Mary Balogh (39 page)

Inside the house, Mary handed her evening cloak to her manservant and ran lightly up the stairs, well pleased with the evening if she blocked from her mind the one discordant episode. The viscount was a pleasant, intelligent companion. And he seemed eager to see her again—Kew the next day and two sets with him at the Menzies ball.

It would be good, she thought, to have a beau again, to have someone interested exclusively in her. It would be good to have a man to dream of. To have a possible marriage to hope for. She was ready for marriage again, she thought, for the assurance that her man would always come home to her at night. She was ready for children. It was not too late, surely. She was only thirty years old.

She pictured the viscount in her mind with his pleasant features and slightly receding fair hair. And she saw Lord Edmond Waite’s pale blue eyes intent on hers.

Well, at least, she thought, a new man in her life would help her banish the memories. And in future, if Lord Edmond tried to intrude himself into her company while
Lord Goodrich was near, he would be told in no uncertain terms to take himself off.

Mary thought of his saying that words were not dead on a page, only the mind that read them. And she smiled despite herself.

S
O
M
ARY AND
Goodrich were about to become an item, were they? Lord Edmond Waite thought, viewing the two of them waltzing together. His hand was spread across her back in a proprietary manner and she was smiling up at him. He himself was late. He had had no wish to run the gauntlet of a receiving line when he had received no invitation. But as he had suspected, no one had impeded his progress into the ballroom. And only a few matrons appeared to have noticed him and frowned possessively at their young charges lest they rush at him and elope to Gretna with him without further ado.

Ah. She had seen him. And had jerked her head away and was smiling even more determinedly up at Goodrich. It was a promising sign. At least she was not indifferent to him. She was damned hostile, but that was better than indifference.

Goodrich. He did nothing to keep the sneer from his face as he raised his quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed them through it. She could hardly have chosen anyone duller or more respectable if she had tried. A pillar of respectability. The man had had the same mistress in keeping since several years before the death of his first wife, and was rumored to have been faithful to her—apart from some beddings of his wife while she had still lived, presumably. The mistress was now plump and matronly herself, and the mother of five offspring.

But Goodrich was a respectable soul. If he felt himself in need of another wife, he would certainly not dream of marrying the woman who had given him all for years
without benefit of clergy and presented him with a whole brood of bastard children. No, he would marry Lady Mornington, who curiously had preserved her reputation for respectability despite her lengthy liaison with a married man.

Lord Edmond’s lips thinned into an arctic smile. He wondered how eager Goodrich would be to lay even the tip of one finger on Mary if he knew just how eagerly and lasciviously she had given herself little more than a week before to a certain gentleman currently out of favor with the
ton
.

The waltz was ending. Lord Edmond inclined his head to Lady Menzies, who had just caught sight of him from a short distance away and was staring at him, somewhat startled. He strolled in the direction in which Goodrich was leading Mary. They had joined the Hubbards and the Barretts before he came up to them. He made his bow to the group.

“A grand squeeze,” he said, “for so late in the Season.”

“Yes, indeed,” Penelope Hubbard said. “We were just saying so ourselves.”

Lord Edmond turned his gaze upon Mary. “May I?” he asked, touching the card at her wrist.

“That dance is mine, Waite,” the viscount said stiffly. Lord Edmond raised his eyebrows. “Which?” he asked.

“Whichever one you were planning to claim.” The viscount fixed him with a hard stare.

The devil, Lord Edmond thought, there could be a duel at dawn if he was not careful. That would do wonders for his reputation. Especially if he put a bullet between Goodrich’s eyes, as he would be sorely tempted to do. Five bastards might have to face the morrow as orphans.

“Indeed,” he said, lifting the card from Mary’s unresisting wrist and opening it. His eyes glanced through it. “Ah, but you forgot to write your name, Goodrich. And
I believe it is just as well. Mary’s card tells me that you have already danced two sets with her. Would you sully her reputation by claiming a third?”

They were one step closer to that duel, he saw when he glanced up.

“Her card is full,” the viscount said slowly and distinctly, as if he were talking to an imbecile. “There is no dance free for you, Waite.”

The other two ladies were shifting uncomfortably, Lord Edmond was aware. Mr. Hubbard was clearing his throat.

“Perhaps that is for the lady to say,” he said. “Mary?”

“Lady Mornington to you,” the viscount said. “And you will let go of that card if you know what is good for you, Waite.”

A few other people close by were beginning to look at their group.

“Oh, please,” Mary said. “I will be happy to dance one set with you, my lord.”

“Ma’am, there is really no need to give in to coercion, I do assure you,” the viscount said.

But Lord Edmond ignored him. He looked through the card. “A waltz?” he said. “The second set after supper?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice breathless.

He scribbled his name in the space next to that particular set, made his bow to her, and withdrew to the card room, where luck was with him and he won three hands in succession.

He wandered alone in the ballroom and anterooms and out onto the balcony during supper and returned to the card room when the dancing resumed, a spectator rather than a player. He was listening to the music, waiting for the first set to end.

She was not with her friends this time. She was alone, walking purposefully along one side of the ballroom as
if she were on her way somewhere definite. But he knew that she had merely chosen not to be embarrassed again in front of her friends. His lips curled.

“Mary?” he said, touching her on the arm. “My dance, I believe?”

“Yes.” Her face was pale, her jaw set. “I have never given you leave to address me by my given name.”

“Mary,” he said softly, drawing her into his arms as the musicians prepared to play. “I have made love to you. Three times. And you to me. Am I to address you formally?”

She looked up into his eyes. “You will never let me forget that, will you?” she said.

He wondered yet again why he was pursuing her so relentlessly. She was so much older and plainer than most of the other dancers. At least he thought she must be. He could no longer remember if she was pretty or plain, old or young. She was Mary.

“Do you mean that you would forget it if I were not here to remind you?” he said. “I think not. I think that you remember every moment of every day. I think you relive those encounters every single night. You cannot deny it, can you?”

The music began, and he moved with her, noting again how small she was—she reached barely to his shoulder—and how slender. She was light on her feet and responded well to his lead. She was a good dancer.

“I like this gown,” he said, looking down to the pale green silk at her shoulder, “as I liked the apricot-colored one you wore at your salon. Pale colors suit you. You have a strong enough character that you do not need to hide behind vivid shades—like the pink you wore at the theater.”

She stared at his shoulder. She was not going to answer him, it seemed.

“Had you given Goodrich permission to send me
away?” he asked. “I found his attitude most obnoxious.”

“Yes,” she said, her face animated with anger again. “I had. But you have no conception of what good manners demand, do you? There would have been a nasty scene if I had not agreed to dance with you. I chose not to make a scene.”

“I am glad,” he said. “I would hate to have had to punch him in the nose, Mary, or direct a pistol at him tomorrow morning.”

She drew in her breath. “You would have done either or both, would you not,” she said, “without a thought to the distress you would have caused to a number of people? Without a thought to my reputation?”

“I do not like to have watchdogs set on me, Mary,” he said. “Perhaps you should know that now. I would hate to have to harm Goodrich or anyone else. Argue with me face-to-face. Or do you not have the courage to do so?”

“I do not wish to argue with you,” she hissed at him, “or to converse with you or to have any dealings whatsoever with you. I want you out of my life. Completely and immediately and forever. But you will not believe that, will you?”

“No,” he said. “Or I will not accept it, at least. I want you in my life, you see, Mary. Completely and immediately—and yes, perhaps forever, too. I believe this conversation is becoming rather too intense for the scrutiny of all these eyes. It needs a little more privacy.”

He danced her out through the French windows onto the stone balcony. It was rather a chilly night. There was only one other couple out there, and they were on their way back inside.

Lord Edmond Waite and Mary danced alone. And in silence. She did not immediately resume their quarrel, and he would not. She closed her eyes, he noticed. And
he drew her fractionally closer and breathed in the scent of her.

It was eight days ago. The storm must have been in progress already at this particular time of night. He must have been holding her. Kissing her. Perhaps he had been in the process of laying her down on the table. Perhaps he had already been inside her.

If it were eight days ago, he would have the rest of that night to look forward to. God, if it were just possible to put back the clock. If it were just eight days ago.

Mary!

He looked down at her and knew in some shock that he was falling in love with her.

Had fallen.

T
HE AIR WAS COOL ON THE BALCONY
. B
LESSEDLY
cool—she had become overheated in the ballroom. The music was lovely, the sort of music one could hardly resist moving to. The waltz must be the most wonderful dance in the world. Mary kept her eyes determinedly closed. She willed her partner to keep quiet. She wanted to believe that she was waltzing with any good partner anywhere.

“Mary.” His voice was low and caressing.

She held her breath, but he said no more. She kept her eyes closed and they danced on. Until he twirled her about and stopped. There was something hard and cold at her back—the stone balustrade. Something brushed her cheek—the leaves of one of the large potted plants that stood at intervals along the balcony. She opened her eyes. They must be more than half hidden behind the plant. He was standing very close to her, his arm still about her waist, his other hand holding hers. He was looking at her intently.

“Mary,” he said.

“I have danced with you,” she said, anger rising again. “I have even made an effort to be polite to you and to stop quarreling with you. But this is more than enough. I am going to return to the ballroom now—alone. And I would ask you, my lord, to leave me alone in the future.
Strictly alone. I do not wish ever to speak with you again.”

For answer he lowered his head and kissed her.

Her one hand was not free—he was gripping it tightly. With the other she pushed at his shoulder and slapped at his face, twisting her own away from it. They struggled in silence until he had her two wrists imprisoned. He set her hands against his chest and held them there until the fight went out of her.

“Do you wish me to scream?” she asked him. “Is that what you want? Yet another scandal? You will get nothing else from me, my lord, without a very loud scene, I promise you. Let me go, if you please.”

“Mary,” he said, making no move to release her, “we were good together. More than good. The best. We could be so again—and again and again.”

“You make me sick,” she said. “Physically sick. Nauseated. Are you so perverted that you like to pursue women who can vomit just at the thought of you?”

“You did not vomit last week,” he said. “You gave every bit as good as you got. You enjoyed every moment.” He looked at her in silence for a long while. “Is it my reputation? Is it that you know I have had many women and have recently jilted one lady in order to run off with another? Is it all the rumors of excesses and reckless living? Is that it?”

“Yes,” she said, tight-lipped. “That is precisely it. Strange, is it not, that a woman would shun such a man? And one who killed his brother and his mother, too, if all the stories one hears are to be believed.”

She wished that anger had not caused her to add those last accusations. She knew nothing with any certainty. And usually she scorned unsubstantiated gossip. His lips thinned and twisted into a sneer. His nostrils flared, and his eyes bored into hers.

“Ah, so you
have
heard that one, have you?” he said.
“Well, it is true, Mary. I killed them. Are you afraid I will kill you, too? Put my hands about your neck, perhaps, and squeeze?” He suited action to words, except that he did not squeeze. “It would be a new method for me. That is not how I killed them. Are you frightened?”

“No,” she said, holding her voice steady. “I am not afraid of you, my lord.” But she lied. She was, she realized, mortally afraid of him. Not afraid that he would kill her. Not there and then, anyway. But afraid that, say what she would, he would not leave her alone. Afraid that she would never be free of him. And a little afraid of herself, perhaps.

“Liar,” he said. “Mary, has it ever occurred to you that all the stories you have heard, all the labels that have been put on me, do not make up the complete man? Do you not think that perhaps there is a great deal more to be known?”

“You would try to deny it all, then?” she said. “You would have me believe that you are a worthy and upright citizen?”

“Hardly that,” he said. “No, it is all true, Mary, what you have heard, and a great deal more that you have not heard, I do not doubt. But even so, there is a large part of myself—a very large part—that is not accounted for by such a public image. Do you feel no curiosity to get to know what you do not yet know?”