by Lenora Bell
“I feel delicious.” She stretched and her nipples popped over the edge of her chemise. “Like I slept curled up in the sun. Like I read the best book and I’m still living in that beautiful, imaginary world.”
“Never let anyone tell you you’re plain again.”
“My, so forceful, sir,” she teased. “Am I to have another lesson?”
Another lesson might just kill him.
He cared for this woman nestled in his arms. He appreciated her gentle touch. The way she transformed his children.
But he didn’t like the way she changed him. The way she made his rules feel unnecessary.
He wanted to soothe her, the way she soothed his children. He wanted to cradle her in his arms and make her life better.
Carry her to his bed, fold her deeper into his arms. Wake with her in the hazy light of dawn.
Wake to the sight of a well-pleasured woman with a smile on her lips.
She turned her head and kissed him, flaunting his rules.
He’d spent seven years pretending to be a commoner, working in a foundry. He knew what it meant to be in service, to receive a wage for that service.
Kissing him was not part of her duties.
This was wrong.
“I must leave,” he said hastily.
She raised her head. “Already? But . . . I thought. I thought perhaps you might want some pleasure as well.”
“I don’t need pleasuring.” And that was a damned lie.
“But you said there were multiple kinds of pleasure. I thought you meant . . . I thought you meant yours.”
“I was speaking of women. The way you can have so many different kinds of climaxes. More than I will show you tonight.”
Damn, why had he said that? It sounded like he was promising her more nights.
“Men are simple,” he said. “A bout of pumping and we’re done.”
“I’ve heard it called a pump handle. So one . . . pumps it?”
“One doesn’t do anything with it if one is named Mari. One goes to sleep. Alone.”
He’d told himself he’d pleasured her because he wanted to give her unequivocal proof of her beauty and attractiveness.
Really, it was because he’d wanted to be her first something. If he couldn’t be her lover, he’d be the first man to bring her to bliss.
A selfish and dangerous urge.
“You’re feeling guilty again,” she said. “I can sense your thoughts going to that dark place,” she said. “You can touch me but I can’t touch you? Why?”
“Because it’s against my rules.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You know, Edgar, we females learn to fit ourselves around the obstacles in our lives. We’re expected to adapt and submit whenever anyone is louder or stronger than we are. Well I’m tired of it. I’m tired of pretending to be meek.”
“You’ve been pretending to be meek?” He smiled. “You haven’t done a very good job of it.”
“You want to kiss me,” she said simply. “Why deny it?”
He did want to kiss her. So badly it was rending his heart in two.
“Mari.” Edgar lifted her off his lap and onto the floor. “I do want to kiss you.”
“See? Now was that so difficult to admit?”
“I want to but I can’t. Because you’re my servant and I will never abuse my power and position.”
“You’re just like your gate, Edgar.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Unyielding iron. You don’t know how to change, or bend.”
He’d already bent quite a few rules tonight. He needed to leave with at least a few shreds of control left.
He could be wrong, but they seemed to be arguing about her virtue. She wanted to throw it away because she was tired of being meek.
Though the idea made his blood sing and his heart pound, it could never happen. “I can’t be your rebellion, Mari. There’s too much at stake for you . . . and for me.”
“Why are you so stubborn?” She crossed her arms tighter over her chest. “Oh silly me. I met your mother this evening. I know exactly why you are the way you are.”
And there was a topic to lower a man’s flag and cool his blood—his mother.
“You don’t want to talk about your mother,” she accused. “Why?”
Wordlessly, he found her dressing gown on the floor and handed it to her. She wrapped it tightly around her waist, cinching it with a bow.
“How does your lip feel now?” he asked carefully, formally.
“Nothing serious.” She smiled. “I’ll mend. And so will you.”
Anything broken may be mended.
It came to him suddenly that she thought she could mend him. Save him.
This must end.
“You saw the way my mother treated the children,” he said harshly. “I was so angry, but then I saw how old she’s become. How frail.”
“This wasn’t the right setting for a reunion. Too many eyes.”
“There’s no right setting.”
“Why don’t you visit her in her apartments, where she feels safe and at home? She may be more ready to listen to you there.”
“Did you see her face? Don’t touch me, she said. As if I were a leper.”
“I saw an aging woman who doesn’t know how to talk to you, but who was reaching out. She came, didn’t she?”
“She came because she thought I might be ready to marry an aristocratic lady. To do my duty. The children only remind her of the reason for our estrangement.”
“Do you want to tell me about the reasons for the estrangement? It might be good for you to talk about it.” She spoke in a light tone, but her eyes told a different story.
Open your soul. Open your heart.
Break all of the rules.
“Talking about these things, dredging them up from the past, doesn’t help anything,” he said. “Everyone in that room knew that the meeting between us would end in disaster. I had some stupid, foolish little hope that it might go well.”
“It wasn’t a foolish hope.” She raised her hand toward him. “It was a brave hope. One that could grow into a bridge. A trail of stepping stones across the gap that separates you.”
“No man is an island, and all that.”
“Proverbs blossom from the seeds of truth.”
But he was arid soil. Any optimism blighted long ago.
“You might feel better if you told me what happened between you all those years ago.” Her eyes asked him for things he could never give her.
“You evade my questions about your past,” he replied, knowing he sounded cruel, but unable to stop. “Why should I talk about mine?”
She turned her face away.
“I was a fool to think she might have softened toward me,” he said. “Or show any kindness toward the children.”
“I’m not sure,” said Mari. “I detected something in her voice. A falter, so small it could have been easily missed. She didn’t look at them with loathing.”
“You’re imagining things because you want them to be a certain way. You’re an optimist. I’m a realist. I see things as they are. And they’re bleak. Some rifts can’t be mended.”
“Was it really so unforgivable, what you did?”
He nodded. “Some stains can never be washed clean. I’ve made mistakes and I’m paying for them. There are no easy answers for me. You may be able to help my children, but I’m lost. I’ve rolled too far into the darkness. I can’t be retrieved. Or mended.”
“Don’t say that. When I look at you I see a good man. I see a man who loves his children, who’s trying to do the right thing. I see a man who encourages his sister’s dreams.”
“I’ve got you fooled then, it seems.”
“Edgar . . .” She lifted her hand again, as if she wanted to touch him.
He wanted to retrieve the words before he even said them, but this would be better for both of them. It was better to maintain distance. To be at odds rather than succumb to this treacherous need for connection and comfort.
>
What he felt for her was nothing like the blind, unheeding passion he’d felt for Sophie. This was eyes-wide-open and agonizingly aware of how beautiful and filled with hope she was . . . and how he could only end up hurting her.
“One spoonful at bedtime and the duke becomes a good man,” he said, imitating her lilting voice. “You can’t believe hard enough to rescue me, Mari.”
He walked to the door.
“There’s no cure for what ails me.”
Chapter 23
Edgar’s head pounded from a restless night.
His heart ached more.
He’d been surly with Mari last night. He’d pushed her away when she’d only been trying to help.
He wanted to apologize for what he’d said to her. The way he’d said it.
But he couldn’t just walk up to her in front of the children and lay his damaged, scarred heart at her feet.
I’m sorry for saying there’s no cure for what ails me. It’s true, but I’m sorry I said it in such an abrupt manner, because I saw that it wounded you.
I was still smarting from my encounter with my mother.
I was lashing out at you because I was angry with her.
These were not appropriate things to say to a governess.
Their acquaintance had taken on a dangerous level of intimacy. And apologies were just as objectionable as caresses . . . perhaps more so.
Because this desire to make her think better of him, to forgive him . . . it stemmed from some deeper place than the desire to bed her.
He wanted her physically, more than anything, but, even more troubling, he wanted her to like him. Because he liked her. Respected her. And was intrigued by her.
Before he left for the foundry today, he would apologize and do something nice for her and the children. Surprise them with the holiday trip to the seashore.
All of the details were in place.
He heard Mari’s voice in the breakfast room. His heart raced, anticipating seeing her with the children.
As his mother had said, damn her for being so perceptive, all this domesticity was having an effect on him.
It was giving him longings. And those longings had nothing to do with bedding Mari. Scratch that . . . they had much to do with bedding her, but even more to do with a new desire for closeness. For family.
He stepped into the breakfast room with a smile on his lips. But the children weren’t there. Only Mari. And she had on her bonnet and pelisse.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
The loss of his given name hit him in the gut. And suddenly his entire goal in life was to make her call him Edgar again.
To restore the easy rapport they’d had yesterday. The intimacy.
Before he’d ruined everything.
“What happened to Edgar?” he asked.
“He doesn’t need me. I have no cure for what ails him.”
“Mari, about last night. I shouldn’t have said—”
She met his gaze then, and the hurt he saw in her eyes stopped his heart cold. “No apologies, Your Grace. No guilt. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Yes, there is. I was wrong to speak so harshly. To push you away. My mother drives me a little bit insane.”
“Keep your friends close, your enemies closer,” she said with a prim purse of her lips.
He’d pushed her back to the proverbs.
“Where are the children?” he asked.
“With Mrs. Fairfield. They’ve gone out to be fitted for new clothing.”
Actually, he’d asked Mrs. Fairfield to outfit the children for Southend with bathing costumes and comfortable clothing fit for the seashore. His housekeeper was privy to the surprise.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked Mari.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“But you have no family in London. You’re going alone? It’s not safe for a woman alone on the streets of London.”
“I do have a life that doesn’t revolve around you and your children, you know.”
“At least take one of my carriages. Take a groom with you. It looks like rain.”
Please, let me do something for you. Don’t just leave me standing here like a fool.
“And what would I need with a carriage and a groom of my own? I’m merely the governess.”
Ouch.
She hoisted her umbrella and swept past him, head held high. “Good day, Your Grace.”
Edgar wasn’t following Mari, not really.
He just couldn’t let her storm off hating him. He’d think of something, some way to make his apologies, before she’d walked too far.
He’d really made a hash of things this time.
She didn’t need him looking out for her. But she was still fresh from the countryside. And there were wolves prowling these streets.
And you’re one of them.
He had to follow her because, fool that he was, when he saw her he forgot everything else and just wanted to be as close to her as possible.
Mari had a sinking feeling that she shouldn’t have met Lord Haddock at the museum.
She’d been grasping at straws. Though Haddock wasn’t a straw. More like the proverbial camel.
He led her around the Gallery of Antiquities, elaborating in a booming, self-important tone about the supposed significance of this spear, or that chariot.
He certainly loved hearing himself talk. She hadn’t even been able to squeeze in a question yet about Ann Murray.
Her mind was still with Edgar in the morning room.
He’d been genuinely sorry. She’d seen that, but it hadn’t made her feel any better. Of course he was sorry they had been intimate. He was an honorable man and he’d made these rules that if he didn’t take his own pleasure it would be all right.
This was all so tangled now. She didn’t know what to think.
All she knew was that Edgar thought he was bad, just like the children did.
And she didn’t know how to save him from that belief.
He refused to trust her, to open himself to her. Perhaps when they went to the seashore and walked by the sparkling blue sea, he’d be able to hear her.
Only . . . he hadn’t mentioned the seashore. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about his intentions. Perhaps she’d been imagining things.
Imagining everything. Seeing what she wanted to see. Hearing what she wanted to hear.
Haddock grasped her elbow and she jerked away, irritated by the familiarity of his touch. The earl seemed to think her sole purpose in coming here today was to listen adoringly to a lecture on ancient Greek and Roman marbles.
“And this, my dear Miss Perkins, is a bas-relief representing a nymph resisting the importunities of an old faun, who, as you see, is endeavoring to divest her of her robe. It appears that he’s about to uncover his ultima Thule.”
He leered at her in a thoroughly repugnant manner.
“Rather than realizing his aim, Lord Haddock, it appears to me that the faun is about to encounter the nymph’s knee. See here?” She pointed to the nymph’s bent knee. “One swift, upward movement and she’d be free of him.”
Haddock shuddered. “Pray do not indulge in so fanciful an interpretation of a classic theme. The fauns and satyrs of the woodlands harbored a noble passion for their nymphs.”
“Humph.” She moved to the bust of a Roman senator.
Haddock followed, draping himself so closely over her shoulder that she could feel his breath on her neck.
She was beginning to have a sinking suspicion about the reasons for his invitation.
All of this talk of wood nymphs and satyrs, and the lascivious twitching of his white whiskers as he attempted to peer down her bodice in the guise of examining the statuary.
She must put an end to this interview.
“Lord Haddock,” she said, stepping out of his reach. “You mentioned an opera singer named Ann Mur
ray, whom I resemble. I should like to know more about her.”
“Oh that?” Haddock shrugged and the buttons of his waistcoat strained over his belly. “I made her up.”
“You what?”
“I invented her. As a way to flatter you. I always tell pretty girls they look like someone famous. It never fails.” He touched the brim of his hat. “And you’re a very pretty girl, Miss Perkins.”
Mari fumed. She never should have come here today. She should have listened to her intuition. It had told her that Lord Haddock was a lecher. But she’d been blinded by the need to learn about her parentage. And she’d rushed away from the duke’s house today, refused any assistance, because of her pride. She should have accepted his apology. And accepted his offer of a carriage and footman. Now she was alone with a pestilence of an earl.
“That was a terrible trick to play, Lord Haddock. I’ll take my leave now,” she said.
“No you won’t,” he replied, closing the distance between them. “I should like to become . . . better acquainted. In the manner of fauns and nymphs,” he said in a truculent whisper.
“You mistake me, my lord. I’m not that sort of girl.”
“Are you not? Posing in Egyptian collars with your shoulder bared for all the world to see.”
“I only posed as a favor to Lady India. I’ll be going now. I don’t like your insinuations. Or your taste in art.”
“Don’t leave so fast, Miss Perkins.”
His smile faded. He made a gesture with his hand and a manservant appeared, seemingly from thin air. Where had the hulking fellow been hiding?
“This is my man, Masterson,” said Haddock. “Masterson, Miss Perkins is going to take a ride in my carriage. Please escort her outside.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” protested Mari, truly worried now.
“Don’t make a scene, Miss Perkins.” Haddock brushed a speck of dirt from his white gloves. “Who would come to your aid? I happen to be a very generous benefactor of this museum.”
How stupid could she have been? Earls didn’t just invite governesses out for tea. She’d been so focused on finding clues about her past that she’d knowingly walked into a trap.
Yet, they were still in public. Several gentlemen and ladies were perusing the marbles.