Jayne Fresina (32 page)

“I’m not cold. I’m too hot. That’s why I came out here. The cold air doesn’t bother me.”

“You look pale.”

“Good. Please go back inside.” She opened her broken fan, but her fumbling fingers dropped it and in the blink of an eye he sprang forward, crouched down and rescued it from the flagstone.

Still on one knee, he ripped off his mask and looked into her eyes. “Marry me.”

Voice high and fraught, she exclaimed, “I’m already married.” Those were the words she should have said weeks ago, months ago, and saved them both this heartache.

“That doesn’t count,” he replied airily. “I’ll dispose of the blackguard and you’ll come home with me.”

To him it was simple: he wanted and therefore, being John Sydney Carver, he thought he should have. For Lucy, who’d never even known what she truly wanted until she met him, there were too many complications, insurmountable hills to climb. He could not come here, into her world, and try to change it. Her world was cynical and cold. Courtesy was according to custom and love stood aside for duty, ambition and financial gain. It was a world where one fell in and out of favor in the space of a few days, where one’s friends were abundant in fine weather, scarce in bad. In this world she survived by hardening her heart and presenting an urbane, facile appearance, her inner desires suppressed.

He was out of place in that ugly world and yet he was there, too forthright and plain-spoken, too enchanting, too ruggedly handsome in the rippling, blustery flame of the rush torches. So the best she could do was say, rather weakly, “If my father and Lord Winton discover you here with me…John, you could be killed. At the very least you’ll be sued, ruined.”

She tried to retrieve her fan, but he kept it. Their fingers touched. “You don’t think I can defend myself, Lucy?”

She groaned at his typical male chest-thumping. “I don’t want it to be necessary. I never meant to cause you any harm. That’s the last thing I want.”

He bowed his head, thinking for a while. “And what’s the first thing you want?” he asked quietly.

It welled up in her, burst out over her lips. “If I said it was you, John, what good would it do? In a perfect world, I’d want you.” She bit back her tears, angry at them. “But this world is far from perfect. Just like you and me.”

Chapter 22

John got off his knee and sat with her on the bench. He would have put his arm around her, but she slid away to the end of that small, cold, hard bench.

“How is your mother?” she asked politely, as if this was any other, civilized discussion between two acquaintances.

“She’s well, but suffering the aches and pains of winter.” He paused. “Alice has been a vast help to her this season.”

Her lips parted, but it took a moment for any sound to come out. “Oh?”

“Yes. She just married Martin Frye, by the way. In case you’re interested. Don’t suppose you are, though.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she flipped open her fan, fluttering it under her chin, ignoring the broken strut. “I’m very happy for her. She’s a very…pleasant young woman.”

When he snorted with laughter, she tossed a haughty glare over her fan. “How is Vince?”

“Missing you. Stupid beast got too attached.” Then he added flippantly, “He always does fixate on any old stray glove or bone he digs up.”

She ignored the comment. “And my little Pip?” Flutter, flutter, flappity, flutter went the lame feathers of her fan, wielded as if the sun was beating down on her face and it wasn’t a biting cold night at the very end of October.

“Pip?” He feigned confusion.

“My piglet!”

“Oh him?” He sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his stocky thighs. “He’s bacon.”

The fan snapped shut, eyes filled with plump, glossy tears. “John!”

Abruptly he laughed. “Not really, you little fool. Your pampered pet is fat and happy. Certainly no more a piglet.”

Her alarm shattered, transforming to piquant anger before he could blink an eye. “How could you! I don’t know whether to believe you.”

He slid closer, heart hammering away in his chest. “Best come back to Souls Dryft and make certain then.”

“Get away from me,” she cried, “heartless murderer of innocent pigs!”

Defending himself from her insults yet again, he asked her where she thought bacon and pork came from before it landed on her plate, to which she replied that she didn’t ever have to think of it, until she went to live with him. Now she swore never to let another bite pass her lips.

He tried to recapture her hand, but she moved it constantly, opening and closing her fan, fidgeting with her hair, deliberately denying him the chance.

Of course he knew she’d be difficult, contrary. She always was, from the very beginning. He reached into that fine new doublet. “I bought you something.”

“I….I don’t want…”

He unrolled a small remnant of taffeta and there, in his cupped palm, lay her pearl earrings. “I promised myself I’d put them on you, the next time I saw you.”

Rather than look at the earrings or at him, she stared up at the vast expanse of moonless sky. The sight of her in that mask, her profile lit by the flickering, dodging flames of the rush torches, reminded him of their first encounter and other thoughts, heated and sensual, quickly followed. “But I’ll have you naked first,” he whispered huskily. “And then I’ll make love to you while you’re wearing them, like I did before.” Oh, that made her look at him. “When I took your maidenhead.” Her green eyes widened under that mask, her lips parted for a damp breath, a ghostly cloud around her mouth.

“Don’t say things like that. You mustn’t. Someone might hear.”

He rolled the earrings up again, tucking them back inside his doublet, smiling at the image in his mind. His blood quickened, a familiar sensation already aching in his lower regions, heavy and demanding. “Tonight, leave your window open for me.”

“You’re mad…utterly insane!”

“Possibly,” he agreed, grinning. She was too beautiful in the amber torchlight, and he might just take her there on the terrace if she continued looking at him with her eyes flaring, lips pursed and proud little chin raised in defiance.

She pretended to be so brave, but inside, under that mask, she was a frightened girl who needed him. As much as he needed her.

“I love you so much, I might die from it,” he said. “Then won’t you feel guilty?”

He saw the flutter of a nervous pulse in her slender throat. It was too much to resist, but when he slid after her along the bench, she stood hastily, hurrying toward the doors.

After her like an arrow, he trapped her against the ivy-clad wall. “Don’t run away from me,” he breathed, holding her there, his lips on hers, his words whispered into her mouth. “For once, Lucy, don’t run away. Haven’t you run enough? Face up to it. Face what you’ve done.”

His urgent kiss smothered her indignant cry of protest and very soon she melted against the wall. Her hands, once raised to push him away, now gripped his doublet, pulling him closer. He leaned into her body, wishing they had no barrier of clothing, hating her farthingale for keeping him at any distance. He wanted her back home again in simple, soft clothes, not full of decoration that scratched and discouraged touching.

“Let me love you,” he breathed into her ear, while she trembled. “Let me love you as you deserve to be loved. Isn’t that what you chose me for on that first night? You knew, even then, that I was the right man for you.”

She made a small, halting sound and he felt the final moment of shaking uncertainty, before she gave in. Bolder now, she kissed him and he knew at last the solace he’d longed for. There were no more secrets. He would make up for all those years of unhappiness she’d spent without him, and she could stop running away from her life.

Music from the banquet slowly intruded on his thoughts. Remembering where they were, he stepped back, watching her smooth out her gown. Patience, he chided himself. If he stayed longer he might lose that precious commodity. The touch of her lips had resulted in the usual, almost-instantaneous effect on the single-minded barbarian in his breeches, and if he didn’t get inside quickly, it would soon be past the point of no return. And he was trying to be chivalrous, as he’d promised his sister and his mother.

Without another word, he slid back through the doors into the banquet.

Well, she knew now where he stood and what he wanted. He’d nailed his colors to the mast. The next move was hers.

* * * *
 

She waited several minutes, recovering from that shattering kiss. What a fool she’d been, yet again, to imagine she might forget him eventually, at least enough to go on with her life without him in it. She’d actually expected, somehow, to function while he was elsewhere in the world, away from her, out of her hands.

But it was hopeless. She was a soul in bondage to him and there was no reasoning with this love.

John’s mother had said to her once, “We shall never be younger than we are today.” The truth of it surrounded her, lifted her up out of the abyss. Every moment counted, every breath, every word. She would never waste another and wouldn’t let him either.

Lance found her by the ivy, contemplating her latest predicament: whether her impetuous lover seriously planned to scale her father’s wall and enter her bedchamber that night. And whether she seriously meant to leave her window open for him.

“There you are, Luce. What are you doing out here in the cold?” He took her back inside through the doors where a blast of heat hit her immediately, making her wish she’d stayed outside. The candles seemed too bright, they scorched her eyelids. “Luce, I just have to nip out to the stables a moment. I’ll be back in a blink. You’ll be all right without me, won’t you?”

Her upright brother was evidently in haste for an assignation with Bess Percy who now, she looked quickly around the hall to be sure, was nowhere to be seen. What a coincidence!

“Don’t be gone too long,” she replied, frowning. “I’m tired and not feeling well. I’d like to go home soon.”

“Look, there’s the Countess, she wanted a word with you…”

She looked as he pointed and there was John Carver talking to the Earl again, this time with the Countess at his side, too. What was he doing? What lies had he told to get himself invited to the banquet?

“What’s the matter?” Lance eventually noticed her feet dragging. “I’ll only be a short while. I thought you liked the Countess.”

“Who…who is that man with her?”

“What man?”

“Dark hair. Blue doublet.”

“Oh, that’s her brother from Norfolk. The Earl just introduced me. Name of John Carver.” Lance kept his face quite innocent, but his lips twitched and there was a slight flutter of his dark lashes, so unusually long for a man and always remarked upon, much to his irritation. “Don’t you know him? I rather thought you did. Quite well.”

She didn’t reply. The walls and the dancers began to spin around her too rapidly. So this is why her brother brought her here. Were they all in on it? Her father certainly wouldn’t know.

“Seems like a nice enough fellow,” Lance continued. “Owns quite a few acres in the country and does very well for himself, I understand. Livestock, grain, fruit. Don’t worry, he’s not going to bite.” This said, he hurried away once again into the crowd, leaving her keeling slowly, first to the right and then to the left. Lance didn’t look back, in too much hurry to get his “exercise” with bosomy Bess.

She might have recovered her footing, if one of the dancers had not accidentally knocked into her farthingale. As she tilted a third time, her knees buckled. Eyes rolling up into her head, she rocked backwards, falling through the air for what seemed to her at least a day. Lights danced under her lashes, but they were eventually extinguished by her heavy sigh and then she felt cool tile under her and it all went beautifully, deeply, richly, black.

* * * *

John carried her limp form out to the litter.

“Where did Lancelot go?” the Countess worried. “He was with her earlier.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll take her home and leave a message for her brother.” He wasn’t going to wait for Lance to be found. It was nearly midnight, it was frigid cold and the woman he adored was ill. Gently lowering his sweet bundle to the seat of the litter, he took charge of everything, suggesting he and the Countess ride home with her, while the Earl stayed to inform Lance, once he was found, of his sister’s illness.

After a brief hesitation, the Countess agreed. “I suppose my husband should stay. He’s still so angry at Catherine for avoiding the ball. He says that when she finally shows her face, it’ll be the last time she goes anywhere or does anything without a guard at her side.” Wringing her hands, she fretted for her troublesome daughter, knowing her husband’s wrath and Catherine’s fiery temper. Together, she said, they could cause a windstorm on a breezeless day. “He can find Lancelot and let him know we’ve taken dear Lucy home. That will give him something to do and take his mind off Catherine for a while.”

He didn’t answer, preoccupied in fussing over his charge, making certain she was warmly tucked up in fleece and fur blankets.

“John,” the Countess urged, leaning down to touch his knuckles with her gloved hand, “Don’t do anything rash if Winton is there. For her sake as much as yours.”

He nodded, too worried about Lucy’s health to have any other concern just then.

* * * *

The gentle sway of the horse-drawn litter rocked her like a cradle and in her fragile state, the soft, thick, warm fur he’d tucked around her was calming as a lover’s caress. She heard their voices, soft, quick mutterings slithering over and around her, but she kept her eyes closed.

Brother to the Countess of Swafford.

It wouldn’t occur to him to tell her would it? He’d talked of his sister before, of her good marriage and all her children, but never explained who she married. Titles meant nothing to him. He judged people by what they did, not what they called themselves or how well they dressed. He’d loved her even when he thought her a whore and he wanted no material things from her, or her father. For that last reason alone he was different to almost any other man she’d known before she met him.