A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) (11 page)

Hugh wanted to know everything. He wanted to put it all right somehow.

‘What about children?’ he could not help but ask.

‘I was not blessed with children.’ She sounded sad, but not unduly so. ‘Perhaps that was best.’

No children? He’d been wrong, indeed. ‘Why best?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I would not have made a good mother.’

He lay back down again and hugged her to him. ‘Of course you would have made a good mother. Think what a good nurse you have been for me.’

He felt her shrug. ‘Well, not then, at least.’

He kissed her temple. ‘Tell me about then.’ He wanted to understand. To soothe whatever pain she’d endured.

She moved from his grasp and sat up. ‘Oh, I do not wish to think of the past. I only want to think about now.’

He reached for her, found her and lifted her on top of him. Straddling him, she leaned down to kiss him, a long impassioned kiss that aroused him once more.

‘Well, I am quite pleased with right now,’ he told her. ‘And I will be more pleased if you consent to make love with me one more time.’

She laughed. He wanted to hear her laugh for ever. ‘I shall do as you command.’

‘As I ask,’ he corrected. ‘I do not command.’ He positioned her on top of him and slid inside her.

She moved, as perfectly as he could wish, in a rhythm that matched him as if they were created for each other. Only one thing could make the moment better. If he could see her. Gaze upon her, feast his eyes. God knew his eyes were hungry for the sight of her.

She moved faster, more urgently, seeking her own pleasure at the exact moment his need increased. That she became so easily aroused by him aroused him further, until sensation and need overtook him.

She cried out and at the moment of her release, his came, an explosion of sensation equal to the pleasure they’d already shared.

She collapsed on top of him, as he’d done, only her weight was a trifle. He held her there, moving his hands over her skin, enjoying the smooth, slightly damp contours of her body.

‘I stand corrected,’ he murmured, his lips touching her hair. ‘I said nothing could be better than the last time, but this was equal to it. Better, even.’ He ran his fingers through her hair. ‘Nothing quite matches making love to you, Daphne.’

She released a satisfied breath. ‘I thought you would have shared such pleasure with many women.’

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Not as many as you would expect. Never as gratifying.’

She nestled by his side again and was silent for so long he thought her asleep. He felt himself drifting towards that state, as well.

‘Did you ever think yourself in love, Hugh?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He’d experienced a youthful infatuation or two, but never as a man. ‘I was too busy, I suppose. Being an officer and then tending to family matters.’ That was the easy answer. He suspected his choices had been affected by his mother’s unhappiness and the fact that his father had been a thorough reprobate.

‘I dare say many officers found reasons to marry in that period of time.’ Her voice turned sad. ‘And afterwards you could have married for money.’

It was what she had done, was it not? He could not imagine himself doing the same.

‘Enough of this topic.’ The last thing he wanted was to make her sad. ‘We all do what seems best at the time. Is that not correct?’

‘I suppose so,’ she said uncertainly.

‘I know so.’

He held her beside him and gradually felt her muscles relax and her breathing turn even. What could be more pleasant than this, feeling the warmth of her skin against his?

When she woke in the morning, would she regret this intimacy? Would he? There was no one to be hurt in it, was there? Especially now he knew there had been no child.

Would she ever tell him the true reason she had been in Switzerland? It did not matter. Nothing mattered except loving her. Making love to her had changed everything. He no longer planned on having Carter arrange a carriage ride home for him. He planned on enjoying this week with her. He wanted to spend every week with her in such enjoyment.

The thought surprised him. He did not wish to settle down, to stay in one place, to be beholden to another person, but what better adventure could there be than spending each day with her, forging a life together? Maybe they could travel together. He could think of no travelling companion he could desire more. Even more than travel, though, he wanted merely to be with her. He was certain of it. He’d actually mused that he’d enjoyed his recuperation because of her. When his bandages came off and he became whole again, think how much better being with her could be.

If his eyes healed, that was. That was the larger question. He might end this week blind. Could he really ask her to spend her life with him, if he was permanently impaired and dependent? She would do it, he’d wager. She had gone to all this trouble for him when he was a stranger to her. She would do even more for a lover.

Or a husband.

Hugh tried to imagine living in endless darkness as an invalid. What kind of man, or part man, would blindness make him? He’d have nothing to offer her. He’d merely take, take, take.

In a week, he would know. What was a week to wait? One thing was certain, he would spend this week loving her and enjoying their time together to the full. If luck would truly be with him, the bandages would come off and he’d open his eyes to the sight of her face.

Then his future would be certain. He’d ask her to share it with him and he was certain she’d say yes.

Chapter Eleven

T
he next week proved to be the most beautiful week of Daphne’s life, but finally it was at an end. Today was her last day with Hugh. The knowledge that this was her last day with him was like walking around with a dagger in her heart, a dagger she could neither remove nor reveal.

The week had been extraordinarily wonderful and acutely agonising.

Their lovemaking had shredded any barriers between them. She’d never felt as close to anyone in her life as she felt to Hugh. He was a part of her now. He would always be a part of her.

But in a short time she would leave him.

It was all arranged.

Monette, Carter and Smith the coachman were in her confidence, but Carter pursed his lips whenever she mentioned her plan and Monette looked mournful. She’d also told Toller, because she needed his assistance and she wanted someone familiar to Hugh to remain with him when the bandages came off. Toller was also tasked with handing Hugh—or reading to him—her letter of farewell.

She’d arranged for Mr Wynne to call after breakfast, although Hugh thought it would be in the afternoon.

After dressing, Daphne came down to the dining room and waited for Hugh. She stared at the buffet table without appetite. She would have to force food down when Hugh sat with her, or he would notice and wonder why she was not eating.

Why could she simply not tell him who she was, which she should have done in the beginning?

She could not bring herself to do it. Better he think she left for some mysterious reason than that the despised Lady Faville had deceived him the whole time.

The abbess had been correct about lies. They grew worse with time. If at the beginning she had told him she was Lady Faville, not Mrs Asher, he probably would have left for London immediately and this past week would never have happened.

No, she would never regret this week with him. She’d learned so many lessons she could not have learned otherwise. She’d learned that she could love unselfishly, that another person’s well-being could mean everything and her well-being nothing. She’d learned that joy came from managing some kind gesture to Hugh. Like helping him to ride. Like reading to him, playing the pianoforte for him. She learned that lovemaking could be glorious when pleasure was mutually shared and when two people loved each other.

Daphne also learned one more thing, perhaps the most important of all. She learned a man could love her for herself and not merely for the beauty of her face or the shape of her figure. She would for ever be grateful to Hugh for that gift.

What had she given him in return? Lies. Deceit. Would she be able to live with herself for it?

She hoped—and prayed—that Hugh would be rewarded for what he’d done for her. She prayed he would open his eyes and see.

Even if he would never see her.

She heard the tapping of his cane as he approached. May this be the last day he would need the cane! She quickly wiped her eyes and blew her nose into a handkerchief and placed a smile on her face, ready to play her part one last time.

* * *

Hugh had ridden that morning. He’d galloped over the fields, heedless of the risk he’d open his eyes. What difference would it make now? Today he would either be blind or not.

He could not pretend to be free of anxiety. He wanted so badly to be whole for her, to not have to wrestle with the issue of whether he could stay with her or not.

The whole cottage seemed to have caught his nerves. The very air felt different. Tense with waiting. At breakfast he could tell Daphne was putting on a cheerful front. She spoke with her governess voice, always a sign she was feeling other emotions than she was willing to reveal. After breakfast she excused herself to tend to some servant matter. He retired to the drawing room to practise his scales.

Instead, he played ‘The Last Post’, which he now could play without hesitation. Its mournful notes seemed foreboding. The other tune he knew by memory was ‘Barbara Allen’, but it, too, was depressing. He didn’t want to think of loss—the potential loss of his sight.

Daphne should have taught him a happy tune.

There was a knock on the door and Toller’s voice said, ‘Mr Wynne is here, sir.’

‘Wynne?’ The surgeon was early. ‘Find Mrs Asher and ask her to come immediately. I’ll see Wynne here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Toller sounded tense.

Hugh was touched that even the servants were worried for him.

He moved to his usual chair in the drawing room, where he had been sitting when Wynne had called before.

The surgeon bustled in. ‘Good morning, Westleigh.’ He paused. ‘Mrs Asher is not here today?’

‘I’ve sent for her,’ Hugh said. ‘You’ve come early.’

The surgeon unbuckled the straps of his bag. ‘Sometimes I cannot help being late.’

Hugh did not try to make sense of that. ‘Did you wish to wait for Mrs Asher?’

‘Well...’ Wynne sounded tempted. ‘I would be delighted to see her, but I cannot stay long.’

‘Pardon, sir.’ Toller entered the room again. ‘I cannot find Mrs Asher.’

‘You do not say.’ Wynne was obviously disappointed. ‘We might as well get started. I imagine you are anxious to know what’s what.’

Hugh was disappointed, as well. He had counted on her being with him. ‘Yes, proceed.’ Perhaps it would be for the best, though. If the removal of the bandages went as he feared, she would not witness his despair.

Hugh sat in a chair and Wynne pulled up another to face him. He rummaged in his bag and Hugh heard the blades of the scissors open and close. Wynne snipped the bandage at the back of his head and started to unwind it.

‘Keep your eyes closed, now,’ the surgeon cautioned. ‘Toller, would you close the curtains? We don’t want any bright light.’

Hugh heard Toller attending to the task.

Wynne placed his fingers on the pieces of cloth covering each of Hugh’s eyes and unwound the last of the bandage that held them in place. ‘Now keep them closed. I’m going to take these last bandages off and examine your eyes first.’

Hugh kept his eyes closed with difficulty. He could feel his eyes darting behind his lids. Was that a good or a bad sign?

Wynne lifted his lids slightly. ‘All good so far.’

Hugh saw light from the slit beneath his eyelids. Seeing light was not the same as having vision, though.

Wynne took a breath. ‘Now slowly open your lids. If there is pain,’ he added quickly, ‘close them again.’

Hugh carefully lifted his eyelids, the first time he’d done so deliberately in a fortnight. There was pain, but not like when he’d opened his eyes before. This pain was more akin to staring into the sun. Everything was blurred. He blinked and tried again. This time he saw shapes. Another blink and the shapes took on a more exact form.

He stared into the weathered face of an older man and laughed. ‘I can see. Wynne.’ He pointed to him, as if to prove it.

The older man’s face creased into a smile. ‘Bravo!’

Hugh turned to a tall, skinny young man standing to his right. ‘Toller!’

Toller grinned. ‘That I am, sir.’

Wynne gathered up the old bandages and set them aside. He placed the steel scissors in his bag, a worn black leather satchel. ‘Mind that you do not strain your eyes, young man. Stay out of strong sunlight for a few days. Don’t read too much. Rest your eyes often. Work up to normal use gradually.’ He touched Hugh’s face. ‘You have a few burn marks, but those might fade in time.’

Hugh glanced around the room. The decor was plain and a little worn. The chairs were upholstered in green and the curtains matched them. He knew precisely where to look for the pianoforte, for the cabinet that held the brandy. ‘It is just good to see.’

Wynne stood. ‘I must go. Give my best to Mrs Asher.’

It had taken no time at all. After hours, days of anticipation.

Hugh walked Wynne out of the room into the hall. The walls of the hall were all oak wainscoting. The front door was oak as well, as was the stairway and the door to the dining room.

Toller handed Wynne his hat and gloves, and Hugh walked him to the door. ‘Thank you again, Wynne.’ He reached into his pocket and placed coins into the man’s hand.

Wynne handed the coins back to him. ‘Mrs Asher already sent payment. Quite as generous as she is beautiful.’

She was beautiful? Hugh had known so. He’d felt her beauty under his fingertips. Soon he would see for himself.

He opened the door and Wynne gave a little wave and strode off.

Hugh turned to Toller. ‘I must find Mrs Asher.’

He could hardly contain his excitement. He would surprise her, take her in his arms, ask her to marry him.

Toller frowned. ‘She’s not here, Mr Westleigh.’ He handed Hugh a folded and sealed note.

Hugh gave him a puzzled look, broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was neat and precise with a decorative flourish to some letters, just as he would have expected her handwriting to look.

Dearest Hugh,

If you are reading this, then my heart soars for you. If not, words cannot express how very sorry I am. I am gone. I cannot explain the reason, except to tell you it is for the best. It is no use to try to find me.

There is no Mrs Asher. I am not who I said I was. The only truth about me is how dearly I came to love you. I thank you for the most glorious week of my life. I shall live the rest of my life on its memory.

Forget me and be happy.

My enduring love remains with you for ever.

Daphne

The air whooshed from Hugh’s lungs, as if he’d fallen from a great height. He’d plunged, all right. From the highest joy to the deepest anguish.

She was gone?

No. Impossible.

He rubbed his eyes and read the letter again. What good was seeing now, if he must read these words? There was no mistaking it. She was gone.

He glanced over to Toller, despair creeping through his body like a venomous snake.

‘Does she tell you she has left, sir?’ Toller asked, distress written on his face. ‘She, Mr Carter and Miss Monette left in their carriage—’

Hugh would have heard a carriage. Unless it waited for her at some distance. She’d deliberately fooled him.

Toller went on. ‘She wrote letters for Mr and Mrs Pitts, for Mary and Ann and the stable boys. She left us all with pay to cover two years instead of two weeks. That is all I know, sir. We are to help you in whatever way you need. You may stay here as long as you like, because we’re all paid for two years.’

How generous of her. Why so generous to them when she’d robbed him of what he’d needed most?

‘Thank you, Toller,’ Hugh managed, although it felt as if his insides had been eviscerated. ‘I—I will let you know if I need anything.’ What he needed most had left him. Vanished.

And he did not even know what she looked like.

Toller bowed and left the hall.

Hugh glanced around him, but sight was no comfort. He felt as disorientated as when he’d first woken in this house. His hand gripped her letter. He lifted it and read the words again:

The only truth about me is how dearly I came to love you. I thank you for the most glorious week of my life. I shall live the rest of my life on its memory.

Pretty words, but surely as false as the story she’d told him from the start. Was any of it true? Love. It was not love to lie, to leave with no goodbye, with no explanation.

His chest ached and he cried out, a frustrated, helpless, angry sound.

There was more than one way to be blind. She’d blinded him to the truth of her. Deliberately. She’d made a fool of him, pretending at love.

His fist crumpled the paper.

Curse her! He did not even know who she was.