No Place for a Lady (29 page)

She opened the box. It was nothing special, he knew.

But he had seen the decanter and thought of her. Then he had spent hours searching for just the right scent to fill it. He had any number of other tasks, and yet he had taken an entire day finding this for her.

"It is perfume," he said unnecessarily as she lifted the decanter out of the velvet-lined box. She held up the elegant crystal to the light, tracing the cut edges of the bird's wings. "That is you," he said softly. "Just beginning tonight to soar. You shall be brilliant." He invested all his feelings into his words.

"It is beautiful."

"You mentioned that your mother always smelled special. I hope you like the fragrance." He had wanted something sweet, but instead, had been captivated by an exotic scent. It was subtle, slipping beneath a man's defenses, until it suddenly overwhelmed him and he could think of nothing and no one else.

"It is wonderful," she said, and he thought she meant it. It certainly sounded like she did. But then again... "I shall wear it tonight and think of you."

Then she delicately touched the stopper to her wrists and the flawless arch of her neck. He watched her, mesmerized, remembering the feel of her hands across his chest, knowing that he had tasted the curve of her neck.

He swallowed. "I must be mad," he said softly. "I could have had you all to myself, and yet instead I give you over to my sister and mother. They will not let me see you, and tonight they show you to the world. Very soon, you will have no time for me, no memory of our moments together."

She looked up at him, her expression somber, her eyes impossibly large.

"I could never forget you, Marcus. You have been part of my life so completely that I will always remember you. But I think your mother and sister were right. You should leave London now."

He smiled at her, watching the way her lips moved as she spoke. What a perfect color they were: a dark red meant for kissing. They were perfectly shaped as well, not too full, nor too narrow. Lord, he admonished himself. He was acting the mooncalf. What had she just said?

He replayed her words in his mind, this time listening for their meaning. The jolt he received was enough to snap his wits back into place.

"What did you say?"

She turned away, and he noticed her movements were not as smooth as he had thought. In fact, she appeared nervous, as if she wished to put distance between them.

"When I look at you... No, when you look at me, I see what you see."

"I beg your pardon?" He reached for her, but she spun around, confronting him as she had so many times before.

"When you look at me, you see a mistress. A whore."

He pulled back, appalled. "Nonsense!"

"Would you seek to be private with any other debutante? Would you lounge in her doorway or climb up her window?"

"Of course not! But you are not just any debutante—"

"That is correct. I am your woman, your quarry in some idiotic mistress hunt. When you look at me, you do not see a girl in her coming-out, but Rat and Fanny in some bizarre combination that is not at all respectable."

He frowned, unable to understand her. "I see only you."

"Well, I do not want you to see me!" she snapped. "How can I be a debutante with you constantly looking over my shoulder reminding me that I am nothing more than a street rat?"

"But you are not—"

"Exactly. But you look at me as if I were one. You treat me as if I were one."

He took her arms in his, pulling her close to his body. "Listen to me, Fantine, I do not know if this is simply nerves or some nonsense of my mother's, but it will not fadge. I arranged for this coming-out. I
paid
for it, for God's sake. You cannot throw me away now as if I counted for nothing!"

Then he drew her into his arms, waiting for her to soften toward him. It came within seconds. Her body fit itself to him, heating his blood as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Their kiss was heady, dark, powerful. Her arms wrapped around him as he leaned over her, arching her back into him. "We were meant for each other, Fantine."

Bang!

Marcus lifted his head, startled at the noise of the library door slamming hard against the wall. Blinking to clear the haze from his mind, he focused on the imposing figures of his sister and mother.

"Marcus! Step away from her!"

He did. A step. But he kept a hand on her shoulder. It was time his relatives understood the reality of the situation. He would not be denied Fantine.

His mother stepped forward. "I am simply appalled—"

"No."

That was Fantine, and Marcus could not help smiling at her cold tone. It effectively silenced everyone in the room. Then he relaxed, waiting for her to explain the situation to his family. They would listen to her.

"I thank you for your protection, Lottie, Lady Anne, but in this I must be the one to express myself. Not you."

"But—"

"Please, Lady Anne. A few moments more."

His mother pursed her lips, clearly annoyed, but it was Lottie who nodded, giving Fantine an encouraging smile. "Come along. Mother. Fantine can handle this."

"But—"

"Please." That was Fantine, and eventually Lady Anne gave way.

"Five minutes," she said. "And I shall watch the clock."

"Five minutes," Marcus echoed, as he sketched a bow. Then he stepped forward and firmly closed the door on his interfering family. After the reassuring thud, he turned to take his reward from Fantine's lips. But she had moved to the opposite side of the room.

"I told you," she said softly.

Marcus blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"How am I to act the lady when you constantly treat me as your mistress?"

He pulled up short. "I have never treated you—"

"Then you often kiss unwilling women in their guardian's library?"

"You were most willing!" he shot back.

"Of course, I was!" she returned, her own voice becoming heated. "All you do is touch me, and I am at your mercy! Good God, Marcus, you have proved your power over me time and time again. But that doesn't mean I wish it to happen!"

"I have never forced you," he stated. But his tone was less firm. Did he truly have that devastating an effect on her? The thought was quite appealing.

"Gawd!" she drawled in her thickest Cockney. "Is this wot yer want, guv? Me breasts in yer 'ands and me nasties open? Then let's get to it." She made to rip open her gown at the bodice.

"Fantine! Stop that this instant!"

"Then which is it, Marcus? Am I to be your whore or a lady?"

He frowned, moving forward until he stood directly in front of her. "You are to be whatever you wish. That was our arrangement. I told you I would not force you, and I have not."

"I wish to be a lady, Marcus. I wish to have my coming out and dance in a beautiful gown and have gentlemen treat me as a respectable lady." Her voice quavered slightly. He was startled to realize the strength of her desire. "This is my moment, Marcus. Everything my mother dreamed of. And now I find I want it as well. Why must you ruin it?"

He pulled back. "I am not ruining anything! It is I who made all this possible."

"Yet you still wish to claim me. You bring me into a darkened library to kiss me and remind me that you
paid
for all of it. What is that, Marcus, but treating me as your whore?"

He swallowed, her words finally seeping in. Had he been treating her as a courtesan? All this time? When all he wished was to be with her. To talk with her. To show her how...

How what? How delightful it was to be a mistress in the ton? He should have locked her in a tiny room, given her a servant, and showered her with jewels until she succumbed to him. But he had not done that. He had brought her to his sister to make her respectable. Yet, the very next moment, he had attempted to seduce her.

Good God, she was right. If he wished for her to have a coming-out, then he should treat her as a highborn woman, with all the restrictions and formalities that entailed.

"I want you to be as you wish," he said slowly. "I want you to choose your life."

"Prove it," she challenged. "Leave London. Let me have a Season and see what happens."

He shook his head. "I want to guide you. There are many dangers—"

"Your sister and mother are adequate to the task."

Marcus clenched his jaw. Yes, they certainly were. "What about Teggie—"

"You have already relinquished your part in the investigations."

Yes, he had. "And Hurdy? Should I not wait until we know Sprat has written to his father?"

"Sprat's letter will only change Hurdy's attitude toward you. Hurdy will still come for me."

"Then—"

"But I can handle him. I have for many years until now and shall for many years to come."

Marcus remained silent. He had no more objections, nothing else he could say. She was right. He could not expect her to be a lady and yet treat her as a courtesan. It was not fair. To either of them.

He looked up, pleading with her. "Can you not see that I simply wish to be with you? I can stop kissing you," he said, fearing that he lied. "I can be your silent escort. But do not exile me. The week when I could not see you was torture." He stepped forward, wishing he knew the words to express his feelings. "I want so much more from you than just your body. I want—"

"My soul."

His mind rebelled at such a thought, but he knew deep down that she was right. He did want her soul. Her body, her mind, her heart. Her soul. He did not want to examine his motives. He could not believe he had already relinquished his heart to her, and so it was only fair she return the favor. But to deny the truth would be fruitless.

"If you care for me," she continued relentlessly, "please let me find my way. Alone."

Marcus looked away, his breath abruptly squeezed from his throat. She could not know how her words effected him. And yet apparently she did, for a moment later she was at his side exclaiming in horror.

"Marcus!"

She grabbed his hand, and he saw himself trembling.

How odd that now of all times, those particular words would come back to haunt him.

Fantine pushed him toward a chair and he went without a struggle, settling quietly down with her beside him. But even as her touch remained a balm, her voice hardened with demand. "What is happening, Marcus? Why are you so pale?"

He did not intend to answer, and yet the words came nonetheless. "Geoffrey said that. My brother. Those exact words."

She frowned, trying to remember, and in the end, he repeated them, giving voice to his darkest nightmare."'If you care for me, let me find my way. Alone.'"

God, how the words burned his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could cut off the memory as easily. "We both knew what was needed. One of us had to stay, the other had to return to England with the information. We both knew." He swallowed, remembering the taste of dust on his tongue, the icy chill that froze his soul. Even then, he had felt frozen. Immobile. Helpless.

"But you chose," Fantine whispered from his side. "You told him to go alone."

Marcus shook his head, though his neck ached with tears long suppressed. "He chose. I couldn't. It was too dangerous. I wanted us to stay together, but he insisted. How would he ever become a man if I was always hovering about?" Oh, God. He groaned; the pain was unbearable. "I should have kept us together. He would still be alive."

"But you chose," Fantine repeated. "You picked duty and honor and England over your brother. And he died because of it."

He looked at her, seeing the fear on her face, realizing she must have repeated those words to herself. But they simply weren't true. "Geoffrey wanted the risk. And God knows I thought he would be safe." His voice broke as he repeated the words, "I thought he would be safe."

She didn't respond, merely sat, her face drained of color. Unable to resist, he clasped her cold body to him, needing to feel her skin against his, her breath mixing with his own. Her life a part of his own.

"Cannot you understand?" he whispered against her cheek. "If I leave and something happened to you, it would be Geoffrey all over again. I could never forgive myself. Please, Fantine, let me stay."

He felt her body tremble against his, felt her struggle. And then, finally, he felt her body relax, slowly drawing away from him as her emotions quieted. He smiled, though the movement felt shaky at best. He had won. He had not intended his revelation as a weapon in his argument with her, the words had simply tumbled out. But as he looked into her shimmering eyes, he knew she understood. He could see her acceptance of the truth in her steady gaze.

"You did the right thing," she whispered, and he knew it cost her because she gripped his fingers until they went numb. "I have been blaming you, thinking you knowingly sent your brother to his death. But you didn't. It was his choice." She swallowed. "You acted correctly. His death is not on your shoulders."

She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping free.