Wicked Becomes You (35 page)

“Gerry was part of Barrington’s scam.” He pushed his hand through his hair, then sighed and took a seat. “Well, he was.
Was
being the operative word, here.”

She sank into the chair across from him. She hardly trusted herself to stand. Some storm seemed to breaking inside her, silently, ferociously, scattering her wits and addling her emotions; she barely knew how she felt. “What on earth can you mean?” she asked faintly.

He rolled his eyes. “God knows it only makes sense to Gerry. The rumors about the sale were meant to lend Barrington credibility. He asked Gerry to refer potential clients to him—people looking to sell their estates—and in turn, Barrington passed on a percentage of the selling price. Gerry was using the profits to defray a rent rollback, help his tenants through a poor year’s returns.” Alex drummed his fingers atop the table for a moment. “Idiocy,” he said in disgust. “My brother finally decides to dabble in commerce, and he does so in the name of noblesse oblige.”

She choked on a laugh. She could not help it; he simply looked so put out. But how surreal this scene was becoming—sitting across from each other, speaking so civilly of
real estate
. At least her amazement had temporarily numbed her distress. “But then—Heverley End? Why is it deeded to
you
?”

“That was my price,” Alex said. “Gerry deeded me Heverley End, and in return, I give him the grand honor of turning Barrington in to the authorities himself. Otherwise, I would have done it, and God knows I would have strung Gerry up by the heels, as well.”

“No, you wouldn’t have done,” she said instantly.

He hesitated, regarding her curiously, a smile finally turning his lips. “No, probably not,” he said. “But Gerry didn’t know that.”

By some silent accord, they both settled back in their chairs. Another warm wind swept the terrace. Alex tipped his face back to the sun and shut his eyes. The sight struck a dagger through her, unleashing a sense of terrible urgency: so long as the conversation remained on these other matters, he could stay. He could stay as long as he liked.

It would not last, though.

It would break her heart when it ended, and she could not bear the wait. “You would never be happy here,” she blurted.

One eye opened. “No? Why not?”

“You hate the country,” she said. “The city is where people with ambitions go. The country is dull. It’s a boring cousin to the city.”

The eye closed again. “God above, I am a pompous prick sometimes,” he said. “Gwen, I made Gerard
deed
me Heverley End. Had you asked me a year ago, I would have named it, above all places in the world, as the
last
place I should wish to live. And now I own it. Think on that, a moment.”

She hesitated, too afraid, briefly, to speak. “I don’t follow,” she finally whispered.

Now he looked at her, mouth quirking, becoming a wry slant. “It’s the only property I own outright. Always thought about investing in land, but—well, to the point. I told you, the next time you decide to marry, you really need to pick a man with a roof of his own. One that doesn’t leak. Heverley End doesn’t.”

The breath seemed to have leapt directly into her lungs; it was more a silent gasp than an inhalation, really. “Alex—”

“You might like it,” he said. “I was not eager to return to it yesterday. I walked its halls half expecting to choke. And then—I began to imagine you there beside me. I wondered what you might see when you looked out its windows. And I discovered, in the process, that the place is rather pretty. More than pretty. My childhood prison is quite charming. And it would be no prison if you were there with me. It would be . . . a home.”

“Heverley End,” she said in disbelief. “You would . . . live there. Again.”

“With you,” he said. His light eyes never left her face. “Anywhere with you, Gwen.
That
is the freedom I was always seeking. Not to be beholden to any place but to a person—one person.
You
. And without you . . .” He smiled a little, a wry, almost lost smile. “What difference where I am? On a city street flooded with people, on a ship bound for a new port . . . without you, it won’t matter. Might as well still be that boy suffocating alone in an echoing room, waiting for footsteps to come. Only now, I will be waiting for your footsteps. Only yours.”

He watched her a long moment as she struggled with what she wanted to say, what she had to say.

But habit won out. What she said was, “You love me. You
do
love me.” She sprang to her feet, but he remained sitting. He looked up at her, shading his hand to block the sun from his eyes.

“For God’s sake, Gwen,” he said gently. “What matter that I love you? That’s not the bit that’s always been missing.”

Her lips parted. They wished to ask a question she could not bear to bring herself to ask. He was never less than honest. The answer, then, was bound to be wrong.

So she did not ask it as a question. “You won’t leave me,” she said.

He drew a long breath. “
There
,” he said, quietly, fiercely. He came to his feet. “
That
is the answer to this riddle. The promises I can make, and the one I can’t. Gwen.” His hands closed on her wrists, tightening until she swallowed and found her courage and looked up at him. “I will never leave you willingly,” he said. “Life is a risk, and so love is, as well. But I swear to God, you will not regret the gamble.”

The light was so bright that it pricked tears into her eyes. Instead of squinting, she widened her eyes further so the sun blinded her. She saw him as a silhouette, a dark shape against the sky. So easily his face began to fade.

But she knew his features well enough to see him in the dark. And his hands were warm and alive and vital. The strength in him was tremendous. She could feel it, leashed in the tension of his grip.

“I love you,” she whispered.

How horrifying, and how thrilling. It felt like a secret, a confession, a taunt: a dare to fate.

But he did not seem to think it remarkable or daring. “I know,” he said, and his thumbs stroked her wrists, once. “We love each other. And look, darling: the world continues to turn.”

She pulled out of his grip. He let her go, his fingers sliding softly over hers, a lover’s caress. She stepped around him, to put the sun at her back, and he turned toward her, and his features clarified. He smiled, and some sharp, sweet pain caught her heart.

Since Richard’s death, she had never been afraid to lose anyone. She had never entertained any suitor who might have inspired that fear.

I am so afraid to lose him.

And so—what? She must lose him now, at once, as quickly as possible?

What sort of logic was that?

She looked at him, his eyes so blue, his hair ruffling in the wind, so relaxed on his feet, hands in pockets, lounging as gentlemen were not meant to lounge, while beyond him in the garden lay one dismantled pagoda and two more awaiting the axe, and beyond them the cornfields in the sun, and the sky, and farther out yet, the sea. “I
love
you,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Say it again. Louder, if you please.”

She laughed. She
could
say it aloud. She could let herself say it. She could scream it. He would not leave; lightning would not split the sky. The gamble was honest and earnest and it carried no punishment. Why—how could fate be cruel? Fate had brought
him
to her. Alex, the most unlikely suitor in all of England, loved her!

She jumped once, and then gave a wild laugh, feeling . . . mad—insane—who cared, indeed? “I
love
you,” she said. What couldn’t she do, now? Especially with this garden! “Alex—help me fetch an axe!” Turning on her heel, she raced for the house.

He caught her by the elbow, laughing, breathless, just inside the door. His eyes were sparkling. “An
axe
, Gwen?”

“For the—oh, never mind!” she cried. “Later!” And threw herself at him, her arms going around his neck, her mouth finding his. He turned her, backing her against the wall, running his hand up her wrist, capturing it against the wall, breaking away briefly to say something—a comment forever lost as he glanced beyond her, out the door, into the garden. His gaze abruptly narrowed.

“The pagodas,” he said.

“An axe,” she said.

“Definitely.” He looked at her. “Later,” he said, and then he kissed her again, and she planted her hands in his hair and pulled him down—down, down, down; she did not worry about the ground, their inevitable collision with the marble floor, or the servants, or tomorrow, or the next day, or ten years from now. He had her in his arms and he was kissing her, and
I want this
, she thought.
I want you
. And then, as his lips moved to her throat,
I need you
. And finally, at last, as his arms tightened around her and the sun spilled over them like a blessing:

I have you, Alex.

I have you.