A Gentleman Never Tells (12 page)

She looked up at last. He stood near the fire, his long limbs folded into a contrite pose, arms behind his back and head bent slightly, exposing his cheek to the glow of the fire. He’d unbuttoned his jacket, revealing the lean plane of his waistcoat before it ended at his trousers. That godlike beauty of his, every detail magnificent. “When Francesca sounded the alarm . . .” she heard herself say, her voice unnaturally high.

“Francesca’s a silly old girl.” Philip wriggled out of her arms. “I told her I’d be right back.”

“I daresay she didn’t quite make it out, old man,” Roland said. “English and all that. Not her native lingo.”

Lilibet straightened and gripped Philip’s hand. “You ought to have told me at once. You ought to have known we’d be worried.”

“I really am most frightfully sorry, Lilibet. Shan’t let it happen again, I promise.” His eyes met hers, sincere and vibrant, like an electric current between them.

She took a half step backward. “You must let us know instantly if you find him wandering about. I try very hard, but he never stays put.”

Roland chuckled. “Boys never do, my dear.”

Philip tugged at her hand. “He knows Latin, Mama! Rattled it off like anything! Can I go riding with his lordship tomorrow, Mama? Can I?”

“Certainly not. His lordship is quite busy.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all.” Roland gave a shrug of his broad shoulders and smiled at her. That damned smile of his, drenched with charm, filling the entire room with its crinkle-cornered good humor.

“Perhaps we can discuss it later,” she said coldly.

He made a little bow. “I’m at your service, your ladyship.”

She opened her mouth to snap at him, but Abigail’s voice echoed inside her head, stopping her objection in her throat.

Wouldn’t it be lovely to have the place to ourselves? To be free of them, once and for all
?

She tightened her hand around Philip’s.

Go ahead. It’s just a ruse, after all. You don’t really mean it
.

“Will you be in the library later?” she asked.

His eyes gleamed. “Ah, but it’s off-limits, isn’t it? You’re technically in violation of the rules right now.”

“I’m sure we make exceptions for emergencies.” She smiled. “We are civilized people, after all.”

“Of course. I shan’t tell Wallingford if you won’t.” His eyebrows rose inquisitively, but his feet remained planted in the rug before the fire, moving not one step in her direction.

“Mama, do I still have to take a bath?” said Philip, in his wheedling tone. He leaned backward, gripping her hand, until it nearly wrenched out of its socket.

“Mind your mother, young man,” Roland said sternly. “Baths are an absolute nuisance, I agree, but they’re essential to civilization.”

“I want Lord Roland to give me my bath.”

“Oh, Lord, no. You’re much better off with Francesca. Charming girl, Francesca. She’ll have you rattling away in Italian in no time.” He came forward at last, in heavy, deliberate steps, and lowered himself to one knee, looking in Philip’s eyes. “Off to your bath, and I’ll let you take the book with you, eh what? An offer you can’t refuse.”

“Oh, may I?” Philip looked up at her, eyes alight. “May I, Mama?”

“Yes, of course.”

Roland retrieved the book from the rug and held it out with solemn ceremony.

“Thank you,” said Lilibet. She glanced at Philip, who stood with his arm wrapped around an old leather-bound volume, nearly his own size. “You’ll be in the library later, then?” she inquired in the direction of Roland’s left ear, not quite daring to meet his eyes.

She felt the weight of his smile on her face.

“As I said, your ladyship. I’m at your service.”

TEN

T
he library door stood ajar, one of a pair, its massive wooden surface adorned with a riot of carved lions.

Lilibet placed her hand atop a pair of yawning leonine jaws and paused. Her dressing gown hung in soft rose-colored swags to the flagstones beneath her feet; it gaped open at the top, revealing the lace-trimmed edge of her nightgown and the curving slope of her breasts. Good God! Had it always been cut so low? She clutched the lapels together with her other hand.

And then released them.

All part of the ruse
. She was
supposed
to lure him in. A few minutes of flirtation, and she would be rid of him: rid of the temptation he offered her, rid of the threat he cast over her life. Really, she was acting nobly. She was doing the right thing.

She gave the door a firm push and stepped through. “Roland,” she whispered.

The room was empty.

She cast her eyes about the room: at the fire, still simmering in the hearth; at the shelves of books, tall and shadowed; at the hulking shapes of the furniture, hardly distinguishable in the dimness. The single lamp had been turned down almost to nothing, a faint pool of light at the far side of the room.

“Roland?” she whispered again, and felt a movement behind her just as the door closed with an almost inaudible snick.

She spun around. Roland was turning the key, slipping it into his pocket. “What are you doing?” she gasped.

“I should hate for Wallingford to barge in and demand an immediate forfeiture of the wager,” he said, smiling, “though I expect he’d be gentleman enough to allow you to finish out the night.”

“That’s not at all amusing.” Her heart thumped giddy blood down her limbs. He stood close, too close: His broad shoulders loomed over her, diminished her to nothing, while the clean, leathery scent of him swirled through the narrow space between them.

“Come now, darling. You know I’d never let him do it.”

“You mustn’t call me that.” Her voice sounded fragile in her own ears.

He leaned back against the door, hands resting on the knobs, his warm hazel gaze traveling over her face, dropping down briefly to her chest. The narrow triangle of her exposed skin burned beneath his regard. “Why not?” he said. “You
are
my darling. You’re the most precious thing on earth to me. It’s a statement of fact, nothing more.”

“You must unlock that door at once.”

“Do you wish to leave?”

She hesitated. “Not yet.”

“Let me know when you’re ready,” he said, moving off the door, “and I’ll unlock it for you.” He took her hand. “Now let’s be civilized and sit down.”

The shock of his touch, of his large, capable hand surrounding hers, incinerated any resistance within her. She allowed herself to be led to the long, wide settee before the fire and settled herself numbly into the threadbare velvet upholstery. Roland dropped down next to her, inches away, pressing her knee with his. Her hand remained enclosed in his palm; she made a feeble attempt to draw it back, but he held on, placing their entwined fingers like a knotted bridge along the crevice between his left leg and her right. The heat of his body reached out and surrounded her, drew her in like a magnet.

“You assume too much,” she said. “I only came to . . . well, to thank you for looking after Philip this evening. You ought to have brought him to me, of course, but at least you . . . well, it was kind of you to read to him like that. He loves horses, and . . .”

“Hush,” he said. “I quite enjoyed it. An entertaining little fellow, your son. Clever as the devil.”

She allowed a slight relaxing of the muscles in her neck. “Yes, he’s awfully clever, isn’t he? But of course, in the future, he should be brought back to me.”

“Why is that?”

She stared at her hand in his, at the way their fingers alternated in a flawless pattern: hers pale and slender, his brown and thick. “Because he mustn’t grow attached to you, of course. When you’ll be leaving.”

He was easing her against the back of the sofa, drawing her somehow against his arm, his shoulder. “What if I don’t plan on going anywhere?”

“He
has
a father.” She almost hissed the words.

His head shook slowly against her hair. “I know that. I don’t mean to take him over. It’s just . . . well, I mean as a sort of uncle. He’s your son, Lilibet. How could I not want to know him? How could I not care for him?”

Oh hell
. She felt the tears form at the corners of her eyes and fought them off with hard blinks. A dull pain froze the base of her throat. Roland put his opposite hand atop hers and drew the near one away, lifting his arm to rest about her shoulders. Somehow, she allowed it. Somehow she’d lost the will to shrug him off.

It was only the ruse, of course. She was just doing it to lure him in, as planned. Except the door was locked, and Abigail wouldn’t be able to spring through and shout
Aha!
and stop them.

“It’s wrong,” she whispered. “You mustn’t.”

He went silent, allowing the air between them to pulse with unspoken words, with shared knowledge. The fire spread warmth into her toes and up her legs, and Roland’s body pressed strong and solid against her thigh, her waist, her ribs. Her head was a hairsbreadth away from resting in the hollow of his shoulder.

“Something’s different about you,” she said at last, in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not . . . the way you were, back then. So sweet and earnest and straightforward. And you’re not like you seem now, in public, with the others: careless and lighthearted.” Her thumb moved, almost by itself, along the line of his forefinger.

His body stiffened, ever so slightly. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. I’m the same man as always.”

“No, you’re not. I know you, Roland. You forget that. I know you better than anyone.”

“Hmm.” His forefinger grazed her thumbnail, responding. “Tell me something, darling. How did you discover this castle?”

“I don’t know. Alexandra saw an advertisement, I think. It was all rather sudden.” She closed her eyes, letting the spell of the moment drift over her. He was behaving so beautifully: reassuring and tender, not overreaching. Nothing daring. Nothing wrong, exactly. Just . . . comforting. Safe, somehow. The secure knowledge that he loved her, that she returned his love, that nothing more was needed than that.

“Sudden? What do you mean? Did something happen?” His voice was neutral, almost careless.

“We had . . . Somerton and I . . . a . . . a row.” She opened her eyes. “A fierce row. He accused me of things. And he did things that, afterward, I couldn’t tolerate. I could no longer stay with him, in honor.”

His arm tightened along her shoulders; she felt a lithe tension hum along the hard curve of muscle beneath her hand. “Did he hit you? Hurt you?”

“He . . . no.” She stared at the fire, at the pattern of black coals and red flame, seething with heat. That last night with Somerton: How could she explain it? She’d tucked the memory away, bound it up with paper and string, shoved it to the back of her mind with all the others. Only images remained to slip, brief and sharp, across her head. His naked flesh, his dark, angry face. The hot burn of his body, ferocious and inexorable.

“What, then?” Roland said.

She took in a long breath and picked her words with care. “He’d quite ignored my existence for some time. I hardly saw him at all. But the night we fought, he was . . . he wanted to prove to me that I was still his wife. And he did. He didn’t force me,” she added quickly, feeling Roland coil like a spring beside her. “I felt . . . well, that I
was
his wife, and I hadn’t the right to refuse him outright. But the next morning, when he’d gone, I realized, I understood at last, that I
did
have that right. That he’d forfeited whatever claims he once had to . . . to physical intimacy with me.” She picked up the sash of her dressing gown with her other hand and slid her thumb along the silken weave, up and down. She whispered: “I simply couldn’t bear it any longer. I decided. I had a duty to myself and my son that went higher than the vows I’d made to my husband, long ago, in my innocence and faith.”

“I’ll murder him . . .”

“You won’t!” She twisted in his arms. “You won’t! You won’t do anything! This has nothing to do with you, Roland Penhallow. I won’t exchange my husband for a lover. I won’t do it.”

“You already have,” he said fiercely.

She sprang from the sofa. “I haven’t. That was a mistake, an idiotic mistake. The wine at dinner . . .”

He rose to loom over her. “Not so very much wine.” He spoke with resonance, self-assurance. His genial smile had disappeared; his brow flattened into severity. His eyes seemed to bore right through the mask of her face, to read the truth written on her bones.

“You don’t understand, do you?” she said hotly. “I wasn’t thinking of the future, that night in the stables. I was only thinking of the past. I wasn’t making love to
you
, Roland. I was making love to the young man I adored more than six years ago. That sweet and lovely boy, who wrote me poetry and swore he’d love me an eternity. An eternity, it turns out, that only lasted a month or two.”

“That’s not true. I love you still. I always have.”

Words, always words. Lovely, meaningless words. Anger bubbled inside her, rising through her body like a head of foam. “Oh yes. No doubt. Tell me, did you love me when you were in bed with all those women afterward? Did you love me when you lay naked with them, when you took them with your body? Did you?”

He took her shoulders. “Did you still love me when you lay with your husband? When you let him bed you, take you?”

The words bolted through her chest.

“How dare you!” She was so angry, her voice emerged as hardly more than a squeak. Her eyes overflowed, tracking tears down her cheeks; she brushed them away with her fists. “How dare you! I married him because I had to, because I hadn’t any choice. Papa’s debts, and Mama . . . and you were gone, left! I’d no one to help me. No friend or ally of any kind. Alexandra was off on her wedding trip, and . . .”

He was slipping his arms around her, drawing her into his chest, absorbing her sobs into the lapels of his woolen jacket. “Hush, hush. Ah, I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean it. Hush.”

“And then you came back, and I kept hoping. Hoping you’d come to me, go to my parents, sway them somehow. Your brother or your grandfather; any of them! But you were silent, all of you. You left me to him.” The words tumbled into his chest, muffled and broken. His jacket smelled of smoke and outdoors, masculine and comforting.

“My stupid pride. Ah, damn! What an ass I was, an unpardonable ass. Forgive me, darling. Stupid, stupid ass.” His lips pressed into her hair, over and over, punctuating each word.

She went on quietly. “And then I heard all the stories. Your debauchery. And I thought I was well rid of you.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice stirred her hair. “I’m sorry.”

The mad tide of rage receded within her. “Don’t be. I had no claim on you. My pride was hurt, of course, but I couldn’t blame you for it.”

His hands stroked along her back, slow and tantalizing. Her nerves traced the movement, up and down; long, lazy circles, rippling her skin. “Can we not start anew, darling?” he asked. “Put the past behind us, and begin again?”

That persuasive voice of his, low and alluring. How she loved it; how she hated it. It made her want to believe impossible things: that he was sincere, that he wasn’t like other men, wasn’t the fickle aristocrat he appeared; that he would put aside all those women and be faithful to her alone. But she knew better. Out of spite and hurt pride, he’d let her marry Somerton. Out of pure faithless desire, he’d then plunged himself into endless rounds of women and pleasure.

She couldn’t endure that again.

She laid her cheek against his chest and felt the beat of his heart into her ear. Her eyes rested on the spot where Roland and Philip had sat an hour ago, flipping through the pages of a book on warhorses. Philip, sleeping upstairs in the trundle next to her bed, cheeks flushed and curls tumbling.

Nothing was worth the loss of him. Not even the chance of it.

“No,” she said.

“No? Really, Lilibet?”

She rubbed her thumbs against his back, unable to help herself. When might she have another chance, after all? “We can’t, Roland. It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. I’d brave any scandal for you, Lilibet. Find any way to make you mine.” His arms tightened; his voice took on a note of pleading. “Won’t you . . . Can you not do the same for me?”

“I can’t.” She drew back and met his eyes, and something in her chest dissolved at the sight of him, at the expression of impassioned tenderness in his features. She had to end this, before her weakness betrayed her, before she let him seduce her again. She had to find a way to make him bolt.

She could think of only one thing.

“We can’t, because I have a husband, a husband who has the right to take away my son, if I betray him with another man.”

“Then I’ll take us all away, where he can’t find us . . .”

She held up her hand. “That’s not all. We can’t, because . . .” She swallowed, gathering her courage, hating herself. “Because I’m carrying his child.”

*  *  *

A
whirling buzz descended around Roland’s ears.

Lilibet’s face gazed up at him, blue eyes wet and shining and guileless. She couldn’t be lying.

Could she?

All the long afternoon he’d been turning over the coded message in his mind; wondering exactly how Somerton fit into the picture, wondering whether Lilibet wasn’t making a fool of him. He’d gone back through the terraced gardens to the shore, to the exact spot where he’d shared a picnic with her. He’d stripped his clothes and plunged into the lake, into the frigid grasp of the new meltwater; he’d stroked across and back, his brain tracking every word he’d heard her speak, every gesture, every expression. He’d considered her possible perfidy over dinner, theorized her intentions in the library.

Could she possibly have plotted with Somerton? Arranged her travel to coincide with his; seduced him deliberately in the stables, then withdrew her affection in order to evade suspicion? Was she luring him in, trying to gain his confidence?