Lady Pamela (27 page)

The duke nodded.

A moment’s silence. “Lady Millicent is very pretty.”

Another moment. Then–“Yes.”

“I’m glad you were able to...be of assistance to her.”

“Yes.”

So everything was understood between them, everything accepted. Nothing further needed to be said and yet, as if a wall had broken, Lady Pamela and Benjamin began to converse in earnest, in a manner they had not done since the morning after Charles and Helène’s wedding. Pam felt more in amity with him than she had in all those months, and a bittersweet joy grew in her heart, even as sorrow prospered apace. Joy–that the love between them existed still.

“Will you remove to Wiltshire upon the wedding?” she asked the duke.

“Yes, I suppose. But I doubt Lady Millicent wishes to remain there indefinitely. I believe she has spent nearly the whole of her life in town.”

“The country would be a better place for your children,” said Lady Pamela. “Lady Millicent is such a young girl, she will no doubt be increasing within the year.”

Long seconds passed before the duke’s answer. Then–

“I had wished it were so for us.” His voice was so low that Pamela barely heard, but she could not mistake his meaning.

“No,” she answered him. “ ’Twas not.”

“I would have insisted, then.”

Lady Pamela sighed. “I suppose,” she said, “under such circumstances, I would not have refused you. ’Tis always at the back of one’s mind, of course.” She smiled at him, hiding this new pain. “But what a scandal! You did not arrive in London for near seven months, and I could never have concealed it so long.”

A long silence. Then–

“I knew,” said the duke.

“You
knew
?” Lady Pamela stopped, and stepped back from him. “You knew I had

not...become
enciente
?”

The duke did not raise his voice, but his words were fierce, impassioned. “Did you think I would have taken that chance with your reputation, your very life? Did you think I would risk that you carried my child, and turn my back on you?”

“
How
did you know?” Lady Pamela was now standing hands on hips, her eyes piercing his in accusation.

“I... I had you followed.”

“
What
!” Then– “Oh, of course. Maggie kept telling me she saw some man...” Lady Pamela trailed off, then burst out laughing. “I suppose I should be offended.”

“I can’t think why. Even your means and family would not save you from the indignities of motherhood as a
demoiselle pas mariée
.”

“I know,” Lady Pamela reached out, touched his arm. “ ’Twas very sweet, and I do appreciate your concern. I had wondered what I might do, of course, if it came to it. But I

assumed...as ’twas only the one night...”

Benjamin shook his head. “Sometimes,” he said, “one night can mean more than years.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

One night can mean more than years.      

The night of the wedding of Charles and Helène, for example. At Luton Court, in Bedfordshire, some seven months past.

I do not regret a single day, she had said.

The duke made an angry, dismissive gesture. “I do not wish to hear another word.”

“Your wish,” said Lady Pamela, “is granted.”

She turned on her heel and fled, back into the ballroom.

The duke did not try to follow her. He walked through the marquess’s gardens for the greater part of an hour, while the orchestra continued its cheery selection of short gavottes and allemandes, dances traditional to the merriment of a wedding ball. He was warm and his face flushed despite the late February chill; furious with Lady Pamela, and furious with himself.

He longed for her more than life itself, and whether she had been another man’s mistress mattered nothing to him. And yet it did. He could not hear the Earl of Ketrick’s name without feeling a blinding rage. The duke disliked strong emotions of any type, fearing the vulnerability that passion engendered, and every moment in Lady Pamela’s company brought this weakness closer.

His anger stalked him, and he ran from it, afraid that it would ruin any relationship he began with Pamela Sinclair. Bad as it was to be apart from her, to have her and lose her would be worse.

No, thought Benjamin suddenly. No. At least he could be honest with himself.

’Twas not anger that he fled. ’Twas hurt.

Hurt that he was not the first, that Lady Pamela had once loved another.

Selfish hurt.

And, in a moment’s clarity, he called himself a fool for allowing his own pain to keep them apart. He would gladly endure any agony, if he could only spent the rest of his life with her.

The duke’s steps quickened and he nearly ran back to the ballroom. By now the evening had worn on, and the dancers were fewer in number. He did not see Lady Pamela among them and was seized by an abrupt and energizing panic, by the sense that he might be too late.

He strode from ballroom and hurried through the hallways of Luton Court to the doorway of her suite. He raised his hand to tap upon the door, but before he could do so it opened and Lady Pamela stood before him, a woolen shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked as panicked as he.

“Oh! I was just–”

The duke gathered Lady Pamela into his arms and smothered her mouth with kisses. She fell back under the onslaught and then they were in her bedchamber, and he was kicking the door closed, and the blood was rushing hot through his veins.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, over and again. She would not or could not reply, but she did not resist, she did not push him away, and soon the shawl was on the floor and Benjamin was fumbling and frantic at the silk of her bodice. He trailed kisses down her neck and onto her shoulders, and her legs crumpled under her. Perhaps they might have followed the shawl, then, down onto the plush and figured rose carpeting, but he picked her up instead and tossed her onto the duvet of her four-posted bed.

He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. She lay on her back and looked up at him.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” said Lady Pamela softly. “I was...I was going to go look for you.”

An absurd mix of conflicting thoughts and emotions–both profound and the mundane– assailed Lord Torrance. He wished to be lying next to her. He wished to lie next to her forever. He could not do so, however, without first removing his boots. But to remove his boots would also remove all doubts as to his current inclinations, and Benjamin was reluctant, above all things, to insult Lady Pamela, to offend her by the exigencies of his passion.

I have called her a goddess
, he thought.
Perfection itself.

One does not mar perfection. One does not sleep with a goddess.

Her hand reached up, and she drew one fingertip along the line of his jaw.

“Stay with me tonight,” she whispered.

It was enough.

* * * *

Lady Pamela’s own memories of that night were detailed and clear. She had little by way of comparison. Lady Pam had never been promiscuous; her experience in lovemaking was limited to her time with the Earl of Ketrick.

A pleasant and stimulating activity, she had believed.

Ha.

Nothing with Edward Tremayne had approached the breathtaking communion she had shared, that one night, with Lord Torrance. Their lovemaking had been a pitched brawl, and a meeting of body and soul both, until she had not known where the duke left off and she began.

’Twas neither good-natured, nor sweet. ’Twas a ferocious, passionate battle, in which both won and both were defeated, in which one might lose oneself and never be found. A struggle, a war; and the duke had fought against surrender as fiercely as she.

And they had slept, both of them, a sleep of contentment and peace, until the next morning, when the Duke of Grentham had awoken and asked her to be his wife.

* * * *

He looked, above all other things, rather abashed.

“Good morning, Lady Pamela,” the duke said.

As they were both in the same bed as these words were spoken, and both quite naked, she had laughed.

“And a good day to you as well, your grace.”

He kissed her, and events might have proceeded in the same direction as they had before, only hours ago, except that the duke had other matters more immediately at mind.

“I shall ride today for a London magistrate,” he told Lady Pamela. “It should be no more than two days to procure a special license and return. Three at the outside. We shall be married as soon as you wish.”

An odd expression crossed Lady Pamela’s face. “Married?” she asked.

The duke propped himself up on one elbow and smiled down at her. “I do apologize for the haphazard proposal,” he offered. “I’d get down on one knee, but at the moment–”

She giggled at this. Then her face clouded over again, and she added–“There is no need for marriage, my lord.”

“No need–!”

The duke did not understand women, of course. In his mind he and Lady Pamela were already married, and ’twas a great relief, for he did not think he could stand the torment of not possessing her a moment longer. No more need for explanations of how one felt for, truly, the duke did not wish to examine how he felt. No more of the ongoing emotional turmoil, of never knowing the same about her. All that remained was to formalize before God and society what he had already committed to in his heart.

Only the blessed and permanent tranquility of marriage.

No, the duke did not understand women at all. And now he was faced, on this morning of all mornings, with a suddenly recalcitrant female, and Lord Torrance was confused.

“Of course we will be married,” he told Lady Pamela. “We must.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “We must?”

“Well, we’ve...we’ve...been intimate.”

The words hung there, over the bed, and Benjamin might have wished he could unsay them but, really, what else was possible? The Earl of Ketrick had not married her. He would.

“And that,” said Lady Pamela, “is your sole reason for marriage?”

“Well, no,” said the duke, floundering. Lady Pamela was now sitting up in bed, and the sheets were not covering everything they might cover, and his concentration was lost. What had he said just now? He had asked her to be his wife, had he not? And of course they would be married, they must be married immediately, this very evening would not be soon enough for the duke, but he must first go to London, and...

“I suppose I should have married Lord Tremayne, then?”

“No, but–”

“And you are doing me a favour, as it were, to marry me. To lower yourself to the level of a fallen woman.”

Lord Torrance should have heard, perhaps, the hurt in those words. Lady Pamela was a woman deeply in love, and beginning, against all evidence, to believe herself alone in that state, for why had the duke only now offered her his hand? She had known since the day they first met that she would marry him, if he asked.

But the duke had seen her as a goddess, and had never dared think that she might really be his, until events–to his relief–made their marriage not only possible, but required.

And a requirement the duke understood. Gentlemen’s lives were based on requirements, on duty and honour, not on trifles such as love. Love! To Lord Torrance–who was in its throes for the first time, and still thrashing about–love was terrifying.

Their conversation quickly deteriorated, and soon Lady Pamela left the bed, still draped in the sheet, and began, awkwardly, to dress. If love was terrifying, losing her was more so, and the duke continued to argue and protest, waxing ever more vehement. At some point the word duty crept into his explanations.

That was the end.

* * * *

Lady Pamela, caught in the grip of memory, felt the tears start to her eyes. She brushed them away, angry with herself for her weakness, angry that the duke had once again broken her fragile, hard-won peace.

One night can mean more than years. But that night was months in the past and on this day, this afternoon in Green Park, the Duke of Grentham was engaged to be married to Lady Millicent Chambers. And she was alone.

* * * *

The duke had told Pamela nothing of his conversation with Lady Millicent. He had not explained that the young woman did not wish to marry him, nor that they had agreed to end their engagement. He had wanted to tell Lady Pam everything, of course, desired it most urgently, but bit back the words time and again. Benjamin was acutely conscious of the difficulties of his position, and that Lady Millicent would once again pay for any mistakes that were made. Every other aspect of the his life was Lady Pamela’s to know and judge, excepting this, and for Milly’s sake he would say nothing until the situation was resolved.

He had given the girl, sternly, one stipulation.

“I comprehend your feelings,” the duke told Lady Millicent, “but you must also understand mine. If our engagement is ended your father will return to Lord Castlereaugh, and this time he will not stop until your marriage lines are written and sealed. I cannot allow it.”

Neither Lord Torrance nor the girl had any idea that Castlereaugh had withdrawn his offer, of course. They were not likely to hear it from the earl.

 “He cannot force me to wed!” cried Milly.

“Perhaps not. But he can cast you into the streets, and–with any respect due your father–I have no confidence that he would not do exactly that.”

Lady Millicent nodded glumly.

“And there is still the problem of your father’s debts. So, publicly, for the moment, our betrothal must stand. You must say nothing and do nothing until I can think this through.”

“But–”

“A day or two will make no difference,” he told her. “Now, go home, and go to bed. No more rambling unescorted about London.” He smiled at her. “ ’Tis not allowed, you know, for a duke’s bride-to-be.”