The Conqueror's Dilemma (19 page)

A pulse began a slow pumping in
Tiffany’s throat. Impossible notions jostled one another in her head, and Mrs
Gosbeck’s words came back to her. Absurd to suppose Mr Westerham to be upon the
point of proposing a romantic flight! To where might they run? And to what
purpose? Make things right? He must mean between them, but for the life of her
she could not see how he thought to do it by this meeting.

The folly loomed up and the
Conqueror guided her steps inside. It was like a little temple, stone seats set
about a low wall with columns rising to the dome above. The floor was marble,
criss-crossed with a pattern cut out of the surface.

Mr Westerham released her, and
Tiffany instinctively shifted to the far side of the place, looking away from
him, out upon another walk leading off in a different direction. The light was
beginning to fade, a faint pink circle settling into the sky. She was acutely
conscious of the Conqueror’s presence a little way behind her, and fancied she
could hear him breathing. His silence became unnerving and she was driven into
speech, turning to confront him as she began.

‘I’m afraid I can’t imagine how
you propose to make things right, Mr Westerham. Nor do I understand what you
mean by that.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’

His tone was hushed, but Tiffany
sensed a weight within it, as if he was holding back a tide. Of what she could
not fathom, but it had the effect of throwing chills down her veins. She held
her breath.

‘I never meant to hurt you,
Tiffany. I know I have. What is more, I know I may do so again in a moment.
Indeed, you may end by hating me, and—’

‘I will never do that.’

She said it without intent, the
truth drawn from her by the barely understood knowledge that a well of feeling
underlay his words. She gave an involuntary smile.

‘I might wish to. I might try.
But I could not hate you, Will.’

Her use of his name—and with it,
the emergence of those imps in her eyes, lately unseen—had the strangest
effect. The heavy blanket of discontent lifted off William’s heart and he felt
light. It was only for a moment, but it was a moment of unadulterated cheer.

‘Thank you. You cannot imagine
how much you have relieved my mind.’

Her smile went awry. ‘But mine is
as clouded as ever. How will you hurt me?’

The light dimmed, and the weight
descended again. William wrenched his gaze away from her face. The vulnerable
look was intolerable. He paced, clasping his hands behind his back to stop
himself from seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her without mercy. Why
must she make him feel the veriest beast? He was attempting to deal honestly by
her, but in face of this naked acceptance the words stuck in his throat.

‘Rabbit it, woman, you will drive
me demented! I don’t know what to say to you any more.’

It was not at all how he had
meant to begin. The gruff tone had no place in his repertoire. What in Hades
was happening to him?

‘How will you hurt me?’

The repetition was sharper, and
William halted, looking round. The words tumbled out, hasty and without intent.

‘I cannot do as I designed,
Tiffany. To bring you into fashion. I had it all fixed I would—even Juliana has
agreed, and she might have quashed the scheme in an instant. She stipulated
only that your chaperon must be excluded, though we none of us know how.’

Tiffany was affected with a
curious sensation of blankness. Her mind was concentrated upon the notion the
Conqueror was
not
going to do what he might to make it possible for her
to meet him on equal terms. But this last caught her attention.

‘None of us? Whom do you mean by
“us”?’ Quick rage kindled in her breast and she let fly. ‘With whom have you
seen fit to discuss me? No doubt with your friend, Lady Yelverton!’

‘Yes,
but—’

‘No doubt she finds me quite as
unfit as you do to be one within your abominable circle. I hope she is unaware
of your arranging to meet me in this peculiarly clandestine fashion, for I am
sure she cannot approve. Or perhaps it is just what she might expect of a
person as lowly as I am?’

In two strides, William closed
with her, seizing her shoulders and giving her a rough shake. ‘
Will you be
silent
? You little termagant, what ails you? Can you not let me speak
without ripping up at me?’

Tiffany brought up her hands and
pushed vainly at his chest. ‘Let go of me! How d-dare you treat me so? I came
here with no expectation of hearing any good of myself, but this is t-too
much.’

For all the fury in her voice, it
was borne in upon William that she was close to tears. A wrenching seized his
guts. His hold slackened and his fingers slid to capture her hands, holding
them where they rested at his breast. His tone dropped into gentleness.

‘Don’t weep. Pray don’t, Tiffany,
for I can’t bear it.’

Tiffany’s recalcitrant heart
instantly betrayed her, melting her defences. But the little core of pride
remained.

‘Then you had b-best stop
h-hurting me. I know you warned me, but it’s hard to remain aloof.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

With a sigh, William put her from
him and released her hands, stepping back to create distance between them. The
desire to drag her into his arms was almost overwhelming. He wanted to kiss her
so badly it was like a physical ache. The power she had over his senses was
intoxicating—and terrifying. If only her degree had been low enough, he might
have made her his mistress.

The thought sent powerful waves
of need into his loins and he was obliged to turn from the sight of her and
contemplate instead the darkening skies outside the little temple. Her voice,
low and redolent with feeling, reached into a part of him never previously
touched.

‘I don’t know what you want of
me, Mr Westerham.’

He responded instinctively.
‘Don’t call me that. We have gone far beyond it.’ He turned his head, catching
her eye. ‘I liked my name on your lips.’

Her cheeks flushed and she
averted her gaze. ‘I didn’t mean to use it.’

‘But you used it nonetheless.’

Tiffany found herself in
difficulties. In truth, she wanted nothing better than to claim the intimacy he
was offering. But he was so changeable, she was afraid to trust it. He might be
“Will” to her at this instant, but he could quickly revert to being the
Conqueror. She steeled herself to look at him again.

‘I think it is best if you remain
Mr Westerham.’

He flinched. ‘Yes, I deserve
that, I suppose.’

Tiffany said nothing, for fear
she might retract if she spoke at all. For a moment, he continued to regard
her, his expression unreadable. She became conscious of the growing dusk for
she could no longer see into his eyes, which had become mere pools of darkness.
Eerily, she felt his tension all the stronger for not being able to recognise
it in his face.

‘Do you know who I am?’

The question, uttered in a low
vibrant tone, startled her. ‘What can you mean?’

‘I don’t. I wish I did. It would
make this a deal easier—on both of us.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

Was there fear in her voice?
William could not blame her. He must sound like a madman. How else was he to
exculpate himself? He was past the glib reasoning he had intended. It would not
assuage Tiffany’s distress. Besides, he wanted her to know the truth, although
he knew not why. He was acting on impulse—the effect this girl had on him
always.

‘If you called me a play actor,
you would not be far wrong. It is all a façade.’ Unknowing he was on the move,
William began to pace. ‘My sobriquet is my disguise. It fools most people
satisfactorily. Not Juliana, of course. Of necessity, she knows me for a fraud.
But she will not expose me for she it was who put me where I am.’

Tiffany shrivelled inside. She
had guessed aright. Had Lady Yelverton been his first conquest? She might not
mind that, only how much of a role had the creature now in his life? Not that
she had any rights in the matter.

‘I am the Conqueror,’ he pursued,
‘but it means nothing at all. I am bound as strongly as you by the rules that
plague you. Let me put a foot wrong, and Society will delight in dashing me to
the ground.’

A choked laugh escaped Tiffany,
and he shot a narrow look at her.

‘The prospect no doubt amuses
you?’

She shifted uncomfortably. ‘No.
It’s just—so unlikely.’

‘Believe me, I do not exaggerate.
It’s a callous world, the one I inhabit. I didn’t know it when I began, or I
might have revised my ambitions. Now it is too late. I have made my bed and I
have no choice but to lie in it.’

Tiffany felt she was groping for
a barely understood concept beneath his words, one that must affect her.

‘Are you trying to tell me why
you will not acknowledge in public how well you know me?’

‘Trying, yes. And making a poor
fist of it.’ The breath sighed out of him. ‘Oh, Tiffany, what am I to do? We
are more akin than you know. We even hail from the same part of the world. My
home is in Wharram Piercy in the York Woulds.’

‘I don’t know it.’

‘How should you? It is little
more than a village. Moreover, it bears so little resemblance to what you know
of Yorkshire it might as well be in another country. You have known the sea,
but I grew up in a barren place. A sandy, mountainous landscape. It was thinly
inhabited, for few cared to remain unless they must. Who am I to blame them,
for it holds few fond memories for me?’

Tiffany had no words. She felt
hushed and expectant, as if she was being trusted with knowledge Mr Westerham
had told to no other.

‘My father was the curate. He was
not—an easy man.’ The edge to his voice, the hesitation, hinted at more than
the words alone carried. ‘He would have schooled me at home, but my mother—’
Here a new emphasis entered in, alerting Tiffany to a different feeling. ‘—my
mother persuaded him to send me to York. I thought it a boon then, but now I
wonder if it was not a mixed blessing.’

‘In what way?’

His tone became wry, although
Tiffany could now hardly see him except in outline and shadow. ‘It fostered an
ambition in me to enter society. I made good use of every high-flown
acquaintance, and I met there my best friend, Hector.’

‘Lord Kilbride?’

He nodded. ‘I used him
shamelessly, he and his sister. When I left school, I was employed as a tutor
for a couple of years. I saved each penny I could, made my way to London and
landed on Hector’s doorstep. He and Ariadne introduced me into Society, and
with a little luck—and a deal of brass-faced effrontery worthy of your Lady
Drumbeg—I climbed the heights to where I am now.’

He was watching her. Tiffany
could feel his eyes, yet she could not see more than a glitter in the dark. A
compulsion seized her, to break apart his carefully constructed haven—as she
had the power to do. She realised it all at once, and the blood rushed to her
head. She had felt all the pain of his blowing hot and cold upon her, without
the recognition of its cause. Now she saw it, and found it intoxicating.

‘Your heights, Will,’ she uttered,
ragged with wonder, ‘to which you will not lift me, for fear you may be dragged
into an intimacy you desire but cannot afford.’

She heard, with a surge of
triumph, his sharp intake of breath. He had not expected her so readily to
understand him. She hit home, and hard.

‘Is it money, Mr Westerham? Is
that your ambition? You must needs find a willing heiress who will not mind
maintaining you in the style to which you have become accustomed. Yes, I see it
now. You are afraid I may tempt you to an unprofitable marriage, and you dare
not risk it. What a pity I am too respectable to be your whore instead. It is
all I am fit for, is it not, where you are concerned?’

He stood mute. Had she so
confounded him he could find nothing to say? Or was he shocked to hear her
speak so?

It mattered little. The spurt of
fire that had carried her thus far was spent. Tiffany heard the echo of her
words with dawning horror. The defiance of one moment earlier was superseded by
an urgent need to be gone from his presence. She turned from him and made for
the exit.

He was making no attempt to try
and stop her. Tiffany could not resist glancing back. The Conqueror had not
moved. His head was still turned in her direction. She halted, hardly knowing
if she waited for a sign from him, or if she obeyed her own instincts.

The silence stretched into
eternity. Ice entered Tiffany’s bones. She summoned a voice, which even to her
own ears sounded stiff and bleak.

‘I will say goodbye, William the
Conqueror, for there can be no meeting point between us.’

The atmosphere was thick with question, but Ariadne sat
mumchance, driving up William’s ill temper. Answering her summons to Brook
Street, he had taken the stairs to the familiar tiny back parlour Ariadne
reserved for her private use—and for just such a tête-à-tête as William had
guessed he was in for the instant the butler had told him where Mrs Membury was
awaiting him. It did nothing to improve his mood.

Nor was he cheered by the
admitted brightness of the room, its walls done out in pale yellow paper with a
green stripe of leaves, repeated in the drapery at the single window and upon
the seats of the two wooden armchairs. These were all the furniture the parlour
boasted, beyond the neat little writing desk set in a corner and its accompanying
simple chair.

William broke the silence that
had fallen immediately after greetings had been exchanged. ‘What do you want,
Ariadne?’

Her eyes widened in a show of
surprise, which did not fool him for an instant. ‘Why, nothing, dear Will.
Except to see you. You have been a hermit these three days.’

William turned back to
contemplation through the window of the narrow gardens behind. ‘I have been out
of sorts.’