Vivian stood in front of his full-length mirror and examined herself, now fully dressed in a morning gown of pale rose, ready to face Will in the conservatory where she’d been told he awaited her for breakfast at nine o’clock. She looked good, she supposed, considering her injury, now six days old, was still somewhat visible as a healing scratch and small bump at her hairline.
Only an hour ago, she’d been awakened by a lady’s maid who brought hot tea and the necessary items for her toilette. She’d noted that Will’s side of the bed felt cold to the touch, which meant he’d been gone for some time, presumably leaving her at dawn to avoid unnecessary speculation by his staff. He’d obviously had a guest room prepared for his use during her stay, although he hadn’t told her any such thing. But last night had been the only night he’d slept with her that she could remember. And what a night it had been.
Sighing with warm contentment, Vivian thanked the lady’s maid at her side for attending her dressing and coiling her hair on top of her head in two tight braids, then followed the woman out of the bed chamber and down to the library.
She walked the length of the hallway, then entered on her own. The library itself was empty, though Will had opened the windows to the conservatory. He was no doubt waiting for her at the table where they’d shared their first meal together.
With steadfast resolve, Vivian made her way toward the back of the room and walked out into the makeshift garden area. A hint of a morning breeze off the ocean ruffled the plant leaves, lifting the intoxicating scent to swirl around her, boosting her spirits and enticing her to smile regardless of the fact that she was soon to have a most important and heart-wrenching conversation, and one she dreaded more than any other of her life.
She noticed him at once as she turned the corner toward the west end of the conservatory. As always, he looked magnificent, dressed casually and leaning against a windowsill, his side to her, the breeze blowing strands of hair off his forehead as he stared out to the southern ocean.
As if sensing her presence, he glanced in her direction, a slight smile curving his lips as his gaze brushed over her figure, head to toe and back.
“Good morning,” he fairly drawled, turning to face her directly and resting his hip on the sill as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Good morning to you, your grace,” she replied with a gentle nod.
“You look radiant,” he added, his lowered tone just hinting at a bit of mischief.
Vivian felt heat suffusing her cheeks as she moved toward him, hands clasped behind her back. “You look excellent as well.”
He chuckled softly as he watched her saunter to his side. “I could feel nothing but excellent this day, Lady Vivian.”
“Indeed, I’m flattered,” she whispered in wry humor, tapping his arm teasingly with her elbow.
His eyes crinkled in amusement, then he shifted his gaze to her forehead and his smile faded. “Your injury is still noticeable, but it does look better. That’s good.”
She lifted her fingers to her head and touched the scar faintly. “There’s almost no pain left, though. It really only aches now when I touch it.”
He smiled down at her again. “Then don’t touch it.”
She batted her lashes. “Thank you for such sound advice, my lord duke.”
Grasping her chin with his fingers, he said in whisper, “I adore you when you flirt with me.”
She grinned outright. “I thought perhaps you adored me anyway.”
He ran his thumb across her lips very slowly, sensually. “I adore you in every way possible, always.”
A sudden seriousness enveloped them, a slow building awareness of the complexities and hardships to come. Vivian looked into his eyes, noting the stark emotions of caring and worry and even desperation that she felt as well, brimming just below the surface. But no regrets. Never that.
With abiding tenderness she kissed his thumb without ever looking away.
“We need to talk,” he said softly, his tone reflecting the enormity of the conversation to come.
Vivian breathed in deeply, revitalized by the scent of sea air, greenery and flowers, and a trace of his spicy cologne. “Why don’t we walk outside. It would give us more privacy.”
His brows pinched in a negligible frown. “As you wish. Would you like to eat first?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m not hungry.” And she wouldn’t be for a while, she didn’t think. Not after the discussion they were about to have.
Nerves on edge, Vivian took the arm he offered, and together they walked to the stairway that led to the garden below. He followed her down each step, his palm resting lightly at the middle of her back, and just such a simple, protective gesture made her wish she could turn and let him embrace her totally, hold her forever in his arms.
Alas, it wasn’t to be, and it would be her job to convince him of that.
“I know things between us will be difficult,” he started, walking beside her as they took the path away from the house. “But not…unmanageable.”
She smiled and locked her arm around his, lifting her face to the comforting sunshine. “Unmanageable?”
He inhaled deeply and pulled her close. “I realize I can’t marry you,” he acknowledged, his manner and choice of words conveying the opinion that he had considered this carefully. “But that doesn’t mean—”
She stopped abruptly, effectively cutting him off as she turned to face him. “Doesn’t mean what?”
He gazed into her eyes, his expression now troubled, as if he were waiting for her to jump in and explain how they were to work out the circumstances between them that he somehow thought would be manageable.
“It doesn’t mean we can’t be together,” he stated as no explanation whatsoever.
Vivian let go of his arm and stepped a pace away from him to stand under a palm tree, its unusual leaves shading her eyes from the brightness of the sun. He didn’t move, though he clasped his hands behind his back in a posture of defense.
She could feel the prickling in her nose from tears hidden just below the surface, waiting to unleash themselves and gush down her face. But she held them off bravely, for now. There would be time enough for crying later.
Lowering her voice to a whisper in the wind, she said, “We can’t be together, Will, under any condition, and I think you know it.”
For seconds he just watched her, no movement at all save for a slight twitch of his upper lip. Then his eyes narrowed and he bit down hard, his jaw tightening. “I love you, and I want you with me. What I know is that we should be together and to hell with the rest of the world.”
For the first time in her life Vivian grasped the truest feeling of hopelessness in her conviction. She suddenly felt weak beyond words, trembling in her skin from an inner ice in spite of the warm morning weather, and she swallowed tightly in an attempt to stay focused, to keep rationality the cornerstone of their exchange.
Crossing her arms over her chest in a mea sure of self-protection, she replied in a tenor of pure regret, “And you know I want what you want, but reality must be faced. Life is not so simple.”
“Not so simple?” He stepped forward and grabbed her upper arms. “Life is never simple, Vivian, but we have a chance to actually be content, to make something of our lives with each other, to gain some years of happiness, together. We only need to find a way, and I believe we can.”
“How?” She glared at him, tears filling her eyes as she hissed. “I am married. And that, my lord duke, is the only factor that matters in any relationship between us.”
“You are not married, you are separated legally, granted by the Church of En gland,” Will stressed, undaunted. “You aren’t doing anything illegal by being with me.”
“This isn’t about legalities,” she argued, waving her hand through the air. “This is about living. Day to day, year to year. We have situations in our environment that affect us both, friends and people around us who—”
“Who what? Gossip? To hell with them,” he grumbled irritably.
Why couldn’t he understand? With a palm to her forehead, she closed her eyes briefly and scolded, “Stop being naive, Will, and start looking at our situation practically.”
“Practically,” he repeated.
“Yes, practically.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him directly. “I won’t leave my work, my home, my reputation that I’ve built for myself, and I can see no other way to be together. Divorce would ruin me, and frankly speaking, it might be as bad for your position as if you had murdered your wife.”
He considered that for a moment or two, his intense anger at her willfulness threading through his large, rigid body, his tight jaw, his dark and fiercely probing eyes.
She remained steadfast, never moving her gaze from his.
“What we do together is not unseemly,” he countered after a moment, voice low and commanding. “I am the Duke of Trent—”
“Yes, you are, aren’t you,” she cut in, “and as one of your powerful station, you always get what you want. Well, I am the lowly Mrs. Vivian Rael-Lamont, regardless of my birth and so-called widowhood. I live in a small community with many friends and acquaintances. I am an average woman who grows costly flowers that are displayed each week at church, at weddings, in homes. I live a modest but exceptionally proper life—”
“I want you to live that life with me,” he said softly, slumping minutely and tilting his head to the side.
His change in demeanor startled her. Somehow it was so much easier to admonish him when he was mad.
Sniffling, she wiped a palm down her cheek. “You say that but you have no answers as to how. How would that be possible? As your mistress here? In secret, save for your staff and all the whispers below stairs? Or are you going to visit me for nighttime love trysts, your grace?”
She could see that logic had an effect on him. He looked stricken—his face pale, his eyes wide and hurting to their dark depths. It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and bury all her doubts in his goodness, no matter its irrationality.
“We can be discreet,” he said, grasping for ideas. “Society won’t know.”
She shook her head, amazed at his stubbornness. “Won’t know what? That I visit you for lovemaking rather than simply delivering orchids to adorn your great hall? Or that you visit me at my home at night, for a quick rendevous on the bench in my nursery?” Heart racing, her belly in knots, she maintained, “They would most certainly know if I got myself with child. And after all we’ve been through, Will, rumors would be everywhere and I would be ostracized. Everybody in Penzance would know it’s yours.”
Such detailed thoughts had clearly not occurred to him. His mouth opened a little even as his gaze fell on her waist, now trim and tightly corseted. Vivian kept her hands resting on her hips and ignored the blush heating her cheeks.
Abruptly, he walked to her, backing her up against the palm tree, standing so close his legs pressed against her gown. Peering down at her, he grabbed her chin with rigid fingers and forced her to look into his eyes.
“What if you’re carrying my child now?” he asked in a seething whisper. “What will you do in three months’ time, Mrs. Rael-Lamont? Run to avoid scandal as you did before? Move to Bath or Brighton and explain your widowhood in another less controversial way? Would you dare, madam, to raise my child in a lie?”
His questions, asked with such bold assertion, shocked her immensely. She wanted desperately to slap him for his audacity, for presuming to strike her back with her own contentions, and yet she couldn’t because with nearly every word from his lips he spoke the truth. She hadn’t considered pregnancy before now, as she had thought herself too old. But in attempting to force him to accept the inevitable, she’d hit a very delicate issue, for both of them, and as she considered it now, one not entirely impossible.
“If I remained here,” she answered, her voice shaking with powerful emotion, “regardless of the circumstance, I would be forced to raise a bastard. Would you want that for your child, your grace? Unlike you, I don’t have the benefit of being beyond reproach.”
She watched him, refusing, in defiance, to lower her gaze, now fisting her hands at her sides and trying very hard not to break down into uncontrollable sobs.
For a moment she thought he might shove her away from him and dismiss her with a formal good riddance, never to speak to her again. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed with an odd blend of his returned deep-seated anger, confusion, and despair, as the reality of their inability to be legitimately together finally seemed to hit him. As awful as she felt about forcing him to see reason, to consider everything from her point of view, she also felt a dash of relief that although he might not completely understand, at least it was her wish that he’d started to see the hopelessness of their situation from her perspective.
Her expression softening, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry.”
Without warning, he yanked her against him, enveloping her with his body, his warmth and strength, his arms wrapped around her, one hand holding the back of her head as he lightly stroked her hair with his thumb. Vivian squeezed her eyes shut, resting her cheek on his chest.
“We’ll find a way, do something,” he insisted, his tone comforting even as it pulsed with intense feeling. “I won’t give up on you now.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried to consider every possibility? There’s nothing we can do,” she whispered.
After a moment, he asked, “But you would marry me if I asked you and it were legally possible.”
He’d said it as a statement, with profound conviction. Her heart ached from resolve—and the loneliness to come. “Don’t think about that, Will. What could or might have been no longer matters.”
He said nothing to that, and with frustration, she couldn’t decide if she was glad or not. Silently, they stood together for a long time, embraced by sorrow, comforted by each other, afraid to let go. Vivian closed her eyes, drawing in his scent with each breath, listening to his heart beating steadily against her temple. He gently massaged her neck, laid small kisses on top of her head, ran his thumb along her cheek.
At last she pulled away. Grasping one of his hands in hers, she lifted it to her lips. “I have to leave.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Stay for breakfast.”
Closing her eyes briefly, she shook her head and replied, “I can’t.”
He exhaled loudly. “What else do you have to do that’s so pressing?”
With a forlorn smile gracing her lips, she glanced back up into his beautiful eyes. “I have to see to my house, your grace, water my plants that I haven’t tended to in a week, answer correspondence that is surely piling up on my desk—”
He cut her off with a tender, unexpected kiss. She responded in kind, allowing his mouth to linger on hers for minutes, it seemed, expressing all the passion, frustration, and longing in his touch that he couldn’t otherwise convey but that he so desperately needed to show her. Finally she pulled back, begging an end to the torment.
Resting his forehead on hers, he murmured, “I won’t let you go.”
Shakily, she replied, “You have no choice.”
Vivian couldn’t look at him as she stepped aside. Then in one last press of her lips to his fingers, she breathed against them, “I will always cherish our time together. And I will never love anyone more than you, Will.”
“This isn’t over,” he said, his admonition almost convincing.
Afraid to peer once more into the depths of his eyes for fear of acknowledging his hope as fact, she released him without comment. Then lifting her skirts, holding her chin high, she walked with dignity back toward the conservatory, leaving him to stand alone in the windswept quiet of his magnificent garden.