Chapter 11 #6
Haydon gazed up at Genevieve, marveling at her beauty and sensuality.
Her hair was spilling over the creamy skin of her shoulders and breasts, which had all but escaped the tight confines of her corset.
She had the gorgeously rumpled look of a woman in the throes of passion, and as she stared down at him with smoky eyes, he could see that she was desperately aroused.
Unwilling to leave her unfulfilled, he began to stroke the sleek nub of pleasure hidden within the satiny folds between her legs.
Her breath disintegrated into frantic little gasps as he filled and caressed her, making him thrust faster as he surrendered himself to her.
He wanted to remain joined to her forever, wanted to spill himself into her and then hold her in his arms and fall asleep and know that she would be there when he wakened.
He would make a life with her, he vowed feverishly, filled with long, languid days and passion-filled nights.
He would drape her in beautiful gowns and cover her in jewels, not because she needed such fripperies to enhance her natural magnificence, but because she had lived far too much of her life putting herself last, dressing in faded gowns with frayed hemlines, whatever jewels she may once have worn sold to pay for the urgent necessities of food and shelter.
She pressed her hands against the slender contour of her corseted waist and he saw the plain gold wedding band he had placed upon her finger earlier that evening.
It was not enough, he thought, for she deserved the most lavish jewels he could afford.
But at that moment he could afford nothing.
He had been robbed of his life as the marquess of Redmond and was now a common fugitive.
His failure to her was absolute. There was nothing more for them but this stolen moment, and he could feel it skidding away from him as ardor gripped him in a fierce embrace.
He wanted to stop, wanted to slow the frenzied thrusts into her beautiful body, wanted to pull away and just hold her against his pounding chest while he regained some semblance of control, but the pleasure surging through him was unbearable.
Genevieve cried out suddenly and rocked against him, and he drove himself deep inside her, again and again, releasing his essence into her as he called her name, a cry of reverence and despair.
She collapsed against him, her breath gusting in sweet puffs upon his shoulder.
Her hair fell in a tangled web of strawberry-gold silk across his chest, and her body still gripped him tight.
He wrapped his arms around her and eased her onto the mattress beside him, then tenderly brushed a strand of hair off her face.
“I cannot leave you, Genevieve,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not tonight.”
Tears glazed her eyes. And then they began to fall, little silvery drops of pain that leaked down her cheeks and into her hair.
“You will be caught, Haydon,” she managed, her voice small and ragged. “You will be caught and you will be hanged. And I won’t be able to bear it.”
He pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair, trying to soothe her.
“If I am to be caught, then I would rather spend my last few hours holding you than fleeing blindly into the darkness. And if I am not to be caught, then I must make sure that you are delivered home safely, and that I have a chance to say good-bye to the children. I don’t want them to believe I cared so little for them that I could simply disappear without having at least a few words with them.
” His voice was rough with anger as he finished, “There have been enough people in their lives who have simply walked away when the time suited them.”
“I would make them understand, Haydon,” she assured him. “I would make certain that they did not feel betrayed.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why is it so important to you to see them again?”
Shadows veiled his eyes, shadows of pain and regret. He tried to conceal it from her by shrugging his shoulders, acting as if his desire to speak with the children was nothing more than kindness. But Genevieve was not fooled by his pretense.
“Tell me, Haydon,” she urged softly. “Please.”
He eased his hold on her, turned away and studied the delicate trellis of cracks upon the ceiling, saying nothing.
Their bodies cooled and the fire died, eradicating the brilliant heat that had filled the chamber but moments earlier.
And just when Genevieve thought that she had clumsily destroyed whatever fragile bond had formed between them, he spoke.
“I had a daughter,” he said in a low, halting voice. “I abandoned her. And she killed herself.”
He expected her to regard him in horror.
He thought she would roll away from him, cocoon herself in a blanket, and spring from the bed.
Then she would assault him with questions, demanding to know if he was married, and when was this child born, and how could he possibly have been so cruel?
It was no more than he deserved, and utterly understandable for a woman who had devoted her life to rescuing and loving children, all but one of whom were not even tied to her by blood or marriage.
Instead she lay still, silently absorbing what he had told her. And then she reached out and laid her hand upon his chest, pulling herself closer as she pillowed her head upon his shoulder.
“Tell me what happened.”
Her voice was gentle and void of condemnation.
Her composure bewildered him. Had she not understood what he had said?
Or was it that after so many years of looking after troubled children and thieving adults she had learned that life was a painful, messy affair, and that sometimes the choices one faced were invariably cruel and ugly?
She was waiting for him to explain it to her, almost childlike in her trust as she rested her cheek against him.
It was this patient calm, so confusing and unexpected, that began to erode the wall he had long built around the subject of Emmaline.
She would hate him after she learned the truth, he realized bleakly.
She would be horrified by what a cowardly, selfish bastard he was, and she would regret the fact that she had ever tried to help him.
You deserve her contempt, he told himself savagely.
Maybe having her despise him would make it easier for him to leave.
It would not affect the powerful feelings he held toward her, but it was certain to vanquish any fondness or respect she might harbor for him.
The idea of enduring her hatred cut him to the core.
But after everything she had done for him, he felt he at least owed her the courtesy of the truth.
“I wasn’t supposed to be the marquess of Redmond,” he began, staring at the ceiling.
“That dubious honor belonged to my older brother, Edward.
He was cosseted and coddled and told that he was going to amount to great things, while I was generally ignored and allowed to get on however I liked.
I never gave a damn, because the truth of the matter was, Edward was always cautious and pragmatic, and that was exactly what the future marquess needed to be.
So Edward inherited the privilege of managing the family estate and slaving long hours to try to increase his wealth, while I received a relatively handsome monthly allowance with no responsibilities whatsoever.
“I indulged in all the usual things.” His mouth tightened with contempt.
“Drink, gambling, women. And one of the women whose bed I shared for a brief time was the countess of Bothwell, who had married at eighteen and was insufferably bored with her husband by the tender age of twenty. Our affair lasted a few weeks, when Cassandra was twenty-four, and I was neither the first nor the last of her lovers. But soon afterward, she was most distressed to discover that she was expecting a child, whom she claimed could only have been mine.”
Genevieve lay very still, her hand still pressed against the hard wall of his chest.
“There was never any question of her leaving her husband for me.
Cassandra may have despised Vincent, but she positively adored her social standing as his wife, and the life he afforded her far surpassed anything I could have given her on my monthly allocation.
I was twenty-nine at the time, and was unprepared to accept something as intrusive into my life as a wife for whom I cared nothing, and a child whose very creation had been nothing more than a drunken mishap.
So we agreed that Cassandra would bed Vincent immediately and then tell him that the child was his, and they would raise it.
It seemed the best solution at the time for all concerned.
“Cassandra gave birth to a little girl, whom she named Emmaline. I heard through the gossipmongers that while Vincent had initially hoped for a boy, he was positively enchanted with his daughter. No one was more surprised by how much he adored her than Cassandra, who found motherhood dull and tedious, despite the fact that she never actually took care of the child herself. Vincent hired the most expensive nurses he could find to care for Emmaline.”
“Did you go to see her?”
Haydon shook his head. “My affair with Cassandra was over, and after enduring the misery of her pregnancy and childbirth, Cassandra had no desire to see me. Her prior inability to conceive had given her the notion that she was barren. She was most disappointed to learn that she wasn’t.”
“But didn’t you want to see your daughter?” Genevieve was bewildered by the notion. How could a man like Haydon, who had demonstrated such immense sensitivity and compassion by risking his life for both Jack and Charlotte, not want to see his own child?