False Angel (19 page)

It was while the duke was happily undressing his duchess that night as they prepared for bed, that he remarked reminiscently about the reaction of some of his female guests at the table that night “I felt,” he mused as he raised his lips from her creamy shoulder, “rather like the host at a Christmas dinner when the turkey got up and slowly walked away.”

TWELVE

Joscelin Peter Kidd, Fifth Marquess of Severne, approached the door to the Viscount Talwin’s London town-house with a book in his hand and an offer of marriage upon his lips. The book was for the young woman that he felt was one of the few in the world who would appreciate its truth and beauty precisely as he had. But however lovely a gift, he believed it to be but a poor shadow of what he might have given her if his world and circumstances were different. For the offer that should have gone with the book was for a different young female. And where the book was to be given gladly with a free and open heart, the offer, he told himself, had to be made simply because he saw no other honorable recourse open to him.

There was a limit, after all. Strictly speaking, he ought to have offered for the lady after he’d embraced her so passionately at her own ball in her own garden. But society seldom concerned itself with such strict speaking. There were always mitigating circumstances that stretched truths, and softened liabilities that allowed certain interesting peripheries to exist. The Lady Leonora had been well over the age of consent, and she’d also been sent home from her first Season years before because of some interesting behavior. Even if that were not the case, the polite world would politely look the other way at any liberties taken with a young woman of her age and wisdom who choose to step out into the blatant moonlight with a divorced gentleman of dubious repute. There were, after all, limits to any protection policy, and the social contract was no different in that benefits were revocable if the injured party had acted in a markedly unwise and irresponsible manner.

But accosting the young woman again, this time when under another nobleman’s roof, put an entirely different construction upon matters. There were other, more telling differences. Even though she had eventually responded, it was undeniable that he’d not stolen kisses this time, but had thrust them upon her. And her denial had the ring of truth. Provocative or not, once she’d left his arms he’d realized it was her very existence, not her vast experience, which had ignited him. It had been his best friend’s home that he had dishonored as well as the young lady, and her father had also been a guest at the time, and her father was a gentleman to whom he owed a great deal of respect and fealty.

The marquess had taken a week to review his situation, and had opted to make the only honorable and sincere restitution that he could. Even though he had thought to wed another, he would take the young lady in holy matrimony.

His spirit should have been heavy as he approached the lady’s door, but instead, it bore less weight than did the slim volume he held in his hand. This absence of despair perversely bothered him, since he saw it as another example of his perverse desires. Though he told himself over and again that today he would be giving up all hope of wedding a gentle, intelligent creature who was a match for his intellect, he could not help remembering that he was about to procure himself a wife who was equal to all his darker desires. This, to the detriment of all his good opinion of himself, did not displease him at heart as it ought to have done. For search as he might, he could find nothing but excitement at the thought of her being entirely his.

He glanced down at the book in his hand. Mr. Blake, he thought as he raised the door knocker, would understand the situation very well. Within this house there was a pure lamb of a girl, all meek and mild. And then there was the other, a tigerish female indeed, who burned bright with the promise of sensual delight. He would have chosen the lamb, if it were not that he had failed to resist the lure of the flesh eater. That his failure did not depress him utterly, depressed him considerably.

In the best of worlds, he thought, in the due course of time he might have found one female who had within her both qualities, to spur desire as well as admiration. But this was not such a world, he was not such a man, and since he had made a misstep, he’d used up all his time for further search. So when the door swung open, he wore an ironic, skewed smile as he realized he had joined Annabelle in the fold. For today he was presenting himself to the butler in preparation for presenting himself as a sacrificial lamb.

He wouldn’t first ask her father permission to pay his addresses, as he might have done if things had been different between himself and the lady he awaited as he paced the salon. He liked the viscount too well to offer him false coin. It would be better that Talwin never knew of the furtive embraces that had won his daughter her offer of marriage. Then, too, he could hardly declare his undying love for the Lady Leonora and still keep the distaste for the lie from his voice. Neither could he state that if he did not have her soon, he would run mad. Aside from the fact that it was not quite the thing to let another gentleman know the urgency of the pure lust his wicked daughter provoked in her prospective husband, he did not wish to admit as much to himself.

She entered the salon hesitantly, and kept her distance from her guest to the extent of making sure that there was a small chair between herself and him. She placed her hands over the back of it as she gave him good day as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and all at once, despite his lowering mood, he found it difficult not to grin as he agreed that it was a wondrously clement spring. He wondered if she thought he would have come all this way simply to spring out at her again. And had to admit that he was tempted to, even here, even now, even knowing what he did of her, and what the price was that he was about to pay for her.

She wore a lavender frock, and instead of the color subduing her, he thought that it drew attention to the faint lilac in her cheek and the deep succulent berry of her lips. Before he could set to wondering at what scent she wore today, and as he awoke to the unbidden, unwelcome but ever present visceral response she stirred in him, he spoke.

“You know, of course, that I’ve come to apologize,” he said.

She did not reply at once, for there was no apology in his tone. Instead, he appeared to be stiffly correct. Though he wore casual clothes—a cream-colored jacket, buff breeches, and gleaming hessians—there was something excessively formal about him today. She had known he would call, and had been awaiting this visit since she’d returned to Town. She’d expected an apology, for whether or not he believed himself to have been right or wrong, he was a gentleman. And what he’d done was not done.

But because she couldn’t stop thinking of what he’d done, or stop herself from wanting him to do it again, which was decidedly not done, she avoided his searching gaze now. She’d had a week to wonder why he’d taken her in his arms that night after having taken Annabelle into his company all week, and had come up with a dozen possible reasons for each day of that week. The only thing that she knew for a certainty now was that it hadn’t been drunkenness, for she’d tasted his mouth and couldn’t have been deceived in that, and it hadn’t been love, for she’d seen his eyes and couldn’t have been mistaken in that either. That night, his face had borne the traces of every emotion she could tease herself with save for the one she’d been looking for.

“Your apology is accepted,” she said quietly, studying a thread at the back of the chair.

“I haven’t made it yet,” he replied, in a more natural tone. “But be sure, I shall, and more, at once.”

He drew in a deep breath, and stood before her with his long booted legs slightly apart, as though for better balance, and he turned a small brown paper packet in his hands as he spoke,

“I’m aware that my behavior was despicable. And I’ve spent the better part of a week putting my affairs in order. No, don’t worry.” He laughed briefly. “Your papa has not challenged me to a duel. But the only reason he hasn’t, I assume, is that you have not told him of my wretched behavior. And for that, believe me, I am grateful.”

“You needn’t be,” she said at once, wanting him to know that he had gotten no special treatment. “I am not close with my father, you see, and wouldn’t be likely to confide in him in any case. I’ve told no one, in fact,” she said truthfully.

But he scarcely attended to her last words, and felt no more than a passing relief that neither the viscount nor Annabelle knew what had occurred. He was too busy being appalled at the lack of heart in this creature he was soon to take to wife. It was hard to comprehend how a universally admired gentleman such as Talwin could have spawned a child unfeeling enough to be unappreciative of his several special virtues.

“I’m surprised. He speaks of you often,” he answered quickly to cover his shock.

“We were close once, there was a misunderstanding—” she began to say, starting to defend herself before she cut herself off abruptly. But it was he that was in the wrong, she reminded herself sharply. And this was an apology that he was supposed to make. He had no right to stand there before her, accusation implicit in his aggressive stance and explicit in his every word. She raised her head and tried to stare him down, and was happy to discover that she could do this easily enough if she remembered to focus her eyes only upon his shirt points, since looking upon any part of his actual self disconcerted her.

So she only heard the hint of regret in his voice when he said in a low, thoughtful rumble, “That’s rather too bad for you I should think, for your father’s advice and counsel is much sought after by a great many people who would very much like to claim it as a matter of course, as his relatives might.”

And since she still dared not to look the fraction higher that she would have had to in order to see his face, for her pride’s sake, she completely missed his expression when he went on to say in toneless fashion, “But that is not why I am making you this offer. I ask you to be my wife, my lady, because I believe it to be the right thing to do. And,” he added when she did not reply, “I believe that when you think on it, you will agree.”

The words, “You have made me very happy,” were on his lips. He had only to remember to put the correct slight inflection of sarcasm into them to finish the thing off to his own satisfaction. Then he could request audience with her father, then events would be set into motion, then she would soon be his. He was trying to quell the slight smile he discovered rising at the thought, or at least to turn it into an expression of resignation rather than jubilation, when she spoke.

“Are you mad?” she said.

Now she stared directly into his eyes because her anger had blinded her to his reaction, and her reaction to him.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“Quite,” he said, very stiffly, for he hadn’t expected anything but her acquiescence, given grudgingly perhaps, but given instantly. It was never that he considered himself a prize upon the marriage market. He knew all too well that his divorce had excluded him from most alliances. But she wasn’t an ingénue, she had a rather difficult reputation to live down as well, her father approved of him, and she, and this he would swear to, she was not indifferent to him. She might not love him, for all he knew she might not be able to love anyone, if her attitude toward her father and poor Annabelle were any gauge. But she was drawn to him, and she desired him fully as much as he did her. That, he would swear to.

In all, unless she wished to remain single and embark upon an affair with him, which was almost never done in her circle, there didn’t appear to be any reason why she should not accept him. It wasn’t only that she could do worse, it was that he did not see her attempting to do better.

“I compromised you, surely you know that,” he said coldly, “and you must just as surely know that I am not so lost to decency that I would not remedy that which I had done. I know the rules, and I play by them.”

“But I was not playing in your game,” Leonora said, “or so you made abundantly clear to me. It was my cousin you were courting, was it not?” She asked this in the chilliest accents she could summon up. She absolutely refused to let a hint of emotion show in her voice as she voiced that which she knew she must if she were to ever have peace of mind about her decision.

“Yes,” he said at once, for he could not deny it. There was, at any rate, he believed, little need to do so. Not for a moment did he seriously think she’d ever considered poor sad Annabelle competition, though originally he’d often hoped she would. But even on the mad chance that she had, the sort of female he knew her to be would doubtless deem this offer a stunning victory over her unfortunate opponent, and consider it payment in full for her wretched cousin’s presumption. No, he thought, dismissing the thought, that could never be the reason for her present scorn.

So then, he, badly insulted and wondering now if he were being refused because of his divorce, or something about his person, or perhaps even because he had been entirely wrong about the mutuality of their physical attraction, only said again, in as frigid a manner,

“Yes. So I was. But then, I didn’t attack her, did I?”

“No,” Leonora replied in a tight, high voice. “But then, we shall forget that incident, I think. No one else knows, and so if we choose to forget, it will be as though it never occurred. Then you need not sacrifice yourself. And so then, neither do I.”

“Very good,” the marquess said through thinned, taut lips.

“Yes, I think so,” Leonora replied in a voice several octaves higher than normal.

Then they both stood rigidly, facing each other and breathing as heavily as though they had just chased each other around the small salon. As, in a sense, they had done.

“Yes,” he said at last, now recovered at least enough to speak normally, “A neat solution. Then please, let us forget this interview as well. We cannot be at daggers drawn in public, and tonight I had arranged to accompany you and your family to a musical performance.” He neglected to mention that he had planned it to be a celebration, an occasion to show the world their engagement, and only went on to add, “I should like it if we were to go on in as normal a fashion as possible ... for your father’s sake if nothing else.”

“And my cousin’s?” Leonora asked, though a second later she could have bitten off her tongue for letting him think she cared.

“Yes, that too,” he said with an effort to remain casual, remembering that any enthusiasm in his answer might cause Annabelle real distress and possibly retribution from this lady.

“And that parcel you’ve been holding since I came in,” Leonora asked quickly, grasping at conversational straws to make him forget her last question, “was that for me?” She managed a smile and essayed a jest in an attempt to reestablish the normalcy he’d mentioned. “Or did my negative reply cause me to forfeit it?” she smiled.

“No,” he said bitterly, for he could see no humor in her rejection, “this would have been for you, my lady.” And he took a small tissue-wrapped packet from his inner vest pocket and unwrapped it so that she could see the shining blue stare of a great sapphire as dark as his own eyes, set in a golden ring. He put it back at once, as though he regretted having shown it, and gesturing with the brown paper package he held, said negligently, “This little parcel was for Annabelle.”

Forgetting that she had just refused him, Leonora could only feel rage that he had thought to bring a gift for another female even as he offered for her hand. So she immediately said, “Ah. A consolation prize, I see.”