Wicked Angel (33 page)

There would be no tea party if Lauren could help it. Mortified to the very tips of her toes that Marlaine was here, she searched frantically about the room for an escape, at
least
a place to hide. A wave of bitter shame rumbled through her, and she rushed blindly to the window. At the sound of the door opening, Lauren whirled around, bracing herself against the window sash.

Marlaine looked as surprised as she was, and stood uncertainly at the threshold for a long moment. A little pale, but nonetheless very pleasingly dressed in apple green, Marlaine moved slowly and elegantly into the middle of the room. Lauren felt like a lump of pearl-pink clay standing at the window as she was, shame and horror seeping through every pore.

"Good afternoon," Marlaine said politely.

"Lady Marlaine," Lauren choked.

"I apologize, I did not mean to interrupt. Jones did not mention—"

"Oh no, please, you are not interrupting—I—I called unexpectedly. Lady Darfield has gone to the nursery, but… but she should be back at any moment."

Marlaine nodded and glanced around the room before moving toward a settee covered in gold china silk.

Searching for
something
to say, Lauren blurted, "I, uh, I understand you have been away?"

Marlaine's head jerked unnaturally toward her, and Lauren immediately regretted her choice of words.

"Yes. My grandmother has been very ill—"

"I am terribly sorry."

"She is much improved, thank you," Marlaine said coolly. She sat gingerly on the edge of the settee, nervously smoothing her hands over her skirt. "I hurried back to London once she started to mend." She paused, looking quite awkward. "You—you cannot imagine how much there is to do before a duke's wedding," she said, looking at her lap.

Lauren's hand slipped from the window sash, falling limply to her side. "It must be daunting," she muttered, swallowing past the guilt lodged in her throat.

"Oh my, yes, indeed it is. The caterer, the florist… the trousseau. And it is so very hard to decide what one should take on the wedding trip."

"I am sure." God help her, she was going to expire right where she stood.

"So many details, and then there is the distraction of my very eager fiancé." Marlaine laughed tightly. "He claims to have missed me terribly." She lifted her lashes, looking at Lauren from the corner of her eye. "I hope you won't think me indelicate, Countess Bergen, but he could hardly keep his hands from me! He actually begged me to run away and marry him.
Today!
" She laughed, a strange, choking laugh.

Lauren's stomach plummeted. Alex could not have asked her that, not today, not after last night. But why would Marlaine lie to her? She focused on the door and swallowed past a wave of nausea, wondering if she could make it there without collapsing.

Marlaine coughed lightly. "He—he
swears
he cannot abide the wait until we are married, but I made it quite plain he must. Do you know I actually considered it? But there are so
many
expectations—he'll just have to be patient a while longer." She laughed again, a little hysterically.

Lauren felt her own hysteria rising. Like a volcano.

"I beg your pardon, Countess. It's just that—" she looked up again, catching Lauren's horrified gaze "—it's just that I care for him desperately. Do you know what it is like to care for someone so desperately?"

Not trusting herself to speak, Lauren weakly shook her head.

Marlaine flashed a smile, one that did not erase the peculiar look in her eyes. "I would do anything for him, you know, but one cannot sprint off to Gretna Green… Not in our position, anyway. There are so many others to consider, no matter how anxious the groom! Well, that is quite enough of that," she said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "What a lovely gown—are you going somewhere special this evening?"

"
No
," Lauren choked. "I really must be going—"

"Oh no, I would not hear of it! I did not mean to interrupt your visit with Lady Darfield."

"Really, I cannot stay." On wooden legs, she lurched for the door, desperate to get out of that room and as far away from Marlaine Reese as she could before she burst into a torrent of tears. She rushed from the room so hastily, she did not see Marlaine sink against the settee, press her hands against her stomach, and bend over with grief.

She had no idea where she was going. Walking aimlessly through Hyde Park, blind to everything and everyone around her, she wanted to die. The ache in her chest had started the moment Marlaine had entered Abbey's cozy sitting room, had become intolerable by the time she fled, and was now an unrelenting, throbbing pain in every limb. She was not quite sure which hurt worse. The disgrace and shame she had brought on herself? Or that Alex had wanted to elope with Lady Marlaine today, of all days? God, the rooster could not even
wait
for his wedding! Was she such an incredible
fool?

She did not see Lord and Lady Fairlane until she was almost upon them. She tried her damndest to smile and murmur a greeting. Lord Fairlane nodded curtly; Lady Fairlane pretended she had not seen her at all as they quickly sailed past. Confused by their behavior, Lauren stopped and glanced over her shoulder at the passing couple.
These people will cut you dead
. Magnus's warning came back to her, and she choked on a bitter sob. A hoyden, that's what she was. A woman of moral depravity, as common as a tavern wench.

But then what was
he?
What about the things he had said, the earnest way in which he spoke?
I will find
a way for us
, he had said.
Damn
him! He had meant something altogether different than what she thought! No doubt he meant a tidy little flat somewhere—dear
God
, she had
asked
him to make love to her! An intense wave of shame flooded her, and she brought her hands to her cheeks, forcing herself to walk. All right, all right, she may have asked him, but
he
was the one who had contrived to meet her at the opera! He was the one who said he wanted her as he had never wanted another! He had said so many sweet,
tender
things, but he had not once admitted to loving her. She was so bloody
stupid
to have interpreted his lust as love!

Unable to choke back another sob, Lauren fell heavily onto a bench and buried her face in her hands, sickened by the dawning realization that what had occurred last night had been fantasy.
Her
fantasy. And what in God's name did she do now?

The sun had almost disappeared when she at last lifted her head. There was only one plausible alternative to her bleak situation. She had to get as far away from Alex Christian as she could. As far away from London as was possible. From England, for that matter.

Having made her decision, she stood and slowly began to walk in the direction of Bedford Square where Magnus had taken a house.

Magnus did not like the frumpy man he had hired to be his butler; he seemed to spend most of his time in the kitchens with the scullery maid. The inability to hire good help was the single most annoying curse of being a foreigner, he was quite convinced. If he had not happened to be walking near the entry, no one would have heard the rapid knocking on the door. Grumbling in German, he stalked to the door and flung it open.

He gasped. From the strands of dark hair blowing in all directions, to the hem of her gown stained with the dirt of the street, Lauren looked as if she had been physically beaten. She started to speak, but the words died on her tongue. Alarmed, Magnus caught her before she sank onto the steps and pulled her inside. "
Liebchen
, what is wrong?" he asked desperately, his big hands smoothing the hair from her face.

"What is wrong?"

"Magnus, I have to talk to you," she mumbled, shakily wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Do not try and talk now," he said, lapsing unconsciously into German. "Let me get you something to drink." He helped her into the main drawing room and yanked angrily on the bellpull. Seating her on a settee, he nervously took her hand in his. The butler appeared, his eyes rounding with great surprise when he saw Lauren. "Port," Magnus barked. He waited until the butler had gone before asking, "What has happened?" Tears pooled in her eyes, and she shook her head. Slowly, she inhaled, obviously trying very hard to regain her composure. "Tell me! Has someone—"

"No," she whispered.

"What is it? What has happened to you?"

"It does not matter," she said, flicking a limp hand at the unknown. "Magnus, I have considered your generous offer. I accept."

He gaped at her in surprise. The butler entered, carrying a tray with a full decanter of port and crystal glasses. Magnus impatiently motioned for him to place the tray on a table nearby and leave. "I do not understand," he said, reaching for the port.

"I will marry you," she said weakly, shaking her head to the port he offered. "But… but I have two conditions."

Greatly surprised and equally suspicious, he said carefully, "Go on."

"The first," she said in German, "is that you allow me to go to Rosewood so that I may settle a few things—and say good-bye." A deep sob escaped her throat. He made a move to touch her, but she shook her head, swallowed hard, and continued in a whisper: "And the second is that you take me to Bavaria." She lifted her eyes to gauge his reaction.

He had never seen such misery in his life. "That is all?" he asked slowly. She nodded. "You are certain?

Lauren, are you quite certain?"

Her eyes pooled again. A single tear drifted from the corner of her eye, sliding slowly to her mouth. "I am
very
certain."

On impulse, Magnus grabbed her, wrapping her into a protective embrace. He kissed her salty lips, grimacing when she began to cry again. He did not ask her anything—he had made his promise and he would keep it. There was nothing he could do but cradle her head against his shoulder as a river of grief flowed from her body.

She eventually took the port he insisted she drink and calmly, if not leadenly, talked through the arrangements with him. They agreed to leave as soon as Lauren could pack a few things. Magnus was not so certain she would be able to travel in her current state, but she insisted she would be quite all right.

When he escorted her home, it was he who broke the news to a stunned Ethan and Paul. Paul took the news quietly, his eyes traveling frequently to Lauren, who was trying gamely to put on a smile for them.

Ethan, naturally, acted disappointed. He had set his sights on the duke, but Magnus knew he would gladly accept his generous settlement. He even agreed to pay the Russell Square rent through the end of the Season, as Ethan complained he was just beginning to enjoy himself. Pleased with that concession, Ethan insisted upon toasting his latest accomplishment. As the bastard chortled over his feat of snaring
two
Bergen men, Magnus stole a glance at Paul. He stared at his untouched brandy, his mouth set in an implacable line. Lauren looked as if she had been handed a death sentence.

He left very soon afterward, eager to be away from the obnoxious Lord Hill.

The gargoyle clock on the mantel chimed eleven times. From the writing table in her room, Lauren glanced at it and frowned. Turning back to the empty paper in front of her, she tapped the quill against her cheek. What she had in mind was childish, but she could not resist a parting shot for the scoundrel.

She was struggling; she had never been very good at expressing her innermost feelings, yet she was deeply compelled to tell him how badly he had hurt her. As impotent as a few words might seem to him, they gave her a strength she desperately needed at the moment.

But she was completely inept at describing her utter devastation, and fretted with the end of the quill as she mulled it over. He had asked another woman to run away with him after he had sparked a flaming passion in her that was not, even now, extinguishable. He meant to install her as his mistress, not find a legitimate way for them to be together as she had so foolishly hoped. There was nothing that could soothe her, nothing that could ease the pain he had caused her. Suddenly reminded of a poem, she dipped the quill in the inkwell and wrote quickly.

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray

What charm can soothe her melancholy

What art can wash her guilt away?

She anxiously read what she had written. The words, though clear, did not seem to capture her deep hurt. She thought to try again, but a glance at the clock decided her against it. There would be ample opportunity after tonight to perfect the art of stinging rebukes. She left the note unsigned, sprinkled sand across the ink, and waved the paper impatiently to dry it before sealing it with candle wax.

Gripping the note, Lauren soundlessly slipped out of her room and downstairs, pausing on the bottom step to listen. Voices drifted from the parlor; picking up her skirts, she dashed down the hall in the opposite direction, almost skidding to a stop in front of Davis's room. She knocked rapidly and waited, glancing nervously over her shoulder toward the main hallway, and impatiently knocked again. A faint rustle could be heard behind the door before Davis pulled it open, clearly annoyed.

"Caller," she said impertinently, and thrust the note at him. "Please take this to Twenty-four Audley Street right away." Davis peered at the note in her hand. "
Please
, Davis, I need you to do this!"

"Sutherland," he said, reading her direction on the note, then lifted his gaze and studied her closely. "Too late," he snapped.

Lauren quickly wedged herself in the door to keep him from shutting it in her face. "All right, I did not want to do this, but I am fully prepared to dispatch a letter to Lord Dowling and tell him how horribly disagreeable you have been during our stay here. I do not know Lord Dowling well, but I am quite certain he will not appreciate that a countess has been treated so ill by a servant in his home. You value your employment, do you not?"