She Tempts the Duke (16 page)

“I’m not quite up to receiving guests.”

“I’m sorry for the imposition, but when I heard that someone tried to kill you . . . I just needed to see for myself how badly you were injured.”

“You saw a good deal more than that.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that as well.” Only she wasn’t, not really. Now that she knew the true extent of his injuries they would haunt her. She should have insisted that he seek out her father for his aid that long-ago night. Sebastian had been a boy and the path he’d chosen for himself and his brothers had not been easy. “I appreciate your chastising me in privacy.”

Groaning, he rubbed his jaw. “It was not my intent to chastise you at all. I merely . . . how did your aunt hear about the kiss and why is all of London going to know about it as well?”

She’d rather be chastised about her behavior in the bedchamber than reveal what a silly nitwit she’d been. She plucked at a thread on her skirt, realized that the way her luck was going, she would no doubt unravel all the threads with a mere tug and her dress would fall off. It simply appeared to be a day where if something could go wrong it would.

“Mary?” he prodded gently.

She took comfort in that gentleness, in that hint of the boy he’d been, the friendship they’d shared. “When Lady Hermione came into the dressmaker’s with the news that everyone was talking about what happened in the garden, I was vain enough to believe they were talking about me.”

“You’re hardly vain.”

“You’re kind. But I blurted that it was only a kiss between us and it meant nothing. So now they know we kissed and they are not ones to hold such juicy gossip.”

“And mere rumors of a kiss without a single witness are enough to ruin your reputation?”

How could she forget that he’d not been in Society for years, that he didn’t know how swiftly the gossipmongers worked, and how precious a lady’s reputation was? When they were children, he’d thought nothing of lifting her skirt to see how badly she was scraped when she took a tumble. The adult world was so very different. She might be as uninformed as he if her aunt hadn’t schooled her.

“In all likelihood. Fitzwilliam will not be pleased when he hears.”

Sebastian furrowed his brow. “So you didn’t mention it to Fitzwilliam afterward?”

“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “Or I wouldn’t have. I didn’t see him afterward.”

He grew incredibly still, so still that she wasn’t certain he continued to breathe. “Is something wrong?”

“Tristan crossed paths with him in the garden.”

“Oh dear Lord, do you think he saw us?” It would explain his not returning to the ballroom, not seeking her out for the last dance. She’d been so obsessed with what had occurred between her and Sebastian that she’d given little thought to the fact that she’d not seen Fitzwilliam again. In truth, she’d been relieved because she feared he’d take one look at her and know what had transpired. In spite of Tristan’s assurances that she didn’t
look
as though she’d been kissed, she’d certainly
felt
as though she had been well and thoroughly seduced.

“If he had, would he have not said?”

“Of course. He would have confronted you—us. His pride would not have allowed him to overlook such a transgression without seeking some sort of satisfaction. Not a duel, of course, but a round in the boxing ring perhaps. So he did not bear witness to our inappropriate behavior. Of that I’m sure. Still, I must tell him. I can’t let him hear it from the gossips.”

“He won’t be pleased.”

“No, he won’t.” Neither would her father.

“Mary, I’m sorry for whatever trouble I’ve brought you.”

“It’s my fault. I should have never followed you into the garden.” She rose. “Please don’t get up.”

He ignored her, grimacing as he struggled to his feet. It took everything within her not to rush over and assist him.

“I do hope you will rest,” she told him, “and ensure your wound does not become infected.”

“I’ve had quite a bit of experience dealing with wounds. I assure you, I will be well in no time at all. Mary, I owe you—my brothers owe you—and yet it seems we have brought you little more than trouble. I regret any embarrassment you might suffer because of my bad judgment in the garden.”

Bad judgment.
What did she expect him to say? That the kiss devastated him? That it left him yearning for another? That it made him realize she was no longer a child? Could a kiss possess that much power?

“I shall be fine,” she lied. “After all, it was only a kiss.”

Chapter 16

O
nly a kiss.
She had used the phrase before when referring to what had passed between them and added the little caveat that it meant nothing. Nothing.

As his carriage rolled through the London streets, Sebastian wondered what he had expected. That she would confess to being devastated by it, yearned for another? That the kiss he’d delivered in the garden was far more powerful than the bold brush of his lips over hers that he’d delivered at the abbey ruins all those many years ago?

“You’re brooding,” Tristan said.

He looked up at his brother sprawled on the bench across from him. “I’ve been brooding for twelve years.”

“No, this is different. I suspect it has something to do with the words that passed between you and Mary before she took her leave.”

He wondered what it would be like to not have such a profound connection with another person. Lonely, he decided. Much more lonely than he was now. And at the same time, it would be a bit of a relief to know that one’s moods and the reasons behind them could not be so easily deciphered.

“I’m simply exhausted.”

“Then we should return to the residence. Calling on Fitzwilliam could be for naught. I don’t recall seeing any blood on him.”

“But you also admitted to being in the shadows and not having a clear view of him.”

“What would be his motive?”

“Perhaps he saw me kiss Mary.”

“Killing a man for kissing your betrothed seems a bit drastic.”

I would, he thought, surprised by the vehemence behind the words. An image of Mary lifting her face for a kiss suddenly loomed in his mind—only it was Fitzwilliam, not Sebastian, lowering his mouth to hers. His stomach knotted so tightly, he feared he might tear loose one of the stitches in his side. What the deuce was wrong with him? It had meant nothing to her. She’d said as much. It had meant even less to him.

A distraction. That was all it had been. A momentary escape from the blight that the night had become. Attending the ball had done little more than reveal the harsh reality of his shortcomings and he’d sought to regain something of what he’d lost. Passion was a powerful distraction.

With Mary it had been incredibly so. He had used her, and for that he should be flogged, but damnation if he didn’t want to use her again. Her lips were as plump as a freshly plucked strawberry. He wanted to settle his in against them and once more become lost in the pleasure of her.

“You’re not going to kill him are you?”

He jerked his attention to Tristan. “What are you on about?”

“You look to be a man on the verge of committing murder.”

“My thoughts turn to dark places. It seems to be the way of it of late. I think it more likely that he will murder me—if he’s heard the gossip regarding Mary and me.”

“If he hasn’t, are you going to tell him?”

He shook his head. “On the off chance that the rumors concerning Mary are not being spread.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re being spread. Lady Hermione does not seem to be acquainted with the notion of silence. I’ve never known a woman to talk incessantly about absolutely nothing of importance. I almost kissed her on the dance floor in an effort to cease her babbling.”

“If you had, you’d have had her in your life permanently.”

“Precisely why I did not. I would never know a moment’s peace.”

The carriage drew to a stop in front of Fitzwilliam’s modest residence. The footman opened the door and Sebastian stepped out, followed by Tristan.

“So this is where Mary will live when in London,” Tristan said.

Sebastian refrained from commenting that she deserved something grander. Instead he simply charged up the steps and banged the knocker against the door. The butler answered, and to his credit, at the sight of Sebastian he did little more than arch an eyebrow.

“The Duke of Keswick to see Lord Fitzwilliam.”

“His lordship is not in residence.”

“To me or to anyone?”

“He is not in residence, meaning, Your Grace, that he is not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“His lordship is not in the habit of informing me of his intentions other than that he is going out.”

Of course he wasn’t. It had been a pointless question.

“When will he be returning?”

“I can’t say.”

“You can’t say or you won’t say?”

“I do not know when he will return.”

Sebastian spun on his heel and began trudging down the steps.

“What are your plans now?” Tristan asked.

“Return to my residence to rest.”

He’d overtaxed himself, dammit. And this had been a futile exercise. He’d just felt a need to take some action. He could only hope that by now Mary’s fragrance had deserted his residence. Otherwise he would have little luck not thinking about her for the remainder of the day.

W
hen Mary first entered her father’s library where she’d been summoned, she was so incredibly grateful that Fitzwilliam sported neither bruise nor cut nor swelling about his face that she nearly rushed forward to embrace him, to hold him tightly. She was even willing to squeal near his ear. She hated to admit that she had not quite believed he hadn’t harmed Sebastian.

It was ludicrous in retrospect now. She knew that. She’d simply forgotten when confronted with the possibility that he could have done harm. He was not a vengeful man. Jealous certainly. He’d confessed that, but every lady desired a man with a bit of green in him. It was a sign of how much she meant to him. That he cared.

Although right now she feared he cared about all the wrong things. He stood solemnly before her, his hands clasped behind his back. Staring up at him, she felt rather like a naughty girl who had been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.

Looking none too happy, her father sat in a far corner downing whiskey as though he feared the pleasure would soon be denied him.

“Mary,” Fitzwilliam began.

“My lord.” She smiled at him. He tightened his jaw. That didn’t bode well. Only one day had passed since the debacle at the seamstress’s. Surely he’d not yet heard. She’d been in her room penning a letter to him—an explanation. Coward. She should have gone straightway to his residence yesterday to explain it all to his face but a small part of her, a tiny little part of her had hoped that her aunt would indeed awaken twenty years younger this morning, and that Ladies Hermione and Victoria would keep to themselves what she had blurted out.

“I tolerated your speaking with Keswick during Lady Alicia’s recital because I knew he was a friend and you’d not seen him in a good many years. When I heard that you met with him in Hyde Park—alone—I overlooked the transgression.”

“It was hardly a transgression. I merely wished to convey to him the importance of attending a ball. We were in full view the entire time.”

“I’m aware of that. As those who reported seeing you made it clear that you were riding and that nothing untoward occurred. Still, you were there with him. Then at the ball, you spoke with him alone, near the fronds, without chaperone.”

“We had a hundred chaperones in that ballroom.”

He arched a pale brow. “And in the garden? How many were there?”

Feeling as though he had tricked her, trapped her, and willingly sought to humiliate her, she wilted against the seat.

“Yes, it has reached me that you and he had a tryst in the garden.”

“Good God, Mary!” her father exclaimed.

“It was hardly a tryst.”

“You deny kissing him?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Mary?” her father barked.

She studied the pointed toes of her shoes. She wondered how she might go about kicking herself.

“So there is truth to these rumors,” Fitzwilliam said.

“After the mishap on the dance floor—” She gave him a pointed look. “—I wanted to ensure that he understood that it could happen to anyone, as you reassured me it was not done on purpose.”

Fitzwilliam knelt before her and took her hands. She couldn’t recall him ever being so near, not even when he’d proposed. They’d been sipping tea and he hadn’t even bothered to set his teacup aside. He’d simply taken a sip and then said, “I say, dear girl, I was wondering if you might consider marrying me.”

It wasn’t romantic or passionate, but still it had touched her heart. He was so endearingly reserved. Unfortunately with recent events, she had hurt him. She could see that as she gazed into his brown eyes.

“I suppose if you are guilty of anything, Mary, it is a charitable heart. But Keswick is not yours to worry over.”

“But he is my friend, Fitzwilliam.”

“He
was
your friend, when you were children. If he was your friend now, do you think he would do all these things that tarnish your reputation and mine?”

“It just happened. The kiss. I’m not even sure what prompted it. One moment we were talking and the next we were kissing. I’m sorry. I never meant to give you cause to doubt me.”

“Hence the reason I shall overlook it. This once. We shall attend the next ball together so that all of London shall see that you are mine. You are mine, are you not?”

Feeling the tears sting her eyes, she nodded. “Yes, without question.” Only she’d been asking so many blasted questions lately.

“Splendid. But you must promise me that you will not speak with him again.”

Startled, she stared at him. “You mean ever? Are you suggesting I give him a cut direct? Ignore him?”

“It is either him or me, Mary. If you write to him and explain the boundaries, then he should be gentleman enough not to put you in a situation where you must choose.”

“I’ve had twelve years of not seeing him, not speaking to him. You can’t deny me—” The pleasure, she’d almost said. Only it wasn’t a pleasure exactly. It was more of a challenge, more of a rightness. They’d shared so much in their youth. To never be able to share anything ever again was maudlin.

“What if I promise to never be alone with him? To only speak with him when you are there? Surely that should suffice.”

He brought her hands to his lips, pressed them there, squeezed his eyes shut. “I can tell that you are going to be a difficult wife.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He opened his eyes, smiled. “Difficult because when you ask for something I find it very hard to deny you. I will be content if you are never alone with him and if you only speak with him in my presence. Or your father’s.”

Relief swamped her, and she smiled. “Thank you, my lord. I thought you would be done with me if you heard the rumor.”

“Two weeks from our wedding? It will take a good deal more than gossip to keep me from the church. But I should very much like not to hear anymore.”

“Perhaps I should lock her in her room until it is time to head to St. George’s,” her father suggested.

“She’s not a child, Winslow,” Fitzwilliam said. “I trust her word.”

She wanted to hug him near for that bit of trust. She vowed then and there that she would never disappoint him again. She would be an exemplary wife and give him no further cause to doubt her.

Releasing her hands, he stood. “One more thing. The necklace with the green stone you wore the other night—you’re not to wear it again. As a matter of fact I think it would be best if you return it to Keswick.”

She stared at him in muted surprise. “How did you know?”

“I asked your father about it. He asked your maid. I will not have my wife accepting gifts from other gentlemen.”

“I’m not yet your wife.”

“If you wish to be you will return it. Consider the action a token of good faith. I’ve been injured here, Mary. Am I really asking too much?”

Slowly, she shook her head. She’d even told Sebastian that she shouldn’t have accepted the gift. “No. I shall see to its return posthaste. Although you should know it wasn’t a gift from Keswick. It was from all three brothers.”

“A gift from
three
men? I can only imagine how that might be spun by the gossips. Even more reason to return it.”

Pleasing a gentleman was such a sticky web. He bid her and her father good-bye, then strode from the room, leaving her to wonder if she would indeed be happy married to him.

“You need this marriage, Mary,” her father said pointedly. “I need it. To know you are secure. If I fail you, I have failed in everything.”

“You’ve failed in nothing, Father.”

“I failed to produce an heir to watch over you when I am gone.”

She supposed the fault there rested as much with her mother as with him.

“You say that as though you are planning to leave me at any moment,” she told him.

“Life is precarious, Daughter. I would have thought the Pembrook lads would have taught you that.”

“Had you heard that someone tried to kill Sebastian?”

He nodded. “Terrible thing that. They say it was a soldier who believed him to be a coward.”

“Do you believe that?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “But you would be wise to keep your thoughts to yourself. Do not seek to help the Pembrook lords further. It can only lead to your downfall. Your loyalty now is to Fitzwilliam. It must be to him.”

“Yes, Father.” He didn’t realize what he asked of her. What Fitzwilliam asked. To abandon her friends. She knew the brothers would not find fault with her. Had Sebastian not encouraged her to keep out of harm’s way? Still it did not stop her from feeling like a traitor as she walked from the room.

My dearest Sebastian,

It is with a large measure of regret that I must return this lovely gift that you and your brothers bestowed upon me. I must also regretfully request that should our paths cross, you not speak to me. My betrothed believes that if I act in a manner above reproach that we may weather this storm of gossip that has made the Season most difficult for us all. Please know that I will always hold all of you in my heart.

Yours,

Mary

Lying in bed, Sebastian picked up the necklace that had slithered out when he’d unfolded the missive that his butler had brought to him earlier. He wondered why she’d had to return it. Who had made her? Was it because of the gossip about town: that they’d shared an illicit kiss in the garden?