Candice Hern (42 page)

She looked up into his eyes and saw nothing but concern. He did not speak. She closed her eyes and forged ahead before she could lose what little nerve she had left.

"When I was seventeen," she began, "something happened to me. Something that makes it impossible for me to consider marriage to you or anyone else. There was this young man, you see—"

"Mary!" he interrupted. She opened her eyes and found Jack looking down at her with something like relief. "My dear, is all this about some youthful indiscretion? Is that all it is?" He was smiling broadly, practically laughing. "Oh, Mary!" All at once he took her in his arms and held her close, whispering in her ear. "Do you think it matters to me? Do you think it makes any difference to me?"

"But—"

"Mary!" He bent and kissed the top of her head. "I thought you were going to admit to secretly being among the fashionably impure, that you had had a string of protectors. But my dear, a moment of passion some dozen years ago? How can you think—"

"It was not precisely a moment of passion," she muttered against his shoulder.

He pulled away slightly and gazed down at her with a stricken look. "Oh, God, Mary. Was it... did someone ... force you?"

"I was not ravished, if that is what you are thinking." Mary pushed herself away from Jack, feeling unexpectedly angry. She had never fully understood—though she had accepted it— how the loss of a young woman's virtue was such a heinous offense. But it angered her even more to think that if she had been forced, if she had been raped, then the loss of an insignificant little membrane would have been more easily overlooked.

"I was a very willing participant," she announced boldly. She immediately wanted to take back her words. She felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck and face.

Jack smiled. "I am glad to hear it. Tell me about it." He had taken her hand once again.

She dropped her eyes to watch the movement of his fingers over her own. "I was seventeen," she said. "I was ... unhappy at home. I wanted to get away. So I eloped with a young man who was visiting the neighborhood. Peter Morrison was his name. We were headed for Scotland, but my father caught up with us at Cheltenham." Mary smiled ruefully as she recalled how she had always secretly referred to those events as her own private Cheltenham tragedy. "But it was too late," she continued, her smile fading. "We had spent one night together. I was already .. . ruined."

Jack squeezed her hand when she did not immediately go on. "What happened next?" he prompted.

"My father took me back home."

It seemed a ridiculously inadequate description of what had really happened. She recalled, once again, that carriage ride from Cheltenham with her father. Mary had sat silently, staring out the carriage window, her nose bandaged, one eye swollen shut. It had been the worst day of her life. And Peter's behavior had only forced her to face the truth of her father's cruel taunts. She had thought Peter loved her, but he hadn't even said good-bye. It was true, then, what her father had said, that he had only been interested in her fortune, that without it she was worthless as a human being, as a woman.

Somehow during that horrible trip home she had developed a kind of desperate resolve, a fierce determination to survive. She would no longer allow herself to be hurt by her father's gibes about her ugliness and worthlessness.

It had been difficult. Once home again at Castle Assheton, her father had not ceased chiding her. Indeed, she knew that he derived perverse pleasure from it. She had been finally convinced, then, that he was in fact mad, somehow mentally deranged; but that knowledge had not made her life any easier. She accepted the truth of his words with resigned indifference; but she had never accepted or forgiven their deliberate cruelty, despite his madness. She had never forgiven him. She had hated him as much as he hated her.

My father took me back home.

It was all she could say, though it had been so much more than that.

"What became of the young man?" Jack asked. "Peter Morrison?"

"My father paid him off. I never saw him again. I heard later that he had joined the army and was killed at Talavera."

"Ah, Mary," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "I am truly sorry you had to suffer such an ordeal. Were you very much in love with him?"

"Not really," she said after some thought. "In retrospect I can see that I did not really love him."

"And what makes you think, my dear, that this unfortunate episode of a dozen years ago makes you unsuitable to be my wife?"

"Because I am not..." She paused and looked up at him in confusion. What was he saying? Of course she was unsuitable. "A ... a gentleman, especially one as important as a marquess, cannot possibly marry a woman who ... who is not..."

"Yes, he can," Jack said. "Mary, no one can tell me whom I can or cannot marry. No one. Besides, I can't imagine anyone objecting to my marrying you—except perhaps to say that I am not good enough for you." He took her other hand and then brought both hands to his lips, kissing each one in turn.

Oh, but he is a devil
, thought Mary, s
educing me with words and kisses
. How she wanted to believe him!

"My sweet Mary," he said, between kissing her fingers one by one, "you believe that a single youthful indiscretion—one that apparently only you and Mrs. Bannister even know about— makes you unsuitable. And yet my own wicked, miserable past is an open book that all of Society has read. If anyone is unsuitable, it must surely be me. Ah, Mary, it is I who should be begging you to forgive my disreputable past, not the other way around. Will you forgive me, Mary? Will you have me, despite my wretched, soiled life?"

Mary was unable to answer because Jack had once again claimed her lips. Her mind was reeling again, unable to believe he was serious. Did he really want her, knowing that she could not come to him untouched? Did it really not matter to him? Oh, how she wanted to believe him—this fascinating man who set her senses on fire. Should she say yes? Should she agree to marry him? Should she grab at this unexpected opportunity for happiness?

Happiness
. Would she truly find happiness with Jack? A foolish question, she thought as his lips tantalized her ear and throat. If she was honest with herself, then she must admit she was already halfway in love with him. And that, of course, was the real problem. It would be so easy to fall in love with him. And it would be so easy for him to break her heart. She must not forget that he was a rake, a libertine, a habitual womanizer who would no doubt be unfaithful to her from the start. How could she bear it?

And what exactly did he expect from her? She understood it was important that he marry, now that he was head of his family. He was obviously not seeking a love match, just a wife. Was he proposing a marriage of convenience between two friends? And would that be such a bad thing, after all? She pulled away from his lips and looked him in the eye. He smiled at her seductively.

"I need to understand something. Jack."

"Yes, my dear?"

"What exactly do you expect from me if we marry? What sort of marriage are you proposing?"

He gave her a huge smile, his eyes bright as if he knew she was going to accept him, as if that would make him happy. "Mary, Mary," he said, running a knuckle along her cheek, "you are the most delightful woman I know. You are in fact the only woman I have ever called a friend. You know, better than anyone, that I must marry. I am simply proposing that we take our already close friendship one step further. We enjoy each other's company. We laugh together. Good lord, Mary, we have more in our favor already than most married couples. We
like
each other. And"—he brushed his lips lightly against hers—"we are certainly compatible physically."

"But do you think," Mary said in a soft whisper, "that you could ever love me?"

* * *

Oh, Lord. He was unprepared for such a question, though he should have expected it. He had hoped to avoid any mention of love. Love! Why did women always need declarations of love! Fifteen years ago, he had been coerced by the beautiful Suzanne into such a declaration. But the truth was he had meant it—young, naive fool that he had been. He had loved her totally and he had believed her own words of love to him. He had discovered too late that she had only wanted his connections and money. It was believed that even the younger son of a marquess was sure to have a comfortable fortune. When a wealthy earl some twenty years her senior had made her an offer, she had jilted Jack without a thought. Two years later, bored and restless, she had offered herself to Jack. He had been disgusted and turned her down.

Words of love, indeed. Women were incapable of such feelings.

And so was he.

But now Mary wanted a declaration of love, did she? Well, he was prepared to give her anything she wanted at the moment. He desperately needed her to accept his proposal. He had thought this would be so easy, that she would fall into his arms in gratitude. He had been totally unprepared for the torrent of emotions he had unleashed.

Poor Mary. She was so thoroughly convinced she was unworthy. Mary, unworthy! She was probably the most worthy person he had ever known. It had torn at Jack's heart to listen to her admission of having been "ruined" so many years ago. Her apparent shame had touched him deeply and caused him to suddenly consider in a new light the inequities in the ways Society, himself included, had always treated women in this regard. How unjust that a sweet woman like Mary should be made to feel disgraced for all her life by a single moment of physical surrender, whereas a man such as himself could, and did, publicly flaunt dozens of indiscretions without the least fear of censure.

Jack felt sure that he had successfully eliminated Mary's past as an obstacle to marriage. He could feel her capitulation when he kissed her. And yet there was apparently one more complication to face: a declaration of love. Should he give her what she wanted? Is that what was required? Could he carry his deceit that far?

He looked down into Mary's big hazel eyes and knew he could not go that far. His seduction and proposal were deceitful enough. He owed this sweet little woman at least some measure of honesty.

He took Mary's face in both his hands and looked deeply into her eyes, willing her to trust him. "I am very fond of you, Mary. I can promise to keep you close and protect you for all the rest of my days. I can offer you security, friendship, affection ... and, yes, passion, too. And, God willing, children. But I cannot promise more, Mary. I am not capable of offering more to any woman. But I offer you all that I can. Will you be my wife, Mary?"

"Jack, I—"

Mary's response was cut off by a great rattling of the drawing room doors. Damnation! He needed more time. At least Uncle Edward was doing his best to announce their return. Mary lost no time in removing herself from his embrace. Quickly straightening her skirts, she strode casually to the pianoforte and began sorting through the stack of sheet music.

"Ah, here they are, Jack," she said with such an air of calm nonchalance that he could hardly credit that she had only a few minutes before been so overcome with emotion she had practically swooned. "We had almost given up on you two. Did you enjoy the conservatory, Mr. Maitland?"

"Indeed we did, Lady Mary," Uncle Edward said, casting a swift questioning glance at Jack. "And we were having such a fascinating conversation that I am afraid we lost track of time."

Uncle Edward smiled at Mrs. Bannister, who, Jack noted, was blushing once again. Perhaps his uncle had fared better with his lady than had Jack. Blast it all! How was he to finish his business with Mary?

Neither Mrs. Bannister nor Mary took a seat, so it was obvious the visit was at an end. While his uncle chatted briefly with the ladies, Jack turned to Mary and raised his brows in question. She nodded, but he had no idea what it meant. He felt oddly nervous.

As good-byes were said and hands were shaken all around, Mary turned to Jack as he headed toward the drawing room doors. "About that business we discussed, Jack," she said.

"Yes?"

"I shall inform you tomorrow when I have made a decision. Will that be all right?"

He let out the breath he had not realized he had been holding. "Of course, my dear," he said, taking her fingers to his lips one last time. "I look forward to hearing from you."

The drawing room doors closed behind them, and he and his uncle followed the butler down the stairs to the front hall.

"How did it go, my boy?" Uncle Edward whispered through the side of his mouth.

"I am not certain," Jack said, watching the back of the butler, hesitant to say anything in front of Mary's servants.

Uncle Edward's brows shot up in surprise. "Difficult?" he asked.

"You might say that," Jack said uneasily.

"Good lord! What—"

"Later, Uncle," Jack said, casting a significant glance at the butler.

"Of course," his uncle murmured, nodding his head in understanding. "Have you seen the conservatory?" he asked, raising his voice slightly. "No? Well, you must ask to see it, my boy. It is full of wonders, I assure you. In fact, I cannot tell you when I have encountered such a delightful, rare specimen as I was privileged to behold this morning."

"Indeed?" Jack said, smiling as he took his hat and walking stick from the butler. "You must tell me all, Uncle."

Chapter 10

When Mary turned away from the drawing room doors as they closed behind Jack and his uncle, it was to find Olivia in an uncharacteristically unladylike pose—on her hands and knees, bottom thrust in the air, as she reached for something underneath the sofa. Mary was unable to suppress a gurgle of laughter at the sight.

"Olivia!" she said. "What—"

"Now, how on earth did this get under here?" Olivia asked as she retrieved her workbag, leaning back on her heels and holding it up in front of her. She quickly rummaged through the bag. "But where is my other hoop?" she asked in a distracted voice as she looked around the room.