Chapter 17 #2
She propped her head up on one hand. “Until after Lily betrayed you.”
“My father betrayed me first, because I was in love and he didn’t understand it, or at least that’s how I felt then.
He decided Lily was wrong for me.” He got a distant look in his eyes.
“Looking back, I can see he was probably right about her, but at the time I could only see that he didn’t trust me to make my own decisions, to choose the woman I loved.
That he thought only money and consequence mattered in a marriage. ”
“Perhaps they did to him.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t agree.”
She swallowed and glanced away. “Of course not, but Maman probably would. If you are correct about Lily, then even she agreed, and that means your father was right to be cynical about her. If that makes sense. He probably saw himself as saving you from her.”
“Or was he saving himself the embarrassment of having a son who married beneath him? I will never be sure. I do know that even after I outgrew my younger impulses, he continued to keep me at arm’s length, to blame me for our having ended up at Verdun.
Because, as he saw it, my reckless actions ‘forced’ him to save me and ‘forced’ him to leave my mother and brothers behind.
It was my lack of character that led to our detainment. ”
She stroked his arm. “That hardly sounds fair.”
“It wasn’t. And since I was an idiotic young fool, I reacted badly to the unfairness of it, especially once I got Lily’s letter.
I really felt the weight of his condemnation then, so I lashed out by becoming exactly the son he thought I was—a libertine of the first order. A rakehell without a conscience.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You must have had something of a conscience. You let my father shame you into never going near me again.”
“True. And believe it or not, his actions were the beginning of my salvation. The fact that a man whom I respected, who was not my father and did not have a history with me, would be so appalled by my behavior that he would threaten to duel with me . . . well, it brought me up short. It made me see how recklessly I was behaving.”
She frowned at him. “But you continued to go from woman to woman afterward. I remember it.”
He flushed. “For a while longer, yes. Until I realized it was no longer satisfying. I could never get Morris’s words out of my head.” He chucked her under the chin. “And I could never get our kiss out of my head, either.”
“Come now, Heath—” she began, thoroughly skeptical.
“I mean it, Giselle. How many times did you actually see me with a woman in my room? Or see me kiss or try to seduce or do anything more than dance or flirt or talk with a woman? Hmm? You lived in the lodging house. Surely you would have seen something.”
She thought back, but she could not pull up an image in her head. Then again, she had not wanted to know, either, since she had liked him and felt jealous of any woman he paid attention to, even though she knew it was hopeless. So, she had tried very hard not to notice such things.
But she could hardly tell him so because she would be admitting how much she had cared for him even then. She left the bed to draw on her nightgown, feeling too exposed for her liking.
He sat up and pulled on his drawers, but naught else. “Now can I ask you something?”
“Of course. You answered my question—I shall be happy to answer yours.”
“Why have you never married? You’re beautiful and accomplished and a delightful conversationalist. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
She shrugged. “I never met a man I cared for.”
“No one? Surely there were men in Verdun, or even in Paris after you returned home from Verdun, who . . .”
“Appealed to me? No. I had suitors, but . . .” She waved her hand dismissively.
“I do remember hearing men in the camp say you were high in the instep.”
She stared him down. “I suppose that is true. I am particular. I never wanted to be any man’s mistress, either. And for a husband, I would prefer a man who is trustworthy and responsible. Most men do not fit that description.”
“Am I to understand that you think me one of ‘most men’?”
She busied herself with pulling on her wrapper. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you told me at the beginning of all this that you didn’t wish to marry me. You never were very clear about why. Don’t tell me it’s because of your mother—whom you surely know would always be welcome here. I can only assume you and Chloe want your freedom or some such.”
He seemed tense. She did not know what to tell him. Not the truth, to be sure.
“But I behaved recklessly tonight with you,” he went on. “I would not have done so, except I couldn’t stand having you think I would . . . lie to you about another woman. I have taken your innocence, and that means we must marry.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you assume I was an innocent?”
“Aside from the blood on the sheets there,” he said sarcastically, gesturing to the bed, “I could tell when I made love to you.”
“Because you make a practice of deflowering innocents?” she snapped.
“Because I deflowered Lily,” he said wearily.
“It was the main reason we got caught. We stopped in York, and we made love in the inn. We were damned lucky our fathers didn’t catch us in the act, or I daresay one of the fathers would have killed me.
It’s a toss-up which one.” When she gaped at him, he said, “All right, so my father probably wouldn’t have killed me, but at the time, it felt like he did, him with his machinations. ”
“Did you tell your father that you had already bedded Lily?”
He eyed her askance. “And have him be even more disappointed in me? Hell, no. Besides, I was a gentleman. I could not risk telling Father and having him use it against her.”
“I suppose I can understand that.” She put her hands on her hips.
“But I am not a sixteen-year-old girl—I do not require you to marry me out of some sense of responsibility. I agreed to share your bed, and I did not do it to compel you to marry me, either. I did it because I wanted to. And . . . because I was tired of being alone. So, there is no need for you to sacrifice your freedom for me.”
She found her slippers and sat down to put them on, but he sat down beside her to stay her hands. “Ma chérie, it is no sacrifice. I like having your companionship, and I wish to marry you. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy our friendship, at the very least. We could make a good marriage.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you would tire of your French wife and her strange ways eventually, of worrying that her own past would come back to haunt you and your children. I-I do not want the responsibility of being an English countess. It would be like trying to ‘make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ to use one of your countrymen’s colorful sayings. ”
“Damn it, Giselle,” he said as he squeezed her hand, “you are already a silk purse. You might have to learn some things here and there, but you are a lady through and through. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t want an English countess. I want my half-French wife. I want you.”
Yet he said nothing of love. And she was beginning to realize that love was important to her, since she was already half in love with the rascal herself.
Snatching her hand free, she put her shoes on and stood, unable to look him in the face for fear he would see her feelings writ large there. “I must return to my room in case Maman wakes up and goes in search of me. It would not do to have her raise an alarm over my disappearance.”
He stood, too. “At least think about it.”
Swallowing hard, she nodded. “I must go.”
“We’re still heading into Bath with the boys tomorrow, aren’t we?”
She forced a smile for his benefit. “Of course. I shall look forward to it.”
Then she fled. But long after she reached her room, relieved to find that her mother had not entered it at all, she could not fall asleep. Because the thing she could not tell him, dared not tell him, was she would give anything to be his wife.
But only if she could have his love, too.