Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  Lady Elizabeth smirked. “You’ve had a long night, haven’t you?”

  Minerva blushed again. To be teased by a sixteen-year-old about one’s . . . torrid night with said sixteen-year-old’s brother was far too much to bear at four in the morning.

  “Betsy!” She tried her best to sound convincingly stern.

  Lady Elizabeth sighed but relented. “I’m talking about Evie being Christopher Essex, of course. I told him, if he were to ever truly secure your affections, he was going to have to tell you. I mean, he’s been absolutely ridiculous about it. You have me to thank for . . . Miss Jones? Minerva? Are you quite all right?”

  Minerva squinted up through the gloom at a hovering Lady Elizabeth, wondering when she had collapsed on the window seat. She couldn’t remember doing so . . . couldn’t, in fact, remember the past minute or so of her life at all. She couldn’t remember when it had gotten so cold either. It was as if all the warmth in her body had been extinguished as quickly as a flame doused with water.

  “I’m sorry; what did you say?” she managed.

  Betsy’s expression fell, and her normally rosy skin looked suddenly ashen in the weak moonlight. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “Tell me what? For I could have sworn I heard you say that your brother, Lord Marlowe, is Christopher Essex. But that can’t be right, can it?”

  Betsy looked stricken, collapsing next to her on the bench, burying her face in her hands. “Now I’ve done it. Lud, Evie’s going to kill me.”

  “Not if I kill him first,” Minerva muttered out of lips numb with shock. “But it can’t be true.”

  Even as the words came out, she knew it was true. Obvious, even. The way he’d teased her for her poetry collection. His Bodleian-inspired library no true dullard would ever bother with. His facile manipulation of language. His stupid, stupid limericks. Lady Elizabeth’s sudden, inexplicable disinterest in Essex.

  His ink-stained fingers.

  The evidence was there. But she had been too stupid, too self-absorbed . . . too infatuated . . . to put the pieces together.

  Even tonight—he had practically taunted her with his verse as he’d seduced her. Oh, how he must have been laughing at her the whole time.

  “Oh, God, he’s Christopher Essex!” she breathed.

  But why? Why would he do this? He was not a cruel man. Even now she couldn’t believe this, not after she’d witnessed his love for his children, his sisters. Yet everything they’d shared—everything they’d done—every wild, hopeful thought she’d allowed herself afterward . . .

  Minerva felt like the biggest fool for hoping, for even thinking the word marriage not five minutes before—that it might be a possibility, however slim. He desired her in the basest of physical ways, that much was clear, but beyond that, she wondered if he had any tender feelings for her.

  She remembered how scornful she’d been when she’d thought Lady Elizabeth to be the viscount’s mistress, how much better she’d thought herself in her moral righteousness. Except Minerva was that girl, wasn’t she? Even worse, she’d not even realized it until now, for she’d thought herself special. But she wasn’t. How could she be, when the viscount had kept such an essential secret from her—teased her with it—for months?

  She’d once scoffed at the idea of feeling real physical pain from a broken heart in every bad poem she’d ever read—even in the good ones (Oh, God, Essex!)—but that was before this moment. She could barely take a breath through the agony in her breast, and she gripped Lady Elizabeth’s hand for fear of drowning in it.

  She hated Lord Marlowe for making her feel such pain.

  No, she was entirely certain that she loved him, which was even worse.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IN WHICH THE VISCOUNT SUSPECTS SOMETHING IS AMISS

  MARLOWE HAD NOT planned on seducing his governess the night before, but then again, he was fairly certain it had been the other way around. He’d been rather powerless in the face of Minerva’s intent, for there was only so much he could bear before giving in to what was so freely offered. He had been resolved to wait to declare his intentions until after he’d declared a few other rather crucial things (i.e. his poetic alter ego), but his resolution had been no match for her soft gray eyes and gentle lips.

  In the light of morning, the satisfaction he’d felt at the conclusion of last evening was beginning to give way to his concern over how Minerva would react to his confession. He could put it off no longer. He’d had a taste of her, and it had only confirmed his growing conviction that his governess would suit much better as his wife—more than merely suit, it seemed, as the physical alchemy between them had been undeniable, better than he could have ever dreamed.

  And they’d not even completed the union. That was one act he couldn’t bring himself to share with her until he’d given her all of his truths. For if she were to reject him—a prospect he couldn’t ignore, however painful it might be to think about—he would not have compromised her irrevocably. He cared too much for her to be so careless, even in the heat of the moment.

  But he’d not held back otherwise. He’d slaked his own lust as surely as he had slaked hers, in the only way he’d dared, his senses buried in the honey scent of her. And even after he’d sent her off to her own room, just the thought of her, bared before him—the lingering taste of her upon his lips, the scent of her still in his nose—was enough to make it necessary to bring himself off yet again. God, she’d reduced him to a randy adolescent.

  He’d not slept so deeply in months, though, despite his bruised face and scraped knuckles.

  But now that he was conscious, the thought of the day to come—of the look on her face when she discovered that he had concealed so much of himself from her—made him uneasy. He was not naive enough to even hope he’d emerge unscathed, but surely she would come around. Eventually. Maybe.

  The first sign that something was wrong came after he’d packed off the earl and countess in acrimonious silence and found himself alone at the breakfast table. Betsy had taken to joining him regularly since she’d discovered his secret, even though she found mornings abhorrent, so her absence was a bit unusual. He would have been concerned the earl had tied her up and hidden her among his luggage . . . but he’d checked the coach from top to toe himself before he’d allowed it to depart. (He’d given up underestimating his father’s villainy.)

  But even after an hour had passed and he’d finished all of his papers and an entire pot of tea on his own, Betsy had not appeared. He decided not to be alarmed. She was, as a sixteen-year-old female of noble birth, naturally inclined to lie in, and just because he’d become accustomed to her company in recent days, it didn’t mean it was guaranteed. After the night before—and dealing with her mother all of yesterday besides—she couldn’t be blamed for wanting some time to herself.

  The second sign something was wrong, however, was when he emerged from his library in the early afternoon and realized the twins had not visited him all day. They usually managed to slip Minerva’s grasp and interrupt his work by now. In fact, he’d seen no sign of life from the nursery at all today. He’d decided to put off his conversation with Minerva for the evening after the twins were asleep (he was not stalling), but he’d still expected to see her at some point during the day, since they were all meant to go to Gunter’s to celebrate routing his father and Poxley. He was beginning to wonder what the devil was going on.

  The third and most worrying sign came when he ventured up to the nursery in search of some answers and found his daughters sitting at their table, quiet, subdued, and conjugating Latin under Mrs. Chips’s stern eye, Minerva nowhere to be found. The three of them seemed determined to ignore him completely, and it sent a chill of foreboding down his spine. One thing he had always been able to count on was his daughters’ preference for his company over their Latin.

  Something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong.

  He ordered Mrs. Chips out into the hallway—the same hallway in which he’d bared
his soul to Minerva only the previous night—and his housekeeper closed the door behind her with a snap that seemed a little bit more aggressive than usual.

  “Where is Miss Jones?” he asked, the feeling of dread in his bones deepening when Mrs. Chips’s eyebrow began to spasm.

  “She has left your employment, my lord,” Mrs. Chips said with so little venom in her tone that he knew she was incandescently furious with him.

  His heart dropped to his toes. No, no, this could not be happening. “What do you mean she’s left?” he demanded when he managed to find his voice again.

  Mrs. Chips sniffed, unimpressed with his dramatics. “Just that. She has gone. She took off before your family, in the company of Dr. Lucas.”

  “What!” he cried. She may as well have punched him in the gut.

  “You must talk to Lady Elizabeth,” Mrs. Chips said haughtily, lifting her chin in that proud way of hers that signaled an end to the matter. “She may be able to shed more light on the situation than I.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

  Chippers clearly felt it was improper for her to speak further on the matter. Not that she needed to—the judgment on her twitching brow was speech enough. “Now if you’ll excuse me, someone must mind your daughters,” she said as she marched away, “now that you’ve run off their keeper.”

  Well, perhaps she would speak further on the matter, then.

  Marlowe took himself off to his sister’s rooms in a daze, a thousand black scenarios running through his head. He felt sick to his stomach, for the one scenario that he could not immediately dismiss was one in which Minerva regretted what had happened between them enough to leave. But to run away with Lucas? It seemed extreme, even for his governess at her most histrionic.

  Surely she knew him well enough to know he would not entice her further if she could not return his affections. He had put an end to their night before their actions became any more intimate, after all, and made it clear he wished to talk with her before things progressed further.

  Had she taken his words—his caution—as a rejection? Had she left thinking he wanted nothing more from her than a few stolen moments? That he regretted it? Surely she could not think so poorly of him, not after all they’d been through together.

  Perhaps he had been too vague after all. Yet he couldn’t bear to declare himself without complete honesty between them, and he hadn’t been prepared to broach that subject last night, not after all that had happened. He’d already been wrung dry by his father’s acrimony.

  Marlowe found his sister in her room scribbling away at her desk, and one look at her guilty expression was enough to confirm Mrs. Chips’s horrible words.

  “Why the devil did Miss Jones leave in the company of Dr. Lucas this morning?” he demanded without delay.

  Betsy looked everywhere but at him as she set down her quill to answer. “She has gone to Montford’s, and she didn’t wish to take a hack. I had a footman fetch Dr. Lucas to escort her, for I feared for her safety.”

  “And why, pray tell, did she not take my carriage?”

  Betsy grimaced. “She was unwilling to avail herself of anything belonging to you at that particular moment,” she said carefully.

  He collapsed on the edge of his sister’s bed. It was even worse than he had imagined. He knew he never should have let Minerva go alone to her room last night. He should have made her stay with him, and damn the consequences.

  “What did she say?” he asked, distraught.

  Betsy’s cheeks grew ruddy, and her guilty look deepened. “I . . . er, I believe you need to ask her that?” she said in a strangled voice.

  He straightened from his slouch, suspicious of his sister’s manner. “You know something.”

  “What? No . . . That’s ridiculous! Good grapes, how could you even . . .” she spluttered, looking as if she might bolt from the room at any moment. “I didn’t do . . . This is not my fault!” she finished in a tone that made it clear she thought otherwise.

  His suspicion deepened. “I didn’t say it was,” he murmured.

  Betsy glared at him. “You should really talk to her. She said she was going to accept the post the duchess offered her, so I assume she hasn’t eloped to Gretna Green with the doctor or anything so dire. He just gave her a ride.”

  “Don’t even tease!” Marlowe huffed, rising from the bed. He’d not even considered Minerva might do something so rash as elope. With Whiskers. But now that Betsy had suggested it, he could think of nothing else.

  Betsy’s eyes were wide with alarm as she watched his pained reaction. “Please go talk to her, Evie. I shan’t say any more on the subject, but I’m sure with significant groveling, you might win her back.”

  “The fact that you think I need to win her back at all is not comforting in the least,” he muttered. He stalked toward the door, stopped, and fixed his sister with a scowl that promised retribution. “Don’t think I won’t find out what you’ve done, Elizabeth. I know the look of a guilty conscience well enough.”

  Betsy’s cheeks were leeched of color, and he left her to marinate in wary anticipation of her punishment. He’d deal with his sister later. For now, he had a governess to hunt down.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IN WHICH THE VISCOUNT FINDS OUT THAT MISS JONES FOUND OUT

  IT WAS TESTIMONY to the level of Minerva’s anguish that not even the notoriously nosy duchess had demanded much of an explanation when she found Minerva on the doorstep at dawn. Her Grace had taken one look at her and merely shown her to a bedroom, ordered her a pot of tea, and left her to her misery.

  Minerva was still upset far into the afternoon, but the mortifying tears seemed to be past, at least, and she was steady enough to receive the doctor in one of the duchess’s drawing rooms when he returned as promised to check on her. She was hardly in the mood for company, but she owed him some explanation after having taken him from his bed at such a ridiculous hour of the morning. She certainly hadn’t been in any shape to explain herself during the carriage ride earlier.

  “What has he done?” Inigo immediately demanded as he strode into the room, clasping her hands.

  Of course he’d guessed that it was Marlowe at the bottom of this. What else would drive her from her employment in such a dramatic manner?

  She sighed. “It was a . . . misunderstanding,” she finally settled on. Which seemed like the biggest understatement of her life, though it was accurate. She had misunderstood so much—the viscount, their flirtation, her place in his life. All of it seemed like lies to her now.

  “It must have been a rather serious misunderstanding,” he murmured, “to have driven you out in the street.”

  She rolled her eyes at his dramatics. “I’m hardly homeless. The duchess has taken me in. I’m to be governess to her sisters.”

  “Ah,” he said, looking as dubious as he had when he’d learned she was governessing for the viscount’s daughters. But she was grateful he said no more on the subject, for she didn’t think she could have borne him questioning her decision. She couldn’t go back to Marlowe.

  “Do I need to call the viscount out?” he asked, only half joking.

  When tears began to fall down her face in response, his wry look collapsed into dismay. “Oh, God, I do!”

  “No, of course not. He did nothing I did not want.”

  This made Inigo look even more alarmed. “Minerva . . .”

  “And nothing that would warrant a duel, for heaven’s sake. It was just a misunderstanding,” she said firmly, wiping away her tears.

  He looked as if he were steeling himself for some dire task as he spoke his next words. “If you are compromised . . .”

  She broke away from him with a groan and crossed the room. Of course he was worried, and of course he would want to fix it, no matter the cost to himself.

  “If you are,” he insisted, “Minerva . . . please consider the offer I have made in the past. It still stands. We are friends, and you were Arthur’s dearest compani
on . . .”

  “You are too noble for your own good,” she said. “But I’m not compromised in any way that would necessitate marriage. Only my heart is wounded.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “But we don’t love each other enough for marriage, Inigo,” she interrupted gently. “It wouldn’t be fair to either of us, so please stop asking. You say you want to heed your brother’s wishes, but I think that’s an excuse.”

  “What are you talking about?” Inigo demanded, furrowing his brow.

  He was going to make her say it—say her name—wasn’t he? “You never stopped loving Yvette.”

  Inigo looked blank with shock for a moment, and then positively crushed with anguish at the mention of the girl he’d once loved. Minerva almost regretted bringing up the subject, but Inigo needed the truth—they both needed the truth so that they would not keep returning to this ridiculous subject. It was a disservice to both of them, a way for them to cling to ghosts long dead.

  “We are friends, Inigo, family even. But marrying each other . . . pretending someday that this would work between us . . . was just a way for us to avoid trying again. We both lost the people we loved, and it was so tempting to simply accept your offer. But now . . .”

  Comprehension dawned beneath his old grief. “You’re in love with Marlowe.”

  “Dreadfully, I’m afraid.” Angry and heartsick as she was at the viscount, she couldn’t deny the accusation.

  “We would have had a good life together,” Inigo insisted stubbornly.

  “I know.”

  He sighed. “But it wouldn’t have been enough.” He paused, and the look in his eyes was so sad her heart ached for him. “The thing is, I don’t think anything, anyone will ever be enough. I miss her, Minerva.”

  She damned convention and wrapped her arms around her friend, wanting to absorb some of his grief. She thought of Arthur and of the tragic, beautiful Yvette who’d ruined Inigo for anyone else. Minerva’s heart had healed long ago, but she feared Inigo’s never would. He’d loved Yvette with an intensity that eclipsed anything she’d ever felt for his brother.