Chapter 15 #2
“And yet you want to buy me a wardrobe. If I permit it, will that reassure you that I will not be complicated?”
If I let you make me a whore, will that make you happier? She did not say it. Perhaps she did not even think it. He could not deny the implications of the conversation, however.
“You were correct. I have not had lovers, only mistresses. However, I do not want to buy you a new wardrobe so that you can be considered the latter in my mind.” He did not think that was why, at least. That he very much would like her to be his mistress was a thing apart, and had reasons other than this.
He would like that because then he would know she was his, only his, for at least a while.
“I understand,” she said. “Men like it when their women are lovely.”
The conversation exasperated him. An innocent offer of a gift had become complicated. “That is not the reason either. I find you lovely all the time. I only want you to know that you are, and I am not sure that you do. If it takes pretty dresses to convince you, I want you to have them.”
She went very still.
She sniffed. Hell. He reviewed what he had just said, to make sure he had not unintentionally either hurt or angered her.
“You aren’t crying, are you?”
“A little.” She sniffed again. “That was a sweet thing to say, Ives. I am sure no one has ever thought me lovely before.”
“What nonsense. Of course they have, unless they are blind.” He gathered her into his arms. Yes, complicated. She kissed him so tenderly that he decided he did not mind that so much.
She tucked against him and fell asleep. He decided to stay awhile longer, until he had to leave for discretion’s sake.
* * *
Lance raised his musket. A shot broke the morning peace. In the distance a grouse dropped out of the sky. He handed the weapon to a nearby servant, who in turn handed him another one, loaded and ready.
Ives watched the brush for more birds to take flight.
Lance returned his own attention to the hunt. “Miss Belvoir received another letter today.”
Gareth glanced over from where he also waited with musket at the ready.
“From the lawyer,” Lance added.
Ives had not asked Padua about the letters. He had not forbidden her to communicate with friends in London, and if the letters came and went by way of Langley House, he doubted anyone would know where she was.
Mostly he did not ask her about them because if Lance thought some were from a lawyer, he was probably correct. That would be Notley, presumably. The last thing Ives wanted to do was talk about Hadrian Belvoir with Padua. There would be world enough and time for that later, back in town.
He sometimes speculated on how that conversation would go. Not well, he suspected. Which was why he dallied here at Merrywood, while they pretended events in London occurred on another planet.
Five days they had remained here. Five days of barely suppressed desire and five nights of erotic pleasure. He would make it a month if he could. A year.
Several grouse took to flight. He and Gareth shot and brought two down.
“I also received a letter.” Lance kept his gaze on the distance. “From Prinny.”
That ended interest in the shooting. As a duke Lance naturally enjoyed royal favor, but that did not mean the prince regent wrote him letters. With the current dark cloud over Lance’s head, the prince had kept his distance even more.
“The letter was to me, but it was about the two of you.”
“How so?” Gareth asked.
“He writes to thank you both for your efforts on behalf of the lords last spring, now that the matter is finished. He asks that you call when he is in London, Gareth. He will receive you.”
Gareth did not hide his astonishment well.
“As for you, Ives, he asked that I use my influence on you to ensure you accepted the Belvoir case. He depends on you to prosecute for the Crown, but has been told you might remove yourself.”
“Damnation.”
“Sidmouth’s revenge. He tattled, and has cornered you neatly,” Lance said. He turned his attention back to the field, and raised his musket to be at the ready.
Gareth cast a sidelong look at Ives. “Do not lose your temper. Neither Sidmouth nor the prince are here for its benefit.”
“Lance is. Maybe I will just thrash him.”
Lance looked over, surprised. “Me? I am innocent.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of killing the messenger?” Gareth asked.
“Kill some partridge instead. The tenants will be glad to have them for their dinner pots.”
Ives managed to control his annoyance. “It is insulting for the prince to write to you about this. He is quick enough to write to me directly when he wants me to track down some woman blackmailing one of his uncles.”
“He wrote to Aylesbury, not your brother Lance. He would have written to Percy if he were still alive. He is addressing the matter with the duke. The paterfamilias, so to speak.” Lance aimed and shot again.
“Paterfamilias. Hell,” Ives growled.
Lance handed him the spent musket and took the one resting in his arm. “Since you are not using it . . . ” He turned and fired once more.
Gareth set down his weapon against the blind and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “Do you enjoy having the prince’s favor, Ives? Is it important to you? He only wrote to Lance because whatever Sidmouth told him has him doubting your place in his circle.”
Of course he enjoyed his position with the prince.
Prinny was older, and had been a true friend of his father’s.
He took an avuncular tone when they talked.
As for enjoying that favor—no man would treat it lightly.
Even the son of a duke saw his position enhanced if he was known to have the prince regent’s ear.
Gareth’s gaze carried sympathy for the dilemma.
“It is a good thing I issued my edict,” Lance said, while he waited for the muskets to be reloaded. “It will be easier for you to break with her now, if your better judgment failed you. Miss Belvoir, I mean.”
“I know whom you mean.”
“Still a ticklish subject, I see. Talk sense to him, Gareth. He long ago stopped listening to me.”
He did not need anyone to talk sense to him. He had plenty of that himself. Rational, ruthless sense, and far more talk than the world needed. It was his stock-in-trade.
The Crown’s friendship, or that of the daughter of a criminal. Only a fool would think there really was a choice.
* * *
Padua tucked the letter into her reticule, then put the reticule into her valise. She placed the valise out of sight. She buried the letter as if its invisibility meant she could ignore its message.
Mr. Notley had discovered her father’s inheritance. He awaited her return to London before he pursued the information further.
She had to go back.
Donning the sapphire spencer that Eva had redone for her, she went down to the garden. The brothers had ridden off several hours ago, along with a retinue, to hunt. She and Eva had enjoyed some time alone, but now Eva rested and Padua had time for her own thoughts.
She paced through the garden, fascinated that time alone had become unusual.
She had spent most of the last years alone.
Even at Mrs. Ludlow’s school, except for her conversations with Jennie, her own thoughts kept her company.
Here, however, she had become part of a group.
She never ate her meals alone now. Even when she read in the library, someone else often read there too.
Frequently that someone was Ives. She had spent more time with him in the last five days than she had probably spent with anyone since her mother died.
She had not sought such a singular life, but she had not minded it too much.
She even welcomed her isolation in the garden now, like it was an old friend.
Five days. Five nights. Different. Magical. The intimacy with Ives had transformed her. Moved her. The pleasure was the least of it. His warmth filled voids she did not even realize she had.
She was glad she had been self-indulgent and irresponsible. She did not regret allowing herself to know a woman’s desire and its fulfillment. She worried, however, that she would not like the consequences.
She smiled at the memory of him on that blanket, wanting to negotiate but knowing he should not. No. Not yet at least. He knew, as she did, that this affair would be brief.
She sat down on a bench at the far end of the garden, against a stone wall that held the sun’s warmth.
She closed her eyes and remembered the morning.
He had almost been found in her chamber again.
The night had been wild and erotic, almost savage, and he had fallen asleep while he held her.
She could not bear to wake him or to leave the cocoon of care that wrapped her.
She had feared even breathing might ruin how perfect it was.
She could tell the sun had lowered behind the house. The air carried a new chill. She opened her eyes, and began to rise.
Up on the terrace, she saw Ives. He still wore his riding coat and boots. He watched her, and his stance alone said he contemplated what he saw. Aware she noticed him, he descended from the terrace and strode toward her.
“The hunt was a success?” she asked when he sat beside her.
“Lance thinks so. His aim will feed half the tenants tonight. They will be glad for it. The harvest was poor this year.”
“That was good of him. I thought it only sport for him.”
“He does it as Aylesbury. He was not educated to the position, but he is growing accustomed to its responsibilities.” He looked over at how she hugged herself for warmth. He unbuttoned his coat, shrugged it off, and tucked it around her shoulders.
“We will go in soon. Not yet, however.”
He closed his eyes much as she had, only no sun remained to bask in. She did not need to see his expression to know he thought deeply about something. She just sensed that now. Even in the dark, while they lay together, she knew when his mind worked on something.
“Lance said you received a letter today,” he said.