How to Master Your Marquis (21 page)

Hatherfield let out his breath, and it was as if his insides released themselves, too, leaving him hollow and shocked and raw. “And this is this.”

“So the next time, you needn’t jump up and tell me to get dressed, without my even seeing you, or touching you. Whatever you’re hiding, whatever you don’t want me to see, I don’t care. I’m Stefanie, I’m not
her
, and I . . . I care for you, very much, far more than I ever cared for Gunther, and there is nothing, Hatherfield, nothing, nothing in this world and out of it,
nothing
that could make me think less of you. Do you understand?”

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I understand you perfectly.”

“Good, then.” She jumped up from the cot. “And now, if we don’t leave straightaway, I’m going to be late for work, and Sir John will probably beat me. These are still wet. Is there anything else I can wear?”

He cleared his throat. “There are rowing uniforms, of course. I’ll find one to fit you. And Stefanie?”

“Yes?”

He wanted to reach out and fold her in his arms. He wanted to tell her she was the most extraordinary woman he’d ever known. That he was honored beyond words to have spent this past intimate half hour with her. That her kindness, just now, when she had every right to storm away, had meant everything to him.

He wanted to tell her that there
couldn’t
ever be a next time. He wanted to tell her that there
must
be a next time, and another, and another, perhaps all in the same night, because once he unleashed himself he wouldn’t be able to stop.

But for once, the charming Marquess of Hatherfield found no adroit phrase at the tip of his tongue. His shocked and hollow insides seemed to have swallowed them all up.

Instead, he said, “You seem to have forgotten your mustache.”

FIFTEEN

A
s always, it took Sir John quite some time to work his way through the throng of colleagues in the overheated courtroom and the chilled corridor outside.

Stefanie bore her burden of books and papers and hung respectfully back, as every possible member of the English bar shook her employer’s eminent hand and congratulated him with the same words:
Splendid show, Worthington. Had me riveted. By God, what an extraordinary case.

She shifted the stack to one arm and lifted her hand to stifle a yawn.

“Quite a crowd here today, isn’t there?”

“Hatherfield! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Stefanie juggled desperately, struggling to hold her precious legal resources while her skin flushed hot and her heart scrambled upward to attempt escape through her throat. She had parted from Hatherfield in perfect composure at the area entrance to Sir John’s town house at seven thirty-five this morning; now, at four o’clock, all she could remember was the fervid beauty of the marquess’s face when she had opened her eyes on the floor of the boathouse and climaxed around his thick finger.

His finger, which was now joined with its brothers to pry the books and papers from her hands. “I’ll take those for you.”

She pulled away. “You will not! What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you’re about to drop those papers, and then where will your poor Mr. Northcote be? In the dock, a proven molester of hard-pressed wives, with God only knows how many years of prison to come.”

There was an unmistakable irony in his voice.

She gathered her wobbling stack securely. “You witnessed the opening arguments, I presume.”

“I had that honor. Though I must admit, I mostly witnessed you.” He lifted his thumb and brushed the very end of her cheekbones.

“What the devil are you doing?” she hissed.

“Admiring you.”

“You’re not supposed to be doing that. At the moment, I mean.”

“How can I help it? I . . . oh, I say. Mr. Wright. Can it really be you, out of the countinghouse in the middle of the day?”

Stefanie whipped around, setting the papers to wobbling again. A tall and saturnine man stood before them, dressed in charcoal gray, glowering keenly at Hatherfield.

“Hatherfield,” he said. “What a charming waistcoat.”

“Isn’t it, though?” The marquess spread his arms. “I do love this particular shade of rose pink, don’t you? I had my tailor search for weeks. Marvelous fellow, my tailor. Have you met my charming young companion, Mr. Thomas? Law clerk to none other than Sir John Worthington himself, and a more extravagant set of eyelashes you’ll never encounter. Just look at the delightful curve of them.”

The books and papers fell to the floor in a catastrophic cascade.

“Oh, my poor dear fellow!” Hatherfield dropped to his knees and began to gather them up. “Mr. Wright, do leave off that scowling. You’re flustering Mr. Thomas’s delicate nerves.”

“My nerves are not delicate,” said Stefanie. “I’ll take those papers, if you don’t mind.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Wright drawled. “Is that a carnation in your buttonhole, your lordship? Wherever did you find it, at this time of year?”

Hatherfield straightened with his arms full of books, which he placed tenderly in Stefanie’s arms. “I find, Mr. Wright, that if one wants something badly enough, deep down in the heart of one’s soul, why, one must have it. Whatever the cost.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Stefanie said.

Hatherfield bestowed a fond glance on the top of her head. “My dear Stephen. Such ironic wit. Did you enjoy today’s proceedings, Mr. Wright?”

“I found them rather distasteful, in fact. That Northcote fellow ought to be hanged.”

Hatherfield smoothed his well-tailored sleeve. “Forbidden love is not to your taste, then? You’ve never felt the harsh shadow of society’s disapproval on your choice of companion?”

“I disapprove of adultery, Lord Hatherfield, and whatever the actual facts of the case, adultery itself is not in dispute.”

Hatherfield sighed and looked lyrically into Stefanie’s eyes. “One cannot choose whom one loves.”

“I beg to differ. One chooses what one bloody well decides to choose.” Mr. Wright’s voice matched his expression: as hard as marble.

“Ah, Mr. Wright. A man who can say that doesn’t know what it means to love.” He raised his chest for another sigh.

Stefanie cut it short. “What nonsense, Lord Hatherfield. I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. And I really believe I must be going; Sir John will shortly require my assistance.” She peered through the crowd, as if expecting it to part and release her employer. Which, alas, it showed no signs of doing.

“Ah, work. What a ghastly word.” Hatherfield shook his head. “I suppose you arrived here today for a respite yourself, Mr. Wright?”

“On the contrary. I had business here this afternoon.”

“What sort of business?”

“I believe I’m conducting it right now, your lordship.”

“Oh? I can’t think what you mean. Are you speaking of the trial? Do you have a personal interest in our naughty dustman and his affairs? I urge you to discretion, as my dear Stephen is employed for the defense.”

“My interest is not with the dustman. But I believe I have taken enough of your valuable time, Lord Hatherfield. My questions have been answered to my satisfaction, or rather to my dissatisfaction.”

“Really?” Hatherfield spread his hands. “What question was that, Mr. Wright?”

“A certain rumor that had reached my ears. Of no consequence, really. I am not a man to be denied by mere trifles.” He lifted his hat. “Good day, your lordship. Good day, Mr. Thomas.”

He raked Stefanie over with his sharp black eyes, and melted into the crowd.

“What,” said Stefanie, turning to Hatherfield, her face flushed hot enough to boil water, “the bloody hell was that?”

“Oh, Mr. Wright? An old friend.”

“The way you were speaking to him. That tone of voice.” She looked at the carnation in his buttonhole. She hadn’t really noticed it before. How long had he been sporting such a thing? All winter? And his waistcoat. She thought it rather handsome, in fact, when she troubled herself to contemplate the clothes he was wearing, rather than the promising expanse of masculine bone and muscle that lay beneath.

But pink? With all those stripes?

Whatever did he mean by it?

“If you must know,” said Hatherfield, “my father, or rather my stepmother, owes Mr. Wright a rather large sum of money. I believe they found the means to put him off for a few months, but he likes to turn up now and again, to make sure I haven’t forgotten the obligation.”

“But it’s not your obligation, is it?”

“It will be, eventually, won’t it?” Hatherfield was gazing thoughtfully at the spot where Mr. Wright had disappeared a moment earlier.

An awful suspicion took hold of Stefanie’s heart. Hadn’t she wondered all these weeks about his scruples, about his refusal to engage her affection, to even speak of an understanding between them, even this morning when he had indisputably demonstrated his attraction to her? And he was a son with a father still living, in expectation but without possession yet of his inheritance.

She leaned an inch or two closer. “Hatherfield, look at me. Are you in need of funds?”

He turned to her with an expression of mild horror. “Good heavens, Stephen. What a question. Of course not.”

“Because . . . it doesn’t matter.” How could she phrase this, in a corridor full of people? She said, in a brusque voice, as if discussing the weather, “As it happens, I have a fortune.”

“A fortune? How clever of you. Of no concern to me, however. Did you happen to regard the expression on your client’s face, as the prosecution was listing his sins? They put the matter so tidily, I was tempted to string him up on the spot.”

“Luckily, he has Sir John to defend him, or he would be at the mercy of the instant judgment of men like yourself,” she said acidly.

Hatherfield looked away again, into the distance. “Yes. How good of him.”

“Without a fair defense for all, our system of justice is nothing.”

“Indeed. Do you have your note ready?”

Someone crashed into Stefanie’s back, began to swear, and caught the expression on Hatherfield’s face. “I beg your pardon, sirs!” he said, white-faced, and hurried away.

Stefanie tried to speak softly. “The note to my sister?”

“Yes. I shall endeavor to deliver it this week.” He was still looking away. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“This week? Why not tonight?”

“Because I have also received an interesting communication of my own on the matter. Something that rather changes the rules of the game entirely.”

He said the words so calmly, it took Stefanie a second or two to understand his meaning. Her blood jumped in her veins. She had to restrain herself from dropping the papers again and grasping his arm. “A message! What sort of message? From my sister?”

He slid a square card from his pocket and handed it to her.

The Duke of Olympia

requests the honor of your attendance

Wednesday, the twenty-first of February

at eight o’clock in the evening

to celebrate the Engagement of his Niece

Her Royal Highness,

the Princess Emilie of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof

to His Grace, the Duke of Ashland

She looked up. “Oh, Hatherfield! Do you think . . .”

“You’re not going.”

“The devil I’m not!”

“We will discuss this elsewhere.”

“But . . .”

“
Elsewhere
, Stephen.” His voice went dark.

Sir John broke through the crowd at that instant. “Good Lord, what a crush. Like one of your stepmother’s damned parties, Hatherfield. Is my carriage ready?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stefanie.

“Excellent.” He struck out in the direction of the doorway, without even bothering to ascertain whether the two of them were following him. He lifted his wig from his head and thrust it into his briefcase. An attendant swung open the door before him just in time to avoid being steamrolled. “You will join us for dinner in Cadogan Square, of course, won’t you, Hatherfield?” he said, over his shoulder.

“Of course.” He shook Sir John’s hand. “Good afternoon, sir. Your usual fine performance in court today, defending the indefensible.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” said Sir John, with genuine pleasure. He paused, and Stefanie could have sworn that his jowls made a disapproving waggle. “Is that a pink carnation in your buttonhole, Lord Hatherfield? In February?”

The marquess looked down, smiled, and adjusted the flower. “Why, yes, Sir John. Yes, it is.”

B
y the time Hatherfield arrived back at his rooms, Nelson had already laid out his soap and razor and dinner dress. He shaved and dressed and sleeked his hair neatly back. His scrubbed face gazed back at him from the mirror. How he had once hated that face. As a young man on the brink of adulthood, he had often longed to take that razor in his hand and slash away at all that perfection, all that symmetry and beauty. Surely a few good scars would do the trick.

He was glad, now, that he had not. He had this to give Stefanie, at least. Surely his beautiful face would compensate, in some small way, for the rot within.