The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (70 page)

Through the heat rising inside her, a heat that fogged her mind like steam upon glass, she remembered the painful truth. She had abandoned him in a panic ten years before. Why should he care about her now? She had put her security above all else, and the simple fact he still gave a damn made her throat constrict. “Well, then,” she managed to say, “that is exactly the reason why I can’t tell you.”

His hands traced the simple neckline of her dress. Her breasts leaped up, under her shift, as his fingertips skimmed over them. Then, shock of all shocks, he cupped them.

“I want all your secrets, Sally. Every last one.” He breathed the words against her ear. The fire he’d ignited inside her consumed another piece of the wall around her soul. Just this, his hands on her breasts, his mouth nuzzling her neck, could leave her utterly defenceless.

No. She would be like her mother then. Vulnerable. What was a woman in the throes of passion but a woman waiting to be destroyed?

“You know who Lady Maryanne ran away with. This afternoon, I interviewed families of young ladies who have been your customers. Four of them ran away to Gretna Green with men.”

“And those marriages are all successes,” she said tartly. She tried to pull away, but he held her too tight.

His tongue ran up and down her throat. Her mind was becoming as mushy as porridge. “S—stop,” she whispered.

“I will if you give me a name. A man’s name.” His grip changed and he stopped kissing her. He faced her, his eyes glittering with determination. “I fear Cavendish arranged for Maryanne to disappear. He found out about her plans to elope, and he had her killed so he would not lose control of her money. By the will, he gets it all if she dies without a husband or children.”

Estelle gulped. “Oh yes, he could do that, Lyan. He is more than capable. He is a fiend.” She knew she had to give him the name. For Maryanne’s safety. “Her beloved was the owner of a small bookshop on Charing Cross Road. Mr Samuel Peabody.”

His dark brow shot up. “He sounds like a little, fat, middle-aged merchant. Why would you help the girl elope with a man like that?”

“I did not help her. She simply gave me a name. As for the others—”

“You’re lying, angel. I could prove you helped her — if I found the hackney driver who came to the rear of your shop and who saw you escort a young woman who matched Lady Maryanne’s description into the cab. A man who saw the young lady clutch your hands before she left and thank you for everything you had done.”

Her heart sank.

“You helped her run off with some scoundrel,” he ground out. “Some man who might have killed—”

“No! I promised to help her. And that meant ensuring she was marrying the right man.” There, she had admitted her guilt. And she knew why she’d done so. Deep down, she still trusted Lyan. She would always believe in the goodness of this man’s heart. Carving her way into respectability and security, she had encountered some of the “gentlemen” of the ton. The ones who pressed their attentions on any women they believed beneath them. Who were willing to rape because they believed themselves to be untouchable. She had soon learned that birth meant nothing. Lyan Foxton had grown up in the stews, but she had learned how special, noble and wonderful he was.

Yet there were also good gentlemen. Peabody was one of them. “He is the third son of the Viscount Marlborough, and he has a love of books. He is tall, thin, but very handsome. And I realized, when I went to his shop and spoke with him, that he truly loved Maryanne.”

He frowned. “How could you know that for certain?”

“I … A woman can tell.” She did not want him to know how she knew. That she’d compared how Peabody looked when she spoke of Maryanne to the way Lyan used to look at her.

“Thank you,” Lyan said. “I pray I’m not too late.”

“What are you going to do?” She knew she had to be quiet, but her voice rose in fear. “I went out this afternoon. Peabody’s shop is still closed up. And I spoke to his employee and his neighbours. He hasn’t come back.”

“I think if Cavendish arranged for his ward’s death, it would be known by now that she was killed. He’d want it done fast. It would be easy enough to make it look like a highwayman attacked her on the way to Scotland. I think the fact that she hasn’t turned up dead means she is still alive. I think he wants her back to marry her himself, which gives him both the lady and control of her fortune. Hell, I
have
to believe that.”

Stark pain showed on Lyan’s face. How harsh and sharply cut his features were, now that he’d matured from a youth to a man.

“Why would he hire you, if he was the one to arrange for her to disappear?” she asked.

“To make it look like he’s innocent. Or because she escaped his trap. He might genuinely have no idea where she is. I’m going to trace the route to Gretna again, now that I know who her suitor is. I hope they are hiding somewhere along the way and I can find them.”

“I would like to come with you.” She had to know Maryanne was safe. And she could help Lyan. For a start, she knew what Peabody looked like.

“On one condition,” he growled. “I want you to promise you won’t help my sister, Laura, if she asks you to help her elope.”

She swallowed hard. Nothing had escaped him in the past. That hadn’t changed. “Of course not. But why do you think she would run away rather than ask your permission?”

His brow rose sharply. “Because sometimes women do damned illogical things.”

“All right. I agree. But I have conditions
for you
.”

“Indeed?”

“No more kissing. No more touches. That’s behind us, Lyan. There can never be anything between us again.”

“Why did you do it, love? Why did you run out on me before I came back for you? I thought — apparently like a blind fool — that you intended to be my wife.”

Estelle jerked her gaze from the carriage window, where she had kept it fixed for several hours. Lyan sat across from her, and he had looked out the opposite window ever since they had entered the carriage together. Each time she’d stolen a surreptitious glance, she’d discovered he was not looking at her.

Which was for the best. To feel anything else, any sort of girlish pang, was a stupid and irresponsible thing. She had long stowed away the desires and foolish fantasies that always began with the words “what if”. From the moment she’d made her choice to run away, then discovered she was carrying Rose, Rose had been what she’d lived for.

Her future had been mapped out. Decided. It was not to be changed. But what she
could
do was help shape the futures of others.

She did owe him some sort of explanation, but although she’d had ten years to think about it, she had never come up with an account that satisfied her. “I did it so I could have what I have now.”

“What do you have now?” he asked, and she wondered if Lucifer sounded like this — like smooth-flowing brandy and chocolate when it bubbled in a cup — when he promised dreams in return for souls.

She cleared her throat. As though just a little more time would clear away the heat wrapping tentative fingers around her heart, the yearning blossoming between her thighs. “My business. Enough money upon which I can survive. My daughter. I suppose what I have is success and security.”

“But you have no husband. No one to protect you.”

“I protect myself.” She managed a smile. “You, of all people, must remember I am capable of that.”

“Aye,” he answered with a breathtaking grin of his own, one that carved dimples deep enough to make her knees quiver. “I still bear a few scars to prove it.”

She had forgotten what this was like. For ten years, she had worked every minute of the day. Her needle would flash through cloth late into the night, while she would be desperately blinking to keep her eyes open. Hour upon hour. Day upon day. She had carved out a formidable reputation amongst the ton for her gowns. But she had not had a friend. And from behind a mound of fabric and patterns, she had watched Rose grow into a beautiful, quickwitted girl.

“I’ve never forgotten our wedding night,” he said softly. “For ten years, I’ve considered myself married to you.”

That startled her. “But you have the reputation of a rake.”

He groaned. Though they’d lit lamps within the carriage, which made looking out the windows quite useless, shadows still lurked in the corners. He leaned back, letting the gloom hide his face. “There were times the need got a bit too much, I’ll admit that. But I never fell in love, Sally. Never once.”

“Oh heavens, Lyan. I wish you had.” For then she could have forgiven herself. “How much longer until we reach the border?”

“We’ll have to stop for the night. We’ll find an inn along the road, and leave in the morn, as early as possible.”

“An inn.” She took a deep breath. “Separate rooms, of course.”

“Of course? We made marriage vows. We had a wedding night.” He leaned forwards. The teasing note in his voice did not reach his eyes, which glittered in the lamplight like cold glass.

“Ten years ago,” she said. “And our vows were not spoken in a church or before a vicar.”

“The passing time makes no difference. And the intention of marriage vows, love, is for husband and wife to make a promise to each other. Does it matter if it is not in a house of God?”

Estelle trembled. He had always been able to do this to her. Bring out emotions — or desires — she did not want to face.
“Legally
it does. I am not your wife, Lyan. I will never be. I do not consider our marriage to be valid. I ran away from you. Isn’t that reason enough for you to think it invalid too? Don’t you want to admit our vows meant nothing? For that means you would be free.”

“Ah, Sal, but that’s the irony. I’ll never be free of you.”

The Rose and Crown was the third inn at which they’d stopped. It looked more prosperous than the other two, with many coaches rumbling in and out of the yard. Coachmen drank ale around the water troughs, singing to the tune of a jauntily played fiddle.

Estelle had been commanded to stay in the carriage. But she ignored Lyan, hopped down, and hurried inside after him. He was leaning on a counter, in deep discussion with the innkeeper, a thickset bald man with a large stomach and enormous arms.

Lyan turned at the sound of her footstep. “Ah, my wife.” He did the introductions. One key dangled from his hand.

“I said two rooms,” she muttered.

“And there is one available. You can sleep in the stable if you’d like, but I’d prefer a bed.” Then his voice dropped even lower. “They were here two days ago. Peabody and Lady Maryanne. She wore a heavy veil, but the man matched the description of her suitor. He took a room for them as husband and wife, and she was seen fiddling with a wedding ring.”

Estelle felt such relief; it was like taking a long breath of air after loosening a corset. It surged in so quickly it left her light-headed. She wanted to believe she had rescued Maryanne. She wanted to believe she had carved out another happy ending in a world sadly lacking in them. But relief, like a breath, ended. “They could have been posing as married but had not yet—”

“After heading to Gretna six days ago? I suspect they would have raced up there, stopping only when necessary. They could have reached it in two days. No, I think they were wed and were returning to London.”

“But why didn’t they get there?” Estelle whispered. Her body ached from the tension of sitting in a carriage and trying not to look at the man who had sat opposite.

“That’s the mystery,” he agreed. “But dinner first, and a night here. You look as though you are ready to fall to the floor. And you, my love, can have the bed.”

It was unsettling to have him lying on the floor. Rather like having a sleeping tiger in the bedroom. Moonlight slanted in through a space between the threadbare drapes. Estelle hadn’t slept. She lay on her back, staring up at the silvery light that flickered over the dark ceiling. She wore a thick, unflattering flannel nightgown, buttoned to her throat.

“You aren’t sleeping.”

Lyan’s matter-of-fact statement had her jerking up the worn sheets. He was on his knees beside her bed, elbows resting on her mattress. Watching her. He had stripped to his trousers. The last time she’d seen him, he had been a lad of seventeen. Strong and well built, but nothing like … like this.

“I’m intrigued,” he continued. “Why do you help young women run away? Is it because it worked so well for you?”

She flushed. “No. It’s because I want them to find the one thing I turned my back on. Love.”

In the stark bluish light, he looked haggard. Haunted. “Before I caught you in your house, I took a peek at your daughter.”

Indignant, she sat up, fisting her hands at her sides. “You had no right—”

“She was sleeping — didn’t see me. I know she’s mine, Sal. I wanted to see if you would finally tell me. But you won’t, will you? You’d have let me go to my death without knowing I have a child.” He shoved back his hair. It was loose and fell in coal-black waves around his shoulders. “Why, Sal?”

She hugged herself. This was a mistake. She should never have put herself in a position where she was alone with him. She’d believed she trusted him. But she’d never seen any man look as wounded, as tortured as Lyan did now.

“I … I have finally given her some happiness.”

“You don’t want her to blame you for the choices you made. When did you know you were pregnant? Before or after you ran away?”

“After,” she whispered.

“You could have found me. I would have married you then. If there had been the three of us, Sal, you wouldn’t have had to work your fingers to the bone as a seamstress. You would have known I would always be there for you.”

“I didn’t know that then,” she cried. “All I knew was what I’d seen of my mother and men. I vowed I would never be dependent on anyone.”

“You cost me ten years, Sal. Ten years I could have had with my child.”