Heartless (9 page)

“Two unmarried sisters,” Lady Sterne said, clucking her tongue. “I notice you do not include yourself, child, having concluded, I vow, that you are too old to be marriageable.”

Anna flushed and thought of what she had been trying desperately to forget all morning. Not that she had forgotten for a single moment. She glanced down at the new dress she wore even though it was only morning—her godmother had commented on how grand she looked for so early in the day. And she had not told her godmother. It was something that ought to be told.

“I-I almost f-forgot,” she said, hearing in dismay that she was stammering, something she had not done for years. “The Duke of Harndon said he might call this morning.”

“Might?”
Lady Sterne looked up sharply, her needle suspended above her work. “This
morning?
Lud, child, 'tis as I have thought and hoped. He is coming to declare himself.”

“Oh, no,” Anna said in some distress. “Merely to pay his compliments, Aunt Marjorie. I daresay he thinks to ascertain that we enjoyed the visit to the theater last evening.”

“Faith, child,” Lady Sterne said, folding her embroidery away and setting it on the table at her elbow, “you are the cool one. He said no more? No more about the purpose of his visit?”

“N-no,” Anna lied. “No more. Perhaps he will not even come. He merely said he might—in a very offhand manner. I daresay he will not come.”

I would ask leave, madam, to call on you tomorrow morning to discuss a matter of some importance with you.

His words had burned themselves into her memory. And if there had been any possibility that he had meant something different from what had seemed his obvious meaning, his following words had dispelled all doubt. He had asked if she was of age. When she had told him her age, he had commented that he did not then have to speak with Victor before discussing the matter with her.

He was going to offer her marriage.

Her certainty that that was what he had meant had given her a largely sleepless night, a night of waking nightmares.

He must be refused, of course. She had no choice at all in the matter. Even if Sir Lovatt Blaydon never returned from America, she had no choice. She could never marry. But the truth was that he might return, that he had said he would. And if and when he returned, she was bound to him more closely than ever slave was bound to master. Lying in bed, alternatively sweating from the heat and shivering from the cold, she had remembered—and could not stop remembering—his setting his hands loosely about her neck on one occasion and slightly, ever so slightly tightening them as he had described to her how a rope was tied about a condemned criminal's neck, the knot beneath one ear, and how the rope, after the trapdoor had been released, did not always break the neck but often strangled. She had well nigh fainted.

The Duke of Harndon must be refused. This morning should not even be difficult to face. He would ask; she would refuse; he would take his leave. It was all very simple. Except that she knew that during the few minutes of his visit she would be faced with perhaps the greatest temptation of her life.

The longing—oh, the desperate, desperate longing—to escape from herself and from the reality of her life was almost beyond bearing. She had been wrong to give in to the temptation to taste life. Now that she had tasted it, she was ravenous for the whole feast. But like a deadly poison it could only kill her.

Literally kill her.

“I daresay he will not come,” she said more briskly to her godmother, and she smiled. “'Tis the sort of thing gentlemen say, I think, when escorting ladies home.”

“Mercy on me!” Lady Sterne said, shaking her head.

But she had no chance to say more. The butler opened the door to ask if her ladyship and Lady Anna would receive his grace, the Duke of Harndon.

Anna closed her eyes very tightly, but she opened them quickly. Dizziness felt worse with closed eyes.

He was wearing emerald green and gold. He looked to Anna's eyes more splendid and more handsome than she had ever seen him. But perhaps that was because he was no longer a Prince Charming with whom she dared to flirt, but a man who had come to tempt her. A man she must reject and send away forever. Gone already, after only a few brief stolen days, was the wonderful exhilaration of stepping outside her own character and circumstances to flirt with London's most dazzling beau. The fairy tale was at an end.

She thought for a while that she had been mistaken after all. He sat and conversed with both her and Lady Sterne for perhaps fifteen minutes, displaying an easy grace and charm that seemed to belie any further motive for his visit. But finally, just when Anna was beginning to relax, he spoke the words she had dreaded to hear. For a moment they scarcely registered on her mind. He had turned to address himself to her godmother.

“Madam,” he said, “might I beg the favor of a few minutes alone with Lady Anna to discuss a private matter?”

Lady Sterne got immediately to her feet, smiling warmly and graciously. “Since she is past girlhood and does not need to be so carefully chaperoned, yes, Harndon,” she said. “But not for longer than ten minutes. I shall return.”

Anna got to her feet while the duke crossed the room to open the door for her godmother. She walked to the window without realizing what she did and gazed out with sightless eyes. She could hear her heartbeat loud in her ears. She could feel it in her throat, robbing her of breath.

God.
Please, dear God. Please, dear God,
she prayed silently and frantically. But she knew such prayers to be futile. God had been silent in her life for years. God had not been kind to her. Or perhaps God was testing her, as he had tested Job, to see how much she could endure before breaking. Sometimes she felt that she was teetering on the brink.

His voice came from close behind her. “Madam,” he said softly, “I believe you must know why I have come this morning and what it is I have to say to you.”

Turn. Tell him now. Look puzzled and tell him that no, you have no idea. No, not that. Look serious. Look troubled. Tell him that it distresses you to know that he has misunderstood the situation. Tell him there is someone else. Someone at home, waiting.
But she shuddered at the thought of the man who might even now be there, waiting for her to return.

She turned. But in doing so, she donned her mask. She had not thought of it as a mask before but merely as the manifestation of how she felt and how she wanted to feel until it was time to go home again. But now it was a mask. She smiled brightly and parted her lips and made her eyes shine.

“But no, your grace,” she said. “No woman dare know any such thing. What if she is wrong? Consider her embarrassment.” She laughed at him. She wanted to see one more time that answering gleam in his own eyes. She felt the deep feminine need to feel power over a man, the power to attract. For one last time.

And she watched herself and listened to herself, dismayed and confused. And desperately unhappy.

“You are quite right.” His eyes looked at her keenly from beneath their lazy lids, an incongruity that had the power to turn her knees weak. “Forgive me. This sort of situation is not in my everyday experience.”

He took her right hand in his and turned it palm up to rest in his left hand. He set his other hand flat on top of it. Hands touching. Her own sandwiched between his. It felt impossibly intimate. Anna felt a sudden ache in her throat.

And then he startled her by going down on one knee and not looking even remotely ridiculous as he did so.

“Madam,” he said. “Lady Anna, will you honor me and make me the happiest of men by becoming my wife?”

The words had been spoken. The words she had expected and prepared herself for. Words that would not somehow form themselves into any meaning inside her brain. She gazed downward into his eyes and leaned slightly toward him. And then the meaning was there, the code of his words unscrambled.

They were the words she had expected and prepared herself for. And as new and as wonderful as the sun rising over and over again each morning. She could become his wife. She could step out into freedom and happiness and leave everything behind her, like a snake shedding an old skin. She could be his wife.

No, she could not.

She tried. “Your grace,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper, “I have no fortune. Perhaps you did not know. My father lost almost everything through n-no f-fault of his own, and my brother is young and has not yet had a chance to recover. I have no dowry.”

“I ask only for you,” he said, getting to his feet again but not relinquishing her hand. “I have fortune enough. It does not need to be augmented.”

He wanted her. Her. With no other inducement. Just her.

She tried again. “I am five-and-twenty, your grace,” she said. “You must want a younger bride.”

“I want a bride exactly your age,” he said. “Whatever that age happens to be. I want you.”

He wanted her. Oh, dear God, dear God, he wanted her.

“I-I have sisters,” she said. “Two sisters, for whom I feel responsible now that my mother and father are both dead. My brother is too young to take responsibility for them except financially. I must go home to look after them.”

“Your sisters,” he said, “may live with us if it is what you wish. And if it is their lack of a dowry that makes you fear for their future, then I will supply them with a dowry.”

Her fears for Emily went far beyond the lack of a dowry. But he was willing to give Emily a home and Agnes too, and dowries in return for her marrying him. He wanted her that badly.

“Are there other reasons,” he asked, “why I should hesitate to press my suit? Any other dark secrets, Lady Anna?”

Only the fact that she might be thrown in prison for a number of offenses. Or hanged for others—including murder. And the fact that even apart from those reasons, she could never, never marry.

“No,” she whispered.

“Well, then.” His hands were warm, she realized suddenly, and strong and steady. Comforting and sustaining. “Will you have me? Will you be my duchess?”

If he removed his hands, she would be unable to stand. She would crumple to the floor. And if he removed his hands, there would be no source of heat to her body. She would freeze. If she said no, he would remove his hands. The foolish thoughts teemed through her head, not pausing long enough to be judged for common sense.

“Yes.”

The word was whispered but the volume and power of it felt as if they would shatter Anna's brain and her very existence. She could not believe that the word had come from her, and yet no one else could have spoken it. And she was doing nothing to retract it. It floated in the air about her head like a tangible thing.

He had removed his right hand from hers and was raising her hand and setting his lips against her palm, holding back her fingers with his thumb.

“Then you have made me the happiest of men, madam,” he said.

The conventional words caressed her like a velvet glove. And sliced into her like a sharp blade.

She smiled dazzlingly at him. Her mask, it seemed, was a mobile thing.

L
UKE
was thankful for the busy nature of the rest of the day. Lady Sterne, as good as her word, returned to the morning room ten minutes after leaving it. She was delighted at the news, of course. He was convinced that she had planned it all with Theo and was now congratulating herself on the speedy fulfillment of their hopes.

Lady Anna Marlowe did not want a large wedding, the sort that might take a month or more to plan. She wanted only that her brother be summoned; he was less than a day's ride away at the home of his betrothed. She did not want to wait for her youngest sister to be brought—it would take too long.

He was relieved. Now that he had taken the momentous step, without having given himself time for proper consideration, he wanted it all over and done with. He did not want to have to live through weeks and perhaps months of wondering if there was still a way out. There was no way out. He might as well be married so that he could become accustomed to the new fact in his life.

They would marry, he suggested—and she agreed—by special license in three days' time. They would marry in London and remain in London for a while afterward. He could not yet commit himself to going to Bowden. Perhaps it could still be avoided. Yet he knew deep within himself that it could not, that the inevitability of his return there had played a large part in his decision to marry. He was not marrying from personal inclination.

And yet, looking at his betrothed—
his betrothed!
—he was not sure that was strictly true. She smiled and glowed and looked vibrantly beautiful. For the first time he noticed that she must have dressed for the occasion, rather more grandly than was normal for the morning. She was so very obviously happy, though she had been quite honest and open about her disqualifications to be his bride. He wondered if she loved him.

He always felt a distinct unease when he suspected that a woman was in love with him. He had no such emotion to give in return. He always put a decisive end to a liaison when it happened even if he had not yet grown tired of the woman concerned. And yet with Lady Anna Marlowe matters were different. She was to be his wife. And though he could not love her, he felt a certain pleasure in the knowledge that he was to possess that beauty and that happiness and vivacity.

If he must marry someone, he thought as he got to his feet to take his leave—and it seemed that he must—then he would rather marry her than any other woman he had ever met.

Except Henrietta, an inner voice prompted, uninvited. But that had been a lifetime ago.

He bowed over Lady Anna's hand, taking it in both of his again. “Madam,” he said, “I trust you will do me the honor of dancing the opening set and the supper set with me at Lord Castle's ball this evening?”

Her smile was radiant. Seen up close, it made him almost take an involuntary step backward.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said. “I shall look forward to both sets.”

“And I,” he said, “will look forward to no others but those two. Your servant.” He raised her hand to his lips.

•   •   •

The
visit to Harndon House was necessary, he decided reluctantly. He might regret having returned to England and having renewed his acquaintance with his family. But he had done both. It seemed that now he could only go forward. There was no point in wishing that he could go back and decide not to leave Paris or his familiar life there.

His mother and his sister were both at home. They talked to him about last evening's visit to the theater. Doris commented on the fact that he had paid far more attention to Lady Anna Marlowe than to anyone else in his box. She smiled mischievously as she said so.

“I think her rather beautiful,” she said. “More so than the Marquise d'Étienne for all her Parisian magnificence.”

“Doris!” the dowager duchess said sharply while Luke raised his eyebrows. “Do watch your manners.”

Doris winked at Luke.

“Lady Anna Marlowe seems a well-bred young lady,” the dowager said to her son. He noticed now, as he had noticed before since his return, that she rarely looked directly at him. “And she is the daughter of the Earl of Royce. She is of suitable rank, Lucas.”

“Suitable for what, madam, pray?” he asked, his eyebrows still raised.

“The succession has been uncertain for too long,” she said. “And 'tis time Bowden Abbey had an undisputed mistress again—someone who is the wife of the present duke. 'Tis time you set duty before pleasure, Lucas.”

“To please you, madam,” he said, “I will marry the lady. How will three days from today suit you?”

She looked at him then—suspiciously and somewhat tight-lipped.

“I have come directly from Lady Sterne's,” he said, “where I made my offer and was accepted. I am to marry Lady Anna in three days' time.”

Doris shrieked and hurtled across the room quite inelegantly to throw herself into his arms and kiss his cheek.

“Luke,” she cried, “I knew 'twould happen. I knew you would fall in love with her and marry her and come back home to live. And now everything will be as it used to be. I am so happy I could scream.”

“Pray do not, my dear,” Luke said faintly.

“Doris!” his mother said sternly.

But Doris was not to be cowed. She linked her hands behind Luke's neck and leaned back the length of her arms. “He is my brother, Mama,” she said, “and he is coming home. For all your fine clothes and elegant ways and pretense of ennui, you are still the person you used to be, Luke. I know it and I am glad of it. Oh, la, I am going to like
this
sister-in-law, I declare.”

The emphasis she put on the one word suggested that perhaps she did not like her other sister-in-law. Had Henrietta been difficult to get along with? Had she passed her own unhappiness on to other people?

“'Tis to be hoped that you will, Doris,” he said, feeling a little uncomfortable with such an open display of affection. And yet Doris had been thus as a child. She had liked to hug and be hugged. She had liked to hold his hand when they walked. She had liked to ride up on his shoulders, clinging to his hair, when she was very young. His last encounter with her had been that desperate hug on the driveway.

Doris, he thought, was going to be disappointed with him. He was not the brother she remembered. That man no longer existed.

His mother appeared pleased. But Luke wondered if she really wished him to stay in England and return to Bowden or if she merely wished to see Henrietta supplanted and hoped that perhaps Anna would be more easily ruled.

Ashley was not at home. Luke wondered if he would be pleased with the news or if he would wish his brother in Hades, or back in Paris at the very least.

Luke took his leave and went to White's to eat and to relax for a while after the tensions of the morning. At White's he met his uncle and told him his news. Lord Quinn, as might have been expected, greeted the announcement with such hearty good humor, pumping Luke's hand as if to shake his arm from its socket, that the attention of other gentlemen was attracted. Soon half of those present knew of his betrothal. All of polite society would doubtless know of it by the start of the Castle ball, Luke thought ruefully.

And having thought so, he took himself off to have the announcement of the betrothal and the impending marriage placed in tomorrow morning's papers. Then he went on his way to procure a license.

•   •   •

It
was late in the afternoon when Luke arrived at the hotel at which the Marquise d'Étienne had taken a suite of rooms. She had just recently returned from a walk with some newly made acquaintances though she had already changed into a loose negligée. She greeted Luke with outstretched hands and her rather haughty smile.

“Ah,
cheri
,
”
she said, turning her cheek for his kiss, “I am furious with you,
non?
Last night you took an English lady to the theater, I hear, because your maman was to be there, too, and you were ashamed to take a French marquise. And today I wait an hour for you to come and then I say
non,
I will wait for that faithless lover no longer. I will perhaps return to Paris and grant my favors to some other eager lover,
non?
There are many begging for them most pitifully.”

“I know, Angélique,” he said. “The honor of having been your lover is more coveted and more boasted about in France than that of receiving some favor from the king.”

“Ah, shameless flatterer,” she said. “Luc of the golden tongue. I will forgive you immediately,
cheri,
though I should punish you with my anger for at least an hour. It would be an hour wasted,
non?
I will take you to my bed, and you will boast about it to the oh so slow Englishmen that inhabit London. Come, you must be the lion for me today—you do it so well. I am ready to submit to the attack, mon
amour.
” Her eyes had half closed; her voice had become husky.

He had half intended to have her before telling her his news. Angélique was so very thorough and so very skilled at what she did. But it would be unfair to her to keep her in ignorance of a fact that might well change her attitude toward him. She was not, after all, a woman he paid for her favors, a woman who would have no right to any feelings about his marital state.

“Angélique,” he said, “perhaps you should not have left Paris. There you shine, my dear. Here you are wasted. Perhaps you should return.”

She made a kissing gesture with her mouth. “We will return together,” she said. “Now we will not talk. Now we will do. You will touch me and caress me and make me beg for mercy and cry out with ecstasy. Touch me, my lion!”

“The lady I escorted to the theater last evening,” he said, “Lady Anna Marlowe, this morning consented to be my wife, Angélique. We are to be married in three days' time.”

She stared at him blankly for several silent seconds before her hand whipped unexpectedly and painfully across his face.

She became a wild thing, fighting him, coming at him with fists and fingernails and teeth, kicking him, and cursing him with language straight from the gutters of Paris. He would not hit back, but it took all his strength and a not inconsiderable amount of time to overpower her. He did it eventually by forcing her back against the bed and down onto it so that he could immobilize her body and legs with his own and trap her wrists above her head with his hands.

She fell silent finally, her body heaving beneath his own.

“Luc,” she said, the hatred dying out of her eyes as they gazed into his own, only inches away. “Luc, I 'ave made a shameful fool of myself over you. I 'ave followed you 'ere when you did not invite me to come. I forgave you this afternoon when I should 'ave 'ad my servants slam the door in your face. I showed anger instead of disdain when you told me you are to be married. All this I 'ave never done before. I am the Marquise d'Étienne. I am the one who breaks 'earts,
non?”

“Yes,” he said. “Paris is strewn with them, Angélique. The whole of France is strewn with them.”

“But finally I make a fool of myself,” she said. “Finally I allow my 'eart to be broken. I would 'ave been your wife, Luc. Did you think I would not leave France to live here the rest of my life? With you I would 'ave lived anywhere on earth. I would 'ave been your duchess.”

He had no answer for her. He continued to look down into her eyes.

“Make love to me,” she whispered. “Make love,
mon amour,
as only you know how.”

But he rolled off her, got to his feet, and straightened his clothes. The room seemed suddenly a great deal smaller than it had seemed at first or on any of his other visits, and quite airless. He could think only of getting away, out into fresh air and space.

“I cannot, Angélique,” he said. “It would be unfair to you. I am sorry, my dear. I thought it was for mutual pleasure we came together.”

“Ah, Luc.” She lay on the bed as he had left her, her arms still stretched above her head. “It was,
cheri,
it was. Always for pleasure more pleasurable than any other I 'ave known.”

He picked up his tricorne and his cane and made for the door. He had to get out of there. But her voice stopped him as he opened the door.

“It is true what they say of you in Paris,” she said. “I should 'ave listened, but I thought it did not matter. I thought I was the same as you. They say you are a man without a heart,
cheri.
”

He forced himself to walk unhurriedly down the stairs of the hotel and out onto the street. That was the second time in one day that someone had said that to him—first Ashley and now Angélique. And of course they were both right.

How foolish people were to allow themselves to love, he thought, quickening his pace and filling his lungs with cool spring air. Love only ever brought heartache and humiliation and wild, impotent fury. Love deprived a person of rationality and control of his own destiny.