Anne O'Brien (28 page)

‘It must seem so to you—a pointless masquerade.’

Sarah raised her chin, holding his eyes with her own. ‘Marianne said to tell you that she is no longer engaged in…in the activities of before. And that her brother is dead. She said that you would understand.’ Deadly cold inched its way through her veins to the very tips of her fingers. As insidious as a thick mist that blocked her vision, shrouded her brain so that she could not think. It numbed her senses, yet strangely she could sense the searing flames of anger begin to flicker and flare within her.

‘Yes, I understand. Come here.’ Joshua took a step, held out his hand to take possession of one of hers. ‘Come and sit.’ He would have led her to a daybed, conscious of her extreme pallor.

‘No. I will not sit with you. Tell me why you allowed me to think that your wife was dead.’

He resisted when she would have pulled her hand from his grasp, shocked by the hurt in her face. But what right did he have to be shocked? The hurt was of his own making. ‘Sarah—’

‘Let me go!’ The banked fury suddenly ignited within her, consuming in that one instant all her intentions to continue this discussion in a state of cool composure. ‘You have lied and deceived me from the first day that you married me. I should hate you for that.’ And instead she had loved him. Still loved him, to her shame. And he had lied. Exhaustion at the end of a long day took its toll as she was forced to accept the disintegration of all she had hoped for from her marriage. Without thought she allowed anger and despair to rule. And Sarah struck out. The flat of her free hand made firm contact with his cheek, the sharp slap sounding loud in the quiet room.

After a long moment of astounded silence, Sarah gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Joshua, equally amazed at this unex
pected attack, flinched but did not step away. He dropped his hand from hers. The pain of her rejection to his heart was far greater than the sting of the blow to his face.

‘I should not have done that,’ her voice little more than a whisper, her cheeks even more ashen. Sarah was mortified, could have wished the ground to open and swallow her up, but held her ground. She refused to let her gaze drop but held his, her eyes full of anguish for herself, for the apparently unbridgeable chasm that now separated them ‘I have never raised my hand against anyone in my life. I need to ask your pardon—’

‘No! Don’t ask that.’ Joshua’s reply was harsh, but the temper was not directed toward her. His eyes were bright with understanding of the shock that had drawn his gentle wife to so uncharacteristic an action. ‘Many would say, and rightly, that I deserved it.’ He inclined his head in an oddly formal acknowledgement, knowing in the depths of his heart that he deserved far worse. ‘Don’t let it trouble your conscience overmuch. It does not compare with the sins that I have committed against you.’
And must still hide.
His mouth twisted in bitter self-contempt.

Sarah clasped her hands together, white-knuckled. ‘I should not have done it. But I think that you have married me under false pretences. I need to know what you have hidden from me.’

‘I will tell you what I can.’ His eyes remained on her face. ‘Marianne de Colville was involved in espionage for the French government. Her role was to infiltrate our own government organisations to discover what might be British policy in France. Principally whether there were any of our own politicians who would support a rescue of Bonaparte from St Helena. It has to be said that she was not a willing spy, but her brother had been involved in some foolish enterprise and this was used by the French as a lever to ensure Marianne’s compliance. If she obeyed orders, her brother—younger and ridiculously idealistic—would remain free.’

‘And now he is dead.’

‘So it seems. Marianne will no longer be under any compul
sion.’ Joshua shrugged and walked away to look down into the dying fire. ‘The rest of it is not something of which I am proud, even though I had no knowledge of the deception. It was decided that I would be a useful contact for the lady. She set her sights on me, using all her female charms—of which she has many—and I was attracted to her. I asked her to marry me. Which was exactly what she and her French masters wanted.’

‘She said that she loved you.’

‘Did she?’ He raised his head to look across the room. ‘You appear to have had a remarkably detailed and intimate conversation with the lady in the circumstances. But no matter. Unfortunately the state of her heart is irrelevant. Marianne would have married me whether she loved me or no. It is what her masters desired.’

‘But why
you
?’

‘As a member of the English aristocracy I would automatically present Marianne as my wife with recognition and entrée into every circle in London’s polite society. Both the social scene and the political gatherings. It would make her task so much easier to determine where the English interests might lie.’ It was not quite the whole truth, but it would have to do.

He fell into silence as if his mind was taken up with events in the past—and with no degree of pleasure. Sarah simply waited.

‘Our marriage lasted until 1817. God knows what information she passed on. But then Marianne’s cover was compromised. A letter went astray and the code was broken. It was discovered that she was working for the French government. It became important that her connection with me be brought to an end.’

‘So why not divorce her openly?’ Sarah raised her hands, still unable to see the need for such subterfuge. ‘Simply tell everyone the truth. Make up some excuse of infidelity, if necessary. Such a reason is hardly unknown.’

Joshua sighed. He had known all along that it would come
to this sticking point. ‘There was a desire in…in certain circles to cover up the whole episode.’ He answered carefully, choosing his words. ‘The fact that Marianne had so successfully infiltrated those circles was seen as a humiliation. Not something to be broadcast or to draw attention to. It was easier for them if Marianne was simply to die a convenient and political death. To disappear quietly, rather than a more public divorce that might divulge some undesirable information. Marianne’s employers wished to make use of her again under a different name. So it suited their purposes also.’

‘So you divorced her and pretended she was dead.’ Her voice was flat and cold.

‘Yes. She retired to her family’s home. No scandal, no talk, no interest. End of situation. Just as they wanted.’

‘But
who
? Which circles?’

‘I am not free to tell you, Sarah.’

‘Why not?’ She fought the almost overwhelming compulsion to shriek at her inability to batter down the wall that separated them.

‘Forgive me. I am not at liberty to divulge who might be involved. All I can ask is that you have faith in me.’ Now he turned fully to face her again, his eyes bleak, almost without hope. ‘Trust me if you can—and accept that whatever the secrets which I am forced to keep, they do not affect my relationship with you.’

Sarah huffed out a breath and began to pace the floor as if her emotion was too great to contain within her slight frame. ‘It is a great deal to ask. I am no longer sure exactly what our relationship is!’ She thought for a moment, then angled a glance over her shoulder. ‘Was I being followed in London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have anything to do with it?’

‘Never. On my honour.’

‘Do you have any honour?’ She ignored his wince and took a turn around the room. Privately he considered that she looked
magnificent in her disdain for his behaviour, but his heart was filled with dread at her stark words. ‘Can you tell me why?’

‘I can. Because of your connection with Henry and your residence in New York. It was thought that you might have links with political groups there, particularly those with republican leanings. Perhaps you were attempting to succeed where Marianne had ultimately failed. To acquire information through your marriage to me. Our marriage was frowned upon.’

Her eyes widened in disbelief, colour creeping back into her cheeks. ‘By these
same circles
, I presume. Which you are not free to discuss!’ She laughed, a brief, harsh sound that expressed no amusement. Her eyes blazed with inner fire. ‘I have never heard anything quite so ridiculous! Do you believe that of me?’

‘No.’

‘So much subterfuge. So many lies.’ Her perambulations continued. Then, on another thought, with a stern frown: ‘Why are we here in Paris?’

He shook his head.

‘Another forbidden subject, I see. Is it dangerous?’

‘Not for you.’ He hoped and prayed that it would be so.

‘But for you?’

‘Unlikely.’ He had no intention of discussing this questionable area with its threats and uncertainties.

‘I see. Will you tell me one more thing?’ She was relentless.

‘If I can.’

‘What is Marianne to you now?’

‘Nothing. I have not seen her since our divorce—until tonight.’

‘Do you love her? Do you still love her?’ She had to know.

‘No.’ It was a simple denial, yet Sarah could sense the rightness in the word. As she could read the weight of pain of the betrayal in his beloved face, however adept he might be at hiding it. And she knew for certain with his final words. ‘It is difficult to love where you have been used—for personal or political motives.’

‘And the Countess of Wexford?’ She would not let him off the hook yet, even though she suspected that she knew some of the truth in this relationship.

‘Ah—the fair and vindictive Olivia.’ His smile was as humourless as that of the lady who faced him with such compelling determination to unveil all. Her words had struck hard, a deadly blow, with their ring of veracity. He had no honour and she was intent on stripping away all pretence. No honour unless it was that he would give his life to protect her if it became necessary. But she must not know of that possibility either. ‘No, Sarah. The Countess is not my mistress. Nor was she ever.’

‘But she is somehow involved.’

‘Sarah… There is so much I am not free to tell you. But I will soon. I promise you.’ He would beg if he had to. ‘But I would tell you this. I will do all in my power to keep you safe. I will never renege on the vows that I made on the day I married you. I will compromise neither
your
honour nor your reputation. When I can I will lay everything before you. Can you trust me? I know I deserve nothing from you, but have to ask your forbearance. I beg that you will not turn your back against me.’
And one day, when it is all finished, I will consider myself free to tell you that I love you.

Sarah walked the length of the room and back, struck by the thinly controlled anguish in her lord’s voice. And knew that it was not within her power to throw such avowals back into his face, knowing what it must have cost a man of such pride as Joshua Faringdon to bare his soul this night, to strip himself of all honour and veracity. So she made her decision, not lightly, but because she knew that she must. And because, notwithstanding all the revelations of the night, her heart was still within his keeping. ‘Very well. I will give you that assurance. Since I have discovered that you did not murder your first wife.’ Sarah allowed the faintest glimmer of humour to creep into her face.

For the first time that night Joshua laughed, the muscles in
his belly uncoiling with the relief of her simple statement of acceptance. He would have covered the space between them, taken her hands again within his own, but knew that he must wait for her to make the decision, for her to come to him. To make that all-important step across the dark divide that could so easily have destroyed any hope for their future life together.

‘I owe you so great a debt of gratitude.’ He lifted a hand toward her in hope and encouragement. ‘You will never know, Sarah. Your courage astounds me. I deserve neither your forgiveness nor your compliance.’

She saw the pain and hurt still evident in his face. The skin stretched taut across those magnificent cheekbones, the dark glitter of those predatory eyes as he waited for her response. Yes, he had lied and deceived. But she thought that he had not found the deception an easy task. Shadows remained between them, she knew, areas of his life still deliberately hidden from her. But he had told her of Marianne and, to some extent, of Olivia Wexford. And there, she knew deep within her that she had heard the truth. And she, poor fool perhaps, clouded by love, believed him.

So she walked forward. When he did likewise, to meet her, and bowed his head to touch his mouth to hers she did not pull away, but lifted a hand to caress the cheek which she had so recently struck in anger.

It was impossible not to acknowledge the issues that still remained to hurt and divide, yet it was with silent and mutual agreement that they came together. Their eyes spoke where their words might not. Their hands bridged the otherwise unbridgeable abyss out of a desire to comfort, out of a need to hold and be held, touch and be touched, to reassure that they could bring pleasure to each other. That the shadows could not destroy totally the fragile unity that had come to bind them in the weeks since their marriage. They knew that for a short time the demands of the world could be blotted out, erased within the smaller intimate world created by them both, one for the other, within the silk hangings and cool linen of the bed.

So Joshua and Sarah came together, clothing and costly jewels quickly discarded, with slow kisses, light caresses, murmured words of acceptance. His kisses on her mouth, on the subtle planes of her face, warmed and teased, allowing no lingering strain between them, his hands so exquisitely considerate of her sensitive skin, awakening her to her own needs. Sarah sighed and purred beneath him, stretching against him in glorious anticipation. He made her feel desired and beautiful, handling her as if she were indeed a precious gem that he valued highly. For those moments of passion in his arms she could pretend that it was indeed so. Could pretend that his emotions were as strongly engaged as hers and that he loved her. What harm would it do to deceive herself for a few short moments? Images of Marianne and the Countess of Wexford, which had haunted her days and nights, now faded into the reality of that long sweet loving. A loving that was slow and tender, all passion restrained, the fire of need banked.