Just as Nicholas was about to speak, the Marquis of Melborne returned to the box. Immediately he turned to vent his fury on the luckless man who had brought Ashleigh to London.
Clearly unaware that he had made a grievous error by bringing Ashleigh to Town, the marquis smiled courteously and offered the duke a polite greeting. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, woefully ignorant of the tension within the box.
“It started out that way,” Nicholas ground out, barely disguising his mounting rage as he pinned his gaze on the hapless marquis, who regarded him in obvious confusion. “I was not aware, Melborne, that I had granted my permission for Lady St. John to travel to London, or to attend the theater.”
Ashleigh watched horror-struck as Tiffany’s father was rendered momentarily speechless, caught completely off guard by the duke's obvious anger.
“I assume that you are aware the Lady St. John is currently under my care,” Nicholas said, glaring at the marquis.
“Yes, of course,” Melborne responded, finally finding his voice.
“Then why is she here?” The steely tone of his voice had the bite of a whip as he turned his eyes toward Ashleigh.
Although she wasn’t particularly fond of Tiffany’s father, he certainly didn’t deserve to be treated so rudely. “Your Grace,” she interjected, before the marquis could respond. “Your grandmother gave her permission for me…”
“While you are residing under my roof, you will abide by my rules, Lady St. John,” he stated tersely, cutting her off mid-sentence. “And I did not give you permission to journey to London, nor did I give you leave to attend the theater.” Returning his gaze to the marquis, Nicholas’ expression brooked no further discussion. “If you will excuse us, I shall return Lady St. John to your townhouse and trust that you will see to it that she is delivered to Sethe Manor no later than tomorrow afternoon.”
Ignoring Ashleigh’s indignant huff, Tiffany’s sharply indrawn breath, and the marquis’ affronted demeanor, Nicholas reached out and grasped Ashleigh’s elbow. “Good evening,” he snapped discourteously. With those parting words, Nicholas abruptly propelled Ashleigh out of the box and headed toward the front of the theater.
As they entered the lobby, Ashleigh seriously contemplated digging in her heels and jerking her arm from his grasp. However, she couldn't help but notice several faces staring in their direction, all in rapt attention. She was certain that she could very well die of humiliation at any moment, as she was led, or dragged rather, from the theater. She then had to stand at his side for several minutes in silent outrage as the duke ordered his carriage brought around to the front of the theater. Her wrap had been left behind, but her anger helped keep her warm in the cool night air.
Once they were safely ensconced in the opulent conveyance and moving away from the theater, Ashleigh hit Nicholas with the full brunt of her fury. “How dare you treat me like…like some miscreant child!” she demanded hotly.
Nicholas reached out and grabbed Ashleigh's arms, pulling her face to within inches of his own. “I have yet to strike a woman in anger, Lady St. John, but if you say one more word, so help me God, I will not be held accountable for my actions!” he declared, emphasizing each and every word, his anger scarcely held in check. He wouldn’t of course, but she didn’t know that. Then, with a slight shove, he released her arms and she fell back against the seat.
Ashleigh was so astonished by the suddenness of his action that she couldn’t have spoken another word at that moment, even if she had wished to. Amazed that Nicholas' anger had reached such an alarming degree, she shrunk back against the velvet seat cushion, wisely remaining silent as the carriage gradually picked up speed.
As they traversed the cobbled London streets, Nicholas stared moodily out into the darkness, completely astounded by Ashleigh's daring. It was unbelievable. The tenacious little vixen had actually followed him to London. Did no one have control over the brazen young woman sitting across from him, he wondered? He turned and caught her eyes upon him, a mutinous expression evident upon her delicate features, before she quickly averted her gaze out the window. By God, she would try the patience of a saint, and he certainly was no saint.
The ride was nerve-wracking, the air seeming to crackle with tension as the silence between them grew thick and heavy. Aside from their quiet breathing, the only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. Ashleigh longed to break the tense silence, but she knew she didn’t dare.
Before long, the carriage came to a halt, with Nicholas opening the door and pulling her out before the driver had barely set the brake and the startled footman having only just lowered the steps. Ashleigh was then forced to race to keep up with his long strides as he marched her up the steps, and then rapped loudly upon the Marlowe’s front door.
A moment later it swung open, and after curtly introducing himself, Nicholas brushed past the startled butler and guided Ashleigh into the Marlowe's front parlor, pulling the wide double doors shut behind him with an ominous thud. Leaning back against one of the thick wooden panels, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. He stared at Ashleigh for one long moment, the air fraught with the unrelenting tension between them.
Ashleigh eyed Nicholas warily as he suddenly pushed himself away from the door and advanced toward her. She took an automatic step backward, the look in his eyes telling her that things did not bode well for her at that moment.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, the muscles in his neck taut, his expression as dark as a thundercloud as he moved to stand directly in front of her.
He was standing so close that she could feel his warm, brandy scented breath on her face as he leaned toward her. “It is not what you are thinking,” she claimed, trying to think of a plausible explanation for her presence in London. She knew he wouldn't believe that she had been just as surprised by her unexpected trip to London as he had been to see her at the theater.
“Is it not?” he snapped, his tone disbelieving.
“No. I swear, I…”
“Save your breath.” He held up his hand, stopping whatever excuse she had been about to give. “I am tired of your games dammit. So, for the last time, allow me to make myself perfectly clear so that there will be no future misunderstandings between us,” he said, deliberately enunciating each word. “There can be nothing between us, not now, and not ever. I am not interested in whatever it is that you have in mind. Do you understand?”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that is so!”
Ashleigh’s trepidation was quickly turning to outrage in the face of his harsh, angry words. “As I am sure you well know; actions speak louder than words, Your Grace.”
“Just what the devil is that supposed to mean,” he demanded, incredulous at her sudden boldness in the face of his mounting fury.
“I think you know very well what it means,” Ashleigh fired back, nearly as incensed as he was now. “As I recall, you have proven your lack of interest on more than one occasion.”
He clenched his jaw in anger, furious at being reminded of his damnable physical weakness when it came to her. It made it easier to be deliberately unkind. “As I explained yesterday, I am only a man,” he said, insolently raking her up and down with his eyes. “If you do not wish to be treated like a common trollop, perhaps you should stop acting like one.”
His contemptuous sneer was as insulting as his words and angrily she lashed back. “Stop it damn you! Stop punishing me for the sins of others!”
“Excuse me?”
The sudden frigidness of his tone nearly gave her pause, nearly. “I am not like those other women, the women in your past. I am not like your mother.”
He moved with the speed of a coiled snake, grabbing her and hauling her forward so that she slammed against his chest. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I-I j-just meant that…” she stammered, alarmed by the growing anger she saw in his face.
�
�Once again, you go too far,” he ground out, furious that she dared to bring up his mother, but even more so by the shocking accuracy of her assessment. How was it that she seemed to see into his very soul? Damn her! She was getting too close, too familiar, and it absolutely terrified him.
“I’m sorry. Please Nicholas, let me…”
“No,” he interrupted. “Whatever the hell this is, this was, it is over! Do you understand me?” When she didn’t answer quickly enough, he gave her a jarring shake, snapping her head backwards as tears spiked her lashes. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she cried.
Immediately he released her, and then turning his back he walked purposefully to the door.
Ashleigh felt as if her legs had turned to jelly. No one had ever spoken to her so harshly, or treated her so unjustly. What had she done that was so terrible? She had acted out of love, never out of artifice or duplicity as he assumed. A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek as she watched him walk away. When he reached the door, she couldn’t help herself, and softly spoke his name. “Nicholas.” He hesitated for just a moment, and with what little dignity she had left, she spoke with quiet pride. “Whatever I may or may not be, I am not a trollop, and you know it.”
Nicholas faltered, his hand on the door handle, momentarily arrested by her softly spoken declaration. He had never before spoken to anyone with such intentional cruelty and callousness. He despised himself at that moment, knowing he should turn around and beg her forgiveness for having said something so heartless and cruel. He wanted to, but in truth, he knew that it was better this way. It was better if she hated him, better for both of them. If her feelings for him were sincere, if she honestly believed that she cared about him, then it really was best to end it now. For either way, he would never be able to give her what she wanted. He sighed heavily, and then, instead of turning to apologize as he should have, as he would have liked, he pulled open the door and walked from the room, hating himself.
Staring at the closed door, Ashleigh sank to her knees, raising her hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Nearly two hours later, Tiffany knocked softly upon the door of Ashleigh’s bedchamber. “It’s Tiffany. May I come in?” she called.
“Of course,” Ashleigh replied, pushing back the bedcovers and sitting up. She hadn’t been asleep, merely staring at the dark ceiling overhead, as she had been for the past hour.
“Are you alright?” Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, Tiffany eyed her with concern. “Have you been crying?”
“Perhaps a little,” she admitted.
“Oh no. Whatever happened after you left the theater?”
Seeing the distress on Tiffany's face, Ashleigh tried to appear nonchalant. “Nothing really,” she hedged, knowing she could never reveal the truth, not even to Tiffany. It was far too humiliating. “He was just angry, because he thought that I had deliberately followed him to London.”
“But that’s ridiculous. Did you tell him that wasn’t the case at all, that is was my father’s idea?”
“I tried, but…” she shook her head, her sentence unfinished.
“Oh Ashleigh, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It is for the best I think. He is obviously not the man I thought he was,” she said, her tone resigned. There was only so much she was willing to take, and Nicholas Leighton had finally pushed her to her limit. When he’d walked out that door, her romantic idealism had gone right along with him.
Tiffany took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, her expression sympathetic.
“I'm so sorry I ruined the night for you,” Ashleigh said, with an apologetic smile. “Is your father furious?”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Tiffany stated firmly. “And as for my father, well, you know my father,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I wish he hadn't created such a scene. I cannot even imagine what everyone must have been thinking the way he practically dragged me out of there, as if I was a disobedient child escaped from the nursery.”
“Well, I know something that might cheer you up,” Tiffany began with a devilish gleam in her eyes. “When the duke returned to the theater, he and the countess had words. I do not know what they said to each other of course, but her expression was absolutely livid.” She paused for dramatic effect. “I caught a glimpse of them after the performance as well, when we were leaving, and neither of them looked too happy.”
It didn’t matter, not anymore, but for Tiffany’s sake she tried to act as if she cared.
The ride back to Sethe Manor the next morning was uncomfortable to say the least. Ashleigh and Tiffany sat silently against the rear of the carriage, while the marquis sat directly across from them, his icy gaze riveted on the passing scenery, his demeanor aggrieved. He hadn't said a single word to her since the horrible incident at the theater, even after she had attempted to apologize, a curt nod having been his only acknowledgement. Oh well, Tiffany’s father had never seemed to care much for her anyhow. She wasn’t going to let it bother her. She had far more important things to focus on.
After Tiffany had retired to her own room the night before, Ashleigh had laid awake long into the night, thinking. She had replayed the events of the past weeks over and over in her mind. Regardless of what may or may not have happened to him in the past, she could no longer continue to justify Nicholas’ unwarranted behavior. He had absolutely no right to treat her as he had that night, or upon any other occasion for that matter. In truth, he had unjustly tried and convicted her for the crimes of others from the moment they first met, whether he was willing to admit it or not. If he couldn’t see that, well then, obviously she had misjudged him, giving him far more credit than he was due. Hurt and angry, she had vowed to put Nicholas Leighton out of her mind for good.
Now, as they traveled the road back to Sethe manor, she remained determined to do just that. She had far too much pride to continue to court rejection. She just hoped that someday the Duke of Sethe would realize exactly what it was that he had given up, for she would have loved him with all of her heart, if only he had let her. Unfortunately, by then it would be too late.
Chapter 9
Two days had passed since Ashleigh had left London, and for two days Nicholas had remained in a black mood. He was guilt-ridden and ashamed, for him two rare and vastly unpleasant emotions. The hurtful words he had spoken in the heat of anger repeated themselves over and over in his head like a constantly beating drum. Whatever her objectives may or may not be, no one deserved to be treated the way he had treated her, and he damn well knew it. Women had been throwing themselves at him for years, and many of those women had been much more forward and brazen than Ashleigh St. John ever had. Yet, he had never once treated any of them as despicably as he had treated her. So why her, why now? He knew the answer dammit. It was because he’d never wanted any of those women half as much as he wanted her and that was his fault, not hers.
He knew what he had to do. He had to return to Sethe Manor and apologize to Ashleigh for his appalling behavior. He didn’t expect her to forgive him, for his behavior had been inexcusable, but the very least he could do was to tell her how sorry he was, and that he hadn’t meant the horrible things that he had said. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t, but of course, it wouldn’t change anything between them. After he made his apology he would return to London, where he would remain until her grandfather returned and she no longer resided under his roof. Although he staunchly refused to consider that his feelings for her might be anything other than lust, he had to admit that Ashleigh set his blood on fire like no one ever had before. There was something about her, something unique and extraordinarily alluring; something he couldn’t quite define, but it was something he found far too appealing. For that reason alone, he would keep his distance. He simply had no other choice.
Late the following afternoon, Nicholas began his return journey to the country. Not wishing to be confined to the coach, he decided to ride, but unfortunately his
mount picked up a stone approximately halfway between London and Sethe Manor. Forced to walk him the remaining distance, it was after dark when he finally arrived at the estate. Not surprisingly, he discovered that both Ashleigh and his grandmother had already retired to their rooms for the evening. It was probably for the best he reasoned, for the long, unexpected walk had definitely soured his mood and he owed Ashleigh a proper apology, not one tinged with irritability.
Having missed the evening meal, he chose to ignore his hunger rather than rousing the kitchen staff, ultimately closeting himself in the library with a book and a full bottle of brandy. He would speak with Ashleigh in the morning, and make his apologies then.
As he sat idly before the low-burning fire that had been started in the hearth, it wasn’t long before the potent liquor began to take effect. After the fourth glass, his hunger no longer troubled him and his mood had decidedly improved. In fact, he was feeling quite good.
Sitting within the quiet confines of the library, he noted the faint noises as the servants finished the last of their tasks and then eventually took themselves off to their beds. After a while, the house grew silent. Despite the quiet, he seemed unable to concentrate on the book he held and eventually tossed it aside; focusing instead on the brandy that once-again filled his glass. Staring into the dark swirling liquid, he sighed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to keep Ashleigh out of his thoughts. Raising the glass to his lips, he drained it in one long swallow. Leaning his head against the back of the sofa, he closed his eyes, but her image stubbornly refused to go away.
Until You Page 12