Retreat From Love (24 page)

Anne had woken up this morning still floating from yesterday’s lovemaking with Freddy and Brett. She had been looking forward to another day spent in their company, perhaps another chance to make love. She’d opened her door to find a determined Freddy and Brett before she’d even had her first cup of tea. It was far too early in the morning for this conversation, however.

“Absolutely not!” Anne was horrified. “Frederick Thorne, whatever are you

thinking? You can’t marry a woman like me!”

“Anne, listen to reason,” Freddy said in that condescending tone men did so well.

“No, Freddy, you listen to reason. Not only am I older than you,” she rolled right over his scoffing snort, “but my reputation is more than tarnished. Not to put too fine a point on it, it’s black. Ruined beyond redemption.” Anne cringed as she used the same words that she’d spoken seductively to Brett yesterday. “Do you understand what I am saying, Freddy?”

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“I understand that I care for you deeply, Anne, and that your current situation is a direct result of my careless neglect.” He tried to take her hand, but Anne yanked it out of reach. “I want to take care of you, Anne. You should have been duchess. If Bertie hadn’t died, you would be. I want to give that to you.”

Anne could only stare in disbelief. Did he honestly think she would marry him for those reasons?

“If you marry me, Anne, you will be duchess. You will never have to worry again.

People here will respect you. Your past will mean nothing.”

Anne shook her head. He really had no idea that with each word he was justifying her refusal. He started to speak again and Anne held up an imperious hand to stop whatever drivel he was going to spout.

“You are an idiot.” She spoke slowly and clearly so he would understand each word.

Freddy reared back as if she’d slapped him. “I beg your pardon?”

Anne ticked her rebuttals off on her fingers. “Number one, I will not marry a man who pities me, for any reason. Number two, you had nothing to do with my current situation. Number three, I have no desire to be duchess. Do you honestly believe I want to follow in that woman’s footsteps?” Anne shivered in horror. “Number four, Bertie did die. When I engaged myself to him we never thought he’d be duke. He dreaded the prospect, as did I. And number five, my past will always mean something.”

Freddy pried her hand out from where she had crossed her arms in front of her. She closed her fist, but he pried that loose too, until he could hold her hand. “I want to marry you, Anne. Don’t you want to be duchess? My duchess?”

Anne’s heart cracked, and she closed her eyes. God, yes, she wanted to be Freddy’s.

But not like this. Not because he felt a sense of obligation. Not because he thought being duchess would make up for Bertie’s death or her recent poverty. She wanted to be Freddy’s because he loved her. But he didn’t. Not the way she was just realizing that she loved him.

Freddy may still be finding his way as duke, but as a man he knew who he was. He was intelligent, purposeful, with a deep sense of responsibility and a playful sensuality.

He was sincere and caring, strong and tender. Yes, she wanted to be his, not just his duchess, but his in every way.

Anne shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “No, Freddy, I don’t want to be your duchess.”

Freddy cleared his throat and rose from the sofa, letting go of Anne’s hand. He walked across the room and stood in front of the mantle, running his finger along the edge of the carved wood. “I thought that was every woman’s dream, to be a duchess.

There are many women who would be proud to be Duchess of Ashland.”

Anne walked over to him and laid her hand on his arm gently. “Freddy, if it were just me and you, and you were a mere Mister, then my answer would be different.”

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Freddy’s hand froze, and he turned to look at her, genuine confusion on his face.

His brows were lowered, a furrow between them. “You are saying no because I am a duke?”

“Yes.” Anne ran her hand lovingly along the lapel of his jacket, straightening it though it didn’t need it. She wanted to have the right to do that every day. But she wasn’t the woman for Freddy. “You deserve a woman from your own station, Freddy, a nobly bred girl who was raised to be a peeress. Who will make you proud to have her by your side. Not a poor vicar’s daughter with a ruined reputation.”

Freddy gently took hold of her shoulders and when she wouldn’t look up at him, bent his knees to meet her eyes. “I deserve to be happy with the woman of my choice. I choose you.”

Anne sadly shook her head. “You feel responsible for me, Freddy. Oh, you may want me right now, physically, but that won’t be enough in a short while. You’ll tire of me, and I couldn’t bear to face your scorn and bitterness for the rest of our lives.”

Freddy shook her softly. “Is that what you think of me? Is that the kind of man you believe me to be? I love you, Anne. In spite of what everyone apparently thinks of me, I am old enough to know my own heart. But even if you don’t believe that now, take me because I am duke, because I can make your life so much better, Anne.”

“You make my life better now, Freddy,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. “You are so wonderful, Freddy. The last few days have been so wonderful. Please don’t take them away.” Anne turned her face into his collar, inhaling the expensive scent of his linen and his cologne, and melting a little inside at the dear familiarity of it. “I adore you, Freddy, everything about you. I want to be yours for a while. But only for a while. And then we shall have this time to remember when you go on with your life.”

“Then marry me, Anne,” he pleaded earnestly, his lips pressed to her hair. “It doesn’t have to be just for a while. It could be forever.”

Anne broke away and went to gaze blindly out the window. “I’m sorry, Freddy, but the answer is still no.” She looked down at the floor, too overcome to look at Freddy, too afraid she might start to cry. “But I do thank you for asking.”

“Would you marry Brett?”

Anne’s head whipped around in shock. “What?”

Freddy marched over to the drawing room door and threw it open. “Brett!”

Anne hurried over to him and grabbed his arm. “Freddy, what are you doing?”

Brett came limping around the corner from the kitchen, where he’d gone to

presumably find them all some tea. Mrs. Goode was out in the garden.

“What is it, Freddy?” Brett asked. He looked at Anne, and his face was so solemn, his eyes so bleak that Anne’s heart stuttered.

“She said no.”

“She can’t say no,” Brett said in confusion. “She’s going to be the duchess.”

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Anne turned and stalked back into the drawing room. “Why is everyone

preoccupied with the idea of my being duchess? What has that got to do with anything?” She threw her arms in the air on the last word.

“She wants a Mister,” Freddy told Brett.

“What?” Brett sounded as if he didn’t quite understand the words Freddy was using.

“I don’t want a Mister,” Anne informed them, “or a duke. I simply want someone who loves me.”

“Freddy loves you,” Brett informed her flatly. “There. Now you may marry him.”

“Brett is in love with you.”

Anne was about to scoff at Freddy’s statement when she saw Brett’s face. He’d turned panicked eyes on Freddy.

“What are you saying, Freddy?” Anne demanded, watching Brett.

“I never said that,” Brett denied, and Anne turned away, pain blooming in her chest.

“I read your letters, Brett. I read the letters you wrote to Anne.” Freddy’s voice was quiet, but it was firm. Anne slowly turned back around.

“Brett never wrote me any letters.” Anne’s heart was pounding.

Freddy was standing in front of the door, which he’d obviously closed. He shook his head. “No, Anne. He never
sent
you any letters. But he wrote you at least twenty. He has them still, wrapped with ribbon in his desk.”

“Freddy,” Brett choked out. Anne finally looked at him. He was vibrating with anger and disbelief.

“Tell her, Brett,” Freddy softly pleaded. “Tell her how you feel. Tell her about the letters.”

Brett was breathing heavily and his fists were clenched. He dragged his eyes to Anne, who stood there frozen.

“I…” Brett closed his eyes tightly. “It’s true,” he whispered.

“And he wants to marry you,” Freddy said, as if helping Brett with his lines from offstage.

Brett turned angry, panicked eyes to Freddy. He looked, Anne imagined, like those poor souls had looked on their way to the guillotine. His gaze slowly swung toward Anne. He visibly swallowed and then nodded quickly.

Anne turned away, blinking back her tears. She walked over to the sofa and sat, taking an inordinate amount of time to arrange her skirts. Finally, when she was composed, she looked up at the two of them.

“Yes, I can see that he is positively radiating joy at the prospect of marriage.” She tried to sound merely amused, but a little of her bitterness escaped.

“Anne, you must—”

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Freddy stopped when she once again raised an imperious hand. “You,” she pointed at Brett, her hand shaking, “talk.”

Brett looked like he’d swallowed his tongue.

“I see.” And Anne did see. Brett might harbor some feelings for her, but love was not at the root of either of these proposals. She leaned back, anger beginning a slow boil inside her. “Would either of you care to explain your sudden longing for marital bliss?”

“We are in love with you,” Freddy said in exasperation.

Anne snorted inelegantly. “That’s a flam and you know it. Oh, I’m not saying that you don’t have feelings for me, I’m sure you do, but you are hardly so in love with me you went home last night and drew straws as to who the lucky lad would be.”

“You deserve to be duchess,” Brett spoke quietly, and Anne was actually startled to hear his voice he’d been quiet so long. “If Bertie hadn’t died, you would be duchess.”

It was as if a great lightning bolt shot out of the sky and struck Anne on the head.

“This is about Bertie,” she whispered in dawning understanding. Her voice got stronger. “This isn’t about me. This is about Bertie.”

Suddenly Brett couldn’t seem to stop talking. “I did write those letters, Anne. I’ve been in love with you since the first letter you wrote to Bertie. He read every one of them aloud to me. And I wanted you. I coveted you, behind his back. I never told him how I felt.” Brett looked away. He was clearly ashamed of his feelings. “I even took some of your letters. Even when he was beside himself at losing them, I didn’t give them back.” Brett turned bleak, devastated eyes to her. “I thought it was all I would ever have of you.” For a moment he stood there fighting some inner battle. “I want to marry you, Anne. I am in love with you.”

Anne didn’t know what to say. She felt as if she were in a dream. She took a deep breath. More like a nightmare, actually. Because no matter what they said, they did not want to marry her, at least not for the right reasons.
Oh Bertie
, she thought.
I think I
regret your death more right now than ever before.

“What happened between you and Bertie, Brett?” she asked quietly. Both men looked startled. But only Brett looked guilty. She sighed. “I’m not stupid, Brett. I know this has to do with Bertie’s death.” She shook her head as Freddy started to say something. “No, Freddy. Do me the courtesy of being honest with me, especially now.

You both say I deserve to be duchess. Why? Because of Bertie? Are you sacrificing yourself to satisfy some inner sense of justice?” She turned to Brett. “And you.

Marrying you won’t make me duchess, Brett. Why? Why are suddenly so willing to marry me?”

“Your circumstances…” Brett’s voice trailed off at Anne’s look.

“I see. Because I am poor, you wish to remedy that by marrying me. Are you so wealthy then? As wealthy as Freddy?”

At that a brief smile flashed across Brett’s face. “No. I’m not sure anyone in the whole of England is as wealthy as Freddy. But I am quite well off, Anne. I can take care of you.”

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Anne was curious. “Really? How? I vaguely remember Bertie writing something about your knack with the ’Change. Is that where you’ve earned your money?”

Brett nodded stiffly. “Is that a problem? That I am merely a barrister’s son who has had to earn his money?”

Anne laughed bitterly. “I should think you’d know me better than that by now, Brett.”

Brett looked chagrined and sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. Anne remembered when he’d done that yesterday, although that now seemed a lifetime ago.

“I’m sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean that.”

Anne leaned forward, her hands folded in her lap. “I know you didn’t, Brett. But it just underscores the incongruousness of your proposal.” Anne was beginning to feel cold, the ice seeping outward from her midsection. “I believe your proposal stems from a sense of debt you feel you owe Bertie.”

Brett’s guilt was written plain on his face.

“You don’t owe Bertie or me anything, Brett. Your feelings during the war…they were a product of your loneliness, your fear. They weren’t real. I’m not saying that I don’t believe you care for me. Just the opposite. But you can’t make restitution to Bertie by marrying me. Bertie is dead. And as I said yesterday, in his last letter to me Bertie told me he wanted me to be happy, as he wanted you to be happy. I do not think marrying me would make you happy, Brett.”

As she’d been speaking Brett’s features twisted with pain and shame and guilt. It was frightening. And still the tortured voice that ripped out of him was shocking.

“It would make me too happy,” he cried. He spun away. “I don’t deserve it, Anne. I don’t deserve you. Bertie died saving my life. He shoved me out of the way.” He stumbled over to the wall and his back fell against it, as if he couldn’t support his own weight anymore.