The course of true love never did run smooth.
—Shakespeare
In the void which existed in Christian’s wake, Elise paced up and down the length of the library, hugging her arms to her body. Mere moments ago, the room had been infused with his masculine warmth, but now it felt cold and a bit desolate. Along the long row of windows, she paused to light more lamps in some hope of dispelling the sudden sense of emptiness. Fleetingly, she considered ordering a fire laid, then thought better of it. She was not at all sure that her untidy hair and slightly disheveled gown would go unnoticed by Ophelia’s sharp-eyed servants. And so she strolled back along the row of reading tables which bisected the long room, rubbing her arms for warmth, and listening to the echo of her muted footsteps. Waiting. Just waiting. For Christian.
What a strange night it had been, she thought, skimming one fingertip over the surface of the table where they had done it. Where they had made love. At the memory of her wanton behavior, Elise felt heat flood her face. She’d never done anything so risqué in her life. And oh, how she had enjoyed it! True to his word, the wicked marquis had seduced her well and proper, and Elise refused to make excuses for her behavior. She, who had always lived such a virtuous life, had finally yielded to one of the most blatant rakes in Christendom. Because she had learned the hard way that virtue would warm neither her heart nor her bed. But the memories of Christian’s lovemaking—oh, that just might.
No, she would not make a total fool of herself over him, she vowed, kneeling to gather up the stack of magazines they’d scattered across the floor. She had Henriette to consider. But perhaps Christian was not quite the hell-bound scoundrel he wished people to think. She had been pondering it for days now. One had only to remember his reaction to Henriette’s accident and his indignation over Lord Robert’s ungentlemanly conduct to realize that Christian possessed just a little more honor than he wished to admit. Still, Elise could not allow herself to give words to that emotion which had blossomed against all hope and wisdom in her heart. Words sometimes gave rise to desperation, and desperation to recklessness.
Absently, Elise sat down and began to thumb through one of Ophelia’s fashion periodicals. Really, why was she fretting over the future, when she so clearly did not have one? Not with the Marquis of Grayston. He would soon be on his way back to Paris, gone forever from her life. He had been quite clear on that point. He was the sort of rogue a woman took a night’s pleasure from, he had said. Well, that was precisely what he’d given her—pure, blood-firing pleasure—brief though it had been. And that was all it could ever be.
But despite such high-minded resolve, when the library door swung open on near-silent hinges, hope leapt at once into Elise’s heart. She sprang to her feet, and whirled about. But it was not Christian who entered. Denys stood on the threshold. Of late, his mood had grown increasingly black, and tonight he looked as if he had come with an unmistakable sense of purpose.
“Elise, my dear,” he began, the censure in his voice subtle but unmistakable. “Why are you not in the ballroom? I have been searching the house for you.”
Elise managed a wan smile and sat back down. “A touch of the headache,” she murmured. It was not a lie, for suddenly, her head was pounding. “I thought I would not be missed.”
Swiftly he closed the distance, and pulled out his own chair. He took her lightly by the hand, but there was little warmth in his touch. “Lord Grayston has also vanished,” he said flatly. “I trust that arrogant dog has not been making a nuisance of himself?”
Elise cut her eyes toward the door. “No,” she said quite truthfully. “He certainly has not. But really, Denys, you need not concern yourself.”
Suddenly, he rose from his chair and strode across the room to the empty hearth. “Damn him!” he swore, pounding his fist on the chimney-piece. “Elise, what does he mean by coming here to Gotherington? What—?” His anger was almost palpable.
“I am sure, Denys, that I have no notion.”
But it was as if he did not hear her. Instead, he set one slipper on the fender, crossed his arms almost petulantly, and glared into the depths of the room. “All week he has thought himself such a clever fellow,” Denys growled. “Such wit! Such charm! And in the field, always the first to shoulder his weapon. Always choosing the most difficult shot—just to see who he can impress! And his incessant flirtations! Elise, I find it appalling.”
“Perhaps we should remember that he has been living on the Continent.” Elise kept her tone cool and formal. “And I daresay his presence here is more Maynard’s business than ours. After all, Lord Grayston is his friend.”
Denys’s fingers seemed to dig into the marble mantel. “Elise, do you really believe that?” he asked bitterly. “Mark me, men of his ilk do not trot off to the country in search of fresh air. And Maynard! What a joke! He turns white as a sheet whenever Grayston comes within ten paces.”
Elise wanted to argue, but she could not quite find her voice. Denys had given words to something which had long troubled her. Indeed, Ophelia had never warmed toward Christian, and it was almost as if Maynard tolerated his presence rather than welcomed it. “Still,” she said, “it is none of our business.”
At last, he returned to his chair and sat down with a sigh. “No, perhaps not.” To her shock, he leaned forward to gather both her hands into his own, and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “Oh, to hell with Grayston. We must talk about us”.
Elise began to shake her head, but Denys cut her off very firmly. “I know I have promised not to pressure you,” he said quietly. “But really, Elise, it is time we made firm plans for our future. I know that Ophelia—Henry’s own sister—favors my suit. And trust me, my dear, you need the guidance of a man, and the sooner the better.”
Elise did not like his suddenly patronizing tone. “Do I?” She sat a little straighter in her chair. “How fortunate I am that you are willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar.”
“My dear, it is no sacrifice whatsoever.” He had not caught the sarcasm in her words.
Indeed, the more she studied him, the more on edge Denys appeared to be. What could have happened to rattle him so thoroughly? It was time to put an end to this charade once and for all. “Denys,” she firmly began. “I am sorry to say this, but—”
To her shock, Denys interrupted again by lightly pressing one finger to her lips. “Please, my dear, let me finish.” His tone was stern yet tender. “Elise, I could not but overhear your discussion with Amherst tonight. My dear, you are the very soul of generosity, but trust me when I say it would be best if you deferred such serious financial decisions. It is unseemly for a well-bred lady to worry her head with matters of money. Especially when someone else is willing to bear those burdens for her.”
It took a moment to absorb his words. And then, for one awful moment, it was as if time were suspended by a thread. As if Elise’s heart had thudded to a halt in her breast. Then suspicion struck her like a dash of cold water, and left her emotionally gasping. Words—no, warnings— began to swim in her head. A man’s character never alters, Elise, he had whispered. Unlike some men, I will never hide from you my true nature—or my motives.” She tried to catch her breath. Surely, Elise, you cannot mean to marry that fortune hunter?
But Denys did not look like a fortune hunter. Did he—? Good God, was she too naïve to know? He was smiling, and holding her hands quite gently. But his palms were cold and damp. His face was pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. And he was anxious; he’d been so since the moment he entered the room, she realized. No—since the moment he’d arrived at Gotherington. And suddenly, she was certain. Horribly certain. Oh, Denys was clever. Very, very clever.
But Elise could be clever, too. “You are referring to yourself, are you not?” she asked, forcing her voice to be light and uncertain. “You think that I have misjudged in giving half my fortune to Belinda and Lucy? I daresay you’re right. Perhaps I ought to reconsider the amount?”
Denys smiled as if she were a confused child. “I am glad you understand,” he answered, lightly patting her hand. “You will tell Amherst that your financial decisions must wait until we are wed, so that you need not be bothered with such matters.”
The devil was in her then, and Elise did not know why. “Yes, Denys, as you wish,” she conceded as she came gracefully to her feet. “And how very generous you are. I cannot wait to see Mr. Amherst’s face when he learns the extent of your kindness.”
“Kindness?” Denys rose from his chair uncertainly.
Brightly, Elise smiled. “Do you know, Denys, this almost obscene wealth Sir Henry bestowed upon me has in some ways been rather a burden. When you are rich, you can never be quite certain that you are loved unselfishly. But at last, you have lifted that weight from my shoulders.”
She pretended to head toward the door. Just as she’d expected, Denys thrust out a staying hand, catching her hard by the shoulder. “Elise, my love, I’m afraid you have quite lost me.” His words were gentle, but his fingers were digging into her flesh. “What, precisely, do you mean to tell Amherst?”
Her smile still plastered on her lips, Elise turned to face him. “Why, that you mean to support me, so that the girls might enjoy the whole of my fortune. Is that not what you meant?”
Denys’s skin had drained of color, leaving his mouth tight and grim. “My God, have you totally lost your mind, Elise?” he hissed. “We cannot possibly live on my income.”
Elise lifted her brows and let her gaze sweep down his length. “But you are always so well turned out,” she murmured. “Such fine clothes and horses and guns. Dear me, Denys. Have you a great many debts which must be settled? Perhaps I shan’t be able to afford that dowry after all.”
Denys opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, clearly confused. “Well, of course I have debts, my love,” he said, his face flushing lightly. “A gentleman has expenses.”
“Oh, dear!” cooed Elise. “And are your creditors pressing you quite ruthlessly?”
His color deepened. At last, it seemed Denys was catching on to her sarcasm. “Elise, do you mean to speak to Amherst, or not?”
Elise let a bitter smile curve her mouth. “No, I do not, and never did,” she answered, turning again toward the door. “Really, Denys, what manner of fool have you taken me for?”
But he grabbed her shoulder again, his touch quite ruthless. “Damn you, Elise!” he growled. “You cannot do this! You have teased me and led me on for weeks now.”
With deliberate slowness, she turned and lifted his trembling hand from her arm. “I have been nothing but honest with you, Denys,” she murmured. “A courtesy which you have not deigned to return, it would now appear.”
He shook her again, more harshly still. “By God, you’ll not do this to me, Elise!” he whispered, his face a mask of rage. “I know what this is about! You have been listening to Grayston! He wants to see me ruined! That duplicitous bastard!”
Lightly, she lifted her brows. “Oh, I begin to see who the duplicitous bastard is in this little charade,” she said quietly. “And I have been listening to nothing but my common sense. Now unhand me, Denys.”
“No, damn you!” To her shock, he seized her quite viciously, shaking her until her teeth rattled. “Tell me! Tell me what he claims to know! What evidence does he have? How has he turned you against me?”
His grip was tightening, the muscle in his jaw working furiously. Elise felt a sudden spike of real fear. What a fool she had been to threaten him. The man was half-insane. How could she have failed to notice? “Take your hands off me, Mr. Roth,” she ordered, struggling to turn away. “Or I shall scream the truth about you so loudly, everyone in the ballroom will hear.”
In a flash, he seized her face in his hand, twisting it back into his. “Why, you goddamned slut!” he whispered malevolently. “I see the way of this! Grayston just wheedled his way between your legs, and—”
Roth did not complete his sentence. Instead, his shirt collar suddenly cut into his throat as Christian hauled him backward and slammed his skull into a row of encyclopedias. Stunned, Denys folded like a house of cards. For a moment, Christian simply stood there, his legs spread wide, his expression dark as Hades, glaring down as Denys staggered awkwardly to his feet. “That sounded perilously like an insult, Mr. Roth,” he finally murmured. “And your language was appallingly foul. I believe an apology to the lady is order.”
“Fuck off, Grayston,” snarled Roth, shrugging his coat back into place.
For a heartbeat, Christian was silent. “Well,” he said quietly. “It would appear that some things in life are simply preordained.” Withdrawing an elaborate gold watch from his pocket, he snapped it open. “Mr. Roth, I fear we must meet. In about—oh, seven hours. Will that suit?”
“Christian, this is insane!” whispered Elise, starting forward.
Christian threw out an arm to stop her. Roth shot Elise a look of pure venom, then returned his glower to Christian. “This has been your plan all along, hasn’t it, Grayston?” he sneered, jerking straight the knot of his neckcloth. “I’d wager you didn’t know so much as Maynard Onslow’s name until a fortnight past.”
Christian looked at him in icy disdain. “I cannot think what you mean to imply, Roth,” he answered. “Now if you would be so good as to name your second and your weapon?”
For a moment, Roth hesitated. “Onslow, then, damn you!” he finally spit out. “I somehow suspect he shall rather enjoy my putting a chunk of lead through your heart.”
“Pistols it is,” said Christian coldly. “I shall ask Treyhern to oblige me and make the appropriate arrangements. And now, Roth, take yourself off before I decide to kill you where you stand. I’ve already ruined enough of Onslow’s carpets.”
“Good God!” shrieked Elise as soon as the door slammed shut. “Have you lost your wits?”
But Christian’s eyes had gone flat and cold. “Evil cannot go unpunished, Elise,” he said, his voice as wintry as his gaze. “It simply cannot. Besides, Roth leaves me no choice now.”
Elise reached out to touch him, but somehow, the gesture weakened and died. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “No, no, no. Tell me you do not mean to risk a life over mere words—words spoken by a fool in the heat of anger?”
“Your pardon, Elise,” said the marquis. “But for whom are you concerned?”
Mutely, Elise shook her head. “Dear Lord, how can you even ask?” she finally answered, her face twisting with anguish. “I am concerned for you! Should you miss—”
“Oh, I won’t,” he interjected, his certainty chilling. “I never do. It is but one of my many well-honed talents.”
At once, Elise felt the hot well of tears threaten. “How dare you make a joke of it, Christian?” she cried. “What if you do kill him? What good will that do me? Is my honor to be salvaged at the cost of my heart? Must I watch you leave England forever and … oh, my God.”
She looked at him in horror, but Christian made no answer. “Christian,” she pleaded. “Tell me this is not what you came here to do. Tell me that Denys is wrong.”
But he stood before her, silent and still, no longer the man she thought she knew. That handsome man with the laughing eyes and chagrined expression—the one who had just made love to her so recklessly and so passionately—yes, he had vanished. And before her stood a cold-eyed stranger. The Marquis of Grayston. A calculating gamester who could wager on life, death, or the turn of a card with the same equanimity. Or so it seemed to Elise. But was she even capable of separating the reality from a façade? After all, she had once thought Denys was as decent as Grayston was wicked.
Suddenly, Elise wanted a harsh, black line drawn between right and wrong. A code of conduct which was not subject to interpretation. Not this perplexing duality of purpose, this divergence of character. Could a man be both so ruthless and so kind? She did not know. And it seemed that Christian had grown weary of staring at her hand. The hand which no longer reached out to him. She watched as he turned and walked stiffly toward the door without another word. At once, Elise jerked into motion, following him. “Call this off, Christian,” she begged. “Whatever your purpose—whatever wrong you hope to right-it serves no one’s purpose. Stop it!”
He laid his hand flat against the door and bowed his head, refusing to look at her. “I cannot, Elise,” he said quietly. “You know that honor precludes it.”
Elise reached past him and seized the doorknob. “You used to brag that you were without honor, my lord,” she answered hollowly. “For a time, I actually believed it. And I think I understood you better then.”
He laughed a little cynically. “Perhaps you saw only what you wished to see.”
Almost imperceptibly, Elise shook her head. “Then what a fool I was,” she whispered. “For I had fallen half in love with him—that man who could so blithely claim to be one thing, and yet live his life quite honorably.”
At last, the marquis turned from the door to face her, his expression shattered, his mouth twisted with what looked like bitter pain. Then just as swiftly, it was gone. “Remember, Elise,” he said quietly. “There can be honor even amongst thieves. But that does not make them virtuous.” And then, the door was open, and he had vanished into the shadows.