Never Lie to a Lady (36 page)

“Good Lord, girl,” he heard Lady Bledsoe say after him. “Have you brought that black-hearted devil to heel?”

Five minutes after Nash’s departure, Xanthia excused herself and went straight to the ladies’ retiring room. It was empty, thank God. She drew open her reticule, and pulled out the note which Nash had slipped into her palm. Her heart in her throat, she read it.

Xanthia’s knees began to shake. She felt almost blindly for a chair and fell into it. Just then Louisa came in. “There you are, Cousin Xanthia,” she murmured. “Are you perfectly all right?”

Xanthia lifted her gaze to meet her young cousin’s. “No, actually, I’m…I’m not.”

Louisa nodded knowingly. “I have said to Mamma three times this week that you seemed not yourself lately,” she replied. “Have you the headache?”

Xanthia set her fingertips to her temple. “Yes, a headache,” she agreed. “I believe, Louisa, that I shall hire a cab and go back to Berkeley Square. Will you mind awfully?”

“Indeed I shall.” Louisa knelt, and clasped her hands. “I will send round for our carriage. They may return for Grandmamma and me afterward.”

Xanthia smiled weakly. “Thank you, my dear. I would be most grateful.”

In Berkeley Square, the house was dark. Kieran, she knew, was out for the evening. The carriage set her down at the front door. She ordered the footman not to ring the bell and waved them away, much to his consternation.

“No, please,” she said insistently. “I have the headache, and I wish to take the air. I shall just circle round the square before going in.”

Finally, the footman tugged his forelock and climbed back up to his post. Xanthia watched them rattle round the square and back down toward St. James, then she rummaged in her reticule for her ring of keys, of which there were but three—one to the house, one to Neville’s, and the last, which she never used, into the square’s garden.

Her hands shook as she crossed the street and fitted it into the lock. What had he meant by such a note? Did
she
dare hope? What did it matter? She had done nothing lately
but
hope. And of course he would not be here yet. He would have expected her much later. She prayed to God that he would come. Indeed, she would simply wait until he did.

Or perhaps not. The gate would not open. “Oh, drat!” she said, pounding on the wrought iron with her open hand.

“Here, allow me,” said a deep voice from the gloom.

She dropped her keys, and looked up to see Nash on the other side.

With a resolute jerk, he pulled open the gate, and stepped back.

“Stefan,” she asked inanely. “How did you get in?”

In the gaslight, she could see his faint smile. “I am almost embarrassed to say,” he answered. “I forgot that one needs a key to get into these places, so in an act of sheer desperation, I climbed over the wrought iron.”

“Good God.” She rushed in to lay a hand upon his arm. “Are you all right?”

“I survived, yes, but my breeches did not,” he replied. “I fear I must now walk with my hat rather strategically placed over my hindquarters lest I give offense.”

Xanthia dropped her arms. “I have already seen your hindquarters.”

His eyes held hers in the gloom. “Yes, I recall it,” he said. “Vividly.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the whisper of leaves on the wind and the distant rattle of traffic in the streets below. Xanthia drank him in—the exotic eyes, the hard, harsh bones of his face, and the hair which fell forward to shadow his brow. He was so beautiful, even more so than she had remembered.

“I owe you a deep apology, Stefan,” she whispered. “Whatever…whatever your note meant—and I pray you will tell me soon—but whatever else I might say tonight, I will never have words to sufficiently apologize for what has happened.”

Nash picked up her keys from the grass, and closed the gate. “Let us go toward the center of the garden,” he suggested. “There are some benches there.”

She allowed him to lead her deeper into the greenery and sat down. He joined her on the bench and took one of her hands into his. “Why, Xanthia?” he asked. “Will you just tell me…why? And then…well, we may never speak of it again, if that is your wish.”

She squeezed his hand, and looked away. “I think, Stefan, that it was just a foolish notion,” she quietly confessed. “I was…so
intrigued
by you. To me—at first—de Vendenheim’s request was just…just an excuse to try to spend time with you, I suppose. An excuse to pursue my little fantasy, and to tell myself it was—oh, God!—all for a good cause! That I was protecting Neville’s interests. Is that not inane?”

He bowed his head and said nothing.

“I am so sorry,” she said again. “I—I wanted you. From the very first, I wanted you. I…I should have simply said so. I never believed you guilty, Stefan. Well, not after the first time we…well, never mind that. I am sorry. Just so very sorry. And yet I would not give up the memories of what we shared, Stefan—no, not for anything on this earth. Can you possibly understand that?”

“I am glad, Xanthia, that you have good memories,” he finally answered. “It was my sister-in-law who did it, you know. And there were others, of course. But given the evidence, I suppose I cannot blame de Vendenheim for laying the suspicion at my door.”

“Mr. Kemble called some days past to tell us in confidence what had happened,” said Xanthia. “I am sorry that scandal has touched your family. I hope you have managed to hush it up?”

Again, the faint smile. “I daresay,” he answered. “I am not sure I really care all that much anymore.”

Xanthia leaned forward on the bench, far enough to set her cheek against his. “Then what do you care about, Stefan?” she whispered. “I know I do not deserve it, but please,
please
, say that it is me.”

He turned his head, and set his lips near her ear. “It is you, Zee,” he answered. “It has always been you. I love you with my every fiber. I cannot seem to stop.”

She let one hand slide up his chest. “I pray you never will stop,” she said with a catch in her voice. “For I love you. I love you more than is wise, I know. But there is no use fighting it. There—it is said. I cannot live, I do not believe, without you in my life. Please, Stefan, please say that we can begin again? That we can pick up where we left off?”

“What, with a torrid, illicit
affaire
?” he murmured. “No, my love. That is where I draw the line.”

Her hand still pressed against the warm wall of his chest, Xanthia drew back. “What…sort of line?”

“A very dark, very thick one,” he answered firmly. “Xanthia, I won’t go back to that. I cannot. My love, I am very much afraid that…well, that you must marry me.”

“I…I beg your pardon?”

He tried to smile. “I have grown a little tired of being used for my good looks and my—well, whatever other talents I possess,” he murmured. “Yes, Zee, I am holding out for marriage.”

“For…marriage?”

He set his head to one side and studied her, his eyes anxious. “That, I fear, is your only option,” he said quietly. “What will it be, my girl? Am I worth it? Will you do it?”

The answer exploded from her lips. “Yes!” Her arms were around his neck and her lips pressed to his face almost before the word was out. “Yes, yes, oh, yes, Stefan! A thousand times, yes.”

He laughed, then set her away a little, his eyes roaming over her face. His expression was still grave. “Are you sure, my love?” he asked quietly. “We have not even talked about Neville’s. We must, you know.”

She dropped her gaze. “Yes, I know,” she answered. “I love you, Stefan. I—I will do what I must to have you. And I know it is unreasonable—perhaps even scandalous—for me to continue on as I have, but I cannot give it up. Please. Not entirely. Help me find a way. Please?”

He was already shaking his head. “Well, I will admit that I had hoped to persuade you to run Brierwood for me instead, but I will—”

“Brierwood
?
”
she interjected.

He looked at her warily. “Yes, had you not guessed?” he asked. “That was why I invited you down, you know. I had hoped…but no, it won’t do. I see it quite clearly now. You are a Neville through and through, and that business is yours.”

“Well, it will be yours if you marry me,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “I do not want it,” he said. He released her right hand and withdrew a fold of papers from his coat pocket. Solemnly, he handed them to her.

She looked at him blankly. “What are these?

“Legal papers,” he said. “Papers which waive my right to your property upon our marriage.”

Amazed, she unfolded them. “Can…can one do such a thing?”

“My solicitors are not perfectly sure,” he admitted. “Certainly it is rare, but there are ways, perhaps. I think you must discuss this with your brother; perhaps even take the papers to your own solicitors. They may redraft them, if they please. If you will just marry me, Zee, I shall sign anything you put in front of me—and I would be disappointed, I think, if you wished to give up the running of your business.”

Xanthia stared at the papers in her lap. Even had there been enough light, she could not have read them for the tears welling in her eyes. “And you will do it, then?” she asked. “You would marry me…and let me go on as I am?”

He set a strong arm about her shoulders, and his familiar scent of smoke and citrus and warm, strong male surrounded her, comforting her as it always did. “I fell in love with you, Zee, just as you are, did I not?” he asked. “Why should I wish to change anything?”

She laughed, but it was more of a snuffle. “But it will be thought scandalous,” she warned. “And what of the children? You wish to have children, do you not? I do—
desperately
so.”

“Oh, I am accustomed to being thought scandalous,” he countered. “I think I will take a perverse pleasure in continuing to do so. As to children, Zee, yes. I wish to have as many as you and God can be persuaded to bestow upon us. But we can hire servants to—”

“No,” she interjected. “Servants will
not
raise my children.”

He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Servants raise most all children, Zee,” he said gently. “No one will think the worse of you for that.”

“My brothers raised me,” she countered. “They ran businesses and plantations and, for a part of it, they were little more than children themselves. But they managed to do it.”

“And so shall we, then,” he answered. “Together, Zee, we will think of something.”

She dashed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “All right then,” she said. “You resign yourself to a life with a woman who is thought
outré
, and to a houseful of children who will be haphazardly brought up. Do I have that right?”

“Absolutely, Miss Neville.” Nash leaned forward and kissed her nose. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Xanthia lifted her chin, and caught his lips with hers. For a moment, silence fell across the little park. When at last they parted, she looked at him and said, “When, Stefan? Soon, I hope.”

His eyes crinkled with humor. “What are you doing tomorrow, my dear?”

Her eyes widened with delight. “You cannot mean it?”

“I have the special license in my pocket,” he confirmed. “Tomorrow, or next week. But please, no later than August, I beg you! And then, my lady, the
Dangerous Wager
awaits.”

“Does it indeed?” she whispered. “Where do we go?”

“On a wedding trip, if you have time?” It was a question, not a command. “I think we shall sail round Italy, then up the Adriatic to Montenegro.”

Xanthia kissed him again. “I shall make time,” she promised breathlessly. “Oh, for
you
, Stefan, I shall always, always make time.”

N
o, not green silk.” Lady Phaedra Northampton’s voice was sharp. “It just won’t do, I tell you.”

“But I have a vision.” Mr. Kemble was making an expansive gesture about the dark, grimy room, and all but ignoring her presence. “This chamber simply
must
coordinate with Lady Nash’s office opposite.”

“This isn’t a chamber, Mr. Kemble,” said Lady Phaedra. “It is a nightmare. A hellhole. A
hovel
.”

“But I have a vision,” he repeated, both arms stretched heavenward. “I see light! I see watered silk! I see
swathes
of brilliant color!”

“And I see a lunatic on the loose.”

With a sigh of mild exasperation, Xanthia lumbered from behind her desk, one hand on her belly, the other set at the small of her back, which was aching like the very devil. “My dear Phaedra,” she said, crossing the passageway into the newly emptied storage room. “Must the two of you quarrel? Can we not settle this by compromise?”

“Zee, everything in life is not a business negotiation,” complained Lady Phaedra, both hands on her hips. “Mr. Kemble is interested in no one’s opinion but his own. He wants
green
silk hung on the walls.”

Kemble was still strolling to and fro over the worn floorboards, his eyes sweeping through the room. “And coordinating draperies in butter cream,” he added, drawing his hands down a window in a long, dramatic gestures. “Yes,
toile de Jouy
, I think—printed with little cows? Or dancing ponies?”

Lady Phaedra looked as if she might pull her own hair out. “But the room, Mr. Kemble, is to be a nursery,” she returned. “Have you any notion what a toddling babe will do to walls hung with green silk?”

Mr. Kemble stopped abruptly.

“And cream-colored
toile
?” Phaedra pressed.

Mr. Kemble’s face fell.

“Children will chew and spit and wipe their nasty little hands all over the fabric,” Phaedra continued. “And then they will draw pictures on the walls with chalk and paint, and with anything else they can get their hands on. Think
strawberry preserve
, Mr. Kemble.”

Mr. Kemble drew himself up haughtily. “Then someone must simply explain that it won’t do,” he said. “We have a vast deal of work to do if we are to turn this filthy hole into an elegant nursery in three months’ time. There is no point in permitting some
enfant terrible
to ruin it, is there?”

Lady Phaedra shook her head. “Mr. Kemble, were you never a child?”

The gentleman set one finger to his cheek, as if pondering it. “Actually…no.”

As if vindicated, Phaedra turned to her sister-in-law. “Do you see, Xanthia, what I am up against?”

Xanthia put her hand back on her belly, and stared at them pointedly. “My dears, I have not slept in a week,” she said. “I am dyspeptic. I have three merchantmen overdue in port, and a hold of lemons rotting in the Pool because half the stevedores are down with the grippe. Just paint the blasted room yellow, throw some sort of floorcloth over those boards, and hang some plain chintz curtains. Beyond that, the two of you have
carte blanche
.”

“Well!” said Kemble and Phaedra as one.

“I guess we have our marching orders,” Phaedra added. “But really, Zee, a
floorcloth
?”

Kemble shook his head. “You will never be confused with the Duchess of Devonshire, Lady Nash,” he said ruefully. “
That
is for certain.”

Xanthia felt a smile curve her mouth. “No, I never shall,” she agreed, waddling back to her desk. “A circumstance for which Her Grace cannot but be grateful.”

Just then, heavy footsteps sounded in the stairway below. Xanthia turned to see her husband appear at the top of the steps, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He was dressed in an elegant black riding coat, and wore tall black boots which shone like glass. In one hand, he carried his riding gloves, and in the other, a small stack of papers. His face broke into a smile when he saw her.

“My dear girl, you look ravishing!” he said, approaching her desk. “I adore that rosy glow in your cheeks.”

Xanthia smiled as he laid down his gloves and letters. “That glow is exasperation, I fear,” she said, catching his hands in hers. “What a lovely surprise, Stefan. How are you?”

“Well enough, I daresay—for a man who is a little short of sleep.” Nash bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “You left early this morning, my dear. I missed you.”

“You enjoyed last night’s dinner meeting with Tony and his political cronies, I hope?”

“Actually, I did,” Nash admitted, grinning. “It is a little shocking, really. I cannot say it is a cause to which I would willingly give my life, as Tony has—but I believe there is important government work to be done. And de Vendenheim was right, you know, about doing one’s part.”

“Was he?”

Nash nodded. “It all seems so very clear to me now.”

“Does it?” She looked at him curiously. “Why?”

“Because, Zee, we are to have a child,” he quietly confessed. “And it changes everything. Everything a man values. Everything he is willing to sacrifice for.”

Xanthia gave his hand a swift, hard squeeze. “I am so proud of you, Stefan,” she said fervently. “No matter what you do—or don’t do. You know that, I hope?”

“I do know it,” he said. “And it is just one of the reasons, Zee, why I love you so. But here, I’ve brought you this morning’s post from Park Lane. I thought you might find it of interest.”

“Shall I?” Xanthia drew back, and looked at the pile. “Have we something exciting there?”

Nash shuffled through the letters with his index finger. “There is a letter from Gareth,” he said, deftly sliding it from the pile.

“Ah!” said Xanthia. “Wonderful. What does he say?”

Nash winked. “I am not yet in the habit of opening your mail, my love,” he answered. “You must read it for yourself. But do not hold your breath, Zee. I rather doubt anything has changed.”

Xanthia was quiet for a long moment. “He is never coming back, is he?” she finally said.

Nash shook his head. “No, my love, he is not,” he answered. “He cannot—and it would be selfish of us to wish otherwise.”

Xanthia turned, and went to the window. “I wish only for his happiness, Stefan,” she said. “But I do miss him dreadfully. I shan’t pretend I don’t.”

She felt Nash’s warmth behind her and leaned back against him as his arms came about her waist. “You need never pretend with me, Zee,” he murmured into the softness of her hair. “Besides, I miss him dreadfully, too.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I miss my wife,” said Nash with chagrin. “Since she is doing two jobs now, instead of just the one.”

Xanthia laughed. “Mr. Mitchell starts next week,” she assured him. “And whilst he comes dear indeed, he is exceptionally skilled. Give me a fortnight to bring him up to snuff, then I shall be all yours for a while.”

Laughter rumbled low in Nash’s chest. “Yes, that is what you said about the last fellow,” he said. “How long did he stay?”

Xanthia sighed. “Three months, perhaps?”

“Yes, perhaps,” her husband conceded. “Now, my dear, I must tell you that there was something else in that pile of post—something which I
did
open.”

Xanthia turned in his arms, her eyes alight. “What?”

“Do you remember, Zee, that little villa on the Adriatic which you yearned for during our wedding trip?” he reminded her. “You will never believe it—the owner is willing to sell it after all.”

“No!” Xanthia grabbed his forearms. “Stefan, my God! Are you jesting?”

Nash bent his head, and kissed her brow. “I’ve this instant come from the bank, my dear,” he confirmed. “Everything has been arranged. And perhaps by summer—provided your Mr. Mitchell has stuck it out—we can take the child for a long visit?”

“Oh, Stefan!” Xanthia found herself blinking back tears. “What wonderful, wonderful news!”

A warm, satisfied smile spread slowly across his face. “I will be very happy, I think, to have a home in Montenegro again,” he remarked. “And happier still to share it with you.”

Just then, the rumble of conversation in the storage room rose to another crescendo. Nash crooked one of his slashing black eyebrows. “Dare I ask how the nursery goes on?”

Xanthia winced. “I fear both our decorators are possessed of an artistic temperament,” she confessed. “I think we are going to end up with green watered silk, and some sort of fancy French draperies with dancing cows.”

“Ah,” he said. “And is that your wish?”

“No, but I know when I am beaten,” she admitted.

Nash threw back his head and laughed. “Then George Kemble is a better man than I,” he admitted. “I find you quite indomitable. But honestly, Zee, you must admit he’s done wonders with this room. And the new melon-colored paint and green Turkish carpet downstairs look remarkably fine—and have you noticed the clerks seem so much more cheerful? Old Bakely was singing ‘God Save the King’ when I came in just now.”

Xanthia gave a sharp laugh and let her head fall against her husband’s shoulder. She did not care, really, about the décor of her new nursery. She cared only for the child who would soon occupy it—and for the man who had made it all possible, the man who thought no less of her for wanting the best of both worlds and was determined to give it to her. And as her arms slid round his waist, and the wool of his coat grew warm against her cheek, Xanthia’s heart swelled with an almost breath-stealing joy.

“Oh, I love you, Stefan,” she said softly. “Do you know that, my darling? Do you have any idea of the depth of my devotion?”

He set his lips to the top of her head. “As deep as the Seven Seas, I think,” he murmured. “As deep as my love for you—and just as never-ending. You are my safe harbor, Zee. And I am so glad to have found you at last.”

He held her quietly for a time, just standing there by the window as the clouds above the Thames scuttled past, and the wintry sunlight shifted across the window’s stained and ancient glass. And amidst the peace and the joy which surrounded them, nothing else held sway, not the squabbling nearby, nor the door downstairs which kept slamming, nor even the teeming commerce on the riverfront below.

He kissed her again, then whispered, “Look, my love.” He turned her in his arms to face the window again. “Is that not the
Mae Rose
coming up past Wapping Old Stairs?”

Xanthia’s face broke into a smile. “Oh, thank God in heaven!” she said, pressing one hand to her chest. “She’s in! Six weeks late, but in and safe.”

“Who is at her helm?”

“Captain Stretton,” she answered.

Nash squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “Then let us go down and greet him, Zee,” he said. “Let us go down together, and welcome the
Mae Rose
safely home, too.”

Xanthia looked up at the man she loved, then took his hand in hers. And together, they went down the narrow steps and out into the mottled sunshine of a perfect afternoon. Together, they walked toward their future.