War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  The thought of quitting this early sent her into despair, but she ignored it and allowed the anger to ride her. “I am a respectable woman.” She pressed her hands on the table, preparing to rise and leave with as much dignity as she could.

  He prevented her by putting his much larger hand over hers. “You misunderstand me,” he said quietly. “If I offended you, then I apologise for it. I meant no disrespect.”

  When she stiffened, he should have removed his hand, but he did not. She contented herself with glaring.

  “What I need is a friend. I have none here, nobody I can talk to. I’m riven by—something. I can’t sleep, I have no respite except when you are here. Why that should be I don’t know, except you are the only person who speaks to me.”

  “Everyone speaks to you.”

  His eyes flashed. “Do not wilfully misunderstand me. You respond, you give me an opinion, even if it differs from my own.”

  “You could find many such in London.”

  He swallowed. “I don’t want to return there for a while. Matters are not good. If you will agree to be my friend, then I will promise to treat you with respect. I swear it. Let us be relatives in kind, if not in truth.” He gazed at her so earnestly she could barely think.

  Had he said that to poor Rhea? Ruth was so confused she didn’t know who to believe. She knew the question she needed to ask. “Then why take the babies if they are not yours?”

  His eyes widened. “Where did that come from?”

  Surmising she had nothing to lose, she dared to ask. If she was leaving, which seemed likely, then she would satisfy her curiosity. She was happy the babies were cared for, so she could leave them to his care. Or so she told herself. Her parents would not have done as much.

  “I wondered,” she said lamely.

  With his hand still over hers, he gazed at her, narrowing his eyes. “Did you know Rhea Simpson?”

  Such perspicacity deserved some kind of answer. “Once,” she said, not precisely a lie, but not the whole truth. She did not feel guilty. Not at all, not one bit.

  “I see. So you are concerned for her?”

  “Yes.” At least she didn’t need to lie about that.

  “I told you the truth. I promised to tell you the truth, did I not?” When she nodded, he continued, “The children are not mine, that much is true. Society assumes they are. I contacted her parents, but they did not respond. I confess I didn’t expect them to. Rhea was in disgrace, for which I’m very sorry, but it was not my doing. Since society assumes they are my bastards, I might as well treat them properly. Can you imagine the opprobrium I would receive?” He snorted with derision. “I possess the means. They scarcely make a dent. I will not treat them as my sons, though, because they are not.”

  “Was that today’s question?” Only when she’d said it did she realise she had somehow accepted she was staying. His explanation rang with truth. Either the children weren’t his, or he truly did not believe they were. In which case he’d done the right thing. “Do you care so much what society thinks of you?”

  “No, that is not today’s question, and no, I do not care what society thinks of me.” Again, he answered without thought. “However, others do. One day I will marry, and my wife might care. Although if I was to swear off marriage, that might prove an asset.”

  He still kept his hand over hers. She should withdraw it, but the inclination to do so somehow left her. “Will you do that?”

  When he removed his hand, she felt deprived. Or—what was he saying? That he did not wish for a wife? Men who didn’t marry generally came in two varieties. The ones that were too interested in women, and the ones who were not interested in the other sex at all.

  He grinned. “I’m in no hurry, but I am bearing the prospect in mind. I have no heir, so I need to provide for the estate.”

  She was still left wondering. In many ways she would prefer the second option. The first made him too dangerous and her too vulnerable. Because she would not deny she was attracted to him. “You are short of female friends. Forgive me if I don’t quite believe you.”

  His grin widened. “Emphasis on the friend. I would like someone to talk with, someone to listen and give their opinion instead of agreeing with everything I say. You are intelligent enough to understand where we must draw the line, are you not?”

  “If you say so.” He had drawn her in again. “Sir.”

  The grin turned into a laugh. “Please, do not stop. Will you stay?”

  “Yes.” Because she had little choice. She’d made her decision when she left the house she’d been born in, turned her back on everything her parents offered, which was little enough. They had offered security. Now she had none. If she left here, she would need to seek another position, with her forged character references.

  But she had one more question she needed to ask. “I also read of a scandal concerning you.” His affair with a French duchesse had been public and shocking, even for jaded Londoners. She could not pretend to be ignorant of it. Many reports made him seem priapic. She needed to know she was not opening herself up to sexual attack.

  What she’d seen of him and the reports she’d read made him seem like a different version. He had always shown her respect, even when he’d stolen that kiss. He could have taken her then, but he walked away. None of the servants complained about him, either.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose before he answered her, as if warding off a headache. “What happened between Virginie and myself was unusual behaviour for me. I was enchanted.” He paused. He didn’t sound enchanted now. “We were both infected with a madness. She is now married to someone else and believe me, I do not look for a replacement.”

  “So you’re not hanging out for a convenient mistress?”

  “No, I am not.”

  She met his dark gaze and could see no falsehood there. Only devastation and a stark attraction she was too honest to deny. She was not desperate enough to take the position of mistress, even if he was to offer it to her.

  Mad to even think of it. She was not the type men turned to for that kind of solace. She made her decision. “I will stay.”

  “Thank you.”

  He thanked her? He could dismiss her for the way she spoke to him. “You really want me to stay as your friend?”

  “Would I say anything if I did not?”

  A friend. Yes, she could do that. So foolish to imagine anything else. Feeling vaguely idiotic, she scraped back her chair and got to her feet. “I should go about my duties.”

  “Must you?” He followed suit, standing with her. “If you are expected, then you must of course go, but I would like to show you something first.”

  “Very well.” She tried to lower her voice and her chin, to appear the perfect servant. At least he was paying her, which was more than her parents did. “I do have the time. Although we are still only two in the nursery.”

  “When the new maid arrives, I wish you would stay to supervise,” he said. “I have engaged someone, and she will arrive by the end of the summer.”

  “That is good news, sir.” It was, because they would be able to spread the duties thin. The two nursemaids could take care of the night duties. The babies were growing up, and they would not require that for much longer.

  Perhaps in time, when he married and set up his own nursery, he would want her to stay on to supervise it, if she did a good job.

  The notion lanced through her like a physical hurt. She could pretend to everyone else that she did not care, but already this man had crept into a part of her she considered invulnerable. Her heart ached when she thought of leaving this place. Leaving him.

  What nonsense! All this was sorrow at leaving the only home she had known and venturing forth into a new place. Her sense of being lost, and the tendency to cling to anyone who was kind to her. He wasn’t kind to her, he wanted a companion. Companions
earned more, but she would not bring that up now. That would bring her closer to a step she was determined never to take.

  What was it one of the most scandalous old ladies said to her once? Ah yes—Men don’t look at the mantelpiece when they’re poking the fire.

  The import of the shocking words did not strike her until much later, which was probably as well, since the lady said it in public and clearly expected more of a response than the polite nod Ruth afforded her.

  The mysteries of the bedroom would remain secrets as far as she was concerned.

  Her only concern was for the boys, she told herself firmly. They had gone from being wraiths in her mind, justices to be righted, to living, breathing children. She could no longer deny the place they had found in her heart.

  Ruth followed the duke from the cheerful breakfast parlour to the main stairs, and up to the main floor. The duke preferred to breakfast on the ground floor, Mrs. Brindlehurst told Ruth, so that he could go outside if he wished, or even bring outside in, if he caused the long windows that led on to the south terrace to be opened.

  They did not go out that way, and used the staircase that wound up from the back of the house, in the hall that contained huge wall paintings, depicting the hall as the Garden of Eden. To describe it as ostentatiously magnificent did not do it justice.

  The duke took little notice of the splendour but led the way upstairs. Their feet echoed around the empty space, the only sound in this part of the house. The furniture was sparse, but not covered, as many of the rooms here were, and the floor polished. Every part of the house that was occupied was kept spotless, thanks to Mrs. Brindlehurst’s excellent management with the minimum of staff.

  He strode past the entrance to the great enfilade of state rooms, the doors firmly closed on their shrouded grandeur and along the wide corridors of the showy part of the house. They entered a part of the house Ruth had not yet entered, past the second courtyard, and into a part of the building that was obviously older. When she peered into an open door, she caught sight of elaborate plaster friezes bearing traces of paint, in a style long dead. The furniture was more ponderous, the floors highly polished but worn, and of oak.

  “I told you my ancestors renovated much of the house. They ripped out the old rooms and reconstructed new ones.” He glanced back at her, slowing only slightly, and then carried on walking. They turned a corner, and he paused before a set of double doors. “Are you ready?” His smile transformed him. When she first met him she had considered him the most handsome man she had ever met, but his smile added an intimacy to that, made him appear less distant, more approachable.

  If she were not careful, it could prove her downfall. Then, so could any number of things.

  He flung open the door and Ruth lost her breath.

  The room was not remarkable by the standards of this house except for one feature. It was filled, floor to ceiling, with books. They were ranked shelf upon shelf, so high and so numerous Ruth would need to work for many years to read even a quarter of them. Large windows ranked along one wall, shelves in between so the deep recesses served as reading niches. With the curtains drawn, the effect would be of several small rooms, or an enclosed bed space, since each niche was furnished with a seat. A table stood in the centre of the room, with books stacked high.

  “You may use this if you wish,” he said.

  Without realising it, Ruth had taken several steps inside. She breathed in, the glorious aroma of paper and ink assaulting her nostrils.

  “You may wish for a study, when you are doing the nursery accounts or making plans.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Her face glowing, she turned to face him.

  He glanced around, a wry smile tilting the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t say that. I like to read too. I trust you won’t mind sharing once in a while? The main library contains most of the valuable books. My father possessed volumes of improving sermons and the like bound in matching calfskin, more for decoration than actually to read. This is where he spent most of his time.”

  So that was why the room was open and, as well as the books, the scent of furniture polish lingered. “I cannot possibly impose on you,” she said, because it was polite to do so.

  “You said you enjoyed reading. You will be no imposition at all.” He came up behind her, forcing her further into the room. Nearer to temptation.

  “Consider it a bonus. You cannot possibly spend all your days in your room or in the nursery wing. The babies sleep much of the time, or so the nursemaid tells me, and your special talents will not come into play for some time yet.”

  “Years,” she said absently. Governesses did not generally enter the household for some time after the child’s birth. “But there is plenty to do.” She could not bear it if he sent her away.

  “Educate yourself, then. Discover what is here, and what you can use in future times.”

  Years? Had she really said that? Ruth swallowed. How could she imagine she would settle here? She was young, and any wife the duke chose would most likely want her out of the house. Without further children appearing, Ruth’s time here would be limited in any case. Boys generally had tutors. Except tutors cost more. The duke had not seemed particularly parsimonious, except for his insistence on a small staff. She could assume he would be looking for tutors for the boys as time passed.

  That still gave her ten years or so. By then she would be nearly forty, safe as far as wives were concerned, more employable. Once she passed the milestone of thirty she could relax into spinsterhood, no threat to anyone.

  “This room has a very tranquil atmosphere.” She walked around the central table, heading for the windows. The view was, as it was out of nearly all the windows of the house, breathtaking. Past the gardens stood a carefully constructed view, trees and small pavilions dotted about. “From here it looks like paradise.”

  She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud until the duke came and stood next to her, looking out at the same view. “It looks good close up too. I employ an army of gardeners to keep it up.”

  “Why do you not employ more in the house?”

  He turned away and leaned against the shelves, folding his arms. “Ah, we come to it, do we? That is your second question of the day. Shall we keep it until tomorrow, or would you like this one on account? Don’t forget that gives me two questions before you may ask another one.”

  “I will ask many questions,” she said, a little breathless because he was standing so close to her. “May I only ask one a day?”

  “Only one to which I will answer honestly, whatever it costs me.” His eyes gleamed. “That is the one you may insist on. I will answer this in one of two ways, but I will not lie to you in either one. However, if you take this as tomorrow’s question, then I will answer fully.”

  He watched her, waiting for her response. His concentration on her gave her the strangest feeling, as if he could see right into her soul.

  “I will have this as my next question,” she said.

  “Then here it is—I don’t sleep well.”

  When she frowned, he laughed, a full, rolling laugh. “You look like my answer is such a disappointment! I should tell you I turn into a monster and the house becomes a labyrinth, should I not? That is the sad truth, Miss Carter.”

  Had he noticed her growing sense of attraction for him? Was that why he reverted to the formal name? Ruth could not object. She should be relieved, but only now did she realise how much she missed his familiarity. “Just that?”

  He watched her, smiling. “A little more, then. When I can’t sleep, I’m restless. I prefer to wander, rather than to sit in my room and moulder. Here is another secret. In this weather, I tend to sleep as nature intended. Shocking, is it not? When I suffer a sleepless night, I sometimes roam the house in that state.” He moved his face closer to her, so she could feel his breath on her cheek. “So be warned, Ruth. Do not leave your roo
m at night unless you are willing to confront the occasional sight of a naked man.”

  What could she say? That deep down, she had a desire to see him like that? Or that he should restrain himself. Why should he, in his own house? It could be sleepwalking, when a person was fully asleep or partly awake.

  He was abrupt, unexpectedly kind, then abrupt again, and God help her, his behaviour excited her.

  Even now, holding the full truth back, he teased her with the answer, too plain, explaining nothing. She was not used to people treating her that way, being interested enough in her to bother playing with her.

  He was disturbed, but not in a dangerous way, at least not dangerous to her. How she could be sure she did not know, but she was.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, she did not move away. Instead, she did the opposite. Before she could lose her nerve, she touched her lips to his cheek and then pulled away abruptly. She had shocked herself.

  Turning hastily, she ran out of the room. The sound of his laughter followed her.

  * * * * *

  The joke was on Marcus when he woke in the middle of the night and found himself wide awake and restless. He’d turned, grabbing Virginie and hauling her to him, ready for another bout of explosive, mindless coupling.

  She wasn’t there. She was never there these days. Instead, his ex-lover was halfway across the country, married to someone else, sharing his bed.

  It was only right. What Marcus had shared with Virginie was not love, but lust that grew more desperate as time went on. The more they plunged into the bottomless abyss, the worse it became. Their insatiability for each other had been endless.

  They would have ended up killing each other with the strength and frequency of their passion. By the time they worked out what was going on, they could have been dead. They had begun to infect the other people in London, the power of their joining driving those close by to a frenzy of thoughtless insanity.

  Nobody could help them because the spark that began their affair had disappeared, replaced by something else, an addiction that only increased the more it was fed. Virginie escaped, and only Marcus was left. Every night he craved her. No, he craved it.