by Candice Hern
"Of course not. Do you think I would have allowed you to court my niece if I'd known?"
"Why did you run away from me that night?"
For a thousand reasons. For no reason at all. How was she to answer him? "I had to."
He gazed at her so intently she was forced to look away.
"Why? Not because of Miss Thirkill. I had not yet met her. If you had but made your identity known to me, I would have stayed away from her."
"But you did not stay away from her, and now it is too late."
"I have not yet made her an offer. And now I will not."
"You cannot back down now, Lord Thayne. Everyone in London expects you and Emily to marry."
"Then they will all soon discover they are wrong. I will remove myself from her court."
"And have all the world think you have jilted her? She would be ruined, my lord." And Ophelia would have her head.
"Emily has a thousand other suitors. She will not be ruined."
"Socially embarrassed, then. Please. Do not do this to her. We will never speak of what took place between us. We will forget it ever happened."
"That is impossible. Even if it were not, I don't wish to forget. I would trade a dozen Emilys for another night with you. It was a magical night, Artemis."
At last, ironically, she was seeing the warmth and passion she had always hoped to see in him. The same passion he had demonstrated that infamous evening in the garden.
She would give anything to have that chilly reserve back again.
"It was not magical," she said. "It was madness."
He did not speak for a long moment, and then said, "If it was madness, then let us be mad. I said it to you at the masquerade ball and I will say it again. I want you. And I recall quite clearly that you said you wanted me. We are two adults attracted to each other. Why should we not be together?"
Beatrice snorted. "You really are mad. Even if I wished for it, how could we possibly be together now? It is absurd."
"Is it because you know who I am now? Do you only give yourself to strangers?"
She almost raised her hand to slap him, but remembered that someone else might walk onto the terrace at any moment and see them. "How dare you?" she said through her teeth.
He shrugged. "It is the only explanation I can think of."
"The only explanation? You are being despicable, my lord. I am not that sort of woman. I am not a . . . a loose woman. I am respectable. At least, I have always behaved respectably. What happened that night ... I have never done anything like it in my life. You must believe me. I do not know what came over me. But I can assure you it will not come over me again. I implore you to forget it ever happened."
"I can't," he said. "Every time I look at you, I remember. And I want to create more memories with you. We could be so good together, you and I, in a proper bed instead of up against a garden wall. You know it would be good."
Lord, how she wished he would not say such things, encouraging a fantasy she could no longer indulge. He reached out to touch her again, and she brushed him away. She must have unconsciously realized it had been him all along. His touch, his very presence, had plagued her from the start.
"I am a brute," he said, his voice as softly caressing as his fingers. "I do not think you a loose woman. I know you are not. You were seduced by the masks, the music, the darkness—and me—into behaving out of character. I apologize if I encouraged you to act against your will. My only excuse is that I found you irresistible, Artemis."
She sighed. "It was not against my will, as you surely know. But it was most certainly out of character."
"Since you admit you were not coerced, then you must forgive me if I try to convince you to act out of character again. No, not tonight. It is enough that I have discovered at last who you are. But I give you fair warning. I will not give up trying."
"Please . . ." There was a plaintive edge to her voice she could not control. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Please, don't."
"You are killing me, Artemis."
"Stop calling me that."
"Then you are killing me, Lady Somerfield. You must know how much I want you. I will do anything to have you."
She almost collapsed in frustration. Though his voice was edged with passion, he was still the arrogant aristocrat determined to have his way. Gripping the railing behind her, she said, "You know it is impossible. Emily expects an offer. Her mother expects an offer. Your mother expects an offer."
"But I shall not make one. Never."
"You cannot back down in order to have an affair with Emily's aunt. How would that look? My own reputation would be in shambles."
He took her hand and would not let go when she tried to pull away. "I would never do anything to hurt you, Artemis. I know how to be discreet."
"No. I cannot do it. I will not do it. Do not press me on this, Lord Thayne."
He pulled her closer and began to stroke her arms with his free hand. Oh, how she wished he would not do that.
"Have you not felt it?" he asked. "That surge of desire every time we touch? Every time we speak? I know you have felt it as strongly as I have. But I didn't understand it until tonight when I saw your . . . bracelet. It makes perfect sense now. Our bodies knew what our minds could not accept. We are meant to be together."
He had ever so subtly pulled her closer so that mere inches separated them. She couldn't bear it. Her whole body shivered, and she was quite sure it was not because of the cold. Why was he doing this to her?
"We cannot," she said. "We cannot. There is Emily to—"
"The devil take Emily! It's you I want in my bed."
"The duke and duchess expect—"
"They expect me to marry, but I will choose my own bride. There are any number of girls I can choose. It doesn't have to be Emily. There have been no words between us on the subject, no understanding of a future offer. We have known each other little more than a week, after all. I will not pull away from her abruptly, if you prefer. I will do it slowly and no one will think anything but that I am fickle or that Emily has changed her mind."
"But she is perfect for you. You know she is."
"And how would I bear it every time I had to see her aunt? Do you expect me to pretend indifference?"
"Yes! As will I."
"Well, I won't do it." He glanced over his shoulder as though making sure no one was watching, then pulled her tight against his chest. "I won't do it."
He set his lips to hers and he kissed her, ravishing her mouth, ripping the senses from her. And she allowed him to do so, allowed him to draw her tongue deeper into his mouth, allowed her world to start spinning.
When her wits returned, she pushed him away and stood back.
"You truly are mad."
"I want you, Lady Somerfield, and I always get what I want."
"Do you? Well, perhaps not this time." She turned and walked back into the ballroom. She heard his voice behind her.
"We shall see, my lady. We shall see."
Beatrice had hoped the day's activities would help her to forget what had happened the night before. When her world had slipped off its axis and spun drunkenly out of control. But nothing could make her forget. Her mind was full of Thayne and his kiss and the implications of his identity as her masked lover. She had almost made herself ill with worry and had thought to bow out of today's commitment. But that would not be fair to her friends.
All five of the Fund trustees had gathered at Marlowe House, a large set of buildings in Chelsea that had once been almshouses and now served as a halfway house for as many war widows and their children as could be accommodated. Initial contributions to the Benevolent Widows Fund had been used to purchase the buildings and renovate them to house families of soldiers killed in the war. Subsequent contributions maintained the house and all its associated charitable functions, such as employment agents, schoolrooms, staffing, food, clothing, and such.
The trustees had insisted it be named for Grace, whose i
dea it had been, and who made sure everything ran smoothly. They visited Marlowe House as a group at least once a month to meet with the families and the staff. Today they had come to inspect the herb gardens and the new stillrooms.
The gardens were lovely, planted and maintained by the families and one hired gardener, and Beatrice always enjoyed strolling about them. But today she might as well have been in a desert for all she noticed of the plantings. Her mind was so thoroughly elsewhere it was a wonder she knew to place one foot in front of the other.
"Why such a long face?" Penelope asked. "The gardens are so pretty and fragrant today, but I would be willing to bet you haven't noticed, Beatrice. What on earth has you so glum? You haven't spoken more than a few words since you arrived."
Beatrice heaved a sigh that came out rather shuddery and pathetic, and sat down on a stone bench placed in a corner of an especially pretty knot garden. "I am sorry, everyone. I can't think straight. I'm so—"
And before she could stop it, a sob welled up from her throat and she burst into tears. She was mortified, but could not seem to stop crying.
Marianne sat down beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders. "What it is, my dear? What has upset you so?"
Beatrice leaned her head on her friend's shoulder and tried to control her tears. She felt so foolish. Such an emotional display was unlike her. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. The choking sobs finally ebbed, though tears continued to well in her eyes and stream down her cheeks. She brushed at them and tried to speak.
"I have d-discovered the identity of m-my maha-raja," she stammered.
"Good heavens," Penelope said. "Who can it possibly be to make you so upset?"
Beatrice took another deep breath and let it out slowly. "Lord Thayne."
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then they all spoke at once.
"No!"
"You don't mean it!"
"Dear heaven, is he not courting your niece?"
"Are you certain?"
"How did you find out?"
"Does he know?"
"Does Emily know?"
"What if he marries her?"
"How will you bear it?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Please." Beatrice lifted a hand for them to be silent. "Imagine all those same questions roiling in my head since last night, and you will understand my state of mind."
Grace sat down on the small space of bench on the other side of Beatrice and placed a reassuring hand over Beatrice's trembling fingers.
"Tell us what happened," Wilhelmina said in her kind, gentle voice. She reached out and wiped away a tear from Beatrice's cheek. "Something last night?"
"I was looking after Emily, making sure that dreadful Lord Rochdale was not importuning her, when I felt a brief touch on my arm. I turned around to find Lord Thayne staring at me with the most intent look in his eye. There was something in the air between us in that instant. Something powerful and almost frightening. And then he called me Artemis. And I knew."
"Artemis?"
"I was dressed as Artemis at the masquerade ball. That is what he called me that night, as I would not give him my name. It seems he had only that moment recognized me. I was wearing the same serpent bracelet and he said he remembered it."
"So you both learned just last night," Marianne said, "that you had been each other's secret lover?"
"Yes. And I have been frantic with the knowledge ever since. He has, in a way, been courting my niece. His name has certainly been linked with hers. And, God help me, I have encouraged it."
"And so now you will have to discourage it," Wilhelmina said, "for your own peace of mind."
"That is what Lord Thayne says. He wants to give her up and begin an affair with me. Can you believe it?"
"Of course I can," Penelope said. "And you should allow him to do so."
"To be seen to jilt poor Emily? To publicly embarrass her by his apparent rejection? No, it is too late. There are already expectations. His parents are pressing for the match. The duke is enchanted with Emily and the duchess finds her charming. Emily's mother is dead set on the match and will have my head if he is not brought up to scratch. Emily certainly makes it clear that she will entertain an offer from him. She publicly favors him above all others. It's out of control, you see. The marquess can't back down now, though he is determined to do so."
"And he is right to do so," Grace said. "Even if you do not embark upon an affair, the fact that you have been intimate with him, even once, will make it awkward if he marries your niece."
"Believe me, I have thought of little else. It is making me crazy." Tears welled up in her eyes again.
Marianne squeezed her shoulder. She had never let go. "You poor thing. It is indeed a difficult situation. More than awkward. But Wilhelmina and Grace are right. It is best if he removes himself from Emily's circle."
"I do not want Emily hurt," Beatrice said. "The ton can be vicious, as we all know. There will be talk if he backs down now."
"That may be so," Marianne said, "but it will pass."
"And when it does," Penelope said, "you can take him for your lover without concern."
Beatrice shook her head. "No, never. It would always be awkward. It would seem as though I stole my niece's suitor."
"If you are discreet," Wilhelmina said, "no one need know."
But Beatrice would know. And would feel guilty and ashamed. "It seems poor Emily is bound to be hurt in this, no matter what I do. Lord Thayne will never make her an offer."
"Then you must convince her not to expect one," Wilhelmina said. "Give her the chance to make it look as if she is the one backing down."
Beatrice considered the idea for a moment and wondered if it might be possible. Though how to convince Emily to change her mind about Lord Thayne was something Beatrice could not imagine. The girl was determined on her course, and it would require a prodigious effort to shake her resolve. But it must be done. Her friends were right. Beatrice had to make this work out somehow. And if it did?
I want you, Lady Somerfield, and I always get what I want.
She thought of his kiss and how she had melted into it so easily. Would they eventually be sharing more than a kiss in the moonlight? Did she want more?
God help her, she did.
Chapter 8
"May I have a word, Countess." Thayne could not allow her to ignore him, or what had happened between them, as she seemed determined to do.
"The soprano is about to begin her aria." Lady Somerfield looked away from him and appeared to watch the guests taking their seats in Mrs. Verey-Nicolson's drawing room, which had been arranged for a musical evening. Thayne had already sat through an interminable harp solo. He did not think he could bear another assault to his ears.
"Yes, she is," he said, "but I wonder if you would mind if we sat it out in the refreshment room. We have things to discuss, you and I."
"Yes, I suppose we do. But I must return for the glee. Two of Emily's particular friends will be singing, and she would be disappointed if I missed it."
"It shall be as you wish, Artemis."
"Please do not call me that."
"I have no other name for you. 'Lady Somerfield' is much too formal for such intimate friends."
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, but smiled, which gave him hope. "Tea is being served in one of the anterooms, I believe. It is this way."
They walked in silence through several connected rooms, stopping occasionally for Lady Somerfield to exchange a word with one of the guests. A few begged introductions, and Thayne was faced with more than one stammering, blushing young girl. He turned on his best aristocratic hauteur and, in most cases, offered no more than a nod and a how-d'ye-do. However, one overbearing mother hen with a chest like a ship's prow managed to manipulate him into asking her pale-faced daughter to reserve a dance for him at the Oscott ball two days hence. The poor girl almost fell into a swoon.
But Artemis was calm and poised. There w
as a self-possession about her, an easiness one seldom saw in younger women. Her niece, for example, who had lost no time in running him to ground this evening. Ever since he'd decided he could not court her, he'd become more aware of her flaws. She was full of forced animation, always conscious of her beauty, posing to her best advantage. Her conversation was overly cheerful or tinged with boredom, depending on her audience. She always seemed to be on, like a performer, which must be exhausting.
Her aunt, on the other hand, was a picture of serenity in contrast. Equally confident, but more comfortable in her skin. There was nothing forced or false about Lady Somerfield.