Candice Hern (26 page)

"Well, it was not Tolliver, either," Lady Gosforth said. "You can be sure I kept him well enough occupied that he had no time to be sneaking into other bedchambers."

Aha. He'd had been right about those two.

"There must be
something
about the man that will help you identify him," the duchess said.

"Let me think," Marianne said. "He was well muscled and without an ounce of fat. His stomach was very flat."

"That eliminates Lord Troutbeck."

"And Mr. Leighton-Blair."

Feminine laughter rose up from the alcove below. This was truly one of the most remarkable conversations Adam had ever heard. He just hoped they would not be able to eliminate too many of the guests until he was the only one left.

"He had quite a lot of chest hair," Marianne continued. "And his shoulders seemed quite broad."

"Lord Ingleby?" Mrs. Marlowe suggested.

"It was not Ingleby," the duchess said.

There was a moment of silence, then more laughter.

"Wilhelmina, you sly puss," Lady Gosforth said. "You never said a word. You're supposed to tell all, you know. We made a pact."

These women had a pact to share the secrets of their love lives? Marianne, too? Good God.

"I wasn't certain about it," the duchess said. "Besides, my history is practically a public record. You don't need to hear any more tales from me."

"Yes, we do," Lady Gosforth said. "And when we return to town, you must be prepared with a full confession. But we have to deal with this ticklish situation of Marianne's first. So, who else has shoulders broad enough? Lord Havering? Sir Neville Kenyon?"

"Sir Neville is an interesting possibility," the duchess said. "I wonder if there is a well-muscled hairy chest beneath his fancy waistcoats and frilled shirts."

"Yes, and he often has that charmingly seductive look in his eye," Lady Gosfroth said. "It makes one think he might be an intriguing bed partner. He could be your man, Marianne."

"Do you think so?"

Kenyon? Damnation, did she really think he could have been the one to take her to such heights of ecstasy? That he'd been the one to hold her close as she shuddered with the first climax of her life? God's teeth!

"I cannot believe you are all calmly listing gentlemen who might have crept into Marianne's bed." Mrs. Marlowe's voice was filled with outrage. She turned to Marianne and said, "Yes, you enjoyed it, but tricking you was loathsome. If there is a man here who is capable of that, what else might he do?"

"What are you saying, Grace?" Marianne asked.

"Have you considered that he might be tittering with the other men about your encounter? What if he were to make it known that you are available to any man willing to creep into your bed? What if he bandies your name about town as a loose, adventurous woman? Have you thought of that?"

"Oh, my God," Marianne said.

"And you have no idea which man did this," Mrs. Marlowe continued. "How can you bear to stay here with that uncertainty? Wondering if all the men know, or only one? And if only one, which one? It is a monstrously intolerable situation."

Marianne uttered a mournful little cry. "Dear God, Grace, you are right. Dear God. How can I face them? How can I look any of them in the eye, not knowing, always wondering, is he the one? That is bad enough, but I had not considered the possibility of him spreading tales." She choked on a sob. "I could not bear it. I have to leave."

"I think that is best," Mrs. Marlowe said. "If you stay, he will think you do not mind what he did. And then he might think he can do it to someone else."

"Oh, no." Marianne's voice was a plaintive wail that tore at Adam's heart.

"Wise counsel, Grace," the duchess said. "I completely agree with you. Marianne must not allow this man to believe his cruel prank was of no consequence."

"Then I must leave at once."

The words were barely out of her mouth when she rounded the enormous urn, hiked up her skirts, and began to climb the stairs. She saw him standing halfway up the staircase, and stopped. She studied his face for a moment.

"You heard, didn't you?"

"Some of it. I heard that you intend to leave."

"I have no choice, Adam. I must go at once."

"Of course, my dear. Allow me to make the arrangements for your carriage while you pack your things."

"That is very kind. Thank you, Adam." She dashed up the stairs past him. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes."

He watched her go, then turned to find the other ladies at the foot of the stairs with their heads together, talking softly. The duchess looked up and caught his eye. Her lips curled up in an enigmatic smile.

* * *

Adam stood on the front steps of the main entrance and watched as Marianne's bags were loaded into the carriage. He waited for her to appear so he could say good-bye.

And it was going to be a true good-bye. He had botched things terribly, and decided it was best to put as much distance between him and Marianne as possible. For her sake and for Clarissa's. He was finished with causing so much harm to others. It was time, at long last, to put someone else's needs above his own. It was time he behaved like a man of honor.

He had spent what remained of the night considering what he'd done and what he should do next. For the near future, at least, and possibly longer, Adam needed to remove himself from Marianne's life. It was the only solution.

After the Ossing party broke up, Adam was going to travel down to Dorset, to the estate he'd once thought to sell. He was going to start putting it to rights, making it ready to receive his bride. Then he would invite the Leighton-Blairs for an extended visit, and make plans for the wedding to be celebrated in the parish church. On this point, he would remain steadfast. He would not return to London for a Society wedding at St. George's. He would not return to the house on Bruton Street with its adjoining balconies.

In fact, he would have his man of affairs put the Bruton Street house up for sale. His staff could pack up the furnishings and his personal belongings and send them to Dorset. There was no need for him ever to return to that house and its memories and its tempting proximity to Marianne.

It would be a clean break. He would give up the town life he'd always preferred and set up life in the country, where his bride would be happiest. He would become a country squire and raise a brood of country children. He would devote the rest of his days to making Clarissa happy. He would try to make something meaningful of his life.

And perhaps one day, years from now, when he had carved out this new life for himself and settled comfortably into it, when his affections for Clarissa had developed into something deeper, when his roots in Dorset had grown so deep, his life so entrenched that he could never leave — perhaps then he would visit London again and Marianne. They would greet each other as old friends and reminisce of their days together with David. Their one special night together at Ossing Park would be little more than a sweet, faded memory. And even less for her, since she would never know she had shared it with him.

It was a fitting punishment for what he'd done. For hurting her. For deceiving her. For loving her.

The guilt that he had betrayed his best friend with that love was almost more overwhelming than the possibility of losing Marianne forever. His remorse was not so much about what had happened last night or for loving her now, but for all those years when David was still alive and Adam had been secretly in love with his wife, even if he'd never admitted it.

Forgive me, David. I never meant for this to happen.

Never to see her again, though, never to touch her or hear her laughter again — it would be the worst sort of torture. He would endure it, though, to atone for his sins. And because it was the only possible solution.

But dear God, it would be painful. Adam had known Marianne forever, it seemed, and enjoyed her friendship. He liked her immensely, and now loved her as well. But he knew her body now, too, and her passion. He'd had more of her than he'd ever expected, and that would have to be enough to last him a lifetime.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Marianne's maid appeared, dressed for travel and carrying a hatbox and what looked to be Marianne's jewel case. She nodded at Adam as she passed, and handed the hatbox to a footman who was strapping boxes to the roof of the traveling chariot. She kept the jewel case with her when she stepped up into the carriage.

Marianne came next. She wore a green velvet spencer jacket over the pretty yellow-striped dress he'd noticed earlier, and had donned a straw bonnet with an upturned brim. It was a fetching outfit, cheerfully bright, but her pale, grim face dispelled any hint of gaiety. She stopped and looked up at him. There were clear signs of strain in those soft brown eyes.

"Thank you for seeing to the carriage," she said.

"It was nothing."

"You do understand it is impossible for me to stay. You heard enough of what happened."

"Yes."

She closed her eyes, and there was a sudden flush of color in her cheeks. Shame? Embarrassment? Misery? That look was like a knife plunged into his chest, to know that he had done this to her.

"I am so confused, Adam. I don't know what to do. But I have to get away from here."

"I understand."

"Oh, Adam. You are so good to me. What will I ever do without you?"

The knife twisted.

He held out his arm. She smiled — thank God he got to see one more smile — and took it as he led her down the entrance steps to the carriage. He studied her closely as they approached the carriage, and memorized every inch of her face — the elegant curve of her jaw; the straight nose that was just a shade shy of being too long; the fine-pored porcelain skin that had felt so smooth against his rough beard; the soft down on her cheek, more like the skin of a peach, that caught the light of the sun; the big brown eyes with long lashes that curled up and made them look even bigger; the soft mouth with its bottom lip slightly fuller than the top, ripe and succulent as a fig. The dimples were not on display, of course, but he could see the hint of indentations where they would appear when she smiled.

He surveyed it all with the intensity of a portrait artist, for he might never see it again.

She turned to face him when they reached the open carriage door. "Good-bye, Adam. And thank you."

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Her glove held the faint fragrance of tuberoses. "Good-bye, my dear."

He handed her up the steps and into the carriage. She settled herself on the squabs, arranging her skirts about her legs. She looked up and said, "Oh, Adam, I forgot. Will you do me a great favor?"

"Anything."

"I took my leave of Lady Presteign, but I could not, of course, speak with Lord Julian. When he is able to receive visitors, would you tell him how dreadfully sorry I am about his accident? And offer my apologies for this precipitate departure?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do not, I beg you, give any hint about why I left. Just tell him ... tell him something personal came up and I had to return to town. That is more or less what I told his sister."

"Do not worry, my dear. I will simply give him your apology with no further explanation."

"Thank you again, Adam. You are, as ever, a dear friend."

He forced a smile and nodded.

"Enjoy the rest of the party. I will see you when you return to Bruton Street."

No, she would not.

Without conscious thought, he reached in and took her arm, pulled her toward him, and kissed her. Softly and sweetly and with all the poignancy of farewell. He lingered slightly longer than he ought, savoring one last intimacy, unwilling for it to end.

But it had to end, before he was tempted to snatch her out of the carriage and into his embrace. He pulled away and released her arm. She sat back and stared at him, wide-eyed.

Adam closed the door of the carriage, turned, and walked away.

He had stunned her again with a kiss. Her body still tingled in its aftermath as the carriage rolled through the gates of Ossing Park. Why had he done it? She was already in a state of emotional turmoil over all that had happened. He must have known that. Marianne was quite sure he had overheard a great deal more than he let on. So, why had he done something that would only add to her misery?

Rose, her maid, sat beside her in the carriage and pretended she had seen nothing. Or perhaps she assumed it had been nothing, just a brief kiss between friends. Marianne would be tempted to believe the same if she had not sensed something deeper at work. There had been a disturbing note of finality in that kiss, which she found most unsettling. And something else. Something tickling the back of her mind, but she could not grasp it.

It did not matter. She could not worry about Adam right now. Under other circumstances, she would turn her mind to how his kiss had felt and what it had meant, but she had bigger problems to consider.

Who was the stranger in her bed?

Rose could sometimes be a chatterbox when it was only the two of them together, but Marianne did not want to engage in idle conversation. She had to think. She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes, pretending sleep.

Every time she thought about the things that man had done, her stomach roiled with nausea. When she had awoken, naked in her bed — was it really less than two hours ago? it seemed an eternity — she had been flooded with recollections of every intimate detail. She had savored each remembered touch and kiss and stroke and movement. When she'd closed her eyes she'd almost still been able feel his touch, and her traitorous body reacted had even to the memory.

But now, as she recalled the same details, they only made her sick. Who had he been? And why had he done it? Could it truly have been Sir Neville Kenyon? She barely knew the man. She conjured up an image of him in her mind, and compared it with what she recalled of her secret lover.

Her lover's arms had been strong and firm and well muscled. They were covered with soft hair, just like his chest. Never having seen Sir Neville without a coat, she could not say whether they could have been his arms. Her lover's shoulders were broad. So were Sir Neville's. Her lover's hair had seemed longish when she ran her fingers through it. Sir Neville's hair was neither particularly short nor particularly long. It might have been his hair, but she could not be certain.