Gayle Buck (26 page)

She endured the meaningful glances and veiled comments for a little more than an hour until she could not stand to be silent any longer. In a lull of the press of personages about them, she blurted, “Is it true, what is being said? Did you shoot that man because of me?”

The viscount glanced down at her.

Mary almost felt the anger that flashed in his eyes, but she refused to let her own gaze waver. “Pray—! Do not look at me so. But only tell me the truth.”

Lord St. John’s lips curled. “Would it puff up your self-consequence to know that it was true? Very well, then. It is true.”

“No! You mistake me. I-I was shocked to hear of it, I do not understand how you could have done it. Indeed, I thought I would faint,” she stammered. “How could you have put yourself in such appalling risk on my account?”

He narrowed his gaze. “Am I to infer that you censure my conduct, my lady?”

“Not censure, no! But I cannot believe it was necessary to shoot that gentleman.”

He took her elbow in an ungentle grip and steered her over to a deserted spot near the balcony. His voice very cold, he said softly, “I will not tolerate a questioning of my sense of honor, my lady. I will not tolerate any interference whatsoever. What I do is my affair. Is that quite understood?”

She averted her face, suddenly very pale. Not trusting her voice, she nodded. His steely fingers tightened momentarily above her elbow, bruising the tender flesh, then dropped away. She heard his swift step leaving her.

Blindly, she stepped through the archway onto the darkened balcony. Placing her hands on the cool stone barrier, she squeezed shut her brimming eyes. Her heart felt shredded. The coldness of his voice, the utter palpability of his animosity toward her, had wounded her to an extraordinary degree. She did not know that one could feel such pain and still breathe.

Mary’s cheeks were wet with silent tears. When she heard a hesitant footstep behind her, she hastily dashed her hand across her face. She hoped that the shadows were dark enough to hide the fact of her weeping.

“Lady St. John?”

She turned her head, pinning on a smile. “Why, Nana. Have you come out for a breath of air as well?”

“I thought you were upset, thought you might wish a friend,” said Lord Heatherton.

Mary felt her smile wobble. “Thank you, Nana. That was very kind of you. But, indeed, I am quite all right.”

Lord Heatherton nodded. “I thought so. But still, a friend and all that.” He frowned, then offered, “Sinjin don’t mean the half of what he says when he’s out of temper. The very devil of a fellow, Sinjin, but he’s a good sort for all of that.”

Mary felt her throat closing again. She said in a strangled voice, “Yes, I know. But it is so difficult at times. He-he doesn’t care much for me, you see, while I—” She could not go on, neither her slipping emotions nor her pride allowing her to do so.

Lord Heatherton cleared his throat. He felt himself completely at a loss. The situation required delicacy and finesse, qualities that he did not possess in dealing with the ladies.

“Sinjin chose you above the others,” he offered hesitantly, doubtful that it was more than small comfort.

Mary turned her head. Her lips parted. “You mean he could have chosen someone else?” she asked, somewhat incredulously.

Lord Heatherton nodded, glad that his poor gambit had succeeded so well. “I had gotten up a list of the most likely candidates for Sinjin’s consideration. You were not my first choice for him, nor Carey’s, either. But Sinjin would have none of the rest once he had heard your name. He had already met you and insisted that he knew you well enough to make an offer.”

Mary stood quite still, feeling the enormity of it come upon her. Hope blazed across her wounded soul and lit her eyes. “Oh, Nana. You have no notion what that means to me.”

Impulsively she reached up to kiss his cheek.

Lord Heatherton blushed. He had not the least idea what had so pleased her, but he was happy to see that the air of dejection that had clung to her had quite passed. He protested that he was glad to be of service.

His confused air was endearing and Mary started to laugh.

A cold voice undercut Lord Heatherton’s tangled disclaimer. “Indeed, Nana, and what service might that be? Or might I guess from that quite affecting kiss that my wife pressed upon you?”

Mary whirled with a gasp.

But her dismay was nothing compared to the emotion that sheered up Lord Heatherton’s spine. His eyes started from his head. “Sinjin! Why—why, I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered, thoroughly overthrown.

Lord St. John let go of the edge of the drapery that he had crushed in his fist. His voice was insidiously soft. “Do you not? Let me make it perfectly clear, my friend. You were making love to my wife.”

Lord Heatherton stood quite speechless. He had never been in such a spot in his life.

Instant protest rose to his lips, but it was not uttered before his inner censor spoke sternly to his conscience. He had not meant it to happen. Of course not. But he had done something to cause Lady St. John to kiss him, so he supposed that the accusation flung at his head was entirely appropriate. He had indeed been caught making love to another man’s wife.

“I hardly know what to say. Indeed, Sinjin, I meant it all for the best.”

Lord St. John’s face whitened beneath its tan. He had followed his wife to apologize for his hasty, cutting words, only to be met with the sight of her bestowing a kiss upon another man. His jealousy had sprung into full flower, but it was insignificant compared to the rage that coursed his veins upon Lord Heatherton’s grave admission.

“You damnable cur,” he breathed. His eyes glittered like cut diamonds. “I should throttle you now, but that would be too easy. I shall take pleasure in running you through.”

Lord Heatherton was not a well-rounded sportsman. He was not one of the noted whips nor did he enjoy a reputation for finesse with fists or sword. The only accomplishment he could lay claim to was an absolute dead eye with any known firearm. He was therefore much sought during the hunting season and had often won tidy sums from wagers at the shooting gallery.

Neither was Lord Heatherton a physical coward. Physical discomfort meant little to him. He was indefatigable in any weather and possessed an iron constitution.

He could be wounded by slights, when he understood them, but in general his was an even, insulated personality. Perhaps the only person he actually feared was his mother.

However, as he stared, appalled, into the viscount’s cold eyes, he realized that his life was shortly to be ended in a bloody violent fashion.

But he was an honorable man and he had never skirted even the most distasteful responsibility. Therefore he straightened his shoulders and said with great dignity, “I shall have my seconds call upon you, my lord.”

Lord St. John’s smile was thin and menacing. “See that you do so, Heatherton.”

Then it was that the lady took a hand. She stepped forward and with all the strength at her command, she slapped the viscount. His head snapped back from the unexpected blow.

“I believe that is the proper treatment for one suffering from hysteria,” said Mary, her voice calm but breathless. She was vaguely aware that Lord Heatherton’s mouth had dropped open, but all of her attention was held by the viscount’s blazing countenance.

“You are obviously in your cups, my lord, or you would never have mistaken a sisterly kiss of gratitude for wantonness. Lord Heatherton was kind enough to offer me a word of friendship when he realized that I was in distress. That is the sum upon which you base your ridiculous challenge, as you would undoubtedly recognize if you would allow yourself a coherent thought!”

Lord St. John held himself rigidly. Without taking his eyes from his wife’s pale but composed face, he said in a harsh voice, “I shall speak to you tomorrow, Nana.”

“I shall hold myself at your service, Sinjin.”

As Lord Heatherton retreated, he threw a glance over his shoulder. The thought occurred to him that his exit had not even been noticed.

“I think that it is time that we left, my dear,” said Lord St. John, his expression shuttered.

“As you wish, my lord,” said Mary.

She walked past him, her head held high. There would be no one able to point and exclaim under their breath that she had a whipped-dog appearance about her, even though that description much described her inner trembling.

Her husband’s fingers closed about her elbow in a ruthless grip. Mary did not acknowledge the viscount’s hurtful hold by even so much as an upward glance. Instead she smiled and nodded her way through the several good-byes required of them, her mind scarcely engaged by what she heard or said.

At last they had made their way through the company and emerged onto the steps. A porter ran to call their carriage. They waited in silence for its appearance. When it came, the viscount handed Mary up into it and then climbed in himself.

Mary turned her face determinedly to the window, staring at the passing pools of lamplight. She could feel the tightly coiled presence of the man in the opposite corner and she could only be grateful that he had chosen not to clear the air while they were riding in the carriage. The space was too contained for the explosion that was so patently on a short leash.

It was the most uncomfortable ride that she had ever experienced.

Inevitably, when they reached the town house there were consequences for her actions. Mary was unsurprised when Lord St. John followed her up to her sitting room. Smith had waited up to undress her. As her husband commanded the maid to leave them, Mary felt a sickening leadedness in her middle, but she held herself proudly.

She crossed the room to the hearth and put out her hands toward the fire to warm them. She jumped a little when she heard the door thrust shut but she did not turn about. She was tense as a bowstring but she mustered as much self-control as she could not to reveal it.

Lord St. John strode forward and threw himself into a wingback chair. He stared at his wife, noting how the firelight made mysterious pools of her eyes and caressed the fine planes of her face. She was beautiful. He felt the smoldering fire ignite in his veins.

Beneath her outward manner and the composure with which she dealt with the world, he knew her to be a passionate woman. He had distanced himself from her as he intended, denying himself the pleasure to be found in her bed. The thought that she might have found solace in another man’s arms threatened his sanity.

Harshly, he said, “What have you to say for yourself, madam?”

Mary lifted her head to a proud angle. In her coolest tone, she said, “I do not believe I have anything to say at all about the matter, my lord.”

Lord St. John jerked upright in the chair. His hands clamped hard about the cushioned arms. “Do not pretend to misunderstand me, my lady!”

She left the fire then and advanced to stop beside the settee. She laid a hand on its back with seeming casualness, though in reality she welcomed its solid support under her trembling fingers. “I do not pretend to misunderstand you. I understand quite well. You are angered that I dared to stand up for myself. I will not apologize for that, my lord.”

“So you will not apologize for that affecting scene with Nana?” he demanded.

“I have already fully explained that to you, my lord. I have nothing whatever to add,” she said quietly. The strain was beginning to tell on her nerves and almost unconsciously she tightened her fingers on the settee.

“I have never had an explanation from you, however, regarding Sir Nigel Smythe. Was he also consoling your sense of ill-usage?”

Mary gasped. “How dare you! You know what happened! If you did not hear it from my own lips, it was because you refused to allow me to speak of it. I would willingly have done so, but you would not listen!”

Lord St. John ignored her rush of pained words, too caught up in the poisonous fruits of his jealousy to understand. “What of Applegate, my lady? The mushroom sang your praises most fulsomely. Am I to believe it was to no purpose?”

A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat and Mary laughed in sheer amazement. “My brother-in-law?! What
rot
you have trotted out, my lord! I never took you before for a fool!”

Her unprecedented outburst left silence in its wake.

The viscount was still for a long moment, while he regarded her in a dispassionate, considering fashion. When at last he spoke, it was with a soft inflection that spelled danger by its very silkiness. “I am not one to be easily crossed, my lady, as you will swiftly discover if you persist in your defiance. I can be the very devil. I shall give no quarter.”

“You are kinder than you pretend,” said Mary.

Though chilled by his words, she recalled how he had come to her father’s aid and a dozen times since then that he had come to her own rescue when she had floundered in the treacherous tides of society. He was not the unfeeling monster that he painted himself, she thought.

“Am I?” Lord St. John smiled, not at all pleasantly.

He rose to his feet. “What a very odd notion you have of me, my love.”

There was such a calculating light in his eyes as he advanced on her that Mary instinctively shrank from him. The feel of the back of a wingback chair against her hip brought her up. She stood her ground then. She was trembling, but she would not flee from him.

Lord St. John stopped before her. He stared down into her widened eyes. There was scarce an inch between them. He could see the flutter of pulse in her throat and how the breath came quickly to her. Without a word, still smiling, he reached out with his hands and lightly ran his fingers up her arms to her shoulders. There, his fingers tightened.

“Shall I teach you how very unpleasant I can be, dear Mary?” he whispered.

She stared up at him. The firelight reflected the trace of fear that entered her eyes. Unconsciously she put up a hand of appeal. “Sin-”

He waited no longer, but swept her into a cruel embrace. He tangled his fingers in her heavy hair and dragged back her head. His mouth took rough possession of hers, the kiss deliberately punishing. He sought to incite her to panic or anger, but the result was far else.