by Mary Balogh
She was bewildered and . . . disappointed. That was all? He would answer so promptly the voice of protest? But why was she surprised? When she had told him fourteen years ago to go away, he had gone without argument, and without returning. She remembered now that she had been both bewildered and disappointed then too.
Perhaps this was why he was so successful. He might be a seducer, but he was not a coercer. No woman would ever be able to accuse him of tricking her, of persuading her against her will, of refusing to take no for an answer. At least, Viola assumed he approached all his conquests this same way.
But their hands were clasped, their fingers laced. Perhaps because this time she had not told him to go away. Should she? Undoubtedly. But would she? Where was the harm in strolling alone with him thus? In holding his hand? In kissing him? In allowing him to kiss her? Whom was she harming? Her children? Hardly.
Herself?
She had been depressed for so long that she scarcely knew any other state. So she would be depressed again tomorrow looking back upon today. So what? At least she would have a few memories of pleasure, of desire. Even happiness. There had been so little happiness . . .
“When you told me to go away,” he said, almost as if he were reading her thoughts, “did you expect me to obey?”
“Why would you stay where you were not wanted?” she asked. “You had plenty of other choices.”
“Cruel,” he said softly.
“Oh, nonsense,” she said.
“Did you want me to obey?” he asked.
“Why else would I have asked you to leave me alone?” she said.
“Have you noticed,” he asked, “how some people will almost invariably answer a question with another? Did you want me to obey, Viola?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “I was a married lady, Marcel. Or thought I was.”
“Was that the only reason?” he asked.
She hesitated again. “I had young children,” she said, “and a reputation to protect.”
“And was it worth protecting,” he asked, “at the expense of personal inclination?”
“We cannot always do what we want,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“And have you noticed,” she asked him, “that some people ask interminable questions and are never satisfied with the answers they are given?”
“Touché,” he said.
Two people—a man and woman—were approaching from the village. A couple of children darted and danced about them. They came across the bridge.
“Good night, ma’am, sir,” the man said respectfully, pulling on his forelock. “Me and my missus here hope you have enjoyed your day. We are honored to have had you with us.”
The woman bobbed an awkward curtsy and the children gathered closer to her skirts and fell silent.
“Well, thank you,” Viola said. “We have indeed enjoyed ourselves. And it has been our pleasure to have been included in your festivities.”
The man cleared his throat. “And Vicar told us about your very generous donation to the roof repairs, sir,” he said. “May I make so bold as to express my personal thanks?”
Mr. Lamarr nodded curtly, Viola saw when she turned her head rather sharply to look at him. When had he done that? He bade the couple a good evening, and they went on their way.
“Some people,” he murmured, “would be unable to hold their tongues if their life depended upon it.”
Presumably he was talking about the vicar.
“It was very kind of you to be generous,” she said.
“Viola.” He released her hand and offered his arm, turning back in the direction of the village as he did so. “One thing no one will ever be able to accuse me of with any conviction is kindness. The cool of evening is rapidly turning to the chill of night. Do you wish to dance something vigorous and warming on the green? Or would you prefer to return to the inn?”
“The inn, please.” But she said it with regret. Was her day of escape finally over, then? And what would tomorrow bring? Would the carriage be ready to take her home? She dreaded the possibility that she might be stranded here for another day. But she dreaded going home too. She would think about it all tomorrow.
They walked back to the inn without talking, though they did have to pass numerous people as they skirted the village green, and exchanged good night greetings with some of them—at least Viola did. At some time since they had left to go to the dance, the innkeeper had returned and the taproom had been opened up. It was half filled with men imbibing ale and hiding away from would-be dancing partners, Viola suspected. Everyone seemed to be in just as jovial spirits as they had been this morning, however.
He escorted her upstairs to her room, took the key from her hand, unlocked the door, and stood in the doorway with her.
“Thank you—” she began, but he set one forefinger across her lips.
“No absurdities, Viola,” he said. “Has it been worthwhile to you, a blameless life of virtue and dignity and self-denial? Has it brought you happiness?”
“Happiness is not everything,” she said.
“Ah. I have my answer,” he told her.
“And has it been worthwhile to you, a life of debauchery and self-indulgence?” she asked. “Has it brought you happiness?”
His face turned blank and cold, and for a moment she thought he would simply turn and walk away. He did not do so, however.
“Happiness,” he said softly, “is not everything.”
“Touché,” she whispered softly. And then more loudly, “Good night, Mr. Lamarr.”
“Shall we make it an even better night?” he asked, his voice velvet soft.
And she felt that sharp stabbing of longing again. Somewhere too there was a feeling of shock and outrage, but it was far back in her consciousness, more a token showing of how she ought to react than a reflection of her true feelings. She would—she must—of course say no. But oh, the temptation. Just once in her life to do what she wanted to do, no matter how outrageous, rather than what she ought to do. Or twice in her life, perhaps she meant. She had done what she wanted to do this afternoon and this evening. But this was different. It would mean nothing at all to him, while to her it might mean everything in the world. She dared not risk it. But did it matter that it would mean nothing to him? She would not expect it to, after all. And would it matter if it meant far more to her? At least she would have the memory. At least she would know.
The silence between them had stretched.
“You do have a hard time answering questions,” he said. “Has the path of your life been such a predictable one, Viola, that you have never had to make any serious decisions?”
“The revelation after my husband’s death that he was married to someone else when he wed me was unpredictable,” she said. “So was the fact that he had fathered a daughter with that first wife and that she inherited everything from him. And what is a serious decision? Is this one of them? The suggestion that we make it a better night than it has already been? Or is it more trivial than anything else I have ever had to decide?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a mockery of a smile. “I will not trouble you further,” he said. “When you told me to go away, you meant it. Today was but a temporary reprieve. I cannot argue with virtue, Viola. I wish you a good night and a good rest of your life.” He lowered his head and kissed her softly on the lips.
“Yes,” she said when he lifted his head, and she listened to the echo of the word, almost as though someone else had spoken it. “Yes, let us make it an even better night, Marcel.”
There was an arrested look on his face. And her mind was catching up to her words. This was Mr. Lamarr standing before her, the ruthless, dangerous Mr. Lamarr, one of England’s most notorious libertines, among other vices. Suddenly he looked like a forbidding stranger, all dark and brooding and attractive b
eyond bearing.
“I shall go down to the taproom for a while and make myself seen,” he said. “If when I come back up I find your door locked, I will know you have regretted the words you just spoke. If I find the door unlocked, I shall indeed give you a very good night. And you will give me the same in return. It is give and take with me, Viola, in equal measures. It will be a night you will not regret—if your door remains unlocked.”
He turned and went back to the staircase and down to the taproom below. It was a strange seduction, giving her space and time to change her mind, to lock her door firmly against him. Or perhaps it was the most effective seduction of all. No coercion. There could be no looking back afterward to claim that she had been deceived by a practiced rake.
The decision was all hers.
. . . I shall indeed give you a very good night.
Would he? Was it possible? She had no idea what to expect except for the basics. Could that ever be good?
. . . a night you will not regret.
Oh, she very much doubted that. Which begged the question—why go through with something she knew very well she would bitterly regret?
She stepped inside her room after lighting the candle on her dresser from the larger candle in the wall sconce in the corridor and shut the door behind her. She set down the candlestick and stood watching the flame gutter and then grow steady.
I shall indeed give you a very good night . . . It will be a night you will not regret.
Would her door be unlocked when he came back upstairs? She really did not know. But the choice—the decision—would be hers.
Five
The noise in the taproom subsided somewhat when Marcel walked in and seated himself at a small table close to the fire. But when it became clear that he wanted neither to contribute to the conversation nor to listen to it, the men recovered from their self-consciousness in the presence of such upper-class splendor and the noise level resumed its former pitch. He drank his ale and stared into the coals.
He wondered idly if her door would be unlocked when he went back up. He laid private and conflicting bets with himself. Yes, it would be. She had made her decision, and it would go against her dignity to change her mind and hide behind a locked door. But no, it would not. She would think twice—and very probably thirty-two times after that—and decide that a sordid coupling with a near stranger, and a rake to boot, at a third-class inn was not at all the thing, and she would conclude that a locked door was what he thoroughly deserved.
He did not much care either way. If the door was unlocked, he would have a night of unexpected sport. If it was locked, he would have a decent night’s sleep . . . perhaps. There would be nothing else to do, and the bed in his room looked clean and comfortable enough. Tomorrow he would be on his way by some means or other. He was not worried about being stranded here indefinitely.
And he was indeed in no hurry to arrive home. He was going to have to assert himself when he got there over matters in which he really had very little interest. He ought of course to have done it two years ago immediately after he had inherited his title and Redcliffe Court and all the encumbrances that went with it. But it had seemed too much bother at the time. He had been content to settle the twins there with their aunt and uncle and to pay them his usual twice-yearly visits while leaving everything else to be sorted out by those who lived there. It had been too optimistic an expectation. Lately he had been inundated with an increasingly frequent stream of increasingly lengthy and discontented letters, and it was too much to be borne. He would not bear it. He was going to have to put a stop to it.
The marchioness, his elderly aunt, complained that her authority was being usurped by that upstart Mrs. Morrow, his sister-in-law. She—Marcel had assumed his aunt was referring to herself—had had the running of Redcliffe for more than fifty years and no one had ever found fault with her management until she—Marcel had assumed the marchioness was referring to Jane Morrow—had come upon the scene with the idea that she could just take over everything simply because she had the care of Estelle and Bertrand. Marcel had not bothered to keep track of which she or her was being referred to. Neither had he read on to find out. Obviously there was friction between the two women, and of course Jane wrote of it too, at great and indignant length, emphasizing her superior role as guardian of Marcel’s heir and her longtime experience in running his household. He had not read that letter to its conclusion either, though there had been three pages of it left.
He nevertheless had been made aware—by Jane in another letter—that his cousin Isabelle, who also lived at Redcliffe with her husband, the excuse being that the marchioness was elderly and frail and needed her daughter on hand to administer tender care, was also trying to assert an authority over the running of the house that she did not in any way have. She was also planning a lavish wedding for her youngest daughter, Margaret, doubtless at Marcel’s expense, and no one had yet answered Jane’s perfectly reasonable question about where the couple planned to take up residence after the wedding. He had stopped reading, but clearly he needed to go there in person, though he would rather be setting out for the North Pole unless there was somewhere farther away and more remote. The South Pole?
The steward complained that Mr. Morrow and his son were attempting to interfere with the running of the estate with ideas that were asinine. The man had been too diplomatic to use that exact word, but Marcel had understood him well enough. Even the housekeeper had written to ask him if it really was his wish that the cook serve late and inferior breakfasts—which some people she would not be so disrespectful as to name then proceeded to complain about—because she was required, along with all the other servants, who had better things to do with their mornings, to attend prayers with the family in the drawing room for all of half an hour, sometimes longer.
There was only one way to stop the flow of such letters, and he was doing it. But he was in no hurry nonetheless. A day or two here or there would be of no great consequence. At least no further letters could reach him while he was on the road.
The noise level rose, and along with it came an increased swell of laughter with the arrival of three more men, one of whom complained that their feet were all blisters from so much dancing and there was only one sure cure they knew of.
“Bring on the ale,” he bellowed cheerfully to the innkeeper. “A jug, man, and none of your tankards.”
And then there were the twins, who had been brought up in the mold of their maternal aunt and uncle. Adeline would turn over in her grave if she could know. He would turn over in his too if he were in it already. He was going to have to do something about them, though the devil knew what. Perhaps it was too late to do anything meaningful. And perhaps it was just as well they were not taking after their father. Or their mother for that matter, he thought with a guilty start. The trouble with sitting up late was that one’s mind became undisciplined and maudlin. Not that it was really late. His evening would probably be just starting now if he were in London. It just felt late.
He went back upstairs after half an hour and undressed in his room. He belted a silk dressing gown about his waist and crossed the passageway to Viola Kingsley’s room. Would the door be unlocked? Or would it not? He wondered why he had given her time to cool off and think about what she was about to do. That had been uncharacteristically foolish of him. Why stoke a fire to warm a room, after all, and then leave all the windows and doors open to the winter cold?
But he had done it, he knew, because she was not at all his usual type of woman. He had no doubt of her virtue, not just because she had rejected his advances fourteen years ago, but because . . . Well, there was something about her. She was a virtuous woman all right, a fact that would normally depress any spark of interest he might have in her. And then there was her age. She could not be more than a year or two younger than he. She might even be older. He was not a cradle snatcher, but very few of his women were ever much ab
ove the age of thirty.
Had he been in love with her fourteen years ago? It seemed highly improbable and quite unlike him. His pride had been hurt, though. There was no denying that. Perhaps that would explain today—and tonight. Perhaps he wanted the satisfaction of having his way with her without exerting any sort of coercion. If the door was unlocked, she would have made the decision herself with the cool head half an hour alone would have induced.
But was it unlocked?
He turned the knob slowly and—he hoped—silently. He had no desire to wake her and alarm her if she had fallen asleep. Or to make an idiot of himself. He pushed gently inward. It was not locked. She was not in bed either. She was standing facing the window, though it was pitch-dark out there. Clouds must have moved over the moon and stars. There was a candle burning on the dresser behind her. She was looking back over her shoulder at him.
She was wearing a white nightgown, very little different from any dress she might have worn except that it fell loose from the bosom. It was modestly scooped at the neckline. The sleeves were short. She had unpinned and brushed her hair so that it fell in honey-colored waves over her shoulders and halfway to her waist.
Lust, which he had kept in check lest the door be locked, surged. He closed the door and locked it before strolling toward her and reaching beyond her to draw the curtains across the window. He dipped his head and kissed her.
She took a step toward him, as she had out on the riverbank, and twined her arms about his waist as she held the kiss and deepened it. It was different this time. There were no stays beneath her nightgown to mask the soft curves of waist and hip or to push up her breasts. And he had no layers of garments beneath the thin silk of his dressing gown. He savored the embrace, the warmth of her body, the slightly fragrant smell of her, the feel of her thighs and abdomen and bosom pressed to his as one of his hands twined in her hair to hold the back of her head and the other moved down her back and drew her closer. His lips teased hers. His tongue explored her mouth and found the pleasure spots. She sucked gently on it.