"Yet surely she cared for you. No sane woman would accept a man she didn't like when she had so many other choices."
His expression became sardonic. "She didn't precisely dislike me, but during one of our charming discussions later, she revealed that she had been bored with me before the honeymoon was over. She had expected to be bored, but not quite so much, and so quickly."
Desdemona winced. The cruelty of it was far too reminiscent of her own marriage.
He continued, "Dianthe was quite the little philosopher, however. Boring I might be, but she was prepared to tolerate me in return for fortune and position. She had an amazing talent for spending money, and she wanted to be a marchioness."
"She died in childbirth, didn't she, along with the baby?" Desdemona had a vague memory of reading about the deaths. She had spared a moment of regret for the beauty's untimely end.
"Yes." He braced a hand on the mantel and stared into the fire for a long time. "As she was dying, when it looked like the baby might survive, she told me that it was almost certainly not mine. She was rather apologetic. Women in her position usually try to provide a legitimate heir or two before going their own way. She had intended to do that as part of the bargain, but… mistakes do happen."
Desdemona ached for him. For the first time in her life she went to a man and made a physical gesture of comfort, not worrying whether he would react the wrong way. Laying a hand on his shirtsleeved arm, she said, "I'm very sorry. She didn't deserve you."
Though he managed to keep his voice steady, his arm was as tight as strung wire under her fingers. "I don't know about that, but it is certainly true that we had very different ideas about what we wanted of our marriage. My judgment was disastrously bad." His voice almost inaudible, he added, "The worst of it was not knowing how to mourn."
"I understand," she said quietly. "When my husband died, I felt relief, guilt, some impersonal sadness for such a pointless death. It was… complicated."
He raised his hand to rest it briefly on hers. "I never met Sir Gilbert Ross, but he had the reputation of a gamester."
"Among other things, most of them bad." It was Desdemona's turn to stare into the fire.
She had never spoken about her marriage to anyone, but the marquess's honesty deserved a like response. "He drowned in a ditch one night, drunk. Virtually the only considerate act of his life was to die when he was at high tide with his gaming, so there was enough to pay off his debts, with a bit left over. That, combined with a modest legacy from an aunt, enabled me to become independent. I found that widowhood suited me much better than marriage had."
He sighed. "A fashionable courtship is such an artificial thing. It's not surprising that you and I ended up choosing partners who were quite different than we thought."
"Very true, though in fact, I did not choose my husband."
"The match was arranged by your family?"
"No, my brother would surely have chosen better. During my London Season, Sir Gilbert was one of several serious suitors." She gave an acid smile. "My fortune was hardly on the order of yours, but I had a decent dowry, and men liked my looks, even if they didn't respect them.
"Gilbert courted me assiduously, but knew my brother would refuse permission if he made an offer. So he took me for a drive in the park one day and kept on going. He didn't bring me home until the next day."
The marquess frowned. "Did he… "
She looked into the fire again. "No, he was most respectful. He took me to an unoccupied house in the country, swearing undying love and saying that he couldn't live without me. I was furious, of course, but also rather flattered. He was very handsome, and I was young enough to think that it was romantic to have a dashing rake madly in love with me."
"I see," Wolverton said grimly. "He didn't have to lay a hand on you. The mere fact of having spent an, unchaperoned night in his company meant that you were thoroughly compromised."
"Precisely. Everyone agreed that I had no choice but to marry him." Her full lips thinned. "I was too young to realize that there is always a choice, so I accepted my fate."
"And this is why you are so determined that your niece will have a choice, no matter what has happened?"
"Exactly. I will allow no one-no one-to coerce her into a miserable marriage." Desdemoha lifted the poker and jabbed the glowing coals. "I should have resisted, but as I said, part of me was gratified that Gilbert wanted me so much that he was driven to desperate measures. I liked him well enough. He was very amusing, and I took the fact that he didn't ravish me as proof of genuine affection. Unfortunately, it was no more love than what your Dianthe felt."
"He was interested only in your dowry?"
"That was the main reason. But apart from the money…" She swallowed, not sure she could continue. The marquess put an unthreatening arm around her shoulders, and she relaxed a little.
"Gilbert told me once when he was drunk that he had made a list of girls who had decent fortunes, but who were not such great heiresses that he wouldn't be allowed near them. Then, after he had met us all, he chose me because of… because of my breasts." She spoke baldly, amazed that she could say aloud what had scarred her soul.
Wordlessly he pulled her closer to his side. She sensed that he could understand how humiliating she had found her husband's declaration; Wolverton's own experiences had been equally humiliating.
"The basic, underlying transaction in marriage is sex for money," he said reflectively. "The male supports and protects the female in return for sexual access. It's not very flattering for either party. Certainly I didn't enjoy learning that the hard way." His arm tightened. "You had the misfortune to be forced into marriage because of both lust and money. That seems particularly unfair."
"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" she said with a rueful laugh. "Is that what all the fine romantic phrases come down to: the man choosing the female who most arouses him, the woman accepting the man who can best provide for her?"
"That may be the basic transaction, but it is only a beginning. Humans are complicated creatures, and a good marriage must satisfy many needs and desires." He looked down, his slateblue eyes glinting with amusement. "But in addition to affection, companionship, and trust, it is not inherently a bad thing to find one's partner physically attractive."
She looked away, shy again but content to stay within the circle of his arm. "Are we back again to the fact that I look like a harlot?"
"Not really. I've never found such women very interesting-at least, not for more than an hour or two. You, on the contrary, are nothing if not interesting. I admire the idealism of your political work, and what you have done on behalf of a niece you have never met. I like your directness." He chuckled. "I also like the fact that your blushes make it easy to know what you are thinking."
The wave of color that went over Desdemona confirmed his last words. She found herself on the verge of scuffing her toe in the carpet like a child.
He finished his recitation of her virtues by saying, "The fact that I like and respect you as a person is the foundation. However, I am absolutely delighted that you also look like the most expensive kind of opera dancer."
She had to laugh at his absurd and marvelous chain of logic, and the way it dissolved her selfconsciousness about her unladylike appearance. For perhaps the first time in her life, a man's admiration was pleasing rather than menacing.
Then she raised her eyes, and laughter ceased. Her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. Certainly there was desire, but also affection and kindness. When he bent over, she did not try to avoid his kiss.
It began as a light, undemanding caress, quite unlike the slavering assaults of the young men who had sometimes cornered her when she was a girl. Her husband had seldom bothered to kiss her at all, instead going directly to his satisfaction.
Giles, however,, preferred a leisurely exploration. His lips brushed hers with slow sensuality, finding pleasures she had never imagined. At first she simply accepted, but soon she began to want to
respond. She slid her arms around his neck and relaxed against him. Their bodies fitted together as if designed for each other. With him, she didn't feel like a vulgar, oversized Amazon; she felt like a woman who had met her match.
He began stroking her back underneath his coat, which was still draped over her shoulders. His hands warmed her through the damp muslin of her gown. She did not realize the effort his restraint was costing him until she shyly touched her tongue to his. He made a sound deep in his throat and crushed her to him so that she felt the full force of his male strength. She stiffened, hating the feeling of being overwhelmed.. Instantly he ended the kiss and stepped back. His breath unsteady, he stroked her tangled red curls. "I'm sorry. It's perilously easy to forget myself. I didn't mean to alarm you."
"You didn't. At least, not much." Desdemona was more than a little unsteady herself. "Where do we go from here, Wolverton?"
He gave her a slanted, hopeful smile. "Perhaps a courtship? Spend time together, learn to know each other better. Decide if we might suit."
"I'd like that." As soon as she spoke, she felt a shiver of nerves. "But it will take time. As I said, I've enjoyed my independence."
"Have you also enjoyed your loneliness?" he asked quietly.
She looked down at her ruined slippers and shook her head. "But if we are courting, let us do it honestly. If I decide that I can't bear to marry again, I shall say so. And if you decide that I am an impossible virago, you must tell me. None of this nonsense about feeling obligated to marry me because you raised my expectations. They say that's why Wellington married his wife, and a sad business that has proved to be."
"Agreed. That common sense is exactly what I like about you. As the next step in this courtship, perhaps you could call me Giles." His mouth twisted. "Dianthe always called me by my title, which was appropriate since it was the lord she married."
"Fool woman. Very well, Giles." She surveyed him thoughtfully. "Do you think you can manage to call me Desdemona with a straight face?"
"Probably not." His eyes gleamed with humor. "When you came blazing into Wolverhampton, it occurred to me that Othello may have had a point when he strangled his Desdemona. The thought has returned once or twice since then."
"That is a ridiculous and unworthy comment." She tried to look severe but found herself succumbing to undignified hilarity. What a silly chit Dianthe must have been, to find Giles boring.
'True," he agreed cheerfully. "Is that why you're giggling?"
"I am a widow of mature years and serious pursuits," she stated. "I do not giggle." Then she hid her face against his shoulder in a vain attempt to muffle the sounds of her lie.
Chapter 22
Robin was right about the number of humorous stories he knew. By the time they were ready to retire, Maxie had laughed so much that she could scarcely remember the black anxiety she had felt when trying to look toward the future. Arm in arm, they climbed the stairs, Robin carrying a candle and Maxie holding up her red velvet skirts so she wouldn't trip and break her neck.
He accompanied her into her room and lit the bedside candle, then turned to go to the adjoining chamber. The candlelight cast strong shadows across his face, illuminating the chiseled planes. In his flowing blue velvet robe, he looked like a medieval lord who had stepped out of the past. He was the most desirable man she had ever seen, and she wanted to untie his sash and bare his beautiful body and pull him onto the bed.
Without conscious thought, she placed her open hand on the triangle of skin exposed by the loose folds of his robe. His heartbeat accelerated beneath her palm as raw sexual tension" pulsed between them.
Mouth dry, she asked, "Whose turn is it to be sensibler?"
"Mine, I think." He touched her hair, letting the shining strands spill over his wrists. Then he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers before releasing them. "Remember, I'm just next door. If you have a nightmare, call and I'll be right here."
"I know." Forcibly repressing the impulse to risk a goodnight kiss, she stepped back and began braiding her hair for bed. "Pleasant dreams."
After he closed the connecting door, she removed her robe and slid between the fresh sheets. Yet despite the comfort of the bed, sleep eluded her. The reason had nothing to do with her disturbing sense of a dark future. It was simply that the fourposter was too wide, too cold, too empty.
She rolled onto her stomach and pummeled the pillow irritably, using the excuse of making it more comfortable. Though it might be wise to avoid greater intimacy with Robin, wisdom made a poor companion for the night. The very difficulty of being without him reinforced the knowledge that she was following the right course. Damn, damn, damn.
An hour of tossing and turning brought her no closer to sleep. Scowling, she sat up and pondered. Perhaps if she opened the connecting door between the bedchambers, she would feel closer to Robin. Less alone.
She slipped off the high bed and padded over to the door, shivering a little in her light muslin shift. It was raining again, and the air had a raw chill that reminded her of a New England November. Quietly she opened the door and listened, hoping to hear the comforting sound of Robin's breathing over the steady drum of rain on the windowpanes.
She heard him, but the sound was not comforting. His breathing was choked and shallow, like that first night when they had slept on bracken pallets on a north country moor. He had claimed a nightmare then, but he had had none since.
The bed creaked as his weight shifted. Then he began to talk in a language that was not English, his flexible tenor laced with anguish. She frowned and entered his room. He was speaking a German dialect. Though she did not speak the language, she recognized the words das Blut and der Mord. Blood and murder.
With a harshness that would have woken her even through a closed door, he suddenly cried, "Nein!
Nein!" and lashed out frantically at some unseen threat.
Alarmed, she scrambled onto the wide bed and laid a hand on his shoulder to wake him from the nightmare.
He exploded under her touch, rolling over with blinding speed. Before she could even speak his name, he seized her shoulders and forced her down into the mattress. His torso was bare and damp with perspiration and his breath came in wrenching gasps as he sprawled full length on top of her, his forearm pressed across her throat so hard that she could scarcely breathe.
She was terrifyingly aware of the trained strength in his taut body. If she struggled, he might throttle her or break her neck. Trying to lie absolutely still, she drew as much air as she could through her constricted throat, then said sharply, "Robin, wake up! You're dreaming."
For a dreadful moment the pressure on her throat increased, cutting off further speech. Then her words penetrated through his nightmare. Blindly he whispered, "Maxie"
She managed to say, "Yes, Robin, it's me."
He flung violently away from her to lie on his back, his fair skin ghostpale in the darkness. "Christ, I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "Are you all right?"
Gratefully she drew a deep breath into her lungs. "No damage done." She sat up and leaned toward the night table to light a candle, then turned back to Robin.
To her horror, she saw that he was shaking so hard that the mattress vibrated. She wrapped her arms around him in an instinctive gesture of comfort.
He responded with a desperation that threatened to bruise her ribs. She drew his head against her breasts as if he were a child. Thinking he might have fallen victim to malaria on his travels, she asked, "Are you having an attack of fever?"
"No." His voice trembled with the effort of trying to sound composed. "It was only a nightmare."
She stroked his head. "There is no such thing as 'only a nightmare.' The Iroquois understand that and say that dreams and nightmares come from the soul. What was disturbing your rest?"
After a silence so long that she began to wonder if he would answer, he replied in a voice so thin it was nearly inaudible, "The usual-violence, betrayal, killing men who might have been my friends in other times."
His bleak tone was chilling. She thought of the farmer who had discovered them in his barn. Robin had conversed knowledgeably about the war in the Peninsula without ever actually saying that he was a soldier. Yet she now realized that he hadn't denied it, either. "You really were in the army?"
"I was never a soldier," he said with bitter humor. "Nothing so clean as that."
"If you weren't a soldier, what were you?"
"I was a spy." He lay back on the pillow and wiped his face with a shaking hand. "For a dozen years, from the time I was barely twenty. I lied, I stole, sometimes acted the assassin. I was very, very good at it."
She felt the shock of surprise that comes when a fact is utterly unexpected, yet so clearly right that it cannot be doubted. "That explains a great deal. I thought you were a common, garden variety thief or swindler."
"It would have been better if I had been a common criminal. I would have caused less harm." Distorted faces began to crowd around him, images of those he knew, plus a blurred legion of unknown others who had died because of information he had passed on. His shaking worsened, and he wondered with despair if it was possible for a body to shatter into pieces.
It was the worst panic spell yet. He wished Maxie were not here to see his weakness, yet he could not stop himself from clinging to her as a lifeline in a sea of shattering emotional turbulence.
Before the images could overwhelm him, she spoke again, her low voice pulling him from the drowning pool of pain. "A thief works only for gain. I can't believe that you became a spy for simple greed."
"It's true that spying is no business for someone who wants to get rich. I took it up because I thought that defeating Napoleon was a good cause, and spying was a way to make myself useful. Yet as time passed, I became more and more aware of the blood on my hands…"
When she tilted her head, her silky hair brushed his cheek with the bittersweet tang of lavender. 'Tell me how you began. Surely you didn't study spying at Oxford."
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