Lady Scandal (19 page)

Diana caught her aunt in a sudden, fierce
hug.
"I do not want him to hurt you—you are too kind to be
hurt!"

Smiling, Alexandria smoothed a hand down her
niece's golden hair.
"We hurt ourselves, darling.
And a heart is
never much good to anyone if it is kept in cold storage.
Do try and
remember that.
It is too easy to think about protecting oneself,
and we forget in the process how to live."

#

Paxten staggered back to the inn late enough
in the night that he wondered if he should even bother with sleep.
The sun would be up soon.
The dimming of the stars told him that.
But he'd had enough of drink, and of loud laughter, and more than
enough of swaggering boasts.

It had taken a few rounds to get those
infantrymen talking.
And they had insisted on returning the favor.
After that, he could not get them to stop talking.

The First Consul, it seemed, looked to
England as his next conquest.
An obvious ambition, given that
Bonaparte had already had his struggles with the English fleet.
Still, it surprised Paxten just how rapidly Bonaparte had been
ready to move troops to the coast.
But was that not the man's
genius—to act when others stood undecided?
Or perhaps to plan when
others sought only to enjoy peacetime.

Tired of thinking about it, he climbed the
stairs, one hand pressed to his side.
Bonaparte, thank the saints,
had nothing to do with him.
And he had gotten what he needed—the
information that most of the troops seemed to be headed to
Boulogne.
Which meant that it would be wise to make for Dieppe.
Alexandria would probably argue with him over such plans.

He smiled at the thought as he let himself
into the room.
And he paused in the doorway.

She had left the lamp lit for him, the wick
turned so low that it gave off no more than the faintest glow.
Coming into the room, he shut the door.
He slipped off his shoes
and padded across the floor.

They made a picture as would stir any man's
imagination—two lovely women in bed.
Diana lay on her side, facing
away from her aunt.
Alexandria lay on her back, her face relaxed,
one slim, white arm laid over the covers.

He stared at them a moment, drink slowing
his thoughts but doing nothing to blunt the wave of lust that rose
in him.
He hesitated only a moment as to where he would sleep.
A
gentleman would take one of the pillows and lay on the floor with
noble sacrifice.
But when had he ever done what was right?
And he
had his aching side to consider.

After blowing out the lamp, he felt his way
to Alexandria's side of the bed.
He lay down next to her.
Breathing
in her scent, he rubbed his lips across her cheek.
The longing for
her lifted, tightened in him, became almost unbearable.
Odd how she
was the one woman with whom he had actually ever been able to sleep
the night through.
But, Mother in heaven, would he end up only
sleeping with her and nothing else?

This revenge of his seemed to be taking a
greater toll on him than it had on her so far.

Smiling at the joke of it all, he fell
asleep.
And into dreams of the past.

#

She lay in his arms, the winter sky
brilliant over them and water lapping softly at the side of the
barge.
Pillows lay under them, and the remains of dinner littered
the damask-covered table set in the bow.
Behind them, behind the
curtain of the open-topped canopy, the two boatmen he had hired
steadily pulled at their oars.
The curtains also screened the side
of the barge as it cut through the dark water of the Thames.

Brushing his lips across her forehead, he
murmured to her, "We could be in Venice, you know.
On a
gondola."

Alexandria's lips curved in a smile, one he
felt against his own cheek for she lay close in his arms.
"Could we
now?
And would it be perhaps warmer than a January night in
England?
Remind me, next you invite me to dine, to bring a
fur-lined cloak."

He grinned and pulled her closer.
"Why do we
not dine next in Venice instead?"

She sat up a little and turned towards him.
The moon had set and he could see as little of her expression as
she must see of his.
His heart beat faster.
He had not wanted to
force this choice on her, but he had no choice himself now.
His
cousin, the distinguished head of his family, had seen to that.
Paxten had been asked to leave—he must go, or his cousin would see
him gone.
But Paxten could not bear to go without his Andria.

"What are you asking?" she said, her voice
now utterly serious.

He took her hand and began to stroke her
fingers.
"You know what.
Come with me, Andria.
A world awaits
us."

"But I—"

He rushed on, interrupting her words before
she could say no to him.
"Bring your son, if you like.
Bring
whatever or whoever, but come with me.
I—"

He broke off.
He had almost told her that he
must go.
But he would not use that with her.
He wanted her to come
with him because she wanted it.
He stared at her, at the pale oval
of her face.
She had never once told him her feelings—never said if
she loved him, or cared.
But he had not needed that, not so long as
he could hold her in his arms and make her sigh and shiver and fall
apart under his touch.

But he would not have that if he left
without her.
His hand tightened on hers.
"Come with me.
There is a
ship bound for Naples that sails from London next week."

She turned away.

Sitting up, her took her
face in his hands and turned her so that she had to look at him.
"I
love you, Andria.
You're my treasure, my sleek doe!
Ma trésor.
Ma biche.
"

He wanted to take her away with
him—take her whether she willed it or not.
For her, he would break
any rules.
Society's.
His own.
For her, he would change his life.
Once they fled the country, that dull husband of hers would have no
choice but to divorce her.
And then they could marry.
Yes, he would
marry her.

But he did not want to face her with that.
He might frighten her.

Please,
he willed in his soul.

She looked up at him and asked, her voice steady,
but he could feel her breathing quicken, "Do you really want me
that much?"

"Ah, more than that much.
Tell me
you will come!
Tell me you love me!
Promise me you will meet me and
leave England with me!"

She took in a breath, and turned to
look at the dark water before them and the dark shoreline.
And she
bowed her head and said, her voice a rough, unsteady whisper, "I'll
come.
Where shall I meet you?"

#

Paxten woke with a start, his
throat tight and the betrayal almost smothering him.
The feeling
swamped him, bitter and sharp as if she had vowed just last night
to meet him and leave England with him.
He threw an arm over his
eyes.

And he remembered that he lay in a
bed in an attic room in the north of France.

Sitting up, he glanced around him.
He was alone.

Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he
tried to put the dream away.
Had it been a dream?
Or a memory?
He
searched now for an answer.

He could recall the elation of the
moment, the sense of victory that had swept into him.
The relief.
He had kissed her, and he had made plans with her.
Or he thought he
had.
She had been oddly quiet.
He remembered that.
But she had said
she would come with him.
She had promised.

But had she ever said those words
he had wanted?
Or had his mind put in those words,
"I love you."

Frowning, he rose.
His mouth seemed filled
by dry wool and the ale sat heavy in him.
His mouth lifted at one
corner.
He might want to wallow in the past, tearing it apart yet
once again, but his body had its own demands, all of them centered
in the moment.

He found a chamber pot under the bed and
made use of it.
With his clothes on but untidy, he went outside to
dunk his head in the fountain and wash the dreams and delusions
from his mind.

Perhaps she had said that she loved him,
perhaps not.
However, while he could wash the ale from him, he
could not rid himself of the bitterness she had left him.
His fist
clenched.
He wanted peace again.
He wanted the scar she had left on
him eased.
And he knew but one way to get that.

He would have those words from her.
He would
make her say them.
He would pull them from her, force her to be the
one who gave in and told him that she loved him.
And when that
happened, he would laugh at her and walk away, as she had once
turned from him.

His mouth pulled down and he narrowed his
eyes at the world around him.
Perhaps this might not ease the ache
in him, but he wanted her to die inside as he once had.
He had
loved her, but she had destroyed that.
Still, he could burn for
her.
And he would.
And she would burn again for him.
He would make
certain of that.

Ah, that damn solider of General D'Aeth
ought to have taken better aim a few nights ago.
If he had, the
world would have been a safer place for his Andria.

#

"But we are not that far from Boulogne.
Why
must we now turn for Dieppe?"

Paxten turned to glare at Diana.
The
protests had come from her, not from Alexandria as he had expected.
Before he could answer the girl, Alexandria did so, her tone mild,
"Really now, Diana.
He has already explained about the soldiers."
She turned to him.
"Paxten, when we do get back to London, do you
think this is information the Foreign Office will want to know?
I
mean about French troops being sent to Boulogne?"

Paxten's mouth twisted.
"I would be
surprised if they did not know it already.
Not all the English
fishing boats in the Channel look for fish, you know."

She frowned.
"And what will they think of a
French boat headed to English waters?"

He gave a shrug.
"They will think it carries
contraband—such as good French wine.
But it will have us on board,
as well."

That answer seemed to content the
ladies.

They slept that night beside the road.
Oddly, no one complained.
Not even when they had to make do with
stale bread for breakfast.
Paxten put it down to the fact that
earlier a column of soldiers had ridden past them.
Alexandria had
sat utterly still, and Diana had gripped his arm, her eyes wide,
but with a glimmer of excitement in the blue depths.
He had
watched, tense, but not worried.
The soldiers, all marching on
foot, looked bored and he could not think they had anything in
their orders other than to keep marching.

Still, the next day, with clouds dulling the
sky and threatening more rain, he picked his roads more
carefully.

And ended lost in the woods.

Spotting a flickering campfire in a clearing
kept him from having to admit to anyone that he'd had no idea of
their direction for most of the day.
He followed the light, keeping
to a narrow track, and he realized his mistake only when he drew
rein.

The firelight revealed a ragged camp with
two shaggy ponies that had been unhitched from carts that were even
more ramshackle than their own.
Three dark eyed, dark skinned
children stared at him from beside the campfire, their clothes much
mended and faded.
An older woman sat tending a pot hung over the
flame.
She did not look up at them.