Shev (13 page)

Anne’s body sighed, the tension rolling off her in gentle waves. Why had it taken her so long to seek out this magical place? Then she recalled the masculine silhouette that had sent her scurrying back to safety. No doubt her observer had been none other than Madame Trudeau’s spy. Still, an unnerving realization, even though the gentleman had meant her no harm.

Once and for all, Anne would put the incident with Lord Whitfield behind her. She would not walk through the rest of her life with one eye looking forward and one forever scanning behind her. She refused to allow him that kind of power over her.

“Such a fierce look.”

Anne jumped, startled to find Lord Shevington standing a short distance away. So absorbed in her own thoughts, she had failed to hear his approach.

“My lord, what are you doing here?”

“Are we back to formality?” He closed the distance between them. “Shouldn’t a profession of love create a greater sense of intimacy?”

His nearness stole her breath right from her lungs. He was so handsome, so compelling. “It is difficult to break a lifetime of training, especially under difficult circumstances.”

He reached behind her. “Soon you will come to realize that, even under difficult circumstances, I am nothing more than a man.” A faint ping reached her ears. “A man who is going to spend the rest of his life showing you how much he loves you.” Another ping. “If you will allow it.”
Ping.
Pause.
Ping.

Anne’s eyes widened when she comprehended what the impossible man was doing. “Are you letting down my hair?”

“Indeed, I am.”

The grin he sent her contained a heart-wrenching combination of longing and love. Tears clouded her vision. “M-Marcus, I can’t marry you.”

His smile faded. “The differences in our station mean less than nothing.” He cradled her cheek in his warm palm. “My mother’s father was a Cit. A successful businessman, to be sure. But it hadn’t always been so.” His gaze held hers in a gentle embrace. “I grew up with an assortment of tradesmen, bankers, seamstresses, physicians, and even pickpockets dining at our dinner table because my mother refused to turn her back on her roots for a title and a Mayfair address.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “My family observes no barriers, and they will not allow anyone else to do so in their presence either.”

Good Lord, how she loved this man. Their difference in status seemed so insignificant when compared to killing one’s family. She pressed a kiss into his palm. “Your family is lovely and, if things were different, I would be honored to be a part of it.”

Moving away, she strode deeper into the folly, only now realizing the half-moon interior sported a lushly furnished lounge area with a daybed, chaise longue, and cushioned chair. The decadent sunset colors swept the area in bands of red, orange, yellow, and cream tones.

If she wasn’t about to lose the only man she’d ever loved, she would have rejoiced in finally finding a place on this estate that reflected Marcus’s tastes. A glimpse of the real Marcus Keene and not the façade he wore to keep the world at bay.

A lone tear spilled down her face.

“Did you not hear what I said? Our stations—”

“I heard, Marcus,” she whispered. “My insubstantial bloodlines are not the reason for my refusal.”

He circled around until he stood before her again, tipping up her trembling chin with one hooked finger. “Tell me the reason, Anne. I’ll take care of it.”

“You can’t.”

“Do not underestimate my resolve on this. I intend for you to be my wife—unless you professed your love for me out of compassion rather than passion.”

“No. Well, yes. I mean both.” Anne grasped his face in her hands. “I love you, Marcus. Never doubt it. But I can’t marry you.”

“I don’t understand, Anne.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for strength. “I know.”

“Explain it to me. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you.”

Anne’s body began to tremble from the force of holding in her secret. A secret she had never shared with another person, not even her aunt and uncle. But she wanted to unburden herself, wanted it like a starving animal in search of food.

“Sweetheart, come here.” He pulled her against his big, solid body. “I can take it, Anne. Whatever this is, I can take it.”

Anne’s trembling grew worse. “I know you can. You’re the strongest, most capable person I know. But if this horrible thing ever got out, it could ruin you and your family.” And he would never look at her in quite the same way again.

“So I am to stand by and watch this secret destroy you?” He kissed the top of her head. “That, I can’t do. I’ve known from the beginning you harbored something that was extinguishing the light from your eyes. It’s time for you to allow someone else to carry this burden for you—or, at least, share its weight.”

The tears refused to be held back any longer. Anne sobbed against Marcus’s chest, absorbing every bit of strength from his capable arms. She loved him so much, but had sworn never to share her shame. His disgust would shatter the fragile hold she kept on her sanity. “It’s too horrible, Marcus. It’s too horrible to forgive.”

“Anne, love. Look at me.”

He tried to lift her chin, but she refused. Anne couldn’t bear for him to see her this way. She was losing control, and one look in his sympathetic eyes would be her undoing.

“Hold on.”

Before his words registered, he’d bent and lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the large, overstuffed chair. He sat with her cradled in his arms, whispering unintelligible words of comfort. She buried her face into his neck, his scent a balm to her ragged nerves.

After several minutes, he ventured, “We have all done horrible things that we regret.”

“Nothing so horrible as this, Marcus.” She accepted the handkerchief that appeared in front of her face. “I promise you.”

His chest rose on a deep inhalation, as if preparing himself to deliver unwelcome news. “Many years ago, a gentleman I respected gave me an opportunity to stop the downward course of my life by helping my country protect its borders from a French invasion.”

“In what way?”

“Nothing too onerous. I simply had to continue cultivating the charming, profligate persona I had so enthusiastically started in my unbridled youth.”

“I don’t understand. For what purpose?”

“To listen.”

As hard as she tried, Anne could make no sense of his words.

“Few people temper their conversations around someone more concerned about the fit of their new coat or the location of their next entertainment. I took advantage of their carelessness and reported anything important I heard.”

“Are you saying you’re a spy?”

He winked. “Dashing, aren’t I?”

Despite the seriousness of their conversation, she smiled. “Indeed, my lord spy.” She searched his twinkling eyes for a hidden meaning behind his words and found none. “But I fail to see how your actions could be considered horrible. What you’re doing is honorable, Marcus.”

“Would your opinion change if you learned I used my talents to charm information from a young, lonely wife whose family connections reached Bonaparte?”

The blood drained from Anne’s face at the thought of Marcus embracing another woman.

“I quickly realized the young lady was in possession of a great deal of information due to her parents’ friendship to the newly elected First Consul of France.”

“So your listening turned into something more?”

“Much more, as it turns out. My affair with Giselle Bélanger lasted for several weeks—until she returned to France with her husband.”

“Jacqueline.” Anne’s throat closed around his daughter’s name.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Not until I received Giselle’s letter did I realize our affair had resulted in a child. Even so, I never again bedded another woman for the purpose of extracting political secrets. Not my most shining moment, wouldn’t you agree?”

Anne pressed her lips against his. “Thank you for sharing your story. It is difficult to find fault in actions that produced such a beautiful outcome.” She kissed him again. “But I understand it doesn’t make the regret any less painful.”

“How can you not despise me for such callous disregard of another?”

“Because that lost young man is not who you are today. I love
you,
Marcus Keene.”

Anne caught the sheen of tears in his eyes a second before his mouth covered hers. It was a consuming kiss, a desperate kiss, a loving kiss. Warm and slick, his tongue curled around hers, coaxing her deeper, harder, longer. By the time he slowed their kiss, Anne was so starved of air she could barely recall her name.

“Now you, Anne. I shared my most shameful secret, and yet you still love me. Allow me the opportunity to show you the depth of my affection. Let it go.”

“Marcus, our situations, they’re not the same.”

“Of course, they’re not. But you can trust me as I trusted you.”

She shook her head. “No—”

“Did you lie to me then, Anne?”

“What do you mean?”

“Trusting the one you love is an essential ingredient in a relationship. Perhaps you don’t truly love me.”

“Don’t be absurd—”

“Are you like all the others?”

“Stop it, Marcus!”

“Do you love my title and wealth more than me?”

“I murdered them!”

Anne blinked several times; her breaths billowed into the deafening silence.
Oh, my God. What have I done?
Her gaze shot to Marcus’s, fear clogging her throat.

* * *

After his initial shock had faded, Shev forced the tension from his shoulders. He’d hated pushing her into divulging the awful event that had held her hostage, but he could not stand to see her suffer any longer.

He brushed a lock of hair away from her flushed face. “Who, Anne?”

“Oh, God. No. I didn’t just say that. Please, no.” She stared at his chest, a wild look in her eyes.

“Breathe, Anne. Breathe. I’m still here, love.” He sent her a playful, reassuring smile. “You’ll have to do better than murder to scare me away.”

Her gaze slowly traveled from his chest to the vicinity of his mouth. “M-Marcus.”

One word. Broken. In one ill-conceived attempt to help her, he’d managed to do what years of her protecting a secret hadn’t: He’d shattered her spirit. “Anne, I’m sorry.” He drew her close. “We don’t have to talk about this now. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

A spasm shook her body, and humid heat sifted through the coarse material of her dress. He tried to think of a way to right this terrible wrong he’d caused. But logical thought failed him. His stomach roiled and coiled into a knot. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so he held her close, smoothing large, calming circles on her back, murmuring an apology against her temple.

“When I was a little girl,” she began, her words unsteady, “I loved books. Books of all kinds. Books on travel, cooking, medicine, novels—anything and everything. My favorite time to read was at night after everyone had gone to bed and the house creaked like old bones settling in for a long rest.”

Shev forced himself to stay quiet, to allow her to tell her tale for as long as she was willing. Or capable.

“On my tenth birthday, my mother gave me
The Ruins of Palmyra
. The year before, I had read a brief description about the grand, colonnaded street near Damascus and mentioned it to my mother.” Anne pressed into his shoulder. “She remembered.”

“Mothers have extraordinarily long memories,” he said in his driest tone, hoping to elicit a small chuckle. But she was too caught up into her story.

“Yes, my mother was”—she swallowed hard—“lovely in all ways.”

Anne pushed out of his embrace and paced the perimeter of the folly. He mourned the slight weight of her body, their lost connection.

“I sat in my favorite reading chair that night and read and read and read until my eyes were blurry with fatigue. Well after midnight, I tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Miller, had come to anticipate my new-book routine, where I would read until I realized I hadn’t eaten a proper dinner. She would leave me a tin of biscuits to tide me over till morning.”

An image of a sleepy-eyed, disheveled girl traipsing through her house in search of a late-night sweet made Shev smile despite the building tension.

“In my excitement, I had read far later into the night than normal and wound up falling asleep at the kitchen table.”

“Did your parents find out about your secret, midnight escapade?”

“No. To this day, my secret remains with Mrs. Miller and me—and now you.”

She seemed reluctant to go on, so he offered, “Mrs. Miller roused you before the rest of the household awakened?”

Anne turned to him then, her arms crossed over her chest as if suddenly cold. Her gaze steady on his. “A storm blew in while I was asleep. The wind whipped through my bedchamber’s open window and knocked over the burning candle—onto the book I had been reading. The fire swept through the house, killing my mother, father, brother, and our maid.” Silent tears streamed down her face. “I stood at the bottom of the stairs, choking on smoke and staring into the terrified eyes of my family trapped on the upper floor. The last sound I heard was the crack of splintering wood, followed by my mother’s and little brother’s scream.”

Shev could not sit and watch her torment any longer.

In an instant, she was in his arms, remembered pain racking her body while he whispered a litany of nonsensical words near her ear. Mostly he just held on to her and rode out the wave of her grief.

“I killed them, Marcus. I killed my family for a b-biscuit.”

“No, Anne. You could not have foreseen the sequence of events.”

“But I should have blown out the candle before going downstairs.”

“Every one of us, at one time or another, has fallen asleep with a candle burning at our side or walked out of a room, leaving a lit candle behind. Even your parents, Anne.”

“I don’t—”

“Have you ever given thought to what would have happened had you stayed in your bedchamber and fallen asleep by the burning candle?”

“All the time.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sometimes I wish I had”—she drew in a ragged breath—“I had d-died with them.”