by Lara Temple
She knew why he was here. She knew his subterfuge weighed on him, she’d seen it every time he’d been on the verge of telling her the truth. Now it was time for him to complete his confession.
Third time unlucky.
The only thing that should matter was that he had helped Dash. Everything else must be put aside. She tried to clear her mind from everything but her gratitude, but there was quite a great deal to clear.
‘Shall I send him away, miss?’ Betsy said hopefully as the silence stretched.
‘No. Show him in, Betsy.’
The first thing she noticed when he entered was the pallor that gave his sun-warmed skin a grey tinge. She’d not noticed it in the square, but then it had been dark. Surely it was not the result of merely two weeks in the rainy north? Her anger began to fizzle and she tried to pull it back about her like a slipping shawl. For all she knew he was feeling the weather after a round of dissipation. Perhaps that was what had prevented him from calling on her yesterday. She was not at all certain it was better than cowardice.
Her anger received another blow when he took a step into the room and she noticed he was leaving heavily on a cane.
‘Rafe! What happened? Was it Boucheron? This is all my fault!’
His mouth quirked for a moment. ‘Hardly. You attribute far too much omnipotence to that French fraudster. I had a disagreement with a cutpurse, that is all. My mistake.’
‘When?’
‘When?’
‘When did this happen? Yesterday?’
His eyes fell from hers.
‘The day before.’
‘After you saw Dash. It is my fault.’
‘No, it is mine; I wasn’t paying attention. I meant to write you a note, but I was a little...indisposed yesterday after the doctor stitched me. I slept most of the day. It isn’t serious, just uncomfortable.’
‘Then why are you on your feet?’ she demanded. ‘You should not be standing, I am sure.’
‘Well, you haven’t yet invited me to sit,’ he said reasonably and despite everything she found her mouth curving.
‘Besides,’ he added as he limped towards the sofa and eyed it, ‘sitting down has become something between ordeal and penance.’
She had no integrity at all. Her defences cracked and she hurried forward, taking his arm and weight as he lowered himself into the chair with a grunt, his leg extended. His arm was hard and warm under her fingers and as she reluctantly let it go he brushed the back of her hand briefly with his fingers, sending fire up her arm.
‘Thank you, Cleo.’
She returned to her seat and folded her hands in her lap.
‘You’re welcome, Your Grace.’
He stiffened, a slight flush spreading over his cheekbones. Guilt personified.
‘Edge mentioned you spoke with Sam that evening. I wasn’t certain if you’d realised... I’d intended to tell you...’
‘It is said hell is paved with good intentions, Your Grace.’
‘Shakespeare?’
‘Samuel Johnson. And don’t think you can distract me.’
‘I don’t intend to. I know I was wrong not to tell you. Not initially, but certainly on board the Hesperus I should have told you the truth.’
‘Why?’ she challenged. ‘You owe me nothing. I hired you to help me, which you did. There was never a requirement of honesty, as you made clear several times.’
Her words wiped all expression from his face. He looked his full ducal self now—hard and cold. She was being childish, but she couldn’t help it.
‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, his voice as flat as his countenance, ‘my name...my origins have always been an issue. When I ran away I decided to turn my back on them so when I enlisted I gave my name as Rafe Grey. At the time it felt fitting, a reminder of what I was turning my back on and a reminder that I had to be watchful and unobtrusive.’
His mouth twisted at the absurdity of that, but Cleo held herself still, her hands firmly in her lap, and he continued, ‘I knew as long as I was Rafe Grey I could have no...permanence in my life, and I accepted that because I knew that as my father’s son it was probably best I not inflict any more Greybournes on this world. I know you told me I am not like him, but I lived most of my whole life under the cloud of fear that I might be, or that, God forbid, that strain would manifest in my children if not in me. I did not want to willingly embrace a legacy of uncertainty and pain.’
‘I told you before, Rafe. You are not like your father. I know that. Whatever happens, please don’t let this rule you. I’ve never met anyone more deserving of being happy and living your life to the fullest. You aren’t like your father.’
She reached out and clasped his hand, trying to anchor him with her certainty. But she could not do that for him any more than she could be anything but what she was, Cleopatra Osbourne, daughter of a rootless fraudster.
He drew his hand from hers very gently, fisting it on his thigh before he spoke again.
‘The mad thing is that I’ve just learned it wasn’t like my father either.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not the only one making confessions. I’ve just come from a meeting with my mother...’
As Cleo listened to his account of his mother’s visit, more and more layers peeled away from her flimsy defences. She didn’t want to abandon the defence of her anger, but it was slipping away from her, leaving only a sense of oppression and loss.
‘What a sad story,’ she said when he fell silent. ‘Your poor mother. I cannot imagine what she must have felt. To have your world ripped apart...the poor woman.’
‘I suggest you don’t say that to her face. She’s likely to freeze you with a glance. She’s as tough as an old boot.’
She smiled at the return of some colour to his voice, but shook her head.
‘No, she isn’t. Perhaps outside, but not inside. I’m so sorry you had to experience any of this, Rafe.’
He shifted uncomfortably.
‘It’s old history.’
‘No, it isn’t and you know it. I wonder if your father even understood the change that came over him. In a way I hope he didn’t. To be cut off like that from yourself...to be aware in any way of what you’ve become. I cannot imagine a worse fate.’
His mouth finally softened, though not quite into a smile.
‘You’ll be making me feel guilty I wasn’t more compassionate towards him.’
‘I dare say you might have been if your mother had trusted you enough to tell you the truth. But she must have felt as though she was clinging to a branch in a flood. How sad.’
They fell silent and once again the truth rolled back to fill the void.
His Grace the Duke of Greybourne. Her little dream of a family with this man would remain just that. She didn’t even have grounds for anger. He’d warned her, tried to avoid her, worried about hurting her. He was no William, as much as she might want to cast him in that role so she could cauterise pain with anger. He was Rafe. The man she loved with all her heart and soul and body.
‘I hope knowing this will make going back to your home easier, Rafe—’ She broke off and managed a smile. ‘I can’t quite call you Your Grace, you know. It just doesn’t feel right.’
He waved that away, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘I didn’t come merely to tell you my name, Cleo, long overdue though that was. I came to offer it to you. Will you do me the honour of marrying me?’
The words came out in a rush, as if he was forcing them out before a door closed. Cleo sat very still. The mantelpiece clock tut-tutted away.
‘Well?’ he demanded. His hand was still fisted on his thigh and the other held his cane in a death grip. She tried several times to form the words, pulling in air only to have it slip out again, as shapeless as her thoughts.
Her fingers began to ache and she looke
d down at them. As he’d talked she’d wound the blue ribbon he’d gifted her tightly about them without even realising. She unwound the ribbon and the blood rushed back, beating hard.
‘Did I ever tell you what happened after I stole that ribbon, Rafe?’
He shifted impatiently but his voice was flat when he answered.
‘No. You didn’t.’
She wet her lips and smoothed the ribbon on her lap. ‘I kept it hidden in my drawer and agonised over it for days and days. I made myself ill worrying about it. It wasn’t that I believed in damnation or sins, it was merely that I knew it was wrong to have taken something that did not belong to me. In the end I went to Annie and told her.’
‘What did she do?’ The words sounded as though they, too, were wrung out of him.
‘She was angry. And hurt. She said, rightly, that I had no right to take what wasn’t mine simply because I wanted it.’
‘If you don’t want the damned thing, then toss it on the dung heap. It is only a ribbon.’
‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it. I think you are the bravest and most wonderful man of my acquaintance, Rafe Grey. Which is why you must understand why I cannot accept your proposal—it would feel like stealing for me. I don’t take marriage lightly.’
‘You think I do? Then how the devil did I manage to avoid it for thirty-seven years?’
‘With your soft heart? I have no idea.’
He smiled reluctantly, but it didn’t show in his eyes.
‘I am serious, Cleo.’
‘I know. So am I.’ She leaned forward and touched his arm and his hand closed over hers, warm and large and so inviting.
‘You deserve so much, Rafe. I’m honoured that you are willing to overlook the difference in our births, but even if your conscience is telling you it is the right thing to do, it isn’t. You are my finest friend and you deserve to love and be loved and so do I. If I agreed to enter into such an uneven match—’
‘I don’t give a sainted damn about my title,’ Rafe bit out and she shook her head.
‘I wasn’t referring to differences in birth, but in sentiment, Rafe. It is a burden when one side loves and the other doesn’t. I saw that all too well with my mother. If I said yes, I would be robbing you of that possibility and I cannot do that. Don’t you understand?’
His hands rose, as if warding her off. For a moment he remained with his head bent, silent and frozen.
‘I understand...’ he said at last, but his voice scraped to a halt and he cleared his throat. ‘God knows I wish...more than anything...that I could make that true for you. You deserve that more than anyone. Obviously I haven’t that power.’
She watched his lowered head, her chest a knot of pain and her eyes filling. She tugged her chair next to his and took his hand. She hadn’t realised her tears had slipped free until he raised their clasped hands to her face and his knuckles grazed her wet cheek.
‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. Damn your soft heart. I won’t break. I promise. I refuse to have you pity me. I’d rather love you and have you kick me to the curb than be a cause of hurt to you. At least I’ve had the good sense to give my heart to someone worthwhile, even if she cannot love me back. I won’t... I can’t give up your friendship and, if all we can be is friends, I shall have to make do with that. Perhaps one day you’ll...feel more. I won’t badger you, though. And if one day you...find a man who will give you what you wish, I will do my damnedest not to make a fool of myself or strangle the life out of him. I want your happiness, Cleo-Pat. I wish it could have been with me, I will always wish it, but I wish for your happiness above that.’
Cleo’s mind fiddled with his words like a child racing to complete a puzzle against the clock of doom. Surely it was impossible the picture that was forming was correct. She had misheard...he had misspoken...she had finally allowed sentiment to overpower sense...she...
Rafe loved her.
Not conscience, charity, not even lust...
Rafe loved her.
Rafe loved her.
She pressed their joined hands to her lips and his hand tightened convulsively on hers.
‘No, Cleo... I don’t want pity.’
‘Pity! You ought to pity me for a blind fool, Rafe. And you are one, too, to so completely misunderstand me. I love you. I have for weeks. My poor heart has been cracked so many times it’s a wonder it is still beating, but it is.’ She pressed his hand to her chest. ‘Can’t you feel it? It’s spilling over with love. I love you, Rafe Grey.’
* * *
Rafe felt as though he’d walked straight off a cliff, but forgotten to fall. He just hung there, in a strangely silent world, even his own breathing far away, as if he was seeing this all from a distance. But beneath his palm her heart was beating a matching rhythm to his.
He could not remember ever seeing real joy, he certainly had never felt it. Now he saw it in her face—in her smile, her eyes, in the pressure of her hand that held his to her heart. And he felt it—in the centre of his chest, expanding and making it hard to breathe.
‘You mean it,’ he said a little absurdly, his voice rough. Her hand pressed harder against his.
‘Of course I mean it. I’ve meant it for ages. Why on earth do you think I have been gathering every moment with you, every touch, and begging for more?’
He touched his fingers to the corner of her beautiful mouth, to that tugging smile that ruled his soul and senses.
Cleo.
‘You’ve never begged. You demanded,’ he replied and was rewarded by her warm laugh.
‘Because you are absurdly stubborn. If only you’d told me you loved me sooner...’
‘A brave man might have. I told you I was a coward, Cleo.’
‘I won’t have you calling yourself that, it isn’t true. You are cautious and caring and so giving to others that you forget to take. And I love you.’ Her voice shook, deepened. ‘I love you, Rafe. You told me I was one of those who...who manage and it’s true, but I don’t want to manage. I want to feel the way I do when I am with you. Alive, and happy, and myself, even when it hurts. I’m even happy being miserable with you.’
He knew well what she meant. He didn’t understand the alchemy of it, but there it was—love had replaced a part of his soul with something that twined the two of them together. She was part of him now and he needed her. This.
‘I only wish you didn’t have this stupid title, Rafe. Otherwise I would throw caution to the wind and ask you to marry me. But even if we cannot wed, I want you to know I am yours in every way that matters.’
‘Do it, Cleo. Throw caution to the blasted wind.’
She stilled, her eyes fixing on his.
‘I don’t expect it, Rafe.’
‘You should. You should demand it. I’ve let the Greybourne name and legacy shape too many things in my life, Cleo. I won’t let it ruin the best thing that ever happened to me.’
Her hand hovered over his chest, just brushing his shirt, and she took a deep breath.
‘Rafe Grey. Will you marry me?’
‘I will,’ he said, capturing his hand against his chest. ‘Today if I could. But two hasty marriages in our family might be a little much. My mother can finally begin atoning for her mistakes by helping us do this properly.’
‘I doubt she’ll be happy about this.’
‘She will be ecstatic about anything that ensures I settle down, sweetheart. Not that she’ll show it.’
‘I shall just have to show it instead of her,’ Cleo said as she pulled the long chain with the emerald pendant over her head and placed it round his neck. ‘There. I haven’t a ring to give you, so this must do.’
The emerald lay heavily against his chest. He could feel his heartbeat against it, as if trying to reach through a cage and grab.
She leaned back to inspect it.
‘I should say it m
atches your eyes, but they are much prettier.’
He half laughed and managed to force the words through his clogged throat. ‘I cannot take it. It’s yours.’
‘You aren’t. You are safekeeping it for our daughter. You promised I would have daughters, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. And sons. A wild pack of jackals.’
She touched his cheek lightly, her smiling eyes seeing right through to the pain that was still lodged in his stomach.
‘And sons. You promised and you are a soothsayer, after all.’ She snuggled against him, careful of his leg as she tucked her head into the curve of his shoulder as she had on the Hesperus. ‘Do you know; I think I am going to be a very demanding wife.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And spendthrift, too. You are wealthy, correct?’
He leaned back a little, warmed by the laughter in her gold-flecked eyes.
‘I am. What are you plotting? Building a pyramid on the front lawn at Greybourne?’
‘No, a hammam. All marble and with a dipping pool, but with something to lie on right in the very middle so I can lay you down and wash you all over...’ Her voice trailed off into a husky rumble, her hand slipping under his coat and down his chest.
He felt as though he’d been shoved into a steam room right now—the heat was spiralling through him like steam, half melting him, half turning him as hard as the emerald pressed between his chest and her glorious breasts. Mrs Phillips’s parlour was not the place...
‘And then...?’ he prompted.
‘And then I will take you on an adventure you will never forget, Mr Grey.’
Epilogue
Greybourne Hall—1824
‘Well?’ Cleo demanded as she removed Rafe’s blindfold. He stood for a moment squinting at the sight. The spring sun outside was powerful, cutting through the milky glass windows and transforming the marble and granite surfaces to cream and gold. The light caressed the cushions that lined two chaises longue and then sped on, dancing off the flat surface of the raised stone bath.
His mouth quirked—he reckoned the bath could comfortably accommodate four people, or one large scarred mercenary and his pregnant wife. Only last night he’d had a delightful time bathing Cleo in the brass tub in their dressing room, taking his time soaping her beautiful breasts and the taut skin of her stomach.