Wicked Angel (43 page)

"Lauren," he said hoarsely, "if I thought you had a choice… We never plan the great events of our lives, they just happen. I think you are as helpless as I am to alter your heart. I am—" He swallowed convulsively and looked about the room. "I am disappointed, I will not deny it. But I cannot fault you for following what is in your heart." Slowly, he brought her hand to his mouth, his lips lingering on her palm as he quietly regarded her, then he put her hand in her lap and rose. "I will speak with your uncle." He paused, his blue eyes skimming her face one last time as his fingers lightly brushed her cheek.

"Have a care,
liebchen
. If you ever have the opportunity to be in Bavaria, promise me you will visit. The Potato Man misses you."

Lauren smiled tremulously. "I promise," she whispered.

There was nothing left to say; he turned and walked out of the room. And she finally gave into the relief and anguish, letting a river of grief and remorse flow from her until she had exhausted herself.

She drifted for days in a state of numbness. Guilt, remorse, and a keening sense of loss invaded her and would not release its grip. The children cast wide-eyed looks at her, intuitively whispering in her presence. In her own direct way, Mrs. Peterman attempted to make her smile, but inevitably shook her head in dismay and left Lauren alone. Obviously having heard the news, Mr. Goldthwaite appeared very quickly on the scene, brandishing an armful of overgrown daisies. He did not stay long. Even Ethan, forever counting the next pence, did not once chastise her for the loss of the annuity promised in her betrothal agreement, apparently taking solace in the generous trust Magnus had endowed and left intact for Rosewood.

Paul watched her closely, apparently afraid she might crumble at the slightest thing—and that was not far from true. Only Rupert said much of anything to her, but then again, he was completely oblivious to everything that had happened, and equally oblivious to her somber mien. Melancholy threatened to drown her. After several days, she desperately needed something to keep her mind and hands occupied.

Something that would give her refuge.

So she made jam.

She made jars and jars of it, sending the children out each morning in search of fruit until the apple trees, berry vines, and fruit bushes were depleted. Rupert was sent to Pemberheath in search of jars twice, his pockets jangling with the coins Paul supplied.

One morning, as she stirred a boiling cauldron of strawberries, Ethan came into the kitchen and landed heavily on a wooden bench, causing the jars lined neatly on the table to knock against one another. His expression was stern as he propped his hands on top of his huge belly. Lauren stood, a wooden spoon in her hand, waiting for him to speak. When he did not, she numbly turned back to her task.

"Paul is returning to London," he said abruptly. Mildly surprised, Lauren looked over her shoulder. "Lord Dowling has sent word he will not return from America until Yuletide and has accepted payment for the lease of his home until then."

"Why?" she asked indifferently as she placed two more filled jars on the narrow windowsill to cool.

Ethan waved an impatient hand at her question. " 'Investments,' he says. I rather suspect it is the gaming hells of which he is so enamored. Fancies himself quite the man about town." Lauren nodded apathetically and rummaged in the big tub she used to sterilize the jars, pulling two free and balancing them on the edge of a workbench already overflowing. "Parliament will adjourn in two weeks," Ethan continued, "and if I had to guess, I would say this could be your last opportunity."

Lauren frowned up at him as she wiped a jar clean with a linen cloth. "Magnus bestowed a very generous trust on Rosewood. Surely you are satisfied with that," she said dispassionately.

A faint smile lifted her uncle's lips. "No, I do not seek another offer for your hand."

"That's grand, because in case you have not heard, I am
persona non grata
in London," she said, a little petulantly.

He nodded, the light smile developing into a decided smirk. "Perhaps. As I was saying, it would appear to me that this is your last opportunity. Sutherland is bound to leave London soon. He got the Catholic emancipation bill through the Lords, you know. Quite a fiery speech, I hear. I reckon there is nothing left for him to do this Season, so you had best go to him now."

She was astonished by what he was saying. The mere mention of Alex's name made her queasy. She carefully placed the jar on a narrow workbench. "I beg of you, do not mention his name—"

"Nonsense!" he interrupted. "Enough of this brooding! You've come too far to go on hiding at Rosewood and making yam for the rest of your life!"

His suggestion was outrageous—not even worthy of a response. She picked up the spoon and began stir the boiling contents of the cauldron with a vengeance. "You do not understand, Uncle! He does not
want
to see me—"

"Doesn't he?" Ethan asked quietly, startling her.

"No! He despises me!"

"Funny thing to say about a man who broke off an important engagement at the last possible moment and chased you to Rosewood like a madman. From what I saw, he would have done anything to make you change your mind. He does not
despise
you, lass, he
loves
you. And you love him, don't you? Love does not fade overnight."

Shocked that such sentimental words came from Ethan's mouth, Lauren gaped at him. "Yes it does—it does when—" she broke off, dropped the wooden spoon, and gripped the edge of the workbench. A moment passed before she could look at Ethan again. "I
hurt
him, Uncle," she said hoarsely.

Ethan shrugged and picked up a jar of cooling jam and stuck his finger in it, smacking his lips as he tasted it. "I did not say it would be easy," he remarked, and tasted another dollop. "But I had thought you the bravest woman I have ever known—at least until now."

She jerked her head up. "You thought
what?
"

"You walk about like the dead," he blithely continued, "making mountains of
jam
for Chrissakes!" He put the jar down and propped his pudgy hands on his knees as he looked her squarely in the eye. "This is the most important moment of your life, Lauren. Don't let it slip through your fingers without a fight. God in heaven, do not lose heart now, lass!"

Stunned that this conversation was even
happening
, Lauren whirled around and stared blindly out the window. God knew she longed to see him, to feel his green eyes pierce through to her heart. But what if he looked at her the way he had when he had left her in the cottage? The pain, the disgust… she would not be able to bear it. But neither could she remain at Rosewood forever, never knowing. All she had been through paled in comparison to the prospect of always wondering, of always needing closure.

"Well then, don't dally about it! You know I am right," Ethan said, as if reading her thoughts.

Touched by Ethan's uncharacteristic concern for her, and still reeling from the notion that he was even
capable
of it, Lauren pivoted suddenly and went to him, throwing her arms around his enormous shoulders and kissing him on the cheek. Ethan scowled, red-faced. "Enough of that," he groused as a shy smile toyed with the corners of his mouth.

"Why, Ethan?" she asked, ignoring his gruff response.

He shrugged and looked at the jars of jam lined neatly on the table. "Believe it or not, silly girl, I was in love once."

With that admission, he could have knocked her over with no more than a sneeze. "You
were?
" she gasped, incredulous. "With who?"

"Well, who do you think? Your Aunt Wilma, of course!" he blustered, then sighed longingly, "God rest her weary soul." Embarrassed, he began to wave an impatient hand at her. "Go on with you now!"

Lauren smiled, for the first time in days.

"What shall we do? We cannot allow him to continue like this!" Wringing her hands, Hannah anxiously paced the floor of Arthur's spacious drawing room on Mount Street. "Did you
see
him last night? Lord Barstone came dangerously close to calling him out!"

"
We
are not going to do anything. I would strongly advise against meddling in Alex's affairs," Arthur answered. "I also would strongly advise you stop pacing before you wear a hole in my very expensive carpet." Seated in a floral damask chair, one leg dangling negligibly over the other, Arthur thought Hannah looked as if she wanted to slap him.

"I will not sit by and watch my son's heartache turn him into a bitter man," she said sharply. "Assuming he does not
drink
himself to death first!" She bestowed an imploring look on her youngest son. "Will you not at least
speak
with him, Arthur? God knows I have tried, but if I so much as
mention
Countess Bergen, he flies into a black rage!"

"Mother, I
have
spoken with him. He will not talk about it. Whatever happened is locked away forever, I fear."

"But there must be something we can do! Dear God, he loved her so!
Loves
her! Can you not see how he is hurting?"

"I can see how he is enjoying the company of a variety of females," Arthur muttered. Since returning from Dunwoody, Alex had thrown himself into the final festivities of the Season with abandon. It was so out of character, so unlike Alex, that Arthur secretly shared his mother's grave concern. Alex attended one mindless rout after another in the company of different women, and usually married ones at that. It was the appearance of Lady Barstone on Alex's arm last night that had Lord Barstone strutting about like a rooster, making loud, threatening comments concerning Duke Sutherland's person.

And Hannah was right; Alex had, of late, developed quite a liking for Scotch whiskey. His disdain for everything and everyone had grown so blatant that rumors were flying wildly. In salons across Mayfair, the Quality whispered about the immoral affair that purportedly led to the end of his engagement. Thanks to Lady Whitcomb, everyone knew that a disreputable
foreign
countess was the cause. Lady Pritchit made sure that no stone was left unturned by spreading rumors of some terribly compromising event that

had forced Lady Marlaine's hand, finishing off her little tale with a whisper that Alex still held a strong
tendre
for Lady Marlaine. Naturally, a well-heeled young woman such as Earl Whitcomb's daughter would have nothing to do with such a scoundrel. Nothing could actually have been further from the truth—Alex hardly seemed to notice Marlaine. Whatever had transpired at Dunwoody between him and the countess had wounded him deeply.

Arthur looked at his mother, not liking the lines of worry he saw in her face. He placed his brandy snifter on a cherrywood table, rose, and walked to her side, taking her hand in his. "I will speak with him again.

Actually, I happen to know of something that may spark his interest. Paul Hill has returned to London."

Hannah's eyes glistened with gratitude. "Oh, Arthur, please!
Anything
you can do before he is completely ruined!"

Alex helped himself to his fifth glass of champagne, noting bitterly that it was doing nothing to dull the ache that dogged him every day. It was a numbing, nauseating ache that stabbed at his gut every time he thought of Lauren—which was too Goddammed often to suit him. Even though she was married and gone now, he could not stop thinking about her, and he hated her for it, but he hated himself worse. He could hardly bear to think how easily he had given in to such an adolescent notion as love.
Good God!

"Your grace?" Beside him, Lady Fairlane gave him a playful, familiar nudge. "I asked if you have had seen Lord Fairlane's prized hound."

Alex swung his gaze to the redhead with the inviting mouth. "I have not seen his hound, madam," he said curtly. "I have not been to Fairlane Manor in over a year."

Her mouth curved enticingly. "We shall have to remedy that, shan't we?" she purred. "We are planning a weekend affair two weeks hence. Perhaps you could come?"

He saw the lascivious look in her eye, and gave her a sensuous, lopsided smile. Lady Fairlane's eyes twinkled with delight. "Perhaps I could do just that," he said smoothly, "if I have no other engagements."

Her gaze slid slowly down his chest, lingering covertly on his groin. Her sensual lips curled into a deeper, more suggestive smile. "A popular man," she mused unabashedly. "How shall you judge the merits of all the invitations, I wonder?"

How would he judge them, indeed, he thought and openly beheld her breasts, threatening to spill out of the deep décolletage of her gown.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but Lord Fairlane appears to be trying to gain your attention." Alex winced at the sound of his brother's voice; God, but he was a determined shadow.

Lady Fairlane glanced at Arthur as he strolled toward them, chuckling low in her throat. "Yes, I rather suppose he is." She sighed silkily, and with an explicit look at Alex, curtsied deeply. "I hope to see you at Fairlane Manor, your grace." As she walked away, she made sure her satin skirts swung suggestively.

Alex, quaffing his champagne, brazenly admired the view.

"Quite obvious in her admiration, is she not?" Arthur drawled.

Alex handed his empty glass to his brother. "And what if she is? She is married to an old goat," he said coldly, and shoved away from the column on which he was leaning.

"She and others like her are making you a very unpopular fellow, Alex."

"I suppose that should alarm me? I don't give a damn what anyone thinks."
Not even Lauren
. Disgusted, he frowned to himself as he picked up a sixth glass of champagne from a passing footman.

"The point is that you are making a spectacle of yourself," Arthur said gruffly.

"Save your opinions for your tea with Mother, Arthur," Alex sneered. "You and the duchess can amuse yourselves ad nauseum about me then."

"Your grace, may I be so bold as to request an introduction for my daughter, Eliza?" Alex turned sharply and eyed the portly Lord Stepplewhite and his equally portly young daughter. She turned bright red under the duke's marked glare, making her look something like an overripe tomato as she bobbed a clumsy curtsy.