Megan Frampton (31 page)

If he hadn’t cared, though, why had he even bothered to have his staff purchase the gowns in the first place? What if he already had a mistress in mind, one who would allow him to strip them off of her?

The thought made her stomach roil. She began flinging the gowns out onto the floor, not caring that she was crumpling the fabric or crushing the carefully placed ribbons.

She was having a tantrum. A part of her knew she was acting irrationally, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not anymore.

She threw another gown on the floor and stepped on it, just to prove she could. She could add that to the list of things she’d never done before him: been sold, seen a dead body, slept on dirty sheets, had a tantrum.

Made love.
Fallen
in love.

It felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She’d stopped caring about appearances, about behavior, as soon as she’d met him. He’d mocked her, challenged her, teased her and … loved her. Maybe not as completely as she might have wished, but somewhere, buried down in that black heart of
his, he did care.

But it didn’t matter anymore, did it?

What would he do when she was gone?

To care about what he did after he had dismissed her so casually made her despise herself for her weakness.

Mary, you are an idiot. Never a bigger idiot than now, when you have allowed yourself to care for someone so arrogant, so high-handed, so incredibly … lordlike
.

She swallowed and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She’d had her tantrum. She’d ensured no other woman would ever wear these gowns.

Now she just had to figure out a way to get through the rest of her life without him.

***

She didn’t see him again after that. It had been—hmm—three weeks, two days and fourteen hours, and she’d only thought about him, and them, for perhaps three weeks, one day, and seven hours of that time. At least she’d had the time and opportunity to get to know her mother. In whose sitting room she was currently ensconced.

“And,” her mother said hesitantly, “you are certain that there are no … complications?”

Mary shook her head, wishing there had been a child. Someone to love that was part of her, part of them before he’d broken her heart.

She wished she could be reasonable about it; after all, she’d been thinking of leaving him, if he proved not to need her, but she hadn’t counted on his making that decision for her before she could gauge whether or not it was needed.

It stung, to be cast off so carelessly.

And she’d sobbed, for only the second time in all the weeks since he’d betrayed her, as soon as she saw the telltale sign of her courses. Now there was nothing that would serve as a reminder of her time with him, save for her broken heart.

Which, as her mother was growing fond of reminding her, could be mended. And from what her mother had said about her time with Mary’s father, she knew firsthand
what that process was like.

Mary had returned to her mother’s house the day following their first disastrous visit. After Mary had told her some of what had happened, Lady Stainton had asked her to stay with her now that Alasdair had “shown his true colors,” as she put it. Mary had declined, thankful that her friend Amelia kept a town house in London. A town house that was blessedly empty, save for a skeleton staff and Mary, who kept to herself and only paid visits to her mother. It was reassuring to be able to relax, after such a tumultuous time, but of course she had no one to speak to of it, especially not her mother, who was not inclined to be forgiving. Not of Alasdair, at least.

Thankfully, however, her mother didn’t condescend to her, or attempt to fabricate a relationship out of the mere circumstance of shared blood. She couldn’t have borne it if her mother had attempted to be … 
maternal
. Instead, they were companions with a surprising number of similarities—their love for poetry, their sly wit, even their favorite colors.

Mary was grateful, at least, to have found her mother, even if it was too late for the relationship to be maternal. And her mother did not blame her for Alasdair’s blackmail, thank goodness, although she clearly wished she could rail against him for all he’d done to her daughter.

“What will you do?” her mother asked. She and Mary’s stepfather would be off on a diplomatic mission to India within a few weeks, with no clue as to when they would return. There had been talk of including Mary, but Mary had declined, knowing that talk would arise if she left London as quickly as she had arrived. No matter what he’d done, she had no wish to tarnish Alasdair’s reputation.

Mary took a bite of a lemon biscuit instead of answering directly. She brushed a few crumbs from her gown. “I thought I would find a small house in the country. He”—neither one of them ever said Alasdair’s name out loud; he was just “he”—“has made certain I do not lack for funds.”

The funds, she imagined, taken from her mother to ensure his silence. Not that he needed the money; Alasdair’s man of business had told her the details of the settlement, and it was substantially more than what he’d demanded from her mother.

It was just another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. Something else, something
she couldn’t quite put her finger on, nagged at her as well. Something about the last time they spoke, when he had so cavalierly told her it was over.

It was likely wishful thinking, but she knew she had to see him just one last time. To let him know there were no … complications of their union, and to see for herself how he was doing.

Not that she would tell her mother of her plan; she already knew it was a stupid idea, and didn’t need anyone else to inform her of that.

She would go, see for herself, and be done with him. Forever.

And if she could keep telling herself that, she was a better liar than she thought.

***

“Take your belongings, all of them, and go downstairs to where my coach is waiting. It will take you and your family to a safe place.” Alasdair felt the stink of the place infest his clothing; the sickly sweet stench of the drug, the pungent tang of the gin, and the grime that seemed endemic to these places all winding together in the air.

The soldier he spoke to wasn’t so far gone yet, thank goodness. He’d just returned from France, his wife had told Alasdair, only to get swindled out of his pay. He was unable to find a job because of his injuries.

The wife, not to mention their two children, were already downstairs. Alasdair had given her a small sum of money, enough to get them established, along with strict instructions that her husband must not gain possession of it. The odds were fair that the man would end up back in one of these places, but at least Alasdair had done his best.

As he would always try to do, from now on.

He hadn’t realized before how selfish his slow descent into oblivion had been; he’d been too concerned with medicating his own pain with the drug to worry about anyone else. Not his staff or tenants, all of whom would have lost their positions and their livelihoods if Hugh had succeeded in ousting Alasdair from the marquessate; not his fellow soldiers, who’d looked up to him, once upon a time, as a leader they could trust.

Not himself, who’d been willing to throw away his life simply because things were hard. They were hard, he knew that now, but there was no reason not to rally, to
fight another day. She had shown him that.

His chest tightened, as it always did when he thought of her.

“Thank you, my lord,” the soldier said as he retrieved his small bundle of possessions from the floor—those that had not yet been stolen, at least.

Alasdair had done enough work in this particular opium den to ensure that the most hardened of addicts had found other places to smoke, and thieve, and kill, even. It was remarkable what a title, plenty of cash, and the ability to summon a magistrate could do to persuade certain types to leave.

He was grateful, as his nose became suffused with the scent, that he hadn’t ever found his way to smoking it. From what he’d seen, smoking opium was far more dangerous than taking it in pill form. He stooped and picked up a pipe that had fallen into one of the wider cracks in the floor.

And rose to his full height as his eyes caught sight of her.

“Alasdair?”

The pipe dropped from his suddenly lax fingers, and he froze where he stood. She was here.

In an opium den, with the smell of it invading every crevice. He closed his eyes and hoped it was a dream.

But he wasn’t taking the drug anymore; this was reality.

A harsh reality, but as beautiful as any sight he’d seen.

She was just six feet away from him, her eyes wide with what he knew must be horror at finding him here. He turned his gaze to the floor so he wouldn’t have to see the disgust in her eyes.

He heard the rustle of her skirts as she moved—
Please leave, don’t make me suffer
—and then her slippers came into view. And now she was only a few feet away from him, and he felt the scalding touch of her gaze on his bent head.

“Alasdair. Look at me.”

He thrust his hands inside his pockets and dug his fingers into his palms. Finally he was able to meet her eyes.

What he saw there made his knees buckle.

“What do you want?” he managed to croak out.

She placed her hand on his arm. Her scent, faint though it was against the dense opium reek, tickled his nose. He wanted to bury his face in her hair.

“I wanted to tell you. We are not … that is, there is no complication.” He must have looked confused, because she continued, and spoke more plainly. “I am not with child.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t realized until she’d said it how much he was hoping that he’d gotten her pregnant. Now he had no reason not to stay strong and keep away from her.

No reason except that his very soul hurt with missing her.

“And I have something to ask you.”

“I’m not.”

She looked at him for a moment, then her lips widened into a rueful smile and she shook her head. “No, that is not what I was going to ask. I know you have not returned to that life. It’s so easy to tell from your face.” She shifted, but she still had her hand on his arm. He was so aware of it he almost couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. “Besides which, there are more than enough people downstairs, including your footman, John, to relate what you are doing here. What you are trying to do for these soldiers. You wouldn’t do that if you were yourself still … ill.”

He nodded. At least she knew.

“That’s it.” She clasped his arm tighter when she spoke, an exultant tone to her voice.

“What is it?” That she could be even mildly happy felt like an affront, given how miserable he was. But she didn’t know that, did she?

“You.” She stepped forward so she could stare directly into his eyes. Her gaze was suspicious, but he thought there was a slight curve to her mouth.

“Me …?”

“Before. When you told me to go. When you told me it was nothing but a delightful interlude.”

“I believe I said it was pleasant,” he said. The scene was engraved in his mind with absolute, haunting clarity.

“Pleasant, yes.” A small snort accompanied her words.

“And?” He needed for her to get to her point, since every minute spent in her
presence, not supine and naked, was agony. Which, basically, meant the rest of his life.

“And why would you say that? You enjoyed being with me, enjoyed”—and here she stepped closer to him and wound her arms around his neck—“making love to me, enjoyed being made love to by me.” She tilted her head in question. “Isn’t that right?”

He held himself absolutely, rigidly still. “Why are you asking?”

She rolled her eyes. As though he were the one being obtuse. “Because, you clod, sending me away when you so clearly want me in your bed—and your life—is an unselfish act.”

He almost couldn’t speak. “And?”

“And,” she said, pulling his head down so their mouths were barely an inch apart, “that was the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done. Which means,” she continued, “you care about me enough to do something unselfish. Something that was not for you.” A pause. “Before, I knew you would keep me because it suited you to do so. And I didn’t want that, for either one of us. I wanted us to be able to make a choice, and I thought I was the only one strong enough to make it.” Another, longer, pause. “But it was you who was the strong one.”

She pressed closer to him, so close he could feel her chest rise and fall with her breath. “You need me.” She pressed in tighter. “You want me.” She paused again. “You love me.”

It broke then, the current of longing, of love, he felt for her, exploding through his body like someone had set a match to him. He felt the blaze of heat as his lips touched hers, and it sparked into something glorious as they kissed. She met his passion with an equal measure, and his whole being compressed down to one emotion: love.

She drew back, her mouth moist from his kiss, her eyes filled with warmth and lust and annoyance and every shade of emotion she had for him. “Well?” she asked, raising her eyebrow.

He nodded and clasped her around the waist. “I love you.” He swallowed against the huge welling of emotion in his heart. “Mary, will you come home with me? Will you be with me?”

“Yes.” She kissed his jawline. “I love you, my arrogant lord.”

“And I love you, my delicious, delectable vicar’s daughter.”