by Mary Balogh
She set down her coffee cup with a grimace. She had added more milk to counter the bitterness, and now it was too weak.
It is all quite sufficient to make one want to run away and hide, is it not? she had said earlier, before they made love for the last time. She supposed she would continue to hide, as she had done all her adult life, deep inside herself. She had burrowed deeper after the great catastrophe that had followed Humphrey’s death—only to have everything erupt out of her for no apparent reason a few days ago. She would press it all deep again and deeper yet from today on, and she would go inward with it. She would go so deep no one would ever find her again. Perhaps she would not even find herself.
The thought made her bite her upper lip to stop herself from crying—or laughing—and for a moment she thought the panic was going to return. But the dining room door opened and saved her.
“Good morning,” he said, all elegant formality. “Or have I already said that?”
“Good morning,” she said.
The innkeeper came hurrying in behind him and indicated a table a little removed from Viola’s.
“Perhaps, Mr. Lamarr,” she said, “you would care to join me?”
“Thank you,” he said. “I would.”
The innkeeper went to fetch more toast and coffee.
“Nothing else,” Marcel said firmly when the man tried to suggest eggs and beefsteak and kidneys.
They spoke of the weather until the innkeeper returned and had gone again. Viola was not sure if she was glad Marcel had come down or if she would have preferred him to stay in his room until after she had left. Her stomach was clenching about the little food she had eaten.
She hated goodbyes, especially when they were forever.
“Well, Viola.” He was leaning back in his chair, the fingers of one hand playing with his quizzing glass, a habit that was becoming familiar to her. He was making no effort to butter his toast.
“Well.” She made the effort to smile. There was never anything to say when there was all the world to say. She had to remind herself that there was nothing unusual about this to him.
“Well,” he said softly again. “Shall we run away?”
The absurdity of the suggestion struck her at the same moment as a great wave of yearning washed over her. Oh, if only . . .
If only life were that simple.
“Why not?” she said lightly.
“We will travel in your hired monstrosity of a carriage until we can replace it with something altogether more roadworthy,” he said. “And then we will go somewhere, anywhere, everywhere until we are ready to return. Next week, next month, next year. Whenever the urge to run away wears thin, if it ever does.”
“Well, I would like to see my grandchildren again before they grow up,” she said.
“Then we will return in fourteen years,” he said. “All the time we have not spent together since you commanded me to go away.”
“And where exactly will we go?” she asked. “Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere sounds a trifle vague.”
“But enticing, one must admit,” he said. “There are no limits upon where we can go. Scotland? The Highlands, of course. Wales? Within sight of Mount Snowdon, that is, or Harlech Castle. Ireland? America? Devonshire? I own a cottage there, nestled on a hillside above a river valley, not far from the sea. An ideal place for an escape. No one else lives nearby. Let us go there for a start, and if it proves to be not far enough, then we will move on. There are no permanent destinations in the land of running away.”
“That would be a splendid title for a children’s story,” she said. “‘The Land of Running Away.’ Though I am not sure it would teach a worthy lesson in life.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Do not all people, especially children, need to escape from their lives now and then—or all the time? Even if just through their imagination? Why else do people read? Or listen to music? Or travel?”
“Or dance.” He had still not touched his breakfast or even his coffee. “Do you read?”
“I am better at running away,” he told her.
“That can be done through reading,” she said. “You have just said so yourself.”
“But it is all too easy to be intruded upon when one is reading,” he said. “Or listening to music. Or traveling according to a planned itinerary one has shared for the convenience of all one’s relatives and friends who may wish to join one or call one back on some flimsy excuse.”
“Ah. We would send no notice of our intent to our families, then?” she asked. “Nothing to allay their anxieties, should they miss us?”
“That is exactly why it is called running away,” he said. “My family will not think of the Devonshire cottage, even supposing they think at all, which is highly unlikely. Your family does not even know about it. Or about me.”
He was gazing steadily at her, and she felt that wave of yearning again.
“How very tempting you make it sound,” she said with a sigh.
“But . . . ?” His eyebrows rose.
“Yes, but,” she said. “It is time for me to leave. Time to go home.”
“You are a coward, Viola?” he said.
And for the first time—oh, foolish, when she was dealing with a man she very well knew to be selfish and reckless and a law unto himself—for the first time it occurred to her that perhaps he was serious. That he was in truth asking her to run away with him to his remote cottage by the sea. Without a word to their families. Without any long-term plan. Without any careful consideration. He was seriously suggesting that she do the most irresponsible thing she had ever done in her life.
“You are serious,” she said.
“About your being a coward?” he said. “What would you call yourself, Viola? A virtuous, dutiful woman? What end does your virtue serve? And virtuous by whose standards? Dutiful to what or to whom? To a family that has allowed you to leave Bath alone when you are clearly in deep distress?”
“I am not in distress,” she protested. Oh, surely she had not shown any outer sign . . . But she had told him she had had to get away, that she had rejected all offers of a loaned carriage and servants. It was unlike her to confide so much to a virtual stranger.
“Perhaps it was not clear to them,” he said. “Perhaps they merely believed you were being stubborn and deliberately awkward. Perhaps they have not noticed your distress. You are very good at hiding inside yourself, are you not?”
All her insides clenched, and she grew cold. How did he—? What did he think—? “What else am I supposed to do?” she asked, stung. “What else could I have done all my life? Be an emotional, hysterical, vaporish burden upon all who know me?”
“Many women are,” he said. “Such behavior is their call for help, or at least attention. But not you. You have chosen all your life instead to keep a stiff upper lip and a rigid backbone. You have character, Viola, and that is admirable. But even strong characters have their limits of endurance. You have reached yours, I believe.”
How could he know her so well when he did not know her at all? “And the answer is to throw all responsibility to the wind and run off with you without a word to anyone?” she asked him. “For the pleasure of more days like yesterday and more nights than last night?”
He tipped his head slightly to one side in apparent thought, and his eyes narrowed. “In a word, yes,” he said. “Why end something that has been so very pleasant when one does not wish or need to end it? Why not prolong the pleasure until it reaches its natural limit? For it will, you know. All passion has an arc. We should enjoy it while it lasts and part amicably, without pain or regret, when it is over. When all is said and done, you owe more to yourself than you do to anyone else, much as you may love all those someone elses, and much as they may love you.”
Oh, she knew what was happening right enough. His words were far more dangerous than his lovemaking du
ring the night had been. For his lovemaking had been all physical sensation and emotion. His words appealed to her reason and seemed, on the surface at least, very persuasive. But it was seduction pure and simple.
When had she ever done anything just for herself? Everything in her upbringing and life experience had taught her that pleasing herself was the ultimate selfishness. Her life as a woman had always had but two guiding principles: duty and dignity. Duty to her family, dignity in the face of society. And where had it got her? Was the love her family felt for her enough? Did they need her? Even Abigail? Even Harry? She would die for either of them—she knew she would—if doing so would take away their hurt and ensure them a happy life. But it could not be done. Her death would in no way ease their living. They would somehow forge their own lives without any real help from her.
Who would die for her? Or give up all personal gratification for her? Perhaps her children would. Perhaps her mother would. Even her brother. But would it make any difference? Would she want any such sacrifice? It had never occurred to her that she might need anyone to care for her. She did not.
Why should she not care for herself, then? Where did selfishness end and the need to live one’s precious, only life begin?
Who would suffer if she ran away with Marcel Lamarr for a short while?
But was she merely reacting predictably to what she recognized as expert seduction? Dancing as a puppet to his strings? Rationalizing?
“Yes,” she said in answer to her own questions, but she spoke the word aloud, and her voice sounded quite firm. “Let us do it. Let’s run away.”
* * *
• • •
Marcel Lamarr, Marquess of Dorchester—he had omitted the title when signing the inn register—took a look at the axle on the hired carriage. It was new and appeared to be sound enough. He looked closely at the horses, which had already been hitched to the carriage, without actually lifting any legs to examine the shoes, and judged them to be sorry creatures, though probably adequate to their appointed task, at least for a few miles. He ignored the shabby outer appearance of the vehicle and opened the door nearest to him. Threadbare stained seats, fraying at the edges, met his disapproving eye and a smell of staleness his nose.
“I need the lady out here and in there without further ado,” an impatient, impertinent voice said from behind him. The coachman, presumably, wearing soiled linen beneath an ill-fitting stained coat, and a greasy-looking hat upon greasy-looking hair.
The Marquess of Dorchester turned and looked the man over, his eyes moving from oily head to scuffed, mud-caked boots and back again. “Indeed?” he said.
The coachman had frozen in place, and Marcel had the satisfaction of seeing fear in his eyes as he snatched off his hat and held it to his chest with both hands. “If you please, Your Honor,” he said. “I need to get the lady where she’s going and get myself back to Bath for more business tomorrow. It’s my livelihood. Your Honor, sir,” he added.
“The lady will come when the lady is ready,” Marcel informed him. “Until then you will wait, whether it be five minutes or five hours. When she does come, you will convey us to the nearest town. I have been told it is eight miles distant. There the lady and I will remove to a different carriage. We will refrain from insisting upon a return of the unused portion of the fare the lady paid you in advance and upon demanding compensation for the extra expense she has incurred as a result of your negligence in leaving Bath with a defective vehicle. I may, if you conduct yourself with professional decorum from this moment on, pay you a small bonus before you spring your horses in the direction of Bath and further business. I trust I have made myself clear.”
The man bobbed his head and tugged at his greasy forelock and could not seem to find his tongue.
“I thought so too,” his lordship murmured, and strolled back inside the inn to give instructions that his bag be loaded onto the hired carriage and that someone be sent up to carry down Miss Kingsley’s bags. He hoped his nose would survive the eight-mile journey ahead, not to mention his spine and every other bone in his body. He would wager there was not an operational spring in that vehicle, and English roads were unkind to those who did not ride in well-sprung conveyances.
She had said yes. She might not repeat it when the time came to change carriages, of course, but he would take the risk and give her the choice. It had never been his way to drag women about by the hair just to cater to his lusts. But, however it was, she would complete her journey in a carriage that offered both cleanliness and comfort and under the protection of a competent, deferential driver. If she chose to return home alone, he would also send a maid with her. Her family had obviously not insisted. He would.
He was both surprised and gratified that she had said yes. It was a long time since he had had an extended affair with any woman. He had never run away in order to enjoy one. He had never taken a woman to the Devonshire cottage. He had not spent much time there himself. It had belonged to a childless great-aunt, upon whose lap he had apparently climbed unbidden when he was three. She had adored him ever after and left him everything when she died. It was indeed a remote location, a fact that had not endeared the place to him until now. Had he not been inherently lazy about such matters, he would doubtless have sold the property long ago. But now he was glad he had not done so. He rather fancied the idea of escaping there with a lover he thought might hold his interest for a week or two at the very least. It would be up to him, of course, to make sure that he held her interest for as long as she held his.
They were on their way less than half an hour later, seated side by side on the appallingly hard seat, as much space between them as she could possibly contrive by clinging to the fraying strap beside her head.
“Has the coachman agreed to take us all the way to Devonshire?” she asked.
“Heaven forbid. I believe I might end up with a permanent case of the shakes if I were to allow any such thing,” he said. “You must be made of stern stuff to have come all the way from Bath in this, Viola. We will find something better to hire as soon as we possibly can. If you put too much trust in that strap, you know, it may let you down and snap and catapult you across the seat to collide with me.”
“This all feels very . . . strange,” she said by way of explanation.
Yes, it did. Even for him it felt strange.
She did not relinquish her hold of the strap. Or relax the tension in her body. Or attempt to make any further conversation. He rather suspected that in another hour or so they were going to be going their separate ways, she in one carriage to her home, he in another to his.
Except that last night she had left her door unlocked.
They stopped at a reputable-looking posting inn in a bustling country town. He settled Viola in a private parlor under the care of a bowing, smiling innkeeper and a bobbing, smiling, spotlessly clad serving girl before dismissing the Bath coachman with a generous bonus he had done nothing to earn. Soon after that, he joined her for a cup of coffee. She was looking rather pale and grim.
“There is a carriage here for hire,” he said. “It is plain, but it is also clean and looks serviceable. It even has a few springs. There are also horses of decent quality for a stage or two. I suspect there are more and better elsewhere in town. You must tell me your wish, Viola. Shall I hire two carriages and send you home in one of them? Or shall it be one carriage to take us to Devonshire?”
She set her cup down, watching what she was doing. “All morning,” she said, “ever since breakfast, I have been trying to think of a way to tell you that I have changed my mind.”
“Ah,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair.
She raised her eyes to his. “It is not in my nature,” she said, “to reach out for what I want.”
“Then we are quite incompatible,” he told her. “It is not in my nature to do anything else. What do you see in your future, Viola? What will your life be lik
e?”
“Safe,” she said. “Respectable. I have friends and neighbors at Hinsford. I have my daughters and son-in-law and grandchildren. Perhaps there will be more. Abigail will surely marry in time. And perhaps Harry—”
“Your son?” he said when she stopped abruptly.
“Perhaps he will survive the wars,” she said. “Perhaps he will come home and marry and— But I must not say perhaps. He will come home.”
“And will you marry again?” he asked.
“Oh, goodness, no,” she said. “Though the word again does not apply, does it? Another marriage, even a real one this time, is the very last thing I want. Besides, who would have me?”
In the name of respectability she was going to live a very lonely rest of her life, then? But it had probably always been like that. Lonely and dreary. It often seemed to be a woman’s lot in life to endure. Simply that. He was very glad he was not a woman.
He did not break the silence that stretched between them while she held her cup in both hands but did not drink from it.
“I wish,” she said once, but did not continue.
“I wish,” she said a minute or so later, “I could be selfish like you.” She looked up at him and flushed. “I beg your pardon. I was thinking aloud.”
Still he said nothing. She looked back down into her cup.
“I would want to come back.” She set the cup down in its saucer and looked up at him again. “I would not want to run away forever. But it would not be forever, would it? We would tire of each other after a while. You said so yourself. A week, perhaps? Two?”
Some women believed in permanence, in happily-ever-after and all that nonsense. He had believed in it himself once upon a time, and look where that had got him. He always made clear to any woman with whom he was embarking upon a liaison that it would not be forever or even for very long. It was not cruelty. It would be cruel to promise forever and not be able to deliver more than a few weeks.