She swallowed hard. “I’m sure Fitzwilliam will do nicely in that regard.”
Her aunt moved to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the mirror. She was a small woman, but could be quite formidable when she set her mind to it. “My dear, are you having second thoughts regarding this marriage?”
Second. Third. Fourth. Ever since Sebastian had kissed her, doubts had plagued her. She no longer knew her own mind. She, who never questioned her actions, was now questioning a good many things. Why had he kissed her? What had he hoped to accomplish? Was it simply for sport? To satisfy curiosity? He wanted to forget. Exactly what did he wish to forget? The long years he was away? The war? Her? Had he taken her in his arms because she was convenient? Would any woman have sufficed for his purposes? That thought brought with it a devastating disappointment. Perhaps she should confront him. Or would it be better to ignore him?
“Mary?” her aunt prodded.
She’d almost forgotten the question. Was she having doubts? “No, of course not.”
Fitzwilliam did not burn with passion. Rather his moods more closely resembled the constant ticking of a clock. No surprises. Nothing unexpected. Just the reassuring constancy that each tick would be followed by another. A month ago, she’d found it reassuring. Now she found it boring. How unfair to him. He’d not changed since he asked for her hand. She knew exactly what she was getting when she accepted his proposal. But she had changed. Somehow, within only a couple of weeks, she’d become someone completely different, wanted something completely different. Too late, too late. Besides perhaps it was only a passing fancy, and in another two weeks she would once again yearn for what she’d longed for a month ago. You’d damned well better long for it.
“It really doesn’t matter, Mama,” Alicia said. “The betrothal has been announced. It can’t be broken. Lord Fitzwilliam would sue for damages, and Uncle would not be pleased about that at all. It would be scandalous.”
“Better scandal now than to marry a man you doubt and have years of regret,” her aunt announced, her gaze boring into Mary until it made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t doubt Fitzwilliam,” Mary assured her. But she doubted herself. Why had she not stepped away from the kiss instead of into it? She couldn’t deny that for years she’d thought of Sebastian, had dreamed of him, had fantasized about him as a young girl might, but the reality of him as a man was far removed from her imaginings.
Her aunt harrumphed.
“I don’t!” Mary insisted. “And Alicia is right. All has been arranged for the wedding. I’m sure all ladies wonder as the time draws near if they travel the right path.”
“I certainly didn’t,” her aunt said.
“Because you and Papa eloped,” Alicia said. “To Gretna Green. There was hardly time for any misgivings. It was so romantic. I would so dearly love to be swept away.” She sighed dreamily.
Mary wondered when she herself had given up on the notion of being romanced, of being swept away. Was she settling for Fitzwilliam? She didn’t think so. Yes, he was the only one to have asked but that didn’t signify that she’d have not selected him if a hundred gentlemen had asked. He’d captured her attention from the start. She enjoyed his company. He was charming, elegant. Not brash. His temper was even. He did not easily take offense. Marriage to him would be calm and placid. No upheavals, no tempers flaring, no anger.
A bell tinkling above the door caught her attention. Another lady coming in for a fitting no doubt. This seamstress was one of the more sought-after in London.
“There you are!” Lady Hermione announced. “When I saw your carriage in the street, I told Lady Victoria that we must stop and have a look-see for surely you would be here.”
In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Ladies Hermione and Victoria gliding into the room, an excitement in their step as though they both had delicious gossip to share.
“You’re not to spread rumors about the design of Mary’s gown,” Alicia said. “We want it to remain a secret—”
“Oh, dear girl, we couldn’t care less about a gown. We want to know the truth about what really happened in the garden last night with Keswick. So many delicious rumors are running rife through London this morning that it’s difficult to sort the wheat from the chaff. So, Lady Mary, what the deuce happened in the garden?” Her gaze honed in on Mary with such force that had it not been for the danger of pins pricking her, she would have sunk into the nearest chair.
Her knees had grown so weak that it was a wonder she was able to remain standing. Who had seen them in the garden? What precisely had they seen? More importantly—
“Does Fitzwilliam know?” she asked, pushing the words through her knotted throat.
“I should think so. No matter where Lady Victoria and I have gone today, it’s been on the tip of everyone’s tongues. Such delicious gossip. I daresay I’m frightfully surprised to find you here having a fitting done, considering all that transpired in the shadows. Now, come, you must give us specifics for surely—”
“We only kissed,” Mary blurted out, in an effort to stop this madness. “Keswick and I.”
Her aunt gasped and pressed a hand to her chest as though she needed to contain her heart beneath her ribs. The three younger ladies stared at her open-mouthed. Even the seamstress seemed unable to move from the shock of her words.
“He apologized afterward,” she hastened to explain. “It didn’t signify. Was only a moment of insanity.” She was babbling. It was important that she speak with Fitzwilliam, explain everything, but that would indicate that she understood what had happened, when she really didn’t.
“Welllll,” Lady Victoria said, dragging the word out as though she were savoring a delicious bit of chocolate. “That was most unexpected.”
Mary jerked her attention to Lady Hermione. “You said everyone knew, everyone was talking about Keswick and what happened in the garden.”
“Yes, well, apparently a good deal more happened than we were led to believe.”
Mary was torn between begging the ladies not to say anything and holding her head high, never straying from her story that it was all in innocence. But the kiss had rocked her to the core. How could she not blush with even the thought of it?
“So come, Lady Mary, now you must give us the juicy details of what transpired between you and Keswick,” Lady Hermione said.
“You didn’t know about the kiss?”
“No. How did it come about? Details. We must have the details.”
“I don’t understand. If you weren’t aware of the kiss, what did you think happened? What have people been saying about us?” Could it be anything worse than what she’d already confessed?
“Not you. Only Keswick.”
“What is your gossip?”
“Not nearly as interesting as yours, it seems.”
“For God’s sake, girl,” her aunt snapped. “Stop torturing Mary. What the devil did you think happened in the garden?”
“Someone tried to kill Keswick.”
Sebastian had just slid out of bed and was struggling to straighten to his full height, when the door to his bedchamber was flung open and Mary burst through like an avenging angel, her aunt and cousin in her wake.
Thank God he was wearing trousers. Unfortunately he wore no shirt, and he was still hunched over like some creature that should be skittering about Hugo’s Notre Dame. Fighting the pain, he forced himself to stand tall, then realized the folly in that when Lady Ivers gasped and took a step back, while Lady Alicia paled. The sunlight streaming in through the window washed over his scars, all his scars. The damned eyepatch was resting on the table by the bed. He should have been reaching for it instead of striving to stand with some dignity.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he barked, before gritting his teeth and shuffling like an old man to the table to snatch up the patch. It was an awkward thing to strive to put it on when every movement strained his stitches, ignited fire in his side. Where the hell was his valet?
> Thomas worked his way between the ladies hovering in the doorway. “Your Grace—”
But then even he came to a stop at the hideous sight before him. Unlike his valet, the butler had never seen the scars that Sebastian’s clothes hid.
“We’d heard you were attacked,” Mary said, before striding across the room with purpose as though shot from a cannon.
Her aunt called after her, but she simply marched on. He was tempted to back away, but forced himself to stand his ground. Something in her determination unsettled him. It was dangerous for her to be here. Dangerous for them both.
She stopped so near, her orchid scent wafted around him. Reaching up, she adjusted the patch before skimming her hand lightly over his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder, bringing it to rest where his heart thudded so hard that it was in danger of cracking a rib.
“They hurt you so badly,” she whispered.
He was close to becoming unmanned. He would if he saw a single tear, but what he saw was far worse. Anger in her lovely green eyes. Perhaps even hatred. She pressed her lips tightly together, lowered her hand to just below his ribs. Her touch contained such tenderness that it made him want to weep, made him want to wrap his arm around her, draw her in against his good side, hold her near. Never let her go.
But he couldn’t risk even a moment of softness, couldn’t risk revealing a hint of weakness. He could not take what he could never keep. She was not his. It was a litany he’d repeated in his laudanum-induced haze when the pain kept him conscious. She was not his.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
Tearing his gaze from her, he looked down and saw the bright red marring the bandage wrapped around his waist.
“He did this to you, didn’t he? Your uncle.”
“I do not think he would be this brazen.”
She lifted her gaze to his, held it, and for a heartbeat he was back at Pembrook, young and innocent, believing that the world would one day be handed to him on a silver platter. Life would be fox hunts and pheasant shooting. Not rifles aimed at men. Life would be riding horses for sport not survival. Pleasures would involve beautiful women who wanted to be with him, instead of women who gasped and feared approaching him, as though his scars were contagious, as though they would somehow find a way to make the ladies ugly as well.
He had kissed Mary in the darkness when all that he was had been hidden from her. Now the harsh sunlight was revealing the marbling of puckered flesh that marred so much of him. Yet she didn’t step back, she didn’t turn away. He wondered if he lowered his mouth to hers now without the kindness of shadows, if she would close her eyes on a sigh or grimace as the creature he was grew too near.
“What have we here?” Tristan asked, his deep voice breaking the spell, sending Sebastian’s thoughts careening back to the reality of where they were, what they were. “My brother with three lovely ladies in his bedchamber? I could very well become jealous.”
“We’re not in his bedchamber,” Lady Alicia protested.
“Close enough, dear lady,” Tristan said as he strode into the room, his speculative gleam running over both Sebastian and Mary.
Mary stepped away, her hand leaving Sebastian’s skin, taking the warmth with her, sending a chill through him.
“Your brother is bleeding. If you’ll bring bandages, I’ll see to it.” Mary began tugging off her gloves and only then did Sebastian realize that she’d been wearing them the entire time. Her touch had been so gentle, so warm that he could have sworn it was skin upon skin.
“My valet can see to it,” Sebastian said. “Thomas, escort the ladies to their carriage.”
Mary spun around and glared at him. “I’m not leaving until I know what happened last night.”
Stubborn wench! “How did you even hear of it?” They hadn’t told anyone, had planned to keep it quiet. No sense in having rumors bandied about until they knew the truth of what had transpired.
“Unfortunately, it’s all over London,” Tristan said before Mary could answer. “That’s why I’m here. I thought you should know.”
“Yes, I heard of it at the dressmaker’s,” Mary confirmed.
“The dressmaker’s?” Sebastian repeated.
“Mary was being fitted for her wedding gown,” Lady Alicia explained.
He hadn’t been questioning why she was at the dressmaker’s, only that the gossip was being spouted in the corner of small shops. But now to know what she was doing, to be reminded that she would be married soon—
“We may have a problem there,” she said quietly.
“I should say,” her aunt suddenly announced. “Apparently you kissed her in the garden, Your Grace, and that bit of news shall no doubt be known throughout all of London by nightfall.”
Mary slammed her eyes closed and her cheeks burned red. “Oh, I have mucked things up.”
“Well,” Tristan drawled, “life in London just got more interesting. And here I was thinking of setting sail, but how can I leave this behind?”
“The rumors are that you were attacked by a soldier from your regiment who says men died because you were a coward.”
Standing in front of the cheval glass, Sebastian could see his brother’s reflection as he lounged in a nearby chair. Even when Tristan was sprawled over furniture there was an alertness to him that suggested he could enter into the thick of a battle before he drew his next breath.
Sebastian was hoping for at least a day’s reprieve from the business of securing his title. He wanted to take a large dose of laudanum and return to his bed. His side ached unbearably. His valet had changed the bandages and was now helping him to dress so he could visit with his guests in the parlor.
“Why are there rumors at all when we said nothing, and no one saw us?” he asked.
“I suspect Uncle had a hand in that. He’s striving to discredit you. He wants the lords to back the petition he’s preparing that urges the queen to grant the title to him because you are undeserving.”
“If being deserving were a criteria, a good many lords would find themselves without titles.” With a grimace, he moved as best he could to assist his valet in putting on his jacket. It was a dark blue, very conservative. Still he looked to be a man who was not at his best.
“You think Uncle is responsible for the attack?” Sebastian asked.
“Were you a coward on the battlefield?”
“Do you have to ask?”
Tristan arched a brow. “Others will. While I can’t see you being a coward, I must admit that I don’t know you as well as I might have otherwise.”
“No, I was not a coward.”
“Then yes. I think Uncle is responsible, and having failed, he is striving to make the best of a poor situation, perhaps to reflect suspicions from him. He either hired an incompetent or did it himself. Could it have been him, do you think?”
Sebastian cursed. “I did not see him at all. I struck him, but I couldn’t judge his height.”
“I’d wager it was him.”
“Even if he were to have success convincing Queen Victoria that the title should not be mine, you are next in line. Discrediting me does not make him the next logical choice.”
“I suspect he plans to cross that bridge when he gets to it. Quite honestly, I doubt Victoria would be pleased to have as one of her noblemen a man who was once a pirate. And Rafe is also of questionable character. I suspect Uncle sees you as the only one who needs to fall. The rest of us will follow.”
Sebastian dismissed his valet. Once he’d left the room, he turned to face his brother. “How involved were you in pirating?”
Tristan laughed darkly. “You are either a pirate or you are not. There are not degrees. Just as a lady’s reputation is neither slightly ruined nor terribly ruined. It is simply ruined. The question is: what are you going to do about it?”
He knew Tristan was referring to Mary and the kiss in the garden. He could overlook it when it was a secret, but now if others knew …
Measures would have to be taken to
protect her.
The only sounds in the parlor were the clinking of teacups on saucers and the ticking of the clock on the black marble mantel. A young female servant had brought in the tea, and Aunt Sophie had seen to preparing and serving it. She’d not spoken a single word since they left the duke’s bedchamber. Mary assumed she was at a loss for words regarding her niece’s uncharacteristic brazen behavior.
Mary knew that a proper lady did not barge her way into a gentleman’s bedchamber unannounced and uninvited—or even invited for that matter. But the butler had been unwilling to provide any information regarding the duke’s condition. And a lady certainly didn’t approach a man who wore no clothing save his trousers. And she never, ever touched her fingers to his bare chest. Even though she wore kidskin gloves, she still managed to feel the fire radiating from his flesh warming hers, the rapid thudding of his heart against her palm, the subtle vibrations coming from his throat whenever he spoke.
For the first time no shadows had played over his features. He’d been too stunned to turn the marred side of his face away from her. Not that she would have let him. In the confines of his bedchamber, she’d imprisoned him in that corner and had been truly able to see all the damage that had been done to him on a faraway battlefield. She’d wanted to press her lips to every scar in order to ease the hurt. If they’d not had an audience, she wasn’t certain even he would have had the power to stop her, although she could well imagine the one word he would have spoken in a raw voice: Don’t.
He’d have not welcomed her pity, sympathy, or empathy. He’d have assumed she detected weakness when all she saw was strength. She wasn’t certain she’d truly realized how much courage it took each time he made an appearance in Society. Now she understood that his scars went far deeper than the surface.
Her reputation would soon be as scarred as his flesh, and yet his wounds reflected a noble tapestry because he had suffered them in defense of country.
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