Louise Allen - Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

It seemed his careful theory lay in tatters. Apparently she had been wife rather than mistress to her lieutenant. Not only had her flat statement about marriage been utterly convincing, but a woman anxious to redeem her character should have leaped at, rather than refused, an honorable offer.

Unless her emotions were already elsewhere engaged. A rush of elation followed the thought. Dare he hope she might have refused the vicar at least in part because of the connection calling them together?

He’d find out—right now. Be she widow or wayward miss mattered naught—only their future together was important. He turned back toward the door, took two strides, and halted once more.

The vicar had been right in at least one assertion—Mrs. Martin was too distraught to receive anyone. Strongly as instinct called him to her side, prudence counseled him to give her time to recover from the turmoil created by the vicar’s visit. He should call again later.

But as he reluctantly turned toward the garden, the sound of a shuddering sob stopped him.

The first was followed by another, then another. He stood paralyzed as a series of deep, gasping sobs flayed his already raw emotions, wrenching from him both the desire to flee the premises immediately and the need to return and comfort her.

Mama, Mama, don’t cry! I’ll help you. Can’t help … darling. Too … late.

Sweat broke out all over his body as he jerked his mind from the echo of his nightmare of that long-ago accident. He hadn’t been able to help then, his mama and the unborn child she carried dying even as the frantic six-year-old jerked and tugged at the skyward-staring door of their shattered carriage. But much as the sound of Mrs. Martin’s sobs ignited a revulsion that shuddered through him, he knew he couldn’t walk away and leave her alone in her anguish.

He forced himself back down the hallway into the parlor. She still stood in the center of the room, face buried in her hands while sobs convulsed her frame. Neglected wife? Abandoned mistress? Whatever had befallen her, the agony shaking that slender body said the experience had been unendurably painful.

The remaining shreds of nightmare dissolved beneath an overwhelming need to help her. “Mrs. Martin,” he called softly, not wishing to startle her.

In a gasp of breath, the sobs halted. Before he could take a step, she jerked upright, eyes wide, face contorted.

With fear, he realized. “Don’t be alarmed—it’s Beau Bradsleigh.”

It took a long moment for the words to penetrate, before the alarm faded from her eyes. “M-my lord?”

“I—I was passing by and … and chanced to hear you. What has happened to so overset you? Please, let me help.”

At first she stared at him as if his words had no meaning. An expression of infinite weariness gradually overtook the misery in her eyes. “T-thank you, my lord. But ‘tis nothing that can be helped.”

“Everything can be helped.”

Her tear-stained eyes examined his face. Tell me, he silently willed her. She opened her lips, hesitated. Closed them again with a sigh.

And then, almost as visibly as if a curtain had descended, her face changed to a mask of distant politeness. “D-did you require something, my lord?”

He could not let it go, not now when he knew— he knew —she had come so close to telling him the truth. “I rather thought you might.” Alertness leaped back to her face. “My lord?” “I could be of greater assistance if you would but answer me one thing. Who are you, Laura Martin?”

It was her worst nightmare come to life. Discovery.

Sheer panic blinded her. As the first Shockwave receded, leaving behind a fear that seeped into every pore, her vision cleared and she saw Lord Beaulieu standing before her. Staring, his face intent and questioning.

In that moment she realized with bitter certainty that her overlong hesitation had just given her away. ‘Twas too late now to summon up some glib remark, to feign bafflement. Even had she the inner resources left after her interview with the vicar to find the appropriate words.

Wearily she closed her eyes and stumbled to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. She sensed Lord Beaulieu follow her. Like the vicar, who would not take her polite refusal and go away, who had pursued her, cornered her, seized her hand in a move so reminiscent of Charleton she’d almost become physically ill.

A faint spark of anger flickered and caught. No, she had not endured all she had suffered to live to this moment, managed day by painstaking day the recreation of her whole being, to let it end now.

Before she could decide how best to counter him, she heard Lord Beaulieu’s soft voice behind her. “Whatever troubles you, know I only want to assist. Please, let me help you.”

She felt a touch to her shoulder and whirled to face him, the reaction too ingrained to suppress. “Help? And just how do you intend to do that? By hinting to the community that I am not what I seem? Destroying my name, my reputation? Seeing me cast from the meager niche I’ve carved out for myself here, as a king would crush a bothersome insect?”

“Of course not! How could you think that of me? Who you were—who you are, does not matter to me as much as solving what causes you such distress. Will you let me?”

She stared at him with ferocious intensity, evaluating the angle of his body, the set of his expression, every remembered nuance of his voice. Her heart, her mind, her instincts all told her he was telling the truth.

He would not betray her.

Relief washed through her in a dizzying wave. “Y-you will say nothing?”

She must have swayed, for he reached out a hand as if to steady her. Drew it back as instinctively she stiffened. “I will say nothing without your leave.” In his eyes she could read only a warm concern. “But that does not touch the heart of the matter. Tell me, sweet lady, how can I help you?”

The dregs of panic drained away in an upwash of emotion. How she loved him, this principled man devoted to his family who wanted only to ease her suffering, as she had eased his brother’s. Who had power that nearly rivaled the king’s, yet would not hold her against her will. Who coupled strength with gentleness, as her father had.

Not until the vicar’s warning had she fully realized the depth of her desire to be with the earl, talk with him, touch him, become his lover for however short or long a time he would grant her. Not until then had she fully realized how impossible of fulfillment that desire truly was.

The vicar spoke the truth, however unpalatable. Now that Kit Bradsleigh was healing, to remain on any terms of intimacy with a man so superior to her in rank and fortune would be interpreted by the world in only one fashion. To be thought the earl’s chère amie in the sophisticated, amoral world of the London ton would be unremarkable—probably even elevate her status. In the more rigid, moralistic society of rural England, such a perception would ruin her reputation, make her an outcast from local society and very likely destroy her livelihood.

Being with the earl was but a foolish, impossible dream, and had been so from the very beginning. Strange that having to destroy it hurt so much.

She turned her face from the earl’s too penetrating gaze. “If you truly desire to help, stop calling upon me. Do not speak with me except in greeting. Do not be seen with me outside in your brother’s sickroom.”