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His body was racked with need. Deliberately he set himself to master the reaction, focusing until his breathing levelled off, the ache in his groin subsided, the demand of his body released its hold. Think, he told his intellect. That’s what you are supposed to be good at.
Nell had been moved by that family portrait. You know where you come from, where you belong. So she does not know, any more. Whatever former life had given her the educated speech, the polished manners, the education—that had gone and now she was adrift, fighting every battle alone and aching for comfort.
Comfort, but not the comfort that two bodies entwined together brought each other. He had known, the moment the kiss became more than the desire to soothe her, know her, that he had lost her. That had been outright rejection, not shyness nor the maidenly alarm of a virgin experiencing a man’s passion for the first time.
And yet, he could not believe she was experienced. Those kisses, her reactions, had been instinctive, not tutored. The only explanation that made sense to him was that she was in love with her dark man and to find herself in another man’s arms, responding sexually to him, was a betrayal.
Marcus stretched out his legs towards the fire, ran one hand through his hair and let his head lean onto the back rail of the sofa. Despite his efforts at self-control, he still had an erection that was uncomfortable, his shoulder hurt like hell and he could not decide what to do about Nell. Other than take her to bed. Which was impossible.
He wanted her. He trusted her not at all, but he wanted her. And part of her, a part that she rejected, wanted him. A small hum of satisfied male conceit made him smile mockingly at himself. The smile cooled on his lips, became a twist of wry acceptance. Whoever Nell Latham was, she was steeped in deceit and lies. While he was ignorant of her secrets, she remained a danger to his family—a danger he had brought into their heart, the better to watch. He had to be certain that was the right strategy to have taken.
Four days passed and Nell began to allow herself to relax. She even learned to ignore the footman who was always hovering outside her door, unobtrusively padding along behind her wherever she went.
Lady Narborough became less distant, more natural towards her, and Nell realized with a jolt that perhaps she had worried at first that her son had brought his paramour into the household. Honoria and Verity simply accepted her as another young female friend. When they remembered her circumstances, they were tactful about their allowances and the difference in their circumstances. When they forgot, they lent her gowns and trinkets with total ease, as though she was a guest of their own station whose luggage truly had gone astray.
Marcus avoided any direct contact if he could help it, but she was conscious, constantly, of his regard. He studied her all the time, watching for what, she knew not. When she walked in the garden—well wrapped, her hands thrust into one of Honoria’s fashionably vast muffs—she would look up and see him brooding on the terrace. When she strummed a few notes on the piano, trying to recall far-away lessons, he was there barricaded behind his copy of The Times. And when, defiant, she stared back to let him see she was aware of his scrutiny, his dark eyes held a spark of the heat that haunted her dreams.
In her turn Nell, from a wary distance, watched Lord Narborough. She was reading a few letters a day—all that she felt able to cope with—working back from that last, shattering message. But there were no clues that she could find to what her father’s supposed crime had been, to the identity of his lover or why Lord Narborough had abandoned him. He was in prison for months, it seemed, and the letters held, for the most part, only anxious enquiries about the family and brave attempts to make prison life sound bearable.
Lord Narborough, the man she saw in his own home almost twenty years after the crisis, was kind to his daughters, obviously still deeply in love with his wife and proud of his sons. His attitude to the staff of the big old house was firm, but just, and it was plain that he knew them all, not just by name, but the details of their families too. All qualities that weighed on the right side of the scales with, so far, only his outburst about adulterous husbands on the other side. But most people would echo those sentiments, if perhaps with less heat.
By casual conversation with the girls, Nell discovered that the estates were extensive and prosperous and always had been. Money could not have been a factor in any betrayal, she decided. She was not going to discover more at a distance. Steeling herself, Nell made conversation with the earl, was persuaded into a game of backgammon and found herself liking her host more and more. And he appeared to like her too.
‘Miss Latham would give you a run for your money at backgammon,’ he teased Marcus after a close game one evening. ‘And she has more patience than you have—no heavy sighs while I make up my mind about my next move.’
‘That is not impatience, my lord,’ Nell observed with a slanting look at Marcus. ‘That is strategy. Lord Stanegate wishes to unsettle you.’
‘He can try! Here, take my place, my boy.’
‘Ah, no.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘Miss Latham will employ her strategies upon me.’
‘I have none,’ she protested.
‘All lies,’ he said lightly, his mouth smiling, his eyes dark as they took in her instinctive flinching at the word. ‘You would sit and regard me with those green eyes until I could not think which way up the board was.’ And he had strolled off leaving his father tutting good-humouredly about incorrigible flirts and Nell thoroughly flustered.
And so the first week passed, and Nell became used to the routine of the house, became part of it: running errands for Lady Narborough, paying visits with the girls when the heavy frosts eased enough to allow the carriage to be taken out, enjoying reading with Miss Price or playing backgammon with the earl. And every morning, before she got up, she would take the key from its chain around her neck and open her mother’s box, take out the next three letters and remind herself who these people were and why she should not trust them.
Marcus had stopped interrogating her, which was almost more unsettling than his questions. She was acutely aware of his presence. On the Saturday morning, brushing her hair, she found herself daydreaming about his arms around her, his mouth on hers, and finally let herself wonder what it would be like to be made love to by a man like that.
The preliminaries would be…pleasant. She smiled a little at herself for the euphemism. The act itself would not be, of course, but perhaps the pain and the urgent crudity would be compensated for by being held afterwards. She closed her eyes and recalled the feeling of being caught against his chest, of the strength of his arms around her and the gentleness, so much at odds with his size and his temper. Would he lie with her a little afterwards, holding her, stroking her hair, murmuring something affectionate?
These thoughts took her as far as the breakfast room. Lord Stanegate, far from the urgent lover of her fantasy, was demolishing a sirloin while engaged in vigorous political debate with his father, who was peering irritably at the newspaper. The reality was so remote from her sensual daydream that she was smiling, not blushing, as she took her place at the table.
‘The post, my lord.’ Watson directed a footman to place a laden salver beside the earl’s place.
Lord Narborough put down the Morning Chronicle and began to sort through, replacing his wife and daughters’ letters on the tray for the footman to take to the countess and passing Miss Price and Marcus their own mail. Nell addressed herself to her omelette while the others began to break seals and exchange items of news.
‘Maria Hemmingford has contracted mumps,’ Lady Narborough informed them. ‘So improvident, just before the Season!’
‘The draper is unable to match that striped silk, Honoria.’ Diana passed her some samples. ‘He says, will these do?’
‘Do you know anything about the bloodlines of Nutley’s carriage horses?’ Marcus asked his father. ‘Only my agent says that— Father?’
The other women, engrossed in a discussion of the silk samples, had not noticed Marcus’s tone change. But Nell had heard him speak like that before. The earl was staring at a paper unfolded in his hand. Something fell from it, a twig with green needle-like leaves. Then the scent reached her: the peppery fragrance of summer and heat.
‘Rosemary,’ Nell said, identifying it. ‘For remembrance, is it not?’
Both men turned to look at her, their likeness suddenly vivid as two pairs of flint-grey eyes fixed on her face. ‘What do you remember, Miss Latham?’ Marcus asked, his voice hard, and she realized that this was another part of the mystery, another threat and, it seemed, she had said quite the wrong thing.
