’d be able to think straight again, for it hadn’t escaped his notice that she had not contradicted his statement. She was willing, and he could take her innocence if he chose to. A prickle of sweat broke out over his flesh.
The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel Page 15