The Dark Affair (14 page)

Surprise at the kiss? No. Surprise at the pleasure and gentleness of it, he guessed. For even he was stunned by how just that brief caress had captured his wits away from him.

Their breath mingled, their faces turning to deepen the kiss.

The sweetness of it verged on pain. God, it would be so wonderful to stay locked in this embrace forever, where neither of them were anything but themselves.

Gently, he pressed his hands into her lower back as though he might be able to meld them together into one soul. It seemed a dangerous thought.

A thought that betrayed the very memories Maggie had been forcing to his surface.

Sophia. My God. What would she think of this kiss? A kiss meant for a sweetheart or a wife?

It sent a chill straight through him. And he found himself pulling back, his heart aching with the loss of that healing kiss and the refreshed memory of the woman who had been his wife.

He couldn’t forget. Margaret didn’t love him. Not even in the innocent way that Sophia had. Margaret’s kisses were meant to secure her position in his influence on the world, not in his heart.

He straightened his shoulders, hardening himself. He gazed down with as much ice and superiority as he could muster given how exposed he’d felt the moment before. “I married you, Maggie. But I think it best you remember who I am. A man you don’t truly wish to know.”

Blatant curiosity sparked in her eyes. “What’s changed? What is it that frightens you so?”

He stared at her for a moment that stretched and filled with the promise of destruction. His destruction. Not the destruction of his body but of the last vestiges of his heart. Just as he found himself answering her question, allowing thoughts he’d kept silent for years to begin to have voice, he yanked his gaze from hers. Striding to the bellpull, he said flatly, “I am afraid of nothing, and the sooner you come to understand that, the happier you shall be.”

“Happiness, my lord?” she said, her voice strong behind him, nearly breaking through his wall with her intensity. “Whatever is that?”

His hand tightened around the bellpull, his stomach knotting. This morning they had both been clear; love didn’t bring happiness. And if love didn’t, what on earth could? He forced himself to turn back to her and say as carelessly as possible, “Happiness is a myth, my dear.”

M
argaret clenched her hands into fists and closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t losing control of this situation; she was not. With every patient she’d ever had, she’d been able to remain in control, impartial, and clearheaded. But this man? This man had woken something inside her that she had been sure did not exist.

And because of it, at present, her mind was in full riot. Dare she let go of all that she had known? Dare she risk a relationship with him that was more than just patient and caregiver? Had she not already done that?

She couldn’t. She’d seen where untempered passions led. Her own parents had met their destruction when they’d allowed their emotions to rule, and her brother, Matthew? Had he not done the same? If she were to give heed to the clamoring desires within her, to bare herself at all to this man, surely she would be swept away and lost.

And so it was with resolve and a growing alarm at her own feelings that she didn’t intervene at James’s summoning of one of his father’s footmen, the dagger stare he had given, or the order that a coach be readied.

She had always been a creature ruled by reason, and at this moment, she could not let hers slip. For reason no longer held Powers’s sway. And that was dangerous indeed, because Powers was acting just as an opium addict should. Impulsively.

And impulse would lead him straight back to his most adored addiction.

James belted his dressing gown tightly about his waist. “Where the hell are my shoes?”

Margaret stood in the center of his bedroom, took in her icy-eyed devil of a husband, and then patiently said the words she never thought would cross her lips. “My lord, you are acting like a madman.”

He raised a brow. “Madly brilliant.”

She bit down on her lip, hating every moment of this.

He grabbed her hand and strode for the door, pulling her behind him.

“You wish to go now?” she protested.

“Can you suggest a better time?” he asked, not glancing back.

As she followed, she couldn’t help the fascination she felt at her small hand in his big one. At this moment, he
thought
he was in complete control of all his faculties, even his mental ones, and it was quite the sight to behold.

Perhaps especially because he wore nothing more than a dressing gown.

And there was also the kiss. The kiss that had been so elusive and promising, so full of pleasure. How had she let herself be taken in?

What a fool she’d allowed herself to be. But one look at him helped her to see the way she’d danced the fool’s dance.

Even so dressed, acting so rashly, Powers possessed a sort of raw strength. But it was also a strength that she had seen only in men who generally caused her to cross the street lest she be sucked into the energy that pooled about them, luring all to their doom.

They marched down the sprawling grand staircase, and just as he was about to continue said bid to freedom, she accepted that she would have to act and act strongly.

Margaret yanked on his hand.

He glanced back, his face strained with irritation at being stopped when he had so clearly made a decision.

As of yet, their march toward the city beyond the earl’s doors had gone unnoticed by the staff and the earl himself, though she couldn’t imagine such a thing continuing for overlong.

And there was something more important than just this madness of running.

Powers needed to face his past, and if he ran? Well, he would never face it, and she couldn’t be a party to that. Slowly, she slid her hand free of his. “I can’t.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“We can’t leave,” she said quietly.

A look of sheer impatience tightened his brow. “Why must you argue?”

She drew herself up, aware that this would be one of the more difficult cases she could put before him. “He’s your father, and he loves you.”

“He’s an arrogant bastard,” Powers snapped.

“That may be, but he deserves more than this.”

James snorted, but there was a haunted look to him. He looked down to the foyer and escape. “What are you asking of me, Margaret?”

She crossed to him and took his hands in hers. “To be strong, to give him a chance.”

His face hardened. “He doesn’t deserve a chance.”

“Everyone does,” she replied evenly, believing this more than anything. “Most of all, you.”

Perhaps it was her own conviction that softened his features.

“You keep trying to redeem me,” he said. “But all I want . . .” The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed.

“Yes?” It was so important for him to finally say whatever was driving him in this rash action.

His breathing shallowed. “I can’t bear the pain.”

“You do not have to bear it alone.”

He let out a grunt. “I do not wish to bear it at all.”

“But you can. You must if you are ever to be free.”

His hand shook slightly as he reached out for hers. “But how can I be free?”

“Stop running,” she said simply. “Right now, you have no plan. All you’re doing is heading out into the night, escaping that which gives you discomfort. If you don’t make a plan, James, you’ll be back in an opium den before you know it. Perhaps this night.”

His hand tightened about hers. “You’re an unkind angel, Maggie.”

“I’m a realistic one. Besides, you have nothing on but a robe.”

He glanced down, then let out a curse. “So I do.”

“You see where no plan leads?”

“Nakedness in the street?” he drawled.

“Exactly,” she replied, thankful he could at least see his behavior was not entirely sensible.

He stood silently, and she waited, waited for the decision that might be the end of hope for him.

At long last, he whispered, “What, then, do you suggest?”

She lifted her chin, fighting back the urge to let out a cry of relief. He was choosing to help himself. She licked her lips before beginning. “You and your father need to find a common ground. A way to relate without bringing the house down.”

“I thought you were supposed to simply cure me of my opium need.”

She gave his hand a commiserating squeeze. “This is part of it. Facing reality on its terms.”

His gaze shuttered. “I—”

“You can do it,” she said firmly. “I promise.”

“I almost believe you.”

“You should.” She gave him her most winning smile. “And aren’t you made of hard stuff, my lord?”

He raised a blond brow, his vulnerability slipping back behind his predatory facade. “Quite hard.”

She felt herself flush despite the fact that she knew he was simply trying to hide his own discomfort.

He let out a sigh. “I promise to stay, to listen to him, if you promise to go out of this damned mausoleum with me at some point.”

She licked her lips, already trying to think of more ways that she could do such a thing. Beside the utter failure that had been the park. “I think that would be just the thing. But no more sooty back-alley rooms.”

He let out a long-suffering groan. “Sooty dark rooms have their purpose.”

“Oh, they do indeed, but there’s nothing good about their purpose.”

“Are we discussing morality now, Miss Maggie?”

“No. We are discussing what makes the soul flourish, and you heading about in the East End will do naught to make that happen.”

“You believe in souls?”

Her faith in God had been shaken years ago, but she couldn’t deny that she believed there was something in humans that was otherworldly. Something apart from the flesh that lit up one’s eyes and caused the skin to have its lively glow. And when that soul diminished, the eyes died and the body sallowed. She’d seen it far too many times.

She’d refused to let it happen to her and nor would she let it happen to him.

“There is something that animates us,” she said carefully. “And if we do not feed it, we are not alive.”

“We are shells . . .” The words dropped from his mouth, cold, accepting, mournful.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever lost your soul, Miss Maggie?”

Her throat tightened. How could she explain that once, long ago, she’d almost given up on humanity? That so much death and unkindness had nearly soured her? No one had wanted her help in Ireland. The doctors in the Crimea had suffered her presence—and all the other nurses’—with disdain, and she’d seen more men tossed aside as if they were rubbish than she could scarce countenance. It had nearly destroyed her, the tragedy of it.

But one day, somehow, she’d woken up from that and chosen to see the good in people. That for every cruel person, there was one who would share their last piece of bread, who would comfort a dying friend, or who would simply sit in silence with one nearly broken.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “A few years ago. Yes. I very nearly did. I was angry and bitter and ready to tell the world to go to the devil.”

He leaned in closer, doubtful. “But you didn’t?”

“I chose to accept the world for what it is. A place of pain and glory.”

“I haven’t seen glory in a lifetime.”

She felt her lips curl into a smile of their own volition. “Well, we’ll have to change that.”

His broad shoulders tensed ever so slightly, but there was a flash of something else in his eyes. Hope. And that one look would see her through whatever pain there was to come. Of that she was sure.

•   •   •

James fought the urge to bolt. Everything inside him shouted for him to head out into the night. To leave his father’s house and the memories behind. But as he stared down at Margaret’s beautiful face, he knew he wouldn’t.

He would stay not just for her but for himself.

How had he ever thought that he could do this entirely alone? His mad antics had proven to even him that he was no longer entirely capable of surviving this by himself . . .

For God’s sake. He was standing in the hallway in his robe, having just threatened to head out into the night. Such a thing didn’t bode well. And yet she had held his hand and asked him to choose himself over his need to run from his pain.

In all honesty, a good part of him still longed to do just that. To descend into hell and never emerge. The pain had been too much and too long for him to believe that there was a way out of it.

And when he did linger on the past, all he could see was Sophia and Jane. His wife’s beautiful face, creasing with strain as she sought feminine perfection, and his daughter, torn away before she could even live.

But Margaret was promising that there was a way he could reclaim some shattered part of his soul. And whether it was the mysterious creature inside her or the firm conviction in her soft tones, he was willing to do something completely alien. He was going to trust her that his soul could still be reclaimed.

So, instead of heading out into the night, away from his pain and the uncertainty of life without distraction from memory, he followed her back down the hall, back toward the freedom she so daringly promised.

M
argaret swallowed back a good dose of unlikely nerves as she stormed down the stairs.

He was not in his room.

She stopped in the center of the foyer, looked left and then looked right. She refused to lose her composure too soon. Which direction would her errant charge of a husband most likely have chosen? She focused on the double doors leading out to the street. Or had he merely duped her last night and headed back out to break himself against the cogs of East London and its houses of sin?

She’d chosen not to share a bedchamber with him. It felt far too intimate, and besides, she had to show some trust in him.

And yet if he had bolted, such a thing wouldn’t surprise her. It couldn’t. Not with her experience. Even so, she found herself hoping against all hope that he hadn’t forsaken himself and had meant what he said just hours before.

The rumble of male voices drifted toward her, and she jerked in their direction. They were both deep and strong. She took a step, following them. A strange thought occurred to her.

Was Powers in conference with his father?

Surely not? Even the Holy Virgin wouldn’t have been able to arrange such a wonder on short notice.

Even so, she found herself believing her ears as she followed the Oriental runner along the hall and to the breakfast parlor. She paused just outside the door.

A clatter of silverware filled the air.

“Good God, man. Must you be so belligerent?” the earl demanded.

“Need you ask?” Powers mocked.

She tensed, then grabbed the door handle, ready to burst in and settle an argument. But she stopped herself. After all, she’d never heard the two men engage in discourse.

“Are you listening to that woman?”

That woman
, she supposed, was herself.

There was a long pause. “Yes, Father. In fact, I am.”

Another long pause.

“Good. I have doubts, but . . .”

“Why do you have doubts if you hired her and chose her, for God’s sake?”

“Well, she has intimated that I may not have your best interest at heart—”

A loud snort cut off the earl. “She dared to insinuate such a thing?”

“You needn’t be so amused.”

“Your intentions
are
dangerous. You should stay out of her damned way and let her do what she came here to do.”

Margaret’s heart pounded in her chest. Was Powers truly defending her? Even if it meant she’d prod him into actions he’d most likely resist with all measure?

“That is absolute balderdash. My intentions are only—”

“Your intentions destroyed my first wife. I’ll not let you treat this one with anything but the utmost respect. If you must know, if it weren’t for her, I’d be back in the East End already . . . And, Margaret, stop lingering at the door.”

She jumped. Much like a matchstick being struck, her cheeks suddenly burned. How utterly mortifying to be caught dropping at eaves.

And that last part? Was he truly acknowledging that she’d helped him? He’d been so proud, even as he’d seemed to fall apart. She could scarcely countenance that he’d admit such a thing to his father. But that’s exactly what she had heard.

Clearing her throat and gathering as much dignity as she could, she opened the door.

The earl’s mouth twisted in disapproval. “Young ladies do not—”

Powers rolled his eyes. “Most young ladies of our acquaintance not only eavesdrop but twitter with gossip at the very first opportunity. Don’t be such an old fusspot.”

Fusspot?

Margaret bit back a laugh. Powers was arguing with his father as if that were the only kind of discourse possible, and yet, in this moment, there was nothing cruel about his words. Where was the fierce man she was so acquainted with?

The earl let out a long-suffering sigh. “Do be seated.”

She eyed the wide, polished table and its eight chairs.

Powers was seated at one end, his father at the other. Two hardheaded men squared off against each other.

Where should she sit?

Suddenly, feeling like a potential referee, she marched to the seat perfectly at equidistance between the two men. She lowered herself with as much dignity as possible. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Margaret,” Powers said, pushing his chair back. “May I fetch you a plate? I find that I am famished.”

A ridiculous smile pulled at her lips. “I am not at all surprised.”

“Good thing. You’re far too thin,” the earl huffed.

“Yes, he is,” she agreed quickly. “Opiates take quite a toll on the body and negate one’s desire for food.”

Both men stared at her, matching blue eyes wide.

Powers gaped ever so slightly, his hand midair as he reached for a spoonful eggs from the sideboard.

She blinked. “Is something amiss?”

The earl lifted a bushy brow. “One does not discuss opiates at breakfast.”

Fighting a groan, Margaret placed her hands carefully on the polished table. “When one’s son is still suffering from the effects of overimbibing in opiates, one does. At least, one does if they wish their son to improve.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed, and he jabbed his fork at a kipper. “I have every desire that my son should improve.”

“Good. Then we shall discuss opiates at breakfast,” she said simply. “And I would like eggs, if you please, and nothing else.”

Powers was still gaping ever so slightly. After a moment, he nodded, his blond hair glinting silver in the morning light. “I must argue with you. Eggs, yes.” He portioned a huge spoonful onto her plate. “But I am not the only one who is apparently too thin. So are you, madam. Now, make me content and choose something else to add to your plate.”

She sighed, eyeing James with confusion. He was quite serious. He stood by the sideboard, her plate in hand, waiting. She threw up her hands. “Whatever you think.”

“‘Whatever I think.’ Such sweet words.” The sounds of spoons and porcelain followed.

She waited patiently, determined not to be cowed by James or his father.

The earl took a long swallow of his coffee. As he daintily set the saucer down, he said, “Your methods are most jarring.”

She smiled patiently. He’d already given her a setdown the day before, and she was ready for another one. After all . . . She snuck a glance at the two large purple bruises dominating James’s jawline. The ice had helped. Perhaps later tonight, she could apply ice to the rest of his bruised person.

His abdomen had been most abused.

“Margaret?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

James coughed. “My father is actually complimenting you.”

She blushed and turned to the earl. “I do beg your pardon. My thoughts were . . . elsewhere.”

Leaning back in the carved mahogany chair, the earl rested his elbows on the armrests. “I was saying, I cannot deny that my son is awake before nine, capable of intelligent speech, has dressed himself, and is eating.”

“You make it sound as if you’ve never seen such a thing,” Powers gritted. And as if to emphasize his displeasure, he slapped a kipper down on Margaret’s plate.

“I haven’t,” Carlyle retorted. “Not in years.”

“Trifles.” Powers strode behind her and carefully placed the blue painted porcelain plate on the lace place setting before her. “Would you care for anything else?”

What else could she possibly need?

Powers had put a mountain of eggs, sausage, kippers, and tomato before her. In addition to this, there was a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, several pieces of toast, and a virtual rainbow of jellies upon the table. “No, thank you.”

James gave a bow so low, it was clearly facetious. “I will sit now, if madam permits.”

“Madam will permit, if you agree to eat another helping of bacon. You need sustenance.”

The earl guffawed. “My dear, are you his nanny?”

“It would seem so,” she parried before reaching for the silver coffeepot. She was going to need more than her usual one cup. These two men were going to be the death of her. And she had quite a day planned.

“If every boy had a nanny like Margaret,” James said, “we’d all grow up to be devils.”

She plunked the pot down. “I beg your pardon?”

The earl gave a long-suffering groan. “My son is, no doubt, being his usual asinine self.”

James helped himself to the bacon. “I mean only that a lady of such patience would tempt little boys to be as bad as they might before being punished.”

“Are you planning to try me?” she asked quietly.

James’s mirth slipped away. “I don’t plan it.”

More silence followed as he returned to the table.

There it was. The truth of all their situation. At present, the Viscount Powers didn’t
plan
on ruining himself or making her endeavors nearly impossible, but when a man had walked a dark path a long time, he held an aversion to the light, no matter how beneficial it might be to him.

She forced a smile. “Then we shall put our faith in your saintly intentions.”

“Ha,” the earl barked.

“A saint? What could possibly make you think I qualify?” James frowned, eyeing her plate. “You really should eat.”

She forked up a bite of eggs. “Like Saint Francis, today you are going to eschew your comforts and give succor to the poor.”

James blinked. “Succor.”

“It’s a grand word,” she said brightly.

“Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m about to be ambushed?” James reached for a slice of toast and buttered it absently, somehow managing to not spill a crumb.

She eyed the pristine table beneath the bread. It didn’t matter how often she practiced, she’d never been able to manage such fastidious habits with anything that might crumble. And though it might be a silly thought, she always felt terribly embarrassed when she made a mess.

“Would you care for my toast?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re staring at it.”

“Oh. No. I was simply thinking we should ask your cook if she can spare any loaves.”

“Are we going to go feed ducks?” James queried as he brought said toast to his lips. “The park has not been successful—”

“No. We’re going to the East End,” she supplied gleefully.

The earl sputtered, “I—I hardly think that a good idea.”

“You’re sending me back?” Powers lowered his bread. “Margaret, I have so many experiences there—”

“So, we must create new ones,” she assured quickly. “Ones that have nothing to do with
your
pain, but other people’s pain.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“I’m going to take you to a charity.”

“Oh, God,” Powers groaned.

“No, just the Irish.”

Powers placed his elbows on the table and then propped his head in his hands. “I’m going to be surrounded by your lilting, damned people, aren’t I? That’s my punishment?”

“Something like that, yes, and I’d like your father to come.”

The earl pushed back from the table. “I hardly think that necessary.”

“Don’t you wish to be a part of your son’s recovery?” she asked coquettishly.

“I—I assumed you would arrange all of that, and then, when he was better—”

“I would be presented to you?” Powers twirled his fork. “Just like when I was a child, so you can pat me on the head after ten minutes and then send me out of the room again, safe in the knowledge I was behaving as your heir ought.”

“My dear boy, that’s not at all what I meant.”

Powers leveled his father with a stare. “Wasn’t it?”

The earl squared his jaw.

For several moments, Margaret was certain the old man was going to stand and leave the room, washing his hands of such a sordid proposition.

The earl nodded. “If it will help, son, then of course I shall accompany you.”

“Brilliant,” Margaret said, clapping her hands together. It was going to be quite a day, two English lords in the East End among nests of starving Irish street sellers. And she was looking forward to every moment of it.

Somehow she knew that with father and son there, neither man would back down or give up, and then she’d see just what they were truly made of.