“Something seems different here,” Alicia finally said, drawing Mary from her musings. “It’s changed since the ball, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
“The rightful duke is at long last in residence,” Mary said.
“You were quite bold in your actions regarding him in the bedchamber,” her aunt said, clear censure in her voice.
“He was in need of assistance.” He would hate her saying that. He was so proud, so determined to make his own way.
“It was not your place to provide it.”
“I could not stand by and watch as he struggled to regain his dignity.”
Her aunt shook her head. “He’d have never lost it if you’d not charged into his bedchamber without thought or proper regard.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, your boldness apparently did not begin there. By nightfall, I fear everyone will know about your scandalous kiss in the garden, and your father shall be put out with me for not keeping a closer watch over you.”
“Perhaps Ladies Hermione and Victoria will keep that news to themselves,” Alicia said.
“Yes, I’m quite sure that’s a possibility,” her aunt snapped, “and I shall awake twenty years younger in the morning.”
Mary hid her amusement. Under the circumstances, her world on the verge of calamity, she knew she shouldn’t find a moment of relief in her aunt’s acerbic tone, but she did. As long as she could still smile, perhaps all was not lost.
The brothers walked into the room, Sebastian moving more gingerly than Tristan. She didn’t know why so many others always had such a difficult time telling one from the other. Even though that was no longer an issue, the brothers had never looked exactly the same to her. Sebastian had always been the more serious, now even more so.
“Ladies, my apologies for not being able to welcome you properly earlier,” he said.
“Our apologies for barging in on your privacy,” her aunt replied.
“I believe I was the only one who actually barged,” Mary pointed out, and she could have sworn that a corner of Sebastian’s mouth twitched. She wondered what it would entail to make him smile fully once more.
“Yes, well, I see no point in splitting hairs,” Aunt Sophie said. “We are gratified that you seem to have escaped death’s clutches.”
“As am I.”
Sebastian took a chair far from Mary, while Tristan selected one nearer. His gaze seemed to challenge his brother, and she wondered what that was about. As lads they’d always seemed to know each other’s thoughts, but she suspected that the years apart may have changed their relationship somewhat. She despised their uncle for all the tragedy he’d visited upon them, for everything he’d stolen—so much that could not be easily identified.
“So what exactly happened last night?” Mary asked. “Where were you attacked?”
“In the garden. After—” He slid his gaze to her aunt before returning it to Mary. “—we parted. I was heading for the mews, intending to walk home. I heard a sound, turned, and became acquainted with someone’s knife.”
Both her aunt and cousin gasped in horror. Mary, however, noted that he told the tale with no emotion, as though it had happened to someone else. She wanted to know if he’d been angry or frightened or if he’d thought he might die. Where would his last thoughts travel? To regrets, to his youth when he was happy, to men he’d fought beside, to women he’d known? To her? She considered that her last thought might be of him. How unfair to Fitzwilliam.
“Fortunately, Tristan found me,” he continued. “We thought to leave without anyone being the wiser but it seems rumors are running rampant nonetheless.”
“You hold your uncle responsible?” Mary asked.
“We’re not yet ready to cast accusations.”
She was impressed with his restraint. Who else except his uncle would wish him harm?
“Lady Mary,” Tristan began, “did you happen across anyone in the garden last night?”
It was too late to save her now so she might as well acknowledge the truth. “His Grace.”
Tristan gave her a wolfish grin that she suspected would win over many a lady. “Besides my brother.”
“Not really. No. I heard whisperings in the shadows and couples were strolling about of course, but from a distance, I couldn’t identify them. And my thoughts were occupied elsewhere.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Tension tightened her shoulders with the implications of his words. He turned his attention to Alicia, and Mary thought her cousin might be on the verge of swooning. She seemed to be having difficulty drawing in a breath. “Did either of you ladies take a stroll in the garden?”
“Absolutely not,” her aunt said. “I speak for both of us. We did not leave the ballroom.”
“Yes, I can imagine Lady Alicia was far too busy dancing.”
“Not so busy as you might think.” Blushing, she lowered her gaze to the tepid tea in her cup.
Mary shifted her attention to Sebastian to determine what he might think of this little exchange, and nearly dropped her own teacup when she saw how intently he was studying her. She considered setting the cup aside but her hands had begun to tremble and she didn’t want to have a rattling saucer give away how disconcerted she was by his study of her. She wondered if he was upset that she’d unintentionally let the cat out of the bag about him kissing her. He’d obviously regretted pressing his lips to hers or he’d have not stormed off. If she’d not taken the coward’s route and scurried back to the ballroom, she might have seen who attacked him.
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever discover who attacked Keswick,” Tristan said.
“Unless he returned to the ballroom bloody. I did manage to land a blow.”
“I can’t imagine that it was a lord who attacked you,” Aunt Sophie said. “Lords do not attack other lords. It was no doubt some ruffian. Although what he was doing there is beyond me. Perhaps he meant to rob you.”
“Perhaps.”
But Mary heard the doubt in his voice. He suspected his uncle of foul play. Not that she blamed him, because she did as well.
“We’re much relieved to see you were not too terribly hurt,” her aunt said, setting her teacup aside and rising. “We should be leaving now.”
“I would like a moment with Mary,” Sebastian said.
Her aunt sat. “Of course.”
“Alone.”
“Hardly appropriate.”
“I’m in no condition to take advantage.”
“Still—”
“Aunt, my reputation is no doubt in tatters by now anyway. What harm can come of letting us have a few moments of privacy? The door may remain open. You can stand in the entryway and peer in.”
“If Fitzwilliam were to discover—”
“I’m not going to tell him.” Besides, once he heard about the kiss, it would all be over anyway.
“Very well.” She rose again. “Alicia, with me.”
Both ladies began to walk out. Tristan shoved himself out of the chair.
“I’ll keep the ladies out of mischief.”
Mary smiled at that. She suspected it had been a good many years since her aunt had caused any mischief and Alicia was too mindful of her reputation to do anything untoward. Pity Mary could not claim the same. After everyone disappeared through the doorway, she said, “You’ve grown paler.”
“I’m not quite up to receiving guests.”
“I’m sorry for the imposition, but when I heard that someone tried to kill you … I just needed to see for myself how badly you were injured.”
“You saw a good deal more than that.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that as well.” Only she wasn’t, not really. Now that she knew the true extent of his injuries they would haunt her. She should have insisted that he seek out her father for his aid that long-ago night. Sebastian had been a boy and the path he’d chosen for himself and his brothers had not been easy. “I appreciate your chastising me in privacy.”
Groaning, he rubbed his jaw. �
��It was not my intent to chastise you at all. I merely … how did your aunt hear about the kiss and why is all of London going to know about it as well?”
She’d rather be chastised about her behavior in the bedchamber than reveal what a silly nitwit she’d been. She plucked at a thread on her skirt, realized that the way her luck was going, she would no doubt unravel all the threads with a mere tug and her dress would fall off. It simply appeared to be a day where if something could go wrong it would.
“Mary?” he prodded gently.
She took comfort in that gentleness, in that hint of the boy he’d been, the friendship they’d shared. “When Lady Hermione came into the dressmaker’s with the news that everyone was talking about what happened in the garden, I was vain enough to believe they were talking about me.”
“You’re hardly vain.”
“You’re kind. But I blurted that it was only a kiss between us and it meant nothing. So now they know we kissed and they are not ones to hold such juicy gossip.”
“And mere rumors of a kiss without a single witness are enough to ruin your reputation?”
How could she forget that he’d not been in Society for years, that he didn’t know how swiftly the gossipmongers worked, and how precious a lady’s reputation was? When they were children, he’d thought nothing of lifting her skirt to see how badly she was scraped when she took a tumble. The adult world was so very different. She might be as uninformed as he if her aunt hadn’t schooled her.
“In all likelihood. Fitzwilliam will not be pleased when he hears.”
Sebastian furrowed his brow. “So you didn’t mention it to Fitzwilliam afterward?”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “Or I wouldn’t have. I didn’t see him afterward.”
He grew incredibly still, so still that she wasn’t certain he continued to breathe. “Is something wrong?”
“Tristan crossed paths with him in the garden.”
“Oh dear Lord, do you think he saw us?” It would explain his not returning to the ballroom, not seeking her out for the last dance. She’d been so obsessed with what had occurred between her and Sebastian that she’d given little thought to the fact that she’d not seen Fitzwilliam again. In truth, she’d been relieved because she feared he’d take one look at her and know what had transpired. In spite of Tristan’s assurances that she didn’t look as though she’d been kissed, she’d certainly felt as though she had been well and thoroughly seduced.
“If he had, would he have not said?”
“Of course. He would have confronted you—us. His pride would not have allowed him to overlook such a transgression without seeking some sort of satisfaction. Not a duel, of course, but a round in the boxing ring perhaps. So he did not bear witness to our inappropriate behavior. Of that I’m sure. Still, I must tell him. I can’t let him hear it from the gossips.”
“He won’t be pleased.”
“No, he won’t.” Neither would her father.
“Mary, I’m sorry for whatever trouble I’ve brought you.”
“It’s my fault. I should have never followed you into the garden.” She rose. “Please don’t get up.”
He ignored her, grimacing as he struggled to his feet. It took everything within her not to rush over and assist him.
“I do hope you will rest,” she told him, “and ensure your wound does not become infected.”
“I’ve had quite a bit of experience dealing with wounds. I assure you, I will be well in no time at all. Mary, I owe you—my brothers owe you—and yet it seems we have brought you little more than trouble. I regret any embarrassment you might suffer because of my bad judgment in the garden.”
Bad judgment. What did she expect him to say? That the kiss devastated him? That it left him yearning for another? That it made him realize she was no longer a child? Could a kiss possess that much power?
“I shall be fine,” she lied. “After all, it was only a kiss.”
Chapter 16
Only a kiss. She had used the phrase before when referring to what had passed between them and added the little caveat that it meant nothing. Nothing.
As his carriage rolled through the London streets, Sebastian wondered what he had expected. That she would confess to being devastated by it, yearned for another? That the kiss he’d delivered in the garden was far more powerful than the bold brush of his lips over hers that he’d delivered at the abbey ruins all those many years ago?
“You’re brooding,” Tristan said.
He looked up at his brother sprawled on the bench across from him. “I’ve been brooding for twelve years.”
“No, this is different. I suspect it has something to do with the words that passed between you and Mary before she took her leave.”
He wondered what it would be like to not have such a profound connection with another person. Lonely, he decided. Much more lonely than he was now. And at the same time, it would be a bit of a relief to know that one’s moods and the reasons behind them could not be so easily deciphered.
“I’m simply exhausted.”
“Then we should return to the residence. Calling on Fitzwilliam could be for naught. I don’t recall seeing any blood on him.”
“But you also admitted to being in the shadows and not having a clear view of him.”
“What would be his motive?”
“Perhaps he saw me kiss Mary.”
“Killing a man for kissing your betrothed seems a bit drastic.”
I would, he thought, surprised by the vehemence behind the words. An image of Mary lifting her face for a kiss suddenly loomed in his mind—only it was Fitzwilliam, not Sebastian, lowering his mouth to hers. His stomach knotted so tightly, he feared he might tear loose one of the stitches in his side. What the deuce was wrong with him? It had meant nothing to her. She’d said as much. It had meant even less to him.
A distraction. That was all it had been. A momentary escape from the blight that the night had become. Attending the ball had done little more than reveal the harsh reality of his shortcomings and he’d sought to regain something of what he’d lost. Passion was a powerful distraction.
With Mary it had been incredibly so. He had used her, and for that he should be flogged, but damnation if he didn’t want to use her again. Her lips were as plump as a freshly plucked strawberry. He wanted to settle his in against them and once more become lost in the pleasure of her.
“You’re not going to kill him are you?”
He jerked his attention to Tristan. “What are you on about?”
“You look to be a man on the verge of committing murder.”
“My thoughts turn to dark places. It seems to be the way of it of late. I think it more likely that he will murder me—if he’s heard the gossip regarding Mary and me.”
“If he hasn’t, are you going to tell him?”
He shook his head. “On the off chance that the rumors concerning Mary are not being spread.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re being spread. Lady Hermione does not seem to be acquainted with the notion of silence. I’ve never known a woman to talk incessantly about absolutely nothing of importance. I almost kissed her on the dance floor in an effort to cease her babbling.”
“If you had, you’d have had her in your life permanently.”
“Precisely why I did not. I would never know a moment’s peace.”
The carriage drew to a stop in front of Fitzwilliam’s modest residence. The footman opened the door and Sebastian stepped out, followed by Tristan.
“So this is where Mary will live when in London,” Tristan said.
Sebastian refrained from commenting that she deserved something grander. Instead he simply charged up the steps and banged the knocker against the door. The butler answered, and to his credit, at the sight of Sebastian he did little more than arch an eyebrow.
“The Duke of Keswick to see Lord Fitzwilliam.”
“His lordship is not in residence.”
“To me or to anyone?”
/> “He is not in residence, meaning, Your Grace, that he is not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“His lordship is not in the habit of informing me of his intentions other than that he is going out.”
Of course he wasn’t. It had been a pointless question.
“When will he be returning?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t say or you won’t say?”
“I do not know when he will return.”
Sebastian spun on his heel and began trudging down the steps.
“What are your plans now?” Tristan asked.
“Return to my residence to rest.”
He’d overtaxed himself, dammit. And this had been a futile exercise. He’d just felt a need to take some action. He could only hope that by now Mary’s fragrance had deserted his residence. Otherwise he would have little luck not thinking about her for the remainder of the day.
When Mary first entered her father’s library where she’d been summoned, she was so incredibly grateful that Fitzwilliam sported neither bruise nor cut nor swelling about his face that she nearly rushed forward to embrace him, to hold him tightly. She was even willing to squeal near his ear. She hated to admit that she had not quite believed he hadn’t harmed Sebastian.
It was ludicrous in retrospect now. She knew that. She’d simply forgotten when confronted with the possibility that he could have done harm. He was not a vengeful man. Jealous certainly. He’d confessed that, but every lady desired a man with a bit of green in him. It was a sign of how much she meant to him. That he cared.
Although right now she feared he cared about all the wrong things. He stood solemnly before her, his hands clasped behind his back. Staring up at him, she felt rather like a naughty girl who had been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.
Looking none too happy, her father sat in a far corner downing whiskey as though he feared the pleasure would soon be denied him.
“Mary,” Fitzwilliam began.
“My lord.” She smiled at him. He tightened his jaw. That didn’t bode well. Only one day had passed since the debacle at the seamstress’s. Surely he’d not yet heard. She’d been in her room penning a letter to him—an explanation. Coward. She should have gone straightway to his residence yesterday to explain it all to his face but a small part of her, a tiny little part of her had hoped that her aunt would indeed awaken twenty years younger this morning, and that Ladies Hermione and Victoria would keep to themselves what she had blurted out.
She Tempts the Duke Page 16