The Love List (4 page)

He stilled, jarred by how closely her words echoed his earlier thoughts.  A wave of empathy crested over him, squeezing the air from his lungs. 

He brushed it away and focused on the girl.  She looked tired now, and he thought he detected a tremble in her fingers.  “I should offer my thanks, then, as well as my apology.  For the strategy worked brilliantly.  You made a most effective weapon.”

She blanched.  The shaking of her hands became suddenly pronounced. 

“I’m sorry.  What is it?”  He wanted to reach out, support her, but feared she would spook.

“Nothing.  I’m fine.”  She nodded.  Kept nodding until she realized what she was doing.  She stopped and met his gaze, her own gone hard.  “I’ll accept your apology, but only if you promise not to show up on my father’s doorstep with an offer for my hand.  The waters of my life are muddy enough, thank you.”

He bit the inside of his lip.  “I’ll make it a solemn vow.  No proposals of marriage.”

“Good.”  She nodded, but her satisfaction almost visibly drained away as her eyes widened.  “Oh, heavens,” she breathed.  “The papers, the gossip—they’ll be merciless when I break off the engagement.”

Intriguing that she used the word
when
instead of
if
.

“And it will be so much worse if your name is thrown into the mix.  There will be no chance of a quiet announcement.”  Her expression grew pleading.  “Please, if you just would not breathe a word of this to anyone,” she gestured.  “I won’t and Marstoke likely won’t either, as he doesn’t come off well if the story gets out.”  She shivered.  “I want out.  With a minimum of fuss, your Grace.  I should think I stand a chance of convincing my father if it can be accomplished quietly.”

“I shall do as you wish, of course.”

“Papa won’t stand for a scandal.  That’s why it’s best if your name never comes up.  I don’t want people pairing us in their minds, making connections where there are none.  Soon enough they’ll start to think back, trying to recall if they’ve seen us together before.  Things will be remembered that never happened.  A glance.  A dance. 
Lies
.  And my chance at freedom will be gone.”

She was beginning to look a bit wild again, so he nodded.  “I won’t breathe a word, Miss Wilmott.  I promise.  No one ever need know a thing about what happened here tonight.”

She sighed in relief.  “Thank you.”  After a pause she said, “I should tell you that I went down the hall and snagged a footman, earlier.  I sent him for my chaperone before I snuck back here to eavesdrop.”  She said it boldly, unrepentant.  “I don’t think it a wise idea for you to be here when she arrives.”

“A veritable waterfall of muddy water, that would be,” he agreed.  Her bravery made him feel guilty, and suddenly humble.  “Will you be all right?”

She nodded.  He couldn’t decipher the expression that crossed her face. 

“Well, good night, then.” 

“Goodbye.”  It was hardly more than a whisper.

Instinct told him to turn away.  He could see that she was waiting for it.  And by God,
not
complicating the situation further was the least he could do for her.  He set off, reminding himself that he’d accomplished at least part of what he’d set out to do.  Tru was safer than he had been, at least. 

Yet he could find no solace in the thought.  Marstoke had been right.  He had learned the incredible folly of interfering in the lives of others.  He’d carefully arranged his life to avoid it.  It had been years since he’d run the risk.

Until tonight.

He hoped to God there would be no karmic reprisals.  Unease settled over his shoulders.  This night’s work felt like only another burden for him to add to the load he already carried. 

But it was lighter than it might have been.  Thanks to that sprite of a girl.  That was the thought that lingered as he headed for home.

* * *

Brynne slumped against the wall and watched him walk away.  The Duke of Aldmere.  He was as handsome as rumor painted him, broodingly so, like a warrior or a king.  That was what he reminded her of—a monarch of old, with thick, dark hair and a large, muscle-corded frame that not even formal evening clothes could completely civilize.  She rubbed her arm with her one free hand, still feeling the pulse and heat of excitement brought on by so much angular and masculine beauty.  And yet it was true what they said.  He wore an air of aloof distance like a royal mantle.

Heaven knew he was as canny and calculating as a head of state, too.  A scant few minutes in his presence and he’d sized her up, distilled her life’s greatest crisis down to deceptive simplicity and then molded it into a weapon to use against Lord Marstoke.  A ruthless, brilliant maneuver she was in no position to appreciate. 

A weapon.  They had both used the term.  When had she ceased to be a young woman with hopes and dreams and become an object?  An instrument to be used by a man against his enemies?

Aldmere disappeared in the direction of the ballroom.  Even as she resented the man, she couldn’t help but follow him with her eyes.  Beyond dark, good looks, he possessed an air of steadiness and stability that called to her.  But there was something else, too.  Something missing.  As if he were a puzzle, lacking the last few vital pieces.  She wondered, if they’d met under different circumstances, if she might have been able to discover those last, absent elements.

She released a long breath.  Surely the duke already had people in his life to look after him.  It would seem he had a brother, at least, whom he was close to.  And as much as she admired the duke, she envied his brother more.  Did he know how fortunate he was to have such an unswerving champion?

The muffled clinking of ill-used crystal echoed from the library at her back.  Clutching her torn bodice, Brynne pushed herself away from the wall.  She kept to the shadows and wished fervently that Marstoke would drown in Lord Dalton’s brandy. 

She couldn’t count on the marquess to oblige her, in this or anything else.  She had to find Lady Tillney and get home.  Abruptly her prayers shifted.  She could only hope that once there, she found the same sort of champion for herself.

Two

“I know I occupy a unique position in Society.  King’s Consort, First Courtesan in Europe, Queen of the Whores—all names I have answered to in my lifetime.  I understand that this is the reason why many of you will read these memoirs.  Some hope to understand how a simple Baron’s daughter rose to such infamy.  Others, perhaps, seek a way to tear me down . . .

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Flying in the face of inclination, training and years of precedence, Brynne burst into her father’s study.  Still clad in her outerwear and evening finery, she closed the door on the butler’s protests and turned towards the massive walnut desk.

She paused.  Silence lay heavy in the room, broken only by the scratch of her father’s pen.  Such a tiny, ordinary sort of sound, yet it grew louder and more significant in Brynne’s mind as she considered all the many times in her life she’d given way before it.  A thousand incidents over the years, when a young girl’s fancy, her excitement, even her needs, had been supplanted by the quiet rasp of pen meeting paper.

She hated that sound.

Brynne cleared her throat.  “Father . . .”

He held up a finger.  The scratching continued.

She sighed.  Long experience had taught her the futility of doing anything but waiting.  In most cases she’d found it better to slip away, to put off her approach until the fever had passed and the latest flurry of political strategies and ideals had been safely birthed into the world.

Not tonight.

The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow.  Nervous, anxious energy bubbled inside her.  Brynne merely pulled her cloak tighter about her and kept her pacing to the distant lengths of the room.  At last Lord Wilmott set aside his pen.  With a sigh of satisfaction he leaned back and began to look over what he’d written.

She approached the desk.  “Father?”

Startled, he looked up.  “Oh, yes.  Brynne.  What is it?”

Now that the time had come, her pulse jumped.  She clasped her shaking hands together.  Could she bear to tell him?  But she must.  The consequences were not to be borne, did she not.

“Father, something has happened.  The betrothal . . .” She faltered and had to steel herself once again.  “I cannot marry him, Father.”

His pen shifted as he clutched it harder.  “Of course you can.”  He sounded impatient.  “And you will.”  Already his eyes had shifted back to the papers in front of him.

She shook her head and held her ground.

Her father let loose an exasperated sigh.  His gaze grew derisive as he ran an eye over her rich mantle and the costly shot silk of her gown peeking out below.  “Brynne, I understand that many girls are fond of dramatics, especially where weddings and betrothals are concerned, but really, I did not expect it of you.”  He set down the pen at last.  “Things have progressed rather too far to be bringing up doubts.  There can be no backing out now.”

“There can be.  There will be.”  She stiffened her spine.  “Father, Lord Marstoke is . . . I fear that something is not right with him.”

“What is it that you mean?” 

Brynne had his full attention now.  He’d straightened in his chair and locked his gaze with hers.  Even now, with dread roiling in her belly and fear for her future setting her atremble, still a small part of her rejoiced at having captured his interest.  The realization made her feel sicker yet.

She could not bring herself to start with the most horrifying parts of the evening.  She breathed deeply and began with the marquess’s comments on her charity work.

Lord Wilmott sat back.  “You do tend toward vehemence on the subject—as do I, I fear.  Perhaps we should both try to speak more evenly when we are in company.”  He sighed.  “I know that Lord Marstoke is a good deal older than you, and perhaps he is not aware of social injustice in the way that you are.”  He gave her a little smile.  “Think of it as an opportunity to educate him.  And remember that you will be a marchioness!  Put that formidable intellect of yours to work and just imagine all that you will be able to accomplish in such a position.”  He scrubbed a hand across his brow.  “You have a duty to make this marriage, both to me and to your fellow countrymen.”

Brynne swallowed.  “There’s more, Father.  He made no sense!  He was raving about our marriage being a game and fire and flame and his plans for turning me into a weapon.  He said he
owned
you and insisted that my duty was to obey his every command.”  Her gaze dropped and she had to pause to gather her courage.  “He ordered me to take down my bodice, and to let loose my chemise and stays.”

Her father stilled.  “What did you do?”

She raised her chin.   “I refused.”

Silent, he waited.

Brynne could not meet his eyes.  She stood rigid before his desk, the very spot where she had met so many of her life’s disappointments—and prayed it did not happen again.  “He was angry.”  Without volition she rubbed the side of her face, slightly swollen and beginning to bruise.  “He struck me, Father!  He told me I was bought and paid for and he meant to inspect the goods.”

Now it was her father’s hand that shook as he covered her eyes.  “Brynne,” he began.  “My Britannia.” 

Hope surged through her.

“Lord Marstoke is a very powerful man.  You know the situation that I am in—the situation that the opposition is in.  The Whigs are hopelessly split and virtually powerless.  Marstoke’s influence could turn all that around. ”

Brynne had shattered her wrist once, in a fall from a horse.  The pain had been excruciating, the worst that she’d ever experienced—until tonight.  Staring into Lord Marstoke’s cruel eyes she’d thought that when he’d hit her—that humiliating instant of hurt, anger and fear was likely the worst moment she’d ever suffer. 

How horrifying—and how lowering—to discover that she’d been wrong.

“England is in a terrible mess, my dear,” her father continued.  “You
know
that.  Oh, it’s all flags and national pride and plans for parades at the moment, but nobody is considering the economics of the war ending.  There are terrible times ahead—and who shall lead us through it?  The Regent is busy designing pagodas for the parks and telling war stories as if he is personally leading the allies to victory,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Agitated, he pushed away from his desk and stood.  Without looking at her, he began to pace.  “Now is the time.  The Whigs must unite.  Marstoke has pledged his support—once you are married.  It will make a difference, Britannia.  I will finally be able to bring about some much-needed change.”

“Perhaps you should listen to the rest of the story before you decide to trade my misery for the masses’.”  Bitterness and betrayal lodged in her throat but she forced the words past.  The memory nearly gagged her, but she told him all the rest of Marstoke’s terrible plans for her future.

Brynne’s wobbling knees failed her then.  As she sank into a chair, the tears she’d been holding back all evening burst forth and streamed down her cheeks.  “He is a
monster
,” she sobbed.  “And I won’t be sold into such a life!”

Pale and trembling, her father sat down as well.  His gaze hardened as he looked at her.  “Brynne, have you invented this tale?”

In answer, she threw back her cloak.  Her father took one look at her torn bodice and dropped his head into his hands.

“He felt free to treat me like this because he considers me well and truly trapped.  I beg you will prove him wrong!   He wants me to enter the marriage in a suitable state of fear.  He is warped, Father!  He wished me to fear him—he took a sick sort of pleasure in it.”