Mary’s voice was a tortured whisper. “I just want to know you.” She directed a look of despair toward Alasdair.
This was far worse than whatever he had endured when he’d done without the opium for too long. This was agony.
Lady Stainton’s voice softened, fractionally. “I want to know you also.” Her mouth flattened into a thin line as she turned her gaze to Alasdair. “I presume there is no impediment to my getting to know my daughter, my lord?”
He shrugged. “As long as the money is paid, I see no reason to prevent it.”
He heard Mary exhale. Anger toward him? Relief that her mother was reasonable? It was probably both—and likely didn’t matter.
The butler returned, bearing a large accounts book. He gave another questioning glance to his mistress, then departed the room again.
Lady Stainton opened the book wide and glanced up at Alasdair. “Five thousand, you say?”
“Yes.” It took all his power not to blurt it all out—how he loved Mary, how he only wanted her to be happy, how he knew that being with him wasn’t what she deserved.
Instead, he watched as she wrote out the draft and held it out to him, that look of disdain firmly ensconced on her face.
He slid the paper into his pocket and held his arm out to Mary. His wife.
Who now despised him.
She rose without his assistance and paused at the door to look back and speak to her mother. “I will call on you again.” She did not look at Alasdair as she spoke.
Her mother nodded without speaking, and they walked in silence to the carriage.
***
She felt completely numb. How could he have done that to her? Betrayed her so?
She seethed with anger, disappointment, loss; much as she had just a few weeks ago, when she’d realized that not only was her beloved father gone, her brother had run through all their money and she didn’t know what he was planning to do next.
For a while, it had almost seemed as though things would turn out well, despite everything that had happened to her. Despite everything.
“Mary?”
Alasdair sat beside her, his long, elegant fingers—those same fingers that had touched her all night last night—resting on his knees. His legs were stretched out in what she had come to think of as his arrogant lordly pose. She hated him.
“What?” She sounded rude. Good. He deserved no better.
“We will discuss it all when we return home. No doubt you are furious with me.”
“No doubt,” she echoed dryly.
“But I promise it will be fine.”
Fine. It will be fine. His words ricocheted in her head. I need you.
Like hell he did. He’d warned her, hadn’t he? Welcome to hell.
Her knees were still shaking when they returned home. To his house, she corrected. Not home. Not now.
Descending from the carriage, she refused to accept his hand, instead clutching the side. She stumbled as she stepped onto the street in front of the house.
“Nothing more, coachman, thank you.” Alasdair sounded almost humble as he spoke. He took her arm to lead her up the steps, and she shook him off.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped.
He raised that damned eyebrow. “I promised I would explain,” he said in a haughty, cold voice.
Explain. As if blackmailing her mother could be acceptable under any the circumstances.
They walked into the hallway. He gestured toward his library, filled with books she’d never get the chance to read, and waited for her to pass before following. She could feel him, sense him, smell him, behind her.
She was a fool. She’d thought he’d changed, that with her he’d become something more, not something less. Not someone who’d barter happiness for money. Her happiness. And now, since she was married to him, and everything she owned was his, his money.
Hell of a bargain, Mary, she thought in rising disgust.
“Please sit.” He nodded toward a chair upholstered in a friendly damask.
“I’ll stand,” she said, pulling her spine up straighter.
He put his hand on her shoulder and shoved her, gently, but shoved her nonetheless. “I said sit.”
She sat, teeth clenched, hands bunched, legs tensed.
He leaned on the edge of a large mahogany desk. Maybe yesterday she would have thought about him bending her over it, whereas now—now she wished she were strong enough to pick the thing up and fling it at his head.
If he cared about her at all, he’d know what this would do to her.
That was it, wasn’t it? That was why she was so angry with him.
She’d come to believe he cared for her, perhaps not as much as she knew she did him, but enough not to sell her hopes and dreams. He knew her. He’d loved her. Physically, at least. He needed her. She must’ve made a sound, because he raised that damn eyebrow at her.
“Nothing. So. I am sitting. What is it you want to explain?”
He closed his eyes as though in pain. Mary saw a muscle tense in his cheek. He opened his eyes again, after a moment, and she was struck anew by how beautiful he was. Beautiful and treacherous. Didn’t her father preach something similar about the snake in the Garden of Eden?
“I know you must be angry, Mary.” He shot his hand out to acknowledge she wished to speak. “Just wait a moment. I know you are angry, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. If anything, I wanted to help you.” He lowered his eyes. “You are going to need money to live, Mary.” A pause. “I was presuming you wouldn’t take it from me, vicar’s daughter that you are. Was I wrong?”
The words ricocheted through her, landing somewhere in the pit of her stomach. “Money to live?” she repeated.
“Yes. You might want to consider going to Italy. Or back to Scotland. You’ll have enough for the rest of your life now. You needn’t worry.”
The air felt as though it had been sucked out of her. She dragged her nails up her legs so she wouldn’t scream. “Italy?”
She rose, barely aware of how badly she was shaking. “Scotland?” she said in something between a growl and a yelp.
He lifted his eyes to meet hers. One eyebrow rose. “If you don’t want to leave England, you can choose one of my houses in the country. I dislike the country.”
He crossed one leg over the other. Mary saw his hands bunch into fists. He continued in that same damned drawl. “It has been quite an adventure, but you have accomplished your purpose—meeting your mother—and I have accomplished mine. Now we can—”
“What was your purpose?” She could barely speak, her teeth were clamped together so tightly.
He raised an eyebrow. That eyebrow again. “My purpose was to save a damsel in distress, of course. Now that is done …”
His voice trailed off as he raised one hand in a negligent gesture. The other hand, Mary noticed, was still balled up in a fist.
“But, but …” Mary’s voice was now closer to a squeak. She wished she were as calm as he was. Damn him.
“But what about our marriage? Well,” he said, flicking something off his trousers, “it should come as no surprise that many couples live separate lives.”
Separate lives. She glanced around the room, trying to stop the flood of tears threatening to break at any moment. “People will talk.”
He shrugged. “Certainly they will, but it will die down after a while.” His lip curled. “It isn’t as if I haven’t been talked about enough already.”
“Why?” Her voice trembled. “Why, after, after …”
He looked her directly in the face, without showing the courtesy to look abashed or ashamed or anything that would indicate they’d spent the previous evening doing what they’d been doing. “It was … pleasant, of course,” he said with a shrug, “but since circumstances threw us together, why shouldn’t they now throw us apart?”
Mary felt herself seething, actually seething, with anger. She glared at him for a second before stomping over to a small table covered in knickknacks.
Including a vase that held several long-stem roses.
She picked it up and flung it at him, bottom first. The flowers fell onto the floor beside her, and water poured onto her hand, in her face, and arced as the vase flew threw the air.
Thwack! It hit him on the side of the head, although he’d flung his hands up to shield his face. He didn’t budge, but she could see a bright red mark on his cheek where it must’ve grazed him.
The vase bounced on the thick carpet, and lay on its side, unbroken.
Unlike Mary’s heart. “You bastard,” she said, pushing her wet hair back with trembling hands. “You autocratic, arrogant bastard. How dare you?”
She moved forward, hardly aware of how her knees were shaking. “And after last night?” She got so close to him she could have punched him if she wanted to. Which she did, very much.
He stood his ground, giving her that icy, lordly stare she’d seen when she’d dared to question him. “Last night was tremendous, love.”
His tone indicated the topic was over. He pulled a paper from his breast pocket and held it out to her. “Here is your mother’s note for the money. You can take this to her bank. Dawkins will give you directions.”
She stared at his hand, the hand that had caressed her so lovingly the night before—and the other nights before that—and finally felt the tears come.
She shook her head in disbelief and walked past him, ignoring his outstretched hand, to head upstairs to what had been, briefly, her bedroom.
***
When Alasdair heard the door shut behind her, he fell to his knees. He couldn’t believe he could be so convincing and persuasive.
The irony was that she had made that possible, made it so he was strong enough to pretend he was the same callous, selfish man she’d met only a few weeks earlier.
An ache threatened to tear his heart apart. How could he let her go? She was intelligent, sensual, witty, strong, brave—everything he could want in a mate.
How could he not let her go? He was damaged goods, someone who disappointed the people around him, someone who couldn’t be depended on in a time of crisis.
Lately, of course, he’d managed, but how much of that was due to him—and how much to her? If he asked her to stay, she’d come to resent him, his weakness, his need for her.
His love for her.
He knew he would never take opium again; he couldn’t even threaten her with that possibility to make her stay. It wouldn’t be right.
He was confident enough to know she might be intrigued by him now, might even imagine she loved him, but in ten years? Twenty?
Best to make a clean break now, before she realized she’d married a worthless, weak man whose only attribute was an ability to act decisively, whether or not it was the best decision.
If he was strong enough to tear his heart out for her good, why wasn’t he strong enough to do it without feeling as though his life was over?
This was truly hell.
Chapter 30
“That … that heathen!” It was the worst thing she’d ever heard her father call someone, and it seemed to suit the situation now.
Although she doubted heathens, despite what her father might have thought, could be so cruel.
Italy. Scotland. Anywhere but where I am, was the gist of it.
Her cheeks burned as she recalled what they’d done the night before. How she’d presented herself to him, literally, on the supper table, like a morsel to be devoured. Which he’d done, thoroughly, and she’d thoroughly enjoyed.
“Bastard.” She went to the wardrobe and flung the doors open. The gorgeous array of gowns seemed to mock her, seemed to cry out, He didn’t really care. He didn’t really care.
If he hadn’t cared, though, why had he even bothered to have his staff purchase the gowns in the first place? What if he already had a mistress in mind, one who would allow him to strip them off of her?
The thought made her stomach roil. She began flinging the gowns out onto the floor, not caring that she was crumpling the fabric or crushing the carefully placed ribbons.
She was having a tantrum. A part of her knew she was acting irrationally, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not anymore.
She threw another gown on the floor and stepped on it, just to prove she could. She could add that to the list of things she’d never done before him: been sold, seen a dead body, slept on dirty sheets, had a tantrum.
Made love. Fallen in love.
It felt like she couldn’t breathe.
She’d stopped caring about appearances, about behavior, as soon as she’d met him. He’d mocked her, challenged her, teased her and … loved her. Maybe not as completely as she might have wished, but somewhere, buried down in that black heart of his, he did care.
But it didn’t matter anymore, did it?
What would he do when she was gone?
To care about what he did after he had dismissed her so casually made her despise herself for her weakness.
Mary, you are an idiot. Never a bigger idiot than now, when you have allowed yourself to care for someone so arrogant, so high-handed, so incredibly … lordlike.
She swallowed and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She’d had her tantrum. She’d ensured no other woman would ever wear these gowns.
Now she just had to figure out a way to get through the rest of her life without him.
***
She didn’t see him again after that. It had been—hmm—three weeks, two days and fourteen hours, and she’d only thought about him, and them, for perhaps three weeks, one day, and seven hours of that time. At least she’d had the time and opportunity to get to know her mother. In whose sitting room she was currently ensconced.
“And,” her mother said hesitantly, “you are certain that there are no … complications?”
Mary shook her head, wishing there had been a child. Someone to love that was part of her, part of them before he’d broken her heart.
She wished she could be reasonable about it; after all, she’d been thinking of leaving him, if he proved not to need her, but she hadn’t counted on his making that decision for her before she could gauge whether or not it was needed.
It stung, to be cast off so carelessly.
And she’d sobbed, for only the second time in all the weeks since he’d betrayed her, as soon as she saw the telltale sign of her courses. Now there was nothing that would serve as a reminder of her time with him, save for her broken heart.
Which, as her mother was growing fond of reminding her, could be mended. And from what her mother had said about her time with Mary’s father, she knew firsthand what that process was like.
Mary had returned to her mother’s house the day following their first disastrous visit. After Mary had told her some of what had happened, Lady Stainton had asked her to stay with her now that Alasdair had “shown his true colors,” as she put it. Mary had declined, thankful that her friend Amelia kept a town house in London. A town house that was blessedly empty, save for a skeleton staff and Mary, who kept to herself and only paid visits to her mother. It was reassuring to be able to relax, after such a tumultuous time, but of course she had no one to speak to of it, especially not her mother, who was not inclined to be forgiving. Not of Alasdair, at least.
Thankfully, however, her mother didn’t condescend to her, or attempt to fabricate a relationship out of the mere circumstance of shared blood. She couldn’t have borne it if her mother had attempted to be … maternal. Instead, they were companions with a surprising number of similarities—their love for poetry, their sly wit, even their favorite colors.
Mary was grateful, at least, to have found her mother, even if it was too late for the relationship to be maternal. And her mother did not blame her for Alasdair’s blackmail, thank goodness, although she clearly wished she could rail against him for all he’d done to her daughter.
“What will you do?” her mother asked. She and Mary’s stepfather would be off on a diplomatic mission to India wi
thin a few weeks, with no clue as to when they would return. There had been talk of including Mary, but Mary had declined, knowing that talk would arise if she left London as quickly as she had arrived. No matter what he’d done, she had no wish to tarnish Alasdair’s reputation.
Mary took a bite of a lemon biscuit instead of answering directly. She brushed a few crumbs from her gown. “I thought I would find a small house in the country. He”—neither one of them ever said Alasdair’s name out loud; he was just “he”—“has made certain I do not lack for funds.”
The funds, she imagined, taken from her mother to ensure his silence. Not that he needed the money; Alasdair’s man of business had told her the details of the settlement, and it was substantially more than what he’d demanded from her mother.
It was just another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. Something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, nagged at her as well. Something about the last time they spoke, when he had so cavalierly told her it was over.
It was likely wishful thinking, but she knew she had to see him just one last time. To let him know there were no … complications of their union, and to see for herself how he was doing.
Not that she would tell her mother of her plan; she already knew it was a stupid idea, and didn’t need anyone else to inform her of that.
She would go, see for herself, and be done with him. Forever.
And if she could keep telling herself that, she was a better liar than she thought.
***
“Take your belongings, all of them, and go downstairs to where my coach is waiting. It will take you and your family to a safe place.” Alasdair felt the stink of the place infest his clothing; the sickly sweet stench of the drug, the pungent tang of the gin, and the grime that seemed endemic to these places all winding together in the air.
The soldier he spoke to wasn’t so far gone yet, thank goodness. He’d just returned from France, his wife had told Alasdair, only to get swindled out of his pay. He was unable to find a job because of his injuries.
The wife, not to mention their two children, were already downstairs. Alasdair had given her a small sum of money, enough to get them established, along with strict instructions that her husband must not gain possession of it. The odds were fair that the man would end up back in one of these places, but at least Alasdair had done his best.
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