He watched her, his eyes hooded and wary. And deep inside… She had no notion as to what to say.
She let out a long breath. “Oh, you are romantic.”
His lips compressed. “Grow accustomed to it. This is business, not romance.”
He glanced down, avoiding her eyes, and sifted through papers on the desk before him. “You wanted a lease on a farm within your means, did you not? Shall I look out for properties for you, or would you like to conduct the search yourself?”
“I would hate to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble.” He glanced up warily at her. “As it happens, I’ve already started. There are some possibilities detailed here.” He rescued a sheaf of papers teetering on the edge of the desk and slid them over to her.
No; it wasn’t coldness she detected in his manner. He was nervous. And if he was nervous…
Serena had never been able to suppress hope for long. It filled her now.
There were no fates worse than death. There were only temporary setbacks on the road to victory. And no matter how coldly he phrased the prospect of their marriage, one thing was quite clear. She had won.
He was hers. Not Clermont’s. Not anyone else’s. No matter what he said, one didn’t tie oneself to a woman for life without granting her one’s loyalty. She stood, ignoring the papers he’d shoved over to her.
“The key to picking a good property,” he said, reaching across the desk to shuffle the pages, “is to think of where you’ll have water and sunlight and to look at prior crop yields. Those will tell you much about the quality of the soil.”
She stepped around the desk and set her hands on his shoulders.
He stopped. Swallowed. “Lavender—you did say lavender, did you not?—grows best in dry, sandy soils, neither alkaline nor acidic in nature. You might start looking at the properties in Cambridgeshire—that’s one of the driest parts of all of England, you know. Search out a soil that produces carrots on a regular basis, and…” He trailed off as she leaned toward him.
“You would be giving up all chance at marriage, Hugo. If you met someone and fell in love…”
“Will never happen. Never wanted it.” He let out a shaky puff of air, and Serena realized that he had been holding his breath.
“I have no time for women.” He raised his hand to her face and skimmed his fingertips down the line of her jaw, trailing them along her skin, until his index finger reached her chin. “Not even for you,” he whispered.
She raised her eyes to his. “Are you telling me I can’t?”
He made a confused, scalded noise—and then his arms came around her, catching her to him, pulling her down to sit on his lap. His lips were soft on hers—soft and sweet, but oh so hungry.
He’d claimed there was nothing of romance in this, but she wouldn’t have known it from his kiss. It wasn’t just his tightly-constrained want. A man who was driven solely by physical lust would have tried to seduce her first and marry her never. Instead, he kissed her as if it were his last time. As if she were a glass of water, and he the man about to embark on a trek across the desert. He savored her with his lips.
For a moment, she believed that no matter what he’d said, their marriage might become real. He was going to change his mind. She could taste it in his kiss.
But then he pulled away. “As you can see,” he said hoarsely, “this is nothing more than selfishness on my part. There’s no room for you in my life. But this way, at least I’ll know that you’re safe.”
He was fooling himself if he thought she would settle for a half-marriage. She’d vowed to win him from Clermont. She’d be damned if she stopped with less than full victory. She’d brought him this far. He would change his mind.
“I see,” Serena said softly, setting her palm against his cheek. “There’s no romance at all.”
“None.” And this time, his eyes didn’t drop from hers.
Chapter Eight
Serena had left her sister this morning with everything between them unsettled. She hadn’t known what would happen to her, what Hugo Marshall intended, and whether Freddy would ever speak to her again. And so when she pushed the door to her sister’s room open, she held her breath.
Everything appeared to be back to strict order. Freddy’s gloves were neatly laid atop one another on the table in the entry; her half boots, dry and unused, stood underneath. When she peered around the doorframe, there was no sign of the clothing that Freddy had flung at her, nor of the valise that had landed at her feet. It had all been packed away.
Serena stepped cautiously into the front room.
Freddy was sitting at the window, her hands full of linen that seemed far finer than the usual charity work she did. The fabric was a golden-orange, with a subtle damask pattern woven into it.
“Frederica?” Serena asked.
“There’s bread in the box and fresh milk,” Freddy said. “And apples—I had Jimmy bring up some apples from the green grocer. I thought we might make us a supper of that.”
Jimmy was the boy who lived downstairs; Freddy paid him to fetch things. But even thirteen-year-old Jimmy was sometimes too much for Freddy. If she’d been willing to talk to him…
Serena had almost hoped that Freddy would stay angry. Instead, she was hiding behind a façade composed of the commonplace. She had already retreated inside a thick shell built from these rooms. Nothing Serena said—nor anger, nor tears—would coax her out.
“Freddy,” Serena tried, “I’m sorry.”
Freddy looked up from her work long enough to frown. “You should be. I’ve told you not to call me Freddy time and time again.” She glanced down sharply and smoothed out the fabric she was working on. “It’s not ladylike. I don’t wish to answer to such an appellation.”
“You were right. I put you at risk, and—”
“You always put things at risk. If you fell out of a tree as a child, I’d clean you up and bandage your knees, and next I looked you’d be out climbing again. You never learned your lesson.”
Oh, she’d learned her lesson: Climb harder.
Somehow, Serena didn’t think that was the lesson Freddy had expected her to learn.
“It’s always the same thing,” Freddy said. “You fall, I catch. And before you’ve even healed up properly, you’re out looking for a new way to fall.”
Freddy clucked her tongue disapprovingly, and Serena stared at her.
Here she’d been thinking that Freddy was damaged beyond repair, hiding from the world. Freddy thought that Serena was unprotected. Was that how she seemed to Freddy? Some strange, impetuous creature, launching from disaster to disaster, simply because she refused to give up? The vision this invoked of herself was so alien that Serena was robbed of a response.
How could they be sisters? It seemed impossible that they should view the world with such fundamentally different eyes.
And yet there was Freddy—Freddy, who hadn’t stirred from these rooms since she met Serena at the inn where the stagecoach had deposited her—shaking her head as if Serena were the one on the brink of commitment to Bedlam.
There was no way to give voice to her thoughts.
No, Freddy. You appear to be mistaken. I am not mad; you are.
“What are you working on?” Serena finally asked instead. “That fabric’s beautiful.”
“It’s one of Mother’s old dresses,” Freddy said calmly. “I’m making it over. I thought it would do for a wedding dress for you.”
Serena choked. “How did you know?”
“I’m your sister, Serena.” Freddy spoke with a smile that was as annoying as it was mysterious. “I know everything.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Your Mr. Marshall paid me a visit this morning. Just after you left. He told me he was going to ask.” Freddy pulled a face. “I suspect you’re going to say yes. It’s the sort of fool thing you would do—trusting your entire fate and future to some man you scarcely know, when you could stay here in perfect safety.”
> Safety? Immobility seemed a better word.
“In any event,” Freddy said, “when it all falls apart, I’ll be here to catch you and pick up the pieces. Again.”
Freddy would never shatter. She couldn’t; she’d never ascend to any great heights. One day, though, she’d come to the plodding end of her resources. She would suffocate in her tiny room.
“What if it doesn’t fall apart?” Serena asked.
Freddy stared at her, her gray eyes narrowing. “How you can still ask that, when—” She exhaled deeply and rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Now are you going to try this dress on, so we can see where it needs pinning?”
There was no winning this one.
“Thank you,” Serena finally said. “Help me with my buttons, please.”
* * *
The week before the wedding flew by in a frenzy of licenses and leases. Hugo found it better to keep himself busy with details, rather than ponder the impenetrable mystery of his impending nuptials.
Whenever the thought crossed his mind—you’re getting married—he thrust it away.
Marriage was an entanglement. This was simply a business commitment.
To a woman.
Just your everyday, average business arrangement—except this one gave him the right to take her to bed.
That was the reason why he didn’t dare think about what he was doing—because once he thought of Serena Barton as his wife-to-be instead of as a partner in an arms’-length arrangement, his imagination wandered.
It wasn’t the thought of bedding her—repeatedly—that most caught his fancy.
It was the thought that for the first time in years, he might have someone. Marriage became companionship. Companionship became a reason to give up his fight, to spend evenings with her instead of poring over shipping records, searching for a pattern that would yield profit.
No. He couldn’t let himself dwell on that.
But not thinking about his inchoate wishes left him unprepared when he reached the church where they were to be married. He felt off balance throughout the ceremony—as if he were on the brink of stumbling and couldn’t reach out to catch himself.
He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her. Her gown was the color of daylight just before sunset; if he looked at her too long, he feared he might be left blind once she was gone. The vicar stood between them, reciting words that Hugo couldn’t comprehend—richer and poorer, troth, wife. He repeated his vows in a dream; he barely heard her answers.
But when he took her hand to slip his ring onto her finger, she was solid and warm—the only real thing in the room. He almost didn’t want to let go of her. The vicar gave him permission and he kissed her—not hard, for lust, nor long, for love, but a light brush of his lips for the brief space of time that she would stay in his life.
In the hired carriage after, as he returned Serena and her sister to her home, he could not help but think of what he would not have. The carriage drew up; her sister disembarked.
Serena did not move.
“The lease is in order,” Hugo said, “and I’ve arranged your passage on the stage. I hired a woman to see you through the next year. Don’t argue; you shouldn’t be alone under the circumstances.”
She was turned away from him.
“Thank you,” she said. Her hand clenched in the fabric of her skirts convulsively.
“If you need me for anything, you have only to ask.” A foolish offer, but then, he was used to turning into a fool around her.
“I…that is…” Her voice quivered and deep inside, some part of him quailed.
“What?” The word came out cold, but he didn’t care.
She turned to him. “I think we should consummate the marriage after all.”
Yes, some possessive beast inside him growled. But what came out was the clipped version: “Why? Is this some sort of misguided thanks? I don’t want—”
Her lips thinned. “Because maybe you can pretend that this is solely a business transaction, but I cannot. Consummation will provide us both with some protection, should the marriage be challenged. More than that. We are married—and maybe this is no conventional arrangement, but it is still real.”
“It isn’t,” he said.
“It is. What is a husband, but the man who offers you support when all the world turns you away?”
Was that what he was to her? He couldn’t look at her now, or she’d see how much those words affected him.
She continued. “What is a wife, but a partner who will see you through to your deepest wishes? We have promised each other our deepest wishes.”
“Have we?”
“You will be my protection from the world. And I…” She set her hand on his arm, and a prickle ran up his neck. “Legally, you’re obligated by my actions. Another woman might take advantage. You’ve trusted me not to thwart your ambition. Let me trust you with this, too.”
Yes.
He couldn’t make his lips form the word. He couldn’t even bring up his hands to touch her. Instead, he gripped the edge of the seat. “Have no hope of me, darling. I have none to give you.”
“Liar.” Her voice shook, but her hands were steady on his shoulder. And then slowly, ever so slowly, she leaned in to him. She smelled of bergamot and soap, of sunshine and sugar. He was so, so lost.
He met her lips with his own, settled his hands about her waist and drew her in. He held her close—as close as he’d wanted all these past days.
She nestled against him, her lips soft against his. He didn’t want to let go. He could have kissed her forever.
Instead, the carriage door swung open.
“Guv’nor?” It was the driver. “Oh—uh—oh.”
Hugo looked up, his arm full of woman.
“I don’t—this isn’t—” The cabbie was sputtering.
“Calm yourself,” Hugo said. “We’ve just married.” He didn’t meet Serena’s eyes. “Take us to Norwich Court.”
Serena’s hands stilled in unspoken question.
But he couldn’t bring himself to make an answer. Not when he had nothing to offer.
* * *
The carriage pulled up outside a bleak, thin row house.
Serena had expected something more sumptuous from the man who was responsible for Clermont’s fortune. But Hugo made no apology for the dark, narrow stair he led her up, nor for the haphazard disarray of the rooms beyond the door that he unlocked. There were two low openings off the main room—so low that Hugo would have to stoop to get through them.
He wasn’t neat. Truthfully, after staying with Freddy, Serena suspected that nobody would ever seem neat again. A jacket hung on a chair; a pair of stockings was strewn across the floor.
She peered into one of the neighboring rooms and found stray barrels and a trunk. In the other was a bed—heaped haphazardly in bedclothes and tousled sheets.
Neither of them said a word.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—that she’d offer herself to him and win him from the duke? That he’d become her husband in truth, cleaving unto her as the words of the wedding ceremony suggested he should?
But there was no cleaving. They felt awkwardly, painfully separate.
Before Serena could lose her nerve, she ducked into his bedchamber. Her heart pounded, but she unbuttoned the pelisse that covered her gown and set it over a chair, then tugged off her gloves. Her hands were shaking by the time she undid the sash on her gown, but still she started to unhook the bodice. It was foolish for her hands to shake—foolish, because she felt no trepidation.
She couldn’t feel trepidation. She wouldn’t let herself. As long as she didn’t look down…
But she looked up from her buttons to see Hugo standing in the doorway, watching her. There was a point, she’d discovered climbing trees as a child, when she reached the end of the branches. When the leaves gave way to sun, and the breeze blew fresh and unhindered upon her face.
For a few seconds when she reached the top, she would feel the
finest sense of accomplishment. But that was also the moment when she first looked at the distant ground between her feet. And when she did, what came to mind was not the thrill of victory, but: Now how am I going to get down?
She’d been outrunning her fears for so long, pushing them away, pretending the ground didn’t exist below her. But now she’d secured her farm and saved her child from bastardy. She’d set everything else aside for later. And now, with nothing left to reach for, later had come.
He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t have to. The dark recesses of her imagination took hold anyway. He was going to push himself on top of her. His weight would pin her down. She could hear herself breathing overloud; her vision darkened at the edges.
She wasn’t sure where the first tear came from, or the second. She wasn’t the sort of woman to do anything so useless as weep.
But the next thing she knew, she was crying into the orange linen of her wedding gown. And these were no demure, dainty tears; they were great gasping sobs that she couldn’t hold back.
She wasn’t sure when he came to sit next to her on the bed, when his arms went around her. When he started to wipe away her tears.
He didn’t offer useless platitudes, promising that all would be well. He didn’t murmur sweet nothings. He simply held her. It felt as if his warmth enfolded her for hours. When the storm began to fade to hiccoughing sobs, he handed her a clean handkerchief.
“Uncomfortable memories?” he finally asked.
Those. Impossible emotions, too. Guilt. Fear. Anger. All the things that she had put off like so many unpaid bills had returned to hammer on her door, insisting on immediate collection of all amounts owed.
Serena blew her nose. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me. Just—can you just get on with it?”
“No, sweetheart. I have to be aroused to get on with anything, and I find nothing to desire in laboring over a woman who wishes herself elsewhere.” He touched her nose. She was sure it must have been red. But he didn’t comment on her looks. “Even if she is you,” he said.
“I’m well now.”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 7