The Earl Who Played With Fire
Page 12
“Now?” she asked. “Why must you have it tonight?”
He paused. “You’re right, of course. We can wait for morning.”
“Why are you so desperate to know what the stone says?” she asked. “This isn’t just about learning to translate Egyptian, is it?”
His eyes shifted. There was wariness there, suddenly, and a secret he wouldn’t divulge. “I have an object in my collection that has the same characters in Egyptian,” he said, not mentioning the dagger directly. “You can understand why I might be curious to know what it says.”
She could — and yet she couldn’t. “So curious that you cannot wait until morning?”
He shrugged, but he wasn’t as relaxed as he pretended. “I allowed myself to be carried away.”
She debated. The stone wouldn’t give him the real message. But she only had two choices.
She could confess that it was a forgery and destroy his opinion of her forever.
Or she could tell him what the stone said and let him believe that it was true.
If she were a better person, she would tell him. She would deliver the news quickly, mercilessly, like a coup de grace — severing their friendship and abandoning all hope of ever winning him.
Nobility was to be admired. When she was younger, she would have vowed that honor was more important than anything else.
She didn’t care much about nobility anymore. Not when she would lose everything by confessing. “I could tell you what it said,” she said slowly. “If that would help.”
A flicker of surprise flashed through his eyes. “Did Ellie have someone translate the Aramaic?”
Even though she didn’t deserve his respect anymore, the scholarly part of her was annoyed that he doubted her capabilities. “I can read it. Can you not?”
Aramaic wasn’t a common language for scholars to learn, but she’d had plenty of time for it while she was in mourning. Alex had likely never thought he would need it. “Obviously I am not as well-learned as you are,” he said.
Other men might have sulked over that, but he eyed her with newfound admiration. She twitched. “I have a skill for languages.”
“Then tell me — what did the stone say?”
He leaned forward, as though she was about to tell him a story he’d waited a lifetime for. She closed her eyes for the recitation. “Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, sends you good tidings and wishes you luck on your quest.”
It was a bland enough statement. He didn’t respond immediately, waiting long enough for her to think he had lost interest. She opened her eyes, but she found fury on his face instead of apathy. “No,” he said harshly. “You must have misinterpreted.”
She stared at him. “I vow that’s what it says.”
“No,” he said again.
He was always saying no to her. “You can see it for yourself in the morning,” she said mulishly.
He stood to pace around the room. “Why would it say that?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Cleopatra’s darker dealings were mostly with the Romans. Why would she have the dagger inscribed in Egyptian? Unless it was meant for a priest?”
Prudence stayed still as stone. Alex would surely realize that it wasn’t real.
He hadn’t come to that conclusion yet, though. He was still talking to himself, still pacing. “It must be a riddle,” he said. “What is the quest?”
She stood up, unable to watch. “I should go to my room.”
Alex turned to her. For a moment, he was full of life, full of some fire that was determined to burn through whatever riddle he thought the stone had given him. He didn’t look like a scholar; he looked like a warrior preparing for battle.
But then, oddly, he deflated. “It sounds too straightforward to be a riddle.”
Even though he looked directly into her eyes as he said it, it seemed that he was a million miles away. She hesitated, then said in a rush, “It doesn’t matter, does it? Solving a riddle that old is probably impossible.”
The silence turned bleak. “I will never know what it means,” he whispered.
He picked up her sherry glass, drained it, and threw it into the fire. The sudden violence shocked her. “Alex,” she said. “What is wrong?”
“You should go to bed, Miss Etchingham,” he said distantly.
She was so confused. Her guilt still ran high, but he’d given her much more of a mystery than she had expected. “Is there nothing I can help with?”
He was half-turned away from her, so she could see the strain on his face but not the emotion in his eyes. “No. I don’t know. I need to think.”
Prudence debated again. He had not reacted as she had expected him to. The dagger meant something to him that she didn’t understand. But she couldn’t ask without giving away her secret.
She felt, oddly, that this was the end. She walked toward the door, still considering her options. Tonight was nearly the end of the week he’d asked her to give him — alone in his study, they could have discussed whatever it was he intended for her. But he hadn’t said a word about it. She sensed, in his strange stillness tonight, that he never would.
She reached for the door handle. Despite it all, she couldn’t leave without taking a final look at him. She turned back. “Goodnight, Alex,” she whispered.
She didn’t expect a response. But his pacing had brought him closer than she had realized. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her wrist.
He pulled her away from the door and into his arms. He didn’t kiss her. His touch was fierce, but the fierceness of a goodbye, not the passion of a greeting. He just held her, pulling the cap off her hair and brushing his lips across her forehead.
The bloody bounder was the most confusing man she had ever known. Was this love? Hate? The ravings of an unstable mind?
But his arms felt so good. And this moment might be the last good one — one tiny scrap of comfort between the bleak chain of memories stretching behind her and the dark future that awaited her.
So she let him hold her. She let his arms close around her, let his hand stroke her back, let his masculine scent soak into her skin. She let herself pretend that everything would come out all right in the end.
He kissed her forehead again. “I am sorry, Prudence. So, so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” she asked, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. “Nothing has happened.”
Everything was still unspoken between them. But he threw it all into the light. “I am sorry I cannot have you,” he said. “Sorry that I have to let you go.”
“No,” she said, emphatic. “You don’t have to let me go.” She promptly forgot her better intentions. If he wanted her, she’d let him have her, even with her lie between them.
“I do. I must. I wish you happy, you know. Very happy.”
She stroked her hand over his heart. “I wish you happy too, Alex.”
His name seemed to pain him. He closed his eyes. “You should find someone who can give you what you deserve, Prudence. You deserve so much. So much more than I can ever give you.”
“What are you carrying on about? I want nothing more than what you can give me.”
She meant it with all her heart. He looked into her eyes as though willing her to understand something about him. But whatever she was supposed to understand was lost when the door opened. It hit Alex in the shoulder. He stepped back instinctively, pulling her with him, shielding her with his arms.
He should have tossed her across the room.
Ferguson stepped through the doorway. Malcolm was close behind. The duke saw them standing together, then darted his eyes to where her cap lay on the carpet.
His surprise turned to immense satisfaction. Prudence’s heart stopped.
“Salford,” Ferguson said, his voice positively dripping with delight. “Not so Puritanical after all, are you?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
No. It was the only word he seemed capable of thinking tonight. But then, the night kept surprising him in terms of h
ow much worse it could get before the end. He had thought that Thorington’s obvious interest in Prudence was bad enough. Then he had lost the auction, which was certainly worse.
Then Prudence had been so vague and noncommittal about whether she planned to marry the duke. Alex hadn’t dwelled on it; he was too concerned about the stone to consider it. But if her translation was correct, he didn’t see how the stone could possibly hold the answer he needed.
He would have to let her go. That realization had surely been the worst.
The night wouldn’t relent, though. Prudence was as startled as Alex was by Ferguson’s entrance. She tried to pull away from him. But Alex made the fatal error of tightening his grip on her arm. His instincts screamed to protect her — but he couldn’t protect her.
“Ferguson,” he said, as calmly as if he had expected to see him. “I trust you can make yourself comfortable elsewhere while I finish a bit of business with Miss Etchingham.”
Ferguson wouldn’t be fended off that easily. His grin turned feral, a predator about to make a kill. “Interesting bit of business, Salford. What do you think, Malcolm?”
Malcolm shut the door. “I think Salford should send to the archbishop for a special license.”
Prudence drew herself up before Alex could speak. “He hasn’t touched me,” she said. “We’re merely friends.”
Merely friends. It was all they could ever be. But the frozen, stunned sound in her voice made him want to draw her back into his chest.
Ferguson sighed. “You do not have to make excuses for him, Miss Etchingham. The man was embracing you. Unless you lost your cap due to a rogue gust of interior wind, I’d wager there was some passion involved. Malcolm, do you agree?”
“Looks just as damning as how he found me with Amelia,” Malcolm said, in a voice that sounded more smug than judgmental.
“He didn’t even see me kissing Madeleine before he took it upon himself to make me marry her,” Ferguson added.
Prudence stiffened. Alex knew they were trapped, completely, but he tried anyway. “As Miss Etchingham said, we are friends of long standing acquaintance. It’s surely different than your situations.”
“Doesn’t look different to me,” Malcolm said, circling around them to seek out the decanters on the other side of the room.
Ferguson nodded. “Miss Etchingham, since you have no brother to protect your honor, I would be glad to serve that purpose.” Then he turned his gaze on Alex. His sharp blue eyes held an equal mix of resolve and unholy glee. “Salford, you must marry the lady and make her reputation good. Or I’ll have no choice but to call you out.”
The night could definitely be worse.
“I cannot,” he said.
Prudence stepped away from him. “Nor can I.”
“I didn’t imagine that Salford would be the least gentlemanly of all of us when confronted like this,” Malcolm said as he came back with a glass for himself and one for Ferguson.
The duke shook his head. “I warned him not to let it go too long before he gave in to sin. He really has made a muck of things, hasn’t he?”
Alex held up his hands. “Nothing happened. Miss Etchingham’s virtue is entirely secure.”
“For someone who didn’t entertain our excuses, you seem oddly confident that we will listen to yours,” Ferguson said.
Alex knew he was sunk. He had played a strong role in both their marriages — but Ferguson and Malcolm had both been secretly glad to marry Madeleine and Amelia. It was the ladies who had been less sure of their circumstances.
It grated on Alex’s conscience that he couldn’t step up to his duty like they had. But he would never break his curse. If he married Prudence, and she died because of him…
He shrugged, steeling his heart against what he had to do. “It is your word against mine. If you choose to pursue this publicly in order to force the issue, I will still refuse. Her ruin will be on your conscience. Now, I have business to attend to. You may take my brandy and go elsewhere.”
Ferguson frowned — a real frown, not an affectation. “Never thought I’d see the day. You truly intend to ruin her.”
Prudence coughed. “Do you think I might have a say in what you are discussing?”
“Do not worry, Miss Etchingham,” Ferguson said, in a soothing tone that Alex knew would infuriate her. “We will make sure Salford does what he should for you.”
“And if I don’t want him to?” Prudence asked.
Malcolm shrugged. “Amelia didn’t want me to do my duty either, but she’s happy with the result.”
“I’m not your wife,” Prudence said. She stooped to pick up her cap as she said this. She wrapped it tightly around one fist, looking for a moment like she was preparing for a boxing bout. “As you no doubt remember, since you threw me over for her.”
Malcolm had the grace to look abashed. He sipped his brandy, too quickly, and nearly choked on it. When he had finally recovered from his coughing fit, he sighed. “My apologies, Miss Etchingham.”
She nodded briskly. “Nor do I wish to be your wife. Or Ferguson’s wife. Or, heaven forbid, Salford’s wife.”
“But he has taken advantage of you,” Ferguson pointed out, gentle but undeterred. “I cannot ignore that. He will marry you even if I must hold a saber to his neck while he says the vows.”
“You cannot,” Prudence said, her voice oddly rushed. “I have already agreed to marry the Duke of Thorington.”
If the night turned any worse, Alex might have to shoot himself.
“What?” Alex said.
She didn’t look at him. “I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Salford. And I suppose I should thank the rest of you for your concern, although I don’t think I shall. I am quite capable of arranging my own life, no matter what any of you men seem to believe.”
For once, Ferguson was so shocked that his face showed it. Alex would have enjoyed it more if he wasn’t sure he wore a similar expression. When the duke spoke, he sounded confused rather than amused. “Thorington? I know he’s a duke, but trust me when I say that most dukes have little to recommend themselves as husbands.”
Malcolm frowned. “Are you sure we cannot force Salford to marry you instead? He’s a dull stick, but your life would be better for it.”
Alex wanted to demand an explanation. He wanted to make her admit that she was marrying Thorington for security, or even revenge, but not for love.
He wanted to force her to stay and marry him instead.
But he couldn’t do any of that, not when marrying her would surely kill her. So he merely said, “I trust that the lady is capable of making her own decisions. And I wish her very happy with them.”
“I thank you, my lord,” she whispered.
Her face, shadowed by the fire, looked haunted, a Fury carved in marble rather than the warm, eager woman he knew. She didn’t look at Alex, giving him only her profile.
He wanted more. He wanted to give her more.
But she deserved more than he could allow himself to dream of. And yet he couldn’t seem to stop the words. “I am sorry.”
“I don’t believe I care. I will leave your house tomorrow so that there are no more…inconvenient moments like this.”
She was gone before he could think of a response, elbowing through the wall Ferguson and Malcolm had made and fleeing through the door. Would she start packing her things immediately, or would she wait until morning?
Would he survive, each night, knowing that she was in Thorington’s bed instead of his?
Malcolm closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. Ferguson took off his jacket and began to roll up his shirtsleeves.
“You’ve interfered enough for one night,” Alex said. “No need to start a brawl.”
The duke shook his head. “You have disappointed me, Salford.”
Alex ignored what Ferguson thought in most circumstances. But then, in most circumstances, Ferguson didn’t sound so sincere. “Like Miss Etchingham, I don’t believe I care.”
“So is it to be fisticuffs or a duel?” Alex asked. “Either way, I’m at your service. But it won’t change the facts of the matter.”
“The fact is that you’re a coward,” Ferguson said.
It was the kind of word that made men fight and die — the kind of word that slapped Alex across the face and settled into the pit of self-hatred he already nursed in his belly. If he cared for his honor, he would call Ferguson out for it and demand satisfaction for the insult.
But honor didn’t matter. Nor did Ferguson’s opinion. All that mattered was that Prudence had safely walked away from him…that she would continue to live, that the curse wouldn’t perceive her as a threat to his studies.
Ferguson still waited expectantly for Alex to respond to his taunt. Alex just held up his hands, taking a breath to say what he must say. “Very well, I am a coward. I am not the gentleman you expected me to be. Think whatever you want of me — you always have. But don’t breathe a word of anything that would harm Miss Etchingham’s reputation, or I will kill you both.”
He’d shocked them into silence. They both seemed to mull over his words as they would a Parliamentary speech, something to be analyzed, then judged. But their judgment, when it came, wasn’t what he expected.
“Do you know why she chose to marry Thorington?” Ferguson asked.
Alex shrugged. “He offered. She must have decided he was better than waiting.”
Malcolm sprawled into one of the chairs, abandoning the idea of a fight. “And you intend to let her marry him?”
Alex clenched his fists to avoid rubbing his scar. “It is not my decision.”
“So you aren’t satisfied with this turn of events,” Ferguson said. “But if you aren’t, why not seize on our interference as an excuse to marry her yourself?”
“That is what I did when you interfered, Salford,” Malcolm pointed out. “And I thank you for it, even if you’ll never hear me say it again. I might never have convinced Amelia to marry me without you.”