“I do not wish to pry.” Katherine patted Clarissa’s arm. “But are you sure you are unable to return his affection?”
“I do return his affection.” Of course she returned Markham’s affection. She’d found heaven in his arms. “But I’m not sure I wish to wed, while he clearly considers the matter settled. I’ve made a terrible mess.”
“I, too, believed I did not wish to wed.”
“It’s not the same,” Clarissa groaned. “What if Bromton had swept you off your feet and you’d been alone, entirely alone?”
“But you aren’t alone.”
“I mean if you didn’t have Julia or Markham?
Katherine made a reluctantly pensive sound. “I would have been much more uncertain.”
“Yes, exactly. Up until two years ago, my future was set in stone, and then Bromton didn’t offer, and Rayne disappeared, and I went from being treated as a dependent creature to having no one to depend on at all. You’ve been a good friend, and Markham is charming and sweet and tempting…but I cannot place myself in another man’s hands. I’m just…I’m just…”
Her eyes watered.
“You’re just overwhelmed,” Katherine finished. “Percy can be overwhelming. Especially when he’s inspired. He hides it well, but he’s very eager to please.”
Clarissa whimpered.
Katherine stopped walking. “Just tell him you need more time.”
“Time is not going to help.”
Katherine winced, but she rubbed Clarissa’s back. “Then, be as gentle as you can when you hurt him.”
Clarissa dropped her head. “You aren’t angry with me?”
“I am disappointed, but you cannot choose to spend your life with someone simply because you don’t wish to disappoint him. If you go against your inclination now, you’ll only end up making you both unhappy. Trust me, a marriage of unequal affection can’t be sustained.”
“I know.” Clarissa sniffed. “Will you take care of him?”
“We always do,” Katherine replied. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
Julia, Bromton, and Markham had already reached the inn’s courtyard. Julia skipped inside while Markham gazed back at them. His smile faded.
“Do it quickly, dear,” Katherine urged. “I cannot bear to watch.” She exhaled roughly. “Go up to Vista Grove. The view is soothing.”
“Soothing would be pleasant,” Clarissa replied.
The door swung open and Julia emerged with a young woman with a wide smile and a stance that brokered no nonsense. Clarissa liked her immediately.
When the young woman saw Bromton, she yelped.
Then she hugged him.
Hugged him.
The Marquess of Bromton hugged the proprietress of a small posting inn.
In broad daylight.
What was wrong with people in this village? Something strange must be in Southford’s water. Or maybe Lizzy’s gin.
They exchanged pleasantries and then Katherine announced the change of plans.
“The folly!” Julia exclaimed. “What a marvelous idea.”
Katherine shook her head no. “You’re to stay with Bromton and me, Julia.”
Julia glanced between Markham and Clarissa, frowning. “Very well.”
Markham arranged for a gig while Clarissa waited, the autumn sun on her face. If she could just let go of her fears, would Markham catch her as he had last night? Draw her into the protection of his embrace?
His scent engendered deep feelings of contentment.
His eyes held wells of abundance.
Too much abundance.
Too much light.
Just like Southford had too much green. Too much love.
She wasn’t a creature of abundance, light, and love. She was a creature of the stark, rocky North; she had been raised to expect a humorless existence.
But if she could just summon the temerity to believe…
Markham returned with a gig and handed her up into the seat. He navigated the steep hill to the folly as if he had done so many times before.
He probably had.
He slowed three times to point out the vistas—the home farm in the distance, the chapel and neat little cemetery, the inn and the village. All too quickly, they reached the top. He handed her down and secured the horses. Then, he led her up a short set of stairs ending at the recreated ruins of a small Greek temple built inside a circle of tall hemlocks. The center columns framed a view of the manor.
The effect was, in fact, soothing—so wide and open, the opposite of the way she felt trapped and confined within.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he said flatly. “My father built this folly for my mother. It’s always been her folly.”
“If this is your mother’s folly, what was your father’s?”
He snorted. “My mother.”
“You don’t like it here.”
“Not particularly.” He leaned against the pillar, staring down on the manor house. “And I believe I’m about to like it even less.”
“I am so sorry, Markham.”
He sighed deeply and squinted, still looking away. “My mother wasn’t happy at Southford. And the less happy she was, the harder my father tried to make her so.” He kicked the pillar and then wandered to the edge of the rocks, hands clasped behind his back. “I was happy this morning—so happy I didn’t notice until the Pillar that you weren’t.” He glanced over his shoulder “You aren’t happy, are you?”
She’d expected this to hurt, but the ache was excruciating.
She shook her head no.
“I wonder…” A lost note sounded in his voice.
“What do you wonder?”
He plucked a long blade of grass. “I wonder if every truth doesn’t contain its perfect opposite.”
Like the fact that she wanted to be with Markham forever and she wanted to be back in London… Now.
He sent the grass flying out into the nothing. “The more we seek pledges and bonds and refuge, the more we make ourselves vulnerable.”
“Are you vulnerable?”
“Aren’t we all?”
He turned, and she read in his eyes a mirror of her own emotion.
“I will make this easy for you.” He glanced to the heavens and blinked. “You wanted Hearts, but you don’t want me.”
But she did. She did want him. She was suffocating with want.
“I wouldn’t trade a moment.” Even if she’d never felt so low. “But I cannot survive being trapped—not again.”
He didn’t speak.
“However, if—if there is a child, I will keep my word.”
He flashed a brief, bitter smile. “There’s that, I suppose.”
“It could be weeks before Rayne returns. Can’t we continue as we are—no promises?”
“No.” A muscle in his cheek flinched. “Come. I’ll take you back.”
A dull, pulsing pain weighted every reluctant heartbeat.
Did that mean she’d done the unthinkable?
Had she fallen in love with Hearts?
He gave her his arm, gallant as ever.
If she had, she supposed other women had done so and survived.
She would survive, too.
…
Had he thought Clarissa had shattered him before? Now, he was diced. Drawn and quartered…only to have those quarters quartered again.
This morning, he’d awoken to the brightest of suns. It had seemed an omen—the perfect start to a perfect day of the rest of his perfect life. He’d been so happy. So completely secure. The king had found a queen, and she’d graciously accepted her throne.
But love was nothing more than a jeweled knife—a pretty implement that stabbed. That much he should have known.
He helped her back up into the gig. Her blue eyes watery and confused, her dark hair mussed from frequent touching. He’d feel better if he could hate her, blame her for the throbbing pain in his chest.
But he had no one to blame but himself
.
Explore the contradictions, he’d said.
No promises, he’d said.
He’d paved the path to his own destruction, one coaxing phrase at a time.
But she was hurting, too. Hurting because of him. Because he’d grasped when he’d known better than to reach. He climbed up onto the bench beside her. Taking the reins in one hand, he straightened her hair. Her lower lip quivered.
He could take her into his arms. Kiss her softly. Accept her offer to continue as they were. They could go back to Southford, and, using every weapon in Hearts’ arsenal, brandish his talent—leave her moaning and entranced, show her what it was to be seduced, mind, heart, and body, just as she’d seduced him.
He could even fill her belly again and again until a child wasn’t a possibility but a certainty.
Then, he would have everything he craved.
But, eventually, she’d awake from the haze and see what he’d done—locked her inside the same gilded prison in which his father had locked his mother.
He could, but he would not.
Jailers were just as confined as the hapless souls they kept behind bars.
He adjusted her hat. “I know better than to ask you to smile. But chin up.” He chucked her under the chin as he would Julia. “The worst is over.”
Her eyes softened with relief, scattering the small slices of his soul further afield. He pressed down the swell in his chest.
There would be no tears. None that she could see, anyway.
“When we return,” he said with consummate control, “I will remove to the blue room.”
“No!” She angled toward him. “You must stay in your room. I’ll stay with Julia.”
Reluctantly, he smiled. “You don’t know what you’re offering. She kicks.”
“I know.” Clarissa looked away. “I shared a bed with her on the journey here.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” She sounded miserable.
He jostled the reins, and the carriage started down the pathway.
His office was to escort, not to comfort.
No matter how much she swore she wished to be free, one day there would be someone else who offered her his heart on terms she could accept.
Clarissa’s care, comfort, and protection would be that man’s office.
And maybe, some night many nights hence, she’d look out over a wide expanse, and think of him.
And if she did, she would never know he’d been forever crushed.
Chapter Seventeen
Markham stared down at the white ball in the middle of the green billiards table. He intended to hit the ball just below center, so it would not spin but slide along the table and come to rest, knocking—just so—into the red ball.
If he could not develop precision and control in his life, he would, at least, master this small rectangle, in this well-appointed room that was, for the moment, one man’s refuge.
He aimed, darting his stick through his arched finger. Both the white ball and the red stopped exactly where he wished.
How did he expect to get through the next few days? One shot at a time. Each shot inching the ball forward until everything made sense again.
He was well on his way already. He’d made every shot that he’d attempted. By the time he returned to London, he’d be the best billiards player in Sharpe’s…for what that was worth. Which wasn’t much.
He’d overstepped. He’d reached too high.
Now, he must forget, consign to oblivion the experiences he’d shared with Clarissa. But the next time he took a lover, he sure as hell was going to remain in charge.
“Markham?”
Damnation.
He set the balls in a configuration where a perfect cannon would be close to impossible. He studied the table from one angle, and then from the opposite.
“Are you going to acknowledge me?”
No. He’d said all he intended to say.
“Go to bed, Clarissa.” That tone usually clamped closed even Julia’s mouth.
“I can’t.”
No such luck.
He’d been as gentlemanly as possible. He’d do nothing more to assuage her guilt.
“You absolutely can go to bed.” He leaned over the table and aimed. The dotted white ball hit the red ball and the other white ball in one shot. “It’s easy. You march up those stairs, turn to the right, count four doors down and then—”
“I cannot sleep.”
He exhaled. “Then find a book in the library to read.”
She moved into the room. The space around him filled with her scent.
“Markham.” She laid a hand on his shoulder.
He flinched. “Don’t.”
She removed her hand.
He glanced up at the chandelier he’d only just replaced. The old one had wept wax onto the table. This new one was equipped with trays.
That’s how one lived.
Fixing the small things—a patch here, a redesign there—and the old was again new.
Maintenance.
He’d be patched, too, in time. If she left him alone to tend his wounds.
Her skirts rustled as she came to stand by his side. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
“No. You said everything that needed to be said. I regret having imposed.”
“But everything feels wrong.”
Wrong? He snorted.
Everything felt sacked—burned to the ground, fields salted. Someone else, someday, would stand in his place. He wished the poor cove better luck. “Feelings are just that—feelings. They pass.”
“How can you be so cold?”
“Cold,” he repeated. “I’m cold.” He nodded to himself. “In light of our mutual discord”—he used the words she’d spat at him in Lady Darlington’s sitting room and slapped the stick against his hand—“I suggest you return abovestairs.”
“Well that wasn’t necess—”
He faced her, hand fisted. “I. Have. Limits.”
She paled. “Why of course you have limits. This is madness. Why must we be one thing or the other? Can’t you see me as one of your widows? Lord knows you’ve had enough experience.”
He tossed his cue; it clattered against the far wall.
She jerked back. “Markham!”
He circled his fingers roughly against his temples. If he didn’t squeeze his brow, he feared he’d shake her.
Or kiss her.
He’d do neither.
No matter how much he wanted to do both.
“You’ve left me little except the fact I haven’t yet made a total ass of myself. Oh”—he shook his head—“now you are offended at my language? Lord. This was everything I feared it would be.”
“You? What could you possibly be afraid of? You’re a man.”
“Are you really so wrapped up in your own discontent you can’t see anyone else’s? I’ve made every effort to understand your position, to appreciate how you must feel. What have you done in turn? How have you sympathized?”
“You don’t need sympathy. You sit in the House of Lords, for goodness sake. Every day, every decision is open to you. Do you want to go out? Do you want to travel? You can. You can do anything you’d like. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Do you really believe I haven’t a care? That I can simply indulge my desires?”
“Rayne did. Bromton did.”
“Am I Rayne? Am I Bromton?”
Her brow furrowed. “Of course you aren’t.”
“You may think all the mean-spirited, disdainful thoughts you wish. Just leave me in peace, would you? Let me go back to my glib, useless life and you can go back to yours.”
She pressed her lips together. Hard.
“Oh, don’t.” He turned his head to the side and slanted her a warning glance. “Clarissa Laithe, don’t even think about—”
She sobbed.
“—crying!” He threw up his hands.
No. He turned away. Devil take him, no. He absolutely
would not—
She sobbed harder.
His shoulders slumped. He reached inside his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. He turned back and presented the little white square.
She looked at it as if she didn’t know what she should do. “I give you my maidenhead, and you give me a handkerchief?”
He glanced heavenward, put the handkerchief into her hand, and then lifted her hand to her face, obliging her to wipe away her own tears.
“I’ll take that punch because you’re angry, but when you look back on this don’t you dare talk yourself into believing I didn’t offer more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
“Stop repeating things. And stop growling. It’s uncivil—yip!”
He lifted her from the ground and twirled her around.
“Markham! Put me down.”
“Gladly.” He set her down on the table. Hard.
He caught her hand in the air before she slapped him, and then he caught the second. She struggled against him with all her might and then, just as suddenly, went limp. She stared up at him, her fury melting into something else.
“Markham,” she whispered. “I am going to kiss you.”
She’d exhausted him. He remained perfectly still as her lips met his.
His mind went blank—for a moment—just a moment. And then his hands were in her hair, and hers in his, both of them gripping each other as if sheer force could make things right.
He poured all of himself into the kiss—his desire, his anger, his loss, the desperate flicker of hope he hated. Then he broke the kiss.
Perhaps this was a better end.
He salvaged some small bit of pride from the way her reddened lips parted. Pride he was about to dash against the ground.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s goodbye.”
Her eyes refocused immediately. “What?”
“I’m only going to say this once.” His chest heaved as he looked deep into her eyes. “I would have given you everything that’s mine, so when you are back in London—or wherever it is you intend to go—and you box me up with the other men who have hurt you…if you remember anything, I want you to remember that.”
“Why?”
“You can’t see the devotion that’s right in front of you, can you?” So much for dignity. “I want last night to stretch to forever. I want to undress you, to bathe you, and then”—he ran his fingers through her hair—“brush these dark curls until they’re smooth and dry. I want to get lost with you and then be found. I want you to change my plans—improve them if you can. I want you”—he hit his fist against his chest—“here.”
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 20