Chapter 15
“He asked me to marry him,” Andromeda announced.
Harriet sputtered on her tea. The porcelain clunked as she rapidly placed her cup back on her saucer. “I beg your pardon?”
Andromeda took up a scone. “He asked me to—”
“Yes. Yes,” Harriet cut in. “I assume you mean Lord Peterboro.”
Andromeda noted the look on Harriet’s face then took a bite of the delicious sweet.
“What was your reply?” Harriet asked, her voice rising in amazement.
Tilting her head to the side, Andromeda responded dryly, “What think ye?”
“No, of course.”
“Ye are correct.”
Harriet let out a deep sigh of resignation. “I wish you had accepted.”
“Goodness, why?” Andromeda yelped. Had the entire world gone mad? Surely, a wealthy widow was the best thing in the world.
“I like him.”
Andromeda narrowed her gaze. “Ye are already married.”
Harriet rolled her eyes. “Stuff and nonsense. I mean that he is a most interesting man, quite unlike any other of our acquaintance. I think he could make you happy. Very happy.” Harriet gave her a knowing look. “Very, very happy.”
“There is more to life than that sort of happiness,” Andromeda said firmly.
“Is it me you are trying to convince?” Harriet asked as she took a sip of steaming tea.
“Of course.”
Harriet paused, then with a surprising amount of seriousness for the usually merry lady, she said, “I spent a good deal of my life without that sort of happiness. I far prefer a life with it.”
“The risk is too great.”
“Then you cannot be moved?”
“Indeed, no. We shall merely enjoy each other’s company.”
“Long walks and all that?” Harriet asked, lips twitching.
Andromeda straightened. “Long walks are essential for happiness, too.”
“Oh, I concur. I do.” Harriet stared at Andromeda over the rim of her teacup. “However, Lord Peterboro does seem to be a man of some vigor and I have seen the way he looks at you.”
“You are monstrous!” Andromeda hesitated. She’d seen that look. The deep, soul-searching look before. But. . . “How does he look at me?”
Harriet grinned. “As if he had not a crumb for weeks and came upon a banquet fit for Prince George.”
“Oh. Oh dear.”
“For someone who I have always thought to be rather bold,” Harriet observed, “you are being surprisingly priggish.”
“Am I?”
Harriet gave a firm nod before taking another delicate sip of her oolong tea. She eyed the cup with deep satisfaction.
Andromeda searched for words to explain her predicament. “It is just. . . Well. . .”
“You are afraid.”
“I beg yer pardon?” Andromeda asked, aghast.
“You. Are. Afraid. Don’t fret. We all are.”
Andromeda let out a growl of indignation. “I have survived a great deal in this life and I dinna think that—”
“Yes, you have,” Harriet rushed. But then she said with unyielding force, “And yet, you are afraid of allowing yourself to be with Lord Peterboro. Your brother is a duke. You are amongst friends. You are a woman of independent means. Have him.”
“Have him?” she choked.
“If you want him,” Harriet added.
Dear God. Want him? Her very veins burned with hunger for him.
“I do not wish to be too close to him.”
“Andromeda, I do not think you are truly close to anyone except your brother.”
She looked away, her eyes suddenly stinging. “That’s unkind.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Harriet placed her cup down on the tea tray and folded her hands together. “You’ve learned to shield your heart. I cannot judge you for that. But you have become untrusting of the world and are prepared for it to hurt you. That keeps joy out, don’t you know. I say this as one who has jumped into the ocean of sin and paid the price. Having done so, I still say, it is better to live. To live fully.”
“It feels as if everyone is urging me to give way! Except Merry.”
“Of course, Merry might hesitate. She did feel some terrible effects of her foray into sin. But in the end, it worked out beautifully for her.” Harriet frowned. “There are other people who wouldn’t think it wise. But they are too bound by the rules of men. My husband’s brother, the duke, was a very rigid person. Rigidity did not end well for him. It took a good long time for him to find happiness. Rigidity is the road to misery.”
“And an affair is the key to happiness?” she challenged.
Harriet’s face softened. “If it is with the right person? Yes. And I do think. . . I think he might be the right person for you. You deserve to know that side of life, my dear. Life is too short not to revel in the affections of a man.”
It was interesting the way Harry put it. Not lust. Not bed. But affections. What would it be like to share intimate touches and whispers with Lord Peterboro? To exchange thoughts languidly in each other’s arms?
Her breath hitched in her throat. She had to know. A sharp longing to hold him and look into his eyes, seeing deep into his soul flowed through her.
She need not marry him. And she needn’t tell him her darkest pain, the only true reason she kept herself from him. If she was careful, she could enjoy him without the suffering that so often came from men. For she could no longer deny that he was what her soul was crying out for.
Harriet was correct. She had held herself too rigid, too angered, for too long. Months of walking the Highlands and months in London had not cured her.
Perhaps, he could.
Damian took a deep drink of brandy and stared out his window. Night had come to the Highlands. The velvet touch of purple bathed the sky and heather. Glimmering stars danced and the moon. . . The moon hung, full and luminescent. Its reflection was glowing on the loch.
His soul ached with the beauty of it.
Letting his head rest against the high-backed, leather chair, he sighed. It had never occurred to him how very disappointed he would be at her refusal. For, surely, he only cared about her ability to fund his work. He found her desirable, interesting, tolerable company. . .
More than tolerable.
She was one of the few people he enjoyed.
Damnation. He loved her. Somehow, in a very short time, she had found a place in his heart. It made little sense. But when did sense and love go hand in hand?
He took a long drink of the liquor, allowing it to burn down his throat.
Friends.
The very idea was appalling.
He’d been friends with women in the past. He was not one of those fool men who believed it impossible. Frankly, many women were far more sensible, rational, and interesting than men. However, his feelings, how he loathed that word, were not restricted to the platonic with regards to Lady Andromeda.
Not one damned bit.
Love.
Yes, love. How could he abandon that in light of her request?
Could he try?
He supposed he had no choice. But then, what was he going to do? Marry someone else?
His throat tightened in his disgust and simultaneous horror. The very idea of marrying anyone else was impossible.
How the devil had that happened? How had she become the only woman in the world worth shackling himself to? He’d known her for moments in the grand scheme of life. That seemed not to matter one whit.
Now that he’d met her, a woman who drove him wild with lust and also made him long to hear what she might say next, she was all that he desired.
A marriage of mere convenience now felt entirely out of the question.
Could he still convince her? Seduction had never been his strong suit. He was a blunt man. As she said, he was rude. Poetry was not his skill.
Negotiating with tribal nomads was far more to his liking.
Draining the snifter to the dregs, he contemplated drunkenness. The duke had kindly arranged an exceptional selection of local whisky and French brandy for his chamber, something he knew was not the custom with most hosts.
Perhaps Clyde knew how tiring he found people to be. Not just in the sense that he found them frustrating but rather that he often became exhausted by their company. Their inanities. Their unkind view of the peoples of this world.
But to his ever-growing pleasure and astonishment, he’d found a group of people from the island of his birth that shared many of his ideas about the world. It was strange to say the least.
And one of the reasons he was so entirely drawn to Andromeda.
If it had not been for her, none of this would have transpired.
The faint brush of wood on woven carpet drew his attention towards the back of the room.
He tensed in his chair.
He’d not rung for a servant. His bed was turned down. The fire tended to a low, warm glow.
Andromeda had made it plain she had no wish to begin an affair.
He knew that country house parties often allowed for bed play. He prayed, oh God, how he prayed that one of the wives had not ventured into his room. For he liked them all and would be truly dismayed to find they were such creatures who would betray loving husbands.
Curling his free hand into a fist, he willed it to be Clyde, or Blakemore, or Hart.
The soft pad of footsteps didn’t bode well.
“Whoever you are, take yourself off and go back to your husband.”
The steps hesitated.
“Well?” he challenged, desperate for this horrible interlude to end.
“That would be most difficult, unless ye know a way back. I’ve heard Hades is deuced challenging to visit.”
He nearly laughed with relief at her voice. “Dido and Aeneas, and all that?” he asked.
“Exactly. That venture dinna end well, now did it?”
“Andromeda,” he whispered.
“Have ye been entertaining other ladies?” she teased. “That ye were so certain it was someone else.”
“Clearly not, considering where I wished such an invader to go.”
“Yes. It does seem ye’ve no’ been arranging a criminal conversation.”
Slowly, he turned all the way around to face her. Bloody hell, she was a goddess by moonlight.
Her dressing gown caressed her body, leaving its uncarpeted curves to stir the imagination. Her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders, unbridled and uncapped.
The soft light emphasized her high cheekbones and intelligent gaze.
And her mouth.
By God, how he longed for her mouth under his own once again.
“What the blazes are you doing here?” he heard himself demand. And then, oh how he wished he could punch himself. He’d sounded like a bear. A roaring, idiot bear.
She smiled. “I’ve come to have a discussion on Plato versus Socrates.”
“I prefer Aristotle,” he gritted, praying to God, once again. Praying was something he found himself doing more and more as of late, that she was not in earnest.
“The Poetics?”
He nodded. “I quite enjoy Homer, too.”
“So do I.” She took another step forward, her gown tracing over her legs. “All those mythical beasts. All those adventures.”
Damnation, where was his mind going? He could scarce put together a reply. “I’ve always been inspired by the fact that he doesn’t give up.”
“Odysseus?”
“Exactly. He keeps on keeping on, always certain he shall return home.”
“Like ye,” she observed, taking another step. Another step towards him.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, his brain wandering as he stared, transfixed.
“Isna that what ye’ve done? Flung yerself into the wild and I can only imagine the dangers ye’ve faced. . .” She bit her lower lip ever so slightly in thought. “And then ye came home.”
“More fool me.”
“Dinna say that.”
“Why should I not?” he challenged, longing to seize her and throw her on his bed. Something that his rational mind held abhorrent. “It’s all gone completely opposite to my plan.”
“Ye’ve met me,” she countered brightly. “That canna be so very horrible.”
A laugh rumbled from him. “Meeting you has been one of the most pleasant and deeply frustrating things to occur in the entirety of my life. And it’s also the bit that has sent me most off plan.”
“My goodness. That is quite the accomplishment for any woman.”
“Any person, actually.” He gripped the arms of his chair, not daring to stand lest he take her into his arms. “To cause such ripples. But yes, it is true.”
“Och, I did no’ mean to cause ye such distress.”
“I know. Yet, I feel it,” he said honestly. There was no point in prevarication. “I find myself to be most confused.”
“Something to which ye are unaccustomed?”
“Precisely.”
She paused before the fire and the red glow outlined her sensual body. “Ye do evoke similar emotions in me, if ye must ken?”
“Do I, indeed?” Thank God. For it would have been the height of cruelty if he had been entirely alone in this feeling.
“Oh, aye. It has been pointed out to me that I am operating out of fear in regards to ye.”
“I frighten you?” he asked, unable to hide his horror at the idea.
“No!” she rushed. “No’ at all. In fact, I ken ye are no’ capable of harming anyone unless there was great cause.”
“I’m glad.” And he was. Somehow, it was essential that she think, at least, well of him, even if she would not marry him. “I should hate to think I could frighten someone like you. I’d have to greatly reassess my character.”
“I quite like yer character.”
He cleared his throat. “And I yours. Then how is it you are afraid?”
“I do no’ allow myself to be truly close to anyone but my brother,” she admitted.
“Ah.” It was tempting to push, but he knew he needed to allow her to speak in her own time.
“I have no’ had the best of luck with closeness to others.”
“That is something I can understand,” he sympathized. “I have been fortunate in some respects. But in my early life, I, too, was quite adrift.”
“Then ye might understand my reticence.”
“Certainly.” He frowned. “Why are you here?”
“To overcome my fear and be close to ye, of course,” she declared as if it were her new personal manifesto.
He studied her, wondering how the devil she planned on doing that without marriage. “How so?”
“I should like us to be intimate.”
“Good friends,” he repeated, not daring to hope.
“No.”
“My wife?” he queried, truly curious now. He was wishing to God she would say yes.
“No.”
He frowned. “But you said—”
“Never mind what I said.”
God, how he longed to give in. To take her to bed and learn her every curve but, instead, he said, “I find I cannot, for it is unsound. We can be careful. But one always takes the risk of a child in these things. Allow me to venture again. Marry me. I’m sure we could come up with a sufficient plan, Andromeda. A contract. A good lawyer could ensure your financial independence from me. Or arrange a—”
“No,” she cut in abruptly. “And I didna say anything about the risk of children. Ye did.” Andromeda’s heart slammed in her chest. This was a conversation she had no desire to have. How could she explain? A child wasn’t a possibility. Ever.
Swallowing back a growing panic, her foot inched backwards.
“Is there something else?” he asked softly, standing. “I understand if you have no wish to wed. I will respect that. But. . . It does feel. . . It feels as if there might be some other aspect of all this that I am missing.”
“Could it no’ be so simple as the fact I do no’ wish to wed anyone?” she ventured. How had this occurred? Suddenly, she found herself in a position to which she had little recourse but to explain.
“Oh, I think that is true. You don’t wish to wed. But. . . You can confide in me, if you’d like. Though I am rude, I can be kind. Helpful even.”
Staring at him, she bit the inside of her cheek. Good God. Could she let him into this particular window of her soul?
Harriet had accused her of avoiding intimacy.
She liked this man. No. That was a lie. She had come to have the deepest affection and respect for him. Love. That was what she already felt for the complicated and fascinating lord who did not compromise.
She longed to be close to him. But this, this was deeper and stronger than she’d meant to go so soon.
“Do not fret, Andromeda,” he assured. “I won’t force it out of you. I respect your wishes and desires. I only regret that we cannot seem to find a mutually desired path.”
“Ye needna fear the consequences of an affair with me,” she whispered, squaring her shoulders.
“I don’t understand.” His brow furrowed. “Surely, only a foolish man would throw caution to the wind in such a regard.”
“Ye needna fear for the same reason that I will no’ wed.”
“Now, I am most confused.”
She swallowed. There was nothing for it but to expose her deepest pain at long last. “I canna have children.”
Her words met silence. But there was no horror. In fact, he only blinked and then his face softened with kindness.
“Do ye understand me now?” she asked firmly.
He nodded.
“So, ye see, ye needna fear the effects of an affair,” she hurried, her hands fidgeting over her night robe.
“But why should this impede our marriage?” he asked softly.
A dry laugh burst from her lips, unintended and more tortured than she liked.
In the face of her emotion, he said nothing. However, his eyes softened with sympathy.
She raised a hand. “Do no’ pity me.”
“I don’t. But I see your pain and I am sorry for it.”
She drew in a slow breath. “My pain?”
“It is raw and unmistakable,” he soothed. “You have suffered greatly over this and I wish I could relieve it.”
It was impossible to thank him. She couldn’t find the words. Nor could she understand his reaction.
Suddenly, he said, “I don’t need an heir, you know. That is your concern is it not?”
“I beg yer pardon?” He couldn’t mean what he was saying. She had misunderstood.
“An heir,” he repeated. “I am not the eldest son.”
Stiffening, she snapped, “All men want sons.”
“Do they?” he asked gently.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as waves of memory crashed down on her. Her husband’s recriminations and the agony of failed hopes.
“In my experience, aye.”
“Andromeda, many men desire children,” he began carefully. “Many women do, too. But as for you and me? We are not many. We are the few. The odd. The slightly mad. We do not obey the ideas of society set down before us.”
“I canna believe ye,” she protested.
“That is your dilemma, not mine,” he countered. “I cannot convince you of my truth. But my work is not conducive to children. I know the common practice of English parents is to never see their children, but I could not do such a thing. And I intend to be in England little. Nor would I take a child to Africa. Not at present. Travel is precarious in many parts of the world.”
His words rang in her ears. Children were not conducive to his work?
Tears stung her eyes as the pain she’d held on to for so long began to surface. “Y-ye dinna—”
“Have a need to raise children,” he finished. “I do desire a good companion to live out my days. That is something I find I should like. And the more I contemplate it, the more I know that you are the only person that will do.”
The rebellion and wall she’d built up over the years tumbled in a tidal wave of emotion. The tears in her eyes slipped down her cheeks. Suddenly, she found herself gasping for breath.
Sobs.
Dear God. Sobs. And in front of such a man!
Immediately, he crossed to her and took her in his arms.
“Ye must think me a silly piece,” she gasped between sobs.
“Never.”
“I’m a watering pot.”
“We all should be,” he declared firmly, holding her as if he would never let her go. “More often, too. The English and the desert of their emotions is no doubt to account for their mad power grab across the world. They don’t seem to have anything else.”
Hot tears continued to slip down her face; tears she’d been holding in for years. He slowly stroked her back, pressing his face into her hair.
He simply held her. Accepting the torrent of her pain.
“For years. . . Years. . . I felt such a failure,” she lamented. “And he hated me, ye ken.”
“Your husband?” he asked softly against her hair.
She nodded against his hard chest.
“A complete ponce no doubt.”
A half-laugh, half-sob escaped her. “Ye’ve no idea. He locked me away in the country whilst I tried to do my duty. If Angus hadna intervened. . .”
“My God,” he growled. His voice was now hot with emotion. “If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him.”
It was tempting to laugh again but she couldn’t. There had been nothing amusing about her marriage and, even now, she couldn’t find Damian’s comment lightening. Every day, all over the world, women were in terrible marriages and, most often, those around them did nothing.
“I was very fortunate that my brother is so powerful,” she said, allowing the story to tumble out. “He was able to ensure that my husband left me largely alone. We had nothing in common. So, he retreated to his odd hobbies and I, well, I did everything I could to keep my mind occupied.”
“With salons.”
“Aye,” she confirmed. “Literature. History. Drama. They saved me. Talking with others who valued such things, saved me.”
“I’m relieved you had such escape. The halls of the past, the images of history. . . They have saved me, too. As have the written words. Without them, my life would have been an inescapable and torturous trap.”
“We are both devoted to escape then.”
“Most definitely.” He lifted his head and looked down upon her face. Carefully, he cupped her chin. “But it is lonely.”
“I canna disagree.”
“Would it not be better to escape together?” he asked.
“Oh, Damian, dare I risk it?”
“I promise you,” he said passionately, his eyes alight. “There will be no risks. As much as one might wish to hate a lawyer, they are very useful in the arranging of unbreakable contracts.”
“Then let us do it,” she declared.
“In truth?” he asked, seemingly astonished.
“On one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That ye make love to me now.”