Page 39 of A Rogue's Downfall
“I have been severely provoked,” he said. He offered her his arm, which she took after a moment’s hesitation, and began to lead her slowly through thetrees in the direction of the house. “You could alwayssave poor Miss Peabody by warning her about my, ah,expenditures of energy this morning and tonight.”
“Ah, but she already knows you are a rake,” she said. “It is your greatest attraction in her eyes. Well,almost the greatest.”
The greatest being that he could elevate her to the rank of baroness at some distant time, he supposed.
“Of course,” she added, “she will expect you to be a reformed rake once you are married.”
“Ugh!” he said.
“Reformed rakes are said to be the best, most constant of husbands,” she said.
“Best as meaning most experienced?” he asked. He was enjoying himself more than he had since leavingbehind his male cronies in London. “Constant asmeaning most constantly able to please in— You aresteeling yourself not to blush again, are you not,Miss Mangan?”
“And you are thoroughly enjoying trying to make me do so, sir,” she said. “I would have you remember,if you will, that I am the daughter of a parson.”
“Why are you so different from your cousin?” heasked. “Why are you dressed so differently? Whywere you not with her in London for the Season?Wereyou there?”
“I was in London,” she said.
“But were not brought out with her?” he said. “Why are you not mingling with your aunt’s guests now?”
“I live in greater luxury here than I knew at the parsonage,” she said. “All my needs are seen to. Mrs.Peabody is to find me a suitable husband.”
“Ah,” he said. “That must be a delightful prospect.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, “it is.”
The trees were thinning. He was not sure he wanted to be seen with her any more than she wished to beseen with him. He stopped, took her hand from hisarm, and raised it to his lips.
“My dear little bird,” he said, “we must not be seen consorting in clandestine manner like this. With thegreatest reluctance I must part from you. Your beautymakes the sunshine seem dim, you know.”
“Oh.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “I was dreadfully afraid you would not have noticed, sir. I shall go thisway. You may go that. So much for my lovely solitaryhour.” She sighed and turned to hurry across the grasstoward a door at the side of the house.
He watched her go before strolling off in the direction of the terrace at the front of the house. Her step was light, her stride rather long. He could almost picture her with a basket over her arm, delivering foodand clothing to the poor in her father’s parish.
What a very amusing and refreshing little creature, he thought. There appeared to be no artifice in her atall. He felt no sexual stirring for her, but he stood andwatched her nonetheless, a half smile on his lips. Herather believed he liked her. Liking was something herarely felt, or thought of feeling, for a woman.
It was very true what she had always thought about the relative merits of dreams and daydreams. Dreamscould not be controlled, and they were not alwayspleasant. Sometimes they were quite the opposite.
She woke up in the middle of the night aching with grief, and she realized that she had actually been crying in her sleep. Her cheeks were wet, she found whenshe touched them, and her nose felt in dire need of agood blowing. She felt beneath her pillow for a handkerchief, blew hard until she could breathe more comfortably, and tried to remember what had made herso miserable. That was the trouble with dreams. Theywere often hard to remember even when they hadaroused such a real and deep emotion.
Mama’s death, perhaps, and Papa’s following it a scant year later? The contrasts between her life thenand her life now? The almost total absence of lovefrom her life now when it had used to be so filledwith it? No. She turned back the sheet neatly to herwaist and crossed her hands over her stomach. No,she would despise herself if she ever allowed self-pityto rule her. It was such a negative, such an unproductiveemotion. She had long ago done all her crying andtucked her memories away into the past. That was thepast; this was the present. Perhaps the future would bedifferent again. That was life. In her twenty-two yearsshe had learned that life was unpredictable and that allone could do was live it one day at a time, always refusing to give up hope when times were bad, always consciously enjoying the moment when times were good.
Except that these days there were so few good times. It was a thought not to be dwelled upon. It wastoo bad that dreams could not be controlled, that onemust wake up in the middle of the night bawling likea baby and not even knowing exactly why one wept.
He would be in Mrs. Delaney’s room now, she imagined, her thoughts flitting elsewhere, either sleeping the sleep of the justly exhausted in her arms or else doingwith her what would make him exhausted. Was thatwhat had grieved her and then awoken her—the factthat he was not doing either of those things in her bed?
What a strange, shocking thought! And yet her breasts felt uncomfortably taut, and when she reachedup one hand she could feel that the nipple she touchedwas hard against the cotton of her nightgown. Andthere was an aching throbbing down between her legs.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered into the darkness. It was a prayer. She followed the introduction withconfused apologies for sin and pleas for forgiveness.And then she apologized for her insincerity and promised to enter the Presence again when she was trulysorry and could truly expect forgiveness.
“What must you think of me?” she asked God.
God held his peace.
For the first time in a long while she had stopped being a shadow. Just for a few minutes. He had talkedto her and looked at her and laughed at her and insulted her and kissed her hand and mocked her withthat silly compliment about the sunshine and calledher his little bird. And what had she done? She hadtalked back and matched wits with him and scoldedhim and set her arm through his and—oh, yes, shemight as well admit the ultimate humiliation.
She had gone and tumbled headlong in love with him.
