After the Kiss (16 page)

When Alastair let the sword clatter to the cobblestones and grabbed for her with both hands, the old man saw his chance and ran.

“He’s getting away!” Reggie cried.

“I will make sure he is found,” Alastair said. “And punished.”

Marcus felt Reggie stiffen at the deadly fury in her father’s voice, the ice in his eyes. His face was set in
stone, no mercy to be found for the villains. Or for his daughters, either.

Alastair braced Becky in one arm while he dragged the shawl away from her face with the opposite hand.

Marcus caught his breath. Becky’s eyes were closed, her face as pale as death. “God, please, no,” he murmured.

Marcus watched as Alastair gently smoothed the sweat-dampened curls away from Becky’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. He rested his fingers across her bowed lips beneath her nose, testing for a breath of life. When Alastair’s shoulders relaxed slightly, Marcus knew the girl must still be alive. He blinked back the stinging tears of joy and relief and hugged Reggie tighter.

His attention was momentarily distracted when Reggie complained she could not breathe. He lifted his gaze in time to catch Alastair kissing Becky on the forehead. It was the first time Marcus had seen his brother touch one of his daughters with tenderness since the day Penthia had first made her awful accusation.

Marcus had never known whether Alastair loved Regina and Rebecca, unsure as he was that they were his. Now he knew. And felt a huge sense of relief. Even if he never returned to Blackthorne Abbey, the twins would be all right. They would be loved by Alastair as a father should love them.

A moment later, Becky’s eyes blinked open. Though still groggy, she grabbed at Alastair’s neck cloth and cried, “Father! You must find Reggie. She has been—”

“I am here safe, Becky,” Reggie said from Marcus’s arms. Marcus crossed so the two girls could see each other and watched as they reached out to clasp hands.

“You are both safe,” Alastair said in harsh tones, “but not yet out of danger.”

“Please, Father, do not blame Becky,” Reggie pleaded. “It was my idea to see the sights unchaperoned. I am the one who should be punished.”

“I was the one who thought of knotting the sheets together, Father. I should be whipped, not Reggie.”

“I will make sure you both pay dearly enough for your part in this incident that you are never tempted to repeat it,” Alastair said. “We will go directly home, so you will have the time and solitude to appreciate the folly of your behavior.”

“But we will miss the Duke of Braddock’s house party!” Reggie protested.

“Not another word,” Alastair said. “You have created enough havoc for one day. I will send your excuses to the duke and duchess. You will not be allowed in company again until I know you can behave properly.”

“Uncle Marcus—” Reggie and Becky said in unison.

“I am your father,” Alastair interrupted sharply. “My word is final.”

Giant teardrops spilled from the twins’ blue eyes, turning them into dark ponds of despair. Marcus’s heart went out to them. He bit his tongue to keep from interfering as he wished to do. Now that his brother was willing to accept the role, Marcus had to step back and let Alastair be their father.

Besides, this time the twins had gone too far.
They needed to realize the seriousness of what they had done, so there would be no repeat of this near-tragedy.

“Take heart, poppets,” Marcus said, gently thumbing away the tears on each girl’s face. “There will be other parties.”

“A thousand years from now, when we are seventeen and have our come-outs,” Reggie muttered rebelliously.

“Only if you have learned obedience by then,” Alastair replied grimly.

The joy of knowing Reggie and Becky were safe and loved was bittersweet. Marcus exchanged a look of regret and remorse with Alastair. The blood bond that had been unraveling for years had finally been cleaved in two. Marcus had lost something even more precious to him than his time with Reggie and Becky. He had lost his brother’s trust.

Penthia had won at last.

“
W
hat do you think?” Charlotte asked, eyeing the crowd of brilliantly gowned ladies and splendidly dressed gentlemen gathered in the ballroom at Somersville Manor.

“Of what?” Eliza replied.

“You know perfectly well what I am asking, Eliza. There must be at least eight eligible suitors in this room. I have not seen you do more than nod to any one of them. Smile. Or at least take the frown from your face.”

Eliza lifted the corners of her mouth, but she knew the expression-fell far short of genuine. She had nothing to smile about.

Julian had refused to marry her. Oh, he had couched his refusal in noble terms: he did not want to leave her a widow if he was killed in battle. But his answer was no.

She felt absolutely ill watching him smile indulgently at another young lady flirting behind her fan. Miss Whitcomb could not be a year older than her, but was obviously a diamond of the first water—petite and pretty and demure.

Three things Eliza would never—could never be.

Julian had signed Eliza’s dance card for the dance
after
supper, thereby ensuring they would not spend the supper hour together. At a guess, she would say he was purposely avoiding her. And no wonder.

She had embarrassed herself and him with that unwanted proposal. The scene in Julian’s rooms replayed painfully in her mind, as it had a hundred times since she had endured it four days ago.

“I want you to marry me,” she had said, throwing her arms around Julian’s neck.

She had felt his body stiffen, felt the rejection without words being spoken. He had reached up to grasp her wrists and remove her hands, then held them securely before him. After a long pause, during which he studied the toes of his Hessians, he had looked into her eyes and said with gentle humor, “It is the gentleman who usually proposes, my dear.”

“I am afraid you will not ask. At least not soon enough to do me any good.”

The muscles in his jaw worked, and his face turned to stone. “Who was he? Who dared—”

His hands tightened on hers until she cried out in pain. He let her go and took a step back, but she could feel the tension radiating from him, feel his dark eyes boring into hers. What had she said wrong? Why was he so angry?

“Who was the man?” he demanded, his voice menacing.

She had no idea what he was talking about. When she stared up at him, confused, he came to his own conclusion.

“Marcus! Damn him! That he should dare to bed my own cousin! How did he get you alone? When is the child due?”

“Child? Dear God, what are you saying!” Then it dawned on her what she had unwittingly said.
I am afraid you will not ask. At least not soon enough to do me any good
. Julian thought she needed a husband because she was pregnant!

He had already reached the door, muscles flexed and bent on mayhem, by the time she caught his arm.

“Wait, Julian!”

“Don’t try to stop me!” he snarled, shaking off her grasp. “If Marcus was fool enough—”

“He did nothing! It was Nigel!” she cried.

Julian let go of the doorknob and turned to her. The blood drained from his face, leaving it white and drawn. “My own brother defiled you?”

“He only kissed me,” she said, her voice quavering. “I dropped a pot of flowers on his head and ran away that same night. Captain Wharton merely helped me find my way to you.” The captain had kissed her as well, but she did not think now was the time to confess it.

She edged between Julian and the door, then stepped close enough to notice a tiny scar cutting through his eyebrow. He had never looked more virile, more dangerous, or more attractive. She felt so lightheaded, she thought she would swoon. This was how she had always imagined it would feel to be with him. She shivered as his dark eyes focused on her.

She laid her hands against his iron-muscled chest and said, “I am not safe with your brother, Julian. And I have nowhere else to go. That is why I asked you to marry me. And … because I love you.”

Her stomach dropped when he winced at her declaration of love.

“My poor poppet,” he said, drawing her into his arms and pressing her head against his shoulder with his open hand. “I am so sorry.”

Poppet!
That was a name for a child—the child she had been two years ago, when he had last seen her. She was a woman now, one who loved the feel of his strong arms around her, the beat of his heart, the smell of his shaving soap. She had to make him see her as she was.

“Julian, please. I will make you a good wife. I promise I will learn to curb my tongue. I will—”

His fingertips pressed against her lips, forcing her to silence. “Shh, Eliza. Don’t say any more. I cannot marry you, child.”

She stared at him accusingly until his hand fell away. She swallowed past the sharp-edged lump in her throat and rasped, “Why can’t you marry me?”

For long moments no answer—no excuse—was forthcoming. Finally he said, “You know Napoleon has escaped from Elba.”

She nodded.

“I must go back to war, Eliza.”

“It could be months before—”

“Bloody hell!” He gritted his teeth and said in a carefully controlled voice, “Forgive me. You should not be subjected to such language. It is only that this situation—”

“Is a bit unusual?” she offered.

He responded with a rueful smile. “To say the least.”

“I think—”

“Let me finish, please,” he said, cutting her off.
The humor was gone, and he was dead serious again. “You are too young to be a widow, Eliza.”

“But you have never even been wounded badly,” Eliza pointed out. “You are hale and hearty—”

“And headed back to fight again. No, Eliza. The answer is no.” He tried to free himself but she threw her arms around his neck, clinging like a cat that makes a leap into space and sets its claws deep in the first solid object it finds. “Julian, please listen—”

His face hardened, and his dark eyes threatened violence. “I cannot be cajoled. Eliza, there are things you do not know … things I cannot tell you—” He ruthlessly pulled her hands free and took a step back from her.

“Where will I go? What will I do? I cannot return to Ravenwood,” she cried. “I am not safe there.”

His lips flattened. His hands fisted. “I will speak to Nigel. Under the circumstances, he cannot object if you choose to live in your father’s house. Would that be agreeable to you?”

It was not at all what Eliza wanted, but it would at least keep her out of Cousin Nigel’s reach. And it was all Julian was offering. “Do you think Aunt Lavinia would be allowed—”

“Of course you may have your aunt with you, and as many servants as you need. Nigel will bear the expense. I will see to it.”

Julian had ordered her to put back on her male disguise so she would not cause a scandal leaving his rooms. Which meant asking him to undo the buttons on her dress.

“How did you get them buttoned in the first
place, if you cannot reach them?” Julian asked suspiciously.

Her color heightened. She knew better than to tell the truth. “It was not easy. Please, will you help me?”

He undid the buttons quickly and expeditiously, without any of the grazing touches and intimate caresses the Beau had employed. She fought back tears at this further proof that Julian did not see her as a desirable woman.

When the shoulders of the dress fell free, he hissed in a breath. And stopped.

She stood perfectly still.

His hands left the buttons and settled on her bare shoulders. He took a step closer, so she could feel the heat of him along her back, and laid his bristly cheek—dark with a day’s growth of beard—against hers.

Her heart was thumping wildly. He would turn her around now and kiss her lips and acknowledge that he loved her, as she loved him.

“If things were different,” he murmured. “If I were not already … I am so sorry, poppet.”

She made a sound of protest at the childish endearment and tried to turn to him. His grip on her shoulders tightened to keep her where she was.

“Please, Eliza. I am not free to love you.”

“There is someone else?”

He gave her no answer, merely repeated, “I cannot marry you.”

She moaned.

He kissed her temple and let her go. “When you
are ready, join me outside.” He was gone before she could plead with him further.

She had cried as hard as a person could and still not make a sound that would carry through the door. Somewhere between tying Julian’s borrowed neck cloth and pulling on his Hessians, she had decided she would simply refuse to take no for an answer.

Julian would be with her for two weeks at the Braddock house party. He would see her at her best. There had to be a way to make him fall helplessly, hopelessly in love with her. If only she could figure out what it was.

She endured an awkward moment at the door to Julian’s rooms, when she faced the Beau with puffy, reddened eyes, but she bluffed her way through it.

When the Beau walked away, it felt as though they had left something unfinished between them. In the hours it took for Julian’s great-aunt Sophie to pack, Eliza had figured out what it was.

Her seduction.

Thank goodness Julian had arrived when he did. But she could not help but wonder what it would have been like to have the Beau kissing her when she was kissing him back.

When she and Julian finally reached Somersville Manor, there had been a very brief, very private—but very ugly—scene in the library between Julian and his brother. A swollen-nosed Cousin Nigel had left for Ravenwood as soon as his bags were packed.

Great-aunt Sophie had been enjoying herself immensely, and looked forward to meeting Aunt Lavinia, who was due to arrive within the week to join the party. She would stay to chaperon Eliza during her
journey home—to the hunting box where she had grown up.

Eliza had spent the past few days being totally ignored by Julian. Charlotte was right, though. She should be wearing a smile on her face to prove to Julian that he had not broken her heart. Even if he had.

Her eyes widened as a tall, blond gentleman dressed in the uniform of Julian’s regiment—the Prince of Wales’s own 10th Royal Hussars—greeted Julian.