The morning following the most interesting ball of the Season, Mary was sitting in the morning room reading Jane Eyre when the butler walked in and bowed slightly.
“M’lady, you have a guest.”
Inwardly she groaned. Lady Hermione had certainly wasted no time in seeking her out for gossip. “Inform her that I’m not at home.”
“Not ‘her,’ m’lady, but the Duke of Keswick.”
Her heart thundered as she rose quickly to her feet, patted her hair, smoothed her skirt. “Show him in.”
“He is in the library with your father. I’m to take you there.”
“Why did you not say? He’s here to see my father then. Not me.” And why? Why would he seek out her father? Why had he not come specifically to see her? Why did it pain her so that he hadn’t? Because they were friends, that was all. It was no more than that.
“My apologies, m’lady. I know only that I was sent to fetch you as the duke wishes to speak with you.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so irascible.” And why the deuce was she apologizing to a servant? Because she was flustered by Sebastian’s arrival.
Not waiting for the butler to escort her—she was after all quite familiar with the location of her father’s library—she hurried from the room and down the hallway. She wasn’t certain why she felt such a need to rush or who it was that she thought might need protecting—Sebastian or her father.
As soon as she was near the library, the footman opened the door and bowed slightly as she glided past. Her father’s study was small. A wall of shelves, a few chairs scattered about, and his massive desk. When she was a child, she would sit on his lap while he read reports from his estate manager.
Now he stood by the fireplace, an empty tumbler in hand. She suspected he dearly wanted to refill it but Sebastian was gazing out the window near the table that housed all manner of spirits. His dark blue jacket was finely cut, outlined the broad expanse of his shoulders. Even at this distance, she could see that there was strength in his back. Tall and erect, he stood with a military bearing. Or perhaps it was simply a mark of self-discipline, although he’d come close to losing it last night. She didn’t want to consider that had she not stepped in, he might have never released his uncle. The fury distorting his features—while she understood it—had also been remarkably unsettling.
At the sound of her clicking heels, he turned in such a way that he could see her clearly but the disfigured portion of his face was not visible to her, and she realized that he’d deliberately chosen his position near the windows with that purpose in mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her father’s shudder because he was able to view what she could not. He’d never possessed much in the way of a cast-iron stomach, but still his reaction irritated her. Based upon the small bit of information Sebastian revealed last night, he’d been a soldier. As such he was deserving of their consideration and gratitude. Coming to a stop only a few feet from her childhood friend, she curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“Come, Mary. Surely such formalities are not needed between us.”
His voice was rough, as though his throat had been scraped raw. She noticed it last night, but for some reason it seemed more so now. She couldn’t help but believe that a different life would have given a different timbre to his voice.
“It’s lovely to see you . . . Keswick.”
He released a low bark of laughter. “You are the first outside of family to address me by my title.”
She scowled at her father, who had the good grace to blush before shifting his gaze longingly at the decanters. She turned her attention back to their guest. “Rather appropriate, don’t you agree, that it should be I?”
“Quite. I was hoping you might take a turn about the garden with me.”
“That’s hardly appropriate,” her father said. “She’s betrothed, man.”
“Yes, so I heard,” Sebastian said, never taking his gaze from her. “While I’ve not had the honor of meeting him, I do know Fitzwilliam is a most fortunate man.”
She felt the heat burning her cheeks. “You’re very kind.”
Sadness touched his remaining eye. “No, Mary, I fear I’m not.”
“Being in service to the Queen changed you I suppose.”
“A good many things changed me.”
She nodded, suddenly at a loss for words, wishing her father wasn’t close enough to hear what they might say. “I must retrieve my wrap . . . and my lady’s maid. She may serve as our chaperone. If you’ll be so good as to excuse me for a few moments?”
“Naturally.”
“I’ll meet you in the garden.”
He gave a quick nod.
“You don’t mind do you, Father?” She thought he intended to object again but then his gaze swung to Keswick, and he did little more than mutter, “No, of course not.”
She couldn’t deny that Keswick could be quite intimidating. She suspected her father would be shaking in his boots if he’d witnessed the incident at last night’s ball.
She strolled from the room, hoping she gave no indication that her nerves were tingling. As soon as she was through the doorway and heard the quiet snick as the footman closed the door, she scampered down the hallway. She had a thousand questions for him, hoped he would provide a thousand answers, but she thought it unlikely. He was very different from the lad with whom she’d ridden across fields. But surely a small piece of him still existed somewhere.
In her room, she rang for her maid, then snatched up her shawl and draped it over her shoulders. She went to her vanity and dabbed perfume behind her ears. A silly thing to do, and yet she couldn’t help herself. She wanted him to look at her as though she were a woman, not a child. Not that she had any interest in him other than friendship, but if he didn’t see her as equal in maturity it was unlikely that he would share all he’d endured these many years. Once no secrets had existed between them. Now she feared there were a good many.
As Sebastian waited in the garden, he couldn’t help but think he’d made an awful mistake in coming here. Lord Winslow had looked at him as though he’d seen a ghost. Surely he’d been told of Keswick’s reentry into Society, so it must not have been his arrival so much as his marred features that had taken the earl by surprise. In truth, he wanted to simply escape to Pembrook and live out his life in solitude, but as he’d made a public appearance he’d decided to get another matter taken care of while he was in London. He would find a wife. Because God help him, he needed an heir. Which meant he’d have to keep himself on public display until the task was done. He did not expect her to love him. He didn’t think it would be possible when he couldn’t even love himself. But once she had seen to giving him an heir, he would grant her freedom. It would be her reward for enduring his presence in her bed.
He was a skilled lover. Or at least he had been before he’d awoken to discover that ignoring the call for retreat and further engaging the enemy in order to save a wounded man was a fool’s mission. The soldier had been beyond saving. Sometimes Sebastian wondered if it would have altered his decision had he known how gravely wounded the fellow was. Probably not. In the heat of battle, all men believed themselves invincible. Why else would they charge with such enthusiasm into hell?
He heard the soft footsteps and turned ever so slightly to greet Mary. She smiled at him, and his chest constricted. Yes, it was a mistake to come here. To have the opportunity to memorize every line and curve of her face, to search for the remembered freckles that had faded, to be disappointed that they were not to be found. To inhale the flowery fragrance—orchids, perhaps—that seemed stronger outside than it had in the study. Strange, he would have thought just the opposite.
He had deliberately placed himself so that when she joined him she’d have no alternative except to stand to the right of him. He did not wish to offend her delicate sensibilities by what remained of the left side of his face. Although the girl he’d known probably would have not been sickened by such a ghastly image, she was a lady now. And that made all the difference.
They began walking with the maid following discretely behind. He did not offer Mary his arm. Rather he planted his hands behind his back. Little point in touching what he could never hold.
“How long have you been in London?” Mary finally asked.
“A little more than a fortnight.”
“You did not think that I might wish to know you were alive?”
He heard the sharpness of her tone, the hurt. They had been friends once, and he cursed Tristan for being correct. They should have told her. “We thought it best to keep our presence here a secret until the right moment.”
“I would have held your secret.”
“But contacting you may have put us at risk for discovery. Rafe has been in London for some time, but he used a different surname and ran into no one who might identify him. Considering his age when we left, he was fairly safe from being properly identified.”
“But you and Tristan—twins.”
“Yes, we are a bit more noticeable.” Or at least they once were. He supposed it would take a keen eye indeed to notice their similarities these days, but it was a risk they’d not been willing to take.
Her bow-shaped mouth curled up slightly. “You were certainly noticed last night. I’m not sure I ever realized you had such a flare for the dramatic.”
“I would have thought you of all people would not have been surprised. Was I not Lancelot to your Guinevere? As I recall, I fought the enemy off quite daringly with my wooden sword.”
“That was so long ago that I’d almost forgotten.” Her smile withered. “Why did you not have him arrested for what he did to you?”
“What exactly did he do, Mary? He locked us in a tower. He could argue that we’d misbehaved and were merely being brought to task.”
“I could tell the courts or the house of lords or whoever I needed that I heard your uncle order someone to kill you,” she said.
“You were a child. Years have passed. He could argue that your memory was faulty. It would become a battle of words, Mary. I would not subject you to such unpleasantness.”
“But it is not right, what he did.”
“I’m well aware of that. My brothers and I will deal with him.”
“What have you in mind?”
“Your gardens are lovely.”
“Sebastian!” She stopped walking and he watched the familiar mulish expression cross over her features. “Why will you not reveal your plans?”
“I will not have you put in harm’s way when there is no need.”
“I want revenge as much as you.”
“It is not revenge. It is retribution.” And he doubted anyone could want it as much as he. “To be quite honest I’ve not finished mapping out my plans, and I did not come here to discuss my uncle.” He longed for one conversation that did not revolve around the man.
“What of his wife?” she asked.
“What of her?”
“My heart goes out to her. You might have been a bit kinder to her.”
“Twelve years, Mary. There is no kindness left in me.”
She glanced away and he wondered if she feared what she might see in him if she looked too closely. He had taken to avoiding mirrors whenever possible. It wasn’t so much the scars that bothered him any longer but rather what he saw in his eye. If eyes were truly the window to the soul . . . he did not fancy what he saw within his.
“When confronting your uncle last night, you said that you were a soldier,” she said after several moments of reflection.
“Yes. I did not mean to stay away so long, but there never seemed a good time to sell my commission. Then we declared war on Russia, and to have left then would have shown me to be a coward.”
“I suspect you were anything except a coward. Shall we sit?”
She indicated a wrought iron bench. He would have preferred walking, but he nodded and followed her over. In her youth, she’d been a bundle of mischievousness—which was part of the reason she’d uncovered his uncle’s plot. And now she sat on the side of the bench that would give her the clearest view of his mottled flesh. She was no fool, so it had to be a conscious decision on her part.
“Scoot over,” he said. “I fancy sitting in that spot.”
He was not facing her directly, knew she had a limited view of him, but she studied him with an intensity that made him think she could see all of him, clear through to the center of his darkened soul. “Were you wounded in battle?”
He gave one brisk nod. To his horror, she rose and walked toward him. He should have stepped away, but the challenge in her eyes held him immobile.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” she said, her voice a whisper on the waning breeze. She placed one of her delicate hands on his shoulder, and ever so slowly as though he were a skittish stallion, she glided her fingers up until they rested against his jaw. He could feel the pressure but not the softness of her skin. He wanted to shove his fingers into her hair, tear it down, watch it unravel over her shoulders. The need to wrap his arm around her waist, draw her up against him, press her close until her every curve had made an indentation against his body, and blanket his mouth over hers astounded him. He wanted to get lost in the sensuality of a kiss. He wanted the heat of her flesh to brand him. Even as he had these tumultuous thoughts, he was repulsed by the savagery of his desire. Dear God, this was Mary. She deserved more than uncontrollable lust from him, but he’d not been with a woman since before he was wounded. He longed for the gentle touch, the silky skin moving sensuously over his. He longed to be held, and to hold, to skim his fingers—
Then he saw the tears welling in her eyes. They achieved what his own thoughts couldn’t, dampening his desire with unerring swiftness.
“Do not weep,” he ordered through clenched teeth.
“It must have hurt terribly.”
Unbearably. If not for his need to reclaim Pembrook, he’d have succumbed to the allure of death. But he’d not admit that, not reveal that weakness, not even to her. “Others were worse off.”
“Your eye—”
“It’s gone.” Left on a godforsaken battlefield. Although he had not memory of it or the specific pain that might have been associated with it. The agony had encompassed all of him. It had been months before he’d been able to identify where specific points of pain originated.
Blinking, she glanced away. “Does it hurt now?”
“Sometimes it aches, but it is a minor inconvenience.”
She released a small laugh, filled with sadness and perhaps a touch of admiration. “Spoken like a true soldier.”
“It is what I am. A soldier. I don’t yet know how to be a duke.”
She returned to the bench, sitting where she hadn’t before, giving him the luxury of joining her. Once he was seated, she said, “I believe you will make an excellent duke.”
Better than his uncle at least. “You shall make an excellent viscountess.”
She glanced at her fingers, steepled them, wove them together. “I shall certainly try. Although I’m not certain you know me well enough to make a claim about my suitability.”
He realized she was still upset that he’d not visited before now, that he’d left her to discover along with everyone else that he and his brothers had returned. He regretted it, the impulsiveness of it, his inability to trust her now when she had saved him before. He regretted that he’d hurt her, but at the time it seemed the wisest course of action. He couldn’t risk losing Pembrook or his titles. Reclaiming them had filled his life with purpose. “Have you changed so much?” he asked.
She twisted around to face him. “Have you?”
Far more than he cared to admit, far more than he wished her to know. In spite of all he’d achieved, he suddenly felt unworthy. Not that she sat in judgment of him, but perhaps she should.
“Regrettably, I have. But then I suppose the years take their toll on everyone. I’d certainly not expected to find you grown up.”
“What had you expected?”
He wanted to laugh like a maniac at how naïve he’d been. “I’m not sure. To step back into the way things were, I suppose. Even knowing it was gone.”
“Have you been to Pembrook?”
He saw the sorrow in her eyes, as though she wished she had the power to spare him what he had seen. “Yes. It was like walking through a house of ghosts. Father never closed it up, never draped cloths over the furniture, the statues, the paintings. It was always kept ready. Now it is covered in dust and the hills are barren of sheep.”
She placed her hand over his bare fist, pressing into his thigh. “Before I came to London I rode to the highest hill on your father’s land, where I could see Pembrook. It seemed so dark and foreboding. I couldn’t bring myself to go any nearer. Not until you returned. Now here you are and I am the one who will not be in Yorkshire.”
He couldn’t imagine it. A heaviness settled in his gut. All these years, his thoughts had centered around Pembrook, yet it had never occurred to him that he would not hear her laughter echoing over the dales or catch glimpses of the sun reflecting off her hair.
He could think of nothing to say except that Fitzwilliam was a fortunate man, and he’d already told her that. What the deuce was wrong with him? Why was he suddenly without words, without thought?
“I’ve strayed from my purpose in coming here.” The words sounded as though they came from a great distance, were not spoken by him.
“I thought you came to visit,” she said softly.
“No, I . . . I came to thank you for your assistance all those years ago.” He removed a small wrapped package from his jacket pocket and extended it toward her.
He saw the hurt wash over her expression. Was he doomed to always wound her—keeping secrets, withholding his trust, talking only of superficial things, offering gifts for dangers confronted?
“You do not owe me. My actions that night were done with no expectation of reward.”
He didn’t know how to respond to her heartfelt declaration. He should have waited until Tristan returned from the docks so he could accompany him when delivering the gift. He doubted his brother would be tongue-tied. He’d make light of it. But Sebastian had not wanted to wait. The truth was he’d wanted a few moments with Mary alone, although for the life of him, he didn’t understand why the yearning had been so strong. Perhaps because she’d been a friend more to him than to the others. Now that she was grown, he didn’t appreciate that they’d noticed the beauty she’d become, or that they’d noticed her before he had.
“It is only a small token of our appreciation,” he finally said.
“So, it’s from all of you then?” Now she appeared disappointed.
He didn’t understand her mercurial moods. He’d known women over the years—many women—but he’d been only interested in determining how best to quickly divest them of their clothes. He’d certainly had no interest in figuring out anything beyond that. He felt as though he were lost at sea, drowning in tidal waves of uncertainty. What did she want him to say? He would say it if it would please her, would bring the smile back to her face.
“Yes. From all of us. I selected it.”
He must have gotten it right because the disappointment retreated. Thank God. That was troublesome. That he cared about disappointing her. When they were children, he had simply accepted that she’d always be there. He’d never weighed his words or his actions. Now he measured each one and found them sadly lacking.
His inadequate conversational skills didn’t bode well for his success in finding a woman to marry him. If he wished to place blame elsewhere, he could blame it on his throbbing face or the lingering results from the trauma of his wounds, but he feared the fault rested with something more, some deficiency in him that was doomed to unravel the friendship they’d possessed as children.
She lowered her gaze, hesitated. “A lady should not accept gifts from a gentleman.”
“It is from three friends. And we are hardly gentlemen.”
She lifted her gaze to his. The clover green in her eyes reminded him of the verdant hills of home. He could look forever, and never tire of them. On the top of one rounded cheek, he spotted a bold freckle. He wanted to remove his glove and trace his finger over it. But he feared his errant hand wouldn’t stop there. He would want to touch the whole of her cheek, trail his thumb over her plump lips, especially the lower one that appeared as welcoming as a pillow. He’d had little enough softness in his life, and the temptation to revel in it here was almost beyond enduring. He’d been on the verge of explaining that based on the idle banter Rafe had overheard at his club from those who were at the ball before seeking more wicked pleasures, the brothers were seen as little more than barbarians. But his thoughts toward her exemplified his point. If not for the maid standing nearby, he wasn’t certain he’d have been able to restrain himself. She was such a temptation—sweet, innocent, a beauty beyond measure.
And she belonged to another man, but that truth seemed to hold him in place rather than cause him to depart as it should.
“So many of your freckles disappeared,” he said quietly, knowing he was veering from one tawdry subject into another—one that had the potential to be far more dangerous.
“With you gone, I had little occasion to play in the sun. And then, of course, a lady should never be without her bonnet or parasol.”
“I rather liked the freckles.”
She smiled, a ravishing smile that transformed her lovely features into an exquisiteness that was breathtaking. “I abhorred them. And you are a gentleman. You may have come across as somewhat brutal last night, but I believe the situation regarding your uncle warranted it.”
Her words sent his thoughts careening back onto the path they never should have left. If only his menacing, harsh outlook were limited to last night, but a part of him embraced the brutality as a means of protecting himself. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew he needed it to survive, to do what had to be done in order to reclaim Pembrook. “Because you’re our friend.” He nudged the box against her hand.
He could not have been more pleased when she took it, removed the paper, opened it, and gasped. It was a simple necklace that sported nothing more than a small oval emerald that matched the shade of her eyes.
“Oh, it’s so lovely.” Smiling brightly, she held out the box. “Will you place it on me?”
He would have to remove his gloves in order to grasp and work the delicate clasp. He was shaken by the immediacy with which his fingers trembled. The thought of them being so near to her skin, of his knuckles touching the silkiness at the nape of her neck—
He shot to his feet while he was still able to stand without his lower body revealing the errant direction of his thoughts. This was Mary. God, she deserved more than a rutting bull or a man with lascivious thoughts who would like nothing better than to take her behind the rose bushes for a leisurely sojourn into pleasure. She was a lady. Betrothed. Hardly deserving of the beast he’d become. “I’m sure that is a task more suited to your maid. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mary. I wish you well in your marriage.”
Before she could respond, before he could fully recognize the emotions that might have played over her face, he spun on his heel and slammed into the maid whom he hadn’t seen. Standing on his blind side, dammit. “Out of my way, woman!”
He stormed from the garden as though the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. How could so simple a request have unmanned him to such a degree?
He was the Duke of Keswick for God’s sake. But at that moment he wished he was back on a battlefield. It was so much easier to fight an enemy that was not himself.
What the deuce had just happened?
Mary rose to her feet, stared after Sebastian’s stiff retreating back, and plopped back down in confusion. Had she offended him in some manner? His reaction was the strangest thing. He had been staring at her with such intensity that she’d barely been able to draw in a breath. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was on the verge of leaning in to kiss her. For the briefest of moments, she had wanted him to.
What a disaster that would have been! Dear, kind Fitzwilliam had been forgotten. Only Sebastian had filled her senses. The size of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest. The fragrance beneath the cloves that was the true essence of him. He’d always smelled like the heady soil of Pembrook: earthy and rich. For a moment it was almost as though they were there, as though the pain and separation of the intervening years had never happened.
But they had, and he took great care not to subject her to his scars. Did he really think her so shallow?
The thought filled her with disappointment, caused an ache to settle in her chest. He knew as little of her as she knew of him. Once again she found herself wondering why her request to place the lovely gift about her throat upset him so.
“Would you like me to assist you in putting it on, m’lady?” Colleen asked.
She smiled at her maid. “No, I believe I shall save it to wear at the next ball.”
“The pink gown with the green velvet trim?”
“Yes.”
“It will look lovely.”
“I quite agree. You may go inside. I believe I shall sit here for a while and enjoy the gardens while I may.”
“The residence will not be the same without you here.”
“I shall try to visit. Often. Go on now.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Feeling like an ungrateful wench, Mary watched her go before turning her attention to the assortment of flowers that were blooming in riotous colors. She should find the energy to gather some for her room, but all she seemed capable of doing was thinking about Sebastian. She grazed her finger over the small emerald. She had once felt so comfortable with him. She could have told him anything. She could have bared her soul to him with no regrets. But the man who had visited with her in the garden now—she did not know him. She didn’t know the journeys he had traveled, what challenges may have shaped him. She possessed a romanticized bent that would see them sitting before a roaring fire, sharing every aspect of the past twelve years. But it was only fantasy.
Their time apart had truly separated them. Now they seemed to be little more than strangers fumbling into an acquaintanceship. They traversed separate paths, the distance between them ever widening. It saddened her to consider they might never truly converge.
During one horrendous night they’d shared experiences that had created an unbreakable bond between them. They would forever be connected. But a connection did not ensure a snug fit. At that moment, she wasn’t even certain that she liked the man he had become. He was irascible and harsh. She had yet to see a smile, and the laughter he released was more bark than joy. She had always expected the lad he’d been to return unscathed. She feared that nothing of the boy she’d known had returned at all, because she still missed him, still longed to see him again.