Chapter 17
Diana awoke in a state of peace and pleasure that turned to momentary confusion. Because someone had just kissed her.
She blinked up.
The marquess.
Bey.
She smiled and tried to untangle her arms to reach for him, but he stepped back. “It’s nearly dawn. We must get you back to your room.”
Instantly she recognized that the guards were fully in place. Wiser so, but horrible.
Groping around, she struggled to straighten her shift beneath the covers even though he had stepped away to look out of the small window. The pearl-gray sky was just beginning to brighten with yellow, orange, and pink.
He was completely dressed, even to his cravat and coat, and she felt slovenly as she slipped out of bed in the one creased, stained garment. She wrapped the pink checked coverlet closely around herself before saying, “Ready.”
He turned and came to her as if they were a proper lady and gentleman about to leave for a stroll. She noticed then that the sapphire ring was not on his hand. Of course not. No tomorrows. But she knew he would keep it safe.
There were a thousand things to say, and yet none. She had pushed for that dangerous voyage with the implicit promise that they would return to shore today, would create no lasting, entrapping bonds.
She would keep that promise if it killed her.
He opened the door and glanced out, then turned back. “All safe.”
She walked toward him, past him, but she couldn’t resist a pause, a look. A plea.
All lightness gone, he put his hands to her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. “We left the safe path. If against all odds there is a child, you must tell me.”
She shook her head. “You know you cannot marry, and we cannot openly acknowledge a bastard. If I conceive, it will be my concern alone.”
“That isn’t true.”
“But we must make it so. Don’t fight me on this, Bey.”
“Don’t give me orders, Diana.” But it was said without rancor, and, devastatingly, he put his arms around her and held her close, resting his head against hers for a moment.
When he straightened, there was no trace of weakness in his face. “Adieu, Diana.”
“Adieu, Bey.”
She did not look back as she hurried across the corridor and into her room.
Clara still slept, so Diana quietly opened her jewel box and chose a ring at random to replace the one she’d given him.
Then she slipped into bed beside the maid to lie staring up at the dark beamed ceiling, reliving, remembering …
Relinquishing.
Dressed in her stained gown, Diana joined Bey at breakfast. They were, thank heavens, not forced to make small talk, as Sir Eresby appeared again with reports and questions.
Apparently he’d sent someone to make inquiries at Ware, and discovered that the assailants had been seen there, and were French.
What’s more, they had been with a Frenchman called de Couriac.
Bey made no difficulty over telling Sir Eresby that they had dined with Monsieur de Couriac and his wife in Ferry Bridge, that Monsieur de Couriac had been taken ill, and that the couple had left in the night.
The stocky, serious magistrate clearly did not approve of any of it. “Could he have held a grudge, Lord Rothgar?”
Bey raised his brows, entirely returned to aristocratic hauteur. “Over his illness? The food was provided by the inn, sir, not me. And who would plan murder over that?”
“What else could be cause for such a cold-blooded plan, my lord?”
“I have no idea, Sir Eresby. However,” he said, rising, and extending his hand to Diana, “we must be on our way. Lady Arradale is expected at the Queen’s Drawing Room today.”
Diana gave him her hand, resisting the urge to curl her fingers around his, pitying the poor baronet so dauntingly put in his place.
Sir Eresby rose and bowed. “Of course, my lord. My lady.” He didn’t completely buckle however. “I will send to London if there are further questions.”
Good for you, thought Diana as she let herself be led out of the dining room and to their coach. The scarred panel, however, shocked her back to yesterday.
“Are you all right?” Bey asked quietly.
“Yes, of course. I had forgotten.”
They shared a glance about what had wiped horror from memory.
Then she looked away. “I’ll be glad when our baggage catches up with us. Clara has done her best with this gown, but some of the dirt simply will not come out.”
A metaphor for her life, that, she thought as she climbed into the wounded carriage. Not dirt, but changes that could not be reversed. Nor would she want them to be, even with the peril they brought.
Clara and Fettler were already sitting opposite her. Bey took his seat, and in moments they were on their way to London.
They did not talk, did not even pretend to read.
Did not look at one another. As for that, he could be staring fixedly at her all the way, for she refused to look at him.
It was not just the pleasure of the night which had left her adrift, it was the closeness, the intimacy such as she had never experienced before.
Rosa had warned that women had a tendency to fall in love with the men they made love to, but there was more to it than that. Quite by chance, Rosa and Brand had found each other, like two parts of a broken whole. A fit so perfect that all other matches instantly became impossibly flawed.
You or no other.
Bey was her lost half?
He and no other?
She recognized it to be true. He was the lost part of herself suddenly found, rashly fitted for brief moments against raw edges, which now bled afresh.
Why not? her rebellious side suddenly demanded. Why could they not have the completion, the wholeness, that was every person’s right?
Was it not worth striving for?
Determined now, she analyzed the practical problems.
Her independence. That was nothing. She knew he would respect that.
But what of her appearance of independent power? Heaven above, the Marquess of Rothgar could overshadow anyone, and in a way that would work to her advantage. She would gain from having him as mate, as equal half. He would certainly feel no need to inflate himself by lording over her.
So what of geography?
That was both their enemy and their friend.
They would have to find ways to divide their time between north and south, between his responsibilities and hers.
It would mean separations, but being alone on her estates would help her to retain authority there.
A lesser, ever present husband would be a much greater threat.
Truly, though she hadn’t thought of it before, a great husband would serve her better than a lowly one.
It was, perhaps, possible after all.
She slid a glance sideways, borne on fledgling wings of hope. And collided with despair.
Her problems might have melted away, but his had not. His reasons for not marrying were as strong as ever.
She looked out of the window again, at the increasingly busy road and more frequent villages and inns that told her they were close to London.
Close to parting.
He was resolved not to carry tainted blood into his ancient line. He had not contradicted her when she’d said he could not marry her if she was with child, and she knew how agonizingly difficult that would be for him.
He accepted all his responsibilities—even a rebellious countess who was only a distant connection by marriage.
His love for his family ran deep, and he was wonderful with children.
The thought of rejecting his own child must be impossibly painful, and yet he was prepared to do it to keep to his firm resolve.
She prayed with deep sincerity that she not conceive. It would be terrible for her, but intolerable for him. No wonder he’d been so emphatic that they could not make love again.
She decided at that moment that if she did conceive a child, he would never know.
She would find a way to hide the pregnancy and then foster the child out to someone on her estates.
She would be able to keep an eye on it, though it would break her heart not to be able to claim it, love it, as her own. For his sake, however, she would do it.
Tears stung, and she fought them down, but they welled again. Wealth, power, love, and two strong wills, and what did it bring them? Two lives lived in separate, bleak landscapes, when a garden of sunlight and laughter lay in sight, almost in reach.
She thought of the automaton, traveling swaddled like a babe only inches behind her. For a mad moment it seemed that their unborn—pray God never to be born—son lay in the boot of the coach, crying for release.
Her fighting spirit rebelled. There had to be a way!
What, though? A marriage without children?
Though the idea pained her, she would do it.
However, Elf’s helpful leaflet on preventing pregnancy made it clear that there was no way to be completely safe, even if he always spilled his seed outside her.
The aim was only to space out children to make life easier for the woman and her family.
Lud, but if medicine offered a way for her to be rendered infertile, she’d accept the knife as the price, even though she’d weep for the children—their children—who would not be born.
She risked another quick glance at his somber, classical features. Of all the precious parts he might bring to a child, only one tiny part was suspect.
As if touched, he turned to her, asking silent questions. What distresses you? Can I help?
Muted by the servants, she replied with a slight shake of the head, and turned again to the safety of the window.
Market gardens now, worked over like worker bees by people gathering vegetables for the crowded city.
Their coach had slowed because of the crush of traffic moving into London, coaches, carts, and people on foot.
If only they could stop, freeze here, where at least they were together.
In London they must part, and a king awaited to be pacified, to be escaped unwed. For she knew now she could not marry another, even to escape an insane asylum.
You or no other.