Wicked Angel (23 page)

Marlaine nervously clutched at the seams of her pink gown as they walked, wondering what on earth she did now. If only Alex had not looked at Countess Bergen the way he did! She was quite determined
not

to be upset by it, but Lord, she could hardly help herself. It was such a
different
look, unlike any he had ever directed at her. And when the countess had surged to her feet, obviously discomfited about something, her feminine instincts had warned her that she must do
something
to stop what was happening between Alex and this woman. But she was not the impetuous sort, and now, having found her way into this walk, she felt completely inept to take such delicate matters into her hands.

"Lady Darfield has quite a green thumb," the countess remarked. "I understand she grows many of the roses herself."

"I… I should like to grow roses at Sutherland Hall when I am married," Marlaine blurted uneasily.

The countess said nothing, but looked away, toward the roses. Well there was no going back now, Marlaine told herself, and apprehensively plunged ahead. "I shall be so very happy when we are married, you know. Alex is so wonderfully kind to me, even though I am not nearly as… as exciting as other women he might have chosen."

"Oh," muttered the countess, almost inaudibly. "I am sure the duke thinks you are perfect."

Marlaine laughed tightly. "I am not sure what he thinks, but I—I mean,
he
—" Words escaped her. Honestly, she had no idea how to convey her frustration and fear. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Countess Bergen. She was staring intently at the path in front of them, her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked pained—so pained, that Marlaine found a glimmer of confidence, and hastily continued. "In truth, I have no idea the depth of his feelings, but I am quite certain he is rather fond of me—he has said I shall make him a comfortable wife. And he agrees entirely that our betrothal is very right… and… and…
important
." Marlaine winced, pausing as she searched for the right words.

"Yes, I can see that it is a very important match," the countess muttered weakly.

Surprised by the apparent affect she was having on her, Marlaine took a fortifying breath. "Yes, well, naturally, as he is a duke, his marriage is quite important for a number of reasons. I am sure you can appreciate that our betrothal is the concern of many. My father and Alex are quite influential in the Lords, you know, and of course, they share interest in some factories in the south. Everyone watches them to see what they will do. It's a very high compliment, and God forbid, if something were to
happen
, it would be horrible—not just for
me
, you understand, but for many others."

"Yes."

The countess's response was even weaker than before; she looked as if she might be ill. They rounded the far end of the garden and started back toward the terrace and lawn, where a game of lawn bowling was starting. Lady Paddington called out to them, gesturing for them to join the game. Marlaine smiled and waved, but stopped in the middle of the garden path, forcing her companion to stop, too.

Emboldened by the countess's obvious distress, she turned and faced her fully. "In truth, madam, ours is a very important match. Not only am
I
very much in favor of it, but so is Alex, and certainly so are our families. You understand, if… if something should
happen
, it would very well ruin my reputation.

And I… and I would be quite devastated to lose him." There, she had said it. She felt an enormous sense of relief.

The blood seemed to drain from the countess's face. Her blue eyes turned glassy, and she quickly looked at the ground between them. "Lady Marlaine, I think you worry for naught. As you said, his grace is quite fond of you. I cannot imagine what would happen to change a thing," she said, and slowly, cautiously, looked up.

She had won. Dear God, she had won! "I was hoping you would say that," Marlaine murmured.

Suddenly, she wanted to be gone from those vivid cobalt eyes. "I see they have started a game of lawn bowling. I should very much like to play. Will you please excuse me?" She did not wait for the countess to answer, but quickly walked away, her heart hammering loudly in her chest. She fairly flew to the lawn, a bright smile on her face as she joined the others. Marlaine had never felt more triumphant in her life.

Humiliated, Lauren slowly followed, trying to ignore Lady Paddington's insistent wave. Intense guilt threatened to suffocate her as she reflected on Lady Marlaine's thinly veiled plea. Woodenly, she walked toward the lawn, feeling very much like a doxy. As she reached the edge of the lawn, Mrs. Clark's blue ball went sailing wide and long, skipping into an arbor bordering the rose garden.

"Oh my! Fetch that, will you dear?" Mrs. Clark called to her. Lauren waved and walked quickly to the arbor. Once inside, she collapsed onto a wrought iron bench, taking several deep breaths in an effort to maintain her composure. She heard a sound behind her and jerked around, half-expecting to find Lady Marlaine staring at her with soft brown eyes.

But it was Alex who stood at the entrance to the arbor, his hands behind his back, his green eyes intent on her face. "Are you… are you all right?" he asked hesitantly.

Lauren jumped to her feet. "I… I can't find the ball," she lied.

"It's just here," he said simply, and pointed to her right, where the ball lay in plain view.

A flame of embarrassment flooded her face. "Oh! Well, there you have it!" She attempted to laugh as she swiftly retrieved it. She turned, clutching the thing to her chest, but Alex blocked her exit. "Now it is found, so I shall return it right away—"

"Lauren, are you all right?" he asked softly.

She could not look at him. She could not hear that voice. Something inside her began to crumble, pitching her toward a torrent of tears. "Yes! Of course I am!" she insisted, and attempted to walk past.

Alex put his hand on her arm. "Did… did Marlaine upset you?"

Lauren blushed furiously.
Stay away. Don't let him see. Don't let him see
. "I should really return this ball—"

"Lauren, look at me," he quietly insisted.

She desperately wanted to look at him, but was only a fraction away from sobbing as it was. She swallowed convulsively past the hideous mixture of guilt and yearning burgeoning in her chest.

"
Look
at me."

She steadfastly refused to meet his gaze. "I thought we agreed," she murmured desperately.

"Agreed? To what? That we would never speak again?" he asked sharply. "That you would never look me in the eye again? I don't recall agreeing to anything, least of all
that!
"

Lauren closed her eyes, gathering every ounce of strength she could muster. She would not succumb, she would

not
. "Please, I really must return…"

"Look at me!" he demanded, his fingers curling tightly around her elbow.

Panic rose swiftly, and she jerked away from him, wrenching her elbow free of his grasp as she turned toward him. "I
can't
look at you! I can't bear it!" she cried. "We
agreed!
"

His eyes rounded with astonishment. "You are right," he said softly. "We did agree. We agreed there is something undeniable and very strong between us." He took a cautious step toward her. His soft green eyes flicked to the others through the boughs of the arbor, then to her, penetrating her anger. "I do not mean to torture you, angel, but I cannot get you out of my mind."

Dear God, neither could she, and for that she almost hated him. "Please don't say that. Don't
say
that,"

she whispered, and clutching the blue ball fiercely, walked out of the arbor.

Alone in his study, Alex stared at a mountain of paperwork. Work had proven impossible; the restlessness in him of late was seemingly eternal, making normal activity intolerable. The turmoil of his thoughts and the memory of Lauren's anguish in the Darfield's arbor yesterday burned him.

What in the hell was the matter with him? Why this woman captivated him so was baffling—he was not a man who brooded about women, but he had done nothing but that since discovering her at the Granbury reception.

Disgusted, Alex abruptly stood from his desk, walked to a walnut sideboard, and poured a sherry.

Finishing it in one gulp, he was reaching for more when the door opened and Finch stepped across the threshold. "Her grace the duchess and Lady Marlaine," he announced. Alex nodded curtly and lowered the glass, hardly prepared to make chitchat with Marlaine.

The worried look on his mother's face as she rushed through the door surprised him. Marlaine, her face pale, followed a few feet behind. "Mother? What is it?"

"Oh darling, I was with Marlaine and Lady Whitcomb this morning going over the details of the wedding breakfast when they received some terrible news," Hannah exclaimed.

A stab of panic hit him squarely in the gut, and Alex jerked toward Marlaine. She dropped her eyes to the carpet. Quickly, he went to her, taking her delicate hands in his. "What news, Marlaine?"

"It's
Grandmama
," she burst forth on a sob. "Oh Alex, she has taken a turn for the worse! Mama and Papa are preparing to leave for Tarriton right away!" A large tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

He swept it away with the pad of his thumb. "Then you must go to your Grandmama right away. Finch, have the barouche brought round."

"Yes, your grace."

Marlaine sniffed, fighting valiantly to hold back her tears. Alex draped an arm around her shoulder and cupped her head against his shoulder. "Ah, darling, I am so very sorry," he murmured.

She suddenly gripped the lapels of his coat. "You will come with me, won't you Alex? I cannot bear the thought of that journey alone, truly I cannot!"

He unconsciously stiffened as a fleeting thought of Lauren skipped across his mind. "Marlaine, you are very strong when you must be."

She choked on another deep sob. "No, Alex, I am
not
strong, not at all! I cannot face it! I had so wanted Grandmama to see us married—I
promised
her she would see it! Oh please, you must come with me!"

He hesitated—excuses tumbled in his brain, and he marveled at how easily they had come to him.

Over the top of her head, he glanced at his mother, but quickly averted his gaze. It hardly mattered—he could feel her eyes burning a hole through him, her disapproval emanating across the room and swallowing him whole. How could he blame her? Marlaine would be his wife in a matter of weeks, and he was hesitating, actually thinking of ways to avoid the trip to her grandmother's deathbed.

God, what in the bloody hell was the matter with him?

"I… I understand you are needed here. I know how important your work is," Marlaine mumbled, obviously trying to convince herself. "But… but Tarriton is only a two-hour drive from London."

She looked up at him with large, glimmering brown eyes that made him feel instantly and terribly contrite.

"Of course I will go with you," he said soothingly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, despising himself and his faithless thoughts.

Tarriton, an enormously grand estate just north of London, had been awash in steady drizzle for the three days since their arrival. Alex could not recall a time he had visited Tarriton when it had
not
rained. It was a dreary place, made even more so by the fact that a woman lay upstairs, hovering between life and death. For three days there had been no change in the status of Lady Whitcomb's mother. She did not improve, she did not worsen. At times, she was awake and lucid, but for the most part, she simply slept.

On the first day of the family's deathwatch, Alex had occupied himself with the work he had brought along, completing it and dispatching it to London before the evening shadows had begun to lengthen. He had begun the second day by wandering aimlessly from room to room, which had only increased the insufferable restlessness he felt. So he had attempted to read, but found he could not concentrate long enough to comprehend it. In the afternoon, he had briefly debated the necessity of parliamentary reform with Lord Whitcomb, but it was obvious the earl had little interest in politics with illness oppressing his house. Alex had tried to cheer a sullen Marlaine, but she was inconsolable.

The family's evening meal was a morose affair. They ate mostly in silence, attempting half-hearted conversation about the wedding, until Marlaine had begged to be excused, saying she could not discuss the wedding while her grandmama lay suffering in a room just above her. The entire meal was greatly disconcerting to Alex—for some reason, he felt as depressed about the wedding talk as he did the deathwatch.

On this, the fourth morning, Alex had gone out for an early morning ride to clear his head of the discontent threatening to drown him. The whole of Tarriton was beginning to feel like a banishment, entrapping him in a world where conversations drifted from the dying, to overdone weddings, and back again. Extremely agitated and short-tempered, he had ridden for over an hour, getting drenched to the bone, but quite unable to rid himself of the agitation at his core. Moreover, he was quite unable to rid his thoughts of Lauren.

Tremendously disturbing thoughts.

Having done everything he knew to cure himself of the restlessness, and having failed miserably, Alex sat alone in the earl's study, staring blindly at the large expanse of windows. The only sound in the room was the steady
tap tap tap
of the quill he absently drummed against the desktop.

A familiar wave of guilt swept through him. This was how he repaid Marlaine's loyalty—by dreaming of Lauren, by thinking of her constantly. He had tried to see Marlaine differently, to desire her, but thoughts of the angel with eyes of blue had rooted, unwelcome, in his mind and heart. He was a bloody fool—he had a duty to Marlaine. Yes, and that
duty
was eating away at him, a little every day.

Why he was so interested in a country lass with an obscure title confounded him. Bloody hell, his