by Anne Gracie
She would be calm and quietly resolute. She would explain her reasons—no, she wasn’t required to justify herself. A simple yes or no would do, and there was no question about which it would be: no. She wasn’t playing coy or hard to get. She meant it.
She would never marry again.
Oh, why had he gone and ruined everything? It wasn’t fair, making her feel safe with friendship when all the time he was plotting marriage. She was halfway to loving his daughters already, thinking perhaps she could be like an aunt or a godmother to them, or simply an older friend, as she was now with Lucy.
She recalled the feeling when little Lina had slipped her hand into Alice’s and skipped along beside her. She’d never had a child hold her hand like that before. Such a simple thing, unthinking childish trust, but it had moved her unexpectedly.
She would miss him as well, more than she could say. His presence in her life—and that of Lucy—had dispelled some of the loneliness she’d lived with most of her life. He’d given her the kind of adult companionship, understanding and acceptance that she’d never really experienced.
But as she’d feared, there was simply no way a single woman could be friends with an unmarried man. Oh, why did men always want more than she could give?
The front door bell jangled. Lord Tarrant had arrived on the dot, as usual.
Alice smoothed down her dress, took a deep breath, turned to face him and, for a moment, lost her breath.
He looked magnificent. Immaculately attired in fawn buckskin breeches, gleaming boots, a dark olive coat and a subtly patterned olive waistcoat, he strode across the room to greet her. His neat, unfussy neckcloth and crisp white shirt contrasted with the slight tan of his complexion. His short dark hair was casually tousled. His presence filled the room.
“Don’t you look lovely this morning? Like a sea maiden.” His smile went all the way to his eyes. It pierced her heart.
She mustered her composure. “Good morning, Lord Tarrant.” She waved him to a chair and seated herself on the sofa. He was freshly shaved; she could smell his faint masculine cologne.
“Well, you’ve made one little girl very happy.”
Alice blinked at his unexpected opening.
“And almost shortened my life,” he continued in a light, relaxed tone. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Warn you of what?” she asked, all at sea.
“That there were three kittens. Three! And there I was with three little girls, all oohing and aahing over these, squeaking, climbing, purring, tiny fluffy creatures.” He gave her a mock-indignant look. “Did I tell you that cats make me sneeze? I don’t suppose I did, otherwise you might have warned me that there are I don’t know how many cats in that house. Twenty-five at least.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Three grown-up cats plus the kittens.”
“Perhaps,” he said austerely, “but I sneezed for twenty-five!”
She laughed again. “Oh dear. And how many kittens do you now own?”
“Just one!” he said triumphantly. “But it was very expensive.”
“Expensive? But I thought Lady Beatrice gave them away.”
“Yes, and the cunning old dear did her best to foist all three kittens on me—she’s a charmer, isn’t she, when not trafficking in kittens? But I foiled her! I told Judy and Lina that they could have either a kitten or a pony. The ponies won by a narrow margin—tiny kittens are disgustingly cute, and they were there. But though stabling horses in London will cost me an arm and a leg, horses don’t make me sneeze, so I consider it a victory.”
She laughed again. “And Debo was happy?”
“Delirious with joy, except that she wanted to take all three home. But it was explained to her that with three kittens in the house, she would have to share, which is not a word in Debo’s vocabulary yet—though Nanny McCubbin is on a mission to change that. So after much anguished deliberation, she finally chose the black-and-white kitten with three white paws, or rather, the kitten chose her by climbing up onto her shoulder and refusing to budge. Its name is Mittens, and she and Debo are in love. And yes, sadly, Mittens is female—I checked—so it seems my future will include flocks of small cats and a great deal of sneezing.” But he didn’t seem too distressed by the prospect.
It sounded hilarious. She wished she could have been there to watch it. “I’m so glad it worked out.” She smiled at him and suddenly realized that they were leaning rather too close to each other, and that not only was she smiling up at him, he was smiling back at her with a warmly intimate expression in his eyes.
And she had been so determined to remain cool and rational and firm.
Biting her lip, she straightened and looked away.
“Oh now, don’t poker up on me again,” he said. “When we were getting on so well.”
He reached out to her, but she waved his hand away, saying, “Don’t.”
“Why not?” He said it gently, inviting her to explain rather than demanding it.
“Because I can’t, that’s why. I will never marry again. I simply can’t.”
“But—”
She began her rehearsed speech. “You’re a baron with three daughters—”
“And a cat.”
“If you’re not going to take me seriously—”
“I’m sorry. I take you very seriously. It’s just . . .” He made a helpless gesture. “I don’t want to hear this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. Now please let me finish. You’re a baron with three daughters, and you’re going to need an heir to inherit the title.”
He opened his mouth.
“Pfft!” She glared at him and held up a minatory finger. “I’m not finished. I can’t give you an heir because”—she took another deep breath and forced out the painful words—“I’m barren. I was married eighteen years, and I never once quickened with child.”
“But—”
“And before you suggest that maybe my husband was the one at fault, his mistress, whom he kept exclusively before and all throughout our marriage—he even died in her bed—did bear him a son.” And Thaddeus had never let her hear the end of it. “So, you see, I was the one lacking.”
She sat back, weaving her shaking fingers together. Foolish that she found it so upsetting to talk about—Thaddeus had rubbed her nose in it often enough over the last eighteen years, and Almeria, too—but still, admitting it left her trembling. But at least it was out now.
He sat for a moment in silence, just looking at her. “Finished?”
“Yes.”
“Good. To start with, I don’t need an heir—I have half a dozen cousins who would be delighted to step into my shoes.”
“But—”
“Pfft!” He held up a stern finger in imitation of her earlier gesture. “My turn. Second, I don’t want children from you, Alice, though if they happened, I would, of course, be delighted. So you see, your worries are groundless. What’s more—”
“Stop, just stop.” Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them away, shaking her head in repudiation of his words. “It’s very kind of you to say so—”
“ ‘Kind’?”
“But I can’t do it. Can’t marry you, can’t marry anyone. I couldn’t bear it. I’m not the—not the sort of woman made for marriage.”
He took out his handkerchief, moved beside her on the sofa and, cupping her chin, gently blotted her tears. “Alice, my dear, I don’t know what maggot you have in your mind about marriage, but if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that you’re exactly the sort of woman made for marriage.”
“Ohhh . . . Don’t . . . I’m not . . .” She shook her head, rejecting his words, though they pierced her very soul.
“Yes, you are.” He tilted her chin and, very gently, pressed his lips to hers.
She stilled. Cupping her face between his big, warm hands, he
feathered tiny kisses over her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, as if tasting her tears. She couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.
Her mind went blank. The warmth of his body soaked into her.
Brief, fleeting, tender touches. It was like nothing she’d ever known. Almost as if she were being . . . cherished.
She put a tentative hand to his face, feeling the faint prickle of bristles under the firm, smoothly shaven skin, and breathed him in. The light fragrance of his cologne mingled with a darker, more masculine scent. It was addictive.
Still feathering her with kisses, he stroked along her jawline with one hand and slipped his fingers into her hair, loosening her pins and letting her hair fall out of its careful knot. One long, strong finger stroked the tender skin of her nape. Faint shivers ran down her spine, warm and enticing.
His mouth closed over hers, and she recoiled in surprise as his tongue ran along the seam of her lips, gently insistent. She pulled back, startled.
Gray eyes, dark with some unknowable emotion, met hers. “Alice?” he murmured. He leaned forward again to capture her mouth, and again she pulled away.
“I’m not . . . Oh, stop it.” She pushed feebly at his hands and said in a choked voice, “Don’t you see? I can’t.”
He released her at once. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” His voice was low, understanding.
“Can’t be married. Ever. Not ever.” She crushed his handkerchief in her hands and fought to regain her composure. She’d allowed him to kiss her. It was a mistake. Giving him the wrong idea.
“Not even to me?” As an attempt at lightness, it fell sadly flat.
Despairing, she shook her head. “It would only make us both miserable in the end.” Sooner than later.
“I don’t see why.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but I know. I cannot be a wife to you, or any man.” Her voice cracked, and a few more tears trickled down her cheeks. She scrubbed at them with his handkerchief. “Marriage, for me, was . . . was . . . unbearable. So please, let us drop the subject.”
“But—”
“No. Just . . . no.” In a stifled voice she added, “Please leave.”
He hesitated, then rose slowly and stood, troubled as he gazed down at her. “I’m sorry, Alice, so sorry I have upset you. I’ll leave you now, my dear. I have no wish to distress you any further.” His voice was like a caress, warm and deep and sincere, and it brought on a fresh flood of useless tears.
Eyes squeezed closed—she couldn’t bear to look at him and see the reproach, or hurt, in his eyes—Alice shook her head. He hadn’t distressed her; it was the situation, the resurgence of old pain, the reminder of hopes crushed and dreams shattered. All because, foolishly, she had let herself dream again, just a small, timid, hopeful dream that she could be content with half a loaf—with friendship. But that had turned out to be just as painful, if not more so.
She held out his handkerchief, and when he didn’t take it, she looked up.
Lord Tarrant was gone.
* * *
* * *
James walked home, his thoughts back in that room with Alice. What was going on? I cannot be a wife to you, or any man. What did she mean by that?
Did she mean she was repulsed by the opposite sex? Some women were attracted more to their own sex than to men. But he didn’t think Alice was one of them.
He thought about their kiss—well, it was barely a kiss. She’d stiffened at first, like a wooden doll, wary, as if expecting . . . expecting what? He had no idea. But he’d felt her trembling and knew she was taut and on edge.
So he’d taken it gently at first, slow and reassuring.
And she hadn’t repudiated him or his attentions. In fact, after a few moments she’d softened in his arms and started to unfurl, like a flower opening to the sun. She’d begun to relax against him, savoring his caresses, mild as they were. The way she’d hesitantly stroked his face—she wasn’t repelled by him, he was sure of that. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d felt the first few shivers of arousal rippling gently through her.
She was attracted to him, he was certain—well, as certain as a recently rejected man could be.
Marriage, for me, was unbearable.
Lord, but that husband of hers had a lot to answer for. Thaddeus Paton had been an insensitive bully at school, and James doubted he’d changed much. Any woman would be miserable with him.
But she’d said “unbearable.” What part of marriage was unbearable for her?
He thought about the moment she’d jerked back, pulling away from him. What had he done to cause her to startle like a wild bird? He tried to remember. It wasn’t easy, as he’d been losing himself in her, the taste of her entering his blood, the hunger in him growing.
The taste of her—that was it.
It was when he’d stroked the seam of her lips with his tongue.
She’d pulled back, surprised. A little shocked. As if . . .
No, surely not. She was a married woman. She’d been married for eighteen years. And yet . . .
He picked up his pace. Part of him wanted to turn around, march back into her house and get to the bottom of it, but she’d had enough upset for the day. He wanted her in his life and in his bed, and the last thing he wanted to do was to bully her.
Chapter Eleven
I’m sorry, Gerald dear,” his aunt said as she came down the stairs, “but she doesn’t want to speak to you.”
Gerald clenched his teeth. It was his second time asking to see her, but Lucy Bamber refused to do him the courtesy of letting him explain. It was infuriating.
After that drive in the park, he couldn’t get the look in her eyes out of his mind. It disturbed him. He needed to speak to her, to set things straight.
But she had this absurd prejudice against anyone with a title.
Anytime in his first twenty-six years he would have been perfectly acceptable to her—unless she was also prejudiced against army officers. For the first two decades of his life, he’d had no title, nor any expectation of one. But eighteen months ago, he’d become a viscount, and thus was persona non grata for Miss Lucy Bamber.
Miss Lucy Bamber of no particular background. In fact, of a particularly shady background.
Blast her. He was in a mood to storm off, but his aunt had other ideas. “Come into the drawing room, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to.” She smiled. “And I have something particular to tell you.”
He followed her in, hoping she had some more information about that wretch Bamber. He and Heffernan kept coming up against dead ends. Heffernan was widening the search, tracing Lucy’s background in the hope that it would lead to something, some hint that would lead them to Bamber.
He’d started with the place he’d met her, on the Brighton road. There couldn’t be too many Frenchwomen there—comtesses or not—who had a pet goose.
“Dear boy,” Alice said as she seated herself in her favorite chair. “I want to thank you for taking the trouble of introducing your friends to Lucy. I must also apologize for thinking you meant the introductions spuriously.”
Gerald blinked. He had meant them spuriously. “What do you mean, Aunt Alice?”
She smiled at him. “It seems to have answered after all.”
“Answered what?”
“Mr. Frinton wishes to court Lucy.”
“What?” For a moment he couldn’t breathe. “Are you telling me that Corney Frinton, the man who cannot string two words together within twenty yards of any pretty female—no, make that any female—has plucked up the courage to court a girl? To court your goddaughter?”
Alice nodded vigorously. “Yes. He asked my permission.”
“Intending marriage?”
“Well, of course, intending marriage, what else, you foolish boy?”
Corney Frinton. Gerald sat down he
avily on the sofa, as if his legs had suddenly given way.
“He’s a very sweet boy, of course, perfectly eligible and very rich.” Alice paused, a slight crease between her brows. “Though if she took him, I suspect it would be for my sake, to get me out of her father’s clutches. I hope she won’t make such a sacrifice.”
Sacrifice? If Lucy married Corney Frinton, she’d be rich, would have the best of everything, fine clothes, a position in society—Corney might be as articulate as a rock, but he was very good-natured and very well connected. She’d be set for life.
“It won’t do,” he said firmly. “It would be a very unequal match.”
The faint crease turned into a decided frown. “Gerald Paton, I never dreamed you could be as horridly toplofty as your mother. I’m disappointed in you, really I am. Lucy might not be born to the aristocracy, but she’s a perfectly lovely girl, and any gentleman ought to be—”
“I meant,” Gerald interjected hastily, “unequal in personality. Old Corney is a fine fellow, but he’s not up to scratch with women. Your goddaughter would run rings around him.”
His aunt just looked at him, her soft blue eyes seeming quite flinty.
“Besides,” he added, dredging up another reason why the match would be all wrong, “she’s probably the first female Corney’s ever been able to talk to. It would be a mistake to marry only because of that.”
She considered it, then nodded. “Perhaps Sir Heatherington Bland would be better.”
“What? You mean Bland is also—”
“He asked my permission at the Carter-Higgins ball,” she said smugly.
“But damn it all, the fellow’s titled! I thought she refused even to look at a lord.”
“Language, Gerald.” He muttered an apology, and she continued, “It’s a fine line, I admit, but Sir Heatherington’s a knight, not a baronet, and therefore not really a member of the aristocracy. But it might be sufficient for her father to accept, though he did say a baronet was as low as he was prepared to go. And you must admit, Sir Heatherington is quite good-looking and very rich.”