Lady in Blue (28 page)

Nor did he want her to thank him—or reward him—with sex, as if he’d tried to buy her with a shiny tent and a fancy picnic.

He never meant this to be a seduction. But suddenly she was standing in front of him, tugging at his coat and drawing him down onto the satin pillows.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.

“I want to do this,” she said with conviction. “I want
you,
Bryn.”

It was a thing any whore would say. He had heard it a hundred times. But Clare had never said those words. He didn’t think she meant them, but he was long past where it mattered.

His hand lifted her skirt, sliding up her long leg, over her bent knee. He kissed her deeply, molding her soft thighs until his knuckles brushed the curls between her legs. He pressed higher, harder, and heard her moan.

Blessed heaven, she
did
want him. She clutched his back, tugging at his coat and shirt, reaching under them to feel his bare flesh. He wanted her naked beneath him, the breeze cool on their hot skin, the river pulsing in their ears, so close. He wanted to be naked when his body joined with hers. But there was no time.

No time.

She knew it too. He felt her hands fumbling with his breeches and lifted himself slightly to help. For a moment he gazed down at her, and a butterfly flitted between them just before he plunged inside her with a cry of relief.

For a last moment he held still, still watching her face, cream and roses against the blue pillow, her lush hair like smoke, her eyes burning with desire. In all his life he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

“Oh, Bryn,” she whispered.

He was lost in her. Wherever Clare was, he was there too, shaping himself to her body, surging in her with a fierce urgency that was soon overmastered by her own passion. And when he heard her cry out, and shake, and claw at him in stormy release, he almost betrayed her. But at the last moment he remembered to pull out, spilling his seed on the pillows before collapsing at her side.

Clare felt limp as seaweed. Pleasure washed over her in waves. When Bryn drew her into the curve of his arm she rested her cheek against his throat, and after a while they seemed to be floating together on a still ocean, at peace.

She would never repent of this day, she knew at the corners of her mind. Never confess it as a sin, kneeling on hard stone in a church, alone with her conscience and her Judge. Never be sorry.

Vaguely, she thought of Francesca and Paolo spinning in the Second Circle of Dante’s Inferno among the other carnal sinners. The poet who loved Beatrice understood their transgression and forgave it as best as he could. They could not escape damnation, but even in hell they were light upon the wind, impelled by love.

“Do you ever wonder,” she said into the long silence, “what price we must pay for days like this?”

“No.” Bryn stroked her cheek with his finger. “Why do we live, if not for days like this?”

Clare had thought about that a great deal:
Why do we live?
She’d been taught answers. Some of them were scarred on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. But it seemed that she had lived to love this man, however briefly and whatever the cost. Nothing had ever seemed so clear.

Bryn rolled over her, resting on his elbows and gazing somberly into her eyes. “If you tell me you are sorry for this, I think it will kill me.”

“Of course I’m not sorry. Bewildered, perhaps, and certainly amazed. But I understand now what you were trying to tell me yesterday. And the other night.”

“Oh, Lord, don’t bring up the other night.” He buried his face against her neck.

“Nothing is what I thought it to be,” she said. “Not you, nor I, nor what we just did. Part of me wants to think about it, and worry about it, but most of me doesn’t want to think at all.”

“You think too much, my sweet,” he told her seriously. “We just made love, and for the first time, I believe. Don’t let anything take that away from us.”

Never, she agreed silently as he kissed her. And when he entered her again, and began to move with slow, languorous, deliberate strokes, she gave herself to him with all the love burning in her heart.

Later they walked together, rumpled, redolent of wine and their lovemaking, smiling at everything and nothing. Clare took off her stockings and Bryn his boots, and they dangled their feet in the river, nibbling on the shortbread he brought along wrapped in a linen napkin. They talked about the flowers, and what colors Bryn thought things were, both disinclined to say much, afraid to break the mood. Finally they returned to the pavilion and shared a lunch of cold chicken and ham, cucumber sandwiches, wedges of cheddar cheese, and juicy peaches.

Bryn was careful to wait until her mouth was full before saying what had been on his mind all day. He’d prepared several opening statements but was horrified by what actually came out of his mouth.

“Clare, I don’t want you to be my mistress any more.”

She swallowed hard, choking a bit, and buried her face in her napkin. “As you w-wish,” she stammered.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, and he could see no more of her face over the crumpled linen than a flushed forehead and thick eyelashes. “I want us to be lovers,” he corrected hastily.

She looked up. “Are we not?”

“Certainly. Now, at least. What I mean is, I said terrible things the other night. About you being a . . . you know . . . and your duty, and so on.” His tongue felt like a wet carpet. “Hell and damnation, Clare, I’ve come at everything all wrong from the beginning. I didn’t know it at first, and the rest of the time I couldn’t stop myself. But I want to start again and make things as they ought to be.”

“Oh.”

His throat felt raw. “You know I can never give you everything you ought to have. Not my name, nor the title. Not vows in a church.” He regarded her intently. “You understand that?”

“Of course.” She leaned forward, the napkin falling from her hands as she propped her elbows on the table. “Bryn, it doesn’t matter if you call me lover instead of mistress. It does not change what I am.”

He winced. “I’m not saying this right. You are what you were before we met—lovely and wise and compassionate. I’m the one who has changed. At least, I realize I must change and I will. Only, promise you won’t leave me, Clare. I worry about that all the time.”

“I will never want to leave you,” she assured him.

He heard what he wanted to hear.
I will never leave you.
Distantly, he was aware that was not what she had said, but he was profoundly happy. Happier than he had ever been, in a whole new world of happiness he’d never even imagined. It did not allow for equivocation.

He could hardly wait to make her happy, too, and give her sons and daughters conceived in the hot passion they had finally begun to share. He would have someone to talk to. Show his inventions to. All his truly close friends liked her. They’d come visit her here, in the new house he would build for her.

A few days every month he would go to London. Take care of business. Escort his wife to a party or two. Eventually see to the upbringing and education of his heir. They would want for nothing, his wife and son. He was so full of joy it enveloped the world. The universe.

He drove back to London slowly, Clare nestled in the circle of his arm, both of them silent. He expected she was reliving that afternoon in her imagination, as he was. But as they came into the city, he began to wonder if he should stay the night at Clouds.

She was sleepy with wine and her first taste of sexual pleasure, while he felt restless and exhilarated. After considering, he decided to give her some time alone. Later, he would come back and join her in bed, if only to hold her as she slept.

Charley Cassidy ran down the stairs when Black Lightning drew up in front of the house, a worried look on his face. He took the reins while Bryn jumped out of the curricle and helped Clare alight.

At the open door, he put his hands on her shoulders, gazing intently into her eyes. “This has been the best day of my life,” he said simply.

She stood on tiptoe and brushed his lips with her own. “And mine. I will never forget it, Bryn. Will you stay here tonight?”

He could tell she wanted him to, and his heart soared. “I’ll be back later, but don’t wait up for me if you’re tired. Go to bed and I will join you there.”

She kissed him again, this time with a promise he understood and could scarcely believe. She no longer pretended to want him. She truly did.

He almost floated down the front steps, so preoccupied with his own happiness that Cassidy had to pull at his sleeve to get his attention.

“I have a message for you, milord.”

Charley handed him a ragged piece of paper, folded but unsealed. He scanned the note quickly, unable to make out more than a few words. He swore profoundly. Amid Lacey’s indecipherable phrases were
Landry’s back
and
Come to Izzy’s.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “Tell Miss Easton something important has come up and I may not make it back to Clouds tonight.” Feeling suddenly lead-footed, he climbed into the curricle. “And Charley, tell her I’m sorry.”

Robert and Isabella,
grim-faced and silent, met Bryn at the door and ushered him into a parlor. There was no sign of Elizabeth, for which he was profoundly grateful. Refusing a drink, he sank onto a chair and regarded Lacey with a somber expression.

“You have become a positive nemesis,” he said. “Every time we meet, you have bad news to convey. In future I shall make it a point to avoid your company.”

Lacey ignored that. “Landry’s in town, looking for Elizabeth, and we’re pretty sure he knows where she is. Beth thinks she’s seen him, skulking in the park across the street.”

Bryn lifted a brow. “I presume you did the necessary reconnaissance?”

“Of sorts. Didn’t want to tip that we’re onto him, so we’ve been sending footmen on errands all day. Told them to cut through the park. No sign of anybody fitting his description, but they spotted a pair of workmen, clipping shrubs and the like. Nasty-looking brutes, from what I hear, and they pretty much stand about until someone comes past.”

Probably hired thugs, Bryn reckoned. Landry must be in desperate straits to defy him by returning to London weeks ahead of time. Desperate enough to risk everything on one last throw of the dice. “Are you sure he’s back? Elizabeth could have been mistaken.”

“He contacted Max Peyton this morning, begging for a loan. Peyton said he’d think about it, to keep him on a string, and went looking for you. Left a message at your house and settled in at White’s, in case you showed up there. Lucky thing I ran into him and got the word, because I don’t think he knows about Clouds.”

“Robert sent a note,” Isabella added, “and came here to warn us not to leave the house. Ever since, Beth hasn’t moved from the window upstairs. She’s there right now, watching out for her father and trying not to show how frightened she is. He has every legal right to take her home. I only wonder that he’s not come to the door demanding we hand her over.”

“As if you would.” Bryn gave her a faint smile. “Landry is not one to think of applying to the law—too much chance his own crimes would come to light. I expect he’ll try to get Elizabeth in his hands by other means and use her to blackmail us.”

Lacey’s expression hardened. “Beth won’t be safe until she’s married or Landry’s dead. Izzy made me promise I’d wait until we talked to you, but in my opinion he ought to be shot.”

“It may come to that.” Bryn turned to Isabella. “You’ve been parading her through London the last few weeks. Any prospect of an alliance?”

She shrugged. “Beth has been accepted by the
ton
and is popular with the young men, but so far she’s showed no particular interest in any one of them. And I cannot think of a family that would pay the settlement Landry will demand. She has nothing to offer in return except a sweet nature and her beauty.”

“Not to mention intelligence, a sense of humor, and a hundred other things I could name.” Lacey flushed. “Well, I’ve spent a good deal of time in her company, to help bring her into fashion, so I know what a prize she is. You won’t do better for a wife, Bryn. And there’s no one else who cares enough for her to buy Landry off. No one who can afford it, anyway. So what do you say? Either you marry her, or I kill him.”

Isabella scowled. “For all she fears her father, I doubt that Beth would want to be the reason for his death. If you call him out, she will always feel responsible.”

“So you have said a thousand times this afternoon, Izzy. I’m sick of hearing it. Landry will make trouble until he’s planted in the ground, and I vote to put him there.”

Bryn came to his feet. “Which means
me
,
Lace, since you haven’t a chance of bringing it off.” He waved a hand. “No insult, but you can’t shoot. And much as I’d like to put a bullet between his eyes, Izzy has the right of it.”

Lacey poured himself a glass of brandy. “It seems we are back where we started a month ago. One of us calls him out, or you marry Beth.”

The earl gazed at the carpet, inwardly cursing the malevolent fate that gave him the most wonderful day of his life, only to snatch it away. How could he go back to Clare after what they had shared that afternoon and tell her he’d become engaged to another woman a few hours later?

He felt the walls closing in around him. So many promises—to himself, to his father, to Clare, and even to Elizabeth, for whom he had unwittingly become responsible. A part of him, wholly separate from the ache in his heart, rapidly calculated profit and loss as if this nightmare were a business transaction. Already he had restored the Caradoc fortune and something of the family reputation. Wedding Elizabeth and getting a son on her would satisfy the last of his promises to Owen Talgarth. Upstairs, Elizabeth waited terrified and alone, needing his money and his power to protect her.

Could he turn his back on all that, to preserve his relationship with Clare? Given time, he might have been able to convince her to accept his legal wife and family while sharing another life, his
real
life, in a house built by the Thames where they had become lovers.

But there was no time.

He would bet everything he’d worked twenty years to acquire that Clare would vanish soon after hearing word of his betrothal. And so far, the Runners had not been able to discover her family name or where she came from. Where she might go. Almost certainly he’d lose her if he married Elizabeth. Not that he would give up, of course, and certainly he’d find her again. There was even a faint possibility he could persuade her to come back to him.

Without Clare, he would never be happy. But no one had ever promised him happiness. Blood iced in his veins. Someone would be hurt, whatever choice he made.

“Bryn?” Isabella touched his arm. “What shall we do?”

He gazed at her wearily. “Elizabeth ought to have some say in the matter, I suppose. Bring her down, will you?”

A few minutes later, Isabella ushered her guest into the salon and towed Lacey out.

For several moments, Bryn and Elizabeth gazed at each other without expression.

It occurred to him he’d seen this young woman only twice before—once on the terrace at Lady Wetherford’s house, after which he had waltzed with her, and then as she slept after a brutal beating from her father. Now he was expected to propose to her. He swallowed hard.

As if sensing his uncertainty, she gave him a brave, heart-melting smile. Admiring her poise, he led her to a sofa. Elizabeth would make any man a perfect wife, he thought. So lovely, and so controlled. He should be grateful, because he’d feel equally responsible for her were she an antidote.

“Miss Landry,” he said, sitting next to her, “let me first assure you that you are in no danger. One way or another, your father will not again have an opportunity . . .” His voice trailed off.

“To beat me?” Her gaze was steady. “It was not the first time, Lord Caradoc. But he never hurts me badly. And I am not altogether certain he is in his right mind.”

Fury rose in him, at her resignation. “There is no excuse whatever for what he does to you,” he said firmly. “Don’t apologize for the man. The only question is how we are to proceed from here.”

“Do we have a choice? He is my father. I can do nothing without his permission.”

Bryn sighed. “The most obvious course may be the best one, my dear. One day I must take a wife and provide an heir to the title. I have put that off too long and rather hoped to postpone it even longer. But it seems your needs and mine have come together at this precise moment. Would you consider marrying me?”

She gazed at him blankly. “But we don’t know each other. Not at all. Dear God, why would you wish to marry
me
when you could have your pick of all the heiresses in London?”

He took her hand. “I liked you immediately, the first time we met,” he said honestly. “And I’ve come to respect you since. You would make me a far better wife than I deserve. But there are . . . complications.”

Her lips curved. “Clare Easton.”

“Yes.” Bryn was relieved that they could speak frankly. “I’m not certain that I am capable of loving anyone, Elizabeth. At the least, it is unlikely I’d recognize the symptoms. But I know that life without Clare would be intolerable, and I will do everything in my power to keep her. My wife would have to accept that.”

“It seems to me you know very well how it feels to be in love, my lord. Why do you not marry
her?
”

He blinked. “She is my mistress.”

Elizabeth regarded him critically. “Does that matter?”

Letting go her hand, he folded his arms across his chest. “I have obligations which date from—well, about the time you were born. Whatever I feel for Clare, I must wed a woman of impeccable birth and breeding. It is a matter of promises made and thus far unkept, to my discredit.”

Her gaze lowered, but Bryn caught a glint of reproach in her eyes. “Even so, you are willing to marry the daughter of a drunkard and a gambler,” she said quietly.

Releasing a harsh breath, he leaned forward. “Elizabeth, you are more unlike your father than the stars are distant from the muddy ground. And if you are able to accept what little I have to offer, I will gladly meet you at the altar. You must decide if you can wed a man who will give you a home, children, and security while keeping another woman under his protection. You’ll be a countess, and have money enough to satisfy every whim, but I doubt you care for that.”

“I do not,” she said flatly. “And in truth, my lord, you would find yourself burdened with a wife who loves another man, although I would never be unfaithful to you.”

There was a short pause while that sank in. Then he came to his feet and stared at her, hands balled into fists. “Why the hell didn’t you say so to start with?” Hushing, he muttered an apology for his language and began to pace the room. “That changes everything. Who is he? And where’s the problem?”

“He has no money,” she said in a dull voice. “He cannot afford to buy off my father, who would never consent to the marriage without an enormous settlement. And I am only seventeen, Lord Caradoc. I cannot marry without his approval.”

He spun around. “Head out for Scotland and take your vows over the anvil. Why not?”

She shook her head. “I suggested that, but Rob—he would not hear of it. In his opinion I deserve better than a havey-cavey runaway marriage, as if I cared a bean for that. And he insists he cannot support a family, with no income and no prospects. He thinks I’ll do better as
your
wife.”

“Lacey.” Bryn slapped his forehead. “By God, we’re talking about Lacey. I should have known. All the signs were there, but I’ve been too preoccupied with my own affairs to notice.”

Color flamed in her cheeks. “I told Robert I didn’t mind living in the fields so long as it was with him, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants me to be draped in fancy clothes and cut a tear through London society.” Her voice was edged with anger. “Men are so pigheaded.”

He couldn’t argue with that. And suddenly the ice at his spine began to thaw. “You shall have him, Elizabeth. I’ll see to it, if that is what you really want.”

She looked him in the eye. “I love Robert with all my heart. And I want to be his wife, whatever the consequences.”

Nodding, Bryn made rapid plans. “We’ll need to be clever and spirit you out of London before your father gets wind of our scheme. Leave the details to me. For now, I suggest you go upstairs and pack your belongings while I inform Lace he is to be a bridegroom.”

She studied his face, her eyes troubled. “But what if he doesn’t agree? I know Robert loves me, but I was unable to convince him we should marry. What will happen when my father finds out? And what is to become of you, my lord? By your own admission, you need a wife.”

Bryn laughed, feeling optimistic for the first time since he got Lace’s message. “Your prospective groom will do as I say. Your father will find himself thwarted, but by then you’ll be beyond his reach. And as for me, I’ll doubtless find an ambitious young woman so eager for a title and wealth that she’ll ignore my liaison with Clare.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Be happy, child. I’m glad you are to be part of a family I hold dearer than my own. Now go upstairs and make yourself ready for a trip to Gretna Green.”

She stood and curtseyed, blushing furiously as she hurried out of the room.

With pleasure, he watched her practically float away. Then he crossed to a window and studied his reflection in the glass. Was he in love with Clare, as Elizabeth had suggested? He had no idea. He wanted her. Perhaps he even needed her. Things had worked out for the best, he finally decided. Better he marry a woman he didn’t care about at all. Elizabeth would have complicated matters, because he’d always have worried how she felt when he went to his mistress’s bed.

Once Lace and Elizabeth were wed, he could concentrate on building a future with Clare. Then he would find a wife. Any well-bred girl would do. Now that he’d abandoned hope of a love match and accepted that an ideal marriage was not in the cards, he was able to proceed without delusions.

Meantime, Lacey needed a reliable source of income to support his bride. Bryn was more than willing to settle on his friend the same fortune Landry would have demanded, but he knew Robert wouldn’t accept a handout. He was too proud.

“What’s the verdict?” Lacey asked in a stony voice from the door. “Are you betrothed?”

“No.” Bryn turned and gave him a wry grin. “But
you
are.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Lacey stalked across the room, Isabella at his heels.

“Elizabeth says she all but proposed to you, and you turned her down.” Bryn jabbed him in the chest with a hard finger. “I suggest you think again. Damned if I’ll marry a girl my best friend wants for himself. You are on your way to Scotland, Lace, as soon as we work out the logistics.”