Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1 - Louise Allen, Christine Merrill - Страница 75

It was her worst nightmare come to life. Discovery.

Sheer panic blinded her. As the first Shockwave receded, leaving behind a fear that seeped into every pore, her vision cleared and she saw Lord Beaulieu standing before her. Staring, his face intent and questioning.

In that moment she realized with bitter certainty that her overlong hesitation had just given her away. ‘Twas too late now to summon up some glib remark, to feign bafflement. Even had she the inner resources left after her interview with the vicar to find the appropriate words.

Wearily she closed her eyes and stumbled to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. She sensed Lord Beaulieu follow her. Like the vicar, who would not take her polite refusal and go away, who had pursued her, cornered her, seized her hand in a move so reminiscent of Charleton she’d almost become physically ill.

A faint spark of anger flickered and caught. No, she had not endured all she had suffered to live to this moment, managed day by painstaking day the recreation of her whole being, to let it end now.

Before she could decide how best to counter him, she heard Lord Beaulieu’s soft voice behind her. “Whatever troubles you, know I only want to assist. Please, let me help you.”

She felt a touch to her shoulder and whirled to face him, the reaction too ingrained to suppress. “Help? And just how do you intend to do that? By hinting to the community that I am not what I seem? Destroying my name, my reputation? Seeing me cast from the meager niche I’ve carved out for myself here, as a king would crush a bothersome insect?”

“Of course not! How could you think that of me? Who you were—who you are, does not matter to me as much as solving what causes you such distress. Will you let me?”

She stared at him with ferocious intensity, evaluating the angle of his body, the set of his expression, every remembered nuance of his voice. Her heart, her mind, her instincts all told her he was telling the truth.

He would not betray her.

Relief washed through her in a dizzying wave. “Y-you will say nothing?”

She must have swayed, for he reached out a hand as if to steady her. Drew it back as instinctively she stiffened. “I will say nothing without your leave.” In his eyes she could read only a warm concern. “But that does not touch the heart of the matter. Tell me, sweet lady, how can I help you?”

The dregs of panic drained away in an upwash of emotion. How she loved him, this principled man devoted to his family who wanted only to ease her suffering, as she had eased his brother’s. Who had power that nearly rivaled the king’s, yet would not hold her against her will. Who coupled strength with gentleness, as her father had.

Not until the vicar’s warning had she fully realized the depth of her desire to be with the earl, talk with him, touch him, become his lover for however short or long a time he would grant her. Not until then had she fully realized how impossible of fulfillment that desire truly was.

The vicar spoke the truth, however unpalatable. Now that Kit Bradsleigh was healing, to remain on any terms of intimacy with a man so superior to her in rank and fortune would be interpreted by the world in only one fashion. To be thought the earl’s chère amie in the sophisticated, amoral world of the London ton would be unremarkable—probably even elevate her status. In the more rigid, moralistic society of rural England, such a perception would ruin her reputation, make her an outcast from local society and very likely destroy her livelihood.

Being with the earl was but a foolish, impossible dream, and had been so from the very beginning. Strange that having to destroy it hurt so much.

She turned her face from the earl’s too penetrating gaze. “If you truly desire to help, stop calling upon me. Do not speak with me except in greeting. Do not be seen with me outside in your brother’s sickroom.”

“That is what you want?”

She hesitated. “That is what must be.”

“It need not be. Not if you want, as I do, so much more for us both. Would you throw away all that we could mean to each other without even trying to find another way? You know I would never allow anything to harm you! Please, can you not trust me?”

Oh, how she wanted to trust him. But with her livelihood, perhaps her very life, hanging in the balance, she dare not.

Unsure she could resist if the plea in his eyes matched the urgency of his voice, she walked away to once more gaze out the windows. “You will soon leave here. I must stay, live among my neighbors. If you agree to say nothing about me, I will be secure. That is the best thing you can do for me, the only thing I desire.”

“I don’t believe that. Look at me, Laura! Look me in the eye and swear you want me to walk away.”

Back in a past she tried to forget, she’d managed to face up to Charleton and lie, even knowing her life might be forfeit if he caught her out. She could lie now if she must.

Laura took a trembling breath and, blanking her face of all expression, slowly raised her gaze to meet the earl’s. “Please go, my lord, and do not come back.” She paused, forcing herself to add with a touch of scorn, “I hope you will not insist on haranguing me to tears before you’re convinced to comply?”

Something sparked in his eyes—anger, perhaps hurt. Ruthlessly she suppressed the pang of guilt, the need to explain. After a silent moment during which her cold mask did not melt under his fevered stare, he made her a curt bow.

“As you wish then, madam. I bid you goodbye.”

Laura held herself unmoving while his footsteps retreated down the hallway, through the porch door’s slam. Not until the jingle of harness and clip-clop of iron-shod hooves on the lane outside faded, signaling Lord Beaulieu’s final departure, did she stagger from the center of the room to the sofa.

She collapsed upon the soft padded surface, unable to move or think, conscious only of a bone-deep weariness made weightier by piercing sadness.

It was over. Over, really, before it ever began. Lord Beaulieu, accustomed to giving orders rather than taking them, summoning ladies of his choice rather than being dismissed by them, would not be back.

She was still safe, though. Surely some days or weeks or months later, when she could bring herself to truly acknowledge that fact, her heart would agree his loss was worth that gain.

Spurred on by fury and frustration, Beau drove his mount at a flat gallop through the woods back to Everett Hall. Damn and blast, the woman was stubborn! He could almost feel a kindred sympathy with the rejected reverend.

But perhaps, his normal clear thinking obscured by the unaccustomed depth of the emotions Mrs. Martin roused in him, he’d misconstrued Mrs. Martin’s reactions over the past few weeks. Perhaps she had not responded to him to the degree he’d thought. In any event, her icy dismissal clearly indicated that she did not harbor the same intensity of feeling for him that he did for her.

Perhaps she had no wish to wed the vicar and disdained the whole institution of marriage because she abhorred men in general. Such women existed, he knew.

Whatever her reasons for refusing the vicar, the fact that she had also rejected both Beau and his offer of help was gallingly unambiguous. Scornfully rejected, he recalled with a renewal of ire, as if he were an impotent, bumbling schoolboy.

Well, he certainly had enough other problems to solve. Now that Kit was on the mend, easing his anxiety about his immediate family, he should apply himself to the weighty matters demanding his attention. He’d pack up and return to London tomorrow at first light.

Righteous indignation carried him through the swift disposition of the papers brought him by today’s courier, a short afternoon interview with Ellie and Catherine and dinner with the assorted company. During that interminable affair, Lady Winters seemed more than usually vacuous, Ellie tried his patience by several oblique references to Mrs. Martin and the squire chatted on about trivialities with thick-headed obliviousness. With a little difficulty, he managed to squelch the nasty but entirely understandable desire, when Ellie brought Mrs. Martin’s name into the conversation for the fourth time, to drop a tiny hint that the lady might not be who she seemed.

Regardless of how little others might esteem it, his sense of honor was unbreachable, he told himself when, after the brandy, he was at last able to escape back to his room. He was a man worthy of the highest trust—had not even kings and cabinet ministers deferred to his ingenuity and discretion? And he certainly was not suffering pique at having his desires thwarted, overlayed by more than a little hurt that his regard had been so ignominiously spurned. He was merely … disappointed.

By the time he’d finished packing his bags, however, the smoldering fury that had carried him through the day had burned itself out. In the cold void left after the heat of anger evaporated, the dispassionate logic upon which he prided himself belatedly resurfaced.

Mrs. Martin’s wholly unexpected rejection of his overtures had shaken his certitude, but now that he calmly reconsidered the evidence, he was once again convinced he had not misinterpreted her reaction to him. The desire, both physical and emotional, that bound them together was strong and mutual. Why would she then send him away with such cold finality?

The subtle signals she’d sent during that interview, nagging all day at the edges of consciousness, suddenly combined with everything else he’d observed these past few weeks to coalesce in a conclusion. One in which the apparently disjointed pieces of the puzzle that was Laura Martin fell perfectly into place. The utter certainty of it swept through him with the force of a gale wind.

Of course she had refused the vicar. Of course she lived quietly, deliberately discouraging the notice of society in general and men in particular. Of course she begged him to leave her in obscurity, proclaiming there was no remedy for the malady that distressed her.

Laura Martin was neither an abandoned mistress nor a widow. She was a wife. Some powerful man’s runaway wife.

His heartbeat sped as he tried to grasp all the implications. Laura “Martin” had lived in this small community for nearly two years. If she feared her husband enough to remain in hiding that long—a fear, he realized now, he’d often been puzzled to see lurking in her eyes—the villain must be both a man of far-reaching influence—and dangerous.

“’Tis nothing that can be helped,” she’d said. Under ordinary circumstances, she’d be right. The law gave a husband absolute ownership of his wife’s property and person, a power neither her family nor any legal authority could contravene, regardless of circumstance. A husband could not be legally convicted of rape or assault if the victim of those crimes was his wife.

That the sole legal redress would not be easy and would probably damage his own prestige irreparably, Beau dismissed without a qualm. He had considerable influence in the House of Lords and he would use it. Difficult though it be, he would force the loathsome coward who’d called himself Laura’s husband to petition parliament for a bill of divorcement.

Perhaps deep within he’d known the truth of it even before the vicar’s unexpected proposal shocked him to awareness, but regardless of when the realization struck, he knew it now. Laura Martin was the companion for whom he’d been waiting all his adult life. In order to keep her by his side, however, he must first free her from the man who had dishonored his husband’s vows and abused her trust. Once she was free, Beau could then beg for her hand and the right to guard and protect her forever.

His most immediate task, however, would be to move her out of that vulnerable cottage, where there was naught but one disreputable mutt to safeguard her. He’d transport her to some location where he could watch over her while the legal proceedings moved forward. He blessed the fact that in his job he’d accumulated contacts who could help with that, as well.

The disappointment, anguish, hurt of the previous hours dissolved in an upsurge of joyous excitement. Over the past several years he’d perfected his calling, pursuing the enemies of the state with methodical precision, quietly content to have rendered valuable, if unheralded, service to his nation. Now he would use the skills honed in that service to rescue the woman he loved and fashion a place for them to be together for a lifetime.

He remembered then her stark avowal—that she would never again consider entering the state of wedlock —and some of his ardor dimmed. Would he be able to persuade her to once again trust in a man’s vows to love, cherish and protect?

He refused to consider now the bleakness his life would become if he could not. But regardless of whether he was eventually successful in winning her hand, he pledged on his sacred honor that he would see her freed of her sham of a marriage, freed of fear, free to live once again in the open.

When he left for London at dawn tomorrow, Laura Martin must go with him. Now all he needed to do was to convince her.

The midnight air was cold and clear, the moon full enough that its light cast shadows across the cottage porch as thirty minutes later, Misfit gamboling joyfully at his heels, Beau stood at Laura Martin’s door.

He fisted his hand to knock and then hesitated. Would an unexpected pounding on her door at midnight terrify her with fears of her husband’s pursuit? Or had she been a healer long enough that she would merely think some individual sought emergency aid?

He decided on a single sharp rap. “Mrs. Martin, it’s Beau Bradsleigh!” he called through the night stillness. “Please, I must see you at once!” Apparently deciding to add voice to the summons, Misfit began to bark.

By the time he’d quelled the dog’s enthusiasm, he saw a light approaching. Her body obscured by a voluminous dark wrapper, the ubiquitous cap on her head, Mrs. Martin cautiously moved to the door.

Her eyes glanced off him into the empty darkness beyond. “My lord? Pray, what is wrong? Your brother—”

“No, Kit is well. Please, may I come in?”

She stood a moment, eyes examining his face, as if struggling between acceptance and refusal. Then, with a slight smile, she nodded. “This is certainly not wise, so it had best be brief.” She gestured him inside.

He followed her into the parlor, dark and chill with no fire in the grate. After setting her candle upon the table, she sat and invited him to do the same.

He hesitated, searching for the most convincing words. “Forgive me for intruding upon you so late, but I leave for London in the morning and there is something we must settle before I go.”

“Excuse me, but I thought we had already said everything that was needful.” Sudden alarm flashed across her features. “Unless you’ve changed your mind—”

“I mean you no harm, as I assured you this morning. Quite the opposite, Mrs.—it isn’t ‘Martin,’ is it?”

Her eyes fell. “No,” she said softly.

“Nor is it the ‘widowed.’ Mrs. Martin?”

She jerked her head upright, dismay in her eyes. She opened her lips. Closed them again.

“You’re still married, aren’t you? That’s what—who you’re hiding from. That’s the matter that ‘cannot be fixed.’ Isn’t it?”

She sighed. “Why could you not accept the surface appearance of things, as everyone else does?” She smiled, her expression half rueful, half self-mocking. “All of England, and I must take refuge in the one small community whose squire’s son is friend to the Puzzle-breaker’s brother. So now you’ve guessed the whole of my secret. But as long as you honor your pledge not to betray me—and I think you will—what is there to discuss?”

“You believe yourself in danger, do you not?”

Her smile faded. “Yes.”

“Then you must come with me.”

That startled an incredulous laugh from her. “Go with you! To London where the chance of Ch—of discovery would be so much greater? You must be mad! Why do you think I chose so obscure a location?”

“Obscure or not, you just admitted that, should your husband discover your whereabouts, you would not be safe here. I can keep you safe.”

“I beg to differ, but you cannot! Clever though you be, you are not above the law. Should my husband find me, no one has the right to keep me from him.”

“You think I would let him find you? A man who has used you so badly you felt it necessary to go into hiding to escape him? Think, Laura! I’ve many more contacts than you. I can see you settled secretly, somewhere safe. Where you can stay while I persuade him to pursue a bill of divorcement.”

“Divorce?” She uttered a short, scornful noise. “Now I know you’re mad! He’s … an important man, fiercely proud of his family and his lineage. He’d never tarnish it with the stain of divorce. He’d see me dead first.”

Beau shrugged. “If he is proud of his family, he’ll want sons to carry on his name—which I trust you’ve not yet provided?” When she said nothing, he continued, “He’ll not get heirs without a willing wife. ‘Tis in his own interest to divorce you and find another. And should he refuse to proceed, he’ll be made to do so. A man who causes his wife to flee cannot be a saint. There must be some stain on his honor he would not want revealed, something that would be more damaging to his name than divorce. If necessary, I’ll guarantee him it will be revealed.” Beau smiled slightly. “As you know, I’m rather good at ferreting out secrets.”

Laura shook her head. “He will not be coerced. Only remember—society, law, custom are all on his side! Alerting him to my presence would only encourage him to arrange the one thing that truly would make him free …” Her fervent voice faded to a whisper. “My death.”

“Do you think me so poor a champion?” Beau asked, appalled, frustrated and more than a little stung by her lack of faith.

She looked up, her eyes lit with tenderness. “You are a wonderful caretaker to those who depend on you—your sister and brother and niece. But you cannot protect me. Even if I had some valid claim to your protection.”

“Do you not, Laura, my sweet?” He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, bring it to his lips. “Your fierce spirit laid claim to my heart that first long night we toiled together at Kit’s side. Every day that passes, each moment we share deepens that claim. A bond and obligation quite apart from what my family owes you, a link between you and I alone. Surely you feel it, too.”

A statement, not a question. Her lips trembling, she squeezed his hand. “Y-yes. But it cannot—”

“It can! We can be together, if you will only believe in me, trust me. I want you with me, Laura. I want to protect you and care for you and love you. I’ll pledge my life to prevent any harm coming to you. And I will do whatever is necessary to set you free.”

Tears welled in her eyes, the candlelight reflected in their watery sheen. “I believe you. But you do not know him. You don’t know what he’s … capable of. I promise you, he would never consent to a divorce. Soon I’ll be … safer, as safe as I shall ever be in this life. But only if I stay here, if you promise to take no action that might bring to his notice some hint of my whereabouts.”

“Laura, that’s nonsense! Only a divorce will truly make you safe. Won’t you tell me the whole, help me set the process in motion?”

“I cannot!”

Damn, but the woman was stubborn. Fighting exasperation and fatigue, Beau tried again. “Laura, I must leave tomorrow. How can I go, knowing you are alone and unprotected? I realize you’ve built a life here, and it’s only natural that you are reluctant to abandon it. But if I managed to piece together the truth, someone else might as well. Or what if, one day as you passed the village posting inn on your way to tend a patient, the door of a private carriage opened and your husband stepped out? What then?”

If Beau had harbored any vestige of doubt about the depth of Laura’s fear, the stark look of panic that widened her eyes and paled her skin at that possibility would have erased them.

The urgency of persuading her goading him ever more acutely, Beau pressed his argument. “It could happen, Laura. Please, come with me! I swear on my family’s honor to keep you safe and to see you freed.”

Pressing her lips together as if to still them, she pulled her hand free and backed away from him, stumbling as she encountered the wall behind her. Swaying with the force of her agitation, she remained there, eyes riveted on his face, while doubt, confusion and dismay played across her expressive face.

He let her retreat. “Trust your heart, Laura,” he urged her softly. “Trust me.”

Knowing there was nothing more he could say or do, Beau simply stood, willing her with all his strength to agree.

Finally, as he watched in consternation, a distant, shuttered look descended on her features, as it had this morning. She gave her head a small, negative shake. “I’m sorry, but I must stay. Please, do not urge me further.”

Beau grit his teeth and resisted the urge to shake her like a disobedient child. How could she not admit the superior logic of his plan? He took a deep, calming breath. “Laura, I know you are afraid, but—”

“Lord Beaulieu, must we part in anger? I will not go, and nothing you can say will change my mind. If you intend to depart at dawn, I suggest you return to the squire’s and get some rest before your journey.”

As if they’d just finished some innocuous social chat over tea, she turned away, apparently intending to lead him to the door.

Irritation and the daunting knowledge that he hadn’t succeeded in convincing her roughened his voice. “Damn it, Laura, I can’t just abandon you here!” As she tried to bypass him, he seized her by the shoulder.

With an inarticulate cry she wrenched out of his grasp, scuttled sideways and whirled to face him, arms raised protectively over her head.

As if to ward off a blow. The realization exploded in his brain and radiated in shock waves through his body.

He’d known, intellectually, that her husband must have abused her. But not until this moment, as she half crouched before him, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes dilated and feral as a cornered animal’s, had the reality of what she must have lived with, fled from, truly registered.

While he stood there staring at her, incredulous and horrified, she slowly straightened, lowered her arms back to her sides. Her wide, watchful eyes never left him.

Blind rage filled him, a sick revulsion at the indignity she must have suffered. Though given the evidence he’d just witnessed there was little need to ask, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from voicing the awful truth.

“He hurt you.”

She nodded, a quick jerk of the chin.

“Often. Badly.”

She pressed her trembling lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, displacing a single tear that tracked down her cheek, a glaze of liquid diamond in the moonlight.

“Ah, Sparrow,” he whispered against the ache in his throat. “I’m so sorry.” And walked over to gather her against his chest.

She trembled within the circle of his arms, trying not to weep. He’d guessed her most shameful secret, and yet he’d not turned from her in disgust after she cowered before him like some sort of brute beast. Instead, he sheltered her in his embrace, offering her refuge while she regathered the few tattered shreds of dignity Charle ton had left her. For that mercy alone, did she not already love him, she would surely have given him her heart.

Not for more than a year, since Aunt Mary had entered her final illness, had Laura been embraced by another human soul. How she had missed the sweet peace conveyed by simple physical closeness. For long moments after she’d recovered her composure, she could not make herself move away. But when finally she did force herself to push against his chest, he released her instantly.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

Even now, ‘twas best not to be too specific. “A number of years.”

“And he … misused you from the first?”

She sighed. “Nearly.”

“Did your family not suspect?”

“I ran back to them the first time. But he came after me, so charming and regretful, that he convinced them—and me—'twas all a silly misunderstanding, that I was young and overreacted. I believed him—until the next time. And then it was too late. I was watched too closely.”

“Until one day you felt you could stand it no more?”

He cannot be a saint … there must be some stain on his honor he would not want revealed … But no, Charleton was too clever. Even if she told Beau what had happened, it would end up her word against her husband’s—and which was the court likely to believe? Better, still better to say nothing. “Until I could stand no more,” she agreed.

He took her hand and kissed it. “Were these medieval days, I would find him and kill him, but we are supposed to be more civilized now. Won’t you leave with me, let us fight this together?”

So he might protect her from Charleton. Her champion. Another tear escaped her. “N-no. I’m sorry, but I cannot. I’ve suffered much to construct a haven here. Please, please do nothing to jeopardize it.”

“Only legal action can prevent that,” he repeated, and then smiled, his voice softening. “Though I truly believe it best, I’d never force you. You know that, don’t you?”

Gentleness with strength. Not sure she could reply without her voice breaking, she merely nodded.

“I’ll be back for you, Laura. Soon. With plans to win your freedom so foolproof and irrefutable you shall have to agree to them.”

He wouldn’t be back, of course. There was no safe haven for her beyond this place—and in any event, once Lord Beaulieu returned to London and the press of his business there, he would soon forget the dowdy, troublesome little nurse who’d dared oppose his authority. During his rare moments of leisure, he’d doubtless have any number of lovely ladies eager to distract him from remembering.

An upsurge of longing swelled in her, and a bitter regret for the closeness they’d almost attained. Swallowing hard, she nodded.

“You are right, my sparrow, I must get some sleep, else I’m likely to fall asleep in the saddle tomorrow. But before I go, would you grant me one favor?”

“If I can.”

Slowly, as if to ensure he did not alarm her, the earl reached over to caress her cheek with one knuckle. “Would you take down your hair for me?” he asked. “Let me see the moonlight cast shadows on that lovely auburn hair, as the sun did that first morning in your garden?”

His reverent touch, as if she were a precious object to be handled with awe and respect, melted any remaining caution. When he started to move his hand back, Laura caught it, held his palm against her temple. With her other hand, she stripped off the nightcap, splayed her fingers to comb out the braiding, then shook the tumbling plaits free to cascade over her shoulders, down the back and sides of her worn woolen wrapper.

“Like this?”

Moonlight silvered his sliver of smile. “Like that.”

Emboldened, she sought his other hand, brought it up to twine in her rippled locks, arched her neck and bent her head back, thrilling to the feel of his fingers against her scalp, the delicious shivery pull of his hand through her hair.

He caught her chin, steadying her. And bent his head toward hers.

He was going to kiss her, as he had the garden. A rush of memory awakened every sense, and a greedy exultation filled her.

She’d never be the mistress he’d hinted she become, never have days or weeks or months to delight in his company. But perhaps, if she could entice him to it, she might have tonight, just one night in which the coming together of man and woman held all the joy and tenderness that most intimate coupling should contain. A joy she had never yet experienced, and once he left her, likely never would.

Please, her mind whispered like a prayer as she raised her mouth to his. Give me one perfect night.