Their arms moved to twine around each other, causing their bodies to be pressed close from neck to hip, a movement that unleashed their volatile emotions until they were clinging to each other desperately, their mouths fused together passionately, melting and reforming in the heat of their desire.
For so many years Rule had taken his pleasures where he found them, more to assuage his physical needs rather than to satisfy anything within his soul. This was different, so wondrously different; holding Mary in his arms had set loose tender feelings he didn’t believe he possessed. Along with the burning need he had to hold her, touch her, possess her, to claim her now and forever as his and his alone, there was an awareness of her fragility, her innocence, her blind trust in him never to hurt her. He could feel her trembling within his embrace, awakening to the needs of her body, and while frightened of her intense reaction, willing to place herself entirely in his power.
Slowly, and with patently obvious regret, Tristan eased Mary’s arms from about his neck and, with a few nibbling kisses, ended their embrace. “Since you have said you do not believe me to be obtuse, my love, I will return the compliment by telling you that I believe you to be intelligent enough to know, as I do, that we are in danger of crossing a line that should remain uncrossed until after our wedding.”
Mary ducked her head against his broad chest to hide her flaming cheeks. “Is—is it always like this?” she mumbled into his cravat, trying hard to control her breathing.
She could hear the rumble of his laughter through the cloth of his shirt. “No, my sweetings, it is even better—much better. But now that I have a secret from you, I believe it best if I withhold it until our wedding night.” He leaned back a little to look down at the top of her head. “You will marry me, Miss Mary Lawrence, won’t you?”
She rolled away from him and hopped gingerly to her feet, brushing a few twigs and leaves from her skirts. “I’d better say yes, Tris, now that I will be returning to my uncle and your so-astute aunt with grass stains on my back.”
Mary pressed her fingers to her mouth, giggling as Rule produced an exaggerated look of shock on his face. “Oh dear, that sounded horribly fast, didn’t it? But if we are to be wed, I believe it is time you learned that my real name is not Mary Lawrence. You were right about that at least, you nosy devil you.”
Rule made a small ceremony out of rising to his feet and brushing down his clothes. He had been so caught up in their mutual passion, so relieved to finally understand his reason for being so intrigued with Mary from the moment he had first clapped eyes on her, so heady with the knowledge that Mary was at last his, that any secrets in her past were, quite frankly, the very last thing on his mind.
He reached over to draw a small twig slowly from Mary’s tangled curls. “Sir Henry told me your parents left you in his care when they died. He also told me that they had some enemies of some sort who might have taken it into their heads to revenge themselves on you if he were to let your true identity become common knowledge. He also said,” Tristan went on, bending to retrieve her bonnet and taking her hand as they began their walk back to the curricle, “that he would tell me everything I wanted to know if I really wanted to hear it.”
“And did you?” Mary asked, leaning into him as they walked along. “What am I saying? Of course you did. I can’t imagine you turning down such a grand opportunity.”
“I did not,” he corrected, tweaking her nose. “I stopped him, telling him I would learn the rest of your secret from you. Not that I can for the life of me understand why it should matter a snap now, or why it ever seemed to matter.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling Sir Henry, until I’m blue in the face. He’s had me buried deep in Sussex ever since I was eight, surrounding me with servants that I know full well were hired with my protection in mind. And all because my father was French! How silly—half the ton could claim French blood.”
“Sir Henry was ever a cautious sort,” Tristan told her as he made to help her up onto the curricle seat. “I’m sure he had his reasons at the time.”
“If you say so, Tris,” Mary relented, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before moving to climb up into the curricle. “But I believe I would like to use my real name for the marriage ceremony, even if I have been known as Mary Lawrence for so long that I probably won’t answer to it when someone calls to me. Marie Lisette Vivienne St. Laurent—it has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? Tristan…Tristan? You’re breaking my fingers! What’s wrong?”
“St. Laurent?” he asked in a strangled voice. “Jules St. Laurent?”
“Yes, have you heard of him? Uncle Henry says he was quite well known. Tristan, whatever is the matter with you?” Mary had gained the seat by now, and she wheeled about to watch Rule as he walked around the curricle to the other side, his face as dark as a thundercloud. “My father escaped the Terror and fled to England, where he met my mother. Uncle Henry says the people who confiscated the family estates may have thought I presented a danger to them, especially now that the war is over. As if I wanted anything to do with some moldy acres in Grenoble.”
Mary knew she was babbling, but Tristan was scaring her so, she didn’t know what else to do. “Uncle Henry was telling me the truth, wasn’t he?” she almost begged. “Tristan, for God’s sake, speak to me! Say something!”
“I’ve kept you out too long,” he said at last, his voice wooden. “My aunt will tear a strip off my hide if I don’t return her chick to her soon.”
“A pox on propriety!” Mary snapped, her fears overriding every other emotion save the love she had for this man who now seemed so distant, so unapproachable. “What do you know about my father that I don’t?”
Rule turned to her slowly, all emotion drained from his eyes and voice. “You’d better let Sir Henry explain, as it’s been his secret for so long. I only wish to God it still was.”
“But—but—” Mary began, then lapsed into silence. If she knew nothing else, she knew that Rule wouldn’t be budged from his position. She could only cudgel her own brain as they rode along in silence.
Was her happiness to be so short-lived? Would Tristan—now that he knew all there was to know about her, and, obviously, more than even she knew—retract his proposal?
She couldn’t stand not knowing. Crossing all her fingers in her lap, she took a deep breath and asked desperately, “Does this mean you no longer wish us to be married?”
In that same dead voice she had quickly learned to dread, Rule replied, “I said I’d marry you, and I’m not known for going back on my word.”
Stung, Mary retorted smartly, “Well, don’t let that bother you, I’ll not blab it about that the great Tristan Rule went back on his word.”
“I love you, damn it!” Tristan shouted at her, making her jump. “You just have to give me some time. I just have to have some time alone—to think.”
Mary bit down hard on her bottom lip and the taste of her own blood filled her mouth. “You do that, Tristan,” she answered softly. “And so will I.”
Just as the curricle was passing London Bridge, the skies opened up and it began to rain. Mary silently blessed the raindrops, for they hid her falling tears.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DOOR TO THE LIBRARY slammed shut with enough force to rattle the candlesticks on the mantelpiece across the room. Sir Henry looked up from the dispatch he was reading just in time to see his ward turn the lock and then remove the key, stuffing it into the bodice of her gown.
The girl looked a sorry enough shrimp, her gown and pelisse darkened with rainwater, her straw bonnet limp and drooping down over her eyes. “Is nothing sacred anymore?” he asked with a smile, releasing the dispatch and leaning back comfortably in his oversized leather chair. “First Rachel, although the results were well worth the upheaval, and now you, Mary. I may be overreacting, but somehow I don’t believe yours to be a social ‘break in.’ Perhaps it is time to have a talk with Perkins; I believe, that as a bodyguard at least, the man might
at last be getting past it.”
The only answer to his words was Mary’s short, unladylike exclamation as she struggled exasperatedly to untie the tangled wet ribbons of her bonnet and toss the offending headgear into a corner.
“In case you’re wondering about the results of Rachel’s visit to my sanctum,” Sir Henry went on placidly, rising to walk around the desk and pour the two balloon glasses of brandy he privately felt to be in order, “I am happy to tell you that we have resolved all our mistaken conclusions of the past and are now betrothed once more. Rachel was quite a belle in her day, you know, and could still give many a run for their money. To have captured her affections, not once, but twice, has me standing before you feeling rather full of myself, I don’t mind telling you.”
“My felicitations, Uncle,” Mary said sarcastically, flinging herself into the chair Rachel had occupied earlier. “As it seems to take you several decades to resolve personal problems, may I then look ahead to say, 1840, in the hope you will have by that time figured a way out of the ‘mistaken conclusion’ now destroying my life?”
“You and Tristan have had a misunderstanding?” Ruffton prompted, handing Mary one of the glasses.
“Need you ask?” Mary replied dampeningly before saluting her uncle and then taking a healthy sip of the brandy. The unaccustomed strong spirit hit the back of her throat like liquid fire, and it was only after several minutes spent thumping his ward between the shoulder blades as she coughed and choked that Sir Henry could hope to hear exactly what had transpired.
“Stop trying to cosset me!” Mary told him indignantly, jerking her body away from Sir Henry’s ministering hand once she recovered her voice. “And don’t try to hoax me either. It’s time and more I find out exactly who I am, for I am certainly not who you say I am. Start with my father, if you please, for it would seem the name St. Laurent is at the heart of the problem.”
Sir Henry returned to his chair behind the desk and stared at his ward over the steeple of his pressed-together fingertips. Obviously the child had told Rule her true name and the results had been even worse than he had feared. “Did Lord Rule cast aspersions on your father, my dear?”
“N-no,” Mary admitted, searching in her reticule for her handkerchief. “He…he… Oh, Uncle Henry,” she imparted shakily, “he asked me to marry him!” She then proceeded to hiccup before bursting into loud sobs.
Sir Henry tilted his head and nodded once. “Marry you, eh? I did give him my blessings last night, so that doesn’t surprise me overmuch, knowing Tristan’s penchant for rushing his fences. But really, my pet, if you don’t want him, all you have to do is say so. There’s no need to resort to tears.”
Mary scrubbed at her damp cheeks before looking at her guardian as if he had suddenly grown another nose. “Not want him? Oh, Uncle Henry, how could you possible be so obtuse? Of course I want him! I love him!”
Ruffton sat front on his chair, pointing a finger at Mary’s outthrust chin. “It would take an absolute idiot not to see that you’re overset, but I do believe I’ve taken enough sauce from you, child. I am not so obtuse as to be unable to connect your tears with your demand to know more about your father. You told Tristan your real name, didn’t you? Furthermore, I believe I can take it from your histrionic outburst—breaking into my library and then hiding the key in your bodice like some character in a melodrama—that his reaction to your disclosure wasn’t all you had hoped it would be. He didn’t…er…hurt you in any way, did he?”
Mary bit her lip and shook her head in the negative. “Forgive me for being so rude, Uncle. I admit to being a bit hysterical. And no, Tris didn’t hurt me. At least not so you can see,” she responded shakily, slowly getting herself back under control. “Everything was perfectly lovely, actually, until I told him I wished to be married using my real name. And then…and then…”
“And then he began ranting and raving and slamming his fist into his hand and generally making a cake of himself?” Ruffton offered, knowing his man well.
Mary shook her head. “If only he had. That I would have understood. He’s so adorable when he’s in one of his rages—like a small boy throwing a tantrum. I could have handled that. Instead, he just suddenly lost all the color in his face and refused to so much as peek in my direction all the way home.
“Oh, he did speak to me once, to tell me again that he loved me—he shouted it, actually—but I can’t say as I was much comforted by his declaration.” She looked at her uncle beseechingly. “He’s not acting true to form, Uncle, that’s what really worries me. Whatever he knows about my father, it must be serious indeed, to have him turning from lover into stranger within the blinking of an eye.”
“You landed him a real settler this time, pet, that’s for certain,” Sir Henry agreed gloomily. “But give him time,” he ended by way of sympathy. “He’ll recover—if his love for you is as deep as both Rachel and I believe it to be.”
“He’s leaving late today for his estate in Surrey,” Mary supplied dully. “To ‘think.’ He told me that as he escorted me to the door. Then he left me standing on the doorstep and sprang his horses away as if the hounds of Hell were after him.”
Henry nodded several times, considering this development. “Good, good. Tris has an ugly temper; it’s a good thing he took himself off. He has to work through this thing alone. I wish I could have spared you this, Mary, my dear, spared the both of you, but it is better to start your married life with no secrets between you.”
“We have one now, Uncle,” Mary quipped with a hint of her old spirit. “He knows who I am—and I don’t. Perhaps you will at last deem it appropriate in your master plan to enlighten me so that I can at least understand why Tristan is so upset.”
Sir Henry was barely attending, as he was lost deep in his own thoughts. “I should have never told you your real name. You had forgotten it, along with everything else, after the shock of it all. But how was I to know you would go tumbling into love with a man like Tristan, a man so strict in his loyalties? Perhaps I shall call Rachel in here; she’ll know how best to go on.”
“Forgotten it all? What have I forgotten? And how? And what do Tristan’s rigid loyalties have to do with it? Uncle!” Mary demanded loudly, breaking into Sir Henry’s reverie. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Ruffton looked at his ward, seeing her as she was ten years earlier, her clothing burned and smoky from the fire, her auburn hair singed nearly to the roots on one side of her head, but her chin still held like the little aristocrat that she was.
He sighed deeply, giving up the memory of the child who had so tugged at his heart and looked intently at the young woman who sat before him now, damp, bedraggled, but still every inch the aristocrat. “You’d prefer the unvarnished truth, I imagine?” he asked resignedly.
“Infinitely,” she agreed, raising her chin yet another degree.
THE HEAVY VELVET DRAPERIES were closed tight against the late-afternoon sun, throwing the large chamber into near darkness. Rachel tiptoed into the room until she could see the outline of Mary’s huddled body as it lay atop the high tester bed, facing the wall.
All in all it’s been quite a day for the poor infant, the older woman thought as she crossed the carpet silently to sit down on the edge of the bed, agreeable to waiting in silence until Mary chose to acknowledge her presence.
It didn’t take long. “Go away,” Mary mumbled into her pillow, making backward shooing motions with her left hand. “I’m not receiving at the moment. Come back later.”
“When?” Rachel nudged, her heart going out to Mary.
“Late September—I just might be willing to talk then,” came the answer before the pillow was lifted and repositioned directly over Mary’s head. “Now go away!”
“You plan on going into a genteel decline, child? How crushingly ordinary. Really, I had come to expect better from you.”
Rachel’s last statement had Mary flinging the pillow away from her as she shot into a sitting position to glare at
her chaperon and accuse: “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all along! How could you let me go out in society when you knew? Why give me a taste of what could have been, when you realized perfectly well that society would shun me if they knew the truth? Oh lord, I may as well set on my caps now, for once the story gets out and the world is done with my good name, I’ll be as welcome as the plague in the fashionable drawing rooms, and you know it.”
“Oh, I see,” Rachel said placidly. “And that’s what matters to you, does it? What society will think?”
“No. I don’t care a snap what society thinks, and well you know that too,” Mary said softly, yet another bout of tears not far from the surface. “It’s Tris. If he pilloried me before, when he had only his suspicions for fuel, he’ll hate me now. You didn’t see his face, Rachel. He could barely stand to look at me. And I don’t blame him.”
“I imagine you’re refining too much on that ‘sins of the father being visited on the children’ thing. Tristan is shocked, of course he is, but it’s you he’s asked to marry, not your father.” Rachel reached over to wipe Mary’s tears with her own handkerchief. “Give him a little time, my dear, he’ll come around. He’ll go off to Surrey in one of his mad takings like a sulky little boy for a bit, but he loves you, and in the end he’ll see that your father’s actions have nothing to do with you. Trust me in this, for I know Tristan well.”
Mary took possession of the handkerchief and blew her nose. “I still can’t take it all in. I just thought no one had much memory of anything below the age of eight. It never occurred to me that I was any different.”
“Sir Henry saw no reason to try to prod your memory, since it could only cause you pain,” Rachel explained now. “It was your mother’s dying wish that Henry take care of you and he did the best he knew how, installing you in Sussex with his trusted retired soldiers to keep you safe. Why, your memory was so thoroughly erased that you spoke both English and French interchangeably, not really knowing which was correct. Henry had you surrounded by only English-speaking servants until you were fourteen, to help you forget. It was only then that he employed your French tutor, who Henry tells me considered you to be quite a prodigy in languages, as you picked up his lessons so well.”
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