Lady Scandal (14 page)

She had not been able to do it.
Perhaps she
ought to have.
Perhaps she should have kidnapped Jules from Eton
and fled with Paxten.
He could hardly have been a more neglectful
as a stepfather than Bertram has proven as a father.

But her courage had faltered.

"Even then, I still intended to meet you.
I
sent a maid for my cloak.
But when I saw your coach outside,
I...oh, I am sorry."

The fire was dying.
Hot embers glowed but
the flames flickered low.
She could not bear to bring up that
horrid scene between them.
She had thrown on her cloak and had gone
out to tell Paxten she could not leave—and his anger had ignited
her own.
They had been so awful to each other that night, flinging
accusations at each other.

She had struck him even.
She closed her
eyes.

Paxten's voice drifted to her, quiet, but
without the rancor that had once tainted his words.
"You gave me so
many promises before that night."

Opening her eyes, she looked at him.
"I did.
And I kept none of them.
And I ought to have given you more
patience.
More kindness.
I knew you had to leave."

He shook his head.
"Yes, but I brought that
on us by trying to force Sandal into that duel—was there ever such
a mad notion as that?
I knew my cousin would not tolerate it.
But I
went ahead anyway.
And, of course, so did he."

"So it was he who gave you the idea that you
must leave England.
I thought as much."

"It was not so much an idea.
He told me to
book passage, or he would arrange such matters.
And I had no wish
to wake up one morning in the bowels of some ship, possibly in
chains."

"Good heavens!
No wonder you sounded so
desperate that last night.
Why did you not tell me then?"

"Ah, but I did not want my lack of choice
forced on you.
I had to leave England.
I wanted you to come because
you would, not because I must, but because you would.
And you had
said you would.
Besides, what would it have changed?"

Nothing.
Nothing.

She shook her head.
"I am sorry.
So very
sorry.
It seems I cannot say that enough.
But why did you never
return?
You told me once that if we had to part, you would come
back to me.
That you would wait until I had my freedom." She winced
as she heard the desperation in her voice—she sounded so much like
a woman in love still.
She had not been that for years.

He laughed.

Her mouth tightened.
She
could have hit him for finding cynical humor in this when she had
shown him her scars.
Sobering, he said, "
Ma chére
, I meant that divorce you
said you would ask for from him, and which you never
did."

"Oh, I asked!
I demanded it.
It nearly gave
him heart failure when I did.
His answer, when he could speak
again, was that Chetwynds did not divorce.
He refused to speak of
it again, after that night."

Scorn laced his words.
"How
polite of you to ask.
You could have sought a divorce from
him,
ma chére
.
It
would not have been easy, but you could have forced him into giving
you what you wanted.
And even if he did not, I would have heard if
you had separated."

"I could have forced him into going before
Parliament to petition for such a thing?
He explained what such
actions entailed and when he was done, I could see it would be
years if ever that such a thing could be achieved.
I…it was
impossible!"

A log shifted on the fire, sputtering into
the dirt.
Was he right?
Had she not tried hard enough?
Should she
have just packed and left?
She rubbed a hand across her eyes.
Perhaps she ought to have put their love before everything.
Only
she had not been able to do so.

She glanced at him, at his dark eyes and
pale face, at the burning light in those eyes and the hard set to
his jaw.
Could she at least make it easier for him?
She wet her
lips.
"You are right.
I failed you.
You needed someone who loved
you more than I ever did."

Paxten glared at her.
The admission, the
words he had so long wanted to wrench from her, thudded into him
like lead.
Impatient with her—and with himself—he stood.
Diana had
the right of it—they all ought to have been in bed hours ago.

As he rose, he forgot his injury.
His sudden
movement pulled an ache from his side and startled a gasp from him.
He stood still to ease the pain and at once Alexandria was there,
hardly more than a shadow in the darkness, holding on to him and
concern in her voice again.
"Do you need that bandage changed?
Is
it wrapped too tight?
We ought to have had it off while there was
light still.
I can...."

"
Merde,
" he muttered, choking out the
word on a dry laugh, and then put his arms around her and kissed
her.

So you did not love me
enough?
he thought as his mouth covered
hers.
His arms closed around her, trapping her.
She did not
struggle in his hold and he almost wanted her to.
He wanted the
excuse to force her to face the truth.
To make her see.
He intended
to prove her a liar, once and always with him.

Her lips parted and he forgot what he had
intended to prove.
Forgot words: things said or wished unsaid.
He
forgot things done or left undone.
Everything vanished into the hot
taste of her, the soft moan pulled from her as she gave to him, the
scent of her like spiced flowers.

His hands closed on her waist.
He
wanted to drag her down to the ground.
Wanted hot skin pressed to
hot skin, and her trembling, and the pleasure they could give to
each other with only the stars to see and the grass to hold them.
He wanted other memories, not the bitter ones that lay between
them.
Not the hurt they had given each other.

By instinct he started to sink
down, pulling her with him, but as he bent a brand of pain flashed
up his side.
With a gasp, he broke the kiss to put a hand on his
injury, muttering curses in French, and holding her now with his
other hand to steady himself.

"That must be seen to," she said, her voice thick
with passion, but with a firm hand now taking hold of his.

"There's no need."

"I have tended a son through falls from his first
horse and childhood ailments, so I ought to be able to manage a
fresh bandage for you."

He recognized the stubborn tone, so he submitted to
sitting down for her and undoing the cloth ties of his shirt to let
the muslin hang open.
The night air wrapped a chill around him, but
the cooling did him good.
It made him able to think again, or
almost so.

And to curse his unsteady temper.
When would he ever
learn to be patient and wait for the right time for anything?

She found more wood for the fire and tossed a dry
branch onto the embers.
As yellow flames licked upward, she went to
rummage through the supplies he had bought which now sat beside the
cart.
She came back with her own fine lawn chemise in hand.
"This
will at least be soft on your skin.
Now, let's untie the ends of
that bandage."

He smiled at that.
He liked the idea of something
she had worn now pressed to his skin, her scent wrapping around
him.

She focused on her task, frowning a little as she
worked.
The firelight played over one side of her face, while
darkness cloaked the other side of her.
He leaned back on his hands
and allowed her to work, too tired to protest, unable to remember
when anyone had last shown him such tenderness.
His mother had not
one to do so for she had swooned over so much as a bruise and left
his care mostly to nursemaids.
She had adored, however, dressing
him as fine as she should could, something he had loathed as a boy.
His English cousins had teased him horribly over the lace at his
throat and wrists, and his velvet suits.
And over his faint accent.
And for every other thing that had marked him different.
Later, he
had enjoyed throwing every convention he could find back into their
faces with his defiance and his disdain of them.

He let out a soft sigh.
"Ah,
ma chére
, why are we so
bad for each other?
I drag you into this, and now you are left
having to patch me.
And after being so rude to you tonight as
well."

She struggled and found a smile.
"At least you know
to bring a decent meal back with you.
How long do you think it will
take us to reach Boulogne in that donkey cart of yours—must we
really travel in that contraption?"

"It's safer.
Even more so if we stay to the back
roads.
Have you thought as well that we could make for Dieppe from
here?
It's not so far."

She glanced at him.
"But Dieppe makes for a very
long crossing to England."

He smiled.
"You sound like a cat who does not like
the water."

"Cats are sensible creatures.
And if you had spent
your last crossing hanging over a ship's railing, you might think
twice about extending the time you must bob about in the
water."

He grinned at her.
She pulled the bandage from his
skin, and with a wince, he glanced down.
A red gash of perhaps four
inches, puffy and deep enough to scar, cut horizontally over his
ribs.
He had enough vanity that the fact it would forever mar his
side irritated him.
"Well, at least it no longer bleeds."

"Yes, but I do not like that swelling or the
redness.
Did you bring any powders back with you?"

"A visit to any apothecary seemed as good as leaving
my calling card to be found—those soldiers know I've been
shot."

"We shall have to make do with charred wood
then."

He pulled back.
"Wood?
Since when do you know how to
heal, and where did you hear such a wives tale?"

"From a wife.
A midwife, actually.
I did my lying in
with Jules in the countryside and not with a London doctor.
My
aunt's advice, and she is someone who knows about these things—she
has had eight girls and three boys.
The midwife quite shocked me by
blackening her hands.
But she claimed she never had a lady or child
brought to bed with fever after any birth because of it."

"If it is good enough to suit my lady, by all means,
blacken me like a moor."

By the time Alexandria had his injury attended and
bandaged again—using strips of her chemise—she wanted only to
collapse.
The fire had burnt down again, but she had no energy to
rebuild it.
Paxten, too, she guessed must be exhausted.

She noticed how careful they were now with their
words, keeping to topics without deep feelings in them.

That kiss, however, lingered between them, making
her far too aware of him, and of her own body's ache for him.
She
avoided looking at him as much as she could, and did not meet his
dark-eyed gaze.
She might lose herself in that darkness.
Besides,
they needed rest just now.
After laying out blankets and pillows,
she pulled off her shoes and sat on the ground.

Within what seemed minutes of lying flat, she
started to shiver.
The earth seemed to suck the heat from her.
She
twisted, trying to find comfort.
A pebble dug into her back.
She
turned on her side.
In the darkness, some animal rustled through
the nearby woods.
Something small, she hoped.
Wings flapped above
them—bats or owls?
She shivered.
And turned again.

A soft mutter, like a caress of rough velvet,
brushed over her.
"You are keeping me awake with all that noise you
make."

She frowned into the darkness in the direction of
Paxten's deep voice.
"I am sorry, but I am freezing."

"Come here."

At his order, propriety warred with physical need.
Sharing body heat did sound utterly sensible, however.
And they
were far indeed from anything that even resembled Society, so why
heed its restrictions?
Bundling her blanket and pillow into her
arms, she scooted toward his voice.

"Spread your blanket down to lie on, then you may
share mine over both of us."

His suggestion sounded indecent.
But warm.
She did
as he asked, careful of his injured side.
Within moments he had his
arms around her.
Her arms nestled between them, elbows bent and her
hands pressed up against his chest.
The warmth of him soaked into
her.

"Better?" he mumbled against her temple, his voice
already drifting.

She held herself still.
"Yes.
Thank you." Oh,
heavens, what had she gotten into with this?

"
De
rein
," he muttered the words trailing
off.

She lay there, tense, uncertain, embarrassed.

How absurd was that?
Who, after all, was there to
see them lying with each other?

Letting out a breath, she snuggled closer, and her
lashes brushed his jaw as her eyes closed.

#

Birdsong woke Diana, light, soaring,
bursting with life.
She opened her eyes and lay in the back of the
cart, her knees bent to fit.
Sleep still held her arms and legs.
But the world beckoned.

The air smelled of spring—flowers opening to
scent the dawn and new grass pushing up through the warming ground.
Slowly she stretched.
Why did everyone shut themselves up under
roofs rather than wake this way every day?

Sitting up, she poked her head from the back
of the cart.

And she stared, her jaw slackening.

Not ten paces from the cart, beside the
charred remains of the fire, her aunt lay entwined with Mr.
Marsett.
Her aunt's skirt had ridden up, and her stockings had
fallen to reveal a bare calf.
Mr.
Marsett's shirt lay open, and her
aunt's hand rested lightly on his naked chest.
A blanket twisted
about their middles, hiding...well, it did not hide enough, Diana
decided.

Ducking back into the cart, she lay down
again.
How charming they looked.
She frowned.
How ghastly they had
been to each other last night.

Her parents fenced in just such a way—always
seeking to wound the other with hard words.
Not an enjoyable thing
to live around and she could not imagine it would be very nice to
be a participant in such verbal battles.

Thankfully, her parents generally left their
children out of such matters.
They certainly had left her out.
An
older sister—who was being presented to Society this year—and a
younger brother, allowed her to mostly go unnoticed.
She would
never have been permitted to go to France, however, if either of
her parents had thought she would end up sleeping in donkey carts
and running away from soldiers.
She had Henrietta's presentation to
thank for that.

"Every gentleman who pays a call takes one
look at you and cannot even see your sister!" her mother had
complained.

Her father, of course, had not wanted her to
go.
He had thought it dangerous.
He had protested that he would
miss her too much.
But her mother had won the disagreement, as she
did most quarrels.
Father would certainly never let Mama forget it
that circumstances had proven him right.

Diana peeked out again at her aunt and Mr.
Marsett.
They had not moved.
She rather liked how his head angled
towards hers and how his arm lay around her aunt.
So protective.
Possessive almost.
But did he really care for her?

She lay back again.
She did not understand
them.
Love ought to soften the heart.
It ought to be kind.
And
gentle.

An image of the French officer who had
stopped their coach came to her.
There had been nothing gentle
about that harsh, handsome face.
Nor anything kind in his words and
manner.
Still, he had stopped his men from rifling through their
things.
And he had allowed them to leave.
Kind acts certainly.
And
hidden under brusque words and a hard expression.

Was there also something hidden that she did
not see between her aunt and Mr.
Marsett?

She let out a sigh.
Why could the world not
be a simple place with everyone honest about their intentions?
It
seemed to her that most people did not even know why they acted as
they did.
Which meant that Aunt Alexandria needed a chaperone far
more than she ever had.

Well, she could provide that for her aunt.
After all, some danger on an adventure could be expected.
But too
much of anything violated the bounds of good taste.

She made a show of stretching and thumping
around in the cart to find her shoes and of remarking loudly what a
glorious day had dawned.
By the time she swung down from the back
of the cart, Mr.
Marsett had vanished and her aunt stood near the
dead fire embers, running her fingers through the tangle of her
hair.