Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (45 page)

“Oh.” She was disappointed. She wanted to ask him when she would see him again, but she had been inexcusably forward in her behavior to him more than once already this evening. She did not ask the question and he did not volunteer the information. “Good night, then. Thank you. Thank you for …” For holding her? And kissing her? “I am glad you came.”

“So am I,” he said. “Good night.”

He waited until she had turned away. She hurried back into the ballroom to find and make her apologies to Mr. Hancock. She felt better, she thought, except that she did not know when or even if she would ever see him again.

The wonder of it struck her. Had he really been here? Had she walked with him and talked with him and been comforted by his arms and his kiss?

There was a certain panic in the thought that she might never see him again.

The first person she saw when she returned to the ballroom was Lionel, Earl of Rushford. He was looking at her with appreciative and lustful eyes across the width of the ballroom.

She wished she had gone with Mr. Wade. Anywhere with him.

She was afraid again.

I
T WAS A LONG WALK HOME, ESPECIALLY FOR ONE who did not walk easily. It was a chilly evening. And a dark one, for a gentleman walking the streets of London unaccompanied and unarmed.

He did not think of any of it. He hardly even noticed his surroundings. He entered his town house, handed his cloak, hat, and gloves to the butler, climbed the stairs to his room, dismissed his valet, and stretched out fully clothed on his bed. He stared upward at the silk-lined canopy.

He could not quite believe that it had happened. All the way home he had avoided thinking about it or reliving any of it. He was afraid now to think of it. He was afraid to pinch himself, lest he wake up and find that it had all been a dream.

But he could not stop the memories.

Her face lighting up with unmistakable joy at seeing him.

Her assurance, undeniably genuine, that she was so very happy to see him.

Her suggestion that they walk outdoors together for a while, though it had turned out later that she had
promised the coming set to another man. She had totally forgotten it in her happiness at seeing him.

The way both her hands had rested on his arm as they went downstairs and outside into the garden.

The nostalgia with which she had talked of those afternoons at Highmoor.

He tried to stop thinking. Surely if he really thought about them, the next memories would crumble away and he would realize that they had been a fabrication of his imagination. A foolish fabrication. They could not possibly have happened in reality.

But thought could not always be stopped at will. And there they were—real memories of what had really happened.

She had stepped into his arms and set her own about his waist and her head against his shoulder.

God. Oh, God, it had really happened. He could feel her again. He could feel her warm, soft curves all along the length of his body. He could feel her arms tight about him. He could feel her curls soft and tickly against his cheek. He could smell her hair and that elusive violet smell he had noticed at Highmoor.

And then—ah, God, then.

She had lifted her head and gazed with soft warmth and
love
—even then he had thought it was love and had not believed the evidence of his own senses—into his eyes.

Kiss me
. He shut his eyes very tightly, listening to her soft whisper again. Yearning—there had been yearning in her voice. And in her eyes.

And so he had kissed her. And she had kissed him back with warm and parted lips. She had kissed him with gentleness and tenderness. His mind had not found those words at the time, but his body and his heart had felt them.

She had missed him. She had said that, earlier, before the kiss.

He did not want to think beyond the kiss. It had happened, he knew. But it was too much. Too great a gift. Too far beyond belief and acceptance.

I do love you so very, very much
.

No, no. She could not have meant it quite that way. What she had meant was that she felt an affection for him. He must not read too much into her words. Perhaps that was why he had laid a finger against her lips when she had been embarrassed at blurting out so stark a truth and had tried to explain. Perhaps he was afraid that it was not the truth.

I do love you so very, very much
.

Friends—a man and a woman—did not talk thus to each other. Only lovers. Even Dorothea had not said that to him until close to the end.

No, he would not believe it too deeply. She was unbelievably beautiful and—perfect. He had seen her with three different men since his arrival in London, all handsome and young and fashionable. How could she have meant what she had said to him tonight? The idea was absurd.

“She loves me.” He whispered the words into the
candlelit darkness and felt foolish, even though there was no one to hear except him.

“She loves me,” he said aloud and more firmly. He felt even more foolish. “Very, very much.”

Was he going to set out on his return to Yorkshire tomorrow? Or was he going to try to see her again? How? By haunting fashionable areas during the daytime in the hope of catching a glimpse of her? By attending some other evening function in the hope of having a few words with her?

By calling on her? She was living at Lady Brill’s. He knew that.

Dared he call on her? Would it not be an occasion of amusement to Lady Brill and others—and even perhaps to Samantha—if he went calling on her? But why should he not? He was the Marquess of Carew; for the first time he realized that he had not after all told her of that fact this evening. And she had been glad to see him tonight. More than glad.

I love you so very, very much
.

He closed his eyes tightly again. He had to believe it. It had not been just the words themselves. Everything in that whole incredible encounter had led up to those words and confirmed them as true.

The miracle had happened.

She loved him.

T
HEY HAD NOT LET
it be known that they would be at home to visitors. Their plan was to spend the afternoon
visiting. Their intention was to take Lady Sophia with them—her first outing since her accident. Samantha was supposed to drive in the park later with Lord Francis, but it was raining. He had sent a note to ask if she wished to join the world of the ducks, in which case he would don his oilskins and accompany her, or if she would prefer to honor him with her company on the morrow, weather permitting. She wrote back that she had checked but had discovered that she did not have webbed feet and that, yes, she would be delighted to drive out with him tomorrow.

And then a note had arrived from Lady Sophia, who considered that wet weather was not good for a recently broken limb, and would Agatha and Miss Newman humor her with a visit later in the afternoon? She was going to have a rest after luncheon, another adverse effect of the wet weather, it seemed.

And so they had an unexpectedly free half an afternoon and settled in Lady Brill’s sitting room with their embroidery to have a cozy chat about last night’s ball. Samantha allowed her aunt to do most of the talking. She preferred not to think about last night’s ball. She could hardly believe that she had behaved with such dreadful forwardness toward Mr. Wade, who was, when all was said and done, practically a stranger. And she felt depressed about the fact that it was likely to be their only meeting in town. They would hardly move in the same circles there. And she did not want to think about Lionel and the strange, repellent attraction she had felt for him.

She had dreamed about him during the night. A horrible, shocking dream. He had been on the bed with her, looming over her, his body braced on his two arms on either side of her head. He had been looking at her with burning eyes and moistened lips. He had been telling her, his voice soft and persuasive, that of course she wanted him and it was silly to fight the feeling.

You are a woman now. I cannot take my eyes off you
.

There had been that feeling in her womb again, and she had known that she was about to give in, to admit defeat. She
did
want him. There—close to her womb. But then she had felt nauseated with a revulsion at least equal to the desire and had pushed at his chest, desperate for air.

His right arm had collapsed and he had tumbled down on top of her. And had turned into Mr. Wade.

You need not be embarrassed
, he had said, his voice gentle.

She had sobbed with relief and wrapped her arms tightly about him and relaxed and gone back to sleep.

She had woken with a pillow hugged tightly to her.

It was not a dream she enjoyed remembering.

Fortunately Aunt Aggy appeared not to have heard that Lionel was at the ball. She sighed after they had been sitting for almost an hour. “I suppose that soon we had better get ready to go,” she said. “There is something about a rainy day that makes one wish to stay indoors, is there not, dear? But poor, dear Sophie will be lonely if I do not go to see her.”

But there was a tap on the door at that moment, and Aunt Agatha’s butler came in with a card on a silver tray.

“Did you not say we were not receiving this afternoon?” she asked him.

“I did, ma’am,” he said. “But the gentleman wished me to ask if you would make an exception in his case.”

Aunt Agatha picked up the card and glanced at it. Her eyebrows shot up and then drew together.

“You will never believe this, Samantha,” she said. “The gall of the man. I had no idea he was back in England. And he is calling on us?”

Lionel
. Samantha’s stomach performed a somersault.

“The Earl of Rushford,” Lady Brill said scornfully. “You may tell him we are not at home.” She looked fiercely at her butler. “You may tell him we do not plan to be at home for the rest of the Season.”

“He danced with me last evening,” Samantha said quietly.

Her aunt turned her fierce gaze on her, and the butler paused in the doorway.

“He took me by surprise,” Samantha said. “And he was very civil. It would have seemed ill-mannered …” She folded her embroidery without conscious thought and set it beside her on the chair. “I danced with him.”

“Gracious,” her aunt said. “After the scandal of six years ago, Samantha? After he disgraced dear Jennifer with such deliberate malice? Her own father caned her as a result!”

Samantha bit her lip. She hated the memory of listening outside Uncle Gerald’s study door with Aunt Aggy
and hearing his command to Jenny to bend over his desk and then the first two whistling strokes of his cane.

“Very well,” her aunt said after a pause, “we will be
civil
to him, Samantha. Show him up.” She looked at her butler again. “After all, it was six years ago. A man can sometimes learn wisdom in six years.”

It was hard to believe that she had not fought against his admission, especially when Aunt Aggy herself had been reluctant to admit him. But she knew why. Of course she knew. Why keep denying it to herself? Why keep pretending?

She had never forgotten him. She had never stopped being fascinated by him. She had known last night that there was still something that drew her to him. She had known then that her life seemed destined for ugliness, not beauty, for pain, not happiness.

The only question that remained was whether she was going to continue to fight. What was the alternative to fighting? Oh, dear God, what was it?

And then he was in the room, filling it with his good looks and his charm and his charisma. He was bowing over Aunt Aggy’s hand and assuring her that she was in remarkable good looks and that he would cherish the honor she had done him by admitting him on an afternoon when she was not officially receiving.

He was dressed in a coat of dark green superfine, Weston’s finest, with buff pantaloons and sparkling Hessians. His linen was crisply white. He was even more breathtakingly handsome now than he had been six years ago, if that were possible.

And then he was turning to Samantha and bowing elegantly and gazing at her with burning eyes—oh, dear God, she had seen his eyes like that in her dream—and thanking her for the honor she had paid him in dancing a set with him last evening.

“I came, Miss Newman, ma’am,” he said, including them both in his bow, “to make a more private and certainly more sincere apology for my part in the events of six years ago that caused such distress to your family.”

“Well.” Samantha noticed that her aunt melted without further ado. “Well, that is most civil of you, my lord, I am sure. I was just remarking to Samantha that a man can sometimes learn wisdom in six years.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I have.”

Lady Brill ordered tea and they sat for twenty minutes, engaged in an amiable conversation, during which he told them about his travels and asked after the health and happiness of Lady Thornhill.

“I have always wished her happy,” he said. “I was young and fearful, as most young men are, of matrimony. But I never wished her harm and have been deeply ashamed of the distress I caused her.” He looked at Samantha, his eyes warmly contrite.

He had never wished her harm? And yet he had maliciously caused that letter to be written and to be read aloud, a letter suggesting that Jenny and Lord Thornhill were lovers and intended to continue as lovers. If Gabriel had not married her, Jenny would have lived out her life in deep disgrace. Oh, yes, it would be a sin to try to forget—Uncle Gerald had caned her after that letter was
read to the
ton
. And Lionel had never wished her harm? He had not even had the excuse of youth. He had been five-and-twenty at the time.

And he had pretended a passion for her, Samantha, in the hope that she would tell Jenny and Jenny would end their betrothal. And then, when the betrothal was ended anyway, he had laughed at her and told her that she must have misunderstood what was only gallantry.

Had he changed so much in six years? Was it possible? Or was he still the snake he had been then? But even more suave.