A Sinful Temptation

by Kelly Boyce

  Her eyes glistened and she glanced away again as if she could not bear to look upon him and be hurt any further by his questions and opinions. His stomach turned. It was the worst kind of feeling, knowing you had hurt someone who had given you the world. The knife twisted deep until each beat of his heart made the wound bleed all the more. But he needed the truth. Without it, he remained stuck in an unwanted purgatory, the truth just beyond his reach.

  Marcus pressed on. “If the lady stayed at Braemore, you must have known her identity. Who was she? Why did she give me to the Bowens?”

  “Mary and Edmore were your parents, Marcus. They raised you until their deaths and they did a wonderful job. The fact Mary did not birth you on her own does not change that fact, nor should you say otherwise!”

  “I am not saying that!” Marcus sprang to his feet, propelled by his own anger and frustration. Lady Ellesmere jolted at his sudden movement and guilt flooded him once again. He rubbed at his eyes and took a calming breath. “Forgive me. I did not mean to raise my voice. Nor do I mean to diminish what the Bowens did for me. They gave me their name and I wear it proudly. But it is not my true name and they are not my true blood. My entire history has been based on a lie and all I ask is that the truth finally be revealed to me. Who was the lady who stayed at Braemore Manor?” He placed a hand against his chest. “Who am I?”

  “You are Marcus Bowen,” Lady Ellesmere said, her words laced with urgency. “You are a part of our family. You have people that love you. People who wish you nothing but the best. You had parents who cherished you regardless of where you came from and that is all I have to say on the matter!”

  Marcus’s hands fisted at his sides. They chased each other in circles.

  Lady Ellesmere set her knitting aside on the table next to her and stood. Her chin lifted as she stared up at him, her proud, imperial bearing coming through every pore.

  “Nothing good can come of this, Marcus. The past should be left in the past. Digging it up will only taint the future and cause hurt for all involved. I beg you to leave this be.”

  Her words soaked deep into his core as she strode from the room without a single glance back.

  He dropped back to his chair and hung his head, staring at the patterned rug beneath his feet. She may not have given him the identity of his mother, but one thing remained certain—whoever she was, his birth had come at a price, and if he pursued this course, payment would come due.

  Chapter Twelve

  November 5th

  I had hoped for happiness as a young girl. I had hoped for it as I drew closer to my first Season. Romantic expectations of true love danced about my fool head. How naive I was. How little I knew of the world and the ugliness it held. Oh, it was dressed in all the latest fashion and from a distance I thought it looked quite respectable. Handsome. But then it drew closer; close enough to suffocate. Then I saw the ugliness inside. I should have screamed until my screams sent it running. But fear stayed my tongue and shame robbed me of my voice.

  How I hated my dreams after that. How I longed for my naiveté to return. But once it had been torn aside, the edges were far too frayed for it to do anything but fall away.

  * * *

  Rebecca hurried into the Kingsley’s drawing room, excitement mixed with trepidation making her unable to sit as she waited for Lady Ellesmere and Caelie to arrive. The news she had to deliver filled her with excitement, but the thought of seeing Marcus again for the first time since they’d kissed tied her stomach into knots.

  How would he receive her? How should she behave? Should she act as if nothing untoward had happened between them?

  She twisted her hands over and over, her gloves left behind in her haste to share the news. Mother busied herself with penning a response to Nicholas and Abigail before heading over to pay a visit to Lord Glenmor, while Rebecca had hurried over to Ellesmere House to inform Caelie in the event the news had not reached her and Huntsleigh as yet.

  And to tell Marcus, as he was, after all, to be little Lord Roxton’s godfather.

  “My lady.”

  Rebecca jumped at the deep baritone behind her and spun around to find the Ellesmere butler standing in the doorway. “Oh, Fenton! You surprised me. Is Lady Ellesmere and Lady Huntsleigh available?”

  “I am afraid Lady Ellesmere is indisposed at the moment, my lady and Lady Huntsleigh is paying calls. I expect she will return shortly if you would care to wait. I can have Mrs. Faraday bring tea and biscuits.”

  “Mrs. Faraday’s Ginger biscuits? One cannot have a proper celebration without them.”

  A ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of Fenton’s dour expression before resettling. “Yes, ma’am. I will ensure I request the ginger biscuits.”

  “And…Mr. Bowen? Is he here?” She had hoped to have Caelie and Lady Ellesmere present when she informed him of Nicholas and Abigail’s new arrival, afraid of how to behave, or what seeing him would make her feel.

  Though it couldn’t have been any worse than how not seeing him made her feel. Each day dragged until it doubled in length. The nights were no better. She could not close her eyes without seeing his handsome face, imagining the taste of his kiss, the pressure of his hands on her body, even in places he had not touched. Places she longed for him to touch.

  “I suspect Mr. Bowen is in his study as usual, my lady.”

  “Perhaps I might have the tea and biscuits delivered there, then,” she suggested before her better judgment had time to inform her such an idea was a breach of propriety, not to mention good sense.

  Being alone with Marcus served no purpose. Nothing could come of it. She must put this silly longing for something else—someone else—away. It could come to naught. Her path had been mapped. She must marry Lord Selward and she needed to put her feelings for Marcus aside. Lock them away as one does a bad memory.

  Except the only thing bad about the memory of their kiss was that it could not happen again. And that she did not have more to remember than just a kiss. Not that it had been just a kiss, for there had been nothing ordinary about it. She had never imagined one could be taken to such heights from a mere meeting of mouths. And yet she had. Marcus’s touch had left her seared, ruined for all other kisses to follow lest they be delivered by him.

  “My lady?”

  “Hm? Oh!” Heat burned her cheeks. “Forgive me, Fenton.”

  The butler inclined his head. “I indicated I would have the biscuits delivered and send your maid along with you.”

  “That is unnecessary, Fenton. Mr. Bowen and I are old friends and I’m certain Lady Huntsleigh will be along shortly. I would hate to interrupt Nancy’s visit with Mrs. Faraday. We keep her so busy, she rarely has time to visit her mother save when we come to call.”

  Fenton inclined his head once more, though the grim line of his mouth indicated he did not like being a party to such a breach of propriety. But his discomfort was not her concern. Perhaps it was better she did not have witnesses to whatever folly or foolishness came out of her mouth when she saw Marcus next.

  She left the drawing room and went down the steps to the floor below and found him where Fenton had indicated. In his study, sitting at the round table by the window, his legs crossed and a small book resting in his lap. Whatever the book contained, it had so captivated his attention he had not noted her arrival. She opened her mouth to greet him but closed it just as quickly, drinking in the sight of him.

  The sunlight silhouetted his strong, lean frame and touched upon his dark hair until it shone. With his head tilted forward, reading, she could see the straight sweep of his nose, the serious set of his lips. Awareness rushed through her at what those lips could do. She stood there a moment and let the sensation pull her under its spell and tried to imagine a world without Marcus in it.

  She could not. And yet, if she married Selward that would be the world she lived in. It would hardly be appropriate for her to continue her friendship with a man who, had their circumstances been different, she would have chosen
for her husband over the man she married.

  Not that Marcus had ever proposed to her. Not properly. But the inference had been there in his words, lingering behind the things he hadn’t said. It had burned in his kiss, in the glances he gave her, the way he never let her down. He didn’t have to say the words. A man as controlled and contained as Marcus Bowen did not kiss a lady in such a way without it meaning something. Everything.

  How wrong a world they lived in that they could not be together. If only she had not witnessed the look in Mother’s eyes at the thought of losing everything to her husband’s mistress. Maybe then she might have turned a blind eye, forged a new future built on what she wanted, instead of what her father had dictated must be.

  But she had seen the look in Mother’s eyes and in it understood the breadth of everything she had given up, everything she had already lost. Rebecca could not live with herself if she took away whatever she had left.

  Which meant she must learn to live without Marcus.

  Desperation clawed at her insides until her hand pressed against her belly as if she could hold it still.

  It was then Marcus looked up. Had he sensed her sudden distress? His gaze traveled over her for a brief moment and he set the book aside and stood, his movements languid, as if in a dream.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  She shook her head. She did not know. Seconds? Minutes? Longer?

  He took a step toward her. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Yes. Everything. “I came to give you happy news.”

  He smiled, a small, quiet gesture that filled his eyes with warmth and her body with heat. How she loved his smiles. He had a hundred different ones and each of them provided a different type of delight, pulling at emotions she had not expected, wrapping around her until she became encompassed in them. In him.

  “I would appreciate a little good news today.”

  “Nicholas and Abigail sent word. The baby has arrived. A boy. You have a godson.” She smiled, but it came with a stab of pain at the idea of Marcus’s own sons, all dark haired with serious expressions. Sons that would never belong to her.

  He stepped forward and took her hands, an unconscious gesture that forced heat to shoot up her arms and into her heart.

  “That is good news. Everyone is well then?”

  “Yes. Healthy and hearty. Nicholas claims he has quite a set of lungs on him already.”

  She looked down at his strong hands where they encompassed hers. How small she looked in comparison. How easily he swallowed her up and made her feel safe. Would Lord Selward ever accomplish such a feat? No. The answer came quick as a flash. Lord Selward was a nice man, but he lacked strength and conviction. He went along and did as was expected of him. He was a man who let life happen to him. Marcus was a man who tackled life, who came from little and made a life any man could be proud to call his own. He was good and honest and solid and kind.

  “Have they decided on a name yet? I should like to know how to address the young man.”

  A small laugh escaped her and she pictured Marcus holding the babe in his arms, imparting all of his knowledge. The heir to the Blackbourne title would be in good hands with his counsel.

  “They are, as Nicholas says, currently in negotiation over the names. For now, I am referring to his lordship as Little Lord Roxton.”

  “It shall do for now,” Marcus said. He turned away from her but kept hold of one of her hands and led her into his study as if it were the most natural thing in the world to share such an intimacy. She was thankful she’d forgotten her gloves at home. She relished his touch and mourned a little when he let her go, to pull out a seat at the table where he’d been reading.

  She took her seat and Marcus reclaimed his. With her news delivered, she did not know what else to say or do and a silence fell between them, punctuated by the memory of their last meeting, the kiss they had shared. The words they had spoken.

  Marcus cleared his throat. “I met with Mr. Cosgrove. A fine man, as Miss Caldwell claimed. I have promised him a position once I determine where he will be best suited.”

  “Oh, how lovely. Rosalind will be so pleased. I spoke with her older sister the other day.”

  “Did you? And what did the elder Miss Caldwell have to say?”

  Eugenie’s delivery of the gossip she had heard burned in the pit of Rebecca’s stomach. She had said nothing to anyone about it, not even Mother. She did not want to tell Marcus, but he deserved to know.

  “She indicated she had heard Lord Walkerton is set to arrive in London any day now. It is believed his arrival precedes a betrothal announcement by Lord Selward.”

  Marcus stilled, his steady gaze never leaving her. “I see.” And then, “You do not seem as pleased by this news as I would have expected.”

  She looked down at her hands and splayed her fingertips across her lap. She could still feel his touch lingering on her skin. “I suppose there is no guarantee the offer he makes will be for me.”

  “He’d be a fool to ask another.”

  It was meant as a compliment, but it angered her how easily he spoke of her potential marriage to another. Did it not tear him apart to think of her with another man the same way it broke her heart to know someday he would choose another woman for his wife?

  “That is kind of you to say.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it,” he said. “It is simply the truth.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his and let herself fall into the dark depths of his eyes saw the things he left unsaid, all the feelings roiling around in her own heart. The words they did not speak. The truth they did not tell. The secrets they would keep forever. This was wrong. So very, very wrong.

  “I don’t want to marry him.” The words choked out of her on a sob she hadn’t expected. Hadn’t prepared for.

  Marcus leaned forward in one swift moment and grasped her hand in his and she held on for all she was worth because the moment the words left her mouth, her world spiraling out of control, a ship broken loose from its moorings. Marcus’s hands anchored her in place.

  “Then don’t. Don’t marry him.”

  But she had to. A fact she hated more than she had ever hated anything in her life, but she could not escape it. Once this moment passed, she would be faced once again with the idea of breaking Mother’s heart, giving her memories and past away to another woman in favor of her own selfish needs.

  “I must,” she whispered and the declaration fell between them like a silent guillotine, cutting through any hope the moment brought, and any possibility that the future held something different for them.

  A brief knock at the door made them straighten, the connection between them broken. Rebecca took a deep breath and tried to restore the happiness news of her nephew’s arrival had brought, but the emotion remained elusive.

  A maid entered the room on Marcus’s command with tea and biscuits. She set the tray on the table and quietly left the room with a brief curtsey.

  “Mrs. Faraday sent her ginger biscuits, I see,” he said, as if the tension between them needed words to smooth it over.

  “I requested them.” Though she suspected if she were to bite into one now it would turn to sand in her mouth and land like a lump in her throat when she tried to swallow.

  Marcus poured the tea and set a cup and saucer in front of her, then did the same for himself before retaking his seat. Neither touched the biscuits. Rebecca glanced at the table and noted the book. It was the same one he had been reading before, when she came to return his volume of Voltaire after the Berringsford’s fete.

  “What is it you’re reading?” She reached out a hand to feel the smooth leather surface of the book. Marcus’s hand met her there and the tip of their fingers touched and stayed.

  He did not answer immediately, but sat and stared at the book, at their hands. His brow furrowed and she waited.

  “It is a journal.”

  “A journal? Your own?”

  Another hes
itation, then, “No. My mother’s.”

  Marcus had not meant to tell her. When she asked the question, his mind shouted to retreat, to shrug it off as immaterial and move onto another subject before she could inquire further. But his heart held firm, concentrated on the smallest bit of skin on the tips of his fingers where they touched hers. Connected. Fused.

  The truth he had tried to resolve over the past week had become a behemoth of perplexity. A labyrinth of secrets that provided more dead-ends than answers. Questions spun inside his head until he became dizzy from the effort of trying to make sense of them and still he was no further ahead.

  “I did not know you had a journal from your mother,” Rebecca said. “It must bring you comfort.”

  “No. I’m afraid not.” It had done anything but.

  Twin lines cropped up between her eyebrows as she glanced down at the journal then back up to meet his gaze. “Why ever not?”

  He clenched his jaw until the muscles ached. He needed to leave her out of it, keep her safe. But again, his heart and its selfish need to share his burden, to find comfort in her softness, overrode his good sense.

  “It is not from Mary Bowen,” he said.

  The twin lines grew deeper. “I thought you said it was from your mother?”

  “It is.”

  Rebecca didn’t answer immediately and Marcus waited patiently, knowing when the gasp left her that she had put the puzzle together. He was a bastard.

  “But how—” And then, “I thought—”

  When she did not continue, he filled the void left by her unspoken words. “The journal arrived a week ago.” He gave a brief summary of the delay in its arrival. The words came haltingly and he prayed she did not reject the truth as Lady Ellesmere had. Or worse—reject him.

  “Who is she?”