Promise Me Tomorrow (30 page)

“I do as I wish,” Justin told her flatly. “My parents do not make my decisions for me.”

“But why?” Marianne asked almost desperately. “You do not have to—”

“I know I do not ‘have to.’ But when I heard what Cecilia was saying, I knew I could not allow you to be subjected to such remarks. I don’t want people gossiping about you, speculating on whether you are my mistress.”

“Oh, Justin!” Tears filled Marianne’s eyes, and she threw her arms around him. “You are so good.”

He smiled at that and bent to press his lips against her hair. “I suspect that there are those who would dispute that.”

“Well, they would be wrong,” Marianne said staunchly, going up on tiptoe to press her lips against his. “I love you.”

Justin made an inarticulate noise and buried his lips in hers.

It was sometime later that he finally released her and stepped back. “If we go on, I shall never take you out to the magistrate,” he told her hoarsely. “And he is waiting for us.”

Marianne nodded. She could not let Justin make this sacrifice for her. But he was right; they needed to deal with the magistrate now. Later she would think about what she had to do.

The magistrate was a white-haired man whom Marianne had met earlier in the evening. He was the local squire, an amiable sort of man who apparently enjoyed Lady Buckminster’s fondness for horses. Marianne suspected that around here he had few occasions to deal with deaths such as this one. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and a trifle in awe of Justin, who did not leave Marianne’s side during his questions.

The questioning took little time as she had very few answers.
No, she barely knew the man,
and
No, she had no idea why he would wish to harm her.

“I am sorry to be of so little help,” she apologized.

Squire Halsey smiled on her benignly and patted her arm. “There, there, my dear, he was clearly a madman. Their ways make no sense. Don’t worry about it.”

“I just wish I knew why he—” Justin began, then broke off, grimacing. “I suppose I really cannot blame Exmoor. If I had had a gun at that moment, I might very well have done the same thing.”

When the interview was over, Marianne left Justin with the magistrate and went up to her room. She had a great deal to think over. She had, she knew, unwittingly brought a great deal of trouble to these people. She did not know why Mr. Fuquay had tried to kill her, but now he was dead, and Lady Buckminster and Bucky had the scandal of it happening there at their party to deal with. If Cecilia or someone else did manage to find out about her origins in the orphanage and as a servant, then Nicola would seem to the others in the
ton
at best a fool, for being taken in by Marianne, at worst a traitor to her own by attesting to Marianne’s nonexistent status. And Justin! It would be the worst for him, if he married her.

He was a proud man, and his pride would be destroyed if everyone learned that his wife was low-born. He would be held in amusement and contempt. His family would be furious. And there would be a blot on his family’s name that could never be erased.

Marianne wanted to be his wife more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. It filled her with joy that he had wanted to protect her from people’s gossip. But he had said nothing about love. And she could not let him throw away his life just to save her reputation. She could not marry him.

The only thing for her to do, she realized, was to leave this place as soon as possible. Once she was out of Justin’s life, Cecilia would not bother to dig up Marianne’s past. No one need ever know that Nicola had lied for her; Justin would not be burdened with an embarrassment of a low-born wife.

She would go home. Her heart swelled with love as she thought of being with her daughter again. Rosalind would help to take away the pain in her heart. She would tell the others that she could no longer continue in her role. Then she would take Rosalind, and they would go to some other city—Manchester or Leeds or some other growing metropolis where there were newly rich merchants who would be willing to pay for lessons in language and deportment. She would be able to make a living for her and her daughter…and if her days looked unremittingly bleak, at least she would have the memories of this week with Justin.

Justin would be angry at first, she knew. There was even the possibility that he might follow her and try to persuade her to change her mind. But, with a little luck, she would escape him. And in time he would be glad that she had not taken him up on his offer. He wanted her, and he had been too honorable to make her his mistress, but he had said nothing to her about love. She knew that he did not even believe in the emotion. Desire would fade, and reason would replace it. Then he would be relieved.

Marianne dashed away the tears that the thought brought to her eyes and set about carrying out her plan. She went to Lady Buckminster’s room and found her still up, so she launched into the tale she had prepared: she was so shaken by her experiences of the evening that she had determined to return home first thing the next morning, and she would appreciate it if Lady Buckminster would let her take her carriage to the inn in the village the next day, so that she could get the first coach to London.

Lady Buckminster was all sympathy, though she at first tried to convince Marianne to accept the use of the carriage all the way back to London, as well as one of the gentleman as an escort. It took some time to talk her out of that idea, and then the lady insisted that she must take the post chaise. Traveling by coach was simply too slow and tiresome. Marianne also knew, though the older woman was too polite to say so, that a lady would not travel alone by coach, so Marianne finally agreed to hire a post chaise, knowing that when she got to the inn, Lady Buckminster would not know that she took the mail coach instead.

After getting Lady Buckminster to swear that she would not tell a soul where Marianne had gone, she returned to her room and packed her trunk and smaller suitcase. Finally she sat down to the hardest part: penning a letter of explanation to Justin. First she wrote a note to Nicola, thanking her for her help the evening before, as well as notes of thanks to her hostess and to Penelope. Then, unable to avoid it any longer, she wrote Justin. She shed more than a few tears over the missive, but she sternly forced herself to finish it.

She had just finished the letter and sealed it and the others when there was a soft tap at her door. Surprised, she slid the letters into a drawer and went to open her door. Justin was standing there.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she stepped back quickly so that he could enter.

“Everyone else is in bed,” he told her. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He reached out and took one of her curls in his fingers and began to toy with it. His eyes were hot and dark, his mouth heavy. “I had planned not to risk coming here tonight. I could wait, I thought, until our wedding day.” His mouth curve sensually. “But I quickly found out how wrong I was.”

He bent and kissed her, his mouth slow and velvety on hers. Marianne held herself stiff for a moment, then gave in. She deserved this one night, she told herself.
She was, after all, giving up a lifetime with him. Surely it would be all right for her to steal this one night to cherish as a memory.

Justin raised his head and looked down at her quizzically. “Have you been crying?”

Marianne nodded. She should have realized that he would notice her reddened eyes. She wracked her brain for some explanation.

But he had already jumped to his own conclusion. “Poor girl. It’s no wonder, after the night you had.” Justin cradled her in his arms. “I should have stayed with you. Bucky could have handled it all.”

Marianne let out a little sigh of relief and snuggled into his chest.

“Here. Let me take care of you,” he said gently and began to take down her hair.

It fell, heavy and soft, over her shoulders, and Justin picked up her brush and began to pull it through her hair with long, smooth strokes. Marianne closed her eyes, luxuriating in the soft, sensual pleasure. With each stroke, her loins grew warmer and heavier. Finally he laid the brush aside and began to unbutton her dress, pausing halfway down to kiss the smooth skin of her back as the two sides of her dress fell away from it. Then he continued undressing her, letting her dress and petticoats fall in a pool on the floor.

When she was clad only in her chemise and pantalets, he led her to the bed and sat her down on it, then knelt in front of her and began to unfasten her slippers. He drew each slipper from her foot, rubbed her feet, easing away every bit of pain and tiredness. Next he slid his hand up her leg until he found her garter and pulled it down, following it by rolling down her stocking. Marianne shivered at the exquisite pleasure of his slow, delicate touch. He did the same thing with the other garter and stocking, and by the time he was through, Marianne was pulsing with desire.

“Make love to me,” she murmured, sliding her hands up his arms and onto his chest.

Justin smiled and kissed her. “I will. Believe me, I will. But first…”

He pulled one end of the ribbon that tied her chemise until the bow fell apart. Then he slipped his hands beneath the top of the chemise and slid it down over her breasts, his hands cupping and caressing the heavy orbs as he did so. He untied the ribbon at the waist of the pantalets and removed them in the same slow, caressing manner.

Gently, taking his time, he kissed and stroked her, arousing her to an ever higher desire. He made love to her with his mouth, kissing her breasts and stomach and making his way down to the hot center of her passion. Using his tongue, he ignited her, and Marianne moaned, writhing and digging her hands into the bed beneath her.

Finally he stood and ripped away his clothing, then moved between her legs. Lifting her buttocks, he slid into her, filling her, and Marianne wrapped her legs around him. He thrust and retreated, thrust and retreated, until Marianne convulsed around him, pleasure rushing through her. He let out a hoarse cry and muffled it against her neck, shuddering as he poured his seed into her. Marianne wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him with all her might, as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

J
USTIN LEFT HER ROOM EARLY THE
next morning. Marianne sat up as soon as the door clicked shut behind him. She had not slept the entire night, but had lain awake listening to him breathe and feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her head. She had not wanted to miss even a moment of this last night with him. It would have to last her a lifetime.

Now she rose and washed, then dressed quietly and swept her hair up into a simple bun. She wore a traveling suit, made of dark, durable material, with a light jacket to protect against the dust of the road. Her bonnet was equally plain, and she looked, she thought, rather like a governess. However, that was what she wanted—to be as little noticed as possible. If Justin should come looking for her, she did not want people remembering that she had passed by.

She rang for the maid and found that Lady Buckminster had already ordered the carriage to be brought around for her. The maid went back to the kitchen and brought her up a light breakfast of tea and toast. Shortly after that, a footman came in and carried her trunk of clothes down to the carriage. Marianne handed the letters to the maid, asking her to deliver them to the appropriate people later in the day. She was hopeful that Justin would arise late and might not even notice her absence until the afternoon.

The sun was just beginning to come up when she walked out the door and got into the carriage. Tears filled her eyes as the coach rolled away. She turned her head from the view of the house and blinked her tears away.

The drive into the village took almost thirty minutes, and by that time, she had overcome her tendency to cry. The coachman carried her trunk into the inn for her. Marianne went inside the inn to inquire about the next mail coach and learned that it would be almost thirty minutes before it arrived. She strolled back out into the yard.

A large, expensive carriage rolled down the road past the inn, not turning in, but the rider on horseback that followed right behind it did enter the yard. The rider, a rounded fellow who rode clumsily, slid off his horse with obvious relief, shouting for an ostler.

“Here, she’s thrown a shoe,” he complained. “I need to get it put back on right away.”

The ostler explained that the blacksmith next door already was working on previous orders, and the two exchanged words for a few minutes. The rider took off his hat and brushed the gathering sweat from his forehead, and Marianne drew a sharp breath.

The rider was the man whom Rosalind had pointed out to her across the street from their house—the man who had questioned Rosalind and the maid in the park!

Marianne quickly stepped back inside the doorway and watched the pair from the window, taking care to stand well back so that he could not see her.
Who was he? Had he followed her here?

It seemed too strange a coincidence that he should happen to turn up in this town when she was visiting a house only a few miles away. He must have tricked it out of Rosalind or one of the others.
Was he even now headed for Buckminster? Thank heavens she was no longer there.
Marianne did not know what he wanted, but she did not think it could be anything good. He must, she thought, be somehow connected with Mr. Fuquay—his accomplice, or perhaps his employee. She had thought herself safe now that Fuquay was dead.
But what if this man now tried to finish off the job?