"No one doubts your devotion to Primrose, dear. But what of your own happiness?" Helena's hazel eyes reflected her concern. "You do deserve it, you know."
Marianne blinked away sudden moisture; Ambrose had said the same thing. "Oh, Helena, do I? Do I deserve a man as good as Ambrose Kent?"
"Why, of course you do! Why would you even ask such a thing?"
"Because ..."
Marianne had to clamp down on her lower lip again to stop it from trembling. Lud, what was happening to her? She was never a watering pot, and yet the events of the past days had eroded her famed self-composure. Hidden floodgates opened inside her. She felt things she was not accustomed to feeling. She yearned for things she was afraid to want.
"You can tell me, Marianne. After all, you saw me through my troubles with Harteford." Her friend reached for her hand. "Can I not offer you the same comfort when it comes to matters of the heart?"
Marianne returned the squeeze. "Of course you can, Helena. The truth of it is ... I am most wretchedly in love with Ambrose." Saying the words aloud was like pulling on a loose thread. Her emotions unraveled with stunning speed. "He's everything I could hope for. He's loyal and steady, strong yet tender. And after everything he's done for me ..."
Her cheeks flushed as she realized how much she'd taken Ambrose for granted. He'd been there when she needed him, saving her and her daughter and vanquishing Coyner once and for all. In the week since the villain's demise, Ambrose had provided a shoulder for her and a calm, kind presence for her daughter. Yet he had made no demands of her. At night, he'd retired to the guest bedchamber, and given her preoccupation with Rosie, she'd given little thought to his needs.
It wasn't until he'd quietly announced his intention to return his family to Chudleigh Crest that she realized the unsettled nature of their relationship. Feelings came crashing over her, intense and confusing. She wanted him so badly, and she was ... terrified.
"It's clear that Mr. Kent loves you," Helena said. "I don't see what the problem is."
"What have I to offer him in return? I've made so many mistakes ..." Swallowing, Marianne forced herself to speak her fears. "How can I expect him to take on ... damaged goods?"
Helena stared at her. "I cannot believe you just referred to yourself in those terms."
"It's true, isn't it?" Marianne lifted her chin. "I've always called a spade a spade. I have a bastard, I've done things no lady should have done. And then there's my debt to Black, what he may want ..." Shuddering, she couldn't make herself give voice to the vile possibilities. "Can you in all honesty say that I am the sort of woman a decent man would want for a wife—to bring home to his family, to be the mother of his children?"
"I begin to think I do not know you as well as I believed." Blinking, Helena said, "All these years, I thought you were the one with the confidence."
"Self-possession is an excellent mask for insecurity," Marianne said wryly.
"Be that as it may, how can you doubt Mr. Kent's devotion to you? You yourself have said that he's protected you time and again. And the way he looks at you …" Helena gave a heartfelt sigh. "As for the Kents, they adore both you and Primrose. When I see all of you together, I see no mismatch. No inequality. What I see is …"
"Yes?"
"A family," Helena said gently.
Dash it, there were those blasted tears again.
"Truly?" Marianne dabbed at her eyes. "You aren't saying these things just to make me feel better?"
"Not at all. But I do agree that a significant barrier remains to your happiness."
"Black." Shivering, Marianne said, "I have to go to him, Helena. I have to discharge myself from his debt before I am free to go to Ambrose."
"You are certain you cannot tell Mr. Kent about this?" Helena frowned.
Marianne shook her head adamantly. "Black hates the law and Charleys in particular. I can't endanger Ambrose in that fashion. Besides, there's nothing he can do in this situation, and if he tries to challenge Black ..." She refused to have Ambrose hurt again because of her. "I gave Black my pledge, and I must honor it."
"You have a point. Male bravado can unnecessarily complicate things." Helena chewed on her lip. "Let us go together, then, and find out what this Mr. Black wants."
"You'll come with me?"
"Of course. After all," the marchioness said with a glint of mischief in her eyes, "it wouldn't be the first time you and I shared an adventure together, would it?"
*****
With Helena at her side, Marianne entered Black's domain. This time, he was waiting for them in a sumptuous breakfast room.
He rose from the end of the long table, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Today his stout figure was swathed in an old-fashioned banyan made of green silk; in lieu of his usual periwig, a small yellow turban was perched on his shorn head.
His eyes narrowed. "Wasn't expecting company this early else I'd 'ave dressed for the occasion."
"I am sorry to intrude, Mr. Black," Marianne said, "but I have an urgent matter to discuss with you."
"That's a familiar tune, ain't it?" Snorting, Black's gaze shifted to Helena. "Who's she?"
"Forgive my manners. This is my friend, the Marchioness of Harteford."
Helena inclined her head. "Good day, Mr. Black."
"Harteford, eh? Met your husband once. Not a bad sort for a nob," their host said. "Well, since you're both 'ere, pull up a seat. Plenty o' food to go 'round."
Perching upon a chair, Helena began, "Thank you, we have breakfasted—"
"Woman in your condition ought to keep 'er energy up." Black forked up some eggs. "Eatin' for two, ain't you?"
Helena's jaw dropped. Cheeks pink, she looked helplessly at Marianne.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Black. We shan't be staying long. I have come with only one purpose in mind," Marianne said. "The matter of my debt to you."
Black slurped from his cup. "What about it?"
"I've come to discuss the terms."
"The terms are for me to decide, not the other way 'round."
Taking a breath for courage, Marianne sat up very straight. "I will not share your bed, sir."
Black choked on a mouthful of food. Bits sprayed out as he thundered, "You won't share my bed, you say?"
"No." Though she trembled inside, she said firmly, "Circumstances have changed for me, Mr. Black. I cannot betray the man I love. You will have to think of some other way that I may repay you."
"What the bloody 'ell gave you the idea I wanted to tup you in the first place?" Glaring at her, Black swiped his mouth with the sleeve of his banyan.
"Oh. Well. I just assumed … that is, most men …" Marianne faltered.
"Got a 'igh opinion o' yourself, don't you? Little hussy!" Pushing from the table, Black stalked to the sideboard, muttering to himself as he filled another plate. "Me—a cradle-robbin' lecher! Imagine that!"
Marianne exchanged an uneasy glance with Helena.
"Sir," Helena said, "if an … intimate favor doesn't interest you, what would you like?"
Black's plate thumped onto the table. He scowled at them both. "I ne'er said I didn't want an intimate favor."
Marianne swallowed. "I already said, I will not—"
"Oh, get your guts out o' the gutter. I'm not talkin' 'bout bed sport." Black's eyes rolled toward his turban. "Is that all you fillies can think about?"
Marianne blushed. "Then by intimate you're referring to …?"
"My daughter Mavis is gettin' hitched. After all she went through with 'er last 'usband—may the bastard rot in 'ell—I want to send 'er off in style. A weddin' fit for a princess."
Marianne looked at him blankly. "And how can I help?"
"Well, look at you." Black gestured at her with his fork. "Got style in spades, don't you? Practically drippin' from your pores. You know where to get the best—and that's what I want for my Mavis. The best."
"You want me to … take your daughter shopping?"
Black frowned. "Bit more involve
d than that. I want you to plan the whole bloody thing from top to bottom. Got to 'ave the best food, best guests, best music—I want it to be the best damn weddin' this town 'as ever laid eyes on."
Relief and joy bubbled through Marianne. Giddily, she got to her feet and crossed to Black. "It'll be the most stylish affair of the Season, I can promise you that." Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, sir!"
"There'll be none o' that—told you I weren't no lecher." Though Black shooed her away, his jowls reddened. "My Mavis, she's a good girl. Could use some females o' quality in 'er circle."
"We'll be pleased to make her acquaintance," Helena said, smiling.
Black nodded. "Good. It's settled then."
Marianne laughed … because it was.
And she was finally free.
FORTY-SIX
After the meeting with Black, Marianne returned home, brimming with excitement. She was eager to see Ambrose, to confess her heart. But he wasn't there. According to Emma, he'd stepped out and hadn't left direction. Marianne bided her time, allowing the girls to gleefully trounce her at Spillikins and Fox and Geese. When Ambrose did not return by supper, however, she began to worry. After the meal, she tucked Primrose in bed, left her in Tilda's care, and went in search of him.
She began at Wapping Station; no one had seen him there all day. Johnno suggested a nearby pub—but Ambrose wasn't there either. Finally, she headed to his apartment. She rapped on the peeling door, her belly twisting.
What if he's not here? What if something's happened to him?
On the fifth knock, the door opened.
Ambrose's lean frame filled the doorway. His hair was scruffy and his jaw stubbly with the beginnings of a night beard. His collar lay unlaced, revealing his strong throat and a glimpse of his hair-dusted chest. His trousers had seen better days, and his large, masculine feet were bare.
Lord, he was beautiful. Her pulse thumped harder.
"What are you doing here, Marianne?" he said.
She blinked at his curt tone. Not exactly the passionate welcome she'd been hoping for. Her confidence dimmed a little, but she said lightly, "You aren't in the middle of a rendezvous, are you? I know all your sisters now, so you shan't be able to use that excuse this time around."
"There's no one here but me."
"May I come in?" she said.
His lashes veiled his gaze. "If you like."
She followed him into the cramped space with mounting nervousness. Ambrose's manner was ... different. He'd oft called her a selkie, but now it seemed that he was the one who'd shed his skin. His usual steady warmth was missing; in its place was that smoldering intensity that never failed to arouse her ... and alarm her, just a little.
But she'd never seen Ambrose quite in this state. When he'd allowed his dominant side to show at other times, it had still been controlled, honed. Tonight, 'twas as if his self-restraint and patience had reached their limits. He was a male on the edge, and she had the fretful thought that she'd finally pushed him beyond reason. Worse yet, had he given up on her? Having suffered so much at her hands, had he decided she wasn't worth the trouble?
Her insides chilled. Licking her lips, she glanced blindly around the Spartan room. It remained unchanged from her last visit, with the exception of the pallet he'd moved next to the fire. A bottle of whiskey and a book lay on the floor beside it. Fighting nerves, she peered down at the title.
"Dante. Cheerful choice," she said.
"It suited my mood."
When he didn't elaborate, she said awkwardly, "We missed you at supper. Monsieur Arnauld made your favorite, boeuf bourginon."
"I wasn't fit for company." His thumbs hitched behind his braces, and his brooding gaze bored into hers. "Why have you come, Marianne?"
"I ... I thought we should talk. Before you leave for Chudleigh Crest."
What was going on behind that amber gaze? She'd gotten accustomed to interpreting his expressions, yet at the moment she couldn't read him at all.
"Go ahead and talk," he said.
Her pulse a furious staccato, she said, "We haven't been alone this past week. And there are things we should discuss. About our relationship."
His mouth compressed. "You're right. Let's finish it, then."
Finish it? What did he mean by that?
She swallowed. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"
"Not nearly enough." The bitterness in his smile—so foreign—caused her heart to squeeze. "Now what was it you came here to say? Or should I say it for you?"
"You know what I wish to say?" That made her lift her brow.
He returned her look with a sardonic one of his own. "First, you want to thank me for all I have done for you and Primrose."
"True," she allowed.
"You want to tell me you've enjoyed our time together. The pleasure we've shared."
His bright gaze dared her to disagree, but why would she when he spoke the truth?
"A great deal of pleasure, I should think," she said softly.
He flinched, as if her words had caused him physical pain. He straightened his shoulders, met her eyes. "Be that as it may, you have responsibilities. A daughter to think of." His lashes grazed his cheek. "And you want to remind me that we've never made promises to one another."
Her throat thickened. "Haven't we?"
His gaze snapped back to hers. "Don't play games with me, Marianne. It doesn't suit you," he said tersely. "You and I both know you've committed nothing to me."
She ached fiercely for the hurt she saw in his beautiful eyes. And his courage and innate heroism struck her once more: he'd given her so much—her daughter, her very life back—with no expectation of receiving anything in return. On a flash of insight, she realized that she was dealing with a wounded male. Her skin tingled with remorse and love ... so much love.
"But you have," she said, her voice tremulous. "You have committed something to me. You said you loved me, Ambrose."
A weaker man might have taken back those words. Excused them as a moment's folly, meaningless sentiment uttered in the heat of passion.
Ambrose only shook his head. "I cannot do this anymore. I can't live for the moment. The mistake was mine in thinking that I could." His hands balled at his sides. "I'm a simple man, Marianne, with simple wants. And I see now that what I want is not possible with you."
"Why not?" she whispered, reaching for him.
He took a step back. "No ... don't. This ends now. You and I both know that is what is best for Primrose. For you."
"You're best for us," she said softly. "I want you, Ambrose."
A spasm crossed his features. "You can't have me, Marianne. I'll not be content to share your bed as the moment suits. I want—nay, I deserve—more."
"You deserve everything," she agreed. "Everything and more. If you give me a chance, I vow I'll do my utmost to give it to you."
He stared at her. "What are you saying?"
"I love you." Strange how she'd held onto those words with such trepidation; now they left her lips with no hesitation at all. With nothing but a rush of liberation and joy.
"I love you so very much, Ambrose," she said steadily, "and if you will have me, I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that to you. I'll never give you cause for regret. I'll make myself worthy of your name, if you bestow it upon me."
She saw the fire kindling in his eyes, the sudden flare of hope. Yet his hands stayed clenched at his sides.
"You cannot mean that," he said. "You have Primrose to think of. Lady Harteford was right: your daughter needs the protection of wealth, a title."
"You heard our conversation?" she said, frowning.
Though he flushed, his gaze did not waver. "Enough of it to know that you spoke nothing but the truth. I—I can't give you and Primrose a position in society. I can't provide for you, not in the style you are accustomed to."
"I don't need you to provide for us. I have plenty of money," she said. "As for Primrose, I've d
ecided that her happiness is more important than what the ton thinks. We'll have our friends and our detractors, and that is the way of life. Primrose will do well to learn that lesson early on." She gave him a wistful smile. "What she needs is a father—a good, decent man to protect and love her."
"I failed to keep you safe. I exposed Primrose to harm."
At his stark words, she looked at him in surprise. "How can you say that? Thanks to your ingenuity, you saved us both. You freed us from Coyner once and for all."
His throat worked, and she saw how much he was struggling between his principles and his desires. Between what he thought was right and his own happiness. Silly man, didn't he realize they were one and the same? Shamelessly, she played her trump card.
"My daughter needs you, but I need you even more," she said, her voice breaking just a little. "I need to fall asleep in your arms each night and to wake with you beside me. I need your advice, even though I won't always heed it. I need to share your laughter and your woes and to be a part of the family we will create together." Blinking away sudden moisture, she said, "Most of all, Ambrose, I need you to love me as much as I love you."
Her breath came fitfully as silence followed her declaration. She'd exposed her heart: stripped away the layers, left herself vulnerable and without defense. If he didn't want her, if he no longer loved her—
A sound left him, and suddenly she was in his arms. In heaven. His lips claimed hers in a kiss of pure possession, and she almost sobbed with relief. She clung to him, meeting his hunger with her own, wrapping her arms around his neck, needing to be as close to him in body as she was in heart.
"I love you," he said against her lips. "So bloody much, Marianne."
Wonder suffused her. Its warmth spread like sunshine through her soul, melting away the wasteland of the past and sowing bright, beautiful blossoms in its wake.
Nuzzling his chest, she said, "You won't regret me, I promise. I'll be so good to you from now on—the kind of wife you've dreamed of."
"Christ, never mind that. Just be mine."
"I can't wait to be Mrs. Kent," she said tremulously.
"Are you absolutely certain, sweetheart?" The familiar line worked between his brows. Her stubborn, honorable Ambrose—how she adored him. "Because it will change things for you. Even with your money, you'll lose much—"
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