Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley (21 page)

Maggie thought that she had grown significantly in courage in the past few months. And yet one thing was certain: she couldn’t bear to see his inevitable regret, come morning. And she could not stomach the thought of what would follow. He would feel obliged to offer for her, because he would see no other honourable course open to him.

And Maggie would accept nobody’s sacrifice.

There was only one thing for her to do.

She just had to find the strength to do it.

With a soft sigh, Maggie closed her eyes, trying to remember the feel of his arm draped over her waist, strong and sure even in sleep. It was this sense of belonging, of rightness, that would be the hardest to leave behind.

When she was certain that he was asleep, Maggie rose carefully from the bed, still a little sore and tingling from the night’s exertions. She stretched a little, glad of her sore muscles – they reminded her that she hadn’t dreamt any of it.

She dressed as quietly as she could, and pinned her hair into a messy coif, though Hart seemed too deeply asleep to hear her.

Once, he murmured her name, making her freeze in place and look at him guiltily, only to find that his eyes were still closed and he was dreaming.

With one last wistful look at Hart’s sleeping face, Maggie slipped out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

She knew without the least doubt that she was leaving her heart behind.

*

Alone on the deserted stairs, she had to wipe stray tears from her eyes, angry at herself for choosing such an inopportune moment to cry.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking of the things that would never now be possible, the life they would never lead. She thought regretfully of the children they might have had, the unity they might have shared, if they had been fortunate enough to meet in quite a different world.

But that life was closed to her now – forever, for if she could not marry Hart, no other man would ever claim her love. Her heart could open only for the Marquess of Hartley.

She wondered what he would think when he woke up to find her gone.

He would understand. He had to.

Things between them could never be the same again. They had gone too far off that path, and some things could not be altered no matter how much she longed for it. He didn’t love her and she would never tie him to her simply because he suffered from an overzealous sense of obligation.

She loved him too much to do that to either of them.

She was glad that there were still carriages available to travel through the night, and she ignored the driver’s curious look as she stated her destination.

It was cold outside as she stepped out of the light and warmth of the inn and into the waiting carriage which would take her back to Paris.

As least, Maggie thought,
at least
she would always have their one perfect night. She would cherish the exquisite memory all the rest of her days.

She would keep it near her and it would keep her warm through the long, cruel winter that stretched ahead of her.

Summer had been nothing but an idyllic dream.

*

The first thing the Marquess of Hartley knew when he woke up, head still full of the most remarkable dreams, was a sense of something momentous.

No, not just dreams…
He kept his eyes closed a moment as he recalled the events of the previous night. It had been madness indeed, but such a sweet madness. He relived the feel of her slender form tangled with his, the honeyed taste of her soft lips…

Who could ever imagine that such perfect bliss could be possible?

This changed everything, and yet, for the first time, he was not alarmed at the thought of such a change.

Maggie was not some silly debutante, after all. She was his Magpie, his Margaret: real, warm and true. And he knew now that nothing in the world was as right as the things they had shared.

Yes, this was a change he would embrace most gladly. He would take her home and announce to the whole world that he meant to have her for his bride. And then he would enjoy waking up next to her every day for the rest of his life, tasting those gentle lips.

After a moment, Hart opened his eyes and turned to face the woman sleeping next to him. Sure that he was already becoming a sentimental fool, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to see her eyes flutter open and light up with that special inner smile at the sight of him.

He stilled instantly, his heartbeat momentarily suspended.

There was nothing next to him but a pile of blankets.

She was not in the bed.

A quick examination of the room revealed that her gown was gone and her valise.

She
was gone.

The marquess felt something inside him plummet. His heart, very likely.

Had she woken up to regret their night together after all? Had he somehow caused her pain or shame, where she had brought him such unimaginable joy?

There was a note on the battered table by the door.

Frowning, Hart rose from the bed, which now felt an endless wasteland of emptiness, and crossed the room in three brisk strides.

The writing was hers. Unmistakably so. It took him a moment to focus on the words.

Forgive me
.
I know what you must think now that you are awake, and
I cannot bear to be your sacrifice. M.

Sacrifice? His mind raced as he tried to understand what the devil she’d meant by that. Did she think that he would throw her off now? That perhaps he intended for her to become his mistress, derided by polite society, kept for his amusement like a pampered pet?

Damn her, it was just like Maggie to jump to entirely the wrong conclusion. And to run away before he even had a hope of explaining his intentions.

He crumpled the letter in his fist, before forcing himself to calm down and straightening it out again. He reread the note in the hopes of finding something that he had missed. Some nuance, some hidden message.

But there was nothing. She had meant exactly what she’d written.

There was no time to waste. He had to return to Paris.

Furiously, he threw on his clothes, not caring a whit about the disgraceful state of his cravat.

Why was it that the one woman whose company did not make marriage seem a dreary shackle was always running away from him at the drop of a hat?

Hart stomped downstairs, brushed aside the innkeeper’s greeting and interrogated the man, who seemed more bewildered than ever.

“The young lady, where did she go?”

“Young lady? Your wife, monsieur?”

Wife! Hart couldn’t help the dark laugh that escaped him. Life certainly adored her little ironies. “Yes, yes, my
wife
.”

“Why, back to Paris, my lord. Said there was an urgent matter and hired our swiftest coach.”

Upon making the same request and leaving instructions for his valet, who would surely arrive minutes after Hart left, the marquess was obliged to accept the third swiftest available vehicle instead.

Frederick, he thought grimly, would laugh himself unconscious if he ever learned of the run-around his sister had set Hartley.

Hart arrived at Maggie’s door a few hours after her with such a thunder of hooves and rattle of wheels that half of Paris had to have heard him.

Maggie was not surprised.

If she were honest with herself, she had expected no less. Yet this did not make it any easier to face him now.

By the time his carriage drew to a jarring halt outside the townhouse, she had already had several hours to reflect on her own idiocy. She felt like she was drowning in the overwhelming sense of loss that threatened to consume her. She had even had a bout of furious weeping while Cecile put a comforting arm about her shoulders and did her best to murmur vague assurances.

Maggie knew that, no what she did now, there would be no comfort to be had. The thought of how things had been between herself and Hart only the previous night was enough to render her breathless with agony.

When Lord Hartley was announced to see Madame, Maggie’s eyes were already dry, though somewhat red. If she was still not ready to receive him, she knew there was no other choice.

Rising to her feet and throwing Maggie a look of concern, Cecile retreated from the room, promising her friend that she need only call if she wanted her.

Maggie smiled wanly in response to this kindness.

She wished more than anything that Cecile could have stayed, but this was a conversation to be had alone.

Hart was shown into the room by Duby, whose face remained impassive despite the operatic spectacle unfolding before his eyes.

Hart looked over Maggie uncertainly as the butler left the room and closed the door behind him.

Maggie found herself on her feet and she didn’t know if she wanted to bolt or throw herself into his arms.

Recalling the circumstances of their last meeting with vivid detail, Maggie felt her skin pink.

She stood looking back at Hart, wondering what she ought to say. ‘Good morning’ seemed so fatally trite.

He cleared his throat. “You left.”

“I thought it best that I did.”

Hart sighed, looking suddenly exhausted. “I am very sure that you did.”

He had known Maggie and Frederick long enough to have a very good grasp of their impulsive characters. As far as he knew, it was the very same streak of stubbornness that ran through the entire Dacre family.

He ought to have been angry. He wanted to shake her, certainly, until some common sense returned to her. But, more than that, he wanted to sweep her up in his embrace and kiss her until she saw exactly how ridiculous all of her reservations truly were. She could not deny that in the face of the flame that burned between them.

Surely, she hadn’t meant to hide from him forever? Did she not realise that his intentions were entirely honourable?

An unexpected doubt settled over Hart as he considered that perhaps she had guessed his intentions after all. It was possible that she did not return his sentiment and that she dreaded a future shackled to a man she did not love, all because of a single night’s thoughtless passion.

And he had been so determined to keep her safe.

What right had he to come storming in and laying the burden of his emotions upon her? What right had he to insist that she accept his hand if she did not want it?

None – but he would make his offer everything that it could possibly be.

“You thought it best? I see. You wrote something to that effect in that letter you so thoughtfully left in your wake.” Hart looked away from Maggie’s pale face and stared out at the Parisian street outside. “I see now how things must appear to you. I have done you a terrible insult. I fear that I have let my passions rule me, and I have ruined you in the process. There is no apology I can give that will suffice.”

Maggie felt herself flood with emotions: surprise, anxiety, and a strong desire to correct his assumption. “No, Hart –”

“Please. Hear me out. I have come to do right by you, as any gentleman ought – even one whose behaviour has been as base as my mine. You have fallen victim to my reckless desire. I have come to offer you my hand and the protection of my name.”

Do right by her? Victim? Maggie froze. He thought she regretted him! She had expected it, and yet it still felt like a blow. How could he possibly believe that, when she had shown such unbridled enjoyment of his touch? Had displayed a fervour of which she hadn’t even known she was capable? As though she could ever regret him. This was not going at all well. “Hart, you do not understand – ”

“I ought to have found a better way to express myself last night, and I must ask you to forgive me for that also,” the marquess said, shaking his head, looking as nervous as she had ever seen him. “I am come to make my offer properly, and in a way that you deserve. With your permission?” He indicated her escritoire.

Perplexed, Maggie nodded, watching as he took a seat at the little desk, produced a piece of paper and dipped a quill in the inkwell.

“I don’t understand,” Maggie said, watching him. The plain common sense with which he was approaching this matter bewildered and wounded her.

She ought to have had more sense herself, perhaps, than to be hurt by this – but she felt hurt regardless.

“It’s really quite simple. We will discuss the stipulations of our marriage agreement.”

Marriage?
Maggie felt her throat constrict. “Stipulations?”

“It is required, is it not?” His unreadable gaze met hers a moment before looking back down. He began to write.

“We should first discuss how and where you wish the marriage to take place. And next…”

Stepping closer to him, she stilled his hand with her own.

“I…” She paused, searching for exactly the right words.

She wanted very much to accept him. More than she wanted anything else in the entire world. She had pictured this moment so many times that she knew just what she wished to say to him, to seal their eternal happiness.

Only the moment she had pictured had been nothing like this. The offer she’d imagined had been made out of affection, not perceived necessity. She had always pictured Hart offering for her because he could not live without her. Because he was filled with love for her.

And so, despite how much she longed for that impossible, happy future, she could not bring herself say the words and accept him as her fiancé.

She loved him too much – that was her true reason, though she dared not think of it properly just then.

He was talking about contracts and stipulations – not once had he said a word regarding his feelings on the matter. He was being so overwhelmingly
kind
about it. She could tell he felt guilty.

He was asking her to wed him because he truly believed, in his heart of hearts, that that is what he ought to do.

Maggie had read about too many such unions in the journals to be ignorant of the kind of life that awaited them if they walked down this path. It was perhaps not at all
au fait
, yet she had tasted too much freedom to marry for anything less than complete and mutual love.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure, she thought bitterly.

“Contracts and stipulations…” she began again, regaining control of her voice. “And have you anything else to say?”

He threw her a surprised glance. “What else can there be? Ah. Forgive me, of course. I ought to have added that you shall be quite comfortable. There are my country estates, and the London townhouse is very much the thing. You shall not want for pin money.”

Pin money! Maggie felt her heart breaking and it was quite unlike anything that she had ever experienced before. The pain was sharp and unbearable. It made her want to curl up into herself and disappear entirely from the world.

She knew that Lord Hartley was anything but romantic, given a formal setting – his manner was always so flawlessly controlled and unaffected. But that was not his
true
nature. He was never like that when gambolling about the country with Frederick. He had never been that way with her, before Paris. For the thousandth time, she remembered that far-off day, with the spilled lemonade and his burning kiss.

And she had had intimate knowledge of his passionate character only the night before! Why was he behaving in such an insufferably controlled manner now? Why was he so formal?

She forced herself to meet Hart’s enquiring gaze, and replied with only a slight ripple in her voice. “You are very kind. You must not think that I am unaware of the gravity and significance of such an offer as you are making. It is because I am so acutely aware of your noble sacrifice that I find I must refuse it. I cannot marry you, Hart. I regret that you feel obliged to offer for me and I think, given the circumstances, that we would not suit at all.”

The marquess stared at her in utter astonishment, suddenly ashen. It was plain he had not really expected her refusal, had not even considered the possibility. That realisation hurt her even more, but she would not allow herself to ruminate on her broken heart – not then. He did not deserve the mortification of such a spectacle. He was free now, to find someone better, to marry for love.

“I am very sorry, Hart. Truly. But it seems there are some things from which even your sense of honour cannot save me,” she said with a humourless laugh. “Ah. Forgive me. That was rather cruel wasn’t it? I seem to be in a cruel frame of mind.”

He regarded her, lips firmly set and eyes blazing with something that might have been heartbreak. But no, that was impossible – surely she was just seeing her own eyes reflected in his.

“I see. Then I expect there is nothing I can say that might persuade you differently,” he said with such good breeding that it tore at her.

“There is not,” she answered softly, and wished very much that she were just about anywhere else but here in this room, with him.

“Very well.” With those two terrible, innocuous words the future was sealed. “Then I pray you will excuse me.”

“Of course.”

Meeting his eyes for the briefest of moments, she wished him a good journey back to London.

“Thank you. I ask only that you write me, to tell me that you are well. And to your family, of course.”

“You have my word on it.”

*

She did not cry until she was all alone in her bedroom, and when she could cry no more, Maggie dried her eyes, picked up her shawl and did an infamous thing by going for a walk in the Tuileries without her maid. She felt too distraught for any such nonsense.

The day was grim and drizzly, which fit her mood perfectly as she wandered the gardens and along the river, unaware and uncaring of any curious glances her walk may have drawn.

All alone, Maggie could not deny the truth much longer. She had been afraid to accept Hart. Afraid that if she did, she would lose him all the swifter because the union would be a millstone about his neck. The trouble with having one’s every desire handed one on a silver platter was that one tended to expect it all to fade with the dawn.

She had loved Hart for so very long from a distance that she could not help but fear that their life together would be nothing more than an unmitigated disaster.

In Maggie’s experience, life never quite worked out as one envisaged it, and she found that she couldn’t risk Hart, her love, and her memories on so fickle a wager. After all, even if he had felt some degree of attachment to her, though he had not voiced it, surely it would only be a matter of time before he realised that it was not really her he loved. Only the illusion of her: the inevitable glamour that coloured every aspect of life in Paris. His disappointment was inevitable because, beneath all the lovely dresses and her unexpected social renaissance, she was still the ordinary Maggie of two months ago.

And she had learned enough from observing the marriages around her to know that nothing killed affection as surely and mercilessly as disappointment.

Besides, you couldn’t ever really rely on anything in life: losing her mama had taught her that, if nothing else.

At the inn, she had panicked and she had run from him instead of facing him as she should have done. She had only herself to blame for the cowardly idiocy to which she had succumbed. But she knew that, even so, there was sound logic in her argument. She could never endure a life where she had forced him to wed her, contrary to his inclinations, however indirectly or unintentionally she may have done so.

And he would find a happier ending somewhere else, even if it killed her to see him married to another woman.

She missed him already. It was time to realise fully that he had taken her at her word and that he would not come and carry her away with him into a more felicitous life. It was what she had told him she wanted and it was for the best, Maggie reminded herself firmly as she picked her miserable way through the drizzle. It was exactly as she had wanted: she was staying in Paris, and her life was her own to decide.

And she had decided.

*

The Marquess of Hartley docked at Dover and made straight for London, where he met up with Frederick. He spent a good week sequestered in his townhouse before deciding that it was childish and absurd to mope over one woman.

Absurd indeed! No, the solution was to throw himself into his old life, until it no longer felt as though it did not fit him anymore.