Lady Maybe Read online

  His client’s eyes glinted. “How bitter you sound, Mr. Lowden. And here I thought you had feelings for her yourself.”

  James made no reply.

  “I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” Sir John said, an ironic twist to his mouth. “Women don’t stay with me. No doubt Miss Rogers will prove no different than the rest. She will be looking for her escape any day now and there you will be—ready to rescue her.”

  Mind in turmoil, James went downstairs and found Hannah alone in the drawing room, staring out the window at yet another coastal storm. For a moment he stood there gazing at her profile, remembering how his heart and body had burned when he’d seen her step from her bath, when she’d touched his face, and when her pupils had darkened and dilated after he’d promised to one day kiss all her freckles. . . . Now his heart cooled and he tasted ashes in his mouth.

  He cleared his throat. “Hannah . . . em, Miss Rogers.”

  She turned and looked at him. For several ticks of the long-case clock she studied him in silence. His shock and worry must have shown in his expression, because she whispered, “He told you then?”

  “Yes.” Betrayal snaked up his spine. “Why didn’t you?”

  She shook her head. “I have never told anyone. Never spoken of it. Never would have, if Marianna still lived. In any case, I never dared imagine he might acknowledge Danny as his son. And I would never try to force him.”

  “Regardless,” James said. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to stay here and pretend any longer.”

  She made no answer, turning away and staring once again through the rain-streaked window.

  “You don’t owe him anything,” James insisted. “Or at least, not everything. And don’t tell me you plan to continue living under another woman’s identity. That cannot stand. Marianna Mayfield’s death must be recorded.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the law. And because you are not her.”

  “I know that. But I am Daniel’s mother. And like it or not, Sir John is his father.”

  Bile soured his throat. “You will stay with him, because he—a married man—took advantage of you while you were in his employ? That is the sort of man you want?”

  “It wasn’t like that. I’m not saying it was right, but it wasn’t like you make it sound.”

  Grasping her arms, James turned her to face him. He looked into her beguiling blue-green eyes and pain and longing washed over him. “But you want me. I know you do.” His whole body tensed with frustration. Why would she not admit it?

  His gripped her shoulders, his voice a low growl. “Hannah, tell me the truth. I need to hear you say it.”

  Composure crumbling, she whispered, “James, I . . . You’re right, I do . . . have feelings for you. But—”

  His arms whipped around her and he crushed her to him, pressing his mouth to hers, swallowing her words. For a moment she kissed him back, meeting and returning the bruising fervor of his kiss. Then she wrenched her mouth free and tried to pull back.

  “James, stop. You didn’t let me finish.”

  He buried his fingers in her hair and pressed his lips to her temple, her cheek, her throat. “You love me,” he whispered into her ear. “What else is there to say?”

  “A great deal.” She lifted her palms to his chest and pushed a few inches of space between them.

  “James.” She drew in a shaky breath. “There is more to life than feelings or desire.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing is more important.”

  “Yes. There is self-control, and doing the right thing even when it is painful.”

  “No,” he growled. “You shall not be the sacrificial lamb here. I won’t let you do this.”

  He turned abruptly and strode from the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  Long after James had stalked away, Hannah remained, staring out the window at the lashing rain, wind-bent trees, and grey sky as evening darkened. Yet she saw not that storm, but another stormy night, last spring. When she had been snug and dry in the Mayfields’ Bristol house. . . .

  Hands clasped before her, Hannah glanced around the drawing room. Lady Mayfield’s customary armchair was empty. She had gone out. Again. Meeting her lover, no doubt. Sir John stood before the hearth, imposing in evening clothes, one hand resting on the high mantel, the other propped on his hip. He stared at the fire, expression brooding.

  Outside, lightning flashed and rain lashed the window panes. To go out on such a night? How desperate she must be to see Anthony Fontaine. Hannah recalled unsettling images of Marianna and Mr. Fontaine flirting, caressing, and stealing kisses in this room not long ago, but blinked them away. It seemed almost a betrayal to think of the two of them in her husband’s presence.

  Hannah and the Mayfields often sat there together in the evenings after dinner. Marianna in an armchair or dreamily playing the pianoforte, her mind far away while Hannah sat in the corner, quietly sewing or reading by candlelight. Sir John standing at the fire as he was now, lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps sitting on the sofa reading. Now and again, Lady Mayfield would engage him in a game of draughts or cards. If he was unwilling, she would turn to Hannah and urge her to play in his stead. Hannah complied because she was paid to do so, not because she cared for either game. When she was in one of her restless moods, Lady Mayfield might call for wine and two glasses and insist Hannah play cards with her into the wee hours.

  But Hannah was unaccustomed to being alone with Sir John.

  She hesitated. She never remained long in the room when it was only Sir John. He never showed any interest in her company and it would be awkward to attempt polite conversation with him—pretend that they were not both aware of the missing person, and where she likely was and in whose company.

  “Lady Mayfield has gone out,” he announced, unnecessarily.

  “On such a night . . .” she murmured.

  “She would rather face foul weather than her foul husband it seems.” He picked up a fire iron and began poking at a log, causing the languishing fire to smoke.

  “Well. I think I shall turn in early. Good night, Sir John.” She turned to go.

  “Please stay, Miss Rogers. I find I cannot bear the solitude tonight.”

  She turned back. His eyes were still on the dying fire.

  “Very well,” she said quietly, and stepped toward her customary chair in the corner.

  “It is cold tonight,” he said. “Come and sit by the fire, if you will. I do not bite, no matter what my wife may have told you.”

  Hannah hesitated, then complied, walking over to sit on the sofa near the fire, but on the end farthest from him. “She has never said such a thing I assure you,” she murmured, not sure if she was defending her mistress or him.

  The Mayfields had been married a year and a half at that point. Still in their honeymoon period—or they should have been. And Lady Mayfield was not discreet in her little jabs about her husband ever panting after her, confessing she could not stand his hands touching her. In fact, she had confided to Hannah that she had not allowed him to share her bed since their first wedding anniversary. Hannah had thought perhaps Lady Mayfield was exaggerating the matter, boasting to her companion as though it were something to be proud of. But judging by her husband’s defeated expression, it was all too true.

  He asked, “Has she told you what I have done to so offend her?”

  Hannah shifted, feeling uncomfortable. She should not be having this conversation with Marianna’s husband. He must be tormented indeed over his marriage to ask his wife’s paid companion for advice. A companion he had not wished to engage in the first place.

  When she made no reply, he stepped to the sideboard, poured two glasses of port, and carried one to her.

  Murmuring her thanks, Hannah accepted the glass and sipped the ruby liquid. She thought again of Marianna Mayfield an
d Anthony Fontaine sitting on this very sofa, his hand on her leg, his finger on her décolletage, her sparkling eyes, her eager smile. . . . Marianna was certainly interested in intimate relations, just not with Sir John.

  He downed his drink. “If she found me disgusting before our marriage, she certainly hid it well. What am I to do?” he asked, still not looking at her. Was he asking her, the fire, or God?

  He continued, “I could bring a suit against her lover in a civil trial. But I have no desire to expose her or myself to scandal. Nor do I want a ruinous divorce. What I want is a wife who will be faithful to me. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No. It shouldn’t be,” she quietly agreed.

  “I don’t suppose there is anything I can do to win back her affection?”

  What could he do? Lady Mayfield didn’t seem to worry about the rumors, his threats did not affect her, nor did his pleading and wooing. Knowing Marianna, the only thing that might move her was another woman’s interest in her husband—ideally a woman more beautiful and more bewitching to turn his head. But Hannah doubted such a woman existed.

  What should Sir John do: Make a pretense of flirting with another woman? Begin an immoral affair of his own? Sink to her level? No. He was a married man who wished to live honorably. Perhaps Marianna would respond if he simply stopped trying so hard. Hannah wasn’t sure if neglect would have much effect on spoiled Marianna, but it might be worth a try.

  When Hannah did not answer, he glanced at her. “A lost cause, is it? I am too old and too serious, as she never tires of telling me.”

  You are not old, Hannah thought, though serious and reserved? Yes. He would never be accused of being the life of the party—that had always been Marianna’s role. But he was well-respected and gentlemanlike and attractive. . . . Inwardly she reprimanded herself, Stop it, stop it, you foolish girl.

  She cleared her throat and said, “Perhaps you ought not try so hard. Ignore her for a time. Make her come to you. That might gain her attention.”

  “And watch six months of alienation turn into six years? If I left her alone, I think her only reaction would be one of relief.”

  Very likely, Hannah thought, but did not say such an injurious thing.

  “I was engaged to be married once before, but the young lady broke things off. Apparently I am quite repulsive.”

  She glanced up and found his gaze on her. What vulnerability etched that face. A handsome face, in her view. Sir John might be fifteen years her senior but to her he had always seemed younger. He was tall, his shoulders broad, his body lean. Fine lines crinkled the corner of his eyes and between his brows, but otherwise his skin was smooth and taut. He kept himself well-read, well-groomed, and well-dressed. Sir John Mayfield was also a wealthy man, knighted by the king. Personally, Hannah didn’t understand why Marianna found him unattractive . . . or at least not as attractive as Anthony Fontaine.

  “No, sir.”

  He smiled dryly. “That answer was long in coming. You needn’t be polite.”

  “I am not being polite. It is true. I do not think you repulsive.”

  He touched his heart, a mocking light in his grey-blue eyes. “What a compliment. I am in your debt, madam.”

  “I did not mean—”

  “Never mind, Miss Rogers. It is kind of you to try.”

  She felt the urge to lay a comforting hand on his arm, to reassure him. She rose. His gaze snapped over, watching her in some surprise. How inappropriate such consolation would be coming from her, she realized. Courage failing her, she stepped to the window instead. She pretended to survey the storm, the swaying branches, the lightning slicing the ominous sky.

  She felt his gaze on her profile.

  “It’s getting worse,” she observed.

  “Yes, it is,” he muttered, and went back to poking the fire.

  She glanced at his despondent expression. He was not a perfect man. No one was. But Hannah had lived in that house long enough to know that the lion’s share of the blame lay with Marianna.

  Courage returning, she stepped from the window to his side, and—with a nervous swallow—laid her hand on his arm. He gave a little start and looked down at her pale bare fingers on his dark sleeve. He looked from her hand to her face almost warily.

  “Sir John, forgive me for speaking out of turn. But there is nothing wrong with you. You are kind and gentlemanlike. A bit quiet, perhaps, but intelligent, well-respected, and honorable. I don’t know why she finds such fault with you. I think perhaps it is simply that you are not Mr. Fontaine.”

  He inhaled, then slowly released the breath. “Well, there is nothing I can do about that.” He patted her hand awkwardly. “Still, I thank you, Miss Rogers.”

  She smiled apologetically and removed her hand. “You’re welcome.”

  In the hearth, the fire sparked to life at last.

  She watched it for several moments, then sighed. “Well, I think I shall retire.”

  He nodded. “I shall follow soon after. Good night, Miss Rogers.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  She slipped from the drawing room, but one of the footmen, waiting in the corridor, waved her over. “Evenin’, Miss Rogers.”

  She nodded. “Jack.”

  “I heard her ladyship’s gone out for the evening.”

  Was the man fishing for gossip?

  “She has,” Hannah officiously replied. “Sir John was just lamenting the fact that she had a prior engagement on such a night as this.”

  “I imagine that was a bit awkward, just the two of you in there. Alone.”

  If she wasn’t careful, Jack would be gossiping about her next. She bit back a rebuke and feigned nonchalance instead. “Not too bad,” she said with a shrug. “I believe he thought I missed her company, so he conversed with me to pass the time. Kind of him, but we have so little to talk about.”

  “Does he really believe her ladyship is out at some charity meeting or whatever lie she fed him? Douglas hated having to take the horse and carriage out in this, I can tell you. Charity meeting, my eye.”

  “I have no idea. Well, good night, Jack.”

  “Miss.”

  She had neglected to bring a lamp up the stairs with her, but the candle on the landing guided her well enough. Besides, she knew the way by rote. She passed Lady Mayfield’s room, then Sir John’s dressing room and bedchamber, before a sound drew her back.

  What was that banging?

  She followed the repetitive clatter back to Lady Mayfield’s room. She knocked at the open doorjamb, though she was quite certain Lady Mayfield had yet to return, then inched the door open. Lightning flashed, lighting up the room, and in an instant she identified the problem. The windows had been left open and the shutters not lashed down. Rain and wind were blowing into the room. Hannah ran forward, and began drawing in one window then another, latching them closed. The rain was coming in at a nearly horizontal angle—fat droplets splattered her face and neck.

  Suddenly, Sir John appeared beside her, clearly drawn inside by the banging shutters as she had been. Or perhaps in hopes his wife had returned. Setting down his candle lamp in haste, he began latching the upper shutters, while she closed the lower halves. They worked together, passing closely, hands accidentally brushing as each reached for the last shutter.

  “To leave open the windows on such a night . . .” Hannah muttered. Suddenly aware of her wet face, she grinned ruefully. “Here I thought we were the ones safe and dry indoors tonight.”

  He remained silent, jaw tense.

  Nervous to be alone with him in Lady Mayfield’s bedchamber, she prattled on, “I shall ask Mrs. Peabody to remind the housemaids to be more careful in future, shall I?”

  He merely stood there, looking at her.

  She asked, “Is the carpet wet? Perhaps I should gather a few bath towels, and—”

  “Leave i
t.”

  She turned back in surprise, regarding him by the light of his candle lamp.

  He said, “I don’t care about the carpet, but you are damp through.” He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, then lifted it toward her face. “Allow me.” With one hand, he lightly took her chin between thumb and fingers. With the other he gathered a corner of the thin cloth and softly brushed her forehead, then her cheeks, her nose. . . . Her heart began to accelerate, nerves tingling at his touch.

  “I hope your freckles will not rub off.”

  She chuckled mournfully. “If only they would. The bane of my existence.”

  He tilted her chin to better regard her complexion in the lamplight. “They’re charming. You’re quite beautiful.”

  “Ha.” She shook her head. Pretty, maybe. But no one besides her mother had ever called her beautiful. “With this long nose and wide mouth? Hardly.”

  He ran the cloth down her nose. “Distinctive.” Then he slowly ran it across her lips and whispered, “Desirable.”

  Their eyes met and locked. His fingers within the gauzy cloth lowered to her neck and trailed along her clavicle bones, stroking the bare skin above the modest neckline of her gown. She could hardly breathe. How wide the blacks of his eyes were in the flickering light. Intense with longing, yet tinged with uncertainty.

  She didn’t move.

  He lowered his head slowly, gaze flicking over her eyes, her face, her lips. She didn’t run or step away. She barely even blinked. He touched his lips to hers, softly, tentatively. A rush of sweet, heady longing filled her.

  When she did not object, a spark flared behind his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers more fervently, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against him. How tense his body was. How nearly frantic his endless kiss.

  Suddenly he tore his mouth away, grabbed her hand almost roughly, and opened the adjoining-room door. He paused only long enough to turn back for the candle lamp, then pulled her along behind him through his own dressing room and into his connecting bedchamber—a room she had never been in before. He shoved the door closed behind him with his foot and then he was kissing her again.