What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “I’m sorry you never received it. I explained everything.”

  “You should never have had to explain such a thing in a letter. You know that, don’t you?” She took a step toward him, jaw set. If she’d been male, he’d have expected her fists to fly in the next moment.

  Instead, she released a torrent of words. “You should have had more honor than to break a standing engagement. A gentleman does not cry off. Surely you knew that. And yet, I had to learn the truth through gossip. Do you know what that is like? You sail halfway around the world. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, if ever. You could have died, and I would not have known of it for six months.”

  She paused and tugged the side of her hand across her left eye. “So naturally, when rumors began to circulate, I refused to believe them. I trusted in you. You would not have done such a thing to me. But the gossip didn’t stop. More and more people corroborated the story. The English in India do write letters home, you know.”

  “I know.” He reached out and pressed the pads of his fingers to her cheek. Damp. If the thought of his death could still wring emotion from her, perhaps he might hope. Perhaps he could still salvage something from the ruin of their engagement. “That is why I wanted to tell you myself, before you had a chance to hear. Damn it, I did tell you, but you never got the letter.”

  She turned away from his touch. “How am I to be certain you even wrote one? Other letters bore the story out, but then there were those who returned who could tell me to my face. Do you have any idea what I went through?”

  Of course he didn’t. He’d rather not think of it. Other problems had occupied his mind—Marianne’s problems, if he was honest, and time had been of the essence. How easy was it for him to write that letter and hope everything would be all right. He did not have to be there to witness Henrietta’s humiliation. It was, he supposed, only just punishment that he endure her wrath now.

  “I’d say I was sorry, but even I know that won’t suffice.”

  “You’re absolutely right about that. It won’t suffice. Nothing will.” She held both hands fisted at her sides, knuckles white. “And I, for one, cannot wait until you leave. If I live to be a hundred it’ll be too soon for me to look on your face again.”

  She was about to stalk off, but he could not let her go. “Can you trust me on one matter? I married Marianne because I had no choice, not because my feelings for you had changed. Can you at least believe that of me?”

  “What on earth could possibly have happened that you had no choice?” But even as she said the words, her expression changed. It remained hard, but the color drained from her cheeks, until she resembled a marble statue—beautiful but cold and dead on the inside.

  She’d drawn the most obvious conclusion. Naturally she had—a conclusion that did not exonerate him in the least.

  “I see,” she said, her tone flat. “I see, and I must answer honestly. No, I cannot believe you’d do such a thing. Or I couldn’t have then. The man I knew would never have betrayed me like that.”

  “The man you knew did not betray you like that,” he replied as evenly as he could. It was the strict truth at the time of his marriage, but he could not swear before God that he’d been completely celibate for the past eight years.

  “Then do explain how such a thing came about.”

  Alexander eyed his brandy glass, sadly out of reach on the desk. “I was placed in a position where I was obliged to wed Marianne for honor’s sake.”

  “Indeed.” Such chill infused those two syllables.

  “But honor forbids me to explain the exact circumstances.”

  “Yet honor did not prevent you from throwing me over. Sir, we are at an impasse.” She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

  He stared at the unmovable plank of wood. Henrietta might well think they were at an impasse, but he suspected he could move past that obstacle. Their encounter outside the nursery, where she’d melted under his lips, had proven her still susceptible. If he could wear her down through kisses and touches, he might yet win her back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Somehow Henrietta kept her composure. Her heels clicked a rapid tattoo on the parquet. Tears burned at the back of her throat, but she wouldn’t unleash them until she found a private spot. Damn him. Damn him. How dare he come back into her life and force her to face the pain he’d caused when he left? How dare he rip that scab off and make her feel it again? How dare he put his hands on her and reawaken her feelings with his touch, as if he’d only been gone a day or two, and not eight years?

  And to ask for her trust on top of that? To propose? When he’d betrayed her? No. It was unfair of him to demand that. The thing to do when one fell off a horse might well be to get back on, but in this case, she preferred to walk. The journey might be longer, but at least she wouldn’t arrive at her destination with an ache in her thighs from the saddle and her spine stiff from absorbing the jolt of the trot.

  Now if only she could find a private corner. Preferably one with an ugly vase she could hurl across the room and claim she’d only knocked from its pedestal. Yes, smashing something would be most satisfying right now. Too bad she’d walked away from Alexander. She’d very much love to smash his thick skull.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Henrietta turned to find Lady Epperley inspecting her through her lorgnette. “Where are your charges?”

  “I sent them off to the kitchens to see if Mrs. Brown might give them something. I reckoned they might welcome the distraction.” Lord only knew she could use it. Perhaps she should have gone to the kitchens herself. A cup of hot chocolate would have beaten her discussion with Alexander any day.

  “When I hired you, I expected a conscientious young lady, not one who would shirk her duty.”

  Henrietta froze. A litany of foul words formed a jumble in her throat. She swallowed hard to get rid of them and prayed for calm. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but you hired me as your companion, not as a governess.”

  “At the moment, I find myself in need of a governess more than a paid companion. Albemarle cannot abide young children. Always running about, breaking things, asking questions, disturbing his nap.” Lady Epperley waved a hand as if to sweep away the very thought. “You will keep those girls out of his path until they’re of an age to engage him in amusing conversation.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve invited them to move in here,” she said faintly. “But that cannot be true as you’ve just finished telling me you cannot abide children.”

  “Of course I haven’t invited them to stay. What utter nonsense. Nevertheless, you just might find yourself taking charge of those girls for longer than you expect.”

  Henrietta didn’t like that sly little smile on the old lady’s face. Not one bit. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “I’ve seen a thing or two in my day.” Lady Epperley’s lips stretched thin as the finest silk. If a snake could smile, it might well bear that exact expression. “You never know when an unexpected offer might come along. I strongly suggest you take it, should that very thing occur. At any rate, it is Albemarle who cannot abide children. As long as they’re in the house, you shall personally see to it that they do not disturb anybody.”

  Henrietta swallowed another mouthful of curses. She’d known the old lady was difficult before she’d taken the job. She’d just never considered how that difficulty might wear on her day after day. Like granite being eroded by drops of rain over the centuries, even the most stubborn person would yield eventually. “I hardly think they’re disturbing you at the moment, since they’re in the kitchens and well out of your sight.”

  Another serpentine smile played about Lady Epperley’s lips, as if Henrietta’s sauce had pleased her. “Lord only knows what Mrs. Brown has given them to eat. Honey on bread, no doubt. Or jam.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “And they will proceed to place their sticky little fingers all over my sitting room when they’ve finished. Can you imagine the effect on Albemarle’s coat? K
indly see they wipe their hands properly before they leave the kitchens.”

  Henrietta had no choice but to obey, although part of her was tempted to defy the harridan. If Lady Epperley threw her out, she’d escape Alexander and the memories he’d dredged up. But then without references, she’d have to give up her notions of true independence and return home. That was too much like admitting defeat.

  She thumbed through the pages of her memory for an appropriate citation from Mary Wollstonecraft. Independence. Yes, the basis of every virtue. If Henrietta returned home, she would lose that. And then another came to mind. How can a rational being be ennobled by anything that is not obtained by its own exertions?

  Which meant only one thing: She must take the girls in hand, and like a proper governess, she’d order their tea to be served in the nursery from now on. She’d eat with them. That way she’d be sure to avoid any more unfortunate encounters with their father.

  Her strategy worked until the girls’ bedtime. She had them in their cotton nightdresses and was brushing Helena’s hair when a knock sounded on the door. She scowled at the solid plank of oak—she hadn’t rung for a servant, and Lady Epperley most certainly would not knock. Which left only one likely possibility.

  She laid the hairbrush aside and let Helena’s silky dark strands flow through her fingers. “Yes?”

  The door opened. “I thought I’d say goodnight.”

  “Papa!” Francesca chirped and lunged at him.

  He held out his arms, caught her, and tossed her in the air.

  Henrietta gnawed at her lower lip. She’d never known a proper ton father to do such a thing—not that she had much experience outside her own family, but both there and among her friends, such demonstrations of paternal affection were unheard of.

  Alexander had said they did things differently in India.

  “Shall I leave you to tuck them in?” Henrietta folded her hands together to hide their trembling and kept her face carefully blank.

  He set his daughter on the bed. “Oh, no. Stay, if you like. I won’t be a moment.”

  “I want a story,” Francesca insisted. “Tell us about the lion with the thorn in its paw.”

  A movement next to her reminded Henrietta of another presence. Helena had backed up against her, her fists clenched and her jaw set.

  “Perhaps we ought to let Helena pick the story,” Henrietta suggested.

  Alexander’s gaze flicked from her to his older daughter and back. Henrietta couldn’t stop herself—she placed a protective hand on the girl’s shoulder. But it didn’t matter. Alexander seemed to understand. “Yes, I believe Miss Upperton is right. Helena, what would you like to hear?”

  “I want to hear about the lion and tiger, Papa,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed on her folded hands. Where did one so young come by such reserve? It made her seem older than her years. Helena didn’t seem afraid of her father, exactly. No, wary was closer to the mark, a feeling Henrietta was well acquainted with.

  Francesca screwed up her face. “Papa won’t tell it the same way Nipa did.”

  Alexander ruffled her hair. “Shall I fetch Satya to tell it?”

  Henrietta bit her lip and wordlessly willed him not to send for his servant. But then Francesca came to her rescue. “He won’t tell it right, either. And I don’t like that story.”

  “Sometimes we have to tolerate things we don’t like and not let on we don’t like them.” Henrietta willed herself not to look at Alexander. “It’s part of having manners. Why don’t we let Helena pick the story tonight, and tomorrow it will be your turn. Wouldn’t that be fair?”

  “That sounds very fair.” The rich sound of Alexander’s voice tempted her to raise her eyes. He wasn’t quite smiling, but his expression could be described as nothing less than grateful. “A quick story and then it’s bedtime.”

  Thank goodness, and afterward she could escape to her own room and forget the way the four of them together nearly formed a family. The last thing she wanted was another poignant reminder of what might have been.

  Henrietta dropped her hand from Helena’s shoulder as Alexander sat on the edge of the bed and patted the place next to him in invitation. Francesca clambered into his lap. Helena joined them, but stayed out of arm’s reach. A hint of sadness flitted over his face before he cleared his throat.

  “Once upon a time, a lion and a tiger lived next to each other under a rock. Surprising as it seems, the two became very close friends, until the day they got into a dispute over something of little consequence.”

  He went on to describe the argument, and how each side became more firmly entrenched in his own opinion, until it seemed their friendship was doomed. In desperation, they consulted a hermit, who told them they were both wrong, and at any rate, their friendship was worth far more than their dispute.

  An uncomfortable prickle ran up Henrietta’s nape. His concentration might be focused on his daughters, but the story seemed aimed at her, even if he hadn’t chosen it. That was simply too bad. If her relationship with Alexander had fallen apart, it certainly wasn’t due to any fault of hers.

  He wants to make it up to you. He proposed. But the thought only brought about a tightening in the back of her throat. If he’d wanted her badly enough, he’d have married her and taken her to India with him.

  “And now it’s time for bed,” Alexander announced when he finished.

  Francesca bounced in her father’s lap. “Tell us another.”

  “Not tonight,” Henrietta admonished, struggling to keep her tone calm. No sense in coming across like Lady Epperley. “Remember what we agreed on? You can choose tomorrow’s story. Now into bed with the pair of you.”

  Helena pulled back the coverlet and climbed in. Francesca followed, and a brief struggle for an equal share of the blankets ensued. At last, they settled, and Alexander kissed them goodnight.

  In the doorway, he turned. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Again?” Henrietta couldn’t keep the terseness from her tone. Standing in the narrow corridor with him was the last thing she wanted to do. He was already too close with an entire room between them. But she had no choice. The girls needed to go to sleep, and they were hardly of an age that she had to wait for them to drop off. If she stayed with them, they were more likely to remain awake and fight over room on the mattress.

  “Sometimes we have to tolerate things we don’t like,” Francesca murmured sleepily.

  Bugger it all. She had a duty to set an example. Lifting her chin, she strode stiffly across the room and shut the door behind her with a soft click. The corridor in this part of the house was dark, and Alexander stood in shadow, a reminder of a previous kiss.

  Not that she was about to allow him any more liberties. She kept her face averted and took a step away from him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Without permission, her gaze jerked to his. “What is this about?”

  “The girls, actually.”

  “Oh.” She pressed a finger to her lips and motioned for him to follow her silently down the passage. Once they were well away, she stopped and kept her voice pitched low. “I was their age once. If I had the slightest suspicion someone was discussing me outside my door, you can be sure I’d be out of my bed and listening in.”

  His wry smile made her heart stutter. “You understand young girls much better than I ever could. Now that you’ve seen how they are with each other, I thought you might help me.”

  “I’m not sure how. I’ve little enough experience with children.”

  “You’ve as much as I had when Helena was born, and you’re handling things far better than I would.”

  Despite her simmering annoyance, warmth spread through her belly at the compliment. She couldn’t remember the last time a gentleman had complimented her on anything other than something shallow like her looks, and this, this was far better. This was an accomplishment. Perhaps even a talent, one she might hone through her own exertions.

  “I thank you.” She sto
pped herself short of curtseying like some green chit in her first season, but she couldn’t prevent the blush that spread up her cheeks. Thank goodness for the darkness in the corridor. If he saw it, he’d likely mistake it for something it wasn’t. Something like forgiveness.

  “You can’t have missed how they behave,” he went on.

  “They’re sweet girls. There’s not a malicious bone in either one of them.”

  “But all the squabbling—it makes me want to tear out my hair. And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to win Helena over. She was always so attached to her mother, but she will have to learn to cope.”

  “Occasional squabbling is perfectly natural. My goodness, you have sisters. You must have seen them do similar things.” The good Lord knew relations between Henrietta and her younger sister had known the odd moment of strain.

  “To be honest, I don’t remember.” That, or he hadn’t paid them enough heed.

  “I do. Jane came out the year after I did, if you remember. And Cecelia was three years behind her.” Good heavens, she hadn’t thought of his sisters in ages. In fact, she was certain her acquaintance with Jane had prompted him to ask her to dance that first time—out of politeness or duty. And there was something else she’d lost since Alexander’s sudden marriage—the friendship his sisters had extended to her. Once the rumors started, she’d avoided paying calls on them. She didn’t think she could tolerate their expressions of pity. “They were always trying to outdo each other when it came to dressing for balls and such. But perhaps that’s not the sort of thing a man notices.”

  “Not in his own sisters, certainly.” He sounded scandalized.

  “Not in anybody, I daresay.”

  “I noticed when you had a new ball gown.”

  Oh, dear. Bollocks. Bugger. Suddenly they were treading on dangerous territory. How had they gone from a simple matter of sisterly squabbles to their shared past? Damnation, she knew which particular gown he referred to. Pink as a blush and low cut, it somehow accentuated her meager curves. She’d felt brazen wearing it. She’d felt powerful. She’d felt like she’d owned the entire ballroom when he saw her in it and gazed her up and down with such possessiveness, such appreciation. Such want.