Undoing of a Lady (21 page)

“Oh, no, you don’t. Keep back! You promised not to try to seduce me.”

Nat laughed again, ruefully this time, and released her. “All right. You’re safe with me.”

“I doubt it,” Lizzie said, feeling delightfully unsafe, “but I trust your honor as a gentleman.”

Nat groaned. “A pity.”

“We are talking,” Lizzie said.
“Please,
Nat.”

Nat’s expression sobered. He turned on his side so that he could look at her properly. “I know,” he said. “There is much to talk about.” A frown touched his brow. “Last night you accused me of taking your cousin’s money as a bribe to wed you.”

Some of the bright pleasure went out of Lizzie’s day. “Tom told me,” she said, haltingly, looking away from Nat and out across the vast bronze and green expanse of the moors. “He said that Cousin Gregory paid you to marry me because he thought I was a disgrace to the Scarlet name and wanted rid of me.”

Nat shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t really like that, Lizzie.”

“Did he give you money?” Lizzie pressed. “Did he, Nat?”

When Nat looked up and met her eyes she already knew the answer.

“He did,” she said tonelessly, “and you didn’t tell me.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Nat said again. “Lizzie, sweetheart—” He reached for her, but let his hand fall to his side as she turned her head away. “Gregory suggested he should add to your dowry, that is all,” he said. “God knows, he has done nothing for you since becoming Earl of Scarlet.”

“So he thought to make everything right with money,” Lizzie said bitterly, “and ease his conscience.” She sat up suddenly, fiery and indignant. “Did he say that I was a disgrace to the Scarlet name?” she demanded. “Did he say I was like my mother?”

“No!” Nat said. “If Tom told you that then it was only his malice.” He caught her arm. “Don’t listen to Tom, Lizzie,” he said. “Whatever he tells you he is only trying to hurt you. He takes the truth and twists it with his spite. Promise me you won’t listen to him.”

“All right,” Lizzie said. She was puzzled at the tone in Nat’s voice. For a moment he had sounded almost desperate. “I know Tom is a liar and a scoundrel,” she said. “I’ll try not to let him hurt me again.”

She felt Nat relax. He slid his hand down her arm to entwine his fingers with hers and she did not move away this time. The evening sun poured down on them, warming Lizzie’s skin, making her sore heart ease a little and helping her feel content for the first time in weeks.

“Nat,” she said slowly.

“Hmm?” Her husband made a sleepy sound of enquiry.

“If ever anything like this happens again,” Lizzie said, “will you tell me? You arranged the wedding and chose us somewhere to live and you make all these plans without reference to me but I am your wife now.” She smiled. “I know that many men do
not see the need to consult their wives on any matter, but I do not take kindly to that.”

“I had noticed,” Nat said. He sat up. There was a rueful light in his dark eyes. “I am sorry,” he said. “This is new for me, too, sweetheart.”

Lizzie touched his cheek. “In return I promise I will try not to react so badly to things in future by gambling away a fortune or taking my clothes off in public.”

Nat gave a strangled laugh. “Perhaps if you could discuss that with me first as well…”

“Yes,” Lizzie said. She allowed him to draw her down into the circle of his arm and lay with her head pillowed comfortably on his shoulder.

“You need have no fear for your virtue,” Nat whispered against her hair. “I only want to hold you.”

“I am not sure that I have any virtue left after all the things that we have done,” Lizzie admitted softly. She wriggled closer into his embrace and lay listening to the strong beat of his heart.

“Ah, Lizzie…” Nat’s fingers brushed the hair gently back from her face, twining the soft auburn curls about his fingers. “Don’t say that. In so many ways you are the sweetest, bravest and most admirable woman.”

“And you are evidently quite deceived in my character if you think so.” Lizzie held her breath. There was a note in Nat’s voice she had never heard before, a mingling of tenderness and admiration and something else she did not yet dare name as love.

“Don’t say that,” Nat said again. He did not smile. “I saw you looking after Monty the night he returned so drunk from the Wheelers’ dinner.” His mouth set in a thin line. “I have often thought how little you have been spared by Monty and Tom—” His tone hardened still further, “And your parents. Things you should not have had to see or endure…All the people who should have cared for you and instead they hurt you and left you to fend for yourself.” His arms tightened about her. “It offends me deeply.”

“That was why you were always trying to protect me, wasn’t it,” Lizzie said softly, glancing up at his unyielding face. “Do you remember when I first came to Fortune Hall and Tom was always teasing me and you stood up for me even though I knew it irritated you because you were so much older and really did not wish to be bothered with a tiresome little hoyden…”

Nat laughed. “Even then you had more courage than either Monty or Tom. Do you remember when they made you walk along the edge of the battlements and you did it without a murmur, even though you were terrified of falling? And then Monty tried and almost fell in the moat?”

“Serve him right,” Lizzie said. “He always was a bully.” She sighed. “It was kind of you to tolerate me following you around like a shadow.” She turned within the curve of his arm and pressed her lips to the line of his jaw. “You are a kind person, Nat Wa
terhouse. You are always seeking to help people—” She broke off as she saw a flash of undeniable pain in Nat’s eyes.

“What is it?” she said.

“I don’t always succeed,” Nat said.

Lizzie frowned. “I don’t understand.”

There was silence for a moment. Held close within Nat’s embrace, Lizzie could sense tension in him and some kind of conflict, deep and painful. She pressed closer, wordlessly offering comfort with the warmth of her body and the touch of her hands and after a moment Nat let out a sigh.

“I had another sister,” he said. His voice had a rough edge. “Celeste had a twin. She died.”

Lizzie was shocked. In all the time that she had known Nat, she had never heard mention of another sister. He had not talked of her. Neither had his parents nor Celeste. Lizzie kept very still and quiet, waiting for Nat to continue, hoping that at last he might see her as a person he could confide in and draw strength from rather than another responsibility, another burden he had to carry.

“She was called Charlotte,” Nat said. “There was a fire at Water House one night when the girls were about six years old. I saved Celeste.” He cleared his throat. “I could not save Charley, too.”

“Nat,” Lizzie said. She could hear his pain now, as raw as when it had first struck. It was an echo in Nat’s voice and it was in the taut way in which he
held her hard against him. “I had to choose,” he said. His voice was so low now that Lizzie could barely hear him. “I tried to carry both of them but they were terrified, too frightened to keep still. Charley slipped from my grasp. I had to let her go to save Celeste.” He shook his head a little, a lock of his hair brushing Lizzie’s cheek as he moved. “Even now I can remember the lick of the flames at my back and the heat of the banister under my hand and the smoke in my throat, so thick and choking. It was such a long way down the stairs…” He stopped. “I tried to go back for Charley but they would not let me. They said that I would die, too.”

Lizzie did not speak. She knew that nothing she could say could soothe him. There were no words. She held him close and felt the evening sun envelop them in its warmth and gradually she felt Nat relax a little as that unbearable tension seeped from his body and the tightness of his arms eased about her and he pressed his lips to her hair as though he would never let her go.

“I failed, Lizzie,” he said. “I never want that to happen again.”

“You saved Celeste,” Lizzie said, looking at him. “That was no failure.”

“Which is why I cannot—” Nat bit off whatever it was he was going to say and although Lizzie waited with unaccustomed patience, he did not speak again.

“You cannot…what?” Lizzie asked after a moment.

“Nothing.” For a moment Nat’s gaze was blind. “Just…don’t make me out to be more honorable than I am, Lizzie.”

He turned his head and gave her a lopsided smile. Despite the reassurance, Lizzie felt chilled. It felt as though despite opening his heart to her he was now keeping something back. A distance had opened between them. Perhaps, she thought suddenly, he resented the situation that his honor had placed him in when it had obliged him to marry her.

“That first night we were together,” she said, her voice falling. “When we were in the folly…It was all my fault. I should never have provoked you so.”

“You did not understand what you were doing,” Nat said, a little roughly. “I did. It was my fault, not yours.”

“I did know,” Lizzie said honestly. “At least I knew in theory if not in practice. I pushed you too hard. I did it on purpose. I always go too far.”

“You do seem to have a talent for it,” Nat agreed, but his voice was gentle. Out of the corner of her eye Lizzie saw his lips curl in a smile that made her stomach drop with longing.

“In my defence,” she added, “I had no notion that you had such an odious habit of losing your temper.”

Nat laughed. “You have known me for years, Lizzie,” he said. “You must have known I am notoriously short-tempered.”

“I never really noticed it before,” Lizzie confessed. “Oh, I knew that you could get angry with me
sometimes, but I also knew that if you became all cross and stuffy with me you would come round eventually because—” She stopped. She realized that she had almost said:

“Because you loved me,”
meaning it in the sense of the acceptance and easy tolerance that had characterized their relationship previously. She had taken Nat’s friendship for granted. With a pang of misery she realized how much she had lost when she had blown that relationship and all its certainties apart.

“Because we were friends,” she amended. She sighed. “Oh, Nat, I am so sorry. I have been so thoughtless and careless and as a result everything has changed and sometimes I
wish
—” The vehemence in her tone startled her. “I wish that matters were back the way they were before and we could have that uncomplicated friendship again.”

Nat loosed her and sat up, and she immediately felt cold as the evening breeze tiptoed gooseflesh along her skin. The sun was sinking now, pink and gold in the western sky, but suddenly the air was chill.

“Do you?” His voice was neutral, his expression unreadable. “We can’t go back, Lizzie.”

“I know,” Lizzie said. She clasped her knees to her chest, curling up for both comfort and warmth. “I know,” she said again. “It is merely that so many things have changed for me and I miss the old certainties.”

Suddenly she jumped to her feet, wanting to banish the blue devils before they spoiled the evening.

“There are some things that are the same as they were before,” she said. “I can still ride better than you.” She jumped up onto Starfire, laughing down at Nat as he scrambled to his feet. “I’ll race you back home.”

She won, but only just.

Nat kissed her good-night at her bedroom door that night. He trapped her against the panels of the door and held her with the press of his body against hers and she could feel his arousal and the control he was exerting over himself and the knowledge of her power was more heady than the best champagne.

“You’ll break first,” Nat said, against her mouth. “You know you want me and you have no patience to wait for the things you want.”

“I will
not
give in first,” Lizzie said. “You underestimate me. And you are cheating again,” she added, as his mouth trailed teasing kisses along the line of her throat. “You are not supposed to kiss me or even touch me.”

“I can compromise,” Nat said, easing back from her, “but only so far.”

Lizzie lay in bed and looked at the connecting door between their two rooms. She thought of the insight Nat had given her into his past and the terrible burden he carried about his sister’s death. He must know in his own mind that he had saved Celeste’s life and yet in his heart there would always be the reminder of the impossible choice; he could not have saved both girls at once and so he bore the guilt for
the one he had failed. It seemed the most desperately, damnably unfair weight for a man to bear.

She wondered what else Nat had been going to tell her. Perhaps it had been something else to do with Celeste. Perhaps she should have pushed him a little, made him talk? But it had taken him nine years simply to tell her what had happened at Water House that night. She could not force him to confide more, not now when everything was so fragile between them. Despite Nat’s withdrawal she still felt a spark of hope that he was starting to see her differently. She did not want to spoil matters by giving in to her usual haste and impatience.

Lizzie stared hard at the connecting door. She knew it was not locked tonight and that it constituted the most terrible temptation but she had not come this far to give in on the first night. She could excuse herself, of course, if she did choose to go to him—she could argue that after Nat had laid his emotions bare she was offering him her comfort and love. Yet although she ached to be in his arms some spark of stubbornness held her back. They had started to build something different, something stronger between them. She would not undermine it now.

To her surprise she slept well and woke feeling refreshed and happy. Nat’s haggard face and surly bad temper at the breakfast table, in contrast, suggested that he was feeling neither.

“Did you not sleep well, my love?” Lizzie said, bright as a daisy, as she poured the coffee.

Nat scowled. “Not a wink.”

“I am sorry,” Lizzie said.

“I doubt you are,” Nat countered. He slapped his newspaper down on the table with unwonted force. “I am going out.” He glared at her. “Not because I want to, but to keep my hands off you, madam wife.”