0062412949 (R) (19 page)

“Piety.” He spoke against her mouth. “I have . . . ” He broke off and kissed her. “I have wanted this since the chess.” More kissing. “You tortured me every day for a bloody week. Every day. You did it on purpose.” His voice sounded heavy and coarse.

She sighed, twisting closer. “I was merely playing chess.”

“You were punishing me, and I deserved it.”

He trailed kisses down her neck, sucking, wishing he hadn’t shaved, wishing he could rub the rough stubble of his beard against her skin and leave a chafe.
Mine,
he thought.
Entirely mine
.

“Promise me,” he said, his voice raspy, “that you will not let them touch you.” He kissed her again, harder. “Limpett. The others.
Promise me.
”

He returned to her mouth for a quick kiss and then buried his face in her hair, kissing the soft, curl-wisped skin behind her ear. “You are stronger than that.” He breathed in the scent of her. “You needn’t be handled.” He kissed her again. “Not one finger.” He returned to her mouth, kissing, tasting, allowing his mind to float away on the warm, languid pleasure of it.

“What did you just say?”

“So beautiful.” He left her mouth and trailed kisses to her chin, neck, throat. The sleeve of her gown enclosed her shoulder with a snug little cap, but only barely. The slightest nudge and it would fall away.

Piety spoke again. “Did you just tell me to
defend myself
against Edward Limpett? Against the brothers?”

She dropped her hands from around his middle and grabbed the shoulder of her gown. In an angry movement, she yanked it up.

“Tell me,” she continued, her voice rising still, “that you did not just say,
you will not let them touch you
. Tell me.”

Did not just say?
He grabbed the edge of the fountain, trying to focus.

“Excuse me,” she said sharply and rolled to the side. She left him.

Trevor dropped his head in his hands and swore. “I’m sorry.”

It was the truth. He was sorry. He ran his hand roughly through his hair and then shoved up. How in God’s name were they discussing this again?

“
Do not
apologize again,” she said from behind him. “I hate it. You’re not even sorry for the correct thing. It’s clear that you don’t even know why I’ve stopped.”

“Of course I do! You’ve stopped because it needed stopping. Because it was—
we were
—getting out of hand. Because I’m a blackguard, and you’ve taken it as your life’s work to torture me. Because we were ripping at each other’s clothes against the grime of a
ruined fountain
!” He laughed without humor. “No, Piety, I don’t know why, but how lucky for us both that you did.”

“It was nothing about the kiss,” she said.

“The kiss was inexcusable.”

“The kiss was lovely, but hardly your best work. I preferred our first kiss. In the music room. The afternoon you were trying to scare me.”

“
Trying
to scare you, was I?” He rounded on her. “My best work? I’ll show you my best work!” She had not moved from the ledge of the fountain and he dropped to one knee in front of her. Reaching up, he cupped her face and pulled her in for a hard kiss. He was bullying her, trying to make her feel vulnerable and cautious.

He failed at first touch, now as then. How did she manage to diffuse his anger into heat the instant his lips met hers?

He moaned, and surged up, sitting beside her on the fountain again and gathering her into his arms. She fell against him, and for one precious instant, kissed him in return. The easy familiarity with which they joined lips was another layer of delight; their kisses had a rhythm distinctly their own. She indulged in it a moment more and then let out a whimper. She pulled back, closing off. Her expression became remote, her posture distant. Her eyes were very sad, indeed.

He swore again and pushed himself away from the fountain. He stalked away.

P
iety’s most urgent point was not that she had stopped the kiss, but why.

“Did you, or did you not,” she demanded, “just say: ‘Promise me,
Piety
, that you won’t let them touch you. Not one finger.’ Is that what you said?”

“I had only just told you to stand up to your mother,” Falcondale said defensively. “What I said about the Limpetts is more of the same. You should stand up to all of them.”

“Forgive me if I interpreted the bit about my mother as encouragement,” she replied, rising off the bench. “A cry for confidence. But to have you wheeze on about protecting myself from these men?”

“Mind yourself, Piety. I did not wheeze.”

“You have no idea of the threat these men pose; furthermore, you don’t want to know. You want me but not enough to do anything about them. So please. Do not try to go it halfway. It’s not enough.” She looked down at her wrinkled dress and gave her bodice a yank. There would be no hiding this interlude from Jocelyn; they’d managed to tear the muslin. She pulled and patted, keeping her hands busy, trying to maintain composure, while he stood there. Saying nothing. Watching her.

Promise me,
he had pleaded. She shook her head. It was enough to make her ill. Physically ill.

“I warned you against the Limpetts,” he said through clenched jaw, “because I do not wish you unpleasantness. Surely you must know that. I want you to be happy.”

“Fine. Wish me well. Tell me to be happy. Kiss me to distraction, even. But
do not
suggest that you care if another man touches me.” She glared at him, and he had the decency to look miserable.

“I understand.” He gave curt nod. “To kiss you suggests that we—”

“Forget the kiss. It was never about the kiss. It was your words! Don’t you see, Trevor?” She closed the space between them and rose up, inches from his face. “You wish for me to fend off the Limpett brothers? I will do it. I was
always
going to do it, even before I met you. But you have made no claim to me. Whatever happens with the Limpetts lives or dies by my own wits and will. I’m not going to keep myself from them as a favor to you.”

“Not a favor to me. Do it for yourself!”

“But that’s not what you said.”

“I’ve explained to you why I cannot be your savior in this, Piety.”

“I don’t want you to be a savior. But don’t profess to care what the Limpetts do to me while you’re running the other direction. Do not acknowledge that I am in a rough spot and then flippantly bid me good luck sorting it all out!”

“Running the other way, am I? I have had
no
solitude for the last fifteen years. No diversions. No interests. No rest, for God’s sake. From the moment I finished university, I was bridled by necessity, by obligation, and yes, by love. My mother was helpless, or at least helpless in her own mind. To her way of thinking, it was me or total despair and certain death. So there I remained—at her bedside, or hovering over her in the privy, or in the kitchens, walking her up and down the street. Dutifully, painfully—and yes, after a while—resentfully. I cleaned soiled linens. I brushed the jam from her hair. I read the same bleeding romantic drivel to her again and again. I relocated to another country on the vain hope that she could simply draw breath.”

He turned away, and Piety watched him walk the distance of the solarium and then turn back, pacing toward her. He looked at everything and nothing; his expression was trapped misery.

She said, “I did not know the extent to which you cared for your mother.”

He stopped beside a tall, ceramic urn and grabbed the top of it. He looked inside. He rested his forehead against it, staring at the floor. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“You did not suggest that it was her fault.”

“The next bit? The next bit was entirely my fault.” He left the urn and turned to the foggy glass wall of the solarium, speaking to the garden beyond. “In the name of money and boredom, I allowed myself to be drafted into the service of a man who would kill us both if I made one false move. I was a party to violence, blackmail, threats. I managed enough gold on his behalf to support a flotilla of vices, many of which I watched destroy the lives around me.”

“The landlord?”

He scoffed. “Landlord? Slumlord is more accurate. And it was my duty to resolve his cock-ups and keep the lot of us from execution by the Sultan.

“Summons in the middle of the night:
What do we do with the bodies, Tryphon?
Summons on Sunday:
Parents run off and their children have nowhere to go; what do we do with them, Tryphon?
Summons every hour of the day:
Broken privy, broken floorboards, broken stairs
—yes, it is more common than you think! Not to mention, a hornet’s nest of underworld thugs to keep from strangling each other. It was nothing short of a juggling act in the end. I managed Straka’s empire from the kitchen table of our villa so I could be near my mother. When Straka’s errands called me out, Joseph or our maid sat with her. Between her demands and Straka’s needs, I worked, quite literally, around the clock. I slept when I could.

“This is but a small picture of my former life, Piety,” he said lowly, turning to face her. “A small picture. When my mother finally died, I stayed on with this man, Janos Straka, because I could not devise a reason for him to let me go. I had no ambition toward the earldom, but thank God it fell to me. The title impressed Straka enough to release me from his service. Freedom, just like that. Finally. It ignited a selfishness in me, a detachment from all humanity that you may never understand. And I clung to it. I am clinging to it now.

“I don’t want a wife to support. I don’t want children to look after. I don’t even really want any well-meaning friends. I am entirely finished with the life-draining work of feeling charitably toward anyone else.

“I cannot—I will not—obligate myself. Not even to you.” He took a step toward her. “Regardless of how beautiful you are. Or charming. Or clever. Or how proficient at chess. Regardless of how much I want to toss you over my shoulder and haul you to my bed until the middle of next week.” He looked away. “Or how heartbreaking your situation. I simply cannot.”

She stared at him, tears filling her eyes. The bitterness of his pain and frustration was palpable in the solarium, a chilling cloud, covering the sunlight. Add to that her own frustration. The futility of her argument. Even now, he did not comprehend why she was angry. He hadn’t understood a word of what she had endeavored to say.

Slowly, she turned away.

He was the first to speak again. “Perhaps I should have explained my attitude weeks ago, before it came to this: rattling the walls of your lovely solarium with my resentment. But my detachment was meant to go both ways. I wanted no part of anyone else’s problems or burdens; in return I vowed to keep my own problems to myself. I never wished to trouble you with the sordid details of my
lost youth,
as it were.”

“You mistake me for someone who runs from the pain of others. I am happy to share your burdens. I
wanted
to hear.”

“But I am not happy to share yours. As has been made painfully apparent today.”

“Then let us simply say good-bye.” She quickly swiped away her tears. “At last, what you’ve wanted. I have much larger problems ahead.” She held out her hand to shake, just as she’d done the first time they met.

He smiled at her hand and took it. With his other hand, he topped his first, holding her hand with both of his own. “You should know that I’ve decided to leave the country, even without selling the house,” he said, solemnly. “I’ll be gone—sailing to Ottoman Syria—by the time you return from Berkshire.”

She hadn’t thought her heart could sink any lower, but it did, dropping from her aching chest to the pit of her leaden stomach. She nodded and tried to retract her hand. “Good for you. More of what you wanted.”

He squeezed her hand and then replaced it, gently, to her side. “I’ve hired a house agent to take over the advertisement and sale of the house, but I’ve told him that you and your men should have the freedom to work on or around the premises. I will do as you’ve bade and hire another architect for you. He can take over my work on the stairs.”

“Thank you.”

Neither made a move to leave, but Piety gestured to his hat on the counter and his coat on the fountain pike. His footsteps echoed in the glass room and the area of her chest that formerly contained her heart.

Horrible
, she thought as she watched him. The entire afternoon had been horribly contentious. And blameful. And sad. And now to part ways like combatants?

“My lord,” she called after him.

“Please call me Trevor,” he said. “I loved—” He stopped and shook his head, starting again. “It was nice when you said it, and what could it possibly matter now?”

“Trevor.” She tried his name. “I want you to know that I’ve loved every single thing about England since I arrived. Even you. Thank you for . . . well, thank you.” She left it at that.

He didn’t answer—merely bowed formally and backed away. When he got to the door he raised a hand to wave but did not look back.

Like a fool, she waved in return, a gesture he would never see.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

B
erkshire was a storybook setting come to life. Green hills with gently rounded crests bordered wide, fertile valleys, cut by swiftly moving streams, as clear as glass. Tidy stone walls marched across the horizon, hemming in fat sheep. Swathes of wildflowers fringed the roadside, the hillock, the mossy stream bank.

It caught Piety by surprise—this quiet, pastoral beauty—partly because her companions seemed wholly unmoved by it, and partly because she never expected to love any place more than she loved London. But the orderly bustle and stately gray-and-gold architecture of town was nothing compared to the serene, green dominion of the country.

When the marchioness’s carriage lurched to a stop in the circular gravel drive of Garnettgate’s magnificent manor house and the doors were pulled wide by nervous staff, the sight of rolling green parkland nearly took Piety’s breath away.