Page 15 of The Marchioness of his Desire
“Gah, she is yours, sir,” he said, slurring his words and raising a brandy glass in his right hand.
“Thanks to you, your Lordship,” Edward replied, and Rebecca could not help but grimace.
“What is wrong with you, gal? Are you never happy? I find you a husband; I take care of you. What more do you want, eh?” her uncle said, shaking his head.
“Would you excuse me a moment. I must go to the retiring room,” she said, and her uncle laughed.
“These women, forever powdering and preening themselves,” he said.
“Rebecca, do not tardy there long, and do not let yourself be distracted by others,” Edward said, glancing at the other men around the room, many of them known for their lascivious and rakish reputations.
“I only wish a moment to collect myself; it has all been rather a shock,” Rebecca said, and without waiting for a reply, she hurried off across the room.
“Be sure to be back soon,” Edward called after her.
Samantha and Catherine were talking together in the retiring room, and they looked up in astonishment as Rebecca entered, the two of them shaking their heads.
“You did it then, even after what you said,” Catherine said, as Rebecca flung herself into one of the chairs with a deep sigh.
“What choice did I have? The decision is made,” she said as Samantha poured her a glass of water from the half empty carafe on the bureau.
“He is attractive enough, and the matchwillsee you and Laura freed from your uncle’s dreadful clutches,” she said, handing Rebecca the glass of water.
“But is that enough? I have no love for him and …” Rebecca said, pausing, as the image of Nicholas flashed before her eyes.
“There are many women here tonight who would give their back teeth for a posterior like his. Can you imagine what he will be like between the sheets?” Catherine said, and the two women began to giggle.
But Rebecca did not find it funny. The sight of Nicholas had unsettled her, the memories of their last parting returning, and the thoughts of all which might have been now fixed firmly in her mind. She tried to think of Laura and of the freedom they would have in escaping the clutches of their uncle, but there could be no freedom for her, not in the unhappiness of a match with a man she did not love. Firm posterior or not, he was not the man for her.
“But you know that my heart lies elsewhere,” she said, taking a sip of water and gazing vacantly into the distance.
“And for your own sake it must be retrieved,” Samantha replied. “He is here tonight, you know.”
“I know that,” Rebecca said, “I saw him, just as Lord Sefton made the announcement. It was like the bolting of the stable door, a moment after the horse has fled.”
“But you will not become an old mare, Becks. Come along, cheer yourself up. You are betrothed, a marriage lies ahead, and you shall have everything you ever wanted,” Samantha said, and Rebecca sighed.
“Except the happiness I have always wanted,” she replied, and, finishing her glass of water, she excused herself.
She was not yet ready to return to the fray and endure the further congratulations of the aristocratic crowd gathered for the evening. Instead, she turned away from the sounds of the party and made her way along the corridor toward the hallway. Doors led off on either side, and she paused by the first she came to, listening, lest she unwittingly interrupt a private assignation.
But no sound came from within, and she opened the door, hoping to spend a moment alone and collect her thoughts. As she stepped inside, however, she realized the room was occupied. A man slumped in a chair by the fireplace looked up, as though startled, and to her horror she came face to face with the familiar gaze of Nicholas.
“Nick … Lord Somerset,” she gasped, and he raised his glass to her.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said, his words slurred, but the expression on his face one of the utmost delight.
Chapter Five
“Forgive me, I should go,” she began, but he beckoned her forward, her curiosity overcoming any sense of scandal which their being alone might arouse.
“Congratulations,” he said, raising his glass once again.
It was clear that he was drunk, the smell of brandy lying heavy and heady in the air, a solitary candle burning at his side. She felt confused by his words. Surely, he did not mean them? Or perhaps he did? Perhaps he had let go of his feelings for her, a thought which made her own situation far worse to contemplate.
“I thank you, my Lord,” she said, and he laughed, staggering to his feet, and leaning on the mantelpiece.
“Nick, Nicky, is that not what you used to call me? There was a time, Rebecca, Becks, there was a time when you and I were on the most intimate of terms,” he said, stumbling forward and sending his brandy sloshing about in his glass.
