What A Lord Wants

by Anna Harrington

  “I’d love you the same.”

  He placed a kiss to her temple and challenged softly, “Then help me be the man I need to be.”

  Turning her to face him, he took her chin and kissed her, desperately wanting to convey his regret and confusion, his need for both his art and for her.

  “I need to paint,” he murmured against her lips. Just as he needed her. Not for sex, not for a wife—her. Every adventurous, brilliant, vivacious inch of her and the effect she had on his life.

  Since the moment they met, no part of him had been left untouched by her. Including his art.

  But he couldn’t think about the implications of that. Not now, not when the pressure of the painting and the exhibition were closing in upon him, not when Constance’s increased threats hung over them. He had to keep his head clear, his heart focused—everything had to be sacrificed to his art. Hadn’t he spent his life learning that lesson? To turn his back on it now when he was so close to achieving his dream would destroy him.

  “I understand that, but—” Her hand went to her belly as she drew in a deep, jerking breath, as if she might be ill. “But before everything else?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to face him. Her anguished expression pierced him, made worse by the way she stared at him. Never had he seen such pain in her before, such wounding. She’d been hurt when Burton Williams read her letters, devastated beneath the scandal of the painting. But this—

  She looked broken.

  She stared at him, her tear-bright eyes a kaleidoscope of emotion. When her slender shoulders sagged in surrender, the small gesture nearly ended him. She walked stiffly toward the door.

  “Eve, wait!”

  She stopped but put up a hand to hold him at bay. He knew he should let her go, even though every inch of him ached to grab her to him, kiss her, make love to her—simply make her understand and save the marriage that was unraveling around them—

  But he never could, because he could never give her what she wanted.

  If he gave his heart, he’d lose his soul.

  “Stay here, Dom. Don’t come home tonight.” Her whisper emerged as a plea. “Or tomorrow, or…” She inhaled a jerking breath. “Not until you’re finished here. Not until you’ve proven to yourself whatever it is that you need to prove and can be a true husband, in every way.”

  The desolation in her watery eyes shattered him.

  “Don’t come home until you’re ready to give me your heart.” Her voice broke, as she surely realized the ultimatum she was giving him and their marriage. “Because I won’t settle for anything less.”

  Chapter 23

  Four very lonely weeks later

  Eve peered into the bassinette at her one-week-old niece, all pink, plump, and still a bit pointy-headed from her journey into the world, one that came two weeks earlier than anticipated.

  She was asleep, with her tiny mouth open and her pouty little lips trembling with each deep inhalation. Still dressed in her white lace cap and long christening gown, she kicked in her sleep, the little knitted booties running in the air as if she were attempting to make an escape.

  With a soft laugh, Eve brushed her finger over the baby’s cheek. “She’s beautiful.”

  As if agreeing, the babe made a gurgling sound and waved her tiny fist in the air.

  She frowned. “And feisty.”

  “Just like her mother,” Robert Carlisle commented, then leaned in to place a kiss to Mariah’s cheek as she sat beside him on the settee, the bassinette on her other side.

  Before Robert pulled away, he whispered something into her ear that made her flush.

  Now that she was married, Eve recognized that look and knew what Robert’s whisper had been about. If Mariah wasn’t careful, she’d be with child again by spring.

  Struck by a sudden pang of emotion, and missing Dom so much today that she ached, she stepped away from the bassinette to pour herself a fresh cup of tea from the little table of refreshments served for those guests who had come by to celebrate Genevieve’s christening. Sebastian and Miranda would make for wonderful godparents, although Eve, as her other godmother, wasn’t so certain about herself. The dowager duchess had brought to the church the same gown in which Robert had been christened. Josephine and Chesney had been there, too—another couple who might be expecting a new baby by spring if their smiles were any indication of how loving their marriage was. This afternoon, other guests too numerous to count had filed into Papa’s house to meet the newest Carlisle.

  Poor Papa! He sat flanked on the settee with Hugh Whitby, who was Mariah’s best friend, and Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper from the Gatewell School where Mariah was the leading patroness. His chest pushed out as proud as a peacock’s at the celebration for his first granddaughter, yet the last few weeks had surely been a trial for him. Mariah had chosen Papa’s house for her confinement because she’d wanted to be surrounded by the servants she loved, who were like family to her. Having a woman enceinte beneath his roof could not have been easy. Neither, Eve was certain, was the birth itself, during which Papa wisely handed a pacing Robert a bottle of bourbon and left for the shipping offices in Wapping, where he remained for the duration of the delivery.

  But this afternoon, they were all together.

  Except for Dom.

  When she’d notified him of Genevieve’s birth, he’d sent his congratulations to her on becoming an auntie and offered to attend today’s festivities at her side. But she’d declined, unable to bear pretending to her family that all was well in their marriage when it had almost certainly ended. Yes, she knew what she was getting herself into the day he proposed, that theirs would never be a love match. In that regard, her marriage was no different than most society marriages.

  But she had never expected his lack of love to hurt this much.

  So she told everyone that he’d been called away on urgent business, business that had been taking up a great deal of his time of late. Thankfully, everyone had been too wrapped up in the new baby to realize she’d lied.

  “Of course she’s feisty.” Pride filled Mariah’s voice as she lifted the baby and turned her over, to place her on her tummy. Genevieve never opened an eye. “She is a Winslow female, after all.”

  “And a Carlisle,” Robert reminded them, just as proudly.

  The room froze for a beat as a frightening realization sped through all of them. They fell silent and stared at the babe, wondering what kind of she-devil that combination of Winslow and Carlisle might have produced.

  Eve wasn’t certain, but she thought she saw Robert shudder.

  While that pedigree might make her a hellion when she was older, for now Genevieve slept deeply, not caring that she was being watched and discussed. The poor little thing was worn out from her first outing in life, sadly enough to boring old St George’s, and from having been doused with holy water—for which she promptly spat up on the priest in what was most likely her first act of Winslow-Carlisle defiance.

  “We’ll have to make certain she has plenty of adventures,” Eve commented to Mariah as she returned to the settee with her cup of tea. “Just as we did.”

  “Perhaps not as you two did,” Papa interjected warily.

  The two sisters exchanged a conspiratorial glance. Neither of them was willing to agree to that, knowing how much fun they’d had together.

  “It won’t matter, if I can never get her away from her father.” Mariah placed her hand on Robert’s knee, the gesture softening the accusatory lift of her brow. “I went into the nursery yesterday and found Robert rocking her to sleep when he should have been at the shipping offices.”

  Robert wasn’t at all embarrassed to have been caught holding his newborn daughter. Even now, he kept reaching into the bassinette and rubbing his large hand over her small back as she slept, as if he couldn’t believe she was real.

  Eve bit her bottom lip. Would Dom be just as smitten as a father, or would he prefer to be left alone in his studio?

  “I wan
ted to have a heart-to-heart conversation with her,” Robert defended himself.

  “Oh?” Mariah’s mouth curved into a teasing smile. “And what did you two talk about?”

  “How to successfully develop trade routes on the Indian subcontinent.”

  “Of course,” she drawled, deadpan.

  “And that boys should be avoided.”

  Mariah laughed and affectionately placed her hand against her husband’s cheek. The unmistakable look of love that she gave him made Eve catch her breath. “You know, she’ll want to marry one of them eventually.”

  “She can,” he said decisively. “When she’s thirty.”

  As the two of them argued good-naturedly about Genevieve’s prospects for becoming both her debut season’s Incomparable and the world’s first female shipping magnate, Eve’s gaze fell to her teacup. For the past month, her thoughts had been almost nowhere else except on her own baby, which she still kept secret from everyone. Including Dom. She didn’t want to steal any attention away from Mariah, who deserved to glory in being a new mother.

  Eve also didn’t want to face Dom.

  Since their argument, her only contact with him had been through Davies. The poor man was caught in the middle, loyal to Dom but not wanting to hurt her, and so he’d delivered all messages from Dom stoically and without comment. Except for one. That time, as he handed the note to her, he said quietly, “His Lordship misses you a great deal, my lady.”

  She’d seen Dom only once during their time apart, when he came to Mercer House to retrieve documents from his study that he needed for the exhibition, documents that Davies was unable to bring to him. She watched from the upstairs window as he left, her eyes blurring with stinging tears when he paused to glance back at the house before stepping into the carriage. She swallowed her pride and ran after him, only to remember when she reached the bottom of the stairs that nothing had changed. He’d not come home because of her but because of his art.

  She snapped out of her reverie as the men stood.

  “I’ve got a special bottle of port in my study that I’ve been keeping for this occasion,” Papa announced as he slapped Robert on the back. “Let’s leave the women to fuss over the baby and make their plans, shall we?”

  Hugh Whitby grinned, thrilled to be included. He’d been around much less since Mariah and Robert married last spring, but Eve could have assured him that Mariah would always consider him a dear friend. Thankfully, the inexplicable jealousy that Robert held for the man had largely vanished, although it still reared its head whenever Whitby offered to waltz with Mariah. But judging from Whitby’s dancing skills, that might have been simply a desire on Robert’s part to avoid a devastating ballroom accident.

  “I think I’ll take my leave.” Mrs. Smith clasped Mariah’s hands in hers and gave them an affectionate squeeze. “I need to return to the school. Classes start for the new term tomorrow, and I want all the children to feel welcomed.”

  “She means that she’s making apple tartlets,” Whitby interjected, cutting right to the unspoken importance of her comment.

  “I mean that I’m going to make them feel welcome,” she corrected. Then added in a grumble beneath her breath, “Including serving tartlets.”

  Whitby grinned at being proven right, his ruddy face somehow making his ginger hair appear even redder. “It was my idea for her to make them.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It most certainly was not—”

  “I said it would be nice if they had a special treat to welcome them on their first day, and you said that being at school would be a grand treat in itself. But I said—”

  “Mr. Whitby,” Mrs. Smith interrupted as the two of them fell into one of their usual arguments about how competent Whitby was—or wasn’t—as they made their way from the room, “you do not know the first thing about children.”

  “I do.” He had the cheek to appear wounded, when everyone in the room knew that Mrs. Smith’s accusation was true. “I am very good with children. Why, I could care for little Genevieve just fine.”

  Mariah paled.

  “La! You don’t know the first thing about changing or feeding a baby.”

  “What’s so difficult about it?” He blinked, his expression earnest as he followed Mrs. Smith into the hallway. “I saddle and feed my own horse sometimes…”

  Papa laughed, used to their antics, and followed after them.

  But Robert paused in the doorway, to cast back a look of love at his wife and daughter. Then he said, his tone brooking no argument, “Don’t ever leave Whitby alone with my child.”

  Mariah laughed. With a lift of his brow to punctuate his comment, he disappeared into the hallway after the others.

  Then she smiled gratefully at the nurse, who stood patiently by the door, just in case she was needed. “Mrs. Parton, thank you for your help this afternoon. Why don’t you go downstairs and take some refreshment? We’ll be here for at least another hour, now that the gentlemen have started into their cups.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” With a bobbed curtsy, she gratefully slipped away.

  Mariah picked up the baby. Genevieve fussed in her sleep and gave a soft sound of irritation, only to heave out a deep sigh and melt against Mariah’s shoulder.

  Eve smiled. “You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

  “I hope so. Elizabeth has been very supportive. She’s given me all kinds of good advice.” Her eyes shined. “After all that woman experienced raising Robert and his brothers, she certainly knows how to survive as a mother.”

  Knowing the Carlisles as well as she did, Eve could only imagine the trials the dowager duchess went through. She prayed that she would be half as good a mother.

  She watched as Mariah swayed gently back and forth and hummed softly to the baby, who had once more drifted back into deep sleep. Her sister was a marvel. Hopefully, Eve and her baby would come through the birth as equally strong and healthy.

  Eve carried her teacup back to the refreshments table and set it down. She reached for another one of the little cucumber sandwiches. Her fifth. But she couldn’t resist. Lately, she felt as if she could eat a horse. On second thought…best to take a couple of biscuits, too.

  “When you gave birth,” she asked Mariah over her shoulder, “was there much pain?”

  “A great deal.”

  Eve’s gaze darted to her sister, the biscuit poised in the air halfway to her lips. “Truly?”

  “It felt like someone was attempting to rip me in half from the inside-out. And someone was.” She smiled at the baby, and her voice lowered into a motherly sing-song cadence. “Oh yes, you were. Weren’t you, my darling?”

  Eve suddenly lost her appetite. She dropped the unwanted biscuit onto the tray and let her hand fall to her belly. Thank God the sickness had stopped a few weeks ago, or that revelation would have been enough to cast up her accounts all over the rug.

  Not moving her attention away from Genevieve, Mariah asked, “And when is your baby due?”

  Eve froze, except for her heart, which leapt painfully into her throat. Instantly losing her breath, she rasped, “Pardon?”

  Mariah sent her a sly smile, knowing it was true without having to ask. “You were uncharacteristically tired all of the time and ill to your stomach in the mornings. Now you’re eating like a starved prisoner, with dark circles around your eyes, swollen ankles…I recognized the signs in you a few weeks ago and was simply waiting for you to tell me. And then Genevieve decided to make her debut, and we hadn’t had a chance to talk privately.”

  She put the baby back into the bassinette and pulled the little blanket over her to tuck her in. She hurried over to Eve and pulled her into a hug.

  “Oh, Evie! I’m so thrilled for you!” Mariah took her hands and pulled her down to sit beside her on the settee. Her hand went to Eve’s belly, although there was barely a bump there. “When are you due?”

  “Next spring.” Which suddenly felt so close that it seemed as if it were looming with the dawn.
“The end of May.”

  “Oh, you have to tell Papa! We’ll arrange a dinner at our house, and you and Ellsworth can surprise Papa and Robert with the news. And the duchess, too. Elizabeth thinks of you as a daughter and will be hurt if she’s not there.” Her face shined with excitement, which only made Eve’s heart sink to the floor. “Ellsworth must be simply beside himself with pride. Tell me—what did he say when you told him? How did he react?”

  Eve hesitated. Only a fleeting heartbeat, but in that momentary pause, Mariah’s eyes widened.

  “You haven’t told him?” she guessed in a whisper. “Oh, Evie…”

  She looked away, her chest tightening so hard that she winced. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Even if you haven’t told him, surely he’s seen the changes in you and suspects…Evie?”

  Her vision began to blur beneath gathering tears. “We had a terrible fight. He’s been living away from Mercer House, and before that…” Before that, he’d barely seen her at all.

  Mariah pulled her into her arms and hugged her tightly as Eve trembled against her, gulping large mouthfuls of air to fight back the tears. The pregnancy had made her emotional, and her crying fits had only been exacerbated by her loneliness and her grief over Dom.

  Mariah cupped her face between her hands, and concern darkened her face. “Is there any way to apologize for the fight, to put it behind you both and move on?”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head. She’d accepted the inevitable. Her marriage was over.

  “What did you fight about that was so terrible?”

  She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t bear to see the look of pity on her sister’s face. “He doesn’t love me.”

  “Of course he does.” She tenderly smoothed back Eve’s hair. “He wouldn’t have married you if he didn’t.”

  “He married me because displaying that painting was his fault.” Remorse was a long way from love.

  “He’s a marquess. What care does he have about a young woman’s reputation? He certainly didn’t have to marry you, no matter what happened with that painting. But he did it anyway. Because he loves you.”