Shev

by Tracey Devlyn

  “As you can imagine, my husband and I were prepared to take Jacqueline back with us—at any cost.”

  “Were?”

  “Indeed. Until we happened by the Earl of Somerton at a private function.” A secretive smile creased the older woman’s implacable mask. “He enlightened us on a few details.”

  Shev stared at the odd couple. The general lifted his glass in a mock salute, and his wife simply sat there, calmly, as if she hadn’t just told him they were informants to the Crown.

  “I see,” was all he could manage.

  “Lord Shevington,” General Trudeau said, “as you can see, we are prepared to ensure you get what you want. Are you prepared to do the same for us?”

  The thought of their recent conversation with Somerton sent wariness racing up his spine. “In what way?”

  Madame Trudeau took up the gauntlet. “We are practical-minded enough to understand that travel between our two countries is unpredictable at best.”

  “I would agree.”

  “Until such time safe travel can be managed, I would appreciate reports on Jacqueline’s progress and, when she is old enough, a letter or two by her hand.”

  “Done.”

  “I’m not finished, my lord.”

  Shev tipped his head, bracing himself. “My apologies. Do go on.”

  “We would also like for her to spend at least three summers with us.”

  “The entire summer?”

  “Oui. We believe it’s important for her not to lose sight of her mother’s heritage.”

  “Very well.” Shev swallowed hard. “Anything else?”

  “One more thing.” Madame squared her shoulders. “If Jacqueline does not find a suitable husband during her first season, you will send her to me for her next season.”

  Where she would meet a Frenchman and live hundreds of miles away. “No, I cannot agree to such a condition.”

  “You would discard witnessing the entirety of Jacqueline’s youth for three months of her adulthood?”

  “I’ve agreed to everything but the season. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, my lord,” the general said.

  Shev couldn’t do it. The odds that Jacqueline would find a suitable husband in just one season were incredibly low. And he would not be one of those parents who forced his child into a lifetime of misery because of his own ambition. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—”

  “Second season,” Anne rushed in.

  “Pardon?” Madame Trudeau asked, clearly not pleased with the interruption.

  “If Jacqueline doesn’t find a love match by the end of her second season, Lord Shevington will send her to you for her third.” Her worried gaze sought his. “Right, my lord?”

  Knowing Anne as he did, he understood the courage it took for her to speak up during such a sensitive family issue. She would never have done so unless she thought he was about to make a tremendous mistake. Love for this woman surged inside him, nearly buckling his knees.

  “Would you and the general be amenable to Miss Crawford’s suggestion?” Lady Shevington asked.

  Madame Trudeau peered at her husband a moment. Although the general’s facial expression never changed, some kind of silent communication between them was exchanged.

  “What Miss Crawford suggested seems a reasonable compromise.” Madame turned to Shev. “And you, my lord? Will you approve of all the terms of our agreement?”

  Shev set his empty glass down. “On one condition.”

  “That would be?”

  “Miss Crawford marries me.”

  His mother gasped and promptly choked on the air she inhaled. Madame Trudeau settled back in her chair, a smile playing on her lips. The general poured himself another drink.

  Anne sat stricken.

  He was at her side in an instant. “Anne—”

  “I need some fresh air, my lord,” she said unsteadily. “I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.”

  Shev followed Anne’s hasty exit with a sense of disbelief and unbridled fear. He had just asked her to marry him, and she’d run away.

  To be fair, his caveat for accepting Trudeau’s agreement hadn’t been the romantic scene he’d envisioned. But at that moment in time, he had wanted everyone in the room to know of his intention toward Anne. He’d wanted Anne to understand that the one obstacle powerful enough to keep them apart had been obliterated the second she wordlessly confessed her love for him. Something he’d never thought she would do. Could he be blamed for having an attack of optimism?

  For someone who had spent his entire adult life unable to feel anything beyond a simmer, he had experienced emotion after torturous emotion in the last few days at a raging boil.

  “I must ask that we save the rest of our discussion for later.” He bowed toward the general and his wife. “In the meantime, please accept our hospitality. Mother.” He strode to the door.

  “Marcus,” his mother called.

  He paused in the process of reaching for the handle. “Yes?”

  “Do not let my future daughter-in-law get away.”

  He grinned and winked. “No chance of that happening, Mama.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anne had no idea where she was going until her boots hit the stone surface of the mysterious folly in the woods. Her breaths seesawed in and out of her chest, ragged and painful. The discomfort caused by her mad dash was nothing compared to the realization that Marcus loved a lie. He knew only what she had chosen to share with him. Nothing about the horrific act she’d committed against her family all those years ago. Who could ever love a murderess? Certainly not a marquess.

  With a listlessness she felt all the way to her bones, Anne traipsed up the final two steps and took in the quaint structure. The steps wrapped around a third of the building, leaving the front of the folly open and airy except for three large columns supporting the domed roof.

  The view was incredible. A large expanse of neatly trimmed grasses poured into a small pond protected by towering trees on the opposite side. Sunrays sparkled off the pond’s sheer surface, giving it an ethereal glow. Birds chirped in the distance and insects hummed nearby.

  Anne’s body sighed, the tension rolling off her in gentle waves. Why had it taken her so long to seek out this magical place? Then she recalled the masculine silhouette that had sent her scurrying back to safety. No doubt her observer had been none other than Madame Trudeau’s spy. Still, an unnerving realization, even though the gentleman had meant her no harm.

  Once and for all, Anne would put the incident with Lord Whitfield behind her. She would not walk through the rest of her life with one eye looking forward and one forever scanning behind her. She refused to allow him that kind of power over her.

  “Such a fierce look.”

  Anne jumped, startled to find Lord Shevington standing a short distance away. So absorbed in her own thoughts, she had failed to hear his approach.

  “My lord, what are you doing here?”

  “Are we back to formality?” He closed the distance between them. “Shouldn’t a profession of love create a greater sense of intimacy?”

  His nearness stole her breath right from her lungs. He was so handsome, so compelling. “It is difficult to break a lifetime of training, especially under difficult circumstances.”

  He reached behind her. “Soon you will come to realize that, even under difficult circumstances, I am nothing more than a man.” A faint ping reached her ears. “A man who is going to spend the rest of his life showing you how much he loves you.” Another ping. “If you will allow it.” Ping. Pause. Ping.

  Anne’s eyes widened when she comprehended what the impossible man was doing. “Are you letting down my hair?”

  “Indeed, I am.”

  The grin he sent her contained a heart-wrenching combination of longing and love. Tears clouded her vision. “M-Marcus, I can’t marry you.”

  His smile faded. “The differences in our station mean less than nothing.” He cradled her cheek in his warm palm. �
�My mother’s father was a Cit. A successful businessman, to be sure. But it hadn’t always been so.” His gaze held hers in a gentle embrace. “I grew up with an assortment of tradesmen, bankers, seamstresses, physicians, and even pickpockets dining at our dinner table because my mother refused to turn her back on her roots for a title and a Mayfair address.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “My family observes no barriers, and they will not allow anyone else to do so in their presence either.”

  Good Lord, how she loved this man. Their difference in status seemed so insignificant when compared to killing one’s family. She pressed a kiss into his palm. “Your family is lovely and, if things were different, I would be honored to be a part of it.”

  Moving away, she strode deeper into the folly, only now realizing the half-moon interior sported a lushly furnished lounge area with a daybed, chaise longue, and cushioned chair. The decadent sunset colors swept the area in bands of red, orange, yellow, and cream tones.

  If she wasn’t about to lose the only man she’d ever loved, she would have rejoiced in finally finding a place on this estate that reflected Marcus’s tastes. A glimpse of the real Marcus Keene and not the façade he wore to keep the world at bay.

  A lone tear spilled down her face.

  “Did you not hear what I said? Our stations—”

  “I heard, Marcus,” she whispered. “My insubstantial bloodlines are not the reason for my refusal.”

  He circled around until he stood before her again, tipping up her trembling chin with one hooked finger. “Tell me the reason, Anne. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Do not underestimate my resolve on this. I intend for you to be my wife—unless you professed your love for me out of compassion rather than passion.”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean both.” Anne grasped his face in her hands. “I love you, Marcus. Never doubt it. But I can’t marry you.”

  “I don’t understand, Anne.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for strength. “I know.”

  “Explain it to me. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you.”

  Anne’s body began to tremble from the force of holding in her secret. A secret she had never shared with another person, not even her aunt and uncle. But she wanted to unburden herself, wanted it like a starving animal in search of food.

  “Sweetheart, come here.” He pulled her against his big, solid body. “I can take it, Anne. Whatever this is, I can take it.”

  Anne’s trembling grew worse. “I know you can. You’re the strongest, most capable person I know. But if this horrible thing ever got out, it could ruin you and your family.” And he would never look at her in quite the same way again.

  “So I am to stand by and watch this secret destroy you?” He kissed the top of her head. “That, I can’t do. I’ve known from the beginning you harbored something that was extinguishing the light from your eyes. It’s time for you to allow someone else to carry this burden for you—or, at least, share its weight.”

  The tears refused to be held back any longer. Anne sobbed against Marcus’s chest, absorbing every bit of strength from his capable arms. She loved him so much, but had sworn never to share her shame. His disgust would shatter the fragile hold she kept on her sanity. “It’s too horrible, Marcus. It’s too horrible to forgive.”

  “Anne, love. Look at me.”

  He tried to lift her chin, but she refused. Anne couldn’t bear for him to see her this way. She was losing control, and one look in his sympathetic eyes would be her undoing.

  “Hold on.”

  Before his words registered, he’d bent and lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the large, overstuffed chair. He sat with her cradled in his arms, whispering unintelligible words of comfort. She buried her face into his neck, his scent a balm to her ragged nerves.

  After several minutes, he ventured, “We have all done horrible things that we regret.”

  “Nothing so horrible as this, Marcus.” She accepted the handkerchief that appeared in front of her face. “I promise you.”

  His chest rose on a deep inhalation, as if preparing himself to deliver unwelcome news. “Many years ago, a gentleman I respected gave me an opportunity to stop the downward course of my life by helping my country protect its borders from a French invasion.”

  “In what way?”

  “Nothing too onerous. I simply had to continue cultivating the charming, profligate persona I had so enthusiastically started in my unbridled youth.”

  “I don’t understand. For what purpose?”

  “To listen.”

  As hard as she tried, Anne could make no sense of his words.

  “Few people temper their conversations around someone more concerned about the fit of their new coat or the location of their next entertainment. I took advantage of their carelessness and reported anything important I heard.”

  “Are you saying you’re a spy?”

  He winked. “Dashing, aren’t I?”

  Despite the seriousness of their conversation, she smiled. “Indeed, my lord spy.” She searched his twinkling eyes for a hidden meaning behind his words and found none. “But I fail to see how your actions could be considered horrible. What you’re doing is honorable, Marcus.”

  “Would your opinion change if you learned I used my talents to charm information from a young, lonely wife whose family connections reached Bonaparte?”

  The blood drained from Anne’s face at the thought of Marcus embracing another woman.

  “I quickly realized the young lady was in possession of a great deal of information due to her parents’ friendship to the newly elected First Consul of France.”

  “So your listening turned into something more?”

  “Much more, as it turns out. My affair with Giselle Bélanger lasted for several weeks—until she returned to France with her husband.”

  “Jacqueline.” Anne’s throat closed around his daughter’s name.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Not until I received Giselle’s letter did I realize our affair had resulted in a child. Even so, I never again bedded another woman for the purpose of extracting political secrets. Not my most shining moment, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Anne pressed her lips against his. “Thank you for sharing your story. It is difficult to find fault in actions that produced such a beautiful outcome.” She kissed him again. “But I understand it doesn’t make the regret any less painful.”

  “How can you not despise me for such callous disregard of another?”

  “Because that lost young man is not who you are today. I love you, Marcus Keene.”

  Anne caught the sheen of tears in his eyes a second before his mouth covered hers. It was a consuming kiss, a desperate kiss, a loving kiss. Warm and slick, his tongue curled around hers, coaxing her deeper, harder, longer. By the time he slowed their kiss, Anne was so starved of air she could barely recall her name.

  “Now you, Anne. I shared my most shameful secret, and yet you still love me. Allow me the opportunity to show you the depth of my affection. Let it go.”

  “Marcus, our situations, they’re not the same.”

  “Of course, they’re not. But you can trust me as I trusted you.”

  She shook her head. “No—”

  “Did you lie to me then, Anne?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trusting the one you love is an essential ingredient in a relationship. Perhaps you don’t truly love me.”

  “Don’t be absurd—”

  “Are you like all the others?”

  “Stop it, Marcus!”

  “Do you love my title and wealth more than me?”

  “I murdered them!”

  Anne blinked several times; her breaths billowed into the deafening silence. Oh, my God. What have I done? Her gaze shot to Marcus’s, fear clogging her throat.

  * * *

  After his initial shock had faded, Shev forced the tension from his shoulders. He’d hated pushing her i
nto divulging the awful event that had held her hostage, but he could not stand to see her suffer any longer.

  He brushed a lock of hair away from her flushed face. “Who, Anne?”

  “Oh, God. No. I didn’t just say that. Please, no.” She stared at his chest, a wild look in her eyes.

  “Breathe, Anne. Breathe. I’m still here, love.” He sent her a playful, reassuring smile. “You’ll have to do better than murder to scare me away.”

  Her gaze slowly traveled from his chest to the vicinity of his mouth. “M-Marcus.”

  One word. Broken. In one ill-conceived attempt to help her, he’d managed to do what years of her protecting a secret hadn’t: He’d shattered her spirit. “Anne, I’m sorry.” He drew her close. “We don’t have to talk about this now. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

  A spasm shook her body, and humid heat sifted through the coarse material of her dress. He tried to think of a way to right this terrible wrong he’d caused. But logical thought failed him. His stomach roiled and coiled into a knot. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so he held her close, smoothing large, calming circles on her back, murmuring an apology against her temple.

  “When I was a little girl,” she began, her words unsteady, “I loved books. Books of all kinds. Books on travel, cooking, medicine, novels—anything and everything. My favorite time to read was at night after everyone had gone to bed and the house creaked like old bones settling in for a long rest.”

  Shev forced himself to stay quiet, to allow her to tell her tale for as long as she was willing. Or capable.

  “On my tenth birthday, my mother gave me The Ruins of Palmyra. The year before, I had read a brief description about the grand, colonnaded street near Damascus and mentioned it to my mother.” Anne pressed into his shoulder. “She remembered.”

  “Mothers have extraordinarily long memories,” he said in his driest tone, hoping to elicit a small chuckle. But she was too caught up into her story.

  “Yes, my mother was”—she swallowed hard—“lovely in all ways.”