Page 83 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
His jaw tightening, he glanced toward the doorway, before leveling his gaze once more on Daisy. “May we finish this discussion later? I have a guest.”
A guest more important than Daisy. A woman he would sacrifice everything for, while sacrificing nothing for Daisy. A murder had shown her what a partial life with him would be like. Only she didn’t want a partial life. She’d erroneously believed now that everything was resolved they could broaden their relationship.
“Why have you come at this hour?” he asked, almost repeating what he’d asked when he first saw her.
She held up the ecru envelope. “I brought you an invitation to the Bellingham ball.”
“I already told you I would not attend. I will not be welcomed.”
“You would have been... by me. That might have started a revolution that would have led to...”A proper courtship. She shook her head. “I don’t know what it might have led to.”
Carefully, as though it was made of delicate crystal that could easily shatter—when in truth, it was she who was on the verge of shattering—she set the card on a nearby table, beside a vase of daisies. “I’ll leave it in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
She studied the lines of his face that she had traced with a fingertip, had kissed lightly, had pressed her lips against more firmly. “I know.”
At last she did know. The young lad who felt responsible for his mother’s death, who had been unable to save her, still resided within him. Every decision in his life was guided by that boy’s regrets. She couldn’t compete with the ghost of that woman or the frightened eyes of other ladies seeking help. She wasn’t bothered by the notion that he wouldn’t place her first but rather with the idea that all he would offer her was asecret life, never a public acknowledgment. “My apologies for barging in without thought and taking you away from your visitor. I’ll leave you to her now.”
“We’ll discuss this in more detail later.”
With a quick nod and a sad smile, she turned on her heel and strolled toward the door. She rather feared that, like her mother, she’d chosen poorly. But unlike her mother, she intended to correct her mistake.
Chapter 26
Normally Bishop divided his pacing between the foyer and the front parlor, waiting to catch the first sight of the carriage rumbling up the drive so he could rush out the door and be there to help Marguerite disembark, to feel her small hand being placed in his larger one and to have that sense that it was precisely where it belonged. To inhale her fragrance, to see her soft smile, to gaze into her blue, welcoming eyes. To have no need to wander through his garden seeking solace because solace arrived with her.
But tonight, he was outside, standing on the top step anxiously awaiting her arrival. He was extremely bothered by the conversation they’d shared earlier. More needed to be said, so much more explained.
He couldn’t identify the precise moment when she’d become so important. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps Chastity had the right of it when he’d last seen her and she’d announced that he was in love, and he’d vehemently refuted it. Because he couldn’t deny that he had moments when Martin Parker’s words—I cannot bear the thought of a world without her in it—echoed through his heart with the resounding conviction and clarity that even a day without her was unbearable.
That afternoon when he’d looked up and seen her standing in the doorway, he’d resented Mrs. Bennett for occupying a chair in his library because her presence made it impossible to do exactly what he wanted: take Marguerite into his arms and carry her up the stairs to enjoy a delightful afternoon together.
But she was for after hours. After she closed her office for the day. After he cleared his desk. After the servants were abed. After neighbors had drawn draperies. After an hour when they might be caught.
Yet she’d brought him an invitation to that damned ball. As though he could attend without revealing any of his feelings for her. As though he could waltz with her and act like she meant nothing. As though he could watch her dancing with other men and ignore the tiny cracks forming in his heart. She thought they were pretending in his bedchamber? The greater pretense would happen outside of it.
Her business would thrive only if people thought she possessed sound judgment. What would it say about her judgment if she was seen in public with him? He needed her to understand that he was striving to shield her, even if she claimed to need no protection.
What was giving up one night a week when a woman might be saved? A sacrifice he was finding it incredibly difficult to want to make. But didn’t the greater good outweigh the selfishness of one person? How different might his life have been if someone—anyone—had been willing to assist his mother? Besides, Mrs. Bennett had young children. They added to the importance of what he was doing. They would be affected if he turned away their mother, if theygrew up surrounded by hatred, if tragedy befell the woman who’d given birth to them.
At the sight of the carriage turning into the drive, the tight bands around his chest loosened. He took a deep cleansing breath and slowly released it. She was here. They would talk, eventually laugh, and then he would take her to his bed and demonstrate that they most certainly were not a pretense. They were heated gazes, searing kisses, and scorching touches that resulted in a blazing torrent of sensations coming together to form a conflagration that ultimately encompassed the whole of them. Sated and lethargic, they would lie in each other’s arms and talk in low voices about matters of importance and things that mattered not at all. Always there was the beauty of those shared moments before they drifted off into slumber for a spell.
He was already in place when the carriage drew to a stop. Reaching out, he pulled open the door and stared at the blackened abyss. Empty of warmth. Empty of joy. Empty of her.
“Apologies, sir,” the footman who appeared at his side said. “Miss Townsend informed us that she wouldn’t be coming tonight, wouldn’t have need of the carriage any longer. We knew you’d be waiting, so thought it best to come here before going to the stables. Hence you would know of her decision.”
She could have returned the carriage anytime during the late afternoon or early evening. But she’d waited for this hour, their hour, in order to send a distinct and an impossible-to-misinterpret message.
She wouldn’t be coming to his residence in thedead of night or otherwise. She was done with him. They, as a couple, would be no more.
With a nod, he did not slam the door shut, but it did click rather loudly. “As I expected.” As he’d feared. He now realized the reason he’d had such a difficult time drawing in breath standing on that top step. He’d known she wasn’t going to come. “Carry on.”
He climbed up those steps with the difficulty of a man striving to scale a steep, rocky mountain. Once inside, he went straightaway to his library, poured himself a scotch, and tossed it back. After pouring himself another, he held it up to the lamplight, searching for any smearing that might indicate it was the same tumbler she’d touched that first night. But, of course, the glass was spotless. Perkins would have seen to it.
As though moving through treacle, he dragged himself to his favorite chair in front of the fireplace and stared into the empty hearth. He couldn’t look around this chamber without seeing her here. As a matter of fact, he was fairly certain he was going to envision her in every room. Even in his strength training room that had once been his haven, where he could push himself until he was too exhausted to remember his mother’s cries or his father’s shouts or his own body trembling with his fear. Although, it had been a good long while since he’d brought forth any of those memories.
They still mattered, had helped shape him, but lately when he drifted into the past, he didn’t drift far. His first sighting of Marguerite. Conversations. Smiles. Laughter. The way she moaned when he pushed into her, as though nothing had ever felt so exquisite. Her sigh when she nestled against him. Themanner in which she jutted up her chin when negotiating with him.
