Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (54 page)

Regrettably it was not a story he could brush off as a product of a malicious imagination. Though the intent in telling it was utterly malicious, of course.

“Yes, I am looking after her well, Lionel,” he said quietly. “You will, of course, leave what is past in the past from this moment on.”

“Why, Hart,” Lionel said, chuckling, “if I did not know
you better, I could almost imagine that that was a threat.”

“You were doubtless on your way somewhere when you spotted me through the doorway,” the marquess said. “I will not delay you any longer, Lionel. Thank you for your good wishes.”

“Ah, yes,” Lionel said. “You remind me of my manners, Hart. My good wishes for your continued happiness.”

He smiled warmly at his cousin and at the noisy group of men still gathered about the table, then left the room.

“It is time for me to leave, too,” the marquess said to his friends, dredging up a smile from somewhere inside.

“The bride must not be left to pine alone for one moment longer than necessary,” a tipsy voice said from the midst of the throng. “A toast to you, Carew. A toast to your continued stamina. Still able to get to your feet after three days. Jolly good show, my good fellow.”

“But flat on his stomach again as soon as he has raced home,” someone else said, raising his glass in acknowledgment of the toast.

“I’ll come with you, Hart,” the Duke of Bridgwater said, getting to his feet.

“There is no need,” the marquess said. “I am going directly home.”

But his friend clapped a hand on his shoulder and accompanied him downstairs, where they retrieved their hats and canes, and out onto the pavement.

“I overheard,” he said. “I did not mean to eavesdrop,
Hart. At first I did not realize it was a private conversation.”

“Hardly a conversation,” the marquess said.

“He was always a scoundrel,” the duke said, falling into step beside him and adjusting his stride to the more halting one of his friend. “And for what he did to Lady Thornhill—and to Thornhill, too—he deserved to be shot. Thornhill showed great but lamentable restraint in not calling him out. The lady had been put through enough distress already, of course. I have been glad to see since then, whenever they have been in town, that the two of them seem contented enough with each other.”

“More than that,” the marquess said. “I never did know quite what happened, Bridge. And I do not want to know now. It was a long time in the past.”

“Except that the scoundrel has managed to bring it into the present,” the duke said. “There was never a breath of scandal surrounding Lady Carew’s name, Hart. I would advise you not to give any credence to anything he said. He obviously fancied her himself this year and was annoyed when she chose you—London is full of men who are annoyed about exactly the same thing. Fortunately all the others are honorable men. Kneller, for example. He has been wearing his heart on his sleeve for more than one Season. She chose you, Hart. She might have chosen any of a dozen others, all almost as well set up as you.”

The marquess smiled. “You do not have to plead my wife’s case, Bridge,” he said. “I am married to the lady. I
know why she married me. I respect her and trust her. And I do not choose to discuss the matter further with you. Marriage is a private business between two people.”

“And I would not intrude,” his friend said unhappily. “But if you could see your face, Hart.”

“I am going home,” the marquess said. “I would take you out of your way if you came any farther, Bridge.”

His grace stopped walking. “And I would not be invited inside if I did come farther,” he said ruefully. “Well, Hart.” He extended his left hand. “Have a safe journey and a good summer. Give Lady Carew my regards.”

They shook hands before the marquess turned and limped away.

He tried not to think. He had known from the age of six on that Lionel was not worth one moment of suffering. For some reason—he supposed the reasons were pretty obvious—Lionel had marked him as a victim ever since they were young children together. Nothing had changed. Lionel would do anything and everything in his power to hurt him or belittle him. But Lionel could have that power only if it was given him. The Marquess of Carew had done no giving since the vicious “accident” that had left him partly crippled.

He was not going to reverse the lesson of a lifetime now. It was as Bridge had said. Lionel had returned to London, set his sights on Samantha—whether for marriage or mere dalliance only he knew—and had been severely humiliated when she would have none of him. Humiliation had turned to spite and the vicious need for revenge when she had married his far less personable
cousin, the apparent weakling who had always been his victim.

But thought could not be kept at bay. He retired to his library as soon as he reached home, with the instruction to the footmen on duty that Lady Carew was to be asked to join him there on her return. He paced as he waited for her. But it was a wait of three hours.

She had been hurt in the past. He had known that. He had even spoken of it to her. Six years ago she would have been eighteen. Probably in her first Season. A ripe age for a romance with a man of Lionel’s looks and practiced charms. And of course she would have met him on a number of occasions. He had been betrothed to her cousin at the time. And she had been living with her uncle, Lady Thornhill’s father.

She had been hurt so deeply that in six years she had not married, though he knew that she had spent each Season in London, and since his arrival this year he had seen that she had a following unrivaled by any other young lady of
ton
. He had seen, too, that a number of those followers—yes, Lord Francis Kneller was among them—had a serious attachment to her. But she had not married.

It must have been a far worse than ordinary heartbreak. If she had been partly responsible for the breakup of her cousin’s engagement … She loved her cousin. And it seemed from the little he knew that the incident had brought terrible and painful scandal to Lady Thornhill. And if then, after it all, the object of her love had left the country, abandoned her … Yes, for someone as
sweet and sensitive as his wife, such events might keep her from love and marriage for six years.

And inexplicably this year she had fallen headlong in love with him. With a man who was apparently no more than a traveling landscape gardener. With a man about whose looks the kindest thing that could be said was that he was not quite ugly. With a man who limped so badly that sometimes people turned their heads away in embarrassment. With a man with a claw for a right hand.

What a gullible wretch, he would have said of himself if the story had been told to him of someone else. What a romantic fool!

Lionel had returned to England this year. Perhaps—no,
probably
—that had been their first meeting, at the Rochester ball. They had been waltzing together, looking incredibly beautiful together. He would have used his charm on her again—Lionel would have been unable to resist the temptation to exert power over a beautiful woman who had once loved him when he was forbidden territory. And she would have felt a resurgence of her long-suppressed feelings for him. She would have tried to resist them. She would have been very upset.

If she had rushed from the ballroom after the set was over, rushed onto the landing outside the ballroom and run into someone she had never expected to see again, someone with whom she had struck up a friendship a month or two earlier, she would have greeted him with delight and relief. She would have seen him almost as a savior. She would have begged him to take her outside where there was air. She would have tried to forget with
him. She would have asked him to kiss her. She would have told him she loved him. …

And if she was still upset the following day, and if the friend called upon her to make her an offer, having mistaken the cause of her ardor the night before, she might have impulsively accepted him. She might have tried to escape from herself and to have avoided having her fragile heart rebroken by accepting the offer of someone safe.

She had never once since their marriage, he thought, told him that she loved him. He had said the words to her numerous times. She had never shown any sign that she wanted passion with him.

He was her friend. No less and no more than that.

He wondered how far off the mark all his guesses were. Not far, he believed. As far as the sun is from the earth, he hoped.

He could not bring himself to hope.

She came, finally. He heard the carriage and stepped into the hall. She was like a little piece of the summer sky in her pale blue muslin dress and straw bonnet trimmed with yellow flowers. She was flushed and smiling.

Something blue
, he thought.

And even then he had to wait. She wanted to go upstairs and wash her hands and comb her hair, though it looked lovely enough to him. She paused on the stairs and looked down at him. But she continued on her way.

She could have been no longer than ten minutes. It seemed like ten hours. But he heard the door of the
library open behind him eventually and turned as she came in. Fresh and lovely and still smiling.

His wife. His love.

The door closed behind her and she stopped suddenly. He had thought she was going to walk right across the room into his arms.

“What is it?” she asked him, her head tipping to one side and her smile dying. “What is the matter, Hartley?”

“Why did you marry me?” he asked her.

He watched her eyes widen with surprise and—with something else.

T
HE LIGHT WENT OUT OF THE DAY. SHE DID NOT understand the question—and yet she understood one thing very well. She understood that the dream was fading, that she was waking up. That she was being forced to wake up.

“What?” she asked. She was not sure that any sound got past her lips.

“Why did you marry me?” he asked again. “Because you love me, Samantha?”

The ready lie sprang to her lips but did not make it past them this time. She stared at him, the man above all others whom she would protect from hurt if she could. “What has happened?” she asked him.

“You counter one question with another,” he said. “Was mine so difficult to answer, Samantha? A simple yes or no would have sufficed.”

The light that had been in his eyes since the night of the Rochester ball had died. Oh, fool not to have realized before it was too late that it was the light of love. It was gone.

“Tell me something,” he said. “And let there be honesty between us. Do you still love him?”

Something died inside her. Something that had been
blooming unnamed and almost unnoticed since her wedding day.

“What has he been telling you?” she asked.

His eyes grew bleaker, if that was possible. “I notice,” he said, “that you do not ask to whom I refer.”

“What has he been telling you?” Her hands sought and found the handle of the door behind her back. She clung to it and moved back against it as if it could protect her from pain.

“About six years ago,” he said. “And about this year.”

“And you believe him?” she asked.

“I will believe
you,”
he said. “Tell me what happened six years ago.”

She closed her eyes for a few moments and drew deep breaths. What did six years ago have to do with this moment? But of course it had everything to do with it.

“I was very young,” she said, “and fresh from the schoolroom. And he was handsome, charming, experienced. I did not like him. I thought him cold. I even told Jenny so. But that was before he kissed me one evening and declared his passion for me. There was nothing else except melting looks from him and fiercely unhappy glances and the suggestion that if we were ever to know happiness together, I should speak with Jenny and have her end the betrothal. He could not do so as an honorable gentleman.”

“Did you think him honorable, Samantha?” he asked quietly.

“No!” she said sharply. “But I thought him unhappy and in love and desperate.”

“As you were?” he asked.

“I would not do as he asked,” she said. “I fought my feelings for him. And I felt sick for Jenny, about to marry a man who did not love her. I prayed for an ending of the betrothal so that she could be saved and he and I could be together, but when it happened it was horrible. Oh, dear God, it was horrible. The terribly public disgrace for Jenny. Uncle Gerald caning her and preparing to send her away. And worst of all—or so it seemed at the time—Gabriel forcing her into marriage. And it was all my fault.”

“But it was not,” he said.

“No.” She had her hands over her face. She drew a deep breath again. “But I have never been able to stop feeling guilty. If I had not presented Lionel with the idea of a way out … He did not love me. He had tried to use me. He laughed at me when I approached him after Jenny’s hasty marriage. He made me feel like a silly child, which is just what I was, of course. I have hated him ever since.”

“Hated,” he said. “Hatred is a powerful emotion, Samantha. Akin to love, it is said.”

“Yes.” Her voice was dull. “So it is said. I still hate him. Today more than ever. Why would he want to hurt his own cousin?”

“It amuses Lionel to hurt people,” he said. “Tell me about this spring.”

“There is nothing to tell,” she said. “I saw him in the park the day before the Rochester ball. I had not known he was back in England. I was terrified. And then he
appeared at the ball and asked me to waltz with him. I did. That was all. Oh, and he called on my aunt and me the next afternoon.”

“Before I called?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You were terrified,” he said. “Of what? That he would harm you?”

“No.” She felt suddenly weary. She would have liked nothing better than to sink to the floor and fall asleep. But there was the necessity to talk. He was not going to let it go. And now she must reap one of the rewards of the friendship she had wanted with him. Friends were open and honest with each other. “No, not that he would harm me. That he—That I would find that my hatred—”

“—was merely a mask for love?”