Lily Lang (14 page)

“Everything,” he said.

She sat very still, her hands linked together in her lap. Her mouth trembled.

“Why, Tessa?” he asked hoarsely. “Why did he take my memories of you? Why did you do nothing to stop him?”

She looked at him. He was pale and drawn in the half light, the skin of his scar tight and puckered. He had not been handsome even before his injury, but it did not matter. She had never stopped loving him, and knew now that she never would. He had branded her for life, and she would carry this mark to her grave.

Her eyes slid shut on a spasm of pain.

“Stop him?” Tessa repeated. “Why would I stop him, when I was the one who asked him to do it?”

In the silence that followed, time seemed to cease entirely. She opened her eyes again, holding his lightless, still gaze.

“You asked it of him?” Sebastian asked finally, after a long, uncounted interval, his tone carefully measured.

She ought to leave it at that. She ought to make him believe once and for all that she did not love him, had never loved him. But the lie seemed a furtive, shameful thing, too ugly to utter, and Tessa knew she owed him, at long last, the truth—the truth of why, six years before, she had destroyed her own life, and now, she was finally beginning to realize, his as well.

“Will you listen to me?” she asked. “Will you permit me to speak, without interruptions? I know I do not deserve it, but it will make it easier for me.”

“If it will make it easier for you,” said Sebastian.

Tessa nodded, rising to her feet to stand by the window and gaze out into the dark night so she would not need to look at him.

“It was Lord Wellington,” she said at last. “He was the one who came to me, and asked me not to meet you in the chapel at the Escorial.” She swallowed. “He was the one who asked me to release you from our engagement, and your promise to marry me.”

A movement sounded faintly behind her, as though Sebastian had sat up abruptly in his bed, but he must have remembered his promise not to interrupt, for he made no other sound.

“Somehow—I do not know how—your grandfather had learned of our attachment. Apparently he was not enamored of the notion of an alliance with a little nobody like me, the daughter of an insignificant soldier. He wrote to the duke and asked him to prevent the marriage.” She sighed. “You know how ambitious Wellington is. He wouldn’t have dreamed of offending a lord as powerful and wealthy as your grandfather. He went to my father. Told him that if he wanted to get anywhere in his career, he’d best persuade me to break off with you.

“My father would not agree to it. He said that if I loved you, I was to marry you. He said his career was not worth my happiness. But I was nineteen, and I believed Wellington when he said I was going to destroy your future.” How could she explain, so that he understood? “Father didn’t want me to do it, but I was insistent. Because I believed there would be more for you in this world than me. Because I did not trust that, after the war, you could still love me.”

Behind her, she heard Sebastian raising himself once again to a sitting position on the bed. She did not turn to look at him. She did not think she could continue speaking if she looked at him.

“I loved you,” said Tessa. “I loved you, and I knew you couldn’t marry me. You’re Sebastian Montague. You’re the Earl Grenville.”

He made a sound, but she rushed on, not letting him interrupt.

“But I knew you wouldn’t agree to it,” she said. “You were so absolutely convinced I was worth it, leaving it all behind. As your parents had done. We would go to Italy, you told me. We would be happy.”

Her voice broke.

“But I couldn’t do it, Sebastian,” she said. “I couldn’t take away your future. So I thought—if my father took your memories away, if we had never known each other, if I never existed for you—then you would be free.” She gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “I was young enough to find it romantic to be a martyr to love.”

She looked out into the night. Here and there, she could see kernels of gaslight, blurred in the fog.

“I begged my father to help me. To bury your memories of me so deeply that you could never access them again. When it was—when it was over”—her eyes shut briefly at the memory—”Wellington had you sent to Paris. So there was no chance we should ever meet again. That was all. You left. Father received his promotion.”

She clasped her hands together, drawing a deep, unsteady breath. Unshed tears swelled beneath her lids, but she did not let them fall.

And then he spoke for the first time that night.

“You took away my memories,” he said. “My memories of you. My memories of
us
. All of them.”

“Yes,” she said. She should turn her head and look at him, she thought. But she could not. How could she have the strength, once she started looking at him, to ever stop again?

“How could you?” he asked, and to her astonishment, she heard his voice tremble for the first time in all the years she had known him.

She turned. “What?”

“How could you?” He was shouting at her now. He had pushed back the covers of the bed and risen to his feet. He wore only buckskin breeches, and Tessa, to her shame, could not seem to tear her eyes away from all that smooth expanse of naked male flesh.

She took a step backwards and hit the ledge of the window. “Sebastian, please—”

He crossed the room to her in two strides, taking her shoulders in her hands, forcing her to look up at him. The anguish and rage in his dark, ruined faced made her heart stop.

“You took away a part of me,” he said. “You took away the best part of me and you left me alone.”

Her breath caught, and all her own pain and helplessness and fear bubbled to the surface, so that suddenly she was on her toes, shoving at his shoulders, shouting into his face, and her voice was as loud and as furious as his.

“I left you because I loved you! I left you because I could not be the wife that you needed and deserved! Look around you, Sebastian. You live in a mansion, employ dozens of servants, attend balls with the Prince Regent himself.” She shoved, hard, and he grabbed her wrists to hold her still. Her breath came in gasps.

Love is madness.

An Indiscreet Debutante

© 2013 Lorelie Brown

When Miss Charlotte Vale isn’t running a school for impoverished factory women, she takes tea with an insane painter—the mother she adores. Determined to avoid her mother’s legacy of madness, Lottie refuses to marry and nurtures the
ton
’s
bemused disregard for her reputation.

Through her door strides a man who threatens all she holds dear. Her cherished school, her careful control and her guarded heart.

Sir Ian Heald has tracked his sister’s blackmailer to her last-known location—Lottie’s school. Although he would burn the place to the ground if it would save his sister’s reputation, Ian is drawn to Lottie’s bold candor and indifference toward polite society.

To find his sister’s blackmailer, Ian follows Lottie into a twisted world of illegal gambling clubs and eccentric parties. Even when their mutual passion ignites, Ian knows their affair cannot last. Lottie was never meant to be tucked away on his quiet pastoral estate, and she staunchly refuses his desire to wed. Yet fiery kisses and scandalous showdowns tempt this proper country gentleman to win the woman he loves and never let her go.

Warning:
This book contains gambling in low-class clubs, deliciously deadpan dialogue, an unplanned swim to rescue doused women, and a fast, furious spanking. She wants it though, so that hardly counts.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
An Indiscreet Debutante:

The walk back through the alleys was much shorter than the route they’d taken inward. This time they stopped to chat with no one, nor did Lottie talk to Ian, the smug bastard. She would have stomped if it weren’t for the uneven pavement and the conviction that falling over face first would negate her righteous position.

She couldn’t indulge in her temper. Couldn’t let it take her over. She’d seen enough of that from her mama to know how foolish and troubling it could be.

She intentionally calmed her breaths. Made her cheeks pull her mouth into a smile, even if they didn’t want to head that way, because sometimes a smile
caused
happiness, damn it.

She refused to hand her life over.

By the time she arrived at the carriage, she’d smoothed herself into an approximation of calm. Her blood eased in her veins, and she simply ignored the tight bands around her ribs. She’d not lose control, not in that way. Her happiness was her armor, and she liked it.

She smiled at Sir Ian. “Where can I drop you off?”

“You don’t stay angry long, do you?” He put out a hand for her to balance fingertips on as she mounted the stairs of the small black carriage.

She put her fingers in his, ignoring the tingling rush that swept over her skin and lodged in the damp, hot points behind her ears. When her temper and emotions flared, the rest of her body followed. Anger and lust wrapped up together. More proof it was a good idea to find someone halfway appropriate to slake this want with, before she did something she’d regret all because of raging emotions.

“I couldn’t,” she said, forcing a laugh. “When one gets as royally furious as me, one can’t afford to cling to the emotion.”

“Royally furious, eh?” Dark brown hair fell over his brow as he followed her into the cab. “Every woman I’ve met claims they’re incapable of such emotions.”

“Every woman gets angry,” she scoffed.

He folded himself into the opposite seat. His knees were skinny, his legs long. She had the impression he was rather like a colt or a puppy. Someone who hadn’t grown into his limbs despite appearing nearly thirty years old. “I never said otherwise,” he continued. “But I’ve found that most of them
claim
they have the temper of misplaced angels. Even Lady Cotrose.”

She lifted a single eyebrow. “I don’t know Lady Cotrose.”

“No, I don’t imagine you would. She’s a country bumpkin like me. Her husband tired of her screeching and screaming and throwing vases at his head.”

“Are we certain it’s not his fault?” She smoothed her lap so the silken, knotted flower decorations aligned down the outside edge of her thigh. “Certain behaviors could all but demand such a response.”

“He is known for chewing with his mouth open. A dire, horrid habit, I’m sure. But there was doubt that such habits required him being roomed with the hunting dogs.”

“Lady Cotrose demanded such?”

“Hard to tell. She was tied to a tree in the back gardens, so one must assume he decided to sleep with the hounds all on his own.”

She saw it then, through the dawdling remains of her temper. She’d forced herself to fake good humor, but that wasn’t exactly the same thing as being truly relaxed or happy. So he was
teasing
her. His eyes were sparking, and the tiniest quirk of a smile lingered on his lips. The way he watched from under canted brow, his chin tucked toward his chest…

He was having her on.

“Did he have a bed installed in the kennels? Or did he sleep on the paving stones?”

“Does it matter?”

She made a humming noise and rubbed her thumb over her bottom lip, trying to hide her smile. “It does. Considerably. As much as it matters if Lady Cotrose were tied to the tree with a silken cord. One must observe standards.”

He wasn’t half so circumspect with his grin. She liked that, liked the way it shone through the carriage. She knew entirely too many people who were afraid to demonstrate emotions, even the pleasant ones. Sometimes she was among them. Rather often, truth be told. “Is that all it takes? Observe the standards and one can get away with anything?”

“Not even that, most of the time. Take me, for example.”

“I’m sure most men gladly would.” His eyelids drooped, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he’d suddenly decided he was interested. She could almost think it involuntary. If he had any idea what that husky tone of voice did, he’d have used it straightaway.

As it was, she flicked a wry glance from under her lashes and went on with what she’d been saying. “I ignore all the rules. I’m positively wicked. I tell bad jokes, I drink port with the men whenever I can, and I wear the wrong colors. My mother is so mad, she would have given George III a run for his money. And yet curiously, no one has kicked me out of their presence.”

His cheeks hollowed on a shot of amusement. “I can’t imagine why not,” he said with dry aplomb.

“It’s a mystery, is it not?” She gave him her cheekiest grin.

Truly, she knew why people put up with her. Money and charm and beauty went a long way, which said ill things of the society she kept. She shouldn’t have started this line of conversation. But it was strange how easy he was to talk to and how their senses of humor meshed. Normally she would only suggest a silk rope to Victoria. Sera would have been shocked.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked, as if hearing her silent pleading to change the subject.

“You may take the carriage anywhere you like. I’d drop you myself, but I’m going to be late.”