Lord of Regrets

by Sabrina Darby

  “You were the one who ruined everything!”

  The past would be the past if she just let it. But Natasha refused to, and there was a note to her voice, a shrillness he had never heard before. The reins were stiff beneath his fingers. He pulled too hard and the carriage swerved, the sensitive horses reacting to his slightest move.

  Marcus could hear the Tiger’s harsh intake of breath. Of course the groom could hear their conversation. Probably every occupant of every carriage within fifty yards could hear.

  “You ruined me. You! You’re the one who tried to kill our child. You broke into my house. You ruined my reputation.”

  You…you…you… He heard the words, the accusations, each one like a new blow. Yes, it was him. Gathering the reins in one hand, he held up his other hand, his palm. Peace, a moment of silence so he could make amends, somehow make amends.

  Her face was tight, angry…ugly. And he’d never seen such an expression on her before.

  “You’re the one who threatened to take that child away from me! You forced me to marry you. You!” She pointed at him. “So don’t you dare complain about my behavior. It’s all you!”

  The last “you” snapped his patience. He knew he was urging the horses faster, more than was wise on a London street at any time of year, any time of day, but he couldn’t stop the words that poured out of him.

  “I’ve apologized again and again. I can’t do any more than that, Natasha. I can’t change the past. I can’t change who I am. We’re here now.”

  “I hate you! Bastard!” she screamed.

  His frustration stilled. His gut dropped, pulled out of him. The rollicking of the carriage over the muddy streets vibrated through his body. Blood pounded at his ears, blocking out everything but the hiss of her last words, while darkness swirled up around him, crowding his vision.

  He focused on the small bit of street he could still see, swerving away from an oncoming carriage.

  “Don’t do this,” he pleaded, hating the sound of his voice, hating the burning sting behind his eyes. “Stop, please, can’t you see?”

  “I hate you, I hate you!” she cried again.

  There was the house, their house in front of him, faster than he had expected.

  He’d been an idiot. A dreamer, all this time. The past was the past and he could not change it, could not make amends. Natasha would never love him.

  He focused on the horses, on something solid, something clear, on pulling the carriage to a stop. There was something else, just outside his grasp, beyond his understanding. It was dark and haunted and too far from words. He pulled away from it.

  He stumbled from the carriage, throwing the reins at his tiger. When he rounded the carriage this time, Natasha had already gotten herself to the ground, and he was grateful for not having to touch her, to be touched by her. He followed her up the stairs to the open door.

  “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, his voice thick, strange, even to his ears. As soon as they were inside, he passed her, stumbled down the hall to the study in the rear, and swung the door open. The room was silent, private. He closed the door softly and rested his forehead against the cool, smooth wood.

  He was torturing himself. Natasha hated him. Truly hated him. She would never forgive him.

  He could not stay here anymore. He would not. He would give Natasha her freedom, as much as he could after having bound her to him by law.

  Then he remembered Leona. With a resigned sigh, he admitted that matter was of little consequence. She had lived most of her life without him, and at least now he knew that they would be provided for. Leona needed her mother, but neither of them needed him.

  A much-calmer Marcus left the house a half an hour later. All his ravaged thoughts had settled into one idea of clarity: he could not stay here in London. Not with Natasha, not now.

  And as he crossed the city, he turned his thoughts to business, to investments and manufacturing, so that the pain of his wife’s words was carefully locked away.

  As Marcus’s carriage passed through his grandfather’s gate, another carriage left. It had no crest on it, but through the curtain of rain and the nearly frosted window, he could still see a man he recognized. Was there anyone with whom his grandfather did not treat?

  “That was Wilberforce, was it not?” Marcus asked as he entered, taking a seat without waiting for the niceties. “I didn’t know you consorted with any of the ‘saints.’”

  His grandfather’s thin, hoarse laughter made Marcus feel foolish before the man even spoke. Of course the man had dealings with everyone. In his two arthritic hands, the strings of the world gathered, or at least so his grandfather imagined.

  “How little you understand, Marcus.”

  Yes, he was inclined to agree. This day especially, as his soul was ash, his mind acute with grief. But what Marcus did understand was that the same opaque desires that motivated his grandfather could take him away from here, from London, from his thoughts of her.

  “Castlereagh’s intentions have glaringly left mention of the slave trade untouched. That business, such as it is,” his grandfather continued mildly, “is an unstable economy, and as Mr. Wilberforce rightly points out, an immoral one.”

  “So you have taken up his cause? Complete abolition?”

  His grandfather templed his hands, set his gaze upon Marcus. Even milky with age, the blue eyes were shrewd. “The dealings of peace are more complicated than the man understands. From what I see, he acts from emotion. From passion.”

  His grandfather was right. There was too much, perhaps, that Marcus did not understand, to which he had not yet turned his mind. He was more apt to pay attention to Canning, to the domestic economic issues and matters of trade that war did not affect. Which, Marcus realized, had been foolish of him. This war, colonies gathered or given up, maritime rights, all the negotiations and fine points about which Castlereagh had gone to discuss with Metternich and the Tsar earlier in the year, would affect his coffers.

  “That is why I am here, in any event. Do you still have need of me?”

  His grandfather studied him, his thick, scraggling eyebrows veed in a frown.

  “No longer the same need,” he murmured, barely audible. And as Marcus strained to hear, he understood that this thin, quiet voice was a way in which his grandfather wielded power as well. “But you may be of use.”

  Marcus clutched at the bundle of fur that squirmed against his chest, his grandfather’s words echoing in his ears.

  “Likely nothing will happen at Chatillon. From what I know, these plenipotentates are struggling not to expire with boredom. Castlereagh has done the deed already in forestalling the decisions made at Frankfort, but to Chatillon you will go. I have correspondence for you to deliver. Afterward, you will join Castlereagh at his camp as an attaché, in reality as factotum, but the opportunity is a good one. I want you known by the men before the real negotiations come about. And if the Tsar gets his way and enters Paris, I want you there when it happens.”

  “I had intended to send another,” his grandfather had explained, looking bemused for the first time. “There is a man there who will contact you. Gerard, he is called.”

  “He is French?”

  “He is my man,” his grandfather had insisted. “There are few men I trust, but Gerard owes his loyalty to me.”

  “Do you trust me?” Marcus had felt compelled to ask.

  “Would you have told me about your daughter, forsaken your inheritance, even if you hadn’t found her?”

  “I am not here to discuss my wife or my daughter,” Marcus had said, steadying himself against the abrupt switch of topic.

  “Your father was a scapegrace as a youth and a dishonor as a man. You may not be. I don’t believe you are.”

  “My Lord.”

  The door to the townhouse swung open, interrupting Marcus’s thoughts. His butler stared at him as he crossed the threshold.

  “What, Logan? Ah yes, this little thing. Where is my daughter this even
ing?” But it was a pointless question, and Marcus was already halfway up the stairs when he heard the man say, “The schoolroom.”

  Leona was in her bedroom, in fact, tucked away into bed, Natasha by her side reading her a story. The sight of his wife punched the air out of his chest, but it was only a momentary setback, for Leona jumped up in her bed.

  “Puppy!”

  She raced toward him, and he transferred the squirming animal into her arms, focusing only on his daughter, forcing his gaze to stay low and not look at his wife.

  “Careful, there, she’s only four months old and quite fragile.”

  “Oh, look at her!” Leona held the dog like a baby, and the catlike little thing seemed almost to purr, resting her silken head against the small arms that held her. His daughter walked carefully back to the bed and sat down. He skimmed across Natasha’s profile as he followed Leona’s progress. “What is her name?”

  “They were calling her Blackie for her coloring, as the rest of the litter was tan and white, but I rather thought you’d like to name her, as she is yours.”

  “Mine?” Leona didn’t look up from the pup, but her face shone with excitement. “Oh, you’re mine,” she murmured to the dog, and for a moment his heart was breaking in a completely different way. “I shall call her Puffin. Thank you, Papa!”

  “Papa,” Natasha repeated scathingly. “That isn’t a doll you’ve just brought to buy her love. It is a living creature that needs taking care of––”

  “Peace, Tasha!” Marcus cried, backing toward the door. He knew his daughter watched, listened, though her head was bent close to the little dog. “I am leaving.”

  “I will take care of her. I swear I will!” Leona looked at him, her large eyes pleading, asking him to believe.

  “Ladies don’t swear,” Natasha sniped, and Leona flinched. For the first time, a seething anger grew in Marcus’s gut. This was the woman whom he loved? Then Natasha added more gently, but not enough to erase the previous sharpness, not nearly enough, “But yes, I’m sure you will. Only you will need to take it out for its needs and find the right food for it and where shall it sleep?”

  He crept out of the room, but just as he reached for the door, he heard, “Marcus, did you not even think that the puppy will need a lead?”

  He shut the door behind him. He needed to find Pell. He had a trip for which to pack.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Natasha avoided Marcus the rest of the evening. She took her dinner in her room. Readied herself for sleep and slipped under the covers of her own bed. Marcus did not come for her, did not open the door between their rooms once. Her fierce satisfaction was tempered by emptiness. Her bed was nearly the match of his, although her bed linens were of a more feminine design and no trace of his scent warmed them. But she was aware of the space, of how large, how different the bed felt without his body curled around hers, warming her from the winter chill.

  Marcus. She didn’t want to think of him.

  She awoke early, before the chambermaid came with the morning chocolate, upon which Natasha, following her mother-in-law’s habit, had become indulgently dependent. Pulling open the heavy draperies, she let in the weak gray light and stood by the frosted glass, shivering. The bedrooms were at the rear of the house, and she had a view of the square-walled garden and the mews beyond.

  And a view of Marcus’s traveling coach, the same one that had conveyed them from Little Parrington to London, making its jerky progress down the narrow lane. She became aware then of the noises of the house, footsteps in the hall, on the main stairs, not the servants’ ones.

  Marcus. He hadn’t mentioned that he was leaving London.

  She slipped into her dressing robe, clutching it close over her bedclothes, and hurried into the hall. Empty. The sitting room at the front of the house was empty as well. She heard the grunts of men exerting themselves on the floor below, the clang of things being moved, and the whisper of conversation.

  From the top of the stairs, Natasha caught a glimpse of two footmen carrying a large trunk across the threshold and out into the gray morning fog that swallowed them up.

  There was Pell, following the men, pointing, directing, ensuring all of Marcus’s belongings went wherever he wanted them to go.

  But where was Marcus?

  Natasha went down the stairs, the banister sliding under her hand in her haste. The hall was empty too, cold from the wind sucked in by the open door, which knocked noisily against the wall with each new gust. Shivering, she lengthened her stride. The breakfast parlor was empty. The dining room as well. As she rounded the corner staircase again to head to his study, Marcus stepped out into the hall.

  The wind caught him in its grip, and for a moment, hair tousled, cape flapping, caught in the half shadow of the corridor, he looked––

  Her heart was stopped up with how darkly handsome he looked.

  “Where are you going?”

  The soft brown of his eyes had hardened into something fathomless.

  “To France,” he said, and his voice, also, was different, rougher, scraping along her skin. His hand twitched. The motion pulled her gaze to the crisp white envelopes stacked in his hand. “Yes, I was leaving these for you, for my mother, and for Leona.”

  “You didn’t say you were going anywhere.” She felt stupid, incredibly stupid, as if anything he said wouldn’t make sense.

  He kept moving forward, and she backed up against the wall to make way for him. He passed her, a large shadow of a man, a stranger. She followed him back to the entryway where the butler stood, holding Marcus’s hat and gloves.

  “It’s the middle of a war,” she said, pushing for a response.

  Marcus said nothing. He set the three letters down on the hall table. He played with the envelopes for a moment between his fingers.

  Natasha moved closer, until the newel post of the banister was to her left. She leaned against it, waiting.

  Finally Marcus turned to her, strode the five steps back across the marble floor.

  “Don’t pretend you will miss me, wife,” he said, his voice low and quiet, chilling her far more than the late-winter air.

  Natasha stiffened and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. The air, the world, was swirling about her, and she searched for something to stop it, to make it stable.

  “No, I won’t pretend. But you drag us here to London and then you leave, before anyone awakes––”

  “You’re awake.”

  “Without telling anyone or saying where you are going or when you will return. You’re leaving me stranded here––”

  “Not stranded. There is an account for you at my bank from which you may draw at your leisure. My man has been instructed, as he does for my mother and my cousins, to add to it quarterly. If you wish to stay in London, you may. If you wish to move on to Woodbridge, you may do that as well. I expect you will enjoy the Season, however.”

  “You’re abandoning me.”

  Fury etched itself in every line of his face, in the stance of his body.

  “What, in the name of God, do you want from me?” The words were half growl, half whisper, and all pushed at her. Then the storm ended so suddenly that its absence was deafening. He drew himself back, cold, stony. Immovable. “I have been commissioned to assist in the negotiations of peace at Châtillon-sur-Seine. I will return when I have performed my duty and am released from my obligations there. Please give Leona my love.”

  He swiveled on his heel and stalked to the door, taking his hat and gloves from Logan before he was swallowed up by the thick morning fog. Then the butler closed the door, cutting off the howling wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Natasha couldn’t shake the idea that Marcus had left because of her. That he had abandoned her. That stupid thought again. She should be happy.

  “He left because of you.” It was a moment before Natasha realized it was Leona who had said the words so accusingly. She stared at her daughter—at the little hands fisted, the tone so
bitter and lost—as if the girl was a stranger. It was like that night weeks ago when Leona had first learned her father lived. The last few peaceful weeks of truce with her daughter were gone. Was this how it would be forever? Had she lost both her freedom and her daughter’s love? Perhaps it would have been best to let Marcus have his daughter and to have kept her freedom.

  She shook the thought away as soon as it formed, hating herself for the very idea. She would be bad as Marcus then.

  “Well,” Kitty said the moment Natasha entered the breakfast room the next morning. She fixed Natasha with her inscrutable gaze, so similar to that of her son. “It seems Marcus has been bit with wanderlust these days and cannot settle in one place. And so changeable, too.”

  Natasha took her seat, ignoring the leading tone in the other woman’s words, the suggestion that Natasha had something to do with this––which perhaps she did. After a long, restless night during which she had wondered at the conflicted emotions at his sudden absence, she now understood that she had been living her life in reaction to Marcus since the very first moment they had met. Her emotions were wildly disparate and irrational. Whereas in her youth, she had found the pull of impulse to be utterly romantic, now it was an irritant, a compulsion. Thus, she reminded herself harshly, if she were to feel anything, it should be happiness that she had been granted a respite from Marcus’s presence.

  “I understand that his grandfather has sent him to Lord Castlereagh as an attaché.”

  Kitty laughed. “Yes, that is what Marcus writes, but with the earl, events are rarely what they seem. Landsdowne is the head of our family. I suspect soon enough you’ll find that extends to you as well.” She pointed to a still-sealed missive tucked half under her plate. “That is from the earl.”

  “Does he write to you regularly?”

  “No.” Kitty raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lip lifting as well. “He must want something from me.”

  “I saw Marcus this morning,” Natasha said, moving to the sideboard to fill a plate.

  “Did you? Logan tells me he left at some ungodly hour. Ah, I was right. Lord Landsdowne wishes us to attend upon him.”