A Wild Pursuit (15 page)

“I am not,” Esme said, pulling away. “I have a perfectly foul taste in my mouth and my back hurts like the devil. I am
not
in the mood for sentiment, Bonnington, and so I'll thank you to find your way out before the household awakes.”

Sebastian obediently pulled on his trousers and shirt as she watched. He was buttoning the last button on his placket when he realized that tears were sliding down her face. “Sweetheart.” He pulled her into his arms. “Don't cry.”

“I can't help it,” Esme said, sobbing. “I know you have to go—you
have to go!
—but I'm so lonely without you. I'm a fool, a weak, silly fool. I'm just…I'm just—”

“I love you, Esme,” he said, finally. “If you need me, just ask. I'll always come to you.”

“I need you to leave! I can't have an earl hiding as a gardener on my estate. Everyone will know in a matter of minutes, and my reputation will be blackened, more than it is already.”

He handed her a handkerchief.

“Thank you. And I wouldn't even mind my reputation being ruined,” she wailed, “except for the baby. But you know all this, Sebastian, you know it, and I know it, and—and there's nothing to be done. So please,
go.
”

He didn't move.

“Go!”
She looked at him, face shiny with tears, eyes red, a handkerchief balled in her hands, and Sebastian knew that he would never love anyone so much as he loved her.

He leaned forward and kissed her quite simply on the lips. “Good-bye,” he said. Then he put his hands over her belly. “And good-bye to you, little one.”

“Oh God, I can't bear it!” Esme said, her breath caught on a sob. “You have to leave, or I'll lose my resolve. Please go.”

He slipped through the door and looked to the right and left. He'd entered Esme's chamber by means of one of the ladders being used to fix the roof; he had never actually been in the upper reaches of her house before.

Suddenly there was a polite cough, almost at his shoulder. “If I might help you, my lord?”

He swung about to find Esme's butler bowing before him. “Slope, isn't it?” Sebastian asked.

“Just so, my lord.”

“I know your mistress trusts you implicitly. I trust her loyalty is not misplaced.”

“Absolutely not,” Slope replied, with just a tinge of offense in his voice.

“A workman, Rogers, is stealing slate and selling it in the village,” Sebastian told him. “You might want to tell the foreman such. And I am leaving Lady Rawlings's employ, so you'll have to find a new gardener.”

Slope bowed again. “I am most grateful for the information, my lord. May I direct you toward the side door, under the circumstances?”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said, walking into the light of dawn.

E
sme placed compresses on her eyes for a full hour, but it didn't reduce the swelling in her eyes. When Arabella entered her room, she advised a cucumber mask, but that didn't help, either. Esme suspected there wasn't much one could do to plaster over a broken heart. I sent him away because I had to, she told herself fiercely. The only problem was that he'd actually left. That was the worst of it: the petty, mean, screaming little voice in the back of her head that kept saying,
He wouldn't have left if he really loved you! If he really—

And then the tears would well up again, because why should Sebastian be any different from the other men she'd known? Miles never really loved her. Sebastian said he loved her, and perhaps he did. But it felt like a stab in the heart. If he loved her, really loved her, he wouldn't have left, no matter how many times she commanded. Didn't he know how many women died in childbirth? Didn't he care?

The ache in her chest answered that. He did care. He just didn't care as much as she wanted him to care. You chased away Miles by creating a scandal, Esme thought dully. And then you chased away Sebastian in order to avoid a scandal. But it was all the same, really. If either man had truly loved her, he wouldn't have left. He would have fought for her. But Miles had just smiled politely and slipped away to other pursuits, other bedchambers…. Sebastian smiled painfully and slipped away to the Continent to protect her reputation. It was exactly the same situation. Apparently she was the kind of woman whom men found easy to leave.

The tears welled up so fast and furious that Esme felt she would never stop crying. But she did, finally. More cucumber compresses and an hour later, she even thought drearily about going downstairs. The only reason she would consider it was to talk to Helene. She was faintly curious about the outcome of the previous evening.

Any questions were answered when she entered the sitting room. Helene looked happier than Esme had ever seen her, sitting across from Stephen Fairfax-Lacy and playing chess. An utterly suitable game for such an intelligent couple. She herself didn't even know how to play.

“Hello,” she said, standing at Helene's shoulder. Stephen immediately jumped to his feet and gave Esme his chair. She sank gratefully into it as Helene waved Stephen away with a smile. He bowed and pressed a kiss into her palm before strolling off. They certainly seemed to have got themselves on intimate terms in a hurry. Well, a shared bed could do that.

“Esme!” Helene said with a huge smile, “would you mind terribly if we invited Rees to make a brief visit?”

Esme blinked. Had she heard correctly? “Rees? Rees, your husband, Rees?”

Helene laughed. “Of course, that Rees.”

“Naturally you may invite anyone you wish,” Esme said. She looked around a bit sourly. Winnamore and Arabella were practicing a duet on the harpsichord. Bea seemed, rather surprisingly, to be embroidering something. “No one else is taking notice of the fact that I am in confinement, so why should you?”

For her part, Helene suddenly brought Esme's face into focus. For goodness' sake, what was wrong with Esme? She looked utterly haggard and was obviously out of sorts. “I am being utterly thoughtless,” she said repentantly. “Of course I won't invite Rees to the house. Esme, what's the matter?”

Esme ground her teeth. Her nerves were on the edge of total distraction. “I didn't say you shouldn't invite him!” she snapped. “Clearly there is a house party occurring, so why not invite one more? At least it would go toward evening out our numbers, and that will make Arabella happy.”

Helene hesitated. “I don't know if he will come.”

“More to the point, why on earth would you wish him to? I can assure you that these friendships are better conducted away from one's husband.” Lord knows, she was an expert on that subject.

“Not in my case,” Helene whispered. “Esme, we are going to
flaunt
ourselves in front of Rees!”

“Flaunt yourself?” Esme repeated. Her back felt as if a carriage had driven over it. That was Sebastian's fault. Last night had obviously been far too energetic for a woman in her condition. Perhaps she would be permanently crippled.

“He's agreed to it,” Helene whispered.

“Agreed to what?” Esme asked.

“Flaunting!”

“Oh for God's sake,” Esme snapped. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Stephen and I are going to demonstrate to Rees that I am not undesirable and frigid,” Helene said. There was a high, startled color in her cheeks, but she looked straight at Esme.

“Rees never said that!” Esme narrowed her eyes. “That reprobate
dared
to say such a thing to you!”

Helene nodded.

“It's a good thing he's not here,” Esme said through clenched teeth. “I'd tear him limb from limb. Men are all the same. Lechers and knaves, all of them!”

“You seem to be in a less than excellent humor,” Helene said, examining her closely. “Didn't you sleep last night, Esme? You have marked circles under your eyes. How do you feel? Is the baby on the way?”

“No. Once a day the midwife emerges from the kitchen, prods me, and announces that nature must take its course. I'm so tired of that phrase!” Esme put her head on the back of the chair. On the ceiling of the salon, overindulgent-looking gods and goddesses shaped from plaster were eating grapes dangled in the air by cupids. The goddesses were all slim. Very slim. Probably Esme would never be able to shed the extra weight she'd gained.

“What do you think of my plan?” Helene asked.

Esme blinked at her. “Plan? What plan?”

“Esme,” Helene said firmly, “you are not yourself. Would you like me to accompany you to your chamber?”

Esme was trying to think about whether that would make her feel worse—indeed, whether
anything
could make her feel worse—when Slope appeared in the doorway.

“My lady,” he said, and there was a warning note to his voice that made every head in the room turn. “The Marchioness Bonnington has arrived to pay a brief visit.”

Esme straightened up as if she'd heard the last trumpet itself. She clutched Helene's arm. “It can't be!”

Helene obviously sensed danger. “What on earth is Lady Bonnington doing here? Her son is on the Continent. I certainly hope she is not planning to call you to account for his actions last summer! I shall rout her instantly, if that's the case,” Helene said, bristling like a mother goose sensing danger.

All the blood was draining from Esme's head, and she felt a curious airiness in her knees. “I'm going to faint,” she whispered.

But there was no time to faint. Lady Bonnington herself was standing in the doorway and surveying the room. Esme forced away her dizziness and stood up. “My lady,” she said weakly, “what a pleasure to welcome you to Shantill House.”

The marchioness was wearing a carriage costume of straw-colored sarsenet lined in white satin. Her gown was trimmed with black and finished with two of the French ruffs that had just come into fashion. She looked formidable and, to Esme's eyes, utterly terrifying.

“The pleasure is mutual,” she said, surveying Esme from head to foot through a pair of pince-nez with an air of vigorous and personal condemnation. That seemed to be the extent of her polite conversation. “Lady Rawlings, I daresay you're within a day or so of giving birth. And yet by all appearances you are hosting a house party. How very peculiar.”

“That would be my doing,” Arabella drawled, drifting over. “And what a surprise to see you here, Honoratia. My goodness, how long it has been since we were in school together. And yet when I see you, the years melt away!”

“I suppose that's a compliment,” Lady Bonnington replied acidly. “One can so rarely tell exactly what you mean, Arabella.”

“Such a failing,” Esme's aunt replied, smiling. “Whereas one always knows precisely what point you wish to make. So kind of you to clarify your every thought. Now why on earth are you here? Not that your presence isn't a remarkable pleasure.”

Lady Bonnington humphed and banged her stick for emphasis. “I merely wish to speak to your niece for a moment.” She gave Esme a pointed glance. “In private, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course,” Esme said, leading the way to the door. “If you would accompany me to the library?” She desperately wanted to remove Sebastian's mother from the vicinity of her closest friend and aunt, both of whom looked likely to burst from curiosity. It was just her luck that Arabella had been at school with Lady Bonnington. Be brave, she counseled herself, walking into the library.

“You'd best sit down,” Lady Bonnington said, waving her stick at the couch. “Good lord, you look as if you're about to birth a water buffalo.”

“One assumes not,” Esme managed. What an extraordinarily rude old woman. She sat down without waiting for the marchioness to do so.

“I've come for my son,” Lady Bonnington said, lowering herself into a chair.

“Am I to assume that you hope to find him here?” Esme said, with an air of disinterest.

“To my vast regret, yes.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you. He is not here. To the best of my knowledge, he is on the Continent.”

“I have information to the contrary. He told me himself that he was working in a menial capacity in your household. I don't approve, Lady Rawlings. I cannot approve. You may have led a rather imprudent life before this date, but I assure you that this current escapade will result in complete exile from the
ton.
”

“Escapade?” Esme cried. “He took the position without my knowledge. And then he refused to leave!”

“I thought as much,” Lady Bonnington said, with an odd tone of satisfaction. “I've been thinking of nothing else for the past few days. It's the blood coming out.”

“Indeed? To what blood do you refer, madam?”

“My father's blood. My father was not a man to be crossed. He had a streak of obstinacy that ran a mile wide. I never thought my son had the least touch of him, but I see it now. Of course he won't leave. My father wouldn't have either.”

“Be that as it may, your son is no longer in my employ,” Esme pointed out.

“He tried to pull the wool over my eyes,” Lady Bonnington said. Now her satisfaction was unmistakable. “Gave me fluff and such-and-such about
love.
I didn't raise him to pay attention to that kind of nonsense. Naturally, I paid that no mind. I stayed up half the night wondering whether he'd gone mad as a March hare due to guilt over killing your husband. But it didn't ring true.”

She leaned forward, gray eyes as piercing as an eagle sighting a rabbit. “You're carrying his child, aren't you?”

Esme opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Aren't you!” the marchioness thundered, stamping her stick for emphasis.

Esme narrowed her eyes. “No, I am not,” she said coolly.

“Poppycock,” Lady Bonnington replied, and there wasn't even a speck of hesitation in her voice. “My son is no fool. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that he would never have entered the wrong bedchamber. He entered yours because you were carrying on an affair with him. Your husband was likely just paying you a courtesy visit. All the world knows they could have found him in Lady Childe's bedchamber, if they wished.”

“I am carrying my husband Miles's child!”

“I've no doubt but that you wish you were. I expect we all wish you had kept that bedchamber door a bit more securely fastened.”

Flaming circles crept into Esme's cheeks. “I
beg
your pardon?”

“The important point is that my foolish son has taken the quixotic notion that it's his child about to be born, hasn't he? And he wants to marry you on account of that.”

“The child is Miles's, and his birth as a Rawlings is utterly appropriate.” Esme's words bristled with rage.

“Think clearly, girl,” Lady Bonnington snapped back. “Even if you managed to lure Rawlings into your bed, that child was more than likely fathered by my son. Miles Rawlings was as weak as a cricket; everyone knew that. I expect you know as well as I do that Rawlings's doctor gave him naught more than a few weeks to live. How could he have fathered a child? It takes strong red blood, you know.”

“Miles's blood was quite red enough for the task,” Esme retorted. “It is unfortunate that Miles died before his son or daughter was born, but this babe will not be the first nor the last posthumous child. May I remind you, Lady Bonnington, that for Miles's child to be born a Bonnington would be just as much an affront to Miles's name?”

“So you admit that the child could be my grandchild,” the marchioness said with grim satisfaction.

Esme opened her mouth to reply, but Lady Bonnington thumped her stick.

“In my day, we didn't spend as much time as your generation does worrying about whose bedroom door was open. I'll put my cards on the table. I would greatly dislike my son to marry a woman with your reputation. And I want my son out of the woodshed, or wherever he is, and back in the drawing room where he belongs.” She pursed her lips. “Surely I need not articulate my position further?”

Esme felt as if rage were bursting under her skin. “Your son is not here,” she said, punctuating each word with deliberation. “I sent him away. This is my husband's child, and under no circumstances would I marry your son. You do realize, don't you, that Marquess Bonnington is responsible for taking my husband's life?”

“You know as well as I do that Rawlings could have popped off at any time.”

But Esme could see just the faintest hesitation in her face. “If your son hadn't entered my bedchamber uninvited and grappled with Miles in the dark, my husband might still be alive,” she said flatly. “I cannot marry a man under those circumstances. I could
never
make that man into my child's father.”