He exhaled. “I hadn’t heard from the steward.”
“I’m not surprised.” She humphed. “As he passed away not six weeks after you left.”
“Pardon?”
“We were both lucky you hadn’t revoked Bromton’s power of attorney, else I wouldn’t have been able to—”
He paused, sherry halfway to his lips. “Bromton?”
“Bromton,” she repeated with a touch of sarcasm. “You know, the man whose lands border ours? Your confidant, your constant companion, your—”
“Enough,” he said quietly. “You might have had him hire a new steward and be done. There was no need—”
“Did you think I’d allow my inheritance—and yours—to fall to waste?”
“Bromton,” Rayne forced out, “is no longer connected to us.”
“You needn’t remind me of my broken betrothal. However, you promised you would work to mend—”
“You do not need to associate with Bromton,” he said. “Had I known you would seek his counsel, I would definitely have—” He stopped abruptly.
“What? Done a bit of planning before packing off in the dead of the night?” She shook her head. “Be grateful for Bromton’s assistance. Under his direction, a new line of lead has been discovered—one containing silver. The mine is more profitable than ever. Now that you’ve returned, you, of course, may choose your own advisors.” She folded her arms. “I, however, will choose my friends.”
If they were still on speaking terms.
“Bromton,” Rayne said darkly, “is not your friend.”
“He is, as a matter of fact.” Though the marquess had been clear that he thought she’d been foolish where Markham was concerned. “As are Lady Bromton and her delightful little sister.” She paused. “Lady Julia.”
He froze. “Are you telling me you’ve taken to the whole Stanley family? First Bromton, now you? What, exactly, is so compelling about them?”
His voice held a razor’s edge.
Julia may have nearly forgotten about Rayne, but Rayne had not forgotten about Julia. Not that she was in any position to help Rayne sort his affairs.
“What, exactly, do you have against the Stanleys?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Yes,” she said. “None of my concern. Just like your estate. Your travel. Your liaisons with unmarried young women—”
“What did she tell you?” Rayne demanded.
“Rayne.” She softened her voice. “She didn’t need to tell me anything. You returned from Lord Markham’s estate in the dead of the night and by the next day, you were gone, leaving me in an untenable position where Bromton was concerned.”
He stared, dumfounded. “You assured me Bromton hadn’t broken your heart.”
“He hadn’t! My ‘betrothal’ was an understanding between our parents, not a matter of the heart. But that didn’t mean the ton wasn’t fully prepared to snicker at my expense when he returned to London with his new bride.”
“What happened?”
“I befriended the new Lady Bromton, of course.”
“Your overtures to Lady Bromton were in your social interest, yet you speak as if your connection is sincere.”
“Fortunately, she is a dear. As for Lady Julia”—she paused significantly—“for the entire summer after we met, she left the room whenever anyone mentioned your name. I’d rather know what you think of Lady Julia than tell you my opinion.”
He bit back a snort. “My thoughts aren’t fit for gentle ears. What has she said of me?”
Clarissa’s gaze narrowed. “Very little. She’s been otherwise occupied of late. She and Farring’s sister, Lady Horatia, shared a debut ball last Season. They were both declared diamonds of the first water.”
He slanted her a glance.
“Why is it, brother dear, you look as if you’ve swallowed rotted meat?”
“Hunger?”
“What transpired between you and Lady Julia?”
“I failed to act with prudence.”
Clarissa lifted her brows.
“Very well, I acted…rashly.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “You have no idea how maddening that family can be. It’s like the whole estate is cursed. Nothing makes sense while you’re there.”
She snorted. “Actually, I know exactly what you mean.” She pulled a second handkerchief from her pocket and dropped it in his lap.
He unfolded the handkerchief, running his fingers over the M.
“Well,” Clarissa exhaled heavily, “if you’ve a problem with Lady Bromton, and a problem with Lady Julia, you are definitely not going to like what I have to tell you next.”
“Markham? And you?”
She nodded.
He lifted one brow, looking dangerously intent. “Do I need to hurt him? Because believe me, I would love to—”
“No,” she interrupted, spent. “I bear the greater responsibility for any hurt. And by your logic, it’s rather Katherine’s prerogative to hurt me.”
She took back the handkerchief, staring down at the M.
Lapin. She missed him.
“What can I do?” Rayne asked.
What could he do? “Next time you leave, you can take me with you.”
“Yes.”
She traced the outline of the M. “I promise I won’t take up much room.”
“Yes.”
“I know it’s not quite customary to travel with one’s unmarried sister.” She ran light fingers over the small fabric ripples made by her dried tears. “But I think you would appreciate—”
“Clarissa!”
She glanced up.
“I said yes. Twice.”
“You did?” She never believed he would.
“And I am going back. As soon as possible. You’d love the young country. No titles. Little pomp. Women can own property—even married women.”
“Yes, I know.”
She’d gotten exactly what she wished.
So, why wasn’t she elated?
And why did thinking about the new world make her feel so old?
…
Markham stood outside Sharpe’s in the rain. Although rain wasn’t quite the right description. The precipitation wasn’t as much rain as air perspiration—cold sweat that permeated everything in a slow, oozing drench.
He’d walked there, too, which meant he was wet. And tired. And hungry. And the club was closed.
The club was never closed.
Yet, the doors would not open, and there wasn’t any sign of the butler who had served there for, oh, since the beginning of time.
If he hadn’t come to destroy the bet, he wouldn’t really care that the club had closed. What comfort was he going to find in a collection of men, most of whom he didn’t like anyhow?
He wouldn’t miss his time here like he missed his days with Bromton, and Farring, and, yes, even Rayne—the whole card suit. Because their time together hadn’t been about indulgence or distraction.
They’d played cards as if the answers to the great mysteries could be found in every hand. They’d talked about ideas. They’d teased and mocked one another, but their friendship had been based on true comradery, not proximity.
He missed that.
Though not nearly as much as he missed—
He shook his head.
He refused to revisit his heartbreak again.
Clarissa had made her choice. What was done was done. And there was no point in going back over what he’d done wrong. And he’d done pretty much everything wrong.
Rules hadn’t helped.
Perhaps what he’d needed wasn’t restriction but proliferation.
Ideas. Action.
Behind him, a horse squealed.
He turned.
Moultonbury and his pack of pups had arrived.
The horse in question moved sideways and snorted. Atop the horse, Moultonbury struggled. After kicking out of his reins and dismounting inelegantly, he brush
ed off his trousers and stood tall, as if nothing had happened.
“She’s a thing of beauty, is she not?” Moultonbury asked.
The horse snorted and looked away.
“Smart, too,” Markham replied. “She doesn’t seem to like you.”
Moultonbury lifted his chin. “I’ll bend her to my will.”
Markham shook his head.
“You don’t believe I can?”
“Oh, I believe you can. The sad part is you don’t understand that you shouldn’t. You work with a horse’s nature, not against it, you ass.”
“He calls me an ass, boys, but what he won’t tell you that he decided as much only after I showed him his place. He once offered his sister to me. I declined, unlike his friend Bromton. Then again, perhaps by then, Katherine was more enthusiastic about…smiling.”
The men snickered.
“Do you think that’s wit, gentlemen?” Markham squinted. “Humiliating ladies who aren’t present?”
The snickering quieted.
“And what of him?” Markham indicated Moultonbury. “Why do you think he’s unable to find friends of his own age? Maybe because true gentlemen regard spreading insult and slander as cowardice. I warn you all, character always comes home to roost.”
“I have a lack of character?” Moultonbury smiled slowly. “I did not attach my name to a bet to ruin a lady—to court her, to make her smile, and then reject her.”
Markham audibly inhaled.
Moultonbury shrugged. “You were there at the genesis of the bet—I heard she smiled frequently while you danced—and, though everyone has seen you together, the lady’s brother has returned, and there is no hint of a betrothal. Face it, Markham. You’ve been more brutal to Lady Clarissa than I’d ever be.”
Visions of Moultonbury’s bloodied face flashed before his eyes. He stalked forward, but an arm against his sleeve held him back.
“Moultonbury.” Pritchett spoke with quiet authority. “That’s not how it happened, and you know it. Are the rest of you going to stand there and listen to him lie?”
“Step aside, Pritchett,” Moultonbury sneered. “This is between Markham and me.”
“It’s not,” Pritchett said. “We all witnessed the bet. Lord Markham came to the lady’s rescue. You were the one being vulgar and cruel.”
“Shut it, Pritchett,” Dalton piped up.
“You’re cut from the same cloth as Moultonbury,” Pritchett said to Dalton. He returned his attention to his collected “friends.” “Moultonbury’s a lark, I’ll give you that, but any one of us could be his next victim, because there won’t ever be enough. He will always need to feed his dissatisfaction, smearing others in the name of honor, when we all know he hasn’t any himself.”
Murmurs circled among the men.
“You hear that, Moultonbury?” Markham asked. “That’s the sound of character coming back to roost.”
Markham tipped his hat to Pritchett and turned away.
He’d be back. He’d break into the building and then he’d burn that wretched betting book.
It would be his last act of chivalry before forever setting aside his romantic ideals.
Clarissa would not suffer because of their time together.
Not if he had any say.
Chapter Nineteen
Clarissa stood to the side of the Duchess of Shepthorpe’s drawing room with Philippa, Katherine, and Katerina. The room was full of chatter, color, and light.
London may not have changed, but Clarissa had.
She’d changed more than once. She’d changed from an obedient lady into a passionate lover into—well, she wasn’t sure what she was at the moment. She only knew she was desolate—haunted by what could have been if she had just found the courage.
Over the last few weeks, Markham had behaved like a perfect gentleman…that is to say, he hadn’t attempted to contact her at all. If Katherine had not told her he was in London, she wouldn’t even have known. He’d gone out of his way to ensure they did not meet.
For all she knew, he’d already chosen his next lover.
The very idea turned her insides to Thames mud—thick, repugnant, nauseating, and filled her with jealousy caustic enough to turn everything to rot.
Even if she hadn’t any right to be jealous.
Over and over, she considered what Julia had said.
Do you know how young Percy was when he became earl? Between his youth and my father’s stupidity, no one, no one would listen to him, no matter what his title. No one would extend credit. And no one would sign a lease, even though the rector himself was a trustee.
Through the months of their acquaintance, she’d treated Markham dismissively, as if he could not possibly understand loss and restriction. But he did understand. He’d faced more difficult circumstances than she had and, even as a young, inexperienced man, had summoned enough force of will to turn things around.
And he hadn’t become bitter.
He wasn’t standing in the middle of a crowded afternoon soiree, still as a stone statue, unmoved by the surrounding gaiety.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her fingers over the embroidered M on his handkerchief as if she could somehow summon the comfort of his closeness. She’d done so often enough in the past few weeks that the embroidery would soon unravel under her fingers.
How could she feel so lost when she had everything she’d thought she wanted?
Soon, Rayne would sign contracts to place adequate oversight in place at his estate, and then they’d prepare to travel.
Still, when her courses had come—the small ember of hope had gone ashen. She’d lost the one thing that would have guaranteed he would take her back. And she’d lost a future she dearly wanted. She’d wept ceaselessly, finally, fully understanding everything she’d thrown away.
And if you haven’t heard anything else, hear this—I love you.
Heaven help her, she loved him, too.
On sunny summer mornings, she wanted to walk with him through Southford’s green-boughed lanes. On rainy afternoons, she wanted to sit by the fire at his side. She wanted to pore over his plans, get heady on his cognac or Lizzy’s gin, and laugh with his gathered family. Now that the chance had past, she knew she wanted his child.
Because…devotion.
Markham was capable of rare devotion. Of giving himself over—bravely, boldly, completely. But she’d committed a transgression he could not forgive.
She’d treated that devotion with suspicion and contempt.
And he wanted her no longer.
You just wish to please me.
Not anymore, I don’t.
She’d chosen this lonely desolation willfully, wholeheartedly. And yet, she could hardly bear the pain.
“Clarissa, have you been listening?” Philippa asked.
Katherine’s softened gaze was far too sympathetic. “No, she hasn’t.”
Clarissa sighed. “I was thinking of Gunter’s ices.”
“Gunter’s,” Philippa replied dryly. “Of course. Because flavored ice is so very engrossing.”
Clarissa glanced about for something to change the subject. In the far corner, she spotted Julia and Horatia speaking with Farring and Mrs. Sartin’s nephew—she’d forgotten his name—Pringle? Pratt?
Something that began with a P…
“It’s so good to see Julia and Horatia united again,” Katherine said.
“And look who’s keeping an eye on Pritchett’s efforts.” Philippa tilted her head toward the windows. “The source of his future income—Mrs. Sartin. She looks happier than she has in quite some time, doesn’t she?”
Katerina folded her arms. “Well, word has gotten out that Clarissa’s rumored courtship with Markham was just that—a rumor. Mrs. Sartin is probably eager for the chance to lure him back.”
Clarissa frowned.
She rather liked the widow. Mrs. Sartin had come to her aid. And she doubted Markham would reunite with a former lover. He did not dwell in the past—
he looked to the future.
Katerina snorted. “You should hear the way she and her widowed friends talked about Hearts. You’d have thought he was their plaything.”
Clarissa turned sharply toward Mrs. Sartin.
Plaything…?
Markham had used that term—I am no one’s plaything.
At the time, his offended response hadn’t made sense.
Then she thought of the conversation she’d overheard at the benefit. And then, she thought back to the night she’d run into him at Lady Darlington’s soiree, just after he’d met with Mrs. Sartin.
He’d had an uncharacteristic look of desolation—desolation she’d now seen up close. Twice.
She sucked in her bottom lip.
What had passed between him and Mrs. Sartin out there on that terrace?
She placed her hand on Katherine’s arm. “Would you excuse me?”
“Of course, dear, but—”
She wandered off, not waiting for Katherine to finish. She found Mrs. Sartin by the window.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sartin.”
They both curtsied.
“Lady Clarissa, I am happy to hear of your brother’s safe return.”
“Thank you,” Clarissa replied.
“Is it true that the two of you will be leaving again soon?”
“Yes.” Clarissa had grown used to the pang that rang in her heart whenever anyone spoke of her leaving. “We will depart as soon as arrangements can be made for a competent steward.”
Mrs. Sartin hummed thoughtfully. “Why is it that aristocratic men so often place their affairs in the hands of others? I couldn’t imagine relinquishing control of my late husband’s investments.”
“Having such a resource must be…pleasant.”
“Nice, it is not. Useful, on the other hand…very.”
“I don’t believe I properly thanked you for the tickets to the benefit.”
“No thanks are required.” She sighed. “Call me a romantic, but young love snares me every time.”
Clarissa’s cheeks pinked. If her attraction had been obvious then, was her hurt on full display now? “It’s been unseasonably dry lately.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Sartin replied. “I noticed.”
“It’s almost as if the storms have been insulted—and stayed away.”
“An interesting analogy…” Mrs. Sartin shrugged.
Heart's Desire (Lords of Chance) Page 22