The Savage Marquess (18 page)

He came over to her table and sat down opposite her.

“You should have had the decency to spare me any scenes, Rockingham,” Lucinda said in a low voice.

“I am come, lady,” said the marquess in a level voice, “to tell you you are going in the wrong direction. Mr. Westerville is at Cramley.”

“Your home! Why?”

“I removed him from Chamfreys’ because he had recovered. When I was at Cramley, I started alterations to my gardens. I needed someone to supervise the work. My father-in-law, I decided, would be better helping me than slaving for an ungrateful vicar.”

“You did that?”

“I am not entirely a monster,” he said with a rueful smile.

“But,” said Lucinda, dropping her voice to a whisper, “you did have a mistress in keeping—a mistress who was a murderess.”

“And you, Miss Prim and Proper, thought nothing of traveling into the country with London’s most notorious seducer.”

“That was different. Mr. Dancer hasn’t killed anyone.”

“As far as you know,” the marquess said cynically.

“Rockingham. It is of no use. Nothing will mend this marriage. I must see my father. All I want is to return to the simplicity of my old life. We shall contrive somehow, and have no right to be your pensioners.”

“We must discuss this further.”

Lucinda wearily pushed her plate away and got to her feet. “Not this evening. I am exhausted.”

She curtsied and left the dining room. The landlord appeared after she had gone and the marquess ordered food and then sat pushing it around his plate much as his wife had done.

When Lucinda reached her room, she found a connecting door to the next room was now unlocked and standing open. She marched into the next room and found Chumley in the process of unpacking his master’s clothes.

“Chumley,” Lucinda said severely, “I want this door locked and bolted.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Lucinda waited in her own room with her arms folded until she heard the key click in the lock, and then she began to prepare for bed.

She was just slipping her nightgown over her head when she heard her husband’s voice from behind the connecting door.

“Lucinda! May I come in? I have something for you.”

“No!” she called, thinking it was maddening that the lock and key should be on his side and therefore she had wasted her time in getting Chumley to secure it. “I am going to sleep.”

But she heard the key turn in the lock and her husband walked in.

He fished in the pocket of the tails of his coat and pulled out the necklace and threw it on the bed.

“I bought this for you,” he said, not looking at her. “You may as well have it.”

Lucinda picked up the heavy gold-and-ruby necklace. “It is beautiful, Rockingham,” she said with a catch in her voice. “But I fear I have no longer any right to take it.”

“Oh, take the bauble,” he said furiously, remembering with misery all the love he had felt for her when he had bought it.

He turned away.

Something made Lucinda ask, “Why did you buy it?”

“Because you are my marchioness, and I noticed you did not have any jewelry,” he said impatiently. He stood looking at her, haughtily, arrogantly, and then he added, “And because I am in love with you, dammit!”

Her eyes were very large and dark in the candlelight and her thick hair was now long enough to curl on her shoulders. “I have never had a more beautiful present in my life, Rockingham.”

“I am glad it pleases you,” he replied curtly.

“I am not talking about the necklace,” Lucinda said. “I am talking about your words. Do you really love me?”

All the hauteur and arrogance and pride fell from the marquess. “I suppose so,” he mumbled. “Now, if you will excuse me, madam—”

“Oh, Rockingham,” Lucinda cried, throwing herself into his arms. “Why did you not say so before? I have been so unhappy.”

“How am I supposed to recognize love easily when it comes?” he said huskily. “It is all so new to me. It took me some time to know what I felt for you.”

“I thought all you felt for me was a mixture of anger and lust.”

He silenced her with a kiss—a kiss that went on and on, a kiss that started as one of chaste tenderness and respect and ended up a hot fusing of mounting passions.

Next door, Chumley stood holding his master’s nightgown and cap. He heard a tremendous crash from next door and raised his eyes to heaven.

“You knocked over the water jug,” Lucinda said. “Look, there is water all over the floor.”

“I was trying to carry you to bed,” her husband grumbled.

“You are determined not to wait until the six months is up,” she said.

He put her down gently on the bed and lay next to her. “I shall wait… if you wish it.”

“Perhaps. I am afraid.”

“Don’t be,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

“Oh, Rockingham, you have got your boots on.”

“My name is Julian. And I am about to remove my boots.”

“What if I cry ‘Stop?’ You will be so furious with me.”

“I’ll try not to be, my love,” he said, sending one boot flying, and then the other.

Behind the door, Chumley brightened. At least he had taken off his boots. Was there hope?

“Now, my sweeting,” the marquess said at last. “No boots, no clothes, only me. Kiss me, Lucinda.”