Chapter Seventeen

Markham stared down at the white ball in the middle of the green billiards table. He intended to hit the ball just below center, so it would not spin but slide along the table and come to rest, knocking—just so—into the red ball.

If he could not develop precision and control in his life, he would, at least, master this small rectangle, in this well-appointed room that was, for the moment, one man’s refuge.

He aimed, darting his stick through his arched finger. Both the white ball and the red stopped exactly where he wished.

How did he expect to get through the next few days? One shot at a time. Each shot inching the ball forward until everything made sense again.

He was well on his way already. He’d made every shot that he’d attempted. By the time he returned to London, he’d be the best billiards player in Sharpe’s…for what that was worth. Which wasn’t much.

He’d overstepped. He’d reached too high.

Now, he must forget, consign to oblivion the experiences he’d shared with Clarissa. But the next time he took a lover, he sure as hell was going to remain in charge.

“Markham?”

Damnation.

He set the balls in a configuration where a perfect cannon would be close to impossible. He studied the table from one angle, and then from the opposite.

“Are you going to acknowledge me?”

No. He’d said all he intended to say.

“Go to bed, Clarissa.” That tone usually clamped closed even Julia’s mouth.

“I can’t.”

No such luck.

He’d been as gentlemanly as possible. He’d do nothing more to assuage her guilt.

“You absolutely can go to bed.” He leaned over the table and aimed. The dotted white ball hit the red ball and the other white ball in one shot. “It’s easy. You march up those stairs, turn to the right, count four doors down and then—”

“I cannot sleep.”

He exhaled. “Then find a book in the library to read.”

She moved into the room. The space around him filled with her scent.

“Markham.” She laid a hand on his shoulder.

He flinched. “Don’t.”

She removed her hand.

He glanced up at the chandelier he’d only just replaced. The old one had wept wax onto the table. This new one was equipped with trays.

That’s how one lived.

Fixing the small things—a patch here, a redesign there—and the old was again new.

Maintenance.

He’d be patched, too, in time. If she left him alone to tend his wounds.

Her skirts rustled as she came to stand by his side. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

“No. You said everything that needed to be said. I regret having imposed.”

“But everything feels wrong.”

Wrong? He snorted.

Everything felt sacked—burned to the ground, fields salted. Someone else, someday, would stand in his place. He wished the poor cove better luck. “Feelings are just that—feelings. They pass.”

“How can you be so cold?”

“Cold,” he repeated. “I’m cold.” He nodded to himself. “In light of our mutual discord”—he used the words she’d spat at him in Lady Darlington’s sitting room and slapped the stick against his hand—“I suggest you return abovestairs.”

“Well that wasn’t necess—”

He faced her, hand fisted. “I. Have. Limits.”

She paled. “Why of course you have limits. This is madness. Why must we be one thing or the other? Can’t you see me as one of your widows? Lord knows you’ve had enough experience.”

He tossed his cue; it clattered against the far wall.

She jerked back. “Markham!”

He circled his fingers roughly against his temples. If he didn’t squeeze his brow, he feared he’d shake her.

Or kiss her.

He’d do neither.

No matter how much he wanted to do both.

“You’ve left me little except the fact I haven’t yet made a total ass of myself. Oh”—he shook his head—“now you are offended at my language? Lord. This was everything I feared it would be.”

“You? What could you possibly be afraid of? You’re a man.”

“Are you really so wrapped up in your own discontent you can’t see anyone else’s? I’ve made every effort to understand your position, to appreciate how you must feel. What have you done in turn? How have you sympathized?”

“You don’t need sympathy. You sit in the House of Lords, for goodness sake. Every day, every decision is open to you. Do you want to go out? Do you want to travel? You can. You can do anything you’d like. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Do you really believe I haven’t a care? That I can simply indulge my desires?”

“Rayne did. Bromton did.”

“Am I Rayne? Am I Bromton?”

Her brow furrowed. “Of course you aren’t.”

“You may think all the mean-spirited, disdainful thoughts you wish. Just leave me in peace, would you? Let me go back to my glib, useless life and you can go back to yours.”

She pressed her lips together. Hard.

“Oh, don’t.” He turned his head to the side and slanted her a warning glance. “Clarissa Laithe, don’t even think about—”

She sobbed.

“—crying!” He threw up his hands.

No. He turned away. Devil take him, no. He absolutely would not—

She sobbed harder.

His shoulders slumped. He reached inside his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. He turned back and presented the little white square.

She looked at it as if she didn’t know what she should do. “I give you my maidenhead, and you give me a handkerchief?”

He glanced heavenward, put the handkerchief into her hand, and then lifted her hand to her face, obliging her to wipe away her own tears.

“I’ll take that punch because you’re angry, but when you look back on this don’t you dare talk yourself into believing I didn’t offer more.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“Stop repeating things. And stop growling. It’s uncivil—yip!”

He lifted her from the ground and twirled her around.

“Markham! Put me down.”

“Gladly.” He set her down on the table. Hard.

He caught her hand in the air before she slapped him, and then he caught the second. She struggled against him with all her might and then, just as suddenly, went limp. She stared up at him, her fury melting into something else.

“Markham,” she whispered. “I am going to kiss you.”

She’d exhausted him. He remained perfectly still as her lips met his.

His mind went blank—for a moment—just a moment. And then his hands were in her hair, and hers in his, both of them gripping each other as if sheer force could make things right.

He poured all of himself into the kiss—his desire, his anger, his loss, the desperate flicker of hope he hated. Then he broke the kiss.

Perhaps this was a better end.

He salvaged some small bit of pride from the way her reddened lips parted. Pride he was about to dash against the ground.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s goodbye.”

Her eyes refocused immediately. “What?”

“I’m only going to say this once.” His chest heaved as he looked deep into her eyes. “I would have given you everything that’s mine, so when you are back in London—or wherever it is you intend to go—and you box me up with the other men who have hurt you…if you remember anything, I want you to remember that.”

“Why?”

“You can’t see the devotion that’s right in front of you, can you?” So much for dignity. “I want last night to stretch to forever. I want to undress you, to bathe you, and then”—he ran his fingers through her hair—“brush these dark curls until they’re smooth and dry. I want to get lost with you and then be found. I want you to change my plans—improve them if you can. I want you”—he hit his fist against his chest—“here.”

He couldn’t stop the storm from gathering inside his eyes.

“And you are so wrong if you think I can turn away without loss. And if you haven’t heard anything else, hear this—I love you.”

He snatched back his handkerchief, scourged his cheeks, and then tossed it back into her lap.

“You can’t love me,” she insisted. “You just want to please me.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Not anymore, I don’t.”

She flinched. “It wasn’t love. It was only passion.”

“I told you before, you can share passion with most anyone with whom you share a spark.”

“I won’t share it with anyone else.”

“Ah, but you will.” He lifted his shoulders. “And so will I.”

Her eyes wounded. “Markham!”

“I won’t accept your censure. You are the one tossing everything away.”

He lifted her off the table, set her on her feet. “Go.” He backed away. “Go out there into the world and seek. But don’t expect this to happen every day. And if you regret tonight just a little…” He adjusted his waistcoat. “Well then, good.”

“Markham,” she whispered.

He was done with negotiations. “I’m finished.”

Cognac wouldn’t help tonight.

This called for Lizzy’s gin.

He strode outside into the dark.

…

Clarissa had wept so much during the night she’d soaked not only Markham’s handkerchief, but her pillow as well. She’d listened for him, but he hadn’t returned. He’d meant it when he’d said he was finished.

Clarissa folded the last of her dresses and placed it carefully at the top of her trunk. The less the servants saw of her this morning, the better. Her face remained a tear-stained mess.

She glanced out the window down to the tree-lined drive. The whole of Southford—and a kind, sensual, man, unafraid to explore the unknown—could have been hers.

No—she shook off the maudlin notion.

Not hers.

Everything would have remained his. Her time here could only be borrowed. As his wife, she’d be reduced to a vessel with nothing of her own.

She would rather wear rags of her own than exist in borrowed clothes, even though she suspected she’d relive last night in her nightmares, probably for the rest of her days.

The door to the corridor flew open, and Julia entered.

“What did you do?”

Though of a completely different complexion, when Julia was angry her eyes flashed just like Markham’s.

“Julia, what has passed between your brother and me is private.”

“I do not know what passed between you, and, frankly, I do not care. But how could you let him leave Southford in such a bad state?”

She swallowed. “He takes his own counsel.”

Julia grunted. “Markham doesn’t drink to excess. Ever. But last night, he got drunk and he brawled with Addy—who everyone knows is always drunk and belligerent and doesn’t mean half of what he says.”

She closed the trunk. “Markham ought not to have fought him, then.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “Of course he ought not to have fought. Why, even after Rayne marched into the library and told Katherine about the bet and then Katherine told Markham I asked Rayne to kiss me—”

“You asked Rayne to kiss you?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, yes, I asked Rayne to kiss me. You probably don’t notice because he’s your brother, but he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—and well Rayne—lout that he is—isn’t my point. My point is that Markham had good enough reason to pummel your brother, since I was only just eighteen and Rayne had far more experience. And yet Markham remained in complete control.”

She lifted a brow. “I apologize on behalf of my brother.”

“What about Markham? Lizzy had to bring him home in Smitty’s cart. The entire parish is talking about it.”

“As I said,” Clarissa repeated, “he should not have—”

“You’ve ruined his good reputation, Clarissa.”

Clarissa raised her brows. “My, you can be theatrical.”

“This”—she waved her hand—“is not theater. No one wanted anything to do with Southford after how my father behaved. Do you know how young Percy was when he became earl? Between his youth and my father’s stupidity, no one, no one would listen to him, no matter what his title. No one would extend credit. And no one would sign a lease, even though the rector himself was a trustee.”

Clarissa stilled.

“What did Markham do?”

“He worked hard to restore trust. Katherine made plans, and he made connections. The rector, of course, helped, and later, Bromton, but it took years. And now, people are whispering that he’s lost control—just like my father.”

Clarissa closed her eyes.

“Make things right. Dine with him at the Pillar, and everyone will see this was just a lovers’ quarrel. That they’ll forgive.”

“No.”

“Why? Eventually he’ll give up his stupid fear of marriage, and then the two of you can wed.”

His fear of marriage? “He already asked. I refused.”

Julia’s eyes went wide with horror. “Oh no, you didn’t. You couldn’t!”

“Apparently, neither of us truly wishes to marry.”

“I understand men are tiresome…but Markham’s different. You and he belong together. I know.”

Julia was wrong. She didn’t belong anywhere. Least of all here.

Where she’d driven a good man out of his mind.

“Do you really want to have Rayne as a brother?”

Julia blushed.

“You didn’t consider that, did you? And I don’t want to lose myself.”

“You won’t lose yourself. You’ll make something new together.”

Ah. Now she could see what had tempted Rayne. Inside the firebrand beat the heart of a romantic.

Thinking straight was impossible when a romantic came near—they were magnets to a rational person’s inner compass, forcing a needle to skew from North. And when impassioned, romantics—like Julia, like Markham—became quite irresistible.

“Julia, you have always known who you are. You always know what you want. You are fearless, and I don’t want you to change. But that is not me.”

Even if that’s how Markham had once seen her.

At the door, Bromton cleared his throat. “The carriage is ready.”

Clarissa exhaled. “Thank you, Bromton.”

“Wait!” Julia glanced between them. “What’s happening?”

“Lady Clarissa is returning to London,” Bromton said calmly.

“She cannot travel alone.”

“She’s not,” Bromton said. “She’ll have her maid. And the rector’s wife is joining her. We will stay until the end of the week, as planned.”

“But—”

Bromton raised a brow.

“There’s no need for that look, especially when you know just as well as I do that Clarissa’s making a terrible mistake.”

“The mistake is Lady Clarissa’s choice.”

“Oh, very well.” Julia huffed. “But you, Clarissa Laithe, are more foolish than your brother. And those are words I never thought I’d say.”

…

Markham winced at the sound of a knock against his bedchamber door. Why did everything sound twice as loud this morning?

“Are you dressed?” Katherine called.

Markham glanced down. “In a manner of speaking.”

He was wearing the clothes he’d been wearing the day before. And they stunk.

“Doesn’t sound promising,” Katherine said.

“We have to go in,” Julia said. “If he’s naked, we’ll just look at the floor.”

“Devil take it!” Markham exclaimed. “I’m decent. You can come in if you wish.”

The door creaked open and then suddenly, he was flanked by two sisters. Honestly, how did Farring survive with all of his?

“Hello, Percy.” Katherine jostled his shoulder with hers. “We didn’t want to leave you alone.”

“Shall I pour you a finger of cognac?” Julia offered.

“Definitely not,” Markham replied. There wouldn’t be any joy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Julia mouth, “This is bad.”

Shouts sounded in the courtyard. He placed his hand against the glass.

“The coach is ready to depart?”

“Yes,” Katherine replied.

His sigh whiffed out the remaining flicker of hope.

“Ah, Percy. You’ll heal. Once we get back to London and—”

Markham silenced Katherine with a look.

“Surely you’ll be able to find some entertainment,” Katherine added softly.

No. Eventually, he must marry, but he would not go back to treating sexual favors as gifts easily bestowed.

He must return to London, of course, but he’d do so only to perform his Parliamentary duties—and to destroy a certain page of that blasted betting book at Sharpe’s. However, his days as Hearts had ended. Whenever possible, he would remain here at Southford, out of Society.

He had a reputation to repair among his neighbors.

He’d succeed, eventually.

In the end, he knew who and what he was—a man who lived in service to both his family and his land. Honest service. Loyal and stalwart service.

He forced down the lump that had gathered in his throat.

“I’m finished with Society.”

“This is bloody mad!” Julia exclaimed.

“Julia!” Markham and Katherine cried together.

“What?” Julia folded her arms. “Sometimes everyone is so stupid there’s nothing left to do but utter an awful word.”

Markham half smiled. “She could have chosen worse, Kate.”

Katherine lifted her brows. “No doubt she says worse in her mind.”

“Oh, I do, believe me.” Julia tapped her temple. “You don’t want to hear what goes on inside here.”

The rattle of carriage wheels brought their attention back to the drive. All three stepped closer to the window.

How right it seemed that the leaves had started to brown. That his breath fogged against the glass. The carriage rattled down the lane. She didn’t look back.

She hadn’t even sat close enough to the carriage window to be tempted.

“Well.” Julia sighed. “Someone out there must know how to mend a broken Hearts.”

“I don’t want to mend.” He paused until the quiver in his voice ceased. “That carriage contains the only heart I want.”

Both sisters murmured words of sympathy, and each wrapped a comforting arm around his waist.

He let them murmur and fuss.

It did not lessen the regret and the pain, but it helped a little to know someone deemed him worthy of care.