Dangerous to Hold (24 page)

He tipped her chin up and gave her a searching look. “You must tell her the truth.”

“Why must I? It’s all ancient history. Marcus means nothing to her, or that’s what she told me.” She sat up straighten “Are you saying that she lied to me?”

“No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you must tell her the truth because it’s the right thing to do.”

There was no disgust or contempt in his eyes, only compassion, and for some reason she could not fathom, she felt tears begin to well.

“I’ll tell her,” she said.

He smiled. “Why don’t we start our picnic now, and when we get to Chelsea, we can walk along the river-bank.”

“Walk? In this rain?”

“The sky is clearing. Have a little faith, and you’ll move mountains. Trust me in this.”

He was wrong. It was still raining when they got to Chelsea.

“I did warn you,” she said, delighting in teasing him.

It didn’t stop him. He dragged her, squealing and protesting, out of the coach, and set her on her feet.

“We walk,” he said.

And so they did, in the rain, and Amy had never enjoyed anything more. Everything amused them, everything delighted them.

“We’re mad,” said Amy at one point, laughing up at him.

“No. We’re in love.”

The smile left her face. “Oh, Robert, I wish it were that simple.”

A man’s strident voice drowned out his response. “It
is
her. I told you it was her. Amy! Amy! Don’t you remember me?”

Four young gentlemen of fashion were descending boisterously from a carriage that had stopped on the Chelsea Road. They seemed to have been out all night and were now on their way home.

“Don’t you remember me, Amy? It’s Harry Simpson. My cousin brought me to one of your parties.” He hiccuped. “Why don’t you join us and we’ll have a little tipple and jaw over old times?”

This last suggestion won a roar of approval from his friends. Amy was seized by two of them, and they began to drag her to the carriage.

“Let go of her!” said
El Grande
in a voice that immediately cast a pall on the riotous young men. They turned to stare at him.

“Good God!” exclaimed Simpson. He looked
El Grande
up and down, taking in the plain, serviceable garments that had never seen the hand of a London tailor. “What are you?” he demanded. “A lackey? Be on your way, man, before I take my whip to you.”

Although Amy was struggling and protesting, she wasn’t frightened. She knew how to manage young bucks who’d had a few drinks too many. But she wasn’t given a chance to charm them out of their deviltry. She stumbled, and when she was wrenched roughly to her feet, she cried out.

With a roar of rage,
El Grande
lunged for the ring
leader and they went tumbling to the ground. His fist smashed into Simpson’s face and blood spurted on both men. There was a moment of stunned silence, then Amy was shoved aside, and three men rushed at
El Grande.
One had a cane and brought it down on his head. As he lay there stunned, another kicked him in the side.

Amy screamed and rushed to his defense. A strong blow sent her sprawling. Screaming hysterically, she came at them again. One man held her off, while the others hauled
El Grande
to his feet. As she watched frozen in shock they beat him mercilessly with their fists, each blow more savage than the last. It was over in a matter of seconds, but those seconds were the longest in Amy’s life. When they let him go, he sank to his knees then rolled on his back.

Amy was beside herself. “You’ll pay for this,” she screamed. “I know you, Harry Simpson. I’ll set the magistrates on you.”

“Do that,” he said and sneered. “What magistrate would listen to you? You’re nothing but an old whore.”

A coach that was passing had stopped, and a man jumped out and came racing down the river bank toward them. He had a pistol in his hand.

El Grande’s
assailants backed off and made for their carriage. Amy stumbled after them and came to a halt. “Savages! You won’t get away with this! You won’t! I swear it!”

“Old whore!” came the reply.

Another took up the refrain and soon they were all chanting it. “Old whore! Old whore! Old whore!” And they kept on chanting it as their carriage bowled along the Chelsea Road.

Sobbing uncontrollably, she walked to
El Grande
and knelt beside him. The man who had come to their aid was bending over him.

“He’s not seriously hurt,” he said. “There are no bones broken.” He looked at Amy. “I say, aren’t you Amy Spencer?”

She nodded, but she was looking at
El Grande.
His face was filthy and smeared with blood and dirt. It had stopped raining, but Amy wasn’t aware of it. She felt in
her pocket and brought out a handkerchief with which she began to dab at his face. When his eyes opened and he stared up at her, she wept in deep uncontrollable sobs.

She blamed herself for everything that had happened. She knew she’d been playing with fire, but she’d never expected anything like this. If there was a price to pay, she’d been willing to pay it. But not this,
not this.
She felt naked, soiled, and exposed for the fraud she was.
Old whore.
The ugly words were still ringing in her ears. She’d been living in a fool’s world and this was the result. It must never be allowed to happen again.

He raised to his elbows and groaned. “Amy?”

“Put your arms around my shoulders,” said their rescuer.

When their coachman saw them approaching, he jumped down from the box to help them. Unfortunately he hadn’t been in a position to see the fight, for his view had been obscured by a stand of willows.

Inside the coach,
El Grande
came to himself slowly.

“How do you feel?” asked Amy.

He flexed his jaw. “As though a carriage had just run over me. I’m out of practice, and they surprised me.” He saw the look on her face and he fell silent, waiting for her to speak.

“This could ruin me,” she said at last. “I didn’t need your help. It’s young men like Harry who keep me in pocket. I’m giving a party tomorrow night. Now, goodness only knows whether I shall have any guests. He doesn’t look like much, but Harry Simpson has influence.”

He said quietly, “I want you to marry me and come with me to Spain.”

“Spain?” She laughed, though the laugh almost choked her. “And what would I do in Spain?”

“Be my wife. Have my children. Help me to rebuild everything I’ve lost.”

“Everything I want is here. I thought you understood that.”
Oh God, please forgive me.

“I hear your words, Amy. But I don’t believe that’s what’s in your heart.”

“If you really knew me, Robert, you would know that I never allow my heart to rule my head.”

When the coach pulled up outside Amy’s house, she was out the door before he could stop her.

“This is goodbye, Robert,” she said, and that was all she said. He knew that this time she meant it.

Catherine stood on the gallery of the Great Hall looking over the crush of people on the floor below. The reception in her honor was in full swing, and the county for miles around had turned out to pay their respects. At her side was Tristram rambling on about horse breeding.

Her eyes were trailing Marcus. The dancers shifted and she saw him dancing with a beautiful woman who was sheathed in gold and white tissue. It was the second time he’d partnered her.

“Tristram,” she said, unaware that she had interrupted him in mid-sentence, “who is that woman who is dancing with Marcus?”

He looked over the dancers, then looked back at Catherine. There was a twinkle in his eye. “That,” he said, “is Mrs. Elizabeth Proudfoot.” When he saw that the name meant nothing to her, he folded his lips together, and the twinkle in his eye faded.

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she turned slightly to look at him. “And who is Elizabeth Proudfoot?”

He stuttered, then said, “She’s the woman who jilted Marcus. I thought everyone knew.”

She turned away to conceal her shock. “Oh,” she said.

“It happened years ago,” said Tristram quickly. “They were betrothed when Marcus was my age or so. Elizabeth jilted him when a better offer came along.”

“A better offer?” She couldn’t imagine a better offer than Marcus.

“A duke,” said Tristram, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. “But she didn’t marry him. Before the wedding,
the duke, who was ancient, suffered a stroke and that was the end of that. She ended up marrying one of our neighbors.”

“Which gentleman is her husband?”

“Oh, old Proudfoot died years ago. Now Catherine, don’t look like that. If there’s one thing Marcus despises, it’s women like Elizabeth. I’ve heard him call her a mercenary … um … witch.”

Catherine laughed, then stopped abruptly when she realized what she was doing. Ever since the episode on the tower stairs, she’d warned herself endlessly to trust no one. Yet here she was again, taking everyone and everything at face value.

She slanted a sideways glance at Tristram. She just couldn’t see him as a murderer. The same could be said for everyone at Wrotham. She couldn’t go on like this, in an impasse, helpless to make a decision about what she should do next. She was courting disaster.

Suddenly conscious that Tristram was watching her curiously, she said, “I hadn’t thought so many people would turn out to wish us happy.”

“The county has certainly done Marcus proud,” agreed Tristram. “The last time I saw such a crush was at Marcus’s coming-of-age. I was only a boy at the time, but I still remember it.”

“But haven’t there been other balls since then?”

He shifted from one foot to the other, looked away, then said, “You know how it is with my mother. If it were not for Marcus, half the people here would have found some excuse not to attend. Not that it matters,” he added staunchly. “Mama doesn’t care much for their society either.”

Catherine’s eyes found the dowager, and she said impulsively, “But she looks radiant.”

Tristram followed the path of her gaze, and he saw Penn partnering his mother in a country dance. “Oh, that’s because Penn is on his best behavior tonight, and Samantha has made quite an impression on the local swains.”

The country dance ended, and moments later, she
saw Marcus ascending the stairs toward her. He never once took his eyes off hers, and her pulse began to race.

He stopped in front of her. “The next dance is a waltz,” he said. “I want to dance it with my wife.” He wasn’t smiling. He was very grave, and very, very handsome.

She put her gloved hand into his gloved hand, but the gloves did not protect her from the sensation of warm flesh embracing warm flesh. If it was all in her imagination, it was a convincing fantasy. She was so aware of him, she had difficulty breathing.

It got worse on the dance floor when he held her in his arms as they waited for the music to strike up. She could hear his heart thudding against her breast, feel his warm breath on her cheek. He was staring at her with an unsmiling, fixed intensity, and she began to tremble. She remembered that look. They’d be talking quietly in the priest’s cell at
El Grande’s
base, and suddenly they would have nothing to talk about. His eyes would fasten on hers, with that same fixed intensity, and her mouth would go dry. She’d known what he was thinking because she was thinking it too. She wanted to be in his arms. She wanted him to make love to her.

She swallowed hard as she strove to remain rooted in reality. She couldn’t—She shied away from the thought, but in spite of her best efforts, the thought completed itself. She was in love with him. That’s why she was jealous of Elizabeth Proudfoot. That’s why her reports to Major Carruthers contained nothing of any significance. And that’s why she was so sunk in misery that some mornings she didn’t want to get out of bed. She was in love with Marcus.

The orchestra struck up, and he swung her in a circle. He was holding her close, too close, but either he or the music had taken her beyond wanting to protect herself. She could feel her skirts brushing against his legs, feel the suppleness of his movements as he took her where he wanted her to go. They might have been alone on the dance floor. Everything seemed to recede. Even the music became muted. She was aware of nothing but the tall
dark man who held her in his arms and made love to her with his eyes.

At length, when the music stopped, he let her go. It took several moments for her to get her bearings. For the first time in a long while, Marcus was smiling at her and the smile reached his eyes.

He said, “We must talk. You know that, don’t you? I’ll come to your room tonight.”

She was too shaken to respond, and by the time she came to herself, Marcus had surrendered her to her next partner.

The rest of the evening had a dreamlike quality to it. Catherine was aware on one level that she played her part with flair, but on another level, her mind was in a turmoil. For the second time in her life, she had fallen in love with Marcus, and the thought appalled her.

By the time the last guests had departed, panic had set in and she couldn’t stop shaking. One thought consumed her: she must begin to sever her ties to Marcus.