Chapter Ten #3
“You are,” he insisted softly, feeling desperate when he had no right to.
“You are more special and wonderful than anything I have ever known. If an explanation will do any good, then I shall gladly give you one. My father forced me to marry Adela six years ago and since that time, she has lived in Penleigh House without me. I have been home only twice. She hates the sight of me and I hate the sight of her, and I forget that I am even married. I hate that I am. It is a marriage in name only, so when I realized I felt something for you, it was so very easy to forget that I have a wife. I wish I did not; God in heaven, I wish that more than anything on earth and I am so very sorry that I pulled you into that deception. But I am not sorry for what I feel for you.”
Tears were in Lysabel’s eyes, trickling down her cheeks as she quickly wiped them away. “You should have told me.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. But I couldn’t, and the more time passed, the harder it became to be truthful.”
Lysabel sighed heavily, finally turning to look at him and seeing how anxious he appeared.
She’d never seen that expression on his face before, the consummately controlled knight.
It was enough to cause her to believe that he was truly repentant, but it still wasn’t good enough, because she had a volley of ammunition to fire at him.
What was blooming between them was about to be destroyed for good.
“It does not matter,” she finally said. “Nothing matters any longer. You see, I have a secret of my own. I have not been truthful with you, either. The night you came to Stretford and killed Benoit was the night I conceived his child under brutal circumstances. I should have told you of it last night, when we became close, but I didn’t.
Like you, I wanted to share something I’d never known before, so in that sense, I am as guilty as you are.
We have both lied to one another. Go back to London and forget you ever knew me, Trenton.
It will be better for us both that way.”
He stared at her, his features pale and slack. “Oh… Lys,” he finally sighed. “I am so sorry.”
“So am I.”
“But it does not change my feelings.”
She looked at him, sharply. “Do you not understand?” she snapped. “This is Benoit’s child.”
“I understand.”
She was starting to become frustrated. “You are married, and I am pregnant with a dead man’s child. Those are two things that cannot be overcome, no matter how much you pretend otherwise. You should be furious at me.”
“Yet, I am not.”
“Are you mad?”
Trenton remained cool. “Not at all,” he said. “But I want you to tell me something.”
“What?”
“Look at me and tell me how you have felt about me since we left each other this morning. Forget about this moment in time and the anguish you feel; tell me what you felt for me as I was making love to you.”
Her frustrated movements came to a halt as she met his gaze, that murky gray color that was like looking into the eye of a storm. There was a tempest raging in those orbs, and as much as she tried to look away, she couldn’t.
“Why?” she finally asked, tears welling again. “What good will that do?”
Trenton reached out and took her hand, even as she tried to pull away. He placed the gold coin in her right palm and folded her fingers over it, giving her back her money.
“Please tell me,” he whispered. “If they are to be the last words I ever hear from you, then make them something to remember. Please.”
Her lower lip began to tremble and she finally tore her gaze away, blinking rapidly to try and dispel the tears. But it was a losing battle.
“I do not want to speak of this,” she said. “It will only bring us both pain.”
He sighed sharply. “I want to explain something to you about me, since all truths are between us,” he said.
“I have been married three times. As you know, my first wife died in childbirth. She was a sweet girl and I loved her, but like a fool, I never told her. My second wife was murdered before we ever had the chance to develop feelings for one another, and my third wife… you already know the situation with her. I never believed I was careless with women, but it seems that way. One cannot deny one’s own record.
Therefore, I will tell you this – I knew early on that I was attracted to you and, at this moment, I wholly adore you.
I am certain that it is turning in to love, and if it is, I swear I would not keep from telling you every day.
The reality is that I am married to a woman who hates me, a woman I never see.
The reality is that she does not have my heart – except for my first wife, no one ever has.
I do not give it readily or easily but, at this moment, I could give you my heart and soul and everything else, and I would not regret one moment of it.
Lysabel, for the first time in my life, I know I could be happy.
Married or not, I will love you for the rest of your life and never be sorry. ”
Lysabel closed her eyes tightly, her hand at her throat as if she were in physical pain. In truth, she was; she’d never heard such beautiful and tragic words in her entire life. The problem was that she believed him.
She believed every word.
“Words of such beauty,” she said. “I have waited my entire life to hear such words. But they are empty.”
He shook his head. “They are filled with my heart. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“It means everything to me. But you cannot promise me a respectable relationship or even a marriage. What you are asking… do you know what you are asking of me?”
He looked rather ill. “Aye,” he said after a moment. “I know.”
“You want me to be your… your concubine. Your mistress. Is that fair to me?”
He shook his head. “Nay,” he said hoarsely. “It is not fair to you. In fact, it is horrible of me. I know that. But I cannot help what I feel for you.”
Lysabel studied his face, the genuine sorrow there.
He may have omitted the truth about his marriage until confronted, but once the truth was out, he’d been more than open with her.
Perhaps it was only desperation, but she didn’t sense that he was trying to manipulate her.
He was simply trying to explain himself now that he was forced to.
Like a child who was caught stealing, he was forced to confess.
Perhaps it was time for a confession of her own.