Chapter 35

A deafening silence filled the library. The silence after an explosion, Lucie thought absently. Everyone looked as bloodless as if after a peppering by shrapnel. Time must have slowed to a crawl, too, for she had a long minute to take in the room. Tommy, her mother, men with notebooks who looked like lawyers, were all here, standing stiff like life-sized tin soldiers. There was Rochester, next to Wycliffe’s wing chair, which was in the same place as years ago. There was the chesterfield behind which she had spent so many mornings, hiding, reading, playing chess, and it looked much less imposing than she remembered it. It was, in fact, just a regular sofa. And the ceiling appeared lower, the books lining the shelves were covered in dust. The carpet was worn even beyond the acceptable standards of a country home. This was where it all had started?

Facing her father left her astonishingly cold, too. Like his library, he was older and smaller than she recalled, the lines bracketing his mouth deep grooves now. He looked a little comical in his wide-eyed, frozen surprise. This was the man she had half-feared, half-resented, growing up?

Rochester stepped forward, and the present came rushing back at her. Tristan’s father was still tall and imposing, and his green eyes were hostile. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“The meaning,” she said loudly, “is that if Lord Ballentine spent the night in my bed, he cannot have spent it compromising my cousin.”

A strangled noise sounded from the direction of her mother.

She felt Tristan staring at her, but she avoided his gaze. It would hurt to face him, and she could not afford chinks in her armor now.

“Stop scribbling,” snarled Wycliffe. “If one word of this leaves this room, I shall see that each one of you loses his license.” The three men who looked like lawyers froze with their fingers around their pens.

Rochester was staring at her. “You make an incredible claim. Can you prove it?”

“You are asking for a witness?” She inclined her head. “It is not usually commonplace to have a third person in the room during such encounters.”

“Silence,” her father barked. His face had gone from white to a worrying shade of crimson.

Her heart was racing, the thuds heavy in her ears. The dreamlike quality to the situation was wearing off; the urgency pounding through her out on the fields that had filled her with unnatural determination was draining from her.

“You may silence me here,” she said. “But I won’t hesitate to go to the papers to make my claim. Certainly not should I find it confirmed that there were consequences.” She clasped a meaningful hand over her midriff.

The collective gasp sucked the air from the room.

Tristan took a step toward her before reining himself in, but it cost him; she sensed it from across the room that he was struggling. She took a tiny glimpse at him and found that his face was pale. What have you done? said the look in his eyes.

“Thomas,” said her father, his dark stare still on her hand curving over her belly. “Fetch your cousin.”

Tommy turned to his father with a look of shocked disapproval.

“Now,” Wycliffe said. Lucie knew this tone. It was the one preceding fatherly discipline.

Tommy’s lips pressed into a line, but he made for the door.

No one spoke a word until he returned.

Cecily certainly looked as though she had been debauched in a hedge and had lived to regret it. Her hair was tousled; her pretty face was blotchy and swollen from crying. Lucie was taken aback; it was no surprise that the men in this room were keen to protect her—she would have felt protective of her too, had she not known better.

When Cecily spotted Tristan standing next to the desk, her blue eyes widened with a measure of alarm. It turned to bewilderment when she recognized Lucie. Her face froze over entirely when Wycliffe informed her about Lucie’s claims.

“So, Cecily, do you have anything to say?” Wycliffe asked her.

Cecily was not looking at anyone in particular; she stood with her shoulders drooping. When she spoke, her voice was high and soft. “It appears to me as though Cousin Lucie would like to claim Lord Ballentine for herself.”

Wycliffe’s brows rose in surprise, and a murmur rose among the lawyers. This had been an attack, rather than a defense of position.

Lucie made a face. “I would rather have my teeth pulled than marry, Cecily.”

“And yet you are here,” Cecily muttered. “And you say you and he . . .” She choked a little, as though she could not bring herself to say the words, and her nose wrinkled as if she were fighting back tears.

“Cecily,” Wycliffe said, his tone notably cooler. “Again—is there anything helpful you have to say on the matter?”

Cecily’s gaze met Lucie’s directly for the first time since entering the library. “You never liked me,” she said. “I daresay, you envied me.”

“Envied you?” Lucie was genuinely surprised.

Cecily nodded. “For taking your place. Perhaps now, you wish to destroy my happiness in return.”

Beyond Cecily’s shoulder, Lucie saw her mother raise a hand to her mouth.

She slowly shook her head at her cousin. “I never had the place you occupy, Cecily, and I certainly was not happy here. As for your happiness—do you truly believe it is right, forcing Lord Ballentine’s hand?”

Cecily’s eyes narrowed at her, an angry glitter in their depths.

“Hold now,” Tommy said, stepping forward with a scowl. “I do not like this—why, it reminds me of a cross-examination. And it is hardly necessary—Cecily never forced a thing.”

“Then why am I here?” Tristan asked mildly. He had leaned back against the desk, his legs crossed over his ankles, looking deceptively idle. Lucie could feel his fury, tightly contained in his quiet form, and she had the disconcerting feeling that much of it was directed at her.

Tommy rounded on him. “Because a lady would not speak in detail on such a shameful matter, and she does not have to—she has been seen with you, and was gone for hours, unchaperoned. It suffices to ruin her, and by God, you will do right by her.”

Tristan’s smile held a hint of malice. “Your sister says I ruined her, too, and that I won’t deny—do you propose I wed the both of them? Beedle?”

“Uhm,” said Beedle.

“He has a tattoo,” Cecily blurted. “Lord Ballentine has a tattoo on his chest.”

Every head in the room whipped round to her again, and Lucie’s heart stopped for a beat.

Her gaze flew to Tristan, and the look in his eyes said this had surprised him, too.

“Does he now,” came Rochester’s keen voice. “Why don’t you describe it for us?”

Cecily was red as a beet, but when Rochester nodded encouragingly, she said: “It is on the right side of his chest.”

Wycliffe turned to Tristan. “Is this true?”

Tristan gave a nod. “It is.”

Tommy took a step toward him. “You,” he ground out. “You dared to—”

“Hold now,” Lucie said. “Cecily could have easily overheard this in the ladies’ retiring room, rather than seeing it herself.”

“Now, that is preposterous,” Wycliffe said. “The girl hardly moves in circles that would discuss Lord Ballentine’s tattoos in front of debutantes.”

Clearly, her father had no idea what women were wont to discuss among each other in the secluded areas during wine-filled social gatherings.

Her gaze locked with Cecily’s. Her cousin looked terribly out of her depth, but there was a recklessness in her eyes that said she was not going to relent.

“Why don’t you describe it,” Lucie said. “Because I dare you, you can’t.” It was a gamble, but there was nothing to lose now.

Voices swelled around them, protesting, lamenting, ordering—

“It is a . . . a nude woman dancing in a circle,” Cecily said.

It was the flick of her eyes as she said it, furtively up to the right, that sent goose bumps prickling down Lucie’s spine. “Are you certain?” she said quickly.

Cecily bared her small teeth. “You are terribly insistent, cousin.”

“A woman, you say?”

“I just did, say so.”

“And you found nothing unusual about her?”

Cecily leaned forward, almost a crouch. “She’s very obviously in the nude.”

“Obviously, you say—so you were close to see it?”

“Indeed.”

It was very quiet in the library now, the moment where everyone in the room was picturing a situation that would have brought Tristan’s bare chest close to Cecily’s eyes. . . .

“And her four arms didn’t strike you as peculiar?” Lucie said.

Cecily stared at her unblinking for a beat.

Then her eyes lit with a realization, as though she’d just solved a tricky puzzle. “Why must you try and trick me,” she cried. “Of course she does not have four arms.”

“This is enough now,” Wycliffe said. “Enough of this. Gentlemen—”

“Actually,” Tristan said, “there are four arms.”

Everyone turned back to him. Only Cecily took a step back.

Tristan raised his hands to his cravat. “Does anyone care for a demonstration?”

“Hell, no,” Wycliffe, Tommy, and Rochester said in unison, sounding appalled. And uncertain.

Despite the previous threat to their license, the lawyers had their pens at the ready and were following the exchange, riveted, as though watching a match of lawn tennis. Played with grenades.

Lady Wycliffe stepped forward. Pale and shiny, she could have been a waxwork as she moved toward her niece. “Cecily,” she said quietly, one hand extended. “Say it isn’t true.”

Cecily was still backing away slowly.

“Oh, Christ,” said Wycliffe.

Cecily’s bottom lip quivered. “Arthur made me do it,” she said, her gaze darting around the room. “It was all Arthur’s idea—he said . . . the tattoo . . . he told me . . . I didn’t mean to. I just got lost at the fair, running after you, after you just left me there.” She directed a tearful stare at Tristan.

“Out,” Wycliffe said to the lawyers, his voice flat. “Get out, now.”

“I went to the boathouse to cry, because Lord Ballentine had spoken very harshly to me,” Cecily said between sobs. “And I fell asleep on his coat with exhaustion. When I woke, the hour was late, dusk had fallen—was I to sleep in the boathouse? I had to walk unchaperoned—I had no choice.”

“But there was a choice to clear my name,” Tristan suggested in a gentle tone.

She gave him an incredulous look. “There was a search party, scandal was inevitable. You wouldn’t have married me had there been a scandal that didn’t involve you.”

Tristan slowly shook his head. “I never meant to marry you at all, and I am sorry you were led to believe otherwise.”

Cecily’s hands balled into fists. “I shan’t idly stand by and marry just any man they choose for me. . . .”

“Felicity,” Wycliffe said quietly, “take her to her room.”

Lady Wycliffe moved with difficulty, as though she were wading through glue.

Then the countess raised her chin and clasped Cecily’s elbow. She did not grant the men in the room another glance as she led her charge outside.

When the door had fallen shut, Wycliffe slowly turned to Rochester. “Very well,” he said. “It appears your son is going to marry my daughter, not my ward.”

Rochester blanched. “The hell he will,” he said. “My son is the heir of the House of Rochester and will marry in accordance with his position.”

Lucie watched her father take a step toward Rochester, the movement so quick, it had to have been instinct. “Are you insinuating that a daughter from the House of Wycliffe is not fit for the position?”

“Come now, Wycliffe, a Ballentine can’t marry a—”

“I advise you to treat this with consideration.” Wycliffe cut him off icily. “When a Ballentine goes and ruins two Tedbury women in short succession, he will bloody well marry at least one of them.”

“I’m not marrying anyone,” Lucie said, and walked out.

She had expected Tristan to follow her. He reached her in the Great Hall when she was still a considerable distance from the exit.

“Wycliffe has a point,” he said without preamble. She had expected this, too, and kept walking. Pray her pony was still there, at the ready.

“He has a point, and we must talk.”

“Tristan, I will not marry you, so for the sake of our mutual dignity, please do not ask me.”

His hand clamped around her upper arm and she was halted in her tracks and turned to face him.

Her stomach squirmed. She wasn’t ready yet to be touched by him. To be close enough to smell him. She had little strength left right now to argue with him, not with his gaze boring into hers with such determination.

“You are aware that we have a situation.” Despite his calm tone, she had never seen him look so serious. He probably didn’t relish the prospect of marriage, either. He had told her so when she had interrogated him in her drawing room just yesterday. . . .

She shook her head. “I did not come here to make you choose between Cecily and me, but to give you a choice between Cecily and your freedom. I cannot marry. You should know this much about me at least.”

She made to leave and was promptly snatched back by her arm.

His features were hard as if carved into rock. “How long do you think it will take until word gets out? What do you think it will do for your reputation, Lucie? For London Print? Your cause?”

For a beat, she couldn’t breathe. The enormity of what she had done was presently kept at bay by a flimsy fence of temporary denial, and it would not withstand a battering now.

“My family will rather take this to their graves than allow word to get out, and nothing might happen at all.”

“Possible, but hardly guaranteed, darling.”

“It does not mean I have to be your wife,” she said. “This was about justice.”

“Justice?” His smile was deeply cynical.

“What else would it be?” Her voice was rising. She had to leave, leave this place, leave him.

The grip of his hand on her arm tightened. “What else?” he said. “After last month, it is not too presumptious to assume you have an affection for me.”

An affection?

What an innocuous, inadequate, ridiculous word.

“You seemed prepared to marry my cousin five minutes ago,” she said instead, “so my affection would hardly matter.”

His expression was plain incredulous. “The hell I was. And would you rather I had named you as my alibi? Very well, it crossed my mind—to name you. I did not, for how could I force you into it—but now you may have forced it upon yourself.”

“No.” She yanked her arm from his grip. “I’d rather be wrecked than enslaved.”

He drew a sharp breath. “This is not the time or the place. Let us talk in private.”

“Time and place have no effect on my decision.”

“Christ, see reason, Lucie. You already have me in your bed every night and you like it; where would be the difference?”

She nearly kicked his shin. “Bedsport,” she hissed. “Of course, that is all you see—oh, to have the luxury of male ignorance.” She sprung into motion again, eyes on the door. “The difference between wife and lover is like night and day,” she said, hating that he was following her again. “Name one married woman, just one, who advanced important causes outside the home.”

He made a sound of great annoyance. “That is your worry?”

Easy for him to dismiss her, just like that. “Name a single one—you cannot, because it is nigh impossible for a woman to achieve anything when burdened with a husband, and the constant demands of wifely protocol, not to mention children. Why do you think it is that progressive women feel compelled to choose spinsterhood?”

“Stop,” he said tightly, “stop running. Stop hiding behind your work.”

“Hiding!”

“Yes, hiding.” Again, he used his strength to stop her, and she hated him a little, then.

He must have seen it in her face, for his eyes lit with a combative glint. “Think,” he murmured, and leaned in close. “If you truly were so opposed to a man in your life and all associated consequences, you would have never accepted the risks that came with taking me into your bed.”

She felt his breath on her cheek. He was so near. The erratic beat of her heart jumbled her thoughts. Run, was all she heard. Run, more loudly, when his eyes softened and showed all the familiar flecks of green and gold.

“You are not a fool, Lucie,” he said, his tone warmer, too. “You knew the risks. You wanted me anyway. Ask yourself why.”

Her throat was horribly tight. “You are right,” she managed. “I wanted you. But even if the laws were different, I would never marry you.”

It stunned him for a beat, and she tore free.

“You think I am good enough to share your bed, but not to wed?” His voice was low, but fraught with outrage.

Many women must have cried those exact words at him in the not-so-distant past.

Wide-eyed footmen swung back the entrance door for them.

“We would not suit,” she said, a few steps down.

“Ah,” he snapped. “Care to explain why not?”

Relief crashed through her; her pony was still there next to the fountain, held by an alarmed-looking groom.

Bloody steps, infernally tight skirts, it was taking forever. “If I were to marry,” she said, “I would need a faithful husband. And you could never be faithful.”

“And how would you know I couldn’t be?” he demanded.

She jumped the last step. “Because you are Tristan Ballentine.”

He turned abruptly into her path, crushing gravel under his heels. “My reputation is half-based on rumors and you know it.”

She glared up at him. “You don’t even trust yourself—you told me not to trust you. I listen when people tell me what they are.”

“God, I told you this because I believed it to be true at the time—and it was caused entirely by how I felt about myself as a man, not by how I feel about you. And if we talked calmly I would tell you that things have changed—”

“Words,” she cried. “Words do not matter, and you are impulsive. Take our first night: the moment you saw I was naked, you fell on me, when you had much to lose.”

He paled before her eyes. “Well yes,” he said softly. “I fell on you that night because I had wanted you half my bloody life.”

She raised her chin. “Step aside, please.”

Instead, he stepped closer and leaned over her, an intensity in his gaze that stunned the screaming in her head into silence. “Then for your sake, I hope there won’t be a child,” he murmured. “Because if there is, I give you my word now: I shall drag you to the altar, bodily, if I must, and you shall say I do, and politics can go hang.”

He might as well have gripped her by the throat.

For a moment, she feared she might be sick.

“And so the mask slips,” she whispered. “Consider this, Ballentine—any child might be better cared for without you, lest you turn into a brute like your own father.”

He blinked. He made to say something, but for once, he appeared to be lost for words.

At last he did not hinder her from leaving again. He moved not at all when she lurched past him, to the pony, and dragged up her skirts to scramble onto the saddle. From the corner of her eyes, she saw that he still stood as she had left him, rigid and with his back turned. When she galloped down the drive a moment later, she felt the tender bonds between them snap inside her chest.