Candice Hern (31 page)

* * *

"Dear God, Grace, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done."

Marianne had told the coachman to take her to Grace Marlowe's house. She had not known where else to go. Every time she needed a friend to talk to, a friend who was not Adam, she came to Grace's house. The other Merry Widows were usually there, too, but today Marianne had simply arrived unexpected and fretful and in need of commiseration. Grace had welcomed her warmly and was gently forcing her to drink a restorative cup of tea.

"The poor man must be brokenhearted," she said.

"Well, I did want to teach him a lesson, you know. But listening to his beautiful words of love and pretending not to hear them was painful, Grace. I wanted to weep. He said he loved me more than life. He said he could not live without me."

"Oh." Grace gave a sigh. "How terribly romantic. I do not know how you refrained from throwing yourself into his arms."

"It was an effort, I assure you." And it had taken an even more valiant effort not to burst into tears. What was she to do about a man who declared his love so beautifully? "And he said he's always loved me, Grace. For years. I had no idea. Even when David was still alive I had harbored a tiny infatuation for Adam. But I never, ever dreamed he cared that way about me. It is quite a revelation. And I don't know what to do about it."

"Do you love him, too?"

"Yes, I think so, but ..."

"But?"

"But what about David? I don't want to replace David in my heart."

"You don't have to, you know. David will always be your first love. That will never change."

"No, it will not." But could Marianne accept a second love?

"Then there is nothing to keep you apart."

"Except that he wants to marry me."

Grace groaned. "Please do not tell me you feel bound to keep to that agreement among the Trustees not to marry again. The intent was that we should not allow one another to be forced into marriage by our families. But if Adam loves you and you love him —"

"It doesn’t matter," Marianne said. "I cannot marry again, Grace. It has nothing to do with the Merry Widows. It is just ... I cannot."

"Why?"

"I am Mrs. David Nesbitt. It is who I am and who I want to be. It is all I ever wanted to be. I do not want another husband."

"Are you certain?"

"Absolutely. But I still want a lover. I want that. I want Adam."

Grace gave her a look of disapproval. She still did not believe in this business of taking a lover. But, bless her heart, she did not scold. "I trust you are not going to keep him dangling for long," she said. "A man who loves you like that deserves better."

"I know. I won't keep him guessing for much longer, I promise. Just another day or two. Just long enough for him to know how it feels to have one's emotions tangled into knots."

* * *

Adam called upon Marianne again late that afternoon. He'd seen the carriage return and knew she was at home. But the inscrutable Fyffe left him standing at the door while he checked on his mistress's availability. When he returned, he told Adam that Mrs. Nesbitt was busy getting ready for the Benevolent Widows Fund ball at Hengston House and could not see him at this time.

It was a dismissal, pure and simple, and obviously at Marianne's instructions. The ball was not for several hours. She did not want to see him.

Adam was shaken by this unexpected attitude. He had tried to steel himself for rejection, but he never thought he would be dismissed so cavalierly. It hurt, damn it.

He was not, however, ready to give up. She still did not know that he'd been the one in her bed at Ossing. If nothing else, he wanted to set her straight on that matter. He could not bear to think that she believed it was Sir Neville Kenyon. Kenyon, for God's sake! Even if she rejected Adam's love and his offer of marriage, he wanted her to know that he was the one who taught her the joys of sexual intimacy. By God, he wanted her to know that.

He met her in the receiving line at Hengston House, along with all the other patronesses as well as Lord and Lady Hengston. She was determined to dazzle him with her beauty yet again. She was dressed in a peach-colored silky dress that shimmered in the candlelight. Over it was a long sleeveless robe of net so fine it looked like gossamer. She smiled and offered her hand.

"May I hope for a dance this evening?" he asked. He would persuade her to take a walk during the set instead, and he would use the opportunity to tell her the truth.

"I am terribly sorry, Adam. I am afraid every dance is promised. Perhaps some other time."

Other guests waiting to move through the receiving line pressed him ahead and he had no chance to respond. But he definitely heard the sound of laughter from several of the patronesses. Had she told them of his offer? Were they laughing at him?

Damnation.

Several times during the night he sought her out between sets, but she was always with a group of people and never seemed willing to be steered away for a private conversation. He saw Kenyon approach at one point. She leaned over and whispered to Adam from behind her fan, "Here is Sir Neville to claim his dance. Perhaps I will yet be able to coax the truth out of him." Her eyes danced with merriment.

Adam could take no more. "It was not Kenyon in your bed at Ossing, damn it. It was me."

Her eyes twinkled over the edge of her fan and she laughed. "Oh, Adam, you are such a tease."

And off she went with Kenyon, flashing her dimples at the young man.

This was maddening. She did not seem ready to believe anything he said anymore. What was wrong with her?

Adam was stymied. He'd never expected it would be this difficult or this painful. He'd figured either she would reject him outright and ask him to remove himself from her life, or she would accept him and make him the happiest of men. But she had done neither. She had placed him in this monstrous limbo where he didn't know what she truly thought of him. She had not taken either his proposal or his confession about Ossing seriously.

He simply did not know what to do. But he was not quite ready to give up.

The next day he tracked down a florist who carried tuberoses. He sent her a small bouquet with a note.

It really was me at Ossing. And it was wonderful. You smelled as sweet as these flowers. I love you.

Later that day, he called upon her again. Fyffe looked ready to roll his eyes heavenward at the sight of Adam on the doorstep yet again, but he maintained his usual reserve. Once again, however, he kept Adam waiting at the door rather than inviting him inside. It was not a good sign.

"I am sorry, sir," Fyffe said when he returned, "but Mrs. Nesbitt is not at home."

Adam's heart sank. She was not at home to
him
.

"You may leave a card if you like."

Damned if he'd leave a card. He'd already left her a note that told her everything she needed to know. What more clear rejection did he need? He stormed away and heard Fyffe close the door behind him.

And so it was over. He'd done his best. There was nothing more to say. His declaration had put an awkward end to their friendship. She was embarrassed by his ardor and did not want to see him anymore. Once again, Adam had ruined everything. He ought to have kept his mouth shut, kept his wretched secrets to himself.

He'd meant it when he told her he did not think he could live without her. But he would have to learn to do so. That damned estate in Dorset was beckoning again. It might have to be his escape from the pain of watching their friendship slide into a polite acquaintance.

Damn her for making him feel like such a fool. And damn her for not wanting him.

He was wearing a hole in his carpet, pacing the length of his sitting room. He was trying to decide what to do with his miserable life when he was distracted by the sound of something pinging against the glass of the balcony doors. It sounded like hail, but the skies were clear. How odd. He went to the doors, opened them, and stepped out onto the balcony.

"It's about time." Marianne stood on her balcony, hands on her hips, arms akimbo. She was smiling, thank God. "I've been flinging bits of gravel for a quarter hour. I was just about to hurl a large rock in hopes of breaking the glass to get your attention."

He smiled so broadly he felt sure his face would crack. She still wanted to see him, praise heaven. "Hullo, my dear. No need for such violence, I assure you."

"We'll see about that. You and I have some talking to do, Mr. Cazenove. If you know what's good for you, you'll jump over that damned railing and get over here."

"Ah, but I see no orchid on your balcony," he teased. "Are you certain I am welcome?"

She left the balcony, and returned a moment later with the potted plant in her hands.

"Here's the blasted orchid. Now, haul yourself over here before I lift my skirts and make the climb myself."

He grinned. "All right. Stand aside, my dear. Here I come."

He swung himself over the railing, and followed her into the sitting room. She stood before the fireplace, arms crossed over her chest.

He moved to touch her, but she stepped back. "Explain yourself," she said in a tight voice. "I wish to know what made you do such a hateful thing. You must have known I'd learn it was you."

"I told you as much, more than once. In words and in writing."

"I already knew. I've known since the next day, in fact."

His eyes widened. "You knew? I thought you believed it was Kenyon."

She gave a sheepish smile. "That was punishment."

"Punishment?"

"Yes. My revenge for what you did to me. But I have decided you've been punished enough."

He heaved an audible sigh. "Thank God. So, you were not ignoring all my declarations."

She smiled. "Not entirely."

"My love," he said, and reached out for her. But she brushed his hands away.

"First, I want an explanation," she said. "Why did you come to me that night? You were still committed to Clarissa. You knew it was wrong."

"Yes, I did. But I hadn't intended to make love to you when I came to your bedchamber."

"What
did
you intend, then? To have a cozy chat?"

He grinned. "Something like that. I came to tell you about Sherwood. I knew you were expecting him and I thought you should know what had happened. But you were asleep and you looked so beautiful —"

"Liar. You could not have seen how I looked. It was pitch-dark in that bed."

"I had a candle. But it was accidentally snuffed out as I undressed. I had not anticipated that inky darkness. And I thought all along you knew it was me. I had no idea you did not until at the end when you cut me to the quick by saying, 'Thank you, Julian.'"

Marianne laughed. "Did I say that?"

"Yes, and proceeded to fall dead asleep. I didn’t know what to do, and finally decided to skulk away and never tell you. I thought you would hate me."

"I almost did. I was
so
angry with you. But I could never hate you, Adam."

"My love." He would not be stopped this time. He went to her and took her in his arms, and she allowed it, wrapping her own arms around his neck. "My love." He bent his head and kissed her.

Passion flared between them instantly. He devoured her mouth in a kiss to end all kisses. The most important kiss of a lifetime, marking the end of one phase of his life and the beginning of another. A kiss filled with undiluted passion and love and sheer joy at the rightness of it. He set up a frantic dance with her tongue while his hands found the curves of her buttocks and pressed her hard against his sex, so she would know how much he wanted her. She gave a little moan, and he pulled away.

"Adam, I — Oh!"

He swept her up in his arms and headed toward her bedchamber. "You set out this season to find a lover, my dear. I am determined you shall have him. Right now."

"Oh, yes, Adam. Yes!"

He entered the room, all the while kissing her neck and throat. He was about to place her on the bed, but decided to undress her first. And so he put her down and took her in his arms again, ravishing her mouth with his kiss.

"Thank God there are candles burning," he murmured against her neck. "I want to see you this time."

He put her away from him, turned her around, and began to untie the straps of her dress.

And then stopped. They both went still at the same moment. They were facing a large portrait of David, who smiled benevolently down upon them through the exquisite brushwork of Thomas Lawrence.

"Damn. I can't do this with him watching."

"Neither can I," she said. "Even though I do not think he would entirely disapprove. He loved us both, after all."

"Even so, this will not do." Adam pulled a chair in front of the portrait and stood upon it. The painting was large and with a heavy frame, but he somehow managed to remove it from the wall. He stepped down from the chair, hoisted the picture by its frame and carried it into the sitting room. He placed it against the wainscoting, with David's face turned to the wall. "Sorry, old chap. But I really do not want you as an audience for this, or any other performance."

He returned to the bedchamber to find Marianne staring at the blank space on the wall, a frown marking her brow. "Are we betraying him, Adam?"

"No. We loved him, but he is gone. Let us stop worrying about what he would have thought. We can never know, and it doesn't matter anyway." He turned her into his arms again. "This is all that matters."

He kissed her, and they were soon lost in each other again. But Adam wanted more. He spun her around and began to unfasten her dress.

Finally, when she was wearing no more than her chemise and corset, she began to undress him. When they were both naked, he held her apart and they drank their fill of each other, admiring and touching and exploring with their eyes only, uninhibited, unafraid, unashamed.

She was every bit as beautiful in the light as she'd felt in the dark. Slender, but curved and soft in all the right places.