What a Lady Craves (14 page)

“I am sorry for that.” God, let her hear the sincerity behind his words. He
was
sorry, damn it all, but she must know he couldn’t have arranged matters otherwise.

“No, you don’t understand. If I could change the past, I’d arrange things so I refused you that first dance.” She turned for the door.

Damn it, he wasn’t going to let her storm off again. Not until he’d thawed that reserve. This cold woman wasn’t the Henrietta he remembered. He grabbed her wrist. “Not so fast.”

She whirled. “Remove your hand from my person.”

So formal, so unlike the girl he’d proposed to. “No.”

“I shall summon your aunt, and we’ll see what she has to say about your behavior.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “I have the feeling she’d approve, actually.”

The muscles tightened in her cheeks, and her eyes glittered. If he didn’t miss his guess, she was about to slap him—and he’d deserve it. He caught her hand in midair and pulled her closer. Her bosom expanded, pushing her breasts up against his chest.

“Do not even think it.” He shot the words quick and low, and ducked his head closer. “I know a very efficient means of silencing you.”

“Try it,” she grated, “and I’ll use my teeth and my knee.”

He resisted the urge to pull her closer, to revel in the way her body fit snugly against his—like she was made for him alone. To use a means of persuasion he already knew to be quite effective. “I only want you to listen and listen well. I do not understand the need for your animosity. I explained all this to you in the letter I sent.”

Her breath gusted in a warm rush across his face. “What letter?
What letter?
”

He released her to turn away and run his hands through his hair. She hadn’t received his letter.
Damn, damn, and damn.
Now he had to explain this face-to-face, and that was infinitely worse. He couldn’t control her responses. She was free to ask questions, rather than read and accept what he wrote. But this was his fault, as well. He should never have trusted the vagaries of a sea voyage to ensure the delivery of that message.

“I’m sorry you never received it. I explained everything.”

“You should never have had to explain such a thing in a letter. You know that, don’t you?” She took a step toward him, jaw set. If she’d been male, he’d have expected her fists to fly in the next moment.

Instead, she released a torrent of words. “You should have had more
honor
than to break a standing engagement. A gentleman does not cry off. Surely you knew that. And yet, I had to
learn the truth through gossip. Do you know what that is like? You sail halfway around the world. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, if ever. You could have
died,
and I would not have known of it for six months.”

She paused and tugged the side of her hand across her left eye. “So naturally, when rumors began to circulate, I refused to believe them. I trusted in you. You would not have done such a thing to me. But the gossip didn’t stop. More and more people corroborated the story. The English in India do write letters home, you know.”

“I know.” He reached out and pressed the pads of his fingers to her cheek. Damp. If the thought of his death could still wring emotion from her, perhaps he might hope. Perhaps he could still salvage something from the ruin of their engagement. “That is why I wanted to tell you myself, before you had a chance to hear. Damn it, I
did
tell you, but you never got the letter.”

She turned away from his touch. “How am I to be certain you even wrote one?
Other
letters bore the story out, but then there were those who returned who could tell me to my face. Do you have any idea what I went through?”

Of course he didn’t. He’d rather not think of it. Other problems had occupied his mind—Marianne’s problems, if he was honest, and time had been of the essence. How easy was it for him to write that letter and hope everything would be all right. He did not have to be there to witness Henrietta’s humiliation. It was, he supposed, only just punishment that he endure her wrath now.

“I’d say I was sorry, but even I know that won’t suffice.”

“You’re absolutely right about that. It won’t suffice. Nothing will.” She held both hands fisted at her sides, knuckles white. “And I, for one, cannot wait until you leave. If I live to be a hundred it’ll be too soon for me to look on your face again.”

She was about to stalk off, but he could not let her go. “Can you trust me on one matter? I married Marianne because I had no choice, not because my feelings for you had changed. Can you at least believe that of me?”

“What on earth could possibly have happened that you had no choice?” But even as she said the words, her expression changed. It remained hard, but the color drained from her cheeks, until she resembled a marble statue—beautiful but cold and dead on the inside.

She’d drawn the most obvious conclusion. Naturally she had—a conclusion that did not exonerate him in the least.

“I see,” she said, her tone flat. “I see, and I must answer honestly. No, I cannot believe you’d do such a thing. Or I couldn’t have then. The man I knew would never have betrayed me
like that.”

“The man you knew did
not
betray you like that,” he replied as evenly as he could. It was the strict truth at the time of his marriage, but he could not swear before God that he’d been completely celibate for the past eight years.

“Then do explain how such a thing came about.”

Alexander eyed his brandy glass, sadly out of reach on the desk. “I was placed in a position where I was obliged to wed Marianne for honor’s sake.”

“Indeed.” Such chill infused those two syllables.

“But honor forbids me to explain the exact circumstances.”

“Yet honor did not prevent you from throwing me over. Sir, we are at an impasse.” She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

He stared at the unmovable plank of wood. Henrietta might well think they were at an impasse, but he suspected he could move past that obstacle. Their encounter outside the nursery, where she’d melted under his lips, had proven her still susceptible. If he could wear her down through kisses and touches, he might yet win her back.

Somehow Henrietta kept her composure. Her heels clicked a rapid tattoo on the parquet. Tears burned at the back of her throat, but she wouldn’t unleash them until she found a private spot. Damn him.
Damn him.
How dare he come back into her life and force her to face the pain he’d caused when he left? How dare he rip that scab off and make her feel it again? How dare he put his hands on her and reawaken her feelings with his touch, as if he’d only been gone a day or two, and not eight years?

And to ask for her trust on top of that? To
propose
? When he’d betrayed her? No. It was unfair of him to demand that. The thing to do when one fell off a horse might well be to get back on, but in this case, she preferred to walk. The journey might be longer, but at least she wouldn’t arrive at her destination with an ache in her thighs from the saddle and her spine stiff from absorbing the jolt of the trot.

Now if only she could find a private corner. Preferably one with an ugly vase she could hurl across the room and claim she’d only knocked from its pedestal. Yes, smashing something would be most satisfying right now. Too bad she’d walked away from Alexander. She’d very much love to smash his thick skull.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Henrietta turned to find Lady Epperley inspecting her through her lorgnette. “Where are your charges?”

“I sent them off to the kitchens to see if Mrs. Brown might give them something. I reckoned they might welcome the distraction.” Lord only knew she could use it. Perhaps she should have gone to the kitchens herself. A cup of hot chocolate would have beaten her discussion with Alexander any day.

“When I hired you, I expected a conscientious young lady, not one who would shirk her duty.”

Henrietta froze. A litany of foul words formed a jumble in her throat. She swallowed hard to get rid of them and prayed for calm. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but you hired me as your companion, not as a governess.”

“At the moment, I find myself in need of a governess more than a paid companion. Albemarle cannot abide young children. Always running about, breaking things, asking questions, disturbing his nap.” Lady Epperley waved a hand as if to sweep away the very thought. “You will keep those girls out of his path until they’re of an age to engage him in
amusing conversation.”

“It sounds as if you’ve invited them to move in here,” she said faintly. “But that cannot be true as you’ve just finished telling me you cannot abide children.”

“Of course I haven’t invited them to stay. What utter nonsense. Nevertheless, you just might find yourself taking charge of those girls for longer than you expect.”

Henrietta didn’t like that sly little smile on the old lady’s face. Not one bit. “What on earth does that mean?”

“I’ve seen a thing or two in my day.” Lady Epperley’s lips stretched thin as the finest silk. If a snake could smile, it might well bear that exact expression. “You never know when an unexpected offer might come along. I strongly suggest you take it, should that very thing occur. At any rate, it is Albemarle who cannot abide children. As long as they’re in the house, you shall personally see to it that they do not disturb anybody.”

Henrietta swallowed another mouthful of curses. She’d known the old lady was difficult before she’d taken the job. She’d just never considered how that difficulty might wear on her day after day. Like granite being eroded by drops of rain over the centuries, even the most stubborn person would yield eventually. “I hardly think they’re disturbing you at the moment, since they’re in the kitchens and well out of your sight.”

Another serpentine smile played about Lady Epperley’s lips, as if Henrietta’s sauce had pleased her. “Lord only knows what Mrs. Brown has given them to eat. Honey on bread, no doubt. Or jam.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “And they will proceed to place their sticky little fingers all over my sitting room when they’ve finished. Can you imagine the effect on Albemarle’s coat? Kindly see they wipe their hands properly before they leave the kitchens.”

Henrietta had no choice but to obey, although part of her was tempted to defy the harridan. If Lady Epperley threw her out, she’d escape Alexander and the memories he’d dredged up. But then without references, she’d have to give up her notions of true independence and return home. That was too much like admitting defeat.

She thumbed through the pages of her memory for an appropriate citation from Mary Wollstonecraft. Independence. Yes, the basis of every virtue. If Henrietta returned home, she would lose that. And then another came to mind.
How can a rational being be ennobled by anything that is not obtained by its own exertions?

Which meant only one thing: She must take the girls in hand, and like a proper governess, she’d order their tea to be served in the nursery from now on. She’d eat with them. That way she’d be sure to avoid any more unfortunate encounters with their father.

Her strategy worked until the girls’ bedtime. She had them in their cotton nightdresses and was brushing Helena’s hair when a knock sounded on the door. She scowled at the solid plank of oak—she hadn’t rung for a servant, and Lady Epperley most certainly would not knock. Which left only one likely possibility.

She laid the hairbrush aside and let Helena’s silky dark strands flow through her fingers. “Yes?”

The door opened. “I thought I’d say goodnight.”

“Papa!” Francesca chirped and lunged at him.

He held out his arms, caught her, and tossed her in the air.

Henrietta gnawed at her lower lip. She’d never known a proper
ton
father to do such a thing—not that she had much experience outside her own family, but both there and among her friends, such demonstrations of paternal affection were unheard of.

Alexander had said they did things differently in India.

“Shall I leave you to tuck them in?” Henrietta folded her hands together to hide their trembling and kept her face carefully blank.

He set his daughter on the bed. “Oh, no. Stay, if you like. I won’t be a moment.”

“I want a story,” Francesca insisted. “Tell us about the lion with the thorn in its paw.”

A movement next to her reminded Henrietta of another presence. Helena had backed up against her, her fists clenched and her jaw set.

“Perhaps we ought to let Helena pick the story,” Henrietta suggested.

Alexander’s gaze flicked from her to his older daughter and back. Henrietta couldn’t stop herself—she placed a protective hand on the girl’s shoulder. But it didn’t matter. Alexander seemed to understand. “Yes, I believe Miss Upperton is right. Helena, what would you like to hear?”

“I want to hear about the lion and tiger, Papa,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed on her folded hands. Where did one so young come by such reserve? It made her seem older than her years. Helena didn’t seem afraid of her father, exactly. No, wary was closer to the mark, a feeling Henrietta was well acquainted with.