She turned in his arms, forcing him to loosen his grip on her. Her deep gaze searched his face. He held his breath. Frowning, she turned back to face front, but she rested her head back against his collarbone. “Exchange an earl for a man in trade?”
“Don’t be that way. We might rub along well together. Far better than ever you would with my dandified sibling. He’d steal all your lace.”
“What says he?”
“He’s all for it.” Nash couldn’t stop some of the bitterness from seeping into his voice.
“You don’t think much of him.”
“Deacon is a good-enough brother, I suppose. But as Shaftsbury, he’s been a poor earl. At least he’s not like the old sod—he’s not the sort to haul off and slug someone to end an argument.”
She stiffened, and he suddenly remembered he had done exactly that, just this afternoon. Could he be like Shaftsbury in other respects, as well? It didn’t bear thinking about. She sat silent the whole of the quarter-mile ascent to the castle. Standard tactic, but it got under his skin nonetheless. He would win this negotiation. He needed another argument, one a woman would accept.
Instead of turning toward the stables, he rode down the central courtyard. She stirred under his arm, and he knew he had her. Leaping down first, he caught her by the waist as she slid off the stallion, slowly settling her on that tender ankle. Then he swept her off both feet, and carried her up the stairs. Depositing her into a chair in the main hall, he called for Emmett to round up men to take her up to her room, as well as a cold bucket of water for her ankle.
“Well, Miss Wetherby, what do you say?”
“You don’t abhor me and I don’t dislike you.”
He didn’t have her.
“Please, Mr. Quinn, that’s not what I mean. I mean, I shall consider your proposal, and give you an answer at supper. Agreed?” They shook hands on it, Nash holding hers a shade too long. He wanted this deal closed, now.
He spent the next several hours closeted in the office, deciphering its tangled ledgers, but left early to dress for supper. He wasted a ridiculous amount of time on his cravat, second-guessing what sort of look she might prefer. This was a business transaction, he reminded himself, unwinding the damned neck-wrap once again. Commerce, not frip-frap talk of love, drove this assignation.
He needn’t have bothered. Only Deacon noticed his plumage, the better to taunt him for it.
The lady stood him up.
{ 11 }
Maddie didn’t know how long she’d been tucked into the window seat in the castle’s blue bedroom. Maybe an hour, maybe a lifetime. At first, the afternoon light outside was too bright, so she turned her gaze to the reds and oranges behind her eyes. The pain she found there was deeper, stabbing, a wound that only ever scabbed over, never knit.
She had never felt so out of control. Others had always decided her fate, and she’d more or less eagerly made the best of it. Now with all of it fallen apart, and her very name in question, she was asked to make her own choice, and she had no idea what to do.
So she did nothing, hunkering into the seat cushion, behind bolts of silk curtain that still smelled slightly of indigo. A wounded fox in the bushes, hoping the hounds would take their baying elsewhere. Of course, they never would. This was their bush, their lovely blue bedroom, their castle, their country.
When she heard the tip-tapping on the door, she thought it only the long-faced maid, come to check on her yet again. But the footfalls carried more weight, and a man’s scent, and Nash Quinn’s shape. And as he had just broken a prime rule of decorum—his presence in a private chamber with a lady not his wife with the door closed, was scandalous—she knew he would not be so easily dismissed.
It didn’t mean she had to look at him, though.
He paused, perhaps to grow accustomed to the gloom. Her ears strained to know where he was, but her gaze didn’t leave the branches of the oak outside the window. At his movement, though, they too shifted, converting the glass into mirror. She watched him approach, blinking slowly.
“Missed a fine pork loin. And cherry sauce.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Even from the corner of her eye, even in the gloom, he cut a fine figure. Long legs, strong hands, and that tousled hair that made one want to fix it for him, just for pleasure. She’d heard Byron worked for hours to attain just that bounding insouciance; she suspected this man spent one-sixth the time.
“You came to lecture me?”
Face frozen in half-smile, his calm eyes weighed her. She couldn’t rise even to this challenge, and simply sat, waiting. He would come to his point soon enough, then leave. Everyone left. They hurt her, and then they left.
She shivered, and drew her arms closer. He pushed off the wall and strode away. She let out her breath, surprised at the easy victory. But he stopped at the foot of the bed and picked up the shawl she had thrown there. He draped it over her pulled-in knees and returned to his spot by the wall.
“You could ask for a fire.”
She said nothing.
“You were missed at supper.”
Silence.
“Is this your answer for me?”
She closed her eyes. At last, he fell silent, too. The night, and the room beside it, grew dark and darker, until she could pretend she didn’t see him at all. Didn’t hear his steady breaths, or the subtle shifting of his weight as he went to light a candle by the bed.
Though her arms were wrapped tight around her, a soft sob escaped, and another. Yesterday, she had spent the night watching her castles in the sand, her hopes and dreams for the future, wash away.
Tonight her very presence was dissolving. By tomorrow, she would be as empty as a babe in swaddling clothes.
She was nothing like she thought. Her reflection in the window wavered in the single candle’s light, her darkened hair down and far more wavy than in the daylight mirror. Her eyes looked huge, as if she were a wraith finally exposed to view.
She was a pale shadow of a pale shadow.
She closed her eyes again. She could feel her heart pumping, pounding rather, the shudder of her breath, the sway of her hair along her shoulder blades. So parts of her were still solid. Corporeal.
She lost her balance, and had to open her eyes. But her thoughts still looked backward, to the parents she barely remembered. Mama, talc and cinnamon, soft and warm. Papa, well, papa looked rather like Nash’s father. Somehow she had overlaid her own father’s face with the old earl’s.
Except he wasn’t her own father. She wasn’t a true Wetherby.
Maddie’s gaze shifted back to wind toying with the tree outside the window. Out there, her father might still be living. Might still be missing her. Longing for her.
She had to find him, before she could do anything else. He would take her in; he would have to. Then she remembered. He had given her away. He hadn’t wanted her when she was a blameless child, there was no way he would want her now, her head full of useless knowledge, her hands empty of skills, her sensibilities honed to razor sharpness.
How could she live in a cottage? And what if her family could not afford even a cottage? What if next month it was she who begged at street corners and the entryway of the theater? Or, failing at begging, would she be forced to do worse?
If only she could fly away. The window’s glass let so much of the night in, it must be wafer thin. She pressed her palms into the cold. Perhaps she should jump through. Who knew? If she could fly, she would leave this place. If she could not fly, her problems would still be over.
“Get down. Now.” His hand was warm on her ankle. Maddie found herself standing, her slippered feet sinking into the padding of the window bench. She knelt down, and then dropped to a seat. Her mind sent the signal to kick his hand away. Her foot did not respond.
His hand was gentle and warm. But she did not wish to be gentled, or warm. She would kick it away. She would kick him away.
Still, her foot did not obey.
He pushed his way to sit beside her, push
ing the stray folds of the shawl into her lap. She drew her knees closer to her chest, blocking herself nearly into a ball. Her knees protested at the tight stretch, but she ignored them. They were connected to her rebellious feet.
He let go of her foot on his own, replacing his hand on her knee. She was glad her knee hurt. He would not comfort her.
“How about we talk. Just a little.” He would not stop looking at her. She didn’t know where to look; anywhere, only not at him. She dropped her forehead to touch her knees. His hand was in the way. He slid it up to palm her cheek. She tilted her head to rest it in his hand.
He brushed her temple with the tip of his finger, and as if he had tripped a switch, the tears started to flow. She couldn’t even feel ashamed. After all, he’d done it to himself. He reached around and pulled her into an embrace. His hand guided hers to his sturdy shoulder. Even through the thick shawl and thicker tears, she sensed his warmth, drawing her in. His hand stroked her back, again and again. His voice, silent, left her to her thoughts. Her thoughts, silent, left her to her despair.
She was no one, nothing. Just as her slippery, false uncle had said. His words echoed through her head, a deep and familiar refrain lying in wait to be rekindled. This was her truth. This was the story of her. These people who thought they meant well, her false parents and her legions of instructors, why had they done this to her? She didn’t belong in their world, and they had raised her to look down her nose at what should be her own.
She hated herself, this new, nobody self. She hated this new, nobody future. Hated it. He whispered shushing sounds. The soothing on her back did not leave. She felt her body ease, her spine melt toward him.
Madeline wasn’t even her name. A poor woman walking by the side of the road was her mother. Was she a weaver, a worker, a farmer’s wife?
Was she a whore?
Maddie’s lungs stung as she sobbed. The harder she cried, the closer he pulled her. If only he could pull her all the way inside him. She could hide there, if she could not sprout wings and fly away.
The pain eventually spent itself. Emptied, even her thoughts went quiet. She counted her heart’s beats. She counted the click-clack of the timepiece on the bedside table. She counted their matching breaths.
When she woke, it had gone almost black inside the room.
“You’ve put my arm asleep.” His voice carried humor, not anger. He pushed her gently to sit up beside him. She swayed, dizzy, and he pushed her a bit farther, to rest her back against the wall of the window. He rose and stretched, then went again to the side of the bed. He poured a glass of water and re-lit a candle. But he returned to her in the safety of the dark.
“Where are you now?” His eyes were shadowed, but his mouth was soft, as if he might smile.
“Here.”
“With me?”
“Of course.”
“There’s my snappish girl.”
“I am not your girl.” She sniffled, and he leaned back and pulled out an ivory linen handkerchief. She felt a twinge of compunction using it.
“What do you think?”
“I’m too tired to think.”
“Right.” His hand was on her knee again.
“You are very forward.”
He nodded but didn’t move away. “So, how about Tuesday?”
She frowned at him. “Today is Sunday.”
“Monday is a market day, so I’d be a bit pressed for time.” He shrugged.
She shook her head. Did he still mean to marry her, then?
“You cannot be serious.” She tried to make it sound firm, but her voice wobbled.
“You still won’t have me? After I defended your honor and rescued your maiden self?”
“I did not ask you to rescue me.” She was growing used to his lopsided grin.
“The petulant princess.” He seemed to fall off the bench seat, onto the floor. Then she saw he’d taken the medieval swain’s position, on one knee, one hand on his heart, the other stretched toward her.
“How about this? O tender mistress of the night, fiddle-dee, fiddle-dum, folderol, and let us be one. Marry me.” He must think his face properly swainish, but instead it gave the impression he had indigestion.
She coughed out a laugh. For a moment, her ribs did not hurt.
“That bad? He pushed up and sat beside her again. “Accept me now, or I promise it will only get worse.” He gazed at her, eyes so calm she felt sure he could read her mind.”
“You know I cannot marry.”
“Whyever not?”
“I don’t even know what my name is.” Her spine started to waver, her eyes to leak again.
“Madeline.” He reached for her.
“No! I don’t even know if my name is truly Madeline. I’m nobody. Nothing.”
She started to crumble, she wanted to collapse onto the seat and sleep her life away. But he put a palm on her chest, over her wildly beating heart, and pushed her upright against the window frame.
“Listen. I saw your documents; I’ll show them to you. You were baptized Madeline Wetherby, and that is who you are.”
“Not by birth.”
“So be it. Soon you’ll be Madeline Quinn. Not by birth.” He stopped, as if struck by an idea. “Though other births may follow.” His grin took on a roguish cast.
“Nonsense. You shouldn’t throw yourself away. What would your fiancée say?”
“Clever. But, as she is a figment of your imagination, we’ll give her a long-lost beau who has just returned from a shipwreck in the Bahamas. She has her own wedding to plan.”
“Fanciful.”
“Pragmatic. Handsome, or so they say.”
She was running out of arguments, and he could see it. They fit together on this seat too well. What choice did she have, really? A merchant’s wife, a manufactory’s day worker, or a viscount’s whore.
“How long would we stay together?”
“I don’t understand.”
“To establish the marriage. A year?”
“Madeline, the marriage is established at the signing.”
“So, only a week or two?”
“Until what?”
“Until you send me away.”
He tilted his head, his expression reminding her of his brother. “Why would I send you away?”
“Why would you keep me with you?”
“Because we are wed. We will be wed.”
“But you don’t want me.”
His eyes hardened, and despite the shawl, she shivered. “You think I care only for money.”
The desperation simmered to the top again. “You can have it all. I’m sure I can live on an hundred a year. I can take on pupils, live cheaply.”
“Madeline nee Wetherby. I intend to marry you and I intend this marriage to be a true one, in all senses of the word.” He took her by the shoulders. “Do you understand?”
She didn’t. He must have seen it in her face, for his hands tightened. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Hers fell to his.
He pulled her toward him. Their thighs met, then their lips. His pressure certainly didn’t hurt her. As he wrapped an arm around her back, she awakened into his kiss.
He pressed the small of her back, which somehow opened her mouth, and their tongues met.
Maddie gasped, mesmerized by the sensation. He seemed to be everywhere, behind her, before her, inside her. The heat of him singed her skin through the layers of cloth between them.
When he let loose her lips, she was panting. A storm was brewing inside her, warm and pleased. She wanted more of this, more of him.
He replaced his lips with his thumb, pressing on her lower lip, as his own lips pressed on one of her closed eyelids, then the other. His breath teased her lashes. Her hands were twined around his neck, she discovered as he tilted his head back a bit. He didn’t fight her confinement, but instead rested his forehead on hers, chuckling. She opened her eyes into the depths of his gaze.
She smiled tentatively, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Could this be true? With a finger, he traced the edge of her face, down her neck, across the dip in her throat. He plunged lower, to nearly between her breasts.
A sudden wave of disgust and fear washed through her. Maddie shot back, away from him. Her spine struck the window frame.
His hand hung there in the air, finger out, like a gun with a crooked barrel. He turned it to palm up, a gesture of surrender.
A splash of light startled them both. The maid stood in the open doorway, a candle in her hand, mouth agape.
“Miss Wetherby needs a fire, Mary. And some of that stew from supper.” The girl shut the door, and the room fell back into dusk.
“You, my dear, are compromised. Carry on this way and we will need to marry tomorrow.”
“You did it on purpose?”
“No. Well, maybe. It couldn’t hurt.” He kissed her again, a slow, gentle promise. She tried to relax again, but failed. She knew he could feel the stiffness in her limbs, her failure to enjoy the moment. He pulled away, but still his smile held. She shuddered in relief.
“You’re right. No need to rush.” He brought the finger to his lips and kissed its tip. Then he touched her lower lip, transferring the kiss.
“After all, we will have a lifetime. Won’t we?”
She would marry, after all. She would marry him. She could make this work. She would make this work.
“Yes,” she said.
{ 12 }
Nash missed the crisp orders and tight command aboard ship. Even on the ships of the line, the jawboning diplomatic officers rarely surfaced to muddle the crew. Here on the Manchester Select Committee in Charge of Keeping the Peace, he sat among some half-dozen of their ilk. And there were only eight of them sitting around the dark oak stretch of the Star Inn’s banquet board.
Heywood took the center of the table, facing the door and anyone who might enter. “You’re to be my support in this,” he’d told Nash, “against the tide of fools.” Nash didn’t know that they were fools, but they did enjoy hearing themselves talk.
An Untitled Lady: A Novel Page 9