Chapter Nine
Maria sank down onto the lowest steps, shaking with fury and pain. It was like trying to hack off one of her own limbs, and he was making it harder and harder. Why wouldn’t he simply take the money and go?
The last thing she wanted to do was to follow him, to travel with him back to the village and then on the four-hour journey to London, but what choice did she have?
Like so many other wounds, it could be endured and survived.
She pulled herself to her feet and gathered strength to walk out to the stables.
When she arrived there the gig was ready and he was sitting with the reins in his hands. She climbed up beside him in silence and they set off.
“Maria—”
“Van, don’t. Please.” She gripped her hands together and realized that she still had his ring clutched in one. It would be a grand gesture to toss it away, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t do that any more than she’d been able to cut him free cleanly with cruel words.
He steered around a deep dip in the drive then picked up speed again.
“I amputated one of my men’s arms once,” he said, eyes ahead.
“It was mostly off anyway, but he was bleeding to death and we were stuck in the remains of a village in the sierra. I tied it, hacked off the remains, and cauterized it with my saber heated in the cooking fire.” He turned to look at her.
“He begged, too, but he’s alive today and home on his family’s farm in Lincolnshire.
He married a childhood sweetheart and has a baby now. ”
She didn’t know what to say other than to beg again, and she believed what he was saying. He wouldn’t stop because she begged, because he believed that what he was doing was right.
They turned out of the generously open gates onto the country road. “Are you sure about Maurice?” he asked quietly. “About Natalie?”
She could weep for clung-to hopes, but answered flatly. “Yes. He had four other bastards that I know of, currently aged two to ten. I can list their names if you want. He never concealed them from me, and he left provision for them in his will.”
“List their names.”
“What?” She stared at him.
He glanced at her, seeming almost calm, almost as if none of this mattered at all. “You said you could list their names. I asked you to.”
Feeling as if they’d slipped into a land where nothing made sense, she said, “Tommy Grimes, Mary Ann Notts, Alice Jones, and Benjamin Mumford.”
He nodded, but said nothing. The children should have been a winning blow, and yet Maria felt uneasily as if she had put a sharp weapon into his hands.
She needed a shield. She would marry Lord Warren.
He wouldn’t expect a passionate heart, and marriage would distract her.
After all, she’d have the care and guidance of his sons, not much younger than Van.
But she’d never again burn in the fire of her demon’s passion.
Human sacrifice.
Oh yes, he had the right of it there, and was it right to sacrifice Lord Warren in her cause?
When they arrived back at the inn, she hurried up to the privacy of her room, leaving him to arrange for the coach to be ready. As she waited her mind circled that incident he had mentioned, the amputation.
How old had he been then? He’d said sierra, so in Spain.
At least two years ago, perhaps longer, and he was only twenty-five now.
She could imagine the inner terror, the sweating hands, the threatening vomit.
She was also sure of the courage and willpower that had kept his hands steady, had done what had to be done as quickly and deftly as possible.
Love poured through her again, carried on respect and admiration. She wanted him in so many, many ways. But she loved him enough to cut him free and cauterize the wound despite his protests. Then perhaps one day she would be able to speak calmly of his happy life along with a sweetheart and a baby.
Van made the arrangements, and considered four hours in the coach with Maria. He couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself not to argue, or worse, try to persuade by force or seduction. The demon was writhing inside him, calling for the fight to the death, for all or nothing.
He asked the innkeeper about a horse to hire and found that a Mr. Slade kept three fine horses at the inn and rarely rode them.
Slade, apparently, was a wealthy iron founder who’d retired to the village and built the overlarge, stuccoed house that stood out in the village like a tombstone in a garden.
Van was surprised Squire Hawkinville had permitted it.
Slade was a convenience for him, however.
At the price of a few moments being oozed over by Slade he had the use of a bay gelding for the journey to London.
It would cost more later. The iron founder was clearly delighted to put a local lord under an obligation.
It was worth the price. He’d pay any price for Maria’s comfort—except to let her go.
By the time they arrived back, the light was going and a misty drizzle completed a miserable day. Maria had spent the journey planning ways to force Van to accept that their arrangement was at an end, but she’d been constantly distracted by the sight of him on horseback.
He rode superbly of course, one with the fine horse, and completely in control. He mostly rode alongside, but occasionally he raced ahead then circled back exhilarated, smiling. Until his eyes met hers and settled again to cool purpose.
He was going to fight, and she shivered at the thought.
She was drowning in guilt, too. He was a cavalry officer, and she’d never thought to offer him a horse. She put that aside as a minor sin past redemption, and focused on amputation.
As soon as she was out of the coach and he was off the horse, she said, “Your indentured servitude is at an end as of now, my lord.”
He paled so the scar stood out starkly on his cheek, but said, “Not here, Maria,” and turned to tip the postboys and to arrange for one to ride his horse to the livery stables.
She was left burning with embarrassment.
She’d spilled her words in the open street.
She hurried into her house feeling not like a resolute matron, but like a guilty child.
She almost fled up to her room, but he’d follow her there.
She knew he would. She couldn’t deal with this in such an intimate setting.
Surely she had the right to throw him from her house!
Harriette came down the stairs. “Maria? What are you doing home? Is something the matter?”
“I’ve decided my arrangement with Lord Vandeimen is at an end. He will be leaving.”
“Will I?” he said behind her, and she turned. Her footman was hovering, looking uncertain. If necessary, John would throw him out. If he could, that is. A brawl in the entrance hall of her house? How had matters come to this?
“Maria.” It was Harriette, and she had the door to the reception room open. “We need to talk.”
Maria wanted to refuse, but if she did, Harriette would speak her mind in front of the servants. She stalked into the room and shut the door. “Don’t interfere, Harriette.”
“You cannot be so impossibly inhospitable.”
“There’s no longer any need for him to be here.”
“He’s healed?”
Maria was struck by uncertainty. It was only last night that he’d taken to deep drinking. So much had happened since that it seemed an age ago, but it had only been last night.
“He’s ready to begin restoring his home,” she said. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Harriette eyed her. “I think he’s making you uncomfortable, and that’s why you’re trying to cast him out. What’s he done?”
Maria circled the room then admitted it. “He proposed to me.”
“Ah. And you said?”
“No, of course. It will not do.”
“Why not?”
“Put aside age and the fact that I bribed him into this, I’m barren.”
Harriette’s face sagged. “Oh my dear, I had forgotten. It would have been wonderful.”
“No it wouldn’t. I’m too old for him. He’s too . . . demanding. Controlling.”
“Oh no. You’re made for each other. I’ve thought it almost from the first. You laugh with him, and blush with him.
He makes you young again. He’s steady with you, at ease with you.
You anchor him. Be that as it may,” she added briskly, “you are not throwing him out of here so suddenly, especially if you’ve just hurt him—”
“I haven’t hurt him.”
“Any rejected proposal is hurtful. He’s staying for the remaining days.”
“Whose house is this?”
“Yours, but you’ll do as you’re told. You don’t want to have to wonder whether he’s digging out his pistol again, do you?”
“He wouldn’t . . .” Maria glared at her aunt. “You’re a conniving old woman.”
“I’m not so old as that. In fact,” she said with a naughty grin, “if you don’t want him, perhaps I’ll set my cap at him. I don’t mind a bit of control in the right places.”
She walked out of the room leaving Maria gaping. She sank into a chair and leaned her head against the back.
Twelve days. Only twelve days. That could be endured.
And twelve nights, every one of them temptation.
Maria retreated to her room that first night, but she could hardly hide forever. She emerged after breakfast the next day braced for persuasion, even seduction.
He had gone out.
Feeling deflated instead of relieved she set out to have a normal day, the sort of day she’d enjoyed before meeting Demon Vandeimen, the sort of day that would fill the rest of her life.
His absence crept with her like a gray ghost.
When she visited Crown and Mitchell to consider one of the new kitchen stoves, she turned to him for an opinion.
When she found that a book she’d been waiting for was available, she anticipated sharing it with him.
When she flipped through her pile of invitations, she thought of which would most please him.
She didn’t want to attend social events. People would notice the absent ring. After a moment she pulled it out of her pocket and slid it on her finger again. It was still small and pale, but precious. She was entitled to keep it, and she would.