Page 51 of The Thorn and the Rose

She stared up at him, a look in her eyes that sent him back to the day at Lincoln Fields, a blatant invitation he did not have the least desire to refuse. Slowly, so as not to startle her, he lowered his mouth to hers.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, as if she had been waiting forever for him to do so, and he gathered her close. The last time he had kissed her, he had been viscerally aware of the lush curves of her body, but she had been buttoned up to the neck and encased in whalebone and his hands had been far from experiencing the warmth of her body. This time there was only the flimsy layers of nightdress and dressing gown, worn cotton muslin that revealed the truth to him and sent his pulse racing with need.

Behave. Behave. Behave, you devil… the words rang in his head, reminding him he was not the kind to dally with innocent young ladies, but she had driven him distracted for such a long time and she was so willing in his arms. Marie pressed closer, lifting her arms to twine about his neck, which only pressed her breasts more fully against him. His hands moved over her, mapping the gentle curves, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the worn fabric. Her breath caught, and she pressed closer still, making a sound of frustration that made his heart skip, knowing what it was she wanted from him, even if she did not.

“Marie,” he murmured, meaning to give her a warning to stop, that this was dangerous, but she stole the words with a kiss that drove them from his mind. For a moment he wondered if she meant to seduce him and hope he would get her with child, after what he had told her, and then cursed himself for thinking ill of her. No, he must learn to trust her now, as she must learn to trust in him. Nonetheless, he was as relieved as he was disappointed when she broke the kiss and clung to him, her face buried against his chest.

“What must you think of me?” she said desperately, breathing hard, half laughing, half mortified.

“That I am glad you feel as passionately as I do,” he replied, wondering if he was a fool to tell her the truth. And if he was… so be it. He’d come this far.

She glanced up at him. “It’s like a kind of madness, isn’t it? Even though I thought you were a vile libertine, I could not stop wanting you, longing for you, and now…”

“And now?” he repeated, smiling as he gazed down at her, not above feeling smug at the way she was looking at him. Something in him eased as he saw frank desire and an unguarded emotion that was true and potent glowing in her eyes. An odd sensation of having found something precious, rare, swept over him and he held her closer.

“And now I do not know what do to,” she admitted. “We are all but ruined. My brother is in gaol and after everything he has done to you and your friends… how can you bear to look at me after what I did?”

Thorn reached for her hand. “I hoped from the start that you were acting under duress, and now I know that was true. You’ll find no condemnation in my eyes, Marie. You did what you had to do to survive.”

She stared up at him, trusting now, and Thorn felt a swell of pride even as it humbled him that she should give him that trust when she had little reason to do so.

“I am afraid of him,” she admitted. “He’s become a man I no longer recognise as my brother. But he loved her quite desperately, you see.”

“Miss Nichols?”

She nodded, pain in her eyes for the brother who had tormented her so.

“When I was a child, he always seemed so kind, if… if a little dictatorial. He liked things his own way, but we were used to that and so we kept a peaceful house. But Miss Nichols, she… oh, she was a free spirit,” she said with a laugh. “The most beautiful woman you ever saw, and so funny, so bright and charming. When she entered a room, everyone turned to her as to the sun. But she wanted a life filled with entertainment, with fashionable people and glittering jewels, and dancing and the theatre, and everything the world had to offer. She wanted to go to London and cut a dash, and there was my brother, a man who believes London is a den of iniquity, that ladies ought not to laugh too loud or to contradict a man by giving their own opinion. He was too staid, and far from rich enough to tempt her. But she was only gentry, a squire’s daughter, and Everett thought he was offering her the moon by condescending to ask for her hand. He could not believe it when she refused him.”

“She married someone else?” Thorn guessed.

Marie avoided his eye, her colour rising. “Oh. Oh, well… n-no. Not precisely.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding now. “She was a highflyer.”

Marie frowned at the term, her beautiful eyes troubled. “I suppose that is what you would call her. I never blamed her for going, though.”

“No?” Thorn asked, a little surprised and pleased to discover her lack of judgement. A rarity among many women of her breeding.

Marie shook her head. “Her mother was French, you see, from Paris. Her father met her out there and married her, only returning to England when he inherited the estate here from his father. Miss Nichols was ten, I think. The mother was a beauty too, and she did not settle here easily. I think she resented being buried in the English countryside and I believe she filled her daughter’s head with stories of her life in Paris. They visited often when she was a child, but then the squire got too old and sick to travel. Miss Nichols missed those visits. She wanted colour and passion, and there is little of that to be found in these parts. I think she found it too, when she ran away to her new life, but when Everett heard she’d become some rich man’s mistress, I think he went a little mad. He ranted and raged and called her… well, I will not repeat the vile things he said, but he was not pleasant to be around. He changed then. Sometime later, we got word that she had died, and suddenly she was an innocent again, seduced by a man who stole her from Everett with promises he didn’t keep. By dying, it was as though she erased her past and he could idolise her again. So, he turned his attention to the man, or the men, he deemed responsible.”

Thorn stilled, a chill of unease stealing down his spine. “She died?”

Marie nodded. “I don’t know what happened exactly. I only know that Everett was wild with grief and swore to revenge himself on those who had wronged her and him and stolen their future.”

“When was this?”

He waited, his heart thudding too hard as Marie considered. “I remember it was in the summertime, for Mama and I were cutting roses for the house when we heard a terrible sound, like an animal in pain. So, June or July I think, and it must be five years ago. Yes, I’m sure of it, for Everett had just turned thirty.”

“The summer of forty-two,” Thorn said, swallowing hard. Tilly had been born in June that year, and her mother, a French woman, had not survived the birth.

He surged to his feet and walked to the window. Hell and the devil. Jenny. Jenny had been Miss Nichols. She had called herself Madame Nicollette, but he had never known her as anything other than Jenny, and she had been everything that Marie had described, fun loving and vivacious, and eager to experience everything life had to offer. She had also been kind and openhearted, and entirely without guile.

He did not know how to tell her, not after everything they had just said to one another, everything he had told her about Gillmont, but tell her he must.

“Rosemarie!”

Thorn spun around to see Mrs Fortesque in the doorway of Marie’s bedroom.