Her Protector's Pleasure (42 page)

"Black." Shivering, Marianne said, "I have to go to him, Helena. I have to discharge myself from his debt before I am free to go to Ambrose."

"You are certain you cannot tell Mr. Kent about this?" Helena frowned.

Marianne shook her head adamantly. "Black hates the law and Charleys in particular. I can't endanger Ambrose in that fashion. Besides, there's nothing he can do in this situation, and if he tries to challenge Black ..." She refused to have Ambrose hurt again because of her. "I gave Black my pledge, and I must honor it."

"You have a point. Male bravado can unnecessarily complicate things." Helena chewed on her lip. "Let us go together, then, and find out what this Mr. Black wants."

"You'll come with me?"

"Of course. After all," the marchioness said with a glint of mischief in her eyes, "it wouldn't be the first time you and I shared an adventure together, would it?"

*****

With Helena at her side, Marianne entered Black's domain. This time, he was waiting for them in a sumptuous breakfast room.

He rose from the end of the long table, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Today his stout figure was swathed in an old-fashioned banyan made of green silk; in lieu of his usual periwig, a small yellow turban was perched on his shorn head.

His eyes narrowed. "Wasn't expecting company this early else I'd 'ave dressed for the occasion."

"I am sorry to intrude, Mr. Black," Marianne said, "but I have an urgent matter to discuss with you."

"That's a familiar tune, ain't it?" Snorting, Black's gaze shifted to Helena. "Who's she?"

"Forgive my manners. This is my friend, the Marchioness of Harteford."

Helena inclined her head. "Good day, Mr. Black."

"Harteford, eh? Met your husband once. Not a bad sort for a nob," their host said. "Well, since you're both 'ere, pull up a seat. Plenty o' food to go 'round."

Perching upon a chair, Helena began, "Thank you, we have breakfasted—"

"Woman in your condition ought to keep 'er energy up." Black forked up some eggs. "Eatin' for two, ain't you?"

Helena's jaw dropped. Cheeks pink, she looked helplessly at Marianne.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Black. We shan't be staying long. I have come with only one purpose in mind," Marianne said. "The matter of my debt to you."

Black slurped from his cup. "What about it?"

"I've come to discuss the terms."

"The terms are for me to decide, not the other way 'round."

Taking a breath for courage, Marianne sat up very straight. "I will not share your bed, sir."

Black choked on a mouthful of food. Bits sprayed out as he thundered, "You won't share
my bed
, you say?"

"No." Though she trembled inside, she said firmly, "Circumstances have changed for me, Mr. Black. I cannot betray the man I love. You will have to think of some other way that I may repay you."

"What the bloody 'ell gave you the idea I wanted to tup you in the first place?" Glaring at her, Black swiped his mouth with the sleeve of his banyan.

"Oh. Well. I just assumed … that is, most men …" Marianne faltered.

"Got a 'igh opinion o' yourself, don't you? Little hussy!" Pushing from the table, Black stalked to the sideboard, muttering to himself as he filled another plate. "Me—a cradle-robbin' lecher! Imagine that!"

Marianne exchanged an uneasy glance with Helena.

"Sir," Helena said, "if an … intimate favor doesn't interest you, what
would
you like?"

Black's plate thumped onto the table. He scowled at them both. "I ne'er said I didn't want an intimate favor."

Marianne swallowed. "I already said, I will not—"

"Oh, get your guts out o' the gutter. I'm not talkin' 'bout bed sport." Black's eyes rolled toward his turban. "Is that all you fillies can think about?"

Marianne blushed. "Then by
intimate
you're referring to …?"

"My daughter Mavis is gettin' hitched. After all she went through with 'er last 'usband—may the bastard rot in 'ell—I want to send 'er off in style. A weddin' fit for a princess."

Marianne looked at him blankly. "And how can I help?"

"Well, look at you." Black gestured at her with his fork. "Got style in spades, don't you? Practically drippin' from your pores. You know where to get the best—and that's what I want for my Mavis. The best."

"You want me to … take your daughter
shopping
?"

Black frowned. "Bit more involved than that. I want you to plan the whole bloody thing from top to bottom. Got to 'ave the best food, best guests, best music—I want it to be the best damn weddin' this town 'as ever laid eyes on."

Relief and joy bubbled through Marianne. Giddily, she got to her feet and crossed to Black. "It'll be the most stylish affair of the Season, I can promise you that." Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, sir!"

"There'll be none o' that—told you I weren't no lecher." Though Black shooed her away, his jowls reddened. "My Mavis, she's a good girl. Could use some females o' quality in 'er circle."

"We'll be pleased to make her acquaintance," Helena said, smiling.

Black nodded. "Good. It's settled then."

Marianne laughed … because it was.

And she was finally
free
.

FORTY-SIX

After the meeting with Black, Marianne returned home, brimming with excitement. She was eager to see Ambrose, to confess her heart. But he wasn't there. According to Emma, he'd stepped out and hadn't left direction. Marianne bided her time, allowing the girls to gleefully trounce her at Spillikins and Fox and Geese. When Ambrose did not return by supper, however, she began to worry. After the meal, she tucked Primrose in bed, left her in Tilda's care, and went in search of him.

She began at Wapping Station; no one had seen him there all day. Johnno suggested a nearby pub—but Ambrose wasn't there either. Finally, she headed to his apartment. She rapped on the peeling door, her belly twisting.

What if he's not here? What if something's happened to him?

On the fifth knock, the door opened.

Ambrose's lean frame filled the doorway. His hair was scruffy and his jaw stubbly with the beginnings of a night beard. His collar lay unlaced, revealing his strong throat and a glimpse of his hair-dusted chest. His trousers had seen better days, and his large, masculine feet were bare.

Lord, he was beautiful. Her pulse thumped harder.

"What are you doing here, Marianne?" he said.

She blinked at his curt tone. Not exactly the passionate welcome she'd been hoping for. Her confidence dimmed a little, but she said lightly, "You aren't in the middle of a rendezvous, are you? I know all your sisters now, so you shan't be able to use that excuse this time around."

"There's no one here but me."

"May I come in?" she said.

His lashes veiled his gaze. "If you like."

She followed him into the cramped space with mounting nervousness. Ambrose's manner was ... different. He'd oft called her a
selkie
, but now it seemed that he was the one who'd shed his skin. His usual steady warmth was missing; in its place was that smoldering intensity that never failed to arouse her ... and alarm her, just a little.

But she'd never seen Ambrose quite in this state. When he'd allowed his dominant side to show at other times, it had still been controlled, honed. Tonight, 'twas as if his self-restraint and patience had reached their limits. He was a male on the edge, and she had the fretful thought that she'd finally pushed him beyond reason. Worse yet, had he given up on her? Having suffered so much at her hands, had he decided she wasn't worth the trouble?

Her insides chilled. Licking her lips, she glanced blindly around the Spartan room. It remained unchanged from her last visit, with the exception of the pallet he'd moved next to the fire. A bottle of whiskey and a book lay on the floor beside it. Fighting nerves, she peered down at the title.

"Dante. Cheerful choice," she said.

"It suited my mood."

When he didn't elaborate, she said awkwardly, "We missed you at supper. Monsieur Arnauld made your favorite,
boeuf bourginon.
"

"I wasn't fit for company." His thumbs hitched behind his braces, and his brooding gaze bored into hers. "Why have you come, Marianne?"

"I ... I thought we should talk. Before you leave for Chudleigh Crest."

What was going on behind that amber gaze? She'd gotten accustomed to interpreting his expressions, yet at the moment she couldn't read him at all.

"Go ahead and talk," he said.

Her pulse a furious staccato, she said, "We haven't been alone this past week. And there are things we should discuss. About our relationship."

His mouth compressed. "You're right. Let's finish it, then."

Finish it?
What did he mean by
that
?

She swallowed. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

"Not nearly enough." The bitterness in his smile—so foreign—caused her heart to squeeze. "Now what was it you came here to say? Or should I say it for you?"

"You
know
what I wish to say?" That made her lift her brow.

He returned her look with a sardonic one of his own. "First, you want to thank me for all I have done for you and Primrose."

"True," she allowed.

"You want to tell me you've enjoyed our time together. The pleasure we've shared."

His bright gaze dared her to disagree, but why would she when he spoke the truth?

"A great deal of pleasure, I should think," she said softly.

He flinched, as if her words had caused him physical pain. He straightened his shoulders, met her eyes. "Be that as it may, you have responsibilities. A daughter to think of." His lashes grazed his cheek. "And you want to remind me that we've never made promises to one another."

Her throat thickened. "Haven't we?"

His gaze snapped back to hers. "Don't play games with me, Marianne. It doesn't suit you," he said tersely. "You and I both know you've committed nothing to me."

She ached fiercely for the hurt she saw in his beautiful eyes. And his courage and innate heroism struck her once more: he'd given her so much—her daughter, her very life back—with no expectation of receiving anything in return. On a flash of insight, she realized that she was dealing with a wounded male. Her skin tingled with remorse and love ... so much love.

"But
you
have," she said, her voice tremulous. "You have committed something to me. You said you loved me, Ambrose."

A weaker man might have taken back those words. Excused them as a moment's folly, meaningless sentiment uttered in the heat of passion.

Ambrose only shook his head. "I cannot do this anymore. I can't live for the moment. The mistake was mine in thinking that I could." His hands balled at his sides. "I'm a simple man, Marianne, with simple wants. And I see now that what I want is not possible with you."

"Why not?" she whispered, reaching for him.

He took a step back. "No ... don't. This ends now. You and I both know that is what is best for Primrose. For you."

"
You're
best for us," she said softly. "I want you, Ambrose."

A spasm crossed his features. "You can't have me, Marianne. I'll not be content to share your bed as the moment suits. I want—nay, I
deserve
—more."

"You deserve everything," she agreed. "Everything and more. If you give me a chance, I vow I'll do my utmost to give it to you."

He stared at her. "What are you saying?"

"I love you." Strange how she'd held onto those words with such trepidation; now they left her lips with no hesitation at all. With nothing but a rush of liberation and joy.

"I love you so very much, Ambrose," she said steadily, "and if you will have me, I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that to you. I'll never give you cause for regret. I'll make myself worthy of your name, if you bestow it upon me."

She saw the fire kindling in his eyes, the sudden flare of hope. Yet his hands stayed clenched at his sides.

"You cannot mean that," he said. "You have Primrose to think of. Lady Harteford was right: your daughter needs the protection of wealth, a title."

"You heard our conversation?" she said, frowning.

Though he flushed, his gaze did not waver. "Enough of it to know that you spoke nothing but the truth. I—I can't give you and Primrose a position in society. I can't provide for you, not in the style you are accustomed to."

"I don't need you to provide for us. I have plenty of money," she said. "As for Primrose, I've decided that her happiness is more important than what the
ton
thinks. We'll have our friends and our detractors, and that is the way of life. Primrose will do well to learn that lesson early on." She gave him a wistful smile. "What she needs is a father—a good, decent man to protect and love her."

"I failed to keep you safe. I exposed Primrose to harm."

At his stark words, she looked at him in surprise. "How can you say that? Thanks to your ingenuity, you saved us both. You freed us from Coyner once and for all."

His throat worked, and she saw how much he was struggling between his principles and his desires. Between what he thought was right and his own happiness. Silly man, didn't he realize they were one and the same? Shamelessly, she played her trump card.

"My daughter needs you, but
I
need you even more," she said, her voice breaking just a little. "I need to fall asleep in your arms each night and to wake with you beside me. I need your advice, even though I won't always heed it. I need to share your laughter and your woes and to be a part of the family we will create together." Blinking away sudden moisture, she said, "Most of all, Ambrose, I need you to love me as much as I love you."

Her breath came fitfully as silence followed her declaration. She'd exposed her heart: stripped away the layers, left herself vulnerable and without defense. If he didn't want her, if he no longer loved her—