by Amy Lake
"I knew,” said the duke.
"You knew?” Lady Pamela stopped, and stepped back from him. “You knew I had not ... become enciente?"
The duke did not raise his voice, but his words were fierce, impassioned. “Did you think I would have taken that chance with your reputation, your very life? Did you think I would risk that you carried my child, and turn my back on you?"
"How did you know?” Lady Pamela was now standing hands on hips, her eyes piercing his in accusation.
"I ... I had you followed."
"What!” Then—"Oh, of course. Maggie kept telling me she saw some man...” Lady Pamela trailed off, then burst out laughing. “I suppose I should be offended."
"I can't think why. Even your means and family would not save you from the indignities of motherhood as a demoiselle pas mariée."
"I know,” Lady Pamela reached out, touched his arm. “'Twas very sweet, and I do appreciate your concern. I had wondered what I might do, of course, if it came to it. But I
assumed ... as ‘twas only the one night..."
Benjamin shook his head. “Sometimes,” he said, “one night can mean more than years."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
One night can mean more than years.
The night of the wedding of Charles and Helène, for example. At Luton Court, in Bedfordshire, some seven months past.
I do not regret a single day, she had said.
The duke made an angry, dismissive gesture. “I do not wish to hear another word."
"Your wish,” said Lady Pamela, “is granted."
She turned on her heel and fled, back into the ballroom.
The duke did not try to follow her. He walked through the marquess's gardens for the greater part of an hour, while the orchestra continued its cheery selection of short gavottes and allemandes, dances traditional to the merriment of a wedding ball. He was warm and his face flushed despite the late February chill; furious with Lady Pamela, and furious with himself.
He longed for her more than life itself, and whether she had been another man's mistress mattered nothing to him. And yet it did. He could not hear the Earl of Ketrick's name without feeling a blinding rage. The duke disliked strong emotions of any type, fearing the vulnerability that passion engendered, and every moment in Lady Pamela's company brought this weakness closer.
His anger stalked him, and he ran from it, afraid that it would ruin any relationship he began with Pamela Sinclair. Bad as it was to be apart from her, to have her and lose her would be worse.
No, thought Benjamin suddenly. No. At least he could be honest with himself.
'Twas not anger that he fled. ‘Twas hurt.
Hurt that he was not the first, that Lady Pamela had once loved another.
Selfish hurt.
And, in a moment's clarity, he called himself a fool for allowing his own pain to keep them apart. He would gladly endure any agony, if he could only spent the rest of his life with her.
The duke's steps quickened and he nearly ran back to the ballroom. By now the evening had worn on, and the dancers were fewer in number. He did not see Lady Pamela among them and was seized by an abrupt and energizing panic, by the sense that he might be too late.
He strode from ballroom and hurried through the hallways of Luton Court to the doorway of her suite. He raised his hand to tap upon the door, but before he could do so it opened and Lady Pamela stood before him, a woolen shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked as panicked as he.
"Oh! I was just—"
The duke gathered Lady Pamela into his arms and smothered her mouth with kisses. She fell back under the onslaught and then they were in her bedchamber, and he was kicking the door closed, and the blood was rushing hot through his veins.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” he said, over and again. She would not or could not reply, but she did not resist, she did not push him away, and soon the shawl was on the floor and Benjamin was fumbling and frantic at the silk of her bodice. He trailed kisses down her neck and onto her shoulders, and her legs crumpled under her. Perhaps they might have followed the shawl, then, down onto the plush and figured rose carpeting, but he picked her up instead and tossed her onto the duvet of her four-posted bed.
He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. She lay on her back and looked up at him.
"I'm sorry I ran away,” said Lady Pamela softly. “I was ... I was going to go look for you."
An absurd mix of conflicting thoughts and emotions-both profound and the mundane—assailed Lord Torrance. He wished to be lying next to her. He wished to lie next to her forever. He could not do so, however, without first removing his boots. But to remove his boots would also remove all doubts as to his current inclinations, and Benjamin was reluctant, above all things, to insult Lady Pamela, to offend her by the exigencies of his passion.
I have called her a goddess, he thought. Perfection itself.
One does not mar perfection. One does not sleep with a goddess.
Her hand reached up, and she drew one fingertip along the line of his jaw.
"Stay with me tonight,” she whispered.
It was enough.
* * * *
Lady Pamela's own memories of that night were detailed and clear. She had little by way of comparison. Lady Pam had never been promiscuous; her experience in lovemaking was limited to her time with the Earl of Ketrick.
A pleasant and stimulating activity, she had believed.
Ha.
Nothing with Edward Tremayne had approached the breathtaking communion she had shared, that one night, with Lord Torrance. Their lovemaking had been a pitched brawl, and a meeting of body and soul both, until she had not known where the duke left off and she began.
'Twas neither good-natured, nor sweet. ‘Twas a ferocious, passionate battle, in which both won and both were defeated, in which one might lose oneself and never be found. A struggle, a war; and the duke had fought against surrender as fiercely as she.
And they had slept, both of them, a sleep of contentment and peace, until the next morning, when the Duke of Grentham had awoken and asked her to be his wife.
* * * *
He looked, above all other things, rather abashed.
"Good morning, Lady Pamela,” the duke said.
As they were both in the same bed as these words were spoken, and both quite naked, she had laughed.
"And a good day to you as well, your grace."
He kissed her, and events might have proceeded in the same direction as they had before, only hours ago, except that the duke had other matters more immediately at mind.
"I shall ride today for a London magistrate,” he told Lady Pamela. “It should be no more than two days to procure a special license and return. Three at the outside. We shall be married as soon as you wish."
An odd expression crossed Lady Pamela's face. “Married?” she asked.
The duke propped himself up on one elbow and smiled down at her. “I do apologize for the haphazard proposal,” he offered. “I'd get down on one knee, but at the moment—"
She giggled at this. Then her face clouded over again, and she added-"There is no need for marriage, my lord."
"No need-!"
The duke did not understand women, of course. In his mind he and Lady Pamela were already married, and ‘twas a great relief, for he did not think he could stand the torment of not possessing her a moment longer. No more need for explanations of how one felt for, truly, the duke did not wish to examine how he felt. No more of the ongoing emotional turmoil, of never knowing the same about her. All that remained was to formalize before God and society what he had already committed to in his heart.
Only the blessed and permanent tranquility of marriage.
No, the duke did not understand women at all. And now he was faced, on this morning of all mornings, with a suddenly recalcitrant female, and Lord Torrance was confused.
"Of course we will be married,” he told Lady Pamela. “We must."
She cocked an eyebro
w. “We must?"
"Well, we've ... we've ... been intimate."
The words hung there, over the bed, and Benjamin might have wished he could unsay them but, really, what else was possible? The Earl of Ketrick had not married her. He would.
"And that,” said Lady Pamela, “is your sole reason for marriage?"
"Well, no,” said the duke, floundering. Lady Pamela was now sitting up in bed, and the sheets were not covering everything they might cover, and his concentration was lost. What had he said just now? He had asked her to be his wife, had he not? And of course they would be married, they must be married immediately, this very evening would not be soon enough for the duke, but he must first go to London, and...
"I suppose I should have married Lord Tremayne, then?"
"No, but—"
"And you are doing me a favour, as it were, to marry me. To lower yourself to the level of a fallen woman."
Lord Torrance should have heard, perhaps, the hurt in those words. Lady Pamela was a woman deeply in love, and beginning, against all evidence, to believe herself alone in that state, for why had the duke only now offered her his hand? She had known since the day they first met that she would marry him, if he asked.
But the duke had seen her as a goddess, and had never dared think that she might really be his, until events-to his relief-made their marriage not only possible, but required.
And a requirement the duke understood. Gentlemen's lives were based on requirements, on duty and honour, not on trifles such as love. Love! To Lord Torrance-who was in its throes for the first time, and still thrashing about-love was terrifying.
Their conversation quickly deteriorated, and soon Lady Pamela left the bed, still draped in the sheet, and began, awkwardly, to dress. If love was terrifying, losing her was more so, and the duke continued to argue and protest, waxing ever more vehement. At some point the word duty crept into his explanations.
That was the end.
* * * *
Lady Pamela, caught in the grip of memory, felt the tears start to her eyes. She brushed them away, angry with herself for her weakness, angry that the duke had once again broken her fragile, hard-won peace.
One night can mean more than years. But that night was months in the past and on this day, this afternoon in Green Park, the Duke of Grentham was engaged to be married to Lady Millicent Chambers. And she was alone.
* * * *
The duke had told Pamela nothing of his conversation with Lady Millicent. He had not explained that the young woman did not wish to marry him, nor that they had agreed to end their engagement. He had wanted to tell Lady Pam everything, of course, desired it most urgently, but bit back the words time and again. Benjamin was acutely conscious of the difficulties of his position, and that Lady Millicent would once again pay for any mistakes that were made. Every other aspect of the his life was Lady Pamela's to know and judge, excepting this, and for Milly's sake he would say nothing until the situation was resolved.
He had given the girl, sternly, one stipulation.
"I comprehend your feelings,” the duke told Lady Millicent, “but you must also understand mine. If our engagement is ended your father will return to Lord Castlereaugh, and this time he will not stop until your marriage lines are written and sealed. I cannot allow it."
Neither Lord Torrance nor the girl had any idea that Castlereaugh had withdrawn his offer, of course. They were not likely to hear it from the earl.
"He cannot force me to wed!” cried Milly.
"Perhaps not. But he can cast you into the streets, and-with any respect due your father-I have no confidence that he would not do exactly that."
Lady Millicent nodded glumly.
"And there is still the problem of your father's debts. So, publicly, for the moment, our betrothal must stand. You must say nothing and do nothing until I can think this through."
"But—"
"A day or two will make no difference,” he told her. “Now, go home, and go to bed. No more rambling unescorted about London.” He smiled at her. “'Tis not allowed, you know, for a duke's bride-to-be."
"Oh, very well,” pouted Millicent. “But you must tell Lady Pamela at once. I could not bear to see her again as your fiancée."
The duke sighed. “I will decide when ‘twill be told, and to whom."
"Oh, but—"
"Go home, Lady Millicent."
* * * *
And now Benjamin regretted his own resolution, for he saw the suffering in Lady Pamela's eyes. He must say something, and yet nothing could be said. Perhaps it had been a mistake, after all, to approach her, but the duke had woken that morning and determined that he would speak with her alone, whatever the offense to propriety. Lady Pamela had known of his engagement to Lady Millicent for a full day, at least, and he had never had the chance to explain.
"There is no need for explanation. I was there, that night, in the gardens. I saw."
Her words should have eased his mind, but they did not. Benjamin took both of her hands in his and held them to his cheek. She allowed his touch for only a moment.
"I cannot bear your censure,” whispered Benjamin. He saw Lady Pamela slipping away from him. They had quarreled before, but this time ‘twas different. This time was to be the last, he sensed, and was in despair.
"I do not reproach you,” she told him. “Truly I do not. You did what you must, but-but-it hurts."
She shuddered and the duke's heart was broken. He reached for her but she stepped quickly back, her hands out as if to push him away.
"And ‘tis not only Lady Millicent, not only your engagement,” said Pam. Her voice grew passionate and heavy with tears. “Each time I see you, each time we meet, something happens, something reminds me that we can never be together, that you will never-that I will—"
"Pamela—"
"What do you think I feel? I was fine before I met you! I have family and friends who love me, and do not judge me. ‘Twas a mistake. That is all. A mistake."
Benjamin shook his head. “A mistake? I don't understand."
She gulped for breath. “But you do. You've said so yourself. I was a man's mistress, and that will not change and I cannot make it up to you. And I will not continue to try. It just hurts too much."
She broke down, and buried her head in her hands. “'Twill always be thus. I will always pay, and I deserve to pay, I suppose, but I cannot bear it any longer. I will never, ever be able to bear it again."
Benjamin was at sea. Why was she speaking of her past life, of her years with the Earl of Ketrick? He cared nothing for those years, they were forgotten. Surely she must realize that by now—
"Your past means nothing to me,” he said, intending this as reassurance.
She raised her eyes to his. “Nothing?” she whispered.
"No—” Benjamin's level of frustration rose by another notch. Would he never be able to explain himself? Must she take everything amiss?
"My past is part of who I am,” she told him. “And that is the problem. You want me to be someone I am not."
"No—” Benjamin felt that he could handle years of his own torment, but not another moment of hers. The engagement with lady Millicent was ended, and he was free. Lady Pamela was to become his wife, and Benjamin felt it wrong, somehow, to deceive her even by an omission of the truth.
"There is hope,” he whispered, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. “Hope for us still."
Lady Pamela stopped. She stared at him, eyes wide.
"Hope? What can you mean, sir?"
The duke, who had slept poorly for two nights, was slow to answer. He was still caught in a dream, a dream where Lady Pamela was his bride, and where their future spread before him in an endless season of gladness and peace.
He spoke his next words to the ground, still unwilling to betray Lady Millicent, not daring to look at the woman he loved.
"We will be together,” he said. “Somehow, we will be. ‘Tis not the end."
In present circumstances these
were foolish words, suffused as they were with longing, and with the duke's lingering worries for Millicent. If Benjamin had been less entangled in his own thoughts, he would have realized that Lady Pamela had no idea of his meaning. He looked up to see her still staring at him. The pain in her eyes had turned to an anguish that pierced his heart.
"What is it?” he whispered.
"I,” said Lady Pamela, “never wish to see you, or to speak with you again."
He was stunned. “Lady Pamela—"
"Leave me at once.” She turned her back on him and stood in silence, her shoulders trembling. Maggie hurried to her mistress's side; the maid glared at Benjamin.
What had happened? What could he have said? Benjamin's heart was torn. The lady had shown him her back, and every rule of polite society demanded that he leave her immediately, without uttering another word.
He could not do so.
"Lady Pamela, please.” He reached out to touch her arm. She gasped and turned, flinging off his hand. The maid stepped between them and Benjamin saw the glint of a small dagger clutched in the girl's hand.
Good heavens.
"Can you not go?” cried Lady Pamela.
"No!” answered the duke, in equal exasperation. “I will not go. And if your maid could restrain her enthusiasm for that knife—"
"Leave Maggie out of this!"
"What ails you, madam, to go about the streets so foolishly? A footpad would take that blade in an instant, and you would be at his mercy."
"Yes, it seems London is full of females requiring rescue!” she shot back.
"I only meant to say—"
"And you have already rescued your lady, so go to her now and leave me."
"There is no need to involve Lady Millicent in this discussion,” Benjamin protested. “She was an innocent—"
"An innocent? An innocent! Of course she is. And I am not!"
Lady Pamela's fury was now unrestrained, and before its fury all logic collapsed. Their conversation, thought the duke, was spiraling out of control. He again took a step toward Lady Pam. She backed away.
"If you will not leave,” said Lady Pamela, “then it needs I must.” Her voice shook with anger, and he saw the delicate tracery of tears on her cheeks.