by Anne Stuart
“I’m not sorry.”
“What?” Her voice rose to a modified shriek of fury.
“I said I’m not sorry,” he shot back, biting off the words. “I’m only sorry I was too much of a gentleman not to carry you off to the Continent and be damned to society.”
“And to your wife?” she inquired in icy tones. “You haven’t changed much since you tried to elope with my sister-in-law. Adultery has always been a part of your life, hasn’t it? And did it amuse you to make me fall in love with you? It must have had you roaring with laughter at the thought.”
“You will be well pleased to know, Gillian, that you have already had your revenge,” he said quietly.
She stared up into his compelling eyes. “I rejoice to hear it. And how have I managed that?”
“By making me fall in love with you.” The words were small and quiet in the suddenly still room, and Gilly stood stock still.
“You . . . you bastard!” she hissed finally, shoving him away with all her strength. “How dare you say such a thing? Liar! Cheat!” Before she could scream at him further her struggling body was pulled into his arms, and his mouth came down, silencing her tirade.
It was a kiss of passion and desperation, of longing and farewell. Gillian, her senses playing her false, responded to it, all the time cursing herself for a fool, but knowing it would be the last time. When he finally moved away, she reached out and slapped him across the face with all her might.
The sound of it was shocking in the silent room. The two combatants stared at one another, both breathing heavily, both pale, with the mark of Gilly’s hand showing red on Marlowe’s cheek.
“I never want to see you again,” she said in a low, determined voice.
“I would think it highly unlikely,” he agreed, holding the door for her with exaggerated care.
A fresh feeling of despair washed over her, and more than anything she wished she could turn and fling herself into the dubious haven of his arms. She wanted to be back in that bed, in his arms, when none of this had happened. But, despite his protests, he didn’t want her, not truly. And even if he did, his wife was in the next room. Without another word she swept from the room, head held high. She didn’t look back as the door closed behind her with a quiet click.
Chapter Twenty
IT WAS LATE afternoon a few days later. A light mist was falling, and Gillian took a moment out from her fevered packing to stare out into the London street.
“I don’t see why you have to go so soon, Gilly,” Felicity pouted from her perch in the center of the bed. “It’s not as though Pamela were increasing again or anything like that. You could at least have waited for my wedding.”
“Felicity, darling, we’ve been through this a thousand times or more. I’ll be at your wedding in Sussex; I simply cannot stay in London and help you get ready for it.”
“But why not?” Felicity wailed. “I don’t know how I’ll ever manage without you. Mother is completely helpless in matters like these. I was counting on you, Gilly.”
“Well, you will simply have to count on yourself,” she replied wearily, sorting through her clothes with reckless abandon. In one pile were all her prettiest frocks, with the brightest colors and most flattering lines. In the other was a pile of brown and gray stuff gowns better suited to a governess than a lady of independent means. It was the latter that was to be packed for her journey. “What will happen when you’re a wife and mother, Felicity? You will have only yourself to fall back on then.”
“Don’t be absurd. When I have children I’ll have you come and help me, just as you’ve done with Mother and the aunts,” her niece replied saucily, unaware of the dread she was instilling in her favorite aunt’s heart.
“Yes, very likely I will,” she sighed gloomily.
“Must you leave tomorrow morning?” she begged. “If you could just put it off two more days then you could come with me and help me choose the materials for my trousseau. You know you have excellent taste and the best eye in London, or so Bertie assures me.”
“No, thank you, my dear. But when you go you may return something for me.”
“Something to Madame Racette’s?” she inquired. “I didn’t know anything she made up for you displeased you.”
“I ordered it on an impulse, and have since regretted it,” her aunt said shortly. “The dress is far too youthful for me.”
Felicity bounced off the bed, knocking the folded clothing askew as she bounded over to the closet. “Oh, Gilly, is it this? I had no idea you actually bought it!” She held up the diaphanous aqua blue dress they had seen at Madame Racette’s so long ago. “Have you ever worn it?”
“No, and I have no intention of doing so. It was mad of me to have bought it, and it would serve me right if she refused to accept it.”
“Gilly, what is wrong?” Felicity questioned in a softer tone. “What happened? Has it something to do with Lord Marlowe? Bertie and I have been worried about you.”
Picking up the tumbled clothes from the floor, Gilly placed a noncommittal expression on her face. “Well, thank you and Bertie for your concern, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong. I am merely tired of the city. You know I prefer the country, and I miss Pamela.”
“You can barely abide Pamela, and we both know it. Has he broken your heart?”
Gillian controlled her instinctive response, managing to sound cool. “My dear, ever since you and Liam have become betrothed you see everything from your own romantic viewpoint. My heart was never involved with Lord Marlowe, only my intellect. We are friends. No, we are acquaintances, and that is all. I don’t expect we shall pursue the connection anymore.”
“Then why did he send you gillyflowers?” her niece demanded wisely.
“How did you know it was he? I have other acquaintances, I may hope.”
“You may hope so indeed, but I peeked at his card. Not that it said anything of interest. Just his name. I do wish you’d tell me what’s going on. I do hate to be in the dark.”
“You, my dear Felicity, are an incorrigible gossip, and I have no intention of gratifying your curiosity one whit.” To her relief no gossip had arisen from her unfortunate visit to Marlowe’s gaming club, at least not yet, and the sooner she was gone from London the less likely someone would connect her to that debacle.
“But why didn’t you throw out the flowers if you’re so angry with Lord Marlowe?”
“I didn’t tell you I was angry with Lord Marlowe. I don’t wish to discuss this any further, Felicity!”
“Miss Gillian!” Flossie tumbled into the room, her cheeks flushed. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Gillian’s heart leaped inside her, and she took an involuntary step toward the door before she remembered. “Tell him I’m not at home,” she replied dully.
“It’s not a him, Miss Gillian. It’s a her. A foreign lady, with a veil and a beautiful lilac cape. She says her name is Contessa Albini. Not that I hold much with them foreign titles, mind you. Shall I tell her you’re not at home?”
Gillian had little doubt as to the identity of her caller, though why Helene should choose that unlikely title was more than she could fathom. It was the wrong time of day for social calls, so it could only be someone outside the ton. Which left Marlowe’s wife.
She didn’t want to see her. Didn’t want to think of her again, but with her luck Helene Marlowe would camp out on her doorstep until she had her say. If she had come to commiserate over Marlowe’s shabby treatment, Gillian thought she might scream.
“Tell her I’ll be down,” she said finally, peering into the mirror and smoothing her tumbled hair. Her blue eyes were hollowed by the sleepless nights, and her face looked alarmingly pale. It didn’t matter—she could not compete with Helene’s flamboyant beauty even at the best of times. “Is Letty downstairs?”
“Just as well. I imagine we’ll wish to talk in private.”
“Who is this Contessa Albini?” Felicity demanded, all agog. “And why has she come to see you? I’ve never heard of the woman.”
“None of your business, little one,” Gilly said, keeping the sting from her voice. “You may assist by sorting through the rest of my clothes for me, and I’ll be back in a short while.”
Thus adjured, Felicity immediately began to reverse the piles of clothing, throwing the drab clothes under the bed with her usual abandon.
Helene rose from the damask-covered chair in the west salon as Gilly entered the room. She had removed the lilac veil, tossing it back over her midnight curls. In the dim twilight she looked even more beautiful than she had that night, with the shadows successfully hiding her age.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t deny yourself,” Helene greeted her frankly. “Though from what I’ve heard the last few days I wouldn’t have blamed you. You haven’t been treated very well, have you, my dear?”
Gilly ground her teeth as she shut the door behind her. “It’s of little consequence.”
“‘Of little consequence,’ she says! And I have had to spend the last three days listening to lamentations and ragings and threats and despair. It may be of no moment to you, my dear Gillian, but to others it is of great importance indeed. And me, I am not one to stand around and watch while others suffer. I take things into my own hands, and try my poor best to fix them up.”
“I am certain you do, Contessa,” Gilly replied, somewhat at a loss.
“Ronan would kill me with his bare hands if he knew I had come to plead his case. So would my husband. But me, I feel I owe Ronan something, and I decided this was the least I could do, and so I told poor Alfredo. Right now he is pacing his hotel room, wringing his hands, and he will be very angry with me when I return, no doubt. But I will manage him. I have always known how.”
“I beg your pardon, Contessa. You have lost me. Who is Alfredo?”
“You must call me Helene! Indeed, I can never remember what my last name is. Alfredo is my husband, of course. The Count Albini.”
“Your husband?” Gilly echoed. “But you said you were married to Marlowe.”
“Well, I was. A great long time back. He was my second husband, and a very nice one he was, too, considering that we were never suited. He never held it against me, my little stratagems. However, he wasn’t overly fond of Marco.”
“Marco?” Gillian echoed.
“Marco was my third husband. Alfredo is my fourth. I had neglected to tell Ronan that I divorced him three years ago and decided it was time to remedy the situation.”
“Then he isn’t married?”
“Not to my knowledge. Unfortunately I have also had to give up the very generous allowance he has always made me, but then, Alfredo insisted. He is such a jealous sort.” She surveyed a particularly fine diamond on her plump white hand with a fond sigh. “But I am forgetting myself. I have come to tell you about Ronan.”
“Please, Contessa, there is no need.” The last thing she wanted to hear was Ronan’s former-wife trying to explain him.
“Helene, my dear. You must call me Helene. After all, we are to be in a way sisters-in-law, are we not?” she said obscurely. “And there is every need. My poor Ronan is in love with you.”
“Don’t be absurd. He has never loved anyone in his life,” she shot back.
“You say that with a great deal of assurance, you who have known him scarcely a month, to a woman who was once his wife. He hasn’t loved many people, not more than you can count on one hand. He loved his mother, and his grandmother, his reprobate Uncle George, and his blind and smelly old spaniel. And he loves you, my dear.”
“What about you?” She allowed her curiosity to escape.
“No, he never loved me. You see, he might have, but I tricked him into marrying me. I told him I was pregnant, when many doctors have assured me that that dreadful prospect will never come to pass, and like a gentleman Ronan did the honorable thing. When he found out the truth he was perfectly polite. He already knew me rather well, and it came as no great surprise.”
“I . . . I see,” Gillian said lamely.
“I doubt that you do. Ronan is very sorry for the wager. Vivian has been having a bad influence on him, an influence I tried to warn him of years ago. But of course, being a man, he wouldn’t listen. He does love you dearly.”
“Vivian?”
“No, idiot! Ronan.”
“How gratifying,” she replied in icy tones.
“He has hurt you that much, hein?” Helene questioned sorrowfully. “He told me he had hurt you beyond bearing, but I know from experience that a woman in love will stand a great deal of hurting before the love dies.”
“But I am not a woman in love, Helene.”
“Are you not? I will take leave to doubt that also. I believe you love him as much as he loves you, and all this dillydallying is something I have little patience with.”
“Then it is fortunate you will not have to put up with it. I am leaving for my sister’s home in Winchester tomorrow, and Lord Marlowe can safely forget his guilty conscience.”
“Ah, then it is a coward you are,” the contessa said in a silken voice. “You could not face the thought of marrying a divorced man. I should have known . . . the British put such a great stock in their little rules of society.”
“That has nothing to do with it. If Ronan loved me I would have lived with him without benefit of marriage. And he knows it.”
“Would you really?” the contessa inquired, diverted. “Let me tell you, my dear, that is very unwise. You must always seek a wedding band first, or your future will in no way be assured. I tell you from my great experience that—”
“I have no intention of doing any such thing!” Gilly cried, exasperated.
“I do not understand what all this fuss is about,” Helene sighed, rising. “It all comes down to two very simple facts: you love Ronan, Ronan loves you. And you have your silly pride, and Ronan has decided to be noble for a change and not ruin you by tying you to a divorced man. At least, not any more than he’s already ruined you, of course, so you may both end your days being correct and noble and utterly alone. And I am completely out of patience with the both of you.” Despite her sharp words she embraced Gilly in her scented arms. “If you want him, my dear, you will have to tell him so. Men are so very foolish, you understand.” She kissed her wetly on both cheeks. “Au revoir, chérie. Doubtless I will see you again. In Paris, perhaps. Or Venice. The two of you may stay with Alfredo and me.” With a wave of her scented handkerchief she departed, leaving Gilly staring after her wordlessly for a long moment. Lost in thought, she slowly returned to her bedroom.
Felicity was still in the middle of her bed. “I know who your mysterious visitor is!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “It must be Lord Marlowe’s ex-wife.”
Her aunt stared at her in shock. “How did you know he was married?” she demanded.
“Why, everyone knows. It’s the latest on-dit. Apparently she’s very beautiful and dreadfully vulgar. She’s now married to a very handsome Italian nobleman half her age. No one seems to be holding it against Marlowe. Except, perhaps, you?” She eyed her aunt curiously.
“Me?” she echoed, her mind still dazed. “No, I don’t hold his divorce against him.”
“Then why are you so angry with him?” Felicity demanded with an air of great practicality.
Gillian sat down at her dressing table, staring at her flushed cheeks and reaching for her diamond earbobs. “I don’t truly know,” she murmured.
Chapter Twenty-One
GILLIAN SURVEYED her room for one last time. There was no need for pillows in the bed to simulate her sleeping form, or lies to the servants about ficti
tious headaches. The Redfern family was out again, leaving Gillian to her final night in London and a good night’s sleep. Or so they thought. When they returned home in the small hours of the morning, they would find their innocent trust misplaced. And the chicken would have flown the coop. Straight to the fox’s lair.
Poor young Truffles did his best to look impassive when she reached the front door, though the sight of the clinging aqua silk must have unnerved him. “It’s ten o’clock, miss.”
“I know it, Truffles.”
“Will you be wanting the carriage, miss?”
She smiled up at him sweetly as she drew her cape around her slender shoulders. “No, thank you. Lord Marlowe’s house is just across the way. I’ll walk.”
“You’ll be wanting me to accompany you, of course.”
“No, thank you.”
“But you’ll be back shortly?” The poor boy was getting desperate.
“No, Truffles, I won’t,” she said serenely. “And I wish you might tell my brother so when you see him. Preferably tomorrow morning, but I’ll leave it to your discretion.” She pressed a small, heavy purse into his nerveless fingers. “You’ve been a good friend, Truffles. I’ll be sorry to leave you.”
“But, miss . . .” he protested miserably, not moving.
She reached out and opened the heavy oak door for herself. “Wish me luck, Truffles. I will need it.” And she was gone into the London night.
It was a cool, crisp, clear evening. The stars shone very brightly in the inky sky, and Gillian could see her breath as she moved toward Bruton Street. With a sudden rush of superstition, she reached up and touched her diamond earbobs. The stones felt warm and alive in the cloud of hair, and she smiled, reassured.
The door was opened by the same poker-faced manservant who had granted her entrance not that many days ago. He viewed her arrival with an astonishing lack of surprise.