His Lady Mistress (33 page)

Black horror gaped before her. ‘He promised their mother that Richard should inherit?’

‘On her deathbed.’ She went on with devastating candour. ‘Now of course you will be able to indulge your
liaison
with Braybrook without fear of repercussions.’

Braybrook? Verity stared at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Oh, don’t play the
ingénue
with me, girl! With his child safely in your belly, Max won’t care if you play him false if you’re careful. Assuming it
is
his child! A pregnant wife is the safest of all possible targets for a rake like Braybrook. Most husbands will turn a blind eye to a discreet
affaire
. No doubt Max only stepped in at the Torringtons’ to save his own face.’

Verity heard very little after that. Vaguely she was aware that Lady Arnsworth had left. That she was alone again.

Grimly she faced the appalling reality of her situation. She was pregnant. With a child her husband most definitely didn’t want. Her vision blurred. She had caused him to break a promise given to his mother in circumstances he must consider inviolable. He would see himself as forsworn. Dishonoured.

Max had agreed to a separation. And she was pregnant. Tonight. She must tell him tonight. Her hand clenched on the arm of her chair. Tonight of all nights. Her birthday was bad enough without this to tell him. Each year she had relived the nightmare of this night alone. The shot. The discovery of her father’s body. And the guilt. There had never been anyone to hold her. To tell her that it hadn’t been her fault.

The clock on her chimney piece chimed three times. Max had returned an hour ago, but he still hadn’t come up. Shivering, she huddled in her chair, watching the clock, all her senses at the stretch. The half-open door gaped blackly at the edge of her vision, taunting her.

Never before had she needed so desperately to be held, to be reassured. Why now? Always she had made quite sure no one realised how this anniversary tormented her. She didn’t
need
anyone. She had always managed alone.

A shudder ripped through her as she realised that she had survived this each year by remembering Max and his tender care of her at that dreadful grave. She had clung to that memory. But now she needed
him
. His arms, his deep voice. Just to hear the words spoken…
It wasn’t your fault
.

She might never believe them, but it would be a comfort to think that someone else did. It was comfort she could not have. She had to tell him about her pregnancy and she could no longer hide behind the pretence that she was merely waiting for him to come up. Fear twisted into a tight knot. She was frightened to confess and see the horror and fury in his eyes.

Shivering, she pulled on her dressing gown, picked up a candle and slipped out into the dim, silent corridor. Clipstone had long since snuffed the wall sconces and gone to bed. Reaching the library, she set her candle down on a side table and opened the door very quietly to peep in.

Time rolled back, into a nightmare she had never fully escaped. The familiar silent figure sitting in his shirtsleeves in the flickering glow of the fire, a wine table at his elbow bearing a full glass and a nearly empty decanter. A broken cry escaped as the past leapt to hellish life.
Not Max. Not him too.

At the ragged sound he turned and she bit back another cry as she saw his face. Angry, bitter, the usually bright eyes dulled. His cravat was askew and his waistcoat hung open.

‘Max?’ she whispered. He had never done this before, had he? Why now? Why
this
night of all nights?

He blinked owlishly. ‘Verity?’

Her own pain doubled and redoubled in the space of a heartbeat as she saw his, heard it in the cracking of his voice. She remembered his affection for her father, his belief that he had been partially responsible. Without further thought she sped across the room and knelt beside him, wriggling into his arms. ‘Oh, Max. I’m sorry. I never realised how badly you must feel it. Please. You mustn’t blame yourself.’ The
reek of stale brandy shocked her as his arms closed around her, dragging her even closer. She could feel him pressing clumsy kisses on her hair, her brow, her temple, anywhere he could reach. Caring for nothing except the driving need to comfort him, she raised her face and gasped in shock as his mouth crashed down on hers, possessing it with savage urgency.

Desperately she returned his kiss, sensing his need and surrendering to her own. A need for comfort, a sense of belonging. His arms imprisoned her as he kissed her, ravishing her mouth until she could only cling, helpless in the furnace of their need. Dazed, she barely realised when he slid off the chair and took her down to the floor. Mouth locked to hers, his hands a fire at her breasts.

She could hardly breathe as he released her mouth, but she whispered, ‘I used to think of you every year, how you helped me plant the bluebells…It wasn’t your fault he shot himself. Please, Max. You must believe that. It was my fault…’

His kiss silenced her as he understood what she was saying, why she thought he was drunk. He shouldn’t be doing this. Somewhere beyond the pain and the brandy Max knew that, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care that she had misunderstood his pain. She was his. And he had lost her. She had not come to tell him she had changed her mind. But he would have this, one last night. Her response seared him to the core. She wanted it as badly as he did. For this one night he would have her. Tomorrow would be time enough to hate himself for taking advantage of her vulnerability.

Need raked him. He should slow down, take her gently. But his fingers were tugging at the ribbon of her nightgown, pushing the robe off her shoulders. The bodice gaped open and tore as he pulled it down to expose her breasts. He bent his head, drawing the sweet flesh deep, suckling until he felt her body arch, heard her breath break on a cry of pleasure. It fuelled his own leaping desire, scorching at his control. He couldn’t slow down. He wanted her. Now.

Verity felt the hot rhythm of his mouth at her breast, felt urgency spread, burning through her body as tension coiled tighter and tighter. She wanted him. All of him. But this time pleasure was not enough. It had never been enough. She wanted to give, to give herself without reservation.

She couldn’t bear it. Not again. Even as she felt his hand pushing her nightgown up over her thighs, she cried out in protest. ‘Max…’ Her voice fractured as he scored her tender flesh with his teeth, raking her with fire. ‘Please…no…stop…’

He froze. His mouth lifted from her breast and he stared down at her. ‘Stop?’ His voice was harsh, barely recognisable.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Please…I can’t…’

With a savage curse he lifted away and rolled off of her. He sat up and swore again. ‘That shouldn’t have happened,’ he said tightly. ‘Obviously I’m not as foxed as I thought. Or not enough anyway.’

Her throat closing, she asked, ‘Drunk enough for what?’

‘Drunk enough to look at you without giving in to the temptation to take you.’ A grim laugh shook him at her shocked gasp. ‘Yes. You see, this was about the only way I could think of to control myself—by getting drunk enough so that even if I did succumb, I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it. I thought I could control myself. But I can’t. Every time I lay eyes on you I want you more, so…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’ He reached for the brandy.

He hadn’t wanted her. Or rather he hadn’t wanted to want her. That was worse. He had been prepared to drink himself into oblivion to forget his desire.

He spoke harshly. ‘You had better go. The longer I look at you, the more likely I will forget myself.’

She couldn’t help it—as she looked at him, at the bitter line of his mouth—a single tear escaped her control and burnt its way down her cheek. Verity shuddered as the past swirled
around her and she saw another man who had destroyed himself rather than look at her. Every beat of her heart was a merciless hammer blow as she faced the prospect of watching another man sink into ruin because of her. This time the man she loved. Her husband.

She watched in horror as he emptied his glass. Another tear fell. Max would destroy himself rather than ask her to leave immediately. Six months. She couldn’t watch him do this to himself.

She had been far too young even to understand her father’s despair. Now she did understand how it felt to lose everything you cared about. She understood what it was like to feel a knife twisting deep inside until the pain became part of you. And she was not prepared to inflict that pain on anyone. Ever again.

Her hands numb, she clutched her ruined nightgown around her and grabbed her robe, struggling to guide her arms into the sleeves. Somehow she got to her feet. Max didn’t move as she stumbled to the door, her legs still uncertain in the aftermath of passion.

At the door she looked back, seeing him in a misty blur. He sat staring into the fire. Her blurred gaze took in everything: his broad back, the sleekly muscled shoulders, the dark, slightly curling hair. She remembered how the coarse silk had felt under her fingers, how his body had felt against, around, inside hers. ‘Goodbye, Max,’ she whispered.

‘Left?’ Max winced as Harding pulled back the bed hangings, and wished his head would stop aching. Why in Hades had he drunk so much brandy? ‘And you let her go? Where has she gone?’

Harding’s mouth set hard as he jerked back the curtains with a tooth-jarring rattle. ‘Not exactly easy to stop her, sir. I did ask her to wait until you woke up, but…’

He flushed and turned his attention to opening drawers with what Max could only describe as malice aforethought.

‘But, what?’ demanded Max.

Harding hesitated, then squared his shoulders and said, ‘Well, sir, I got the idea that leaving before you woke up was
why
she was leaving so early. Just gone five it was when the chaise was at the door.’

Horrified, Max looked at the clock. Past two. She could be anywhere by now! ‘Harding, where did she…?’

‘Blakeney, sir. I…I believe she left a note for you. In the library.’

Some slight relief made it possible for Max to breathe again as he strode to the library. Blakeney. That was something. She hadn’t left him. Yet. After last night…He groaned mentally. He couldn’t quite recall what he’d said—she’d come to him. And he’d nearly forced her into submission.

He found the note easily enough, propped up against a vase on the chimney piece. Taking it to the desk, he found his letter knife and broke the seal.

Dearest Max,

Please don’t be angry with Harding for letting me go. He tried very hard to stop me.

I have gone to Blakeney because after last night I think it is better that we do not see each other again. Please believe that I did not come to you with the intention of teasing or tempting you. I know you do not want me as your wife. And I cannot bear to be the cause of further pain for you. Almeria explained to me yesterday afternoon the promise you had made to your mother. I quite understand, Max. If I had known I would never have permitted you to marry me.

If you do not wish to formally dissolve our marriage, could you please let me know upon which of your smaller properties you would wish me to reside. I have no desire to live in London, or anywhere that we may meet each other.

Verity

Shaking, he put the letter down on his desk and stared blindly out of the window. The letter stabbed deep. Her first concern had been to make sure no one else suffered for her actions—not even the servants. He had to go after her. Explain that it wasn’t her fault…that it was his. If she would see him…

She thought he didn’t want her. Last night had been one hurt, one insult too many, even if he hadn’t meant it that way. The knowledge that she had left him hammered in his brain. All he could see was Verity’s stricken eyes, the wound he had dealt her reflected in them, staring up at him, as a single tear spilt over in gut-wrenching silence. He now knew the pain of weeping silently, the dreadful cost of hiding every hurt deep within.

Verity’s voice…
Max, I’m sorry…I never realised how badly you would feel it
…and something else…
I used to think of you every year, how you helped me plant the bluebells…

The significance of the date took him like a bayonet thrust. He closed his eyes in pain as he understood why she had come to him. She had come to him for comfort, unable to bear her pain alone any longer. And he, arrogant fool that he was, had thought to take what he wanted, what he needed.

The knowledge of what he had done splintered inside him, jagged shards tearing him apart. All the time he had thought she didn’t want him, she had believed that
he
didn’t want
her
. Last night her need for comfort had finally brought her to him. And then, despite her own pain, she had offered him comfort. Only to be rejected. Again. One time too many.

There was room in his brain for only one coherent thought. He had to go after her. He had no idea what he was going to say to her, but he’d have to say it anyway. Whatever it took to stop her leaving him.

I cannot bear to be the cause of pain for you.
Would she believe that losing her would be the deepest pain of all?

He’d have to go straight down…He rang the bell and waited, staring at the letter, every smudged word a cry of pain.

‘My lord, Lady Arnsworth is—’

‘Not now, Clipstone!’

Almeria stalked in, her face livid, and Clipstone, gauging the massed firepower with one horrified glance, beat a hasty retreat.

‘Max! I must demand that you cease this ridiculous persecution of the Faringdons! Poor Caroline is distraught! No doubt that wretched girl has told you some farradiddle, and you—’

‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Verity told me nothing. Her grandmother’s lawyer approached me. Whatever the Faringdons may have told you is a pack of lies!’

Radiating outrage, Almeria announced, ‘I shall see your wife myself and tell her exactly how society will view—’