Lady Dearing's Masquerade (14 page)

But thank God, this time he merely staggered out, not wasting a backward glance on her.

When she heard the door slam, she curled up into a tight ball, allowing herself the relief of a few tears before summoning Alice to help her.

Chapter 10

Jeremy inhaled a lungful of air spiced with the scent of freshly turned earth. His shirt clung to him in patches as he stretched. It was even warmer than yesterday, more like July than May. Beside him, Ben worked with a child’s seeming indifference to the heat. Jeremy bent back down and wielded his hoe, toiling on in the vain hope that heat and exertion would obliterate what was fast becoming an obsession.

When Livvy came up beside them, fresh and ladylike in a blue sprigged gown and bonnet, lace high at her throat, gloves discreetly covering her hands, he knew he’d failed.

“It is dreadfully hot out here, isn’t it?” she asked, a slight stammer in her voice.

He straightened to face her, his face burning. Custom dictated that a gentleman remain fully dressed regardless of the weather, but here he stood, a brutish oaf in his shirtsleeves, without even a cravat around his neck.

“I thought perhaps the two of you should have some lemonade on the terrace,” she continued.

The breathless sound of her voice, the way she didn’t seem to quite look at him, confirmed his worst fears. She was disgusted by the sight of his sweaty, uncouth self.

Rigid with mortification, he started to go past her toward the pole where he’d strung up his discarded clothing. Then he caught her expression.

She quickly turned and began to fuss over a small tear in Ben’s shirt.

But Jeremy had seen it. The look in her eyes had not been disgust. She had seemed . . . fascinated.

No, perhaps he was imagining it, he told himself as he shrugged into his waistcoat and jacket. Still, Livvy was having trouble settling on a place to rest her eyes. Her cheeks were deliciously pink as she fidgeted with the bow that held her bonnet in place.

He could no longer resist the impulse to behave rashly.

“Perhaps Ben can go ahead,” he suggested. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

“Of—of course,” she said.

He offered her his arm as Ben trotted off. She eyed it as she might a potentially dangerous creature, then slowly laid her hand over it. The feather light touch of her gloved fingers reminded him of something . . . perhaps one of the alluring dreams he had about her.

He started off in the direction of the orchard, the longest possible path back to the house.

“Is there something particular you wish to say to me?” she said, her voice pitched a trifle higher than usual.

At least she had consented to let him touch her. He cleared his throat. “I wished to commend you again on your management of Ben. He shows a remarkable knowledge of gardening for one so young.”

“Yes, Ben
is
a remarkable boy.”

Her hand pressed lightly around his arm as they entered the orchard enclosure; a small sign that her defenses were weakening.

“I’ve seen nothing like these gardens, especially the fruit trees. Your yield must be tremendous.”

“The Weald of Kent is known to be some of the most fertile land in all of England.”

Her voice was calm, but a little husky. Her hand trembled. He wished he could see her face, but she kept facing forward, hiding her expression beyond the brim of her bonnet.

“And Rosemead is a lovely home,” he said casually. “I can imagine no better place for children to grow up.”

Now she turned her face back to him, eyes full of vulnerable hope.

“Yes,” he said, unable to hold back a grin. “I have decided to make a glowing report to the Committee.”

“
Thank you
.”

Her eyes misted with relief, but an instant later her mouth drooped.

Would she miss him?

“Of course, I shall return next week as planned,” he said as they walked along the southern wall, the fruit trees luxuriantly splayed out against it. “I wish to make the most of the time I can spend with Mary.”

And with you.

“Of course.” Her voice was breathless again.

“Perhaps she is not ready to confide in anyone yet, but I want to do what I can to earn her trust.”

“You have made progress already,” she said, still hiding her face.

“I hope that I have.”

He wished he could tear off that annoying bonnet.

“I feel certain that in time she will feel secure in your care.”

He hated the calm resignation in her voice.

“I should like to arrange to see her more often. Perhaps you could bring Mary to the Foundling Hospital so I may see her once in a while?”

“Yes, of course. At the Hospital, with Mrs. Hill in attendance. That should not occasion any gossip. Then once Mary goes to live with you, perhaps I could visit her there as well.”

There it was again: that guarded, cool friendliness in her voice, while he burned with frustration.

“Of course, but perhaps circumstances might change.” The rash words leapt out of him. “Perhaps you need not be parted from her at all.”

She remained silent so long he was certain he’d blundered.

“I cannot see how that could happen,” she said, sounding strangled. “But I know you will be an excellent father to her.”

Though she retained a tenuous grasp on his arm, she seemed to shrink into herself. He was losing her. He had to find some common ground, anything that would break through her reserve.

“You have taught me much in these past weeks,” he blurted. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for it. I think we both have particular reasons for taking interest in these children.”

He felt a subtle shiver through her hand, as if he’d forged a slender thread of communion between them.

“Few men would take the pains you do to win their affection,” she said quietly. “It is a pity you have not children of your own.”

“It was not possible.”

“What happened?”

He remained silent as they passed through an arch dripping with fragrant white hawthorn flowers and came upon raised strawberry beds. The image of Livvy and the children feasting on berries warm from the sun came to him. Then irrational anger possessed him at the thought that he might not see her again, or merely on rare, chaperoned visits to the Foundling Hospital. And he did not want to talk about Cecilia; he wanted to learn about
her
.

Lord, why had he brought up the topic of children?

“I am sorry. I did not mean to pry,” she murmured.

“I am not offended.” Instinctively, he laid a hand over hers, as if it might keep her by his side.

“Would it help you to speak of it?”

Her voice was soft with pity. But he didn’t want her pity. He wanted . . . what
did
he want?

He wanted to know why she cloaked herself in a soiled reputation; whether there was anything that would change her decision. Whether there was any truth to the rumors about her and Lord Arlingdale. What she felt for
him
, if anything.

And to find these things out he needed her to keep talking.

“Do you truly wish to hear it?” he asked roughly.

“I do.”

He clenched his jaw. Now she would see him in the same damned sentimental light as others did. But he could not hold back, not if he hoped she might yield
her
secrets. She might learn the tale anyway.

“It helps to begin at the beginning,” she coaxed, as if speaking to a shy child.

And—God help him—he could not deny her.

He drew a deep breath. “A few months after we first learned my wife was in the family way, she miscarried. Dr. Denman, her accoucheur, assured us that it is not uncommon, that in all likelihood the next time the outcome would be happier. He also suggested some preventive measures.”

He paused for breath, inhaling mingled scents: mint, thyme, chamomile, and others he could not identify.

“I know,” she said, her voice tight and controlled. “Cold baths, a lowering regimen . . . They are also recommended to aid conception. I do not believe they are of any use.”

The memory of how her eyes had glistened as she played with baby Annabel pierced him.

“I think those measures only weakened my wife. It was only after her next miscarriage that Denman decided to perform an examination.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. “It was then he surmised that a riding accident Cecilia suffered when she was sixteen might have left her with an injury which prevented her from carrying a child to term.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He scowled.

“Is there more?” She gently squeezed his arm. The tiny gesture broke something inside of him.

“I wanted us to give up,” he said savagely. “I should never have listened to them. Denman said complete bed rest often proved successful in such cases, and my wife wept until—God forgive me—I agreed to try once more. Cecilia bore me a daughter, but she came . . . four months early.”

A tiny creature, so delicately formed. Pale and barely longer than his hand.

“Her maid and I were the only ones there to help Cecilia.”

He caught himself staring at his hand.

Livvy clasped it in both of hers. “Did your wife die then?” she asked softly.

“No. That was later. But she never regained her spirits.”

“You should not blame yourself.”

He stood like a stone, craving Livvy’s warmth, loathing the object of pity he was becoming to her.

“I could have prevented it.”

“You did what you thought best, what would make your wife happy.”

“I failed.”

Tears shone in Livvy’s eyes. Tenderly, she began to stroke his hand.

His devastation was complete.

“Damn it, I don’t want your pity! I don’t want you to see me as everyone else does. They think my dedication to the foundlings most romantic. A tribute to my wife’s memory and my everlasting grief.”

He spat out the last words, glaring down at her.

Livvy stared up at Sir Jeremy, shivering despite the heat. He did not want her
pity
. What perverse fate made him wish for anything else? To fix his happiness on her was a clear route to disaster, for both of them.

Yet he deserved happiness.

“
I
do not wish you everlasting grief,” she blurted.

He let out a sigh and his expression softened. “I’m glad.”

She released his hand and turned toward the house. “I should not like to see anyone sorrowing forever.”

“You have known sorrows of your own,” he said, coming alongside her.

Dear God, now he hoped she would confide in him.

Her gloves felt tight and hot; her lace tucker scratched her neck, her breasts. She longed to throw off these artificial barriers; she had to remind herself that association with her would jeopardize everything Jeremy had worked for. Dear God! If a scandal ensued, Lord Bromhurst would likely remove all the children from her care.

She pulled herself together, realizing Sir Jeremy was patiently awaiting her answer.

“Nothing quite so tragic,” she said coolly.

“Your husband . . . did he blame you for not bearing him a child?”

She looked straight forward, so her face was shielded by the bonnet. After all Sir Jeremy had confided in her, it felt wrong to withhold the truth of her marriage. But to arouse the protective instincts that were part of his character would be disastrous.

“He was disappointed.”

“Forgive me,” he said, voice lowered. “But I truly wish to know . . . were you happy with him?”

As they passed under the shade of the plane tree in the center of the garden, she lifted her chin. “I found ways to be happy
despite
him.”

Suddenly Sir Jeremy planted himself before her and took her hands in his. Now she couldn’t ignore the tender indignation in his eyes, the look that urged her to press herself up against his broad chest.

“Marriage is more than the begetting of children,” he said gruffly. “It should be about companionship. A sharing of concerns. And dreams. It should be about . . . tenderness.”

Tenderness.
The word ravaged her. A kind husband, a tender lover. All she had ever wanted. And despite all the obstacles between them, he was speaking about marriage.

What a rash, noble fool.

For an instant, she wondered whether marriage would raise her back to respectability, or drag him down. No, she was playing with fire even to think about it. She had vowed never to remarry, and she could not risk losing everything again by indulging such a dream.

Almost imperceptibly, he lowered his face toward hers. She wrenched her eyes away from the heat of his gaze, only to be caught by the faint swirl of dark hair revealed by the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. His clasp tightened; despite herself she looked back up at him, seeing how he hungered to kiss her. It had been so long . . . three years  . . . She felt like a starving woman.

Desire burned through her, but panic came close on its heels. Just in time, she remembered her deception. Lord Bromhurst. The children.

The children.

She jerked back out of his hold.

“No, I cannot. It is so hot,” she said. “I—I am thirsty. I must go.”

Without daring to look back, she bolted toward the house. After a moment, she heard his firm tread on the gravel path following her, slowly, accepting her rebuff.

And her misery was complete.

* * *

“Mary is already in the kitchen. I’ll take you down to her.”

Jeremy followed Livvy as she hurried out of the schoolroom. Her agitated tone reminded him that it was near the end of his time at Rosemead. Since his arrival yesterday, she’d made certain he’d no opportunity to be alone with her. Until now, when a misunderstanding had caused Mary to go down to the kitchen earlier than planned.

Would he ever manage to make things right?

“I must explain my behavior last week in the garden,” he said as they approached the stairway. “I promise you I intended no insult, and I would never abuse my position as a Governor to influence you in any way.”

“I know that,” she replied, in falsely cheerful accents. “By all means let us speak no more of it.”