Chapter Eighteen

 

 

ELIZABETH HAD COME. DESPITE all, despite everything, she had come.

Malvern dismissed the footman who had delivered the news of her arrival, turning his attention to the mirror before him. He had been dressing for the evening when the footman had interrupted him, and he saw no reason to cease.

Straightening his waistcoat, he cast a critical gaze over his form. The formal wear he had chosen had been surprisingly easy to don without Gibbons. Preferring to clothe himself, he’d dismissed his valet earlier in the evening and Gibbons had departed without comment on his master’s unusual behaviour. Tonight, Malvern could not tolerate Gibbons at his toilette, though the man’s expressionless face and inoffensive demeanour were as unobtrusive as one could wish for.

Now that she’d arrived, the formal attire was wholly appropriate, much preferable to the plain garb of shirt and trousers he had adopted for their other trysts. Indeed, now that he thought on it, a plainer waistcoat would be of greater apropos, maybe the one without the thread of colour through it. Of utmost importance was an air of formality to their meeting, a severing of any illusion of closeness their unusual acquaintance had produced. In any case, one must always appear perfect before one’s public. Memories of other nights being so eager to see her, he’d neglected his all important toilette, he refused to entertain.

Malvern donned the plainer fare, the apparent simplicity of the garments suiting his purpose well. He’d not thought she would show tonight. He’d thought she would plead infirmity or some such and their appointments would dwindle, and then disappear. He had not thought to ever face her again.

The various parts of his life had fallen back into place with shocking ease, almost as if she had never been. He had ignored the voice that whispered three days was no indication of a lifetime spent without her.

Methodically, he buttoned the waistcoat, watching his motions in the mirror. The process was oddly calming, his fingers pushing each button through its hole with practiced ease. Pulling his jacket back on, he examined himself, carefully smoothing his perfectly coiffed hair. The man staring back at him was cool, calm, arrogantly certain of himself.

It was amazing the lie one could perpetuate with the proper dress.

Straightening his waistcoat once more, he ascertained his sleeves extended the proper length from his jacket. His trousers were perfectly pressed, his boots without scuff, his cravat tied to perfection. There was nothing further he could do to delay.

He had to face Elizabeth.

Keeping his gaze trained before him, he left the dressing room, grimly treading the path to the study. Of the walk, he remembered nothing.

Finding himself somehow at the study door, Malvern stared at the wood as he had a thousand times before. His father had often summoned him to the study and as a boy he’d stared at this same door, hands shaking as he gulped in confidence while trying to muster the nerve to open it. A summons from his father had never ended well.

His lips twitched into a parody of a smile. This would not either.

Allowing himself one fortifying breath, he made to turn the door knob. His hand was trembling. Staring at the appendage, at the pale skin against the gleaming brass of the knob, panic blindsided him.

Elizabeth was here. She was here.

His heart thundered, setting up a deafening rhythm in his ears. Panic flashed hot through his veins, robbing his breath, stealing his composure.

Abruptly, he forced himself to calm. Good Lord, man, get a hold of yourself. She was just a woman. Making a fist, he shoved open the door.

She sat in her chair, gaze trained forward. She’d not moved, her posture indicating she hadn’t heard his arrival despite the violence of his entry. Her shoulders were rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and yet candlelight shone softly on her hair, turning it golden. Her face in profile, he traced the flow of brow to nose to lips with his gaze and tried not to think of the times he had traced that same path with his mouth.

Swallowing harshly, he knew himself for a liar. She wasn’t just a woman. She was Elizabeth.

A ridiculous sense of dread suffused him. All last night and through today he had felt ill, his stomach churning as if he were suffering from a hangover or the effects of some illness. But now, studying her, he knew he had not been ill. No, it had been nothing that simple.

The memory of her expression as he’d executed his plan twisted in his gut, as it had every sleepless night in his solitary bed.

He remembered again Elizabeth had exploding out of her house in a burst of exuberance and flying skirts, rushing to greet him with the affection she found so easy to express. It had taken everything in him not to respond, to set her opposite him and keep himself uninvolved and separate.

When finally they’d arrived at La Belle, when they’d stood in front of that door, he’d struggled with indecision and almost lost his conviction. He’d almost turned back. Almost. But then she’d spoken and the teasing tone of her voice, the affection behind it, had firmed his resolve. He’d kept himself divorced from her, kept his face impassive as hers had fallen, as pain had replaced disbelief and devastation had replaced pain.

Only the flesh of his palms had displayed the cost of his disaffection. Three days later, the bloody crescents his nails had scored remained visible, though she’d never see them.

After leaving her with Barton and the whore, he’d gone to Lydia, no thought clear in his mind but to get away. Lydia had greeted him with open arms, had even tried to interest him in indulging in her favours. He’d let her, though while Lydia’s lips had feathered up his neck, as her hands had tangled in his hair, an insidious voice had whispered to him that this was truly the betrayal. Through it all, he’d forced himself to stay, and the whisper had grown to a shriek. But then, all whispers had silenced when Elizabeth had found him with Lydia in his lap.

From then, the evening had only worsened. Her face unreadable, Lydia had watched without a word as the door had closed. A strange happenstance, when usually he could discern her thoughts with little effort. Silence hung heavy until finally she bestirred herself to speak.

“What did you do to the girl?” Curiously, Lydia’s tone had held no inflection, and yet he’d heard condemnation nonetheless.

“I did what had to be done.” His own voice had remained unemotional. He still did not know how he had maintained the illusion.

Lydia’s gaze settled upon him and he’d shifted under its weight. In her eyes, he had seen the reflection of himself, of a man desperately trying to hide behind detachment. She had seen right through his careful act. How was it he’d become so easily decipherable?

Finally, she spoke. “What had to be done? Of course. It is plain to see the joy necessity has brought you.” She’d raised her fingers to his cheek, and he’d fancied he heard the faint stirrings of compassion in her tone.

Pushing her from his lap, he ignored her startled gasp as he’d begun to pace. “Why did you send her to me?”

The wariness in Lydia’s eyes should have been amusing. A month ago, it would have been. “There was no real reason. I thought her an interesting diversion.”

The laugh her words produced had tasted bitter, unpalatable to his tongue. What reply did he have to such a statement?

He’d left before his laughter had died, and Lydia had done nothing to prevent him. After returning to Malvern House, he’d retired to his solitary bed and proceeded to torment himself with reliving the moment he’d seen Elizabeth’s faith in him die.

Now, in the study where they had conducted most of their acquaintance, Malvern saw Elizabeth tense and knew she’d finally sensed his presence. Pushing away from the door, he ignored the shaking of his hands as he strode to his usual place behind his desk.

“Good evening, Elizabeth.” His voice did not waver. He seated himself, placing his hands against his desk, the unyielding wood halting that faint tremble. “Shall we begin?”

Eyes dark in a pale face, she looked upon him, unnervingly silent. He kept his gaze trained on her left ear, avoiding the reflection of his guilt in green eyes.

Bloody hell, why had she come? Why did she have to force herself upon him, make him remember what he’d done? “Well, Elizabeth? We have scant time, and must use it to our best advantage.”

The clock chimed on the mantle, indicating the turn of the hour and, ostensibly, the beginning of their lesson. Clenching his jaw, he hoped like hell none of what he was feeling was apparent.

Silence remained, and that impassiveness staring back at him as he concentrated fiercely on not looking at her. Somewhere in the house, a servant was calling to another, the purpose of their words muffled by the walls.

Then she spoke. “Why?”

Such a simple question. He should be able to answer it. Pushing violently away from the desk, he strode to the window, staring out into the black February night. He could see her reflection in the window pane, watching him without expression as she awaited his answer.

“Why not?” Ah, some degree of unconcern. Well done him for managing it. “You asked for tutorship. That is exactly what I provided.”

“Did you?” She gave a laugh devoid of humour. “I beg to differ.”

Staring past her reflection, he saw instead the ghostly outline of carriages and pedestrians, going about their nightly business with ease.

Turning from the window, he stalked the room, his skin suddenly too tight. His jacket tugged at his shoulders and the waistcoat he had donned, the one that had seemed so perfect, pinched under his arms.

She watched him, out of those dead green eyes that followed his every move. Raking a hand through his hair, he destroyed his carefully mussed coiffure, his hand snagging in the disordered curls.

And even yet, she watched him.

He forced himself to stillness, forced himself to look at her, arranged his face into an approximation of calm.

Her eyes were too large in her pale face, her mouth drawn into a faint line. “You see, I think that night had nothing to do with teaching me about pleasure. Nothing at all.” In an instant, the reticence broke and her face displayed her emotion. Her eyes burned with it. “Oh no, you were intent on showing me something else. You were trying to convince me you didn’t care.”

Nails dug into half-healed crescents. “Was I?”

She was correct to ignore him. “You were showing me this image you’ve cultivated—the hardened seducer who cares for nothing and no one—that was you, the real you. You were trying to put me at a distance.” Again, that humourless laugh. “Oh, Malvern, for all your supposed subtlety, you can be so very obvious.”

She had called him Malvern. At last, the distance he had desired. Now that it yawned between them, it was like a knife rending a hollow in his flesh.

“You see, I’ve thought about it. About you. These last three days, I’ve had plenty of time to think.” This time, the laugh ended on a strangled sob. “You thought you could push me away, didn’t you? What happened? Did I get too close? Did I make you feel something? You see how very well I know you, James?”

“You are babbling.” Making his voice colder, harsher, he coached his features into lines of detachment. “You do not flatter yourself, madam. You should cease such baseless notions.”

“Oh, very good, James. That’s it. Try to convince me I am wrong. Tell me I am overemotional. Tell me my notions are insane. Tell me—” Her voice broke. “Tell me you don’t care.”

This time, he couldn’t lie. Damn it, when it was so bloody important, he couldn’t lie.

“You see, James? You can’t do it, can you?” She clenched her hands in her lap, and the illusion of composure she’d wrapped about herself began to break. “For some reason, some time in your past, it was decided that you were a baseless seducer. And you, you allowed everyone to think the worst of you. You foster their assumptions by doing the barest minimum to confirm them.”

“I am what I am, madam.” His father’s words, coached in his voice. He stood firm as she stared at him, as patent disbelief flooded her features. Of course she didn’t believe him. She never had. She thought the best of him, when it was obvious to all he was not what she thought him.

He was not good. He was not kind. He couldn’t be the man she saw when she looked at him, and he would not be present the day she realised that.

It seemed he had rendered her speechless with six words. She stared at him. He returned her stare, incrementally squaring his shoulders.

Finally, she found her words. “You are what you are? Oh please. You do little more than have more than one mistress at a time. When have you ever ruined someone, James? Point him out to me. Have you stolen someone’s fortune, left them without means? Have you caused a death, in any manner? Have you destroyed an innocent girl’s virtue, her reputation? Show me.” Her gaze burned him. “Show me you are the bastard everyone believes you to be.”

Mutely, he stared at her, and could provide no proof. His father had done all those things and more, yet somehow he, Malvern—James—never had. He didn’t know how it had come to be that he had not, an accident of fate more than like, but he hadn’t.

It did not make her right, though. It did not make him good…it did not make him worthy.

“Again you stumble.” Her voice grew in volume. “You stumble, and you look at me with nothing on your face and yet I know. Everyone makes you out to be a heartless bastard, but I know.” Making a fist, she pounded her chest, the dull thud of the contact reverberating through him. Her eyes burned through her tears. “I know you’re not. You’re not, James. And that’s what hurts so much. You’re so concerned with protecting yourself that you don’t see what you’re doing to me. To us.” Her voice hardened and she became ice before his eyes. “And that is cruel.”

Wild emotion rose within him, though ruthlessly he clamped it down. Again, she displayed why he needed her gone. He would allow himself to feel sorry for her, though. Never had he wanted to see his own expression mirrored on her features. The death of innocence masked by apathy. On Elizabeth’s face, it was obscene.

Emotion rose again, and again he suppressed it.

Elizabeth stood. “I came tonight to tell you that you will have what you desire.” Features smooth, she had mastered the art of impassivity. It seemed she had learned more from him than pleasure. “Your plan has worked. Mayhap not in the way you envisioned, but one does not care how a thing happens, as long as it does. I will leave you to your devices, Malvern. You can pretend none of this ever happened if you like, even that I don’t exist. I will not stop you. I will not force my presence upon you. In fact, after this evening, you need never see me again.” She paused, and a trace of the old Elizabeth bled through. Pain, affection and an emotion he dared not name. “Thus, I bid you farewell, Malvern. Thank you for your tutelage. It has been…enlightening.”

Finally, he forced himself to speak. “Any time, my dear. Do recommend me to your friends.”

She froze and a garish smile stretched her mouth. She nodded jerkily.

Malvern watched her as she made her way across the room. He had done the right thing. Numbness embraced him with her every step. He had done the right thing.

A pace from leaving his life, maybe two, she stopped. Insane hope flared and he cursed himself for a fool.

“You know, I asked my brothers-in-law about you. They told me stories, about how you were malicious and cruel.” Her voice slid over him, her final caress.

Tracing the line of her back with his gaze, he knew it would be for the last time. And he wished he could see her face before she was gone.

“Those stories…they aren’t true. You aren’t any of those things. You’re simply scared. Of what you feel. What I feel. But you are an expert at pushing people away. Well, congratulations, Malvern.” She turned. He saw her face…and wished he hadn’t. “You have succeeded once more.”

 

***

 

MALVERN STARED AT THE door. She was gone.

The mantle clock chimed, a soft indication it had been two hours since she had left. Mild surprise rippled through him. Had he really been staring at the door for that long?

He could still smell her perfume. That delicate combination of flowers and musk that shouldn’t work but did upon her skin. It drifted through the room—diaphanous, delicate and fading with every moment.

Memories of her beckoned him from every corner. Elizabeth quoting poetry in a wickedly ribald tone, all waggling eyebrows and exaggerated winks. The absorption with which she watched him caress her, the absorption with which she’d caressed him. The way she would smile at him and then pull his mouth to hers. That little gasp she made when he was deep inside her. The way they would lie together on the chaise, her fingers trailing across his lips, his cheeks, his brow as they talked of nothing and everything.

Launching to his feet, he strode from the room. What was he about? His life was once again ordered, returned to the state that had served him well for all the years of his life. For all Elizabeth’s histrionics, his actions had been the correct ones. They had become too attached to each other. There was only harm and disillusionment if they continued. Her education had been an exercise to alleviate boredom, nothing more, and her overreaction would eventually become gratitude when she realised the escape she had made and make no mistake, it had been an overreaction. He’d done nothing irreparable, and she would forget. She would forget.

Malvern tore at the sudden constriction of the cravat strangling his throat. Stalking into his bedchamber, he shed the offending cloth and, for good measure, ripped off the too-severe waistcoat. This clothing no longer suited his purpose. He would change. He would wear different clothing, and then he would go to his club. No, not his club. Barton had mentioned something about an event of a more particular taste somewhere in Chelsea. He would attend that. Those events were always entertaining, and this had an added attraction.

It would also be distracting.

If he applied himself, the trip to Chelsea could also address an element that had been sorely lacking to this point. The appointment of a mistress would go a long way toward soothing his troubles. The house employed for that purpose had stood empty for too long, his focus wholly consumed by Eliz—by other considerations. He would choose a woman who was worldly. Sophisticated. One who might even teach his jaded soul a thing or two.

He paused. Even better, he would delay the search for a mistress. Why should he limit himself? He had been doing just that for too many months now, such he had entirely forgotten himself. It could be what he needed was a different woman every night, and never one who was blonde.

Yes, that was what he would do. He would fuck some woman, or a succession of them, in all the ways he could think of. He would get obscenely drunk and then tomorrow, he would do it all again.

Malvern stared at himself in the mirror, noting the lack of expression on the face, the deep brackets around the mouth, the hardness in the eyes. Coldness was his companion once more, and he welcomed it.

The aberration was over. He was as he had always been. Alone. Calm. In control.

He dressed, turned on his heel and left the house without a backward glance.