Lady in Red (33 page)

Without remorse, she pressed his lids closed, then calmly departed that room forever. Just as she would soon depart this prison of a house.

Yes, Mary had forgiven her father, but somehow she doubted the girl would be overly sorry to hear of his death. As she walked down the hall to the stairs, she paused before the portrait of the woman who had come before her.

Though it might have been a trick of the light, she could have sworn that Esme’s beckoning smile softened to one of gratitude. “You’re most welcome,” Clare replied to that benevolent face, then floated down the stairs, happy at last.

“I am so sorry,” Mary said softly.

Powers hesitated by the mahogany sideboard, his fingers splayed over the polished wood. “You love him.”

Mary folded her hands together, wishing she could reach out to the man who had become so dear to her. She refrained, knowing her touch would break his strength. So she stood by the windows, all too aware of the spring sun pouring in through the panes, a contrast to Powers’s disappointment. “I do. I have done for some time.”

“I see.” Powers mouth worked with some unsaid piece of drollery before he quickly went about pouring himself a drink from the grog tray before him. “And he loves you.”

“Yes,” Mary said, wishing there were some way she could relieve his pain.

He took a long swallow of whiskey from the snifter in his palm. “And even if he did not . . . you wouldn’t have been able to choose me?”

Though it blistered her tongue, she admitted, “No. I would not have done that to you.”

A dry laugh rumbled from him. “Done that to me?”

Mary shifted on her kid slippers, wishing she did not have to hurt him. “You deserve someone to love you.”

Powers blew out a derisive sound through his nose. “My luck with love is so entrenched in misfortune I might as well hang myself.”

Mary blanched. “Please don’t say such a thing.”

He tossed back the remaining contents of his glass and smiled weakly at her. “Of course I don’t mean it, my dear. I am far too vain to ever cut short my life.”

“And you are recovered?”

“From my fever?” he asked, as if this was the least of things to recover from. “Yes.”

“I am relieved.” She couldn’t help the smile that blossomed on her lips. She smiled so much now. “You have been such a good friend to me.”

“We shall always be friends.” He swallowed sharply, the muscles in his throat contracting. “Shall we not?”

“We shall. For who else could understand the demon inside me?”

“Then love has not freed you of it?” he mocked.

“You know better than any, that while love might give one the incentive, only one’s self can ever conquer the demon.”

“You’ve grown irritatingly wise,” he drawled.

“With someone’s own wise help,” she countered playfully, yet meaning it with all her heart.

“Hmm.” He thunked the crystal glass down, then turned fully to face her. “I wish you happy, Mary. You realize, in this whole world, only Edward loves you better than I.”

“I know.”

“But I think I must go away for a while.”

Mary considered protesting, but knew it would do no good. She nodded. “Do not stay away too long.”

“From you?” His gaze, always hard, softened. He studied her face as if committing every plane to memory. “Impossible.”

Mary did not rise to his defensive words, but instead she closed the distance between them and took his large hands in hers. She went up on the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek. And then, without another word, he strode quickly away from her and out the door.

Mary stood silently in the room, wishing with all her heart that he would know the happiness that she had only lately discovered. And soon. Somehow, deep in her heart, she knew he would. For only a man who had felt so much pain and sorrow could deserve the greatest of loves.

“Do you think he will be all right?” Edward asked as he walked through the door and to her side.

Mary nodded. “After some time has passed.”

Gently, he cupped her cheek. “And to think I almost gave you away to him.”

Mary scowled teasingly. “Ha.”

Edward gave her a cheeky grin. “You always would have done as you willed.”

She pressed her face into his palm, savoring the strong warmth. “Mmm.”

He caressed his thumb over her lower lip before angling her face up to his. “And your will now?”

“To cherish you as long as I have breath.”

He lowered his head slightly, his lips lingering over hers. “And after?”

“And after.” She slid her arms around his waist and pulled his body full against hers. “Always.”

I
t was astonishing what a difference a year could make. Thanks to Edward’s influence, Mrs. Palmer’s establishment had been permanently closed. The woman had been imprisoned after society learned about the extent of her duplicity.

Matthew, recovered, now languished in a prison hulk.

Yvonne, one of the greatest madams London had ever known, had retired from the world’s oldest profession to open a school for prostitutes so that they might learn some other gainful means of employment. Since it was run by a former prostitute and not some hellfire-breathing reformist, the school was a remarkable success.

Mary’s stepmother had proved most surprising, heading a charitable committee for the establishment of several homes where women suffering abuse could find shelter and support. She’d become quite a power in society.

And Mary herself?

A smile tilted her lips as she reclined in bed.

Her husband offered her a steaming cup of hot chocolate, his eyes brimming with adoration. “Our daughter is going to have quite the sweet tooth.”

Mary took the cup and savored the heat seeping into her hands. “And what makes you certain I am not carrying the future Duke of Fairleigh?”

“Because of the glow in my heart. Her name is Esme. She told me.”

“She told
you
?”

Edward nodded, his black hair flopping boyishly as he eased down onto the bed beside her. He nestled in carefully, wrapping his body about hers so that he could cradle her swelling belly. “She did indeed. She intends to be trouble but very loving.”

Mary laughed softly, so alight with love for her husband and unborn child she almost couldn’t fathom how hopeless her life had once been. “I suppose we deserve nothing less.”

“She shall be loved as no other child.”

Mary shifted and placed her hot chocolate down on the table beside the bed. “Edward, have I told you that I loved you today?”

“Three times,” he quipped as he slid his hand up the base of her throat, then around to cup the back of her head gently.

“Then let me say it again.”

His lips lingered over hers, and as she whispered, “I love you,” he pressed his mouth to hers.

“I love you, too.”

She slid her arms around her husband and allowed him to carry her away with his passion, and the knowledge that no matter how hopeless one might believe things to be, there would always be love to light the darkness.

London

1866

L
ord James Stanhope, Earl of Powers, was going to kill the ridiculous Irishwoman standing before him. In slow degrees. He was going to kill her for daring to mention his wife. For daring to even whisper his daughter’s name. He was going to rip her to bloody pieces for insinuating that he, the son of the Marquess of Carlyle, was insane.

“My lord?” she asked, her voice rising above the howling, barking voices scattered throughout the warrenlike rooms of the asylum.

James blinked. The shadows of the single gas lamp danced over her. His mind abruptly skittered. Skittered to the swish and sway of her pressed gray skirts. The way they molded over her hips and the tiny form of her corseted waist. Astonishing. She was such a tiny thing. Barely coming up to his shoulder. Perhaps she stood as tall as his sternum. Perhaps.

Yes. One of the fairy folk.

Oh, god. He shook his head, but the motion felt as defined as movement through muddied water. What had he been thinking? Oh, yes. He’d been angry with the petite creature. Furious. But now? He swallowed and the room swung on its axis and his body whooshed through the air. . . . And yet he didn’t fall. He stayed upright on his boots, planted, despite the treacherous feeling of being adrift. He opened his eyes as wide as they would go and grunted against the unpleasant rolling sensation. “What did you say?”

She stepped forward, her soft crimson hair glinting in the half light. “I’m askin’ only that you allow me to call you by your given name, my lord, not for the personal history of your opium exploits.”

Christ . . . The way her mouth worked as she spoke . . . Her rich, lilting voice sounded as if she was fucking every single word . . . Even her pink lips were lush. Soul seducing erotic art. Gorgeous. Slightly pursed. Not for a kiss but in disapproval. He arched a single brow, determined to put her in her place. A damned difficult thing, considering he was the ward and she the interrogator. And the fact that his brain seemed entirely at its own command with very little rhyme or reason to his thoughts didn’t aid him.

He hadn’t taken any opium in days, but he still felt in the throes of it. It was most distressing. “Powers,” he said tightly.

She sniffed. That pert little nose, free of a redhead’s cursed freckles, tightened with her own irritation. “That is your title. I ask again that you permit me the use of your name.”

In the shadowy light, her skin appeared translucent. He wondered if he reached out and put his hand on her, would it rest on mortal flesh? Or would it slide through her, ghostly female that she appeared to be? “My name was for one woman.” Why was it so hard to speak? He swallowed and slowly articulated, “And you are not she.”

She cocked her head to the side. Her curls, which had been smoothed back into a tight coif, slipped free at her temple, dusting her high cheekbones. “And you shan’t make me an exception?” She smiled. A pixie, winning, devil’s smile. “Lovely lass that I am?”

He smiled back. “I’d sooner rip your arms off.”

Her cinnamon brows lifted, a stunning imitation of his own disdainful gesture. “Indeed? And wouldn’t that be a great shame, fond as I am of my arms?” She licked her lips . . . not a seductive gesture by any means, for there was nothing suggestive in her controlled demeanor, which exuded propriety from the tips of her booted ankles, up her charcoal frock, to the starched white collar ramming her neck straight. “Don’t you see, I wish us to be on equal footing. And if you are unwilling to be gentleman, I shall have to be unwilling to be a lady.”

An image of her white body sprawled out naked on the stone floor flashed before him, her pristine gray skirts thrust up about her waist, white legs parted, stockings embracing her thighs. He was going to worship her. Bury his face into her sweet, hot folds. The desire that shot through him was so strong, he could barely countenance it. Yet this woman, she appeared as marble. Perfect. Smooth. Pale as porcelain yet hot. She wouldn’t be cold to his touch. Oh no. She’d be wild and hungry and warm, opening herself to his tongue and caresses.

“How fascinating,” he said, finding his voice despite his strangely whirring thoughts and wondering if a woman such as she could ever possibly descend to his lack of gentility. “I’d love to see you not . . . the
lady.
”

Her cheeks flushed, yet all the same her eyes narrowed around her startling gaze. Good Christ, her eyes were the wicked color of West Indies waters. Waters that had driven men to piracy. Perhaps her eyes would drive him to plundering. Whatever course, he was going to make those eyes heat with fire . . . and once the fire was lit, she would do whatever he bid. She would free him from this prison of madness. A prison he didn’t belong in.

“Your mind is in the same gutter in which you were found . . . James.”

James.

A pain so deep it lacerated his heart jolted him out of his swaying inaction. He darted forward, his long legs eating up the space, driving her backward without even touching her until she collided with the stone wall behind her. He thrust his hands out, slamming them on either side of her head against the wall. The rigid surface thudded harshly under his palms as he pinned her between his body and the stones. To her credit she didn’t flinch, despite the fact he towered over her.

That anger that had driven him forward kept him from weaving or losing his focus as he whispered out his warning. “Call me James again and you’re dead.”

Only his wife was allowed to call him James. Only his wife. And she . . . Sophia . . . Sophia was gone. Once, there had been another woman—a woman just like him—lost on the road of opium he’d thought might say his name. But that had been a mistake. She belonged to someone else. So no one would ever call him James again.

Certainly, not this chit of a woman who dared enter his cell and treat him like an insect in a box to be speculated over.

“Luckily, I’ve secured my place with the angels and have no fear of dying.” Her chest lifted up and down in quick breaths, her corseted breasts pressing against the imprisoning fabric of her bodice, defying the calmness of her words. Her gaze locked with his eyes, strong, calm, unafraid . . . and intrigued. “You on the other hand seem bound for hell’s gate.”

“Hell and I are good friends,” he growled softly, letting his lips lower until he was but a breath away from her soft siren’s hair. “We’re always open to new members.”

Boot steps shifted on the other side of the bolted thick iron door. His gaze twitched in its direction for a moment. The keepers were out there sensing his misbehavior. Ready to enter en masse and beat him into submission. Usually, it took at least three of them to subdue him.

And yet he knew that out of all the places he could have been sent to, this was one of the best. It galled him he was here at all.

Even with his body so intimately close to hers, she didn’t call out for the keepers or order him strapped as the others had done. By now . . . all the men his father had employed to put him in his right senses had run, locking his body up with cuffs and manacles whilst he raged. He let his gaze trail over her face, lingering on those plump lips. . . . He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a woman. Months, at least. He’d given them up long before he’d been put in this cell. He couldn’t stand the emptiness of those fucks. But this one . . . There was something undeniably unique, as if she might strike him with her governess’s stick, then kiss away his hurts.