Lady in Red (20 page)

Edward let out a groan as he yanked his own boots off, hopping about like an idiot.

“Don’t fall over,” she yelled above the crashing waves.

“You, madam, are going to pay for leaving me helpless with my boots.”

She turned and ran backward for a few moments. “And whatever are you going to do?”

He charged after her, splashing into the cold water. For the first time, he dared. He clasped her into his arms, holding her.

She stilled for a moment, then relaxed into his embrace, raising her own hands to his shoulders. “Well?”

For answer, he lowered his mouth to hers and pressed the softest of kisses to her lips.

She angled her head back, then slid her hands up to the nape of his neck, urging him to kiss her deeper.

Almost lazily he kissed her, taking in her breath, teasing her.

She gasped against his mouth and parted her lips.

Taking the invitation, Edward tasted her tongue. In that moment, he felt lost. Utterly lost. He’d never cared so much about a woman in his life. And he had no idea what to make of the swell of emotion.

Tentatively, she tangled her tongue with his and then pulled back, her mouth slightly swollen, her eyes wide. “I never thought it could be like this.”

As he held her close, he whispered, “Neither did I.”

M
ary didn’t stop running from the stables until her lungs burned and perspiration streaked down her cheeks from the exertion. When at last she slowed, Powers’s manor towered across the manicured lawn. The Tudor facade lurked in the shadow of ancient oaks and cinder gray stones, cradled in gnarled mystery. It looked much like its master, with all its tempting glory and sinister secrets.

Yvonne’s bright yellow skirts were a beacon on the lawn. She’d set herself up with table, chairs, and a magnificent tea. Mary considered heading for the back of the house and escaping Yvonne, but in truth she needed the older woman’s company.

Sucking in slow breaths to ease her aching lungs, Mary lifted her head and walked calmly forward. The day’s events had left her confused. And she had no idea what to make of the conflicting emotions stirring within her.

“Mary! My dear.” Yvonne held up a pale hand and waved it in greeting. The horrid bruises upon her face had faded to mere shadows and the cuts were small, barely noticeable spots now. But the damage invisible to the eye was far more significant—two broken ribs, and Yvonne had yet to recover the full ability to walk without her ivory-headed cane, which was propped against her ornately carved cherrywood chair.

Even so, the woman held a sense of self-worth and self-respect that would rival any duchess as she sat upright, savoring one of the splendors from Powers’s cellar.

Yvonne reached toward the silver bucket on the table. A bottle of French wine in its green bottle, half consumed and uncorked, sat nestled in ice. “Would you care for a glass?” she asked, lifting a crystal flute and pouring the bubbling liquid.

Mary smiled, wondering whether Yvonne had already consumed a bottle on her own, she was in such fine spirits. She glanced about the table legs.

“No, no,” Yvonne said, reading her thoughts. “It is far too early to have imbibed so devotedly.” She held out the champagne with her delicate fingers. “For you.”

Mary took the glass by its stem and lowered herself onto the chair beside Yvonne’s. They’d yet to discuss what had happened with Hardgrave. Edward had attempted to discuss that night with her, but Yvonne had broken down into inconsolable sobs. Neither Edward, Powers, nor even Mary had dared to bring the subject to light again.

“I cannot believe how fine it is!” Yvonne sighed. “I have lived in London so long that I had forgotten the beauty of the country.”

Mary’s previous experience with the country had been dragging her worn body along mud-soaked roads in search of laudanum and safety. Though it had now been several days since she had avoided the ever-present temptation of laudanum, thoughts of it, even in this lovely place, were never far from mind.

Yvonne tilted her head back, closing her eyes. “Doesn’t the air smell delicious?”

Even in her agitated state, Mary could appreciate the scent of peat on the air, the sweet fragrance of early-spring flowers giving weight to the air. “Yes.”

Everything about the growing evening was delicious, except for the undercurrents of sadness that never quite let her be. But there was so much to be grateful for. The sun was setting slowly, casting its shadows on the sapphire rug draped over the perfectly cut grass. Silver trays of strawberries, salmon sandwiches, bread and butter, and caviar placed artistically across the table encouraged one to sit for hours in the waning evening.

Up above the perfectly groomed lawn and under the shadows of the house, a liveried servant stood waiting in attendance for any need they might have. Powers lived well. Very well. “I spent the afternoon with Edward,” Mary said, unsure how to really begin.

“I saw you two galloping off into the distance.” Yvonne sipped her champagne. “You know, I think you’ve made quite a conquest.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Yvonne rolled her eyes. “My dear girl, to be direct, do you wish to bed the duke?”

Mary hesitated at the blunt question. She was still terrified of men. But Edward wasn’t
men.
He was her caretaker, the man who had seen the beauty in her soul. When she thought of his touch upon her skin, she didn’t shudder. This day had awakened an entirely new feeling. Curiosity . . . and desire.

The kiss on the beach had seemed to promise something. She hardly dared contemplate it, but it was there all the same.

Could she bed Edward? There was so much more to it than a kiss, and that was frightening.

Still, she smiled to herself. The answer was yes, because Edward would
never
touch her in any way that hurt her. “I do.”

“I know you’ve been afraid,” Yvonne said softly. “And I’ve seen your turmoil. I hope you take no offense at my asking, but I can see you wish to be close to him.”

Mary nodded carefully.

“The only thing keeping you from that closeness is you.”

Yvonne was right. Mary lifted her chin. She’d suffered enough in this life to deny her the pleasures of the present. Fear had ruled her too long. With Edward, there was nothing to be afraid of and it seemed wrong to deny the intimacy they both desired.

Yvonne laughed a delighted laugh. “There—I see it on your face. You’ve made your mind up and I promise you that you will not regret it.”

Mary drew in a deep breath. Now that she’d made her mind up, as Yvonne had put it, she could hardly wait. If she could have, she would have gone to Edward right away.

Yet she couldn’t leave Yvonne. Not yet. The woman was still struggling with her recovery. So Mary leaned forward and pushed the dish of strawberries forward. “You must eat. That is what Edward is always telling me in any case. We must eat.”

She’d filled out considerably and had a physical strength now that she hadn’t possessed in years.

Yvonne’s mirth dimmed. She stared at the table covered in its beautiful repast. “I wish I felt some sort of hunger, but I do not.”

Yvonne had lost weight. A great deal of it. The softness that had once given her a voluptuous air had faded into sharper angles in the last weeks.

“You see,” Yvonne began shakily, “I can’t stop thinking of what I did. And I feel ill. All the time. It consumes me and I cannot bring myself to eat for the feel of it.”

Mary placed her hand over Yvonne’s. “You did nothing.”

A tear slipped down Yvonne’s cheek as she gazed at Mary’s hand on hers. That single drop trailed from her chin to her champagne. “Oh, my dear. The feel of your hand touches my heart, but I did the most terrible thing.” A sob racked her frame and she pulled her fingers from Mary’s and pressed them against her lips.

Mary didn’t know what to do or say. She, too, had known the unpleasantness of isolated pain where the world seemed such a faraway and unattainable place. She had not wished to be hugged or consoled. All she could do now was sit and wait and not judge this woman who had helped her so much.

“Mary . . . I—I told him. I told him where you were. I couldn’t stay strong. I was so sure that I could. With those first blows, I vowed to myself I wouldn’t speak. But I . . . did.”

“He brutalized you, Yvonne. I will never forget how badly you were marred. Anyone would have spoken.”

Yvonne sobbed again. “I suppose I was a fool for thinking I would not be like everyone else.”

“If anyone is a fool, it is I,” Mary countered quickly, her own guilt grabbing hold of her in its cutting talons. “It was I who drew you into this. If anyone deserves blame, it is I.”

Yvonne’s eyes narrowed and her face grew hard. “It is your father,” she hissed. “And men like him.”

“I wish . . .” Mary gulped the words back with a swallow of champagne. She couldn’t dare give life to the thought.

“What do you wish?” Yvonne coaxed as she assessed Mary.

She shook her head vehemently.

“Come. We have both bared ourselves.”

Mary glared down at her bubbling wine, wishing for the power men had. Wishing she did not have to be a prisoner of her sex. “I wish I did not need Edward.”

Yvonne regarded her with subtle concern. “But you wish to bed him? I thought you liked him.”

“I—I like him very much.” How could she ever admit she liked him far too much? With each encounter between them, she found her heart softening toward the hard man who had given her hope. “It is just that I wish I could live this life without needing the protection of a man for fear of other men.”

Yvonne’s look was wistful, tinged with the bitter note of acceptance. “What woman has not wished such a thing? Though you have more cause than most.”

Mary worked the folds of her skirts with her fingers. “I want to be Edward’s equal and I don’t think I ever can be if he is my rescuer. I feel I am using him.”

“But, my dear,” Yvonne soothed, “he longs to be rescued in turn.”

Mary dropped her gaze to her lap. “I know it, but how is it possible that I, a woman, can do for him what he cannot?”

Leaning back against the chair, Yvonne sighed tiredly. “You know what happened to his father, but he is inundated by his own feelings of guilt . . . He, too, longs to find peace. Perhaps you, a woman, can find a way to give it to him in a way no other could.”

Mary gripped her champagne flute so hard its grooved pattern pressed into her fingers. How could she give anyone peace? She had only just barely reclaimed herself . . . Aside from that, she didn’t deserve a man like Edward, not after what had happened to her. Society would not welcome her back into its fold. Finally, she gave voice to her greatest fear. “What if I can’t? What if he can’t? He cares for me. I know he does, but I am afraid he may never be able to do more than that.”

“Does he need to?” Yvonne asked softly.

Mary looked away. Admitting that she wished Edward’s love seemed a weakness. She should be grateful for his help and that should be enough. But he’d never had love. Never been taught how to love. Would he even know how?

Yvonne shrugged. “As long as he gives you what you desire, does it matter?”

Mary wished she could recoil at the harshness of such words, but the world was a harsh place.

Was it indeed that simple? Two people using each other for their own gain? What she had begun to feel for Edward didn’t feel so cold. But it was dangerous to give one’s self completely to a man.

Her own mother had understood the business of it well enough and it had not been until she’d given her heart that she had lost everything.

She’d give as much as she could to Edward to help him as he had helped her. But she wouldn’t be the fool her mother had been.

Mary contemplated the small brown vial and considered that she had come for a small tincture of headache powder for Yvonne. It was not the powder she contemplated now. Her rational mind spoke to her with utter conviction. To pick up the slim bottle from the medical chest, to finger the faded brown paper labeling it laudanum was an exceedingly dangerous proposition. But it was not her rational voice that was speaking the most convincingly or with such strength.

Another voice slithered through her mind. A suggestive voice, offering a merciless pleasure, whispered,
Take it, Mary. Take it. You will only have a little. Just a little. And all your confusion and all your pain will disappear on a tide of blissful peace.

It was a powerful, almost undeniable call. Even though she had not had laudanum for days, seeing this bottle, feeling it in her hands, and smelling its scent . . . Her skin crackled with need. Some doppelganger creature, a ferociously insistent version of herself, had crawled inside her. It raked at her sinew with sharp, ragged nails, desperately attempting to consume what for years had simply been a medicine.

’Tis a prison
, she hissed back at the creature. Even as she spat at the poisonous twin within, she found her fingers stretching out to the small medicine chest left conveniently open. Her fingers skimmed over the ipecac and headache powder, drawing toward the laudanum bottle and relief.

It was not her hand dancing over the colored containers. It seemed to be someone else’s pale appendage that finally traced the rough cork stopper, then clasped at the bottle. Slowly, she lifted it from the chest, the weight surprisingly light in her palm. Desperately, she wished to rip the stopper out and tilt it to her lips. Oh, how she wished it. For, certainly, after so much time she could control her need now to just a few sips?

But last time I almost died
, her rational voice countered feebly.

But this time will be different
, soothed the other.

This time you will not drink so much of it nor drink wine with it. You will be safe from ill effects and will be awarded with the peace you have been without for far too long.

Mary fingered the small cork, her breath coming in odd little catches. If she drank it, in a few moments blessed oblivion would trace through her veins and she would be floating on a sea without concern or fear. She wouldn’t have to worry about Edward or whether he could ever love her or how she had put Yvonne in such danger. And, yes—she could control herself. She could. She was no weakling to be lured into hell again.