Lord of Regrets (12 page)

“You are right. My apologies. And I
am
grateful to you.” He wiped his hands in his napkin, feeling again the acuteness of that mixture of relief and fury, and an overwhelming exhaustion. “The day’s travels have finally caught up with me. Would you excuse me for the night?”

His mother nodded and he left, his plate of rabbit nearly untouched.

Pell was waiting for him in his bedroom, having as usual anticipated Marcus’s needs by drawing a bath. However, there was no sign of Natasha.

He flung open the adjoining doors and found she was settled in the room next to his. The sight of it enraged him. He yanked the bed pull, ringing for the maid.

She sat up in her bed, all that thick, lovely hair plaited into long braid, which lay over her shoulder. His fingers itched to undo it, to feel that silk against his skin.

“What are you doing?”

“We are husband and wife,” Marcus said. “We will share our bed. Share our life.”

Natasha stared at him in shock, and her defiance angered him even more.

“It was one thing when we were traveling. But this…am I to have no privacy? Are you so afraid I will run away even now?”

His rage fled then. He was not angry at her. His anger was for fate, for his grandfather, for the five intervening years of loneliness and anguish that didn’t have to happen. The rooms adjacent his existed for the very purpose of housing a gentleman’s wife, of giving her privacy but making her accessible to a man’s needs. When the maid scratched at the door and then entered, he brusquely waved her away.

Much quieter, he asked, “Is it so wrong to wish to lie next to my wife?”

…

Natasha stared at him in disbelief. She hated him for his question, for his tone, for the weak pleading in his voice. She hated that it made her want to give in, to take care of him, when in truth she had no choice.

“What of my wishes, Marcus? Or am I completely sublimated to your will?”

“As if I could do such a thing.” He laughed. “As if I’d want to.”

Perhaps he was insane. One moment he was enraged, and the next he begged her for scraps. His emotions were too wild, too disparate, and she thrust away the snakelike thought that her own were no more rational. In any case, there was no purpose in talking to him.

She followed him across the threshold. Then she shrugged out of her night rail and slipped under the covers of the bed. His bed. Everything in this house was his, including her.

She waited in agonized silence as he took his bath, readied himself for bed. Just as he had the last two nights, his hair still damp, he lay down next to her. He drew her close and pulled the covers over them. She could hear his breath grow ragged, feel the growing proof of his desire for her, and yet he made no move other than the embrace.

But he would. Or she would. Because it was all too easy and too familiar. It was as if she were two people in her head, the one who
felt
everything and the one who could understand everything, even his point of view.

“This isn’t fair,” she whispered. She wanted space, air. The heat from his body was overpowering. She would not cry again.

“I saw my grandfather,” Marcus said quietly. The breath of his words hit her ear. His grandfather. The omnipotent patriarch, crafted into the stuff of myth. Marcus had always spoken of the old man that way, but he had never told her about the codicils. No, that she’d had to discover from the ladies’ gossip during her months in Exeter. Then she had finally understood. She pursed her lips against the caustic remark––the retort that she blamed only Marcus.

“He knew about you the whole time. From when I first let the rooms on Poland Street.”

There was some significance to that, but Natasha wasn’t entirely certain what. Many men had mistresses. With a despairing ache, she realized anew that her history was hardly secret. The patina of respectability she had given herself with the pseudonym Prothe was gone.

“He did not know about Leona.”

“Why would he have?” she asked before she could bite back the words. She didn’t want to have a conversation with Marcus. He had betrayed her five years ago and then again in Little Parrington. But she would suffer through this night as she would suffer through all the nights.

“He was spying on me the way he spied on my father.”

“He was spying on
me
?” The thought terrified her, even more than knowing Marcus had searched for her all those years, because who else thought her important enough to track? Of whom else’s schemes was she an unwitting part?

“Yes, but not after you left London. That’s what I mean to say. His reach didn’t extend that far.”

She contemplated that and the weight Marcus seemed to give it. Her
husband
had thought his grandfather omnipotent and then had learned he was not. Neither was Marcus omnipotent. Her true life would be in the daytime, away from him.

…

Marcus felt her relax against him. Thoughts of his grandfather fled at the feel of her body touching his everywhere, the soft flesh of her backside, snug against where he folded around her. She would get used to him. Eventually her anger would fade and she would remember their love, give in to it. She would return the passion and love he felt for her.

Over her shoulder he could see the still-open door that connected their two bedrooms. She was right that she was due her privacy, but Marcus couldn’t stand the idea of two rooms, two beds, after all this time. He just wanted to lie next to her, hear her breathe, and know it wasn’t a dream each night. The solid feel of her body in his arms soothed him. He had time on his side; she would thaw, reawaken to their love.

Chapter Sixteen

Natasha awoke with a memory tinged by the dusky haze of sleep, of the brush of Marcus’s lips across her cheek. Buried into the warmth of the space where he had been, she was comfortable, achingly so, her limbs seemingly melted under the thick, warm bedding.

She opened her eyes almost effortlessly. After three weeks of strain and worry, the sensation of being well rested was nearly foreign to her. She turned onto her back and stretched, arching upward into a great, indulgent yawn. The rich blue damask of the canopy above seemed too real, too vibrant, its weave shining with the rich midmorning light.

Midmorning. She sat up abruptly, looking about his room, at the strange house. Where was Leona?

Natasha stumbled into the adjoining room––her room––and opened the large wardrobe in the corner. It was pitifully empty, only her few practical dresses hanging in its cavernous space. She tore her nightclothes from her body and struggled into a dress, her limbs seeming to have lost the sense of the way of dressing.

There was a pitcher by the basin on the commode filled with tepid water. All the necessities, toiletries, and whatnots, items she hadn’t even had in her possession, were laid out for her use. She washed her face, her teeth, and pulled her hair back into a knot. She still felt the grit of travel, wanted another bath as she had the night before, but it would have to wait.

Desperate to see her daughter, she climbed the stairs to Leona’s room, to the makeshift nursery that sometime in the past might have been intended for such a purpose, but clearly wore the marks of disuse. The rooms were empty, silent, and the bed neatly made. An initial panic quickly gave way to grief––she had not heard her daughter call for her, demand to see her mother, even in such a strange new place with so many new people. The growing fissure between them, too, could be laid at Marcus’s feet.

Natasha was not dressed to go downstairs but, numb on the inside, she did so regardless.

She found Leona, freshly washed and dressed, in a small parlor with Lady Templeton. Natasha pinkened with embarrassment, wishing she had taken the extra time with her appearance, still feeling the sting of the woman’s words from the night before.

I must say I am surprised, with all the women his grandfather has flung at him, with his cousin Charlotte eagerly ready to become his bride and so knowledgeable about the Templeton history, about Woodbridge, about propriety, even, that he chose to marry you. From what you say, he could easily have you without benefit of marriage.”

“Hardly.”

“He hasn’t, then? Apparently my boy inherited some latent misguided sense of honor. God knows he didn’t inherit it from his father’s side of the family.”

Natasha entered the room, steeling herself for more of the woman’s brusque and biting commentary. She saw Mary sitting in the corner, looking out of place and uncomfortable.

“Good morning, Lady Templeton, Good morning, Leona.”

“Mama,” Leona cried, jumping up from her seat.

A rush of joy filled Natasha’s chest so quickly that it hurt.
This
was her daughter, the one she had nursed and weaned, the one who loved her and clung to her on stormy nights.

“We’ve been having tea and taking a lesson,” Lady Templeton said with a wave of her hand. “Someone must teach this child manners and deportment. Why doesn’t she have a governess?” Despite her mental girding, Natasha almost stepped back at the onslaught of words. “She clearly needs one. Look at you. You are hardly fit to be a model of deportment,” her new mother-in-law said with a sigh.

Anger swelled up, as it had the night before when the woman had interrogated her about her antecedents, about how ancient her lineage was. “Lady Templeton––”

“Oh, please.” The woman held up her hand, a pained expression crossing her face. “This will never do. Shall we go back and forth all day Lady Templetoning each other?” Natasha stared at her, just beginning to comprehend that yes, she, too, was Lady Templeton. “No, you shall call me Kitty as Charlotte does, and I shall call you Natasha.”

“Kitty?” Leona repeated.

“No, young lady. You shall call me Grandmama.”

“Yes, Grandmama.” Leona didn’t seem upset at all. She was smiling in fact.

“Girl”––Natasha realized that she meant Mary––“take my granddaughter back to the nursery.”

Leona stood up immediately, but looked to Natasha for confirmation. She nodded. “I’ll come visit you in a bit. After I’ve had a chance to chat with Lady…with Kitty.”

Leona tripped from the room, and Natasha sat where her daughter had been.

“I have been thinking on what you told me last night. I am pleased your family is of some consequence, or at least was. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if you hadn’t let my son seduce you. What were your parents thinking? I suppose I shall find out when they come to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Natasha finally heard something in her mother-in-law’s monologue that mattered. “They’ll hardly come to dinner. I haven’t seen them in five years.”

“Five years? What sort of girl are you?”

Natasha took a slow, deep breath, surprised to feel any pain at all over her parents. “They…disowned me.”

Finally
Kitty
stopped speaking. One brow arched up high and then both swept down into a frown.

“Hmmph.” A few moments later, she followed it with, “Well.”

“So you see, they were thinking their daughter made a very poor choice.”

Kitty snorted. “Now you’re a viscountess. Not the most noble rise to that position, but…here you are.”

The chime of the great clock in the hall rung mutedly in the room and seemed to stir Lady Templeton––the elder Lady Templeton––
Kitty
.

“I have Mrs. Burgh arriving in the hour, Natasha, to make you
look
like a viscountess.”

“What?”

“Don’t stare at me with that fishlike expression. Mrs. Burgh is doing me a favor coming on such short notice. As a dressmaker, she is highly in demand. I’ve asked her to create a new wardrobe for the little girl, too.”

It was an abrupt switch, from discussing her parents to discussing her clothing, and even though she was sitting and it was merely her emotions that were roiling, Natasha gripped the edge of the chair to steady herself. Five years ago, the thought of a new wardrobe, one that clearly would be leaps and bounds above what she was used to in quality, would have thrilled her. Now she was anxious, a cautious excitement simmering in her blood.

“Well, go on with you. Do what you must before the dressmaker arrives. I’ll send Angie, my maid, to you, although I won’t want to share her. Marcus shall have to hire a lady’s maid for you.”

Bemused and overwhelmed, Natasha climbed the stairs to the second floor where the nursery was. In the sitting room of the small suite of rooms, Leona read to Mary, who did not herself know how to read. It was not one of the few books Natasha owned, and so she thought it must be from the library.

“What do you have there?” she asked her daughter, coming to sit next to her.

“Amatory,” Leona said, though that was not the title of the book. “I asked Mary what amatory means but she doesn’t know.” Mary blushed at that. “Do you know?”

Natasha laughed. “Yes, I suppose that isn’t something I ever thought about explaining before. It has to do with love, with–– Perhaps this one’s a bit difficult. Aren’t there any other books in the library?”

“There are thousands of books,” Leona exclaimed, dropping the one she held so she could hold her arms out wide. Reflexively, Natasha leaned forward to pick up the forgotten “amatory” novel and laid it down on the sofa. “More than even Mr. Duncan owns. But Papa said I’d like this one. And those.” She pointed to a stack of books on the side table.

Natasha felt the beginnings of a headache at the corner of her temple. While she had been sleeping the morning away, her––she could hardly bear to think the word––
husband
had been spending time with their daughter.

“Do you like it here, then?” She forced the words out.

“Papa is wonderful!” Leona nearly bounced in her seat. Then she stilled, her body caught at awkward angles, one arm out. The excitement in her eyes bled away. “Why do you hate him?”

A cold sweat covered Natasha’s back. She shot a glance over to Mary, who stared conscientiously at the wall, as if she could help but hear what Leona was saying.

“Mary, would you please leave us?”

After the girl left in a hurried whisper of stiff cloth, Natasha picked up the book from the cushions. She opened the leather cover, catching the fragrance of decade-old paper and tracing the scripted letters that made up the title.

Once she had thought Marcus wonderful, too. Before he betrayed her. Before he blackmailed her. Before… “It’s really a long story, love. And I don’t think you are old enough to understand. Perhaps someday I’ll explain.”

Leona sucked her lower lip under the top one, her mind clearly working on some question.

“Will I have a brother or a sister?”

The abrupt change of conversation sent the headache raging into full force, and suddenly Natasha wanted to be away from the one child she did have. Oh God, she didn’t want to have to think about another being she shared with that man.

But he was her husband.

She was his wife.

And he would need an heir.

Natasha swallowed the nausea down and stood, smoothing her skirts.

“Has your Grandmother Templeton told you about the surprise today?”

Leona nodded, jumping up as well.

“Yes, well, we’ll need to get ready for the dressmaker then. Perhaps she can make us match? Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

Natasha held out her hand and Leona took it. The soft little hand was a shock for a moment. At least one thing was getting better.

…

Marcus was in a fine mood despite the fresh blast of winter chill. He had accomplished nearly everything he had set out to do: see his solicitor to restructure his will and provide fully for both Natasha and Leona, see his man of business regarding redecorating the nursery at Woodbridge, and put out an advertisement for a nanny and governess. Someone erudite, with knowledge of the classics, and barring that, he would hire a tutor.

He stopped for luncheon at his club. The rooms were near full, as if the Season had already begun, and excitement crackled in the air. The talk was mostly of Boney and the likelihood of a peace treaty at Chatillon. Marcus remembered his grandfather’s conversation and wondered just what the old man had brewing.

Marcus knew few of these men who filed into the dining room, laughing, patting each other on the backs, breaking the serious talk for a moment to speak of wine and family and gossip. It was as if in five years, the London crop had turned over, and only the older set remained a constant. Of course, it was still only March, and likely his compatriots, having not inherited their seats or not having any other need to arrive before April at the earliest, were still rusticating in the country. Just when Marcus had resigned himself to a round of introductions and idle chitchat, he spied John Underwood, the foremost companion of his youth.

“Why, Marcus,” John exclaimed, crossing the throng of men sorting themselves out at the long table. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

Years was true. A quick survey of his old friend was testament to how long it had been. At twenty-two and newly released onto town, John had damn well been close to a dandy, dressed in colorful silks, inordinately proud of the full head of hair the fashions allowed him to show off. Now that hair was thinned, gone almost but for a ring that settled about his ears and joined the carefully shaped side-whiskers. And the colorful costumes had been traded in for the more sobering shade of black. The man almost looked like he belonged in the courts of law.

“Six, hasn’t it been?”

“Yes, about, since Pater called me back home to do my duty. Which I’ve done admirably, I might add, though he isn’t around to see it anymore: heir, two more as well, and another babe on the way. What about you, my friend? Succumbed to the marriage trap yet? I haven’t heard about it…”

“The announcement will be in the papers this week,” Marcus said with a small cough. “Shall we sit?”

“Congratulations!” John thumped him on the back, as he followed him to a set of adjacent chairs. “Is the date set?”

“What are we congratulating Templeton on?” another man asked. Marcus coughed again, waving his hand in the air and accepting the quickly given water goblet from a servant.

He used the moment to sort through his options. He hadn’t settled on when or how he would introduce Natasha to the world. And then he remembered that Underwood had met Natasha all those many years ago, one night at Vauxhall, another night at Sadler’s Wells.

“Actually, the ceremony was Thursday last,” Marcus admitted.

“Oh!” Silence followed Underwood’s exclamation. Marcus stared at the elegant spread of utensils in front of him as he waited for his erstwhile friend to process it all.

“A rush affair, then?” Underwood asked in a quieter tone. But discretion was hardly useful with the other men listening.

At one time he and Underwood had been always together, but Marcus couldn’t remember what their conversation had been. There had been wine, much wine, and port and sherry and malt liquors and every other spirit he could imagine, including the damned gin, and perhaps all of that had lubricated life.

The only real moment of clarity he had from those early days––the afternoons spent trying to resuscitate his father’s estates and the nights spent trying to augment that with modest wins at the gaming tables––was the first moment he had seen Natasha. Then, of course, every single moment with Natasha after that had been brightly illuminated in the darkness of his father’s shadow, his grandfather’s incessant control. Natasha, who despite her youth and her sheltered life, despite never having left London, had known of things most men only learned of on their grand tour. Her wit had been quick and her laughter infectious, and perhaps those five months had only been five days for time had passed like the wind.

“Not fast enough,” Marcus answered finally, clenching his jaw. Here was the choice: mention now that Natasha Polinoff, whom Underwood knew had once been his mistress, was his bride, or merely let the man find out, if he ever did. He unclenched his jaw, forced a grin, and lifted his wineglass. “I assure you, never did a man submit as gratefully and eagerly to marriage as I have done.”