Tempted (20 page)

“No.” she cried. Just make it happen. Now.

And then he seemed to give up. He pushed inside her and when he did, this time it was different from the first. This time he was inside her, aye, joined with her in a way that made her feel something so sweet, so gentle, and yet so wonderful, it made a liquid warmth spread throughout her body.

They stilled, both of them locked together in a moment of time that Mary promised she’d never forget. And then slowly, gently, he began to move again, shifted himself so he could look in her eyes.

“You’re crying,” he said softly.

“Am I?” she sniffed.

“You are.”

“Must be something in me eye.”

He smiled, gently, as if he understood. And that look, that one look alone, made Mary feel more vulnerable and more cherished than she had in all her days on earth. She felt tears rise again, wishing for just a moment that things were different. Alas, they weren’t. She had him for now, but she’d have to give him up on the morrow.

Part Three

What is your fortune, my pretty maid?
My face is my fortune, sir, she said.
Then I can’t marry you, my pretty maid
Nobody asked you, sir, she said.

William Pryce
,
1790

Chapter Twenty-One

She woke alone the next morning, the haze of pleasure and contentment that had shrouded her sleep evaporating as quickly as summer dew.

Morning had come.

Like the princess without a shoe, the night had passed. She sat up in bed, sad, contemplative and a whole host of other emotions she couldn’t, nay, didn’t want to sort out. She had thought one night would be enough; only now did she realize it would never be enough.

In a daze, she got out of bed, pulling on her dressing robe. The door opened. Mary turned. Alex stood there, a tray of food in his hands.

Food? He’d brought her food?

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“I thought I’d get dressed,” she said in a voice almost hoarse with tears.

He’d brought her food. No one had ever brought her food before.

He smiled in a way she’d never seen before, either. ’Twas a boyish grin, almost like that of the young grooms just starting out at the circus, and who didn’t know that performing day in and day out would eventually take its toll on them. “Did you miss me?”

“No,” she said, even as her heart whispered, “Yes.”

“I brought you food as I didn’t think you’d like a servant stumbling upon us in bed.”

The heavenly smell of eggs and ham wafted from beneath silver covers to fill the air with memories of Christmas morn. Being poor, ham had been a luxury Mary’d only been able to indulge in once a year, and lately not at all. And yet Mary couldn’t have eaten that ham if it’d been the last morsel of food on earth.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he went to a small side table placed beneath one of the tall windows. He’d already dressed in his cousin’s castoffs, this time a dark blue jacket that did lovely things to his eyes.

“Sore,” she finally answered.

She thought she saw his lips compress a bit, almost like he bit back a frown of concern, then he took a seat, the windows beyond revealing a sky so blue and sparkling clean, it looked like an artist’s canvas.

“What is it?” Alex asked.

Her head snapped up, surprised that he could so easily read her thoughts. “Why nothing, m’lord.”

He didn’t appear to believe her, not at first, at least, but he didn’t push the matter. She fixed her gaze on the silver cover striped with vertical bars of light that he lifted, exposing a porcelain plate with peacocks decorating the edge of it.

One tiny poached egg stared back at her like a yellow bull’s eye, an equally small piece of ham next to it.

“What is the matter?” he asked, and, yes, that was very definitely concern she saw in his eyes. “I admit, I only know how to poach an egg and fry up ham, but I cooked it myself, though it was a battle to get Cook to agree. However, if you want something else, you have only to ask.”

He’d cooked?

For
her?

Mary stared at him in shock, and then just as suddenly looked away, feeling…feeling. Oh, lord, she was about to cry again.

“No thank you, my lord. This will suit me fine.”

He looked at her with so much concern, the persistent scratching at her heart turned into a downright thumping.

He cared.

Morning light illuminated a reality she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to face.

She felt her hand clench around a fork.

I think I love you.

“You look serious all of a sudden.”

Forcing herself to straighten, to give him a cocky smile, she said, “Do I?” covering her tears by blinking and stabbing her fork into her food at the same time.

’ere now, Mary girl. Buck up. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

Had she? Had she really? And blimey, for a woman who hadn’t cried above three times afore meeting his lordship, she’d turned into a bleedin’ watering pot since.

“Mary?” he said, reaching across the table, and enfolding her cold hand in his. “Whatever is the matter?”

The experience of having to force a bright smile for an audience through all the bruises, all the bumps, all the pains, stood her in good stead then, though until that moment she’d never realized an aching heart could hurt as bad as a fall.

“Why nothing, my lord. I’m right as rain, I am.”

His eyes darted from one of her eyes to the other, as if searching each one for an elusive truth.

“You’re lying.”

Well, of course she was. But there wasn’t a blimin’ blazes thing he could do about it.

“I’m thinking,” she said.

“About what?”

About how hard it’s going to be to leave you.
“This and that,” she said instead.

“What?” he persisted.

Bloody hell! Couldn’t he tell she didn’t want to talk? He lifted a brow.

Apparently not.

“I was wondering if I should invite my father to our wedding.”

His whole face went slack a moment before his eyes widened.

And now that she’d said the words which were half jest, half serious, she added, “And if your father and my father will get along.”

He’d gone as stiff as carriage straps. And she knew then that her silly imagination had gotten bosky on her, because as she watched the way he reacted, as she watched the horrified discomfort grow in his eyes, she realized that once again she’d sold herself on a fairy tale baggage of goods.

God help her, a part of her had hoped…

What? That’d you’d be so good in bed he’d offer ta wed you? Are you daft, woman?

She blinked, relieved when no tears fell. “Of course, if you’d rather keep the ceremony small—”

“Mary,” he said urgently, his hand squeezing hers gently. Lord, she’d forgotten he held it. “We can’t—”

She watched as words were rolled through his mind and then were obviously discarded. And all the while she concentrated on breathing slowly in and out so as not to pant, on keeping her composure, even as she waited for him to say the words she told herself to expect.

“You must understand,” he finally said. “Marriage between the two of us would be—” He struggled for words again.

“Heavenly,” she finished for him, adding a breathy sigh for good measure.

Aye, and it would, not that I’ll ever be knowing.

“I was going to say—”

“Wonderful?” she provided, because heaven help her, she needed to make him squirm, wanted to make him wiggle like a carp on dry land. Make him feel, for just a smidgen of a second, the misery she felt in her heart.

“Impossible,” he finally managed to say.

She drew herself up, pasted a look of hurt and surprise and distress—all the things she actually felt, but that she’d die before admitting to him that she really felt—on her face, her poor, bruised heart rejoicing at the look of horror mixed with discomfort that spread through his eyes.

“Not wed me? But I thought—” She acted wounded. Aye, and it was easier than she would have thought. “I assumed that after last eve—”

She stared at him as if she’d grown speechless with shock.

“Mary,” he said, letting go of her hand to stand. When she realized he meant to come around to take her in his arms, she stopped him with a hand.

“Ach. Go on with you, my lord. I was only funning.” And it near killed her, but she forced a laugh, a high pitched,
Aren’t I a bonny one?
laugh that all but killed her to press out of her lungs. And if he’d listened closely, he might have heard the brittle edge to it. But, like most men, he didn’t want to look too deep. If he’d opened his eyes along with his heart, he might have seen more than a laughing woman.

“Sit down,” she ordered with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “I know you’ve no intention of marrying the likes of me.”

And you
do
know that, don’t you, Mary girl?

Don’t you?

“Thank the lord,” he said, the words like a foot stamping up and down on her heart. “For a moment I thought—”

“You’d bedded a fool?” she finished for him.

But he had bedded a fool, she admitted.
He had. He had. He had.
Because, devil take it, she’d sell her soul to wed such a man. Such an honorable, kind and
noble
man.

Ach, one that wants you to be his mistress.

Aye, but being angry with him for that would be like being angry at a priest for asking if she wanted to be a nun. His desire to make her his mistress wasn’t so much an insult, but rather the result of a being born to a class of men that classified women into two categories: those that were blue-blooded enough to wed, and those that weren’t. He had said it best when describing his childhood: It simply
was.

“Something like that,” he said, smiling at her.

And though it felt like it broke her face to do so, she smiled back. Aye, that smile might be a bit misty, but she hoped he attributed it to her laughter.

“Now, as far as the arrangements I should like to make for you…”

She let him drone on and on and on about a house in the city, an allowance, clothes; all the things that Mary had always longed for, but that she’d never, ever have if it meant working on her back.

And when he asked if she liked the arrangements, if she thought she could live with them in that self-satisfied way men had when they thought they offered a woman the world, but instead offered them a slab of coal, she looked him right in the eye and said, “No.”

To give him credit, it took him a moment to assimilate her answer. “I beg your pardon?”

She gave him a tight smile. “I said no.”

He blinked.

“I told you before, Alex, that I’ll not be your mistress. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all.”

“But last night—”

“Was lovely. Wonderful, even, but meant for my pleasure, nothing more.”

She looked down at her plate, picking up her fork again and nonchalantly taking a bite. Of course, she had to work to steady her hands. Had to force herself to breathe. To keep a slight smile on her face as she chewed and chewed and chewed, realizing too late that her mouth was so dry, she couldn’t swallow.

“You cannot be serious.”

And that angered her enough to force the food down in a gulp. It truly did. Why the blazes should a man get upset when a woman did to him what a man more often did to a woman? “Indeed, I am, my lord.”

“But I thought—”

“That I would allow you liberties with my body simply because I am not good enough to wed?”

“No, no—”

“Then what, my lord? What did you think?”

“To be honest, Mary, I didn’t think about anything other than making love to you. And this morning—” He paused for a moment. “This morning I sought only to assure you that last night was no passing fancy on my part.”

And she realized then, that in his own way, he was only trying to be kind. She stared at him, so many emotions—love, sorrow, pain—holding her silent as she fought for words to say. And yet one thought floated to the top, a bobbing apple she could not ignore.

She would have to leave today. Immediately. For the truth of the matter was, it would break her heart to stay longer. Her throat tightened as a boulder-sized lump of silent sobs filled it.

“Alex, I—”

“There you are.”

They both jumped. Alex was the first to look away, the first to say, “Rein. What the blazes are you doing here?”

And Mary was almost glad for the interruption.

“I’m delivering this.” Rein said, holding out a letter. “It was forwarded from Wainridge for Mary, along with a message from the duke, Alex, saying that he’s glad you are well.”

Mary looked at Rein, the letter he held sending off a warning bell so loud, she hardly registered that Gabby was well.

“Thank you,” she said as he came forward, and she recognized the penmanship on the front. John Lasker. The note must be from her father.

She took it from Rein’s outstretched hand. “You’re looking well this morning, Mrs. Callahan. Did you pass a pleasant evening?”

“Rein,” Alex shot, giving his cousin a horrified stare.

But Mary paid him little heed. She was too busy staring at the letter.

“Would you like some privacy to read?” Alex asked. “No, I—” And something gave within Mary, something dark and heavy and that produced another lump in her throat. “Alex, I’d like to talk to you.” She glanced at Rein. “Alone.”

“That good in bed, was he?”

“Rein,” Alex cried again.

Mary ignored the two, holding Alex’s gaze. Her heart began to beat as it did just before a performance. And, indeed, this would be a performance, the hardest of her life. She had to pry her gaze away from his, had to swallow once before she said to Rein, “Please, my lord.”

Rein’s brow lifted up, the other followed a second later. “Like that, is it? Hmm. I might have known. Very well, I shall leave you be. For a moment.”

And with a small bow and a sardonic look that promised many more crass comments, he left the room. Alex said, “You look rather dire.”