Lord of Regrets (8 page)

“I am Mrs. Prothe to you,” Natasha said coldly. “That is how you have known me, and how you shall always know me.”

She saw him out. Shut the door. Turned the lock.

The house felt claustrophobic in his wake, and the four walls that had once offered freedom were now a prison.

She needed to decide this very night if she would marry Marcus. There was no longer a life for her in Little Parrington. If she chose not to marry Marcus, she would need to hide well, for she knew he would not easily let her go.

France was not so far, just across the channel. Even in wartime, there were men who made the journey frequently.

Or perhaps, as Lord Parrington had returned, she could beg assistance of him. She had never met his lordship––in renting the cottage she had dealt only with his estate manager––but surely he would not let her be forced into marriage.

Only, they were all together tonight: Parrington, Marcus, the rector. The very thought of that constricted Natasha’s chest, made it hard for her to breathe. Escape. She needed to escape.

It was time to pack again. Just as she had five years earlier, her mind focused only on the necessities. In those same five years, there was little she had amassed. Her money and what remained of her jewelry were all that were important to her, all that was necessary, and only so for the sake of her daughter.

There was the man outside, as he was every evening, surely developing frostbite due to his thoughtless, cruel employer. The man made no attempt to hide. Whereas his presence had worried Mary, prompted her to ask who he was, his presence angered Natasha.

It would not be easy but she could leave the house by the rear, cross over fields. Much of the snow had melted. She simply needed to make it to the next village by morning so she could procure a horse. She needed to get far enough away before Marcus thought to come looking for her.

Time to pack.

Chapter Eleven

The Parrington estate in its entirety covered thousands of acres, not including the land already lost to the North Sea. Marcus arrived at the manor house in the last light of dusk. He could see that it was a lovely Palladian edifice, whose sixty acres of gardens, Lady Alinora had once informed him, had originally been designed by Capability Brown but had been improved upon by Humphry Repton. The original intent of Parrington’s great-grandfather in commissioning the house had been to compete with the estate of the Earl of Leicester. Without knowledge of that other house to compare, Marcus simply admired the classical lines and the stern beauty of this manor house.

A soft flurry of snow fell outside but inside, the warm glow of candle sconces lit the way as the butler led him through the large vestibule and over marble floors covered by Aubusson carpets. They passed by several state rooms, and through their open doors, Marcus caught glimpses of opulent interiors. Finally, they entered a large drawing room, its walls swathed in blue caffoy and bearing two large portraits of Parrington’s ancestors. The butler narrated, in tones that suggested he had done this for visitors for decades, that these were Thomas D’Arquet, who had crossed the channel with William I, and Lady Isobel, Parrington’s mother, immortalized forever by the skilled Thomas Lawrence.

And then elegantly rising to her feet from one of the powder-blue-silk-upholstered chairs was Lady Alinora, with all the appealing sophistication of a girl entering her second Season. She had flirted with and fielded men far more mature and far more worldly than she was herself, and it showed in every confident move of her body. Like her brother, she bore their Norman heritage in her inky-black hair and quick, dark eyes. Here, in the country, her clothes were different from the frothy pastel concoctions that Marcus remembered from the Season; their luxuriousness matched the rest of the room.

His own estate down in Sussex was Spartan compared to this. The land itself contained less acreage, and the house would fill a mere fraction of Parrington’s home. Although Marcus’s mother and cousins wanted for nothing, expenses were kept to a minimum and the furnishings were not of the newest style. Of course, his grandfather’s country seat was far grander.

Parrington, striding out of the corner of the room and into Marcus’s field of vision, reached him before he had a chance to progress further into the room.

“Welcome, Templeton,” he said. Even with the simplest phrase, the man was graciously correct in his address, in his bow and his stance, an attribute that Marcus admired. The man was, after all, a hero in the truest sense of the word. “Allow me to present my sister to you.”

“We intended to arrive here a fortnight ago,” she said a few moments later when they were settled comfortably by the fire. “But we were snowed in. Which is just as well, for we were able to see the healthy birth of a nephew.” He knew she referred to the child of Lady Margaret, the elder half sister to Parrington and Lady Alinora, who had married a Scotsman. He congratulated both siblings on their good fortune.

“My aunt is not meeting us until London. Although I can’t imagine her meeting us anywhere else as she hasn’t left the city these last twenty-five years. Are you returning to London for the Season?”

Then the rector arrived, cutting the conversation off.

“There you are, Mr. Duncan.” Lady Alinora greeted him with a laugh. “I wondered what had become of you. In the ten years you’ve been at this parish, I’ve never known you to be late.”

“My greatest apologies, my lady.” Duncan made his obeisance to his hosts. “Lord Parrington, do forgive my tardiness. I was visiting with one of the parishioners.”

A chill settled along Marcus spine at the man’s words. Then the rector’s gaze found him, eyes narrowed, challenging. The sudden, clear understanding that Natasha was to whom Duncan referred made him want to tear the rector limb from limb for even approaching her.

“You’ve met our guest, I understand,” Parrington was saying.

“Really, it is such a surprise to have company,” Lady Alinora exclaimed, turning to Marcus. “Tell me, are you an ornithologist? Or perhaps come to excavate our village beneath the sea? Or are you visiting Lord Rauth? Is he even in residence at Pleasant Hill?” Marcus blinked at the barrage of questions. He knew the name of Rauth only through the papers. In fact, he knew no one else in this corner of Norfolk.

“Lord Rauth is not in residence,” Parrington said. “Mr. Bruxton is, however.” He had that half smile on his face as he looked at Marcus, but from his more focused gaze, Marcus knew that he awaited an answer with curiosity.

The rector, too, watched attentively. Pressure built at the base of Marcus’s skull.

Very well then, they all wanted an answer. He had Natasha to think of, but what of that? Why should he not make his intentions public?

“Indeed, I am here to visit Mrs. Prothe.” The false name almost stuck in his throat, but he stumbled past it.

Marcus looked to Parrington first, who seemed the safest. Surprise was etched in every line of the earl’s face.

“Mrs. Prothe?” Lady Alinora repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve met her.”

“She’s a tenant,” Parrington said.

“She is a widow,” Duncan said, almost in unison.

“A tenant and a widow,” Lady Alinora chirped, her own lips pursed in an inchoate smile. “And the receiver of such lofty attention. She must be a woman of interest.”

“Shall we go in to dinner?” Parrington said. Marcus was grateful for the man’s impulse. A moment more of this awkwardness and he knew his head would ache so much that thought would be obliterated.

With just four for dinner, with no balance of male to female, they walked informally to the dining room. Marcus felt the reverend near him the instant before the man’s hand was on his arm, holding him a fraction of a second back.

“I know about you, Lord Templeton,” Duncan said the name with disdain. His tone was quiet, his words intended only for Marcus’s ears.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really, Mr. Duncan?”

“You cannot force a woman to marry you.”

“Force?” Marcus laughed. “I assure you, I have no such intention. Natasha will marry me willingly. As we should have done five years ago.”

He realized then that everyone was attending them.

“The child is yours,” Parrington said in disbelief. Marcus’s lips twisted, knowing his very silence was confirmation. The faces of his hosts wore the sort of shocked curiosity that knew it was on the edge of a scandal. He should not have agreed to this dinner. He should have––

Marcus pressed his fingers to his temples, focusing on the coolness of the touch, looking for respite. He had laid his life out bare before near strangers and yet still, to leave would be a greater embarrassment. He wanted nothing more than to go to Natasha, to bury his head in her lap and feel her hands on his head. He wanted to go home.

“I am not entirely certain what this is all about,” Lord Parrington said stiffly, “but perhaps we might resolve this over a drink later.”

“By all means.” Lady Alinora laughed, the sound forced, a clear attempt to fill the awkward space with levity.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Duncan seemed suddenly aware that his behavior might jeopardize his living. “I was out of bounds.”

“I am not entirely certain that is so,” Parrington said, eyeing Marcus, “but perhaps we may have dinner as civilized gentlemen. At least Norfolk is not as dull as usual.”

Lady Alinora was adept at keeping the conversation flowing despite the thrumming tension, and Marcus didn’t linger after dinner. He excused himself as soon as the table was cleared, thanking Parrington and Lady Alinora for their hospitality.

Parrington insisted upon walking him to the door.

“I would normally not interfere with another man’s private affairs, no matter how indelicately made public, but as Mrs. Prothe is one of my tenants, I feel a certain amount of responsibility.”

Anger rose up in Marcus. Here was another man wishing to stand between him and Natasha. Reason, however, kept him relatively calm.

“I do apologize for making you party to such a scene.” Marcus forced himself to say the words. At the very least, it was not Parrington’s fault that Mr. Duncan had interfered where he was not wanted or needed.

“You do intend to marry her?” Parrington pressed.

“I have come here with no other purpose in mind,” Marcus said. Then he sighed. “Lord Parrington, no matter my gratitude for your hospitality, it is against all my instincts and desires to confide in you.”

“Then naturally you must not,” Parrington said quickly, though his expression hardened and closed, and Marcus knew he would soon forever be lost in the man’s estimation. His sins were mounting up quickly.

The man’s esteem was one thing, and if it were that alone, Marcus would not care. But having Parrington as an ally would be far more advantageous than to have made the man an enemy.

“But you are due some explanation,” Marcus said. He measured his words, imbued them with the seriousness of his intent. “Natasha Polinoff was my mistress, and yes, her child is my own. But she left while still expecting. Disappeared, in fact, and I have been searching for her these last five years. I would have married her then. I will marry her now.”

Silence greeted his confidence. Marcus clenched his jaw. If Parrington pressed him for more…

“It seems a simple matter then,” Parrington said, appearing somewhat relieved. “The good rector thought your intentions dishonorable. But that does not seem to be the situation. Please let me know, while I am still in residence, if I may be of assistance.”

Relief flooded through Marcus. And that childish reaction angered him briefly. He took refuge in manners.

“You have my gratitude,” Marcus said. He met Parrington’s gaze, found himself confronted with that same incessant little twist of the lips.

As Marcus stepped out into the cold night, his head ached. At the same time he felt buoyed by an incredible freedom. There was little if nothing left to hide.

But he was restless immediately upon returning to the inn. The events of the evening had unsettled him. Made him remember how tenuous his position was and how after every moment he felt closer to achieving his goal, Natasha tried to run.

And the rector had visited her. It should have been Marcus spending those final hours of daylight in Natasha’s company, but he had let Parrington’s invitation change his plans.

The restlessness boiled over. He took Juniper out of the stables and rode to Natasha’s house. The air whipping past his face cleared his head, and he arrived there exhilarated. He sent his groom home and took up position in the rear of the house, protected from the wind by the large trunk of an old sycamore and out of sight of prying eyes. Not that he had been particularly secretive in his comings and goings. A fact for which he knew Natasha would not thank him.

It had been quiet this past week. He liked being close to her, knowing she was there inside. That his daughter––the word was still a wonder to him––was inside as well, safe and warm. He wanted the girl in
his
home. He wanted to protect her, spoil her––protect and spoil them both.

The wind shuddered, and Marcus shivered at the sudden onslaught. A creaking noise drew his attention. The door at the rear of the house moved as if it was slightly ajar.

Despite the cold, heat swept through him. He knew.

He crossed the yard in large, ground-eating strides. He didn’t bother to be quiet when he went inside. The house was silent but for him and his boots, echoing hollowly upon the wood floor.

Her bedroom was empty. Leona’s room as well. The spaces felt impersonal. Barren.

The house
felt
empty.

They were gone.

Fear struck at him, and he stumbled forward before he caught himself on the corridor wall. She couldn’t have gotten far. Not with Leona, not with their belongings. Not in the middle of the night on foot. With the advantage of Juniper, Marcus would find her.

He took a lantern from her house and returned quickly outside, into the cold night that was too stifling. He mounted Juniper without even a conscious thought. The sure power of the horseflesh between his legs steadied him, encouraged him.

She could not have gotten far.

He cursed the dinner that had distracted him and kept him away from her. He cursed the rector for being the last to have seen her and yet to have said nothing. He cursed her willingness to run, to go against her word that she would give him a chance.

As he crossed farmland and public roads alike, the countryside in the thin light of the moon and in the waning light of his lantern was a forest of shadows and a sea of undulating hills. Several hours later, soaked through with sweat and yet numb from the cold, a flash of movement, of metal, caught the lantern’s light, made him draw in the reins, slowing Juniper to a walk. Then a noise, like a gasp or sob, drew his eye again to the same place.

There, huddled under a tree as if hiding from him, was Natasha. She watched him warily, but she didn’t move. He imagined that she couldn’t, weighted down by Leona’s body and the overstuffed valise by their side.

Leona looked at him sleepily, and then her head fell back against her mother’s breast.

He dismounted. Natasha struggled to her feet.

“You said you wouldn’t run.” He said it as an accusation, unaware of how much it pained him until the words fell crisp and clear in the dark.

“Why should I keep any promise said to you?”

She looked around, seeking escape, he thought. She would try to run, he knew. Perhaps not this night but tomorrow or the next, again and again, taking away the chance to woo her. But his will was greater, his cause greater. He would not lose her again.

“You cannot take my daughter from me,” he warned, the threat uttered on pure instinct.

Natasha gasped. “How dare you? She’s not yours and you cannot prove that she is.” She clutched her sleeping daughter tighter to her.

He was a wall, a stone wall. He could show no weakness, or she would think him incapable of following through.