by Balogh, Mary
“Had you not indeed?” he said. “I am crushed.”
He moved her and himself to one side of the avenue, where they would have to do less weaving past other couples and larger groups. There were trees on either side of the avenue, their branches almost meeting overhead in some places. It was even more picturesque than he had imagined. Not quite real. The pastel lamplight made the trees seem something other than what they were. It was no wonder these were called pleasure gardens.
“I needed to leave town on urgent business,” he said.
She had no answer to that. She opened her fan and waved it slowly before her face—quite unnecessarily. There was a cool breeze.
The rest of the party had got some way ahead of them, he could see. Her aunt would not worry about her, though. She was of age, unlike some of the other young ladies of the party.
He did not try to keep the conversation alive. He had been merely teasing her, anyway, with the banal remarks he had been making. She looked as haughty as she had on his first encounter with her. He was no longer deceived, however. At the moment, in fact, he guessed she was boiling inside. She was severely annoyed with him. Had she considered their kiss some sort of declaration? Had she expected him to follow up on it with a visit to her brother the next day, perhaps? Just so that she could refuse him?
Would she have refused?
“Mr. Thorne,” she said at last when they were halfway along the avenue. “Did you . . . assault your neighbor’s daughter?”
Ah. So that was what was bothering her, was it?
“Are you asking if I raped her?” he asked.
She turned her head away to gaze through the trees. He did not suppose that word was used often, if at all, in her hearing. She was probably blushing, though it was impossible to verify his suspicion in the colored lantern light.
“The answer is no,” he said.
“It was consensual, then?” she asked. “Was there a child?”
“There was a child,” he said. “A boy, now twelve years old. He is not mine. There was never any possibility that he might be.”
She thought that over for a minute.
“Her brother died?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “The day he discovered his sister was with child. He died from a bullet in his back.”
Their steps had slowed but not quite stopped.
“Did you kill him?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “He was my friend.”
“Friends kill friends,” she said, “when one of them does something to kill the friendship.”
“I had done nothing to kill ours,” he told her. “And I did not kill him.”
“But you ran away,” she said. “You even took another name to throw off any pursuit. You stayed away for thirteen years. Even now you have not revealed your identity to anyone but me—and perhaps to Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers?”
“To them, yes,” he said. “I ran away because I was a frightened boy of nineteen and I was about to be arrested for a murder I had not committed. My uncle urged me to go, and I went.”
“Does not an innocent man stay to clear his name?” she asked.
“In a work of fiction, perhaps,” he said, “when one can take comfort from the assurance that good will prevail and evil will be punished. In the real world innocent people hang as often as the guilty.”
“He is a complete and total liar, then?” she said. “Mr. Rochford, I mean.”
“I am prepared to give him the benefit of some doubt,” he said. “He was about ten years old at the time. He did not know the situation. He did not know me. He had never been to Brierley. It would be quite understandable for him to believe the story his mother and father took home with them.”
“Took home?” she said. “His parents were there at the time, then?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did they too urge you to run away?” she asked.
He thought about it. “Manley did,” he said. “His wife and my cousin Philip’s wife were comforting my aunt, who was in frail health to start with and had apparently collapsed with shock. They were all afraid I would be arrested and convicted. Manley and Philip did not believe my alibi would be credible.”
“They all believed you to be guilty, then,” she said.
“I did not speak with the women before I fled,” he said. “But the three men implied that they believed it.”
“Who was the father of the child?” she asked. “And who killed the mother’s brother and your friend? Do you know?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
This was a bizarre conversation to be having in these magical, festive surroundings.
“But you are not going to say,” she said after a minute’s silence.
“No.”
Not yet, anyway.
He had noticed a few narrower avenues branching off the main one. Another of them was just ahead. He needed to give the two of them a chance to recover from this conversation. He had had other plans for tonight. Or other hopes, perhaps. He had never been as confident of success with Lady Jessica Archer as he had pretended to be. And it seemed he knew pathetically little about romancing.
“Come,” he said when they reached it, and he turned her and himself onto the path he had seen.
He was a bit surprised when she did not put up any resistance. He was even more surprised when he, finding that the path was narrower than he had expected and drawing her closer to his side, disengaged his arm from hers to set about her waist, and she made no protest and did not try to put more space between them.
There were fewer lamps strung from the trees in here. The path was not totally dark, but it was dim. The sounds of voices from the main avenue and of music from the rotunda seemed immediately more remote. An illusion, no doubt. He could smell the trees and the earth and foliage in here. He was more aware of nature and less of man-made magic.
“You are not afraid of me?” he asked her. It had occurred to him that she might be.
“Why would I be afraid of you, Mr. Thorne?” she asked, the sound of chill hauteur back in her voice.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you do not believe me.”
“I believe you,” she said. “But I do not want to talk any more about that tonight.”
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked her.
“Do you still intend to marry me?” she asked in return, putting emphasis upon the one word.
“I do,” he said.
“I think it had better be soon,” she said.
He was not sure for a moment that he had heard her correctly. But she had spoken clearly enough, and there were no sounds close enough to distract him.
“By special license?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so. You have no idea how my family will fuss otherwise.”
“Over the fact of our marrying?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she said. “They will come around to that. They have clearly deemed you worthy of Estelle, after all. No, Mr. Thorne, they will fuss over the wedding—if they are given half a chance, that is. They will expect nothing less than a ceremony at St. George’s on Hanover Square with all the ton in attendance.”
He winced inwardly. “But do you not want to be fussed over?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “I want to be married. And I believe you need to be married.”
The conversation between them had taken a bizarre turn after all. Unless he was much mistaken, he had not even asked her to marry him yet. Had he? No formal application to her brother or her mother. No prepared speech. No bended knee. No single rose, presented in person this time.
No romance. Not really.
The path opened up ahead of them to reveal a miniature garden, with a semicircular flower bed on each side, each surrounded by a strip of grass, and each with a wooden seat behind the flowers. There were more lanterns here, all of them a pale pink. It was a little haven of unexpected loveliness. Even Gabriel recognized it as a romantic spot.
&nbs
p; They stopped, though they did not step off the path to sit down.
“Why do you want to be married?” he asked her. “More specifically, why do you want to marry me?”
“You were right,” she said. “I felt left behind when Abby married Gil. When I went there for the christening of their baby just before Easter and then stayed for a more lengthy visit, I even felt a bit resentful, as though she had owed it to me to remain single and unhappy. I felt a little humiliated when I realized which way my thoughts were tending. I decided that when I came back here for the Season this year, I would marry at last.”
“You have legions of admirers,” he said. “Why not one of them? Why me?”
“I like them all,” she said. “I am even rather fond of most of them. Perhaps of all of them.”
“You do not like me?” he asked her. “You are not fond of me?”
She looked at him for a long time, with something of a frown. The light of the lanterns gave a rosy glow to her complexion and her forearms, which were not covered by her wrap. It made her dress look more like a deep rose pink. A reminder of his first sight of her after he arrived in London.
“To be honest, I do not know the answer to either question,” she said at last.
“Why do you want to marry me, then?” he asked her.
She drew breath and closed her mouth again. He waited.
“I think,” she said at last, “it is because I want you.”
Well, that was an unexpected answer. He guessed that she thought so too. He wondered what her cheeks would look like if the light were not already pink. It was clear she was talking about sex.
“In bed?” he said.
She turned her head away for a moment as though to examine the flowers, but she looked back into his face before she spoke. She had some courage, this woman he wanted to marry.
“Yes,” she said. “Virginity becomes tiresome, Mr. Thorne, when one is twenty-five. You have had a strange way of romancing me, if that is what you have been doing. It has been curiously effective, however. Now, though, I want you to take it a stage further. I want you to make love to me.”
“And you think I can do it better than any other man of your acquaintance?” he said. “You think I can give you pleasure?”
“Yes.” Her eyes wandered over him, across the breadth of his shoulders, down over his chest and even lower. She lifted her hands and spread them very lightly, very tentatively, over his chest. She took a step closer.
The evening air between them fairly sizzled. He had to remind himself of where they were, and, God damn it, it was far too public a place. The sounds of human revelry were not far distant.
“And in return,” she said, raising her eyes back to his, “you will have a duke’s daughter and sister for a countess, Mr. Thorne. Someone who has learned from a master—her own brother—how to use her aristocratic identity and upbringing to command respect and obedience. Someone who has learned from her mother how to run an aristocratic home and how to manage a houseful of servants and how to lead and entertain neighbors. Someone who knows that her primary duty as a wife, at least for the first few years, is to give birth to sons and raise them to know their duty and their place in society. It is what you want, is it not? And why you chose me?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you can have me,” she said. “And I can have what I want. But answer something else first. Am I just an aristocrat with all the right qualifications in your eyes, Mr. Thorne?”
He thought about it. He did not need long. “No,” he said.
“What else am I, then?” she asked. Her hands were still against his chest, though they were sliding higher, toward his shoulders.
“I want you,” he said. “In bed. Very much in bed. I want you naked. I want to arouse every inch of you. And I want to be inside you and to pleasure you until you cry out with the sheer pain and wonder of it.”
Well, she had asked.
He set his hands on either side of her waist. It was a very small waist through the loose folds of her gown. He could feel the flare of her hips below it. Very nice.
“Pain?” she said.
“Pain,” he said again. “Or what will feel very near to pain until it bursts into something quite different. If it is done right, that is.”
Her hands were on his shoulders. Her thumbs were caressing the sides of his neck. “You must promise to do it right, then,” she said.
He tipped back his head and drew a deep breath before looking down into her face again. He had not expected this tonight. Good God, he had not. Not ever, actually. He noticed as he had on a previous occasion that when her lips were parted the top one curled slightly upward, seeming soft and moist and irresistibly kissable.
He lowered his head and set the tip of his tongue to that lip. Her hands clenched hard about his shoulders.
He moved his tongue lower and slid it into her mouth. She gasped and then made a low sound in her throat, and his arms came hard about her and hers about him and his mouth covered hers and she sucked his tongue deeper. He moved his hands down her back to cup her bottom and snuggle her against his growing erection. She gasped cool air around his tongue, and he was as sure as he could be that she had never done anything like this before.
For a while, after all, he had forgotten how close to being public this seemingly secluded spot was. They might be interrupted at any moment. Reluctantly he loosened his hold on her and drew back his head.
They gazed at each other.
“Do you wish me to apply to the Duke of Netherby for your hand?” he asked. “Or to your mother? To both?”
He watched amusement creep into her eyes. “To Avery,” she said. “It is not necessary, but I cannot resist finding out how he will receive you.”
“And if he does not receive me kindly?” he asked.
“I will marry you anyway,” she said.
“Would that cause a rift between you?” he asked.
“No, not at all,” she said. “He knows he has no authority over me. He does not want to have any. But if someone applies to him for an audience, he will grant it, and afterward he will give his opinion. Then, as like as not, he will yawn.”
“I begin to like the man,” he said.
“I love him,” she told him.
“And do many men apply for an audience with him?” he asked her. “With the object of asking for your hand, that is?”
“There have been some,” she said. “Most recently, it was Mr. Rochford.”
“Ah,” he said. “And how was he received?”
“With courtesy,” she said. “Avery withheld his blessing but not his permission. I do not need his permission. He told Mr. Rochford he would grant the blessing at least upon his proposing marriage to me after Mr. Rochford Senior is officially declared Earl of Lyndale.”
“You believe your brother wishes for the match?” he asked. “As your female relatives seem to do?”
“Avery rather hopes I do not marry Mr. Rochford,” she said. “He believes he has too many teeth.”
He grinned at her and then threw back his head and laughed aloud. “I do like your brother,” he said. “I wonder what he thinks of me. I tremble at the thought.”
“We will find out,” she said. “Gabriel.”
“Jessica,” he said softly. “Jess. Jessie.”
“No one has ever called me Jessie,” she said.
“Then it will be my name for you,” he said. “Unless you abhor it.”
“I do not. Not when you say it,” she said. She drew breath but paused briefly before continuing. “Gabriel, who raped your neighbor’s daughter? Who killed his son? Was it the same person?”
She was going to marry him. Soon. By special license. She had a right to know. There was much to be confronted in the coming weeks and months.
“Yes, I believe so,” he said.
“Who?”
“Manley Rochford,” he said.
She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly and exhaled before opening them.
“I am sure in the case of the rape,” he said. “I went to call upon Penelope Ginsberg—Mrs. Clark now—and her father while I was away.”
“It was they who were your neighbors?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “It was Manley Rochford, while my cousin Philip Rochford looked on. They were both drunk, though what happened was not out of character for either of them. She was not their first victim. I am less sure about the murder, though I have no doubt that it was one of them.”
“He is coming to town soon?” she asked.
“Almost certainly within the next few weeks,” he said.
“And he will recognize you?”
“Again,” he said, “almost certainly. I cannot imagine I will have any difficulty recognizing him.”
“How long does it take to acquire a special license?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” he said, “never having needed one before now. I will find out and take care of it tomorrow.”
“There are going to be fireworks,” she said. She smiled fleetingly. “Here at Vauxhall, I mean.”
“We will go back to the box,” he told her. “It would be a pity to miss them.”
“Gabriel,” she said before they moved, “let us not say anything to anyone. I would like my mother to be the first to know, and then Anna and Avery.”
He rather suspected her relatives back at the box would take one look at her and find themselves making a very shrewd guess.
“My lips are sealed,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He set an arm about her waist again and drew her against his side as they made their way back along the path to the main avenue.
Fourteen
Jessica had been quite correct. Gabriel applied for permission to call the following morning—or for an audience, as she had put it last night—and the Duke of Netherby had returned a prompt, affirmative reply.
Being ushered into the ducal study a few hours later was an intimidating experience. Netherby, as he rose from the chair behind a large oak desk, was neither particularly tall nor broad. He was dressed with an elegance that bordered upon, but somehow did not cross the line into, dandyism. He wore several rings upon the well-manicured fingers of the hand he extended to shake Gabriel’s. Yet somehow he exuded power and the unspoken warning that one might be very sorry indeed if one attempted any sort of impertinence. Gabriel, who was adept at summing up men upon very little acquaintance, was at a loss with the duke.