The Day of the Duchess Page 24

  He did not see the instant surprise and clear doubt in Lilith and Felicity’s eyes. He was too busy looking at his wife, who stepped through the doorway, into the conversation, a portrait of interest.

  He did not see Lilith shake her head.

  He did not see Felicity open her mouth to speak, or see the way her brow furrowed when Sera asked, “You shall do what?”

  If he had seen any of that, he might not have said what he said in front of what immediately seemed like all the world.

  He might not have looked her in the eyes and said, with no thought of what might come of it, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, “Tell you that I love you.”

  Chapter 21

  Correct Your Courtship: Love Lessons from Legitimate Ladies

  To be fair, he realized immediately that he’d made a mistake.

  And, surprisingly, it was not when his wife turned tail and returned down the stairs from whence she’d came.

  Nor was it when Lady Lilith let out a little, “Oh, no.”

  Nor did he require Lady Felicity Faircloth’s quite frank, “Well. That was badly done.”

  He realized he’d made a mistake the moment he’d heard himself speak the words—so unfamiliar—and discovered that he’d never spoken them before. Of course, he’d said them a thousand times in his head. Into the darkness as he longed for her late at night.

  But never to her face.

  And now, as he followed her through the eastern pastures of Highley, he thoroughly regretted saying them in front of Lilith and Felicity, feet from Sesily, whom Sera had nearly toppled from the staircase as she pushed past, and Seleste, who pressed herself flat to the ground-floor wall of the tower as Haven tore out after his wife. And from Seline, whose loud, “Oi! Haven, what’ve you done wrong now?” was punctuated by Sera’s leap into the saddle, before she gave the horse a mighty “Hyah!” and let the beast have free rein.

  “Goddammit, Sera,” Malcolm called after her. “Wait!”

  Of course, she didn’t, and he was headed for his own horse, nearly there when a heavy object caught him squarely between the shoulders. He turned to face his sister-in-law, who was straightening, testing the weight of another projectile.

  “What in hell? Did you just throw a rock at me?”

  Seline appeared to be calculating the distance between them. “I don’t know that I would use the word rock.”

  “Stone, more like!” Sesily Talbot called down from atop the tower, where three bonneted heads peeked through the parapet.

  “Barely a pebble.” Seleste appeared in the entryway of the folly, arms akimbo, ready to do battle like a damn Amazon.

  He shook his head at the sister-in-law who was armed. “You realize that throwing rocks is unsafe.”

  Seline tossed her current stone up in the air and caught it. “Not for me,” she said. “I’ve a good arm.”

  He shook his head. “You’re mad.”

  “No, I’m loyal. Which is a thing you have never been.”

  An instinctual denial caught in his throat as the Countess Clare called from her place, “And amen to that! Hit him in the head this time!”

  For a moment, he wondered if Seline might actually do it. He spread his hands wide. “You’re all mad. And I’m going after your sister.”

  “Not yet, you’re not.” Seleste came to stand next to her armed sister. “It seems to me that you’ve made her quite unhappy. Unhappy enough that she does not wish to see you.”

  “He told her he loved her!” Sesily announced from her place far above, her tone the same one might use if one were discussing finding a rat in a drain somewhere on the estate.

  All the other women grimaced. “You deserve another rock for that,” Seline pointed out. “And four more for the young women you’ve been dancing about while you tried to woo our sister back.”

  “It’s no trouble, Duke!” Lady Lilith called down.

  “Of course it is trouble! You’re only for market for so long!” Sesily said. “And now the two of you have been passed over by Haven.”

  “Which isn’t exactly the worst thing in the world,” Seleste pointed out. “As he’s dreadful.”

  “And about to get a rock to the head,” Seline added.

  Malcolm gritted his teeth. “I love your sister,” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it, though God knows why not, because it’s the truth. And I’m damned if I’m going to let you harridans keep me from telling her properly.”

  “Ha! You do realize this means I win, do you not?” Sesily crowed from where she leaned over the tower wall. It occurred to Mal that she might have been leaning too far over the tower wall, as a matter of fact, but he found he could not find the energy or the inclination to tell her to be careful.

  “We know, Sesily.”

  “Ten pounds each!” she called down. “Sophie is going to be livid.”

  “There was a wager?” Felicity asked.

  “Of course! There are always wagers. You should see us in season!” Sesily paused, then turned to Lilith and Felicity. “You shall see us in season, soon enough! Our betting book rivals White’s! And it’s much more interesting.”

  “I’m happy that you are all finding friendship and funds while keeping me from my wife, but I’m through with this now.” He looked to Seline. “I trust you won’t knock me unconscious on my way to fetch your sister.”

  “I shan’t,” Seline allowed, “because if you use the word fetch with her, Duke, she’s going to knock you unconscious herself. She doesn’t want you, no matter how much blunt Sesily’s won.” Seleste’s words were cool and unemotional, and unsettling with the way they rained truth down around them. “You ruined everything years ago, when you refused to acknowledge she existed beyond you.”

  He stilled at that. “I never refused that.”

  “Oh?” called Sesily from far above. “We must have missed all the times you came to luncheon and tea.”

  “And the time you asked our father for her hand,” Seleste said.

  “And the times you made your courtship public,” Sesily added. “And here we were, thinking you were ashamed of your toy.”

  Blood roared in his ears. “She was never my toy.” But Sera’s words echoed through him. You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me, either. You never have.

  Christ. What had he done?

  He looked to his wife’s sisters. “I only ever loved her.”

  “But not all of her,” Seleste said.

  “Not enough,” Seline added.

  In another lifetime, Malcolm would have argued the point. He would have let his anger and frustration get the better of him. Instead, in that moment, he looked from one of her sisters to the next, and the next, and then said, firmly, “I love her. All of her. Duchess or Dove. With or without you harridans.”

  Seline watched him for an uncomfortable length of time before tossing her stone to the ground. “By all means, then. Go convince her of it.”

  Malcolm did not miss the meaning in the words, the clear disbelief that he would succeed at convincing his wife of anything of the sort.

  And still, he’d taken to the saddle, and followed her at breakneck speed, his heart racing as he realized the direction in which she headed, desperate to get to her before she discovered—

  She was off her horse and headed for the little circle of trees that marked the center of the northern edge of the property, and he was shouting her name on the wind, driving his own mount forward as she faced him, her shoulders stiffening, her spine straightening. She stilled, waiting for him, the summer breeze taking her skirts in long, languid movement even as she remained frozen in the lush green grass.

  His horse thundered toward her, and she did not move, remaining in perfect pause, as though a thousand pounds of horseflesh weren’t bearing down upon her. Fear crashed through him as he pulled hard on the reins, the horse stopping mere feet from her as though she’d stayed it with mere force of will.

  He was down from the
saddle before the horse even stopped, not caring as his hat toppled from his head and he closed the distance between them, wanting to reach her and touch her and—dammit—love her.

  He was a hound after a fox, and he fully expected her to go to ground.

  Except she did not. Instead, she let him come for her. And it occurred that he might, in fact, be the fox.

  Because when he reached her, his fingers reaching for her, curling around the back of her head, she tilted her face up to his, her own hand reaching. Her own fingers curling. And, God in heaven, his lips were on hers and she was his—all breath and touch and long, glorious kiss.

  He could not stop it, not even when he knew that he should. Because he should. Because this was neither the time nor the place to kiss her—not when she’d run from him and he’d run to her and they needed nothing more than to talk.

  It was time they had this out.

  She pulled away, just enough to whisper his name, and that small, soft Mal, was enough to slay him and tempt him and bring him to her again. Just for a moment. Just until he’d tasted her and touched her. Just until he was made strong again by her presence.

  It had been too long since he’d been strong.

  And then she was pushing him away, color high on her cheeks, lips stung red with his kiss, and she was putting distance between them. She shook her head, and he opened his mouth to say the words—once, just once, alone with her. Here.

  Sera did not give him a chance to have the first word. Nor did she intend for him to have the last. She lifted her chin. “What then, I was to have dropped to my knees and thanked you for condescending to offer me your love?”

  He froze, his mouth open, words lost. He never seemed to have the right ones with her. Too often they were lies, and when they were truth—they were never enough.

  “Or, what?” she prodded. “To profess my own feelings?”

  “That would not have been unwelcome. And I might remind you that seconds ago, your kiss made a profession of its own.”

  “Kisses have never been our failing.”

  “What then?” he pushed her. Knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing he must. “What has been our failing?”

  “What hasn’t?” She spread her arms wide. “Honesty? Trust?” The words were a cold burn, landing with proper sting. And still she came at him. “When did you invite them here?” His hesitation was enough for her to know the truth, and still she pushed him. “When, Malcolm?”

  “The day you came to Parliament.”

  She looked away, toward the manor house, rising like a lie in the distance. “You never intended to give me my divorce, did you?”

  Of course he hadn’t. He’d chased her across the world. He’d never in his life been so thrilled as when she stormed into Parliament and fairly set the place aflame. She was his. “No.”

  “Why lie? To me? To these women? To their families?” Before he could reply, she continued. “Was it punishment?”

  “No.”

  “Of course it was,” she said. “You remain the cat and I the mouse. And all you can do is toy with me.”

  “No,” he said, coming toward her, one arm outstretched as though he could catch her.

  She did step back then, recoiling from his touch, wrapping her arms about her waist as though she could protect herself from him—as though she had to protect herself from him—and Mal dropped his hand as though he had been singed, never wanting to give her anything that she did not wish. He cast about for the right words—the ones that would change everything. Simply. Perfectly.

  Of course, nothing between them was ever simple.

  “Shall I tell you how I feel, Malcolm?” He waited, and she continued. “I feel angry. I feel betrayed. I feel lied to and tricked. You remember those emotions keenly, do you not? You certainly hurled them at me enough.”

  He stepped toward her. “Not any longer.”

  She held up a hand, staying his defense. “I suppose it is ironic, is it not? Here we are, in the precise situation where we began—one of us trapped in a marriage we do not wish.” It wasn’t true. Not really. It couldn’t be. Except she went on, their past coming like arrows. “Except this time, it’s not you who questions my honesty, but the other way around.”

  “How much more honest can I be?” he asked, frustration edging into his tone. “I love you.”

  She closed her eyes and looked away. “I suppose you loved me then, too.”

  “I did,” he confessed. “I’ve loved you from the start, and you never believed it.”

  “When is that? When you stole kisses and threatened my reputation feet from the rest of London?”

  A fist knotted in his gut. “Yes,” he said.

  “And when you made love to me here? At Highley?”

  “Yes—Sera—”

  “And when I forced your hand?”

  He’d been so furious then. But it hadn’t changed anything. Not really. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t believe me then. That I loved you. That I was afraid for my sisters and myself. Everything you and I had ever done had been so clandestine. And I’d loved it. But what would happen in the light?” She shook her head. “I regretted it all the moment I did it. I once told you that I would do it again if I had the chance. I wouldn’t. If I could take one day of my life back, it would be that day, here. At Highley.” She looked away, to the horses, the meadow, the estate in late-summer perfection. “I regret it.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  She returned her gaze to his, clear and honest. “I told myself then that I did it for my sisters. That’s how I kept myself sane. But I did it for myself, as well. I did it for myself, full stop. Because I loved you and I was afraid I would never be enough for you.”

  “You were,” he said, reaching for her again, running his hands down her arms, taking her hands in his. “You were more than I could ever dream. I had spent so much of my life believing that love was impossible that when I had it in hand—I wanted every bit of it for myself, alone. And that greed was my downfall.” He shook his head. “I loved you. I never stopped loving you.”

  She looked away, at the summer breeze rustling the meadow beyond. “Then it seems that love is not enough.”

  He loathed the words, because he could see where she was headed. A runaway carriage that would not stop. “It is.”

  Sera gave a little huff of humorless laughter and looked to the manor house in the distance, rising on the horizon like a lie. “It’s not, though. You still do not know me well enough to see the truth, Mal. You still see the same girl from a thousand years ago. The one who thought she loved you enough to win you. Who thought she could convince you to forgive her.”

  “I did forgive you,” he said.

  “No, you punished me,” she said. “You punished me for trapping you—and never once believed that I trapped you for you, dammit, and never the title, the fucking title that hangs like a damn yoke about my neck.” The curse shattered him with its proof of the life she’d had without him. Of the years she’d had free. “You refused to free me, even when I came to you, offering you freedom, as well. Offering you a future. Even when I offered to get down on my knees and beg you for it.”

  Of all the things he’d ever done to her, that one was still the most shameful.

  “And all that before you meted out the worst of your punishments.”

  He would never forgive himself for that moment—for taking another woman to exact revenge upon his wife. “I cannot take it back. I can only tell you that I—”

  “I know.” She cut him off. “You were angry.”

  “I was more than angry.” He reached for her, trying to explain himself. She stepped backward toward the trees, and he stilled. If she did not wish his touch, he would not give it. “I was destroyed. You didn’t tell me—Christ, Sera. I was to be a father.”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t want her.”

  The words stole his breath. “I never said that.”

  “You did!” The accusation came on a f
lood of anguish. “You said you didn’t want a life with me. You didn’t want a family. You didn’t want children.”

  “I was wrong. I was angry and I was wrong,” He rushed to right it. “I wanted that life. I wanted that child.”

  Christ, how they had ruined each other.

  He pressed on. “I wanted that child, and I wanted you. But I was too angry, too cowardly, too rash to see it. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as much as I did that day. I thought it was a lie—everything between us.”

  She nodded. “It wasn’t.”

  “No. It wasn’t.”

  “She wasn’t a lie, either.”

  “No. She wasn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, the only thing he could do to keep himself from touching her. “Sera, if I could take it all back . . .”

  She shook her head. “Don’t. You can’t take it back, and even if you could . . . If we’d stayed together, something else would have driven us apart. Don’t you see?”

  No. He didn’t see, dammit.

  “That’s the point,” she continued. “I’ve never not wanted to kiss you, Mal. I’ve never not been willing to beg for your touch. And it’s never been enough.”

  He would never know why he chose that moment to tell her everything. “I came to Boston.”

  The words were so unexpected that they moved her physically backward, toward the trees. “What?”

  “I came after you,” he said.

  She shook her head. “When?”

  “Immediately,” he said, the words coming fast and clipped, as though he was ashamed of them. “The day you left. But you left without a trace.”

  She did not agree, but he knew it was truth, nonetheless. She hadn’t returned to London. Hadn’t even said good-bye to her sisters. “I went to Bristol.”

  He nodded. “And then to America.”

  Disbelief and uncertainty threaded through her reply. “If you knew—if you came to Boston—why did not you not find me?”

  “I did, dammit.” He looked away, his throat moving with frustration and anger and years of regret. “I found you. It took me a year to get there. I started in Europe. Spent months chasing mad suggestions—many of which came from your harridan sisters—that you were in half a dozen places. I went all the way to Constantinople before turning around and coming back. And when I landed in London, steeped in filth and exhaustion, I heard the story of a beautiful Englishwoman in Boston. A singer. The Dove.”