Page 19 of The Marchioness of his Desire
“Rebecca can hardly be blamed for my waywardness, mother. I had to get away; I had to escape from this place,” Nicholas said, his anger rising.
“I have in mind a future for you, Nicholas, which does not involve Rebecca Paddington. She comes with much unwanted baggage, a young sister for a start, and I will not have your reputation tarnished further by association with her. She has all manner of strange and unattractive ideas, I have even heard that she believes a woman should have the right to inheritance and to work,” his mother replied, shaking her head in astonishment.
“Mother, she is a good person, a wonderful person. I will marry her. I will do the honorable thing,” Nicholas said, for it was that thought which had been foremost in his mind since the moment the scandal had been discovered.
His feelings for Rebecca were confused. When he had seen her that night, it had aroused in him so many thoughts from the past as to be almost overwhelming. He had loved her once, the pledge of the pocket watch given in all sincerity, but now... Had the kiss they shared been merely a passing passion, or did he still carry with him the flame of love he had tried so hard to suppress? It was his passion which had aroused him, the desire he felt for her, the feelings she ignited within him. He had wanted to possess her, to know her, to feel her lips against his and the tenderness of her touch. It had been a foolish thing, yet delightful in its memory.
“You will do no such thing. I forbid it,” his mother said, her hands gripping upon the arms of her chair.
“You have no right to tell me who I will marry. I refuse to listen to you. Am I not Lord Somerset? My father’s heir? It is I who will decide the matter, not a negotiation with you,” Nicholas said, rising to his feet. His head felt clearer now, and his anger was rising. He would not be told what to do, not by his mother, not by anyone.
“I have every right, Nicholas,” she replied, but he had heard enough, and without further acknowledgement, he stormed from the room, snatching the glass of brandy from the tray which Harrington had just carried up the stairs and downing the contents with one swing.
“Nick?” Ian said, as he rushed past him on the landing.
“Goodnight, Ian. Harrington, find Mr. Bennet some quarters. If my mother objects, tell her I insist upon it,” he called out, and without further ado, he hurried to his chambers, slamming the door behind him and turning the key in the lock.
He sank to the floor, his head in his hands and a sense of utter despair running through him. Had he cost Rebecca her happiness that night? It filled him with such sorrow to think it, and despite his mother’s words to the contrary, Nicholas had every intention of setting right the wrong he had done.
* * *
Rebecca was glad that her uncle slept late the next morning. She and Laura enjoyed a peaceful breakfast together, though she knew all too well that his wrath would soon be on display once more. It was a bright spring day, and the doors leading out into the garden were open so that the sound of birdsong filled the dining room, and a sweet, fresh breeze wafted inside.
She had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning, tears in her eyes at the thought of the devastation now wrought. The scandal was certain to have been disseminated far and wide, the breakfast tables of the capital awash with gossip about the sight of Lady Rebecca Paddington in the arms of Lord Somerset, when only a matter of moments earlier she was announcing her betrothal to the world.
“May we go to the park today?” Laura asked, as she folded her napkin and asked to be excused.
“Not today, Laura. I would rather stay inside,” Rebecca replied, for she had no wish to be seen in society that day, or perhaps ever.
The calm of that peaceful spring morning hid the gathering storm, and she was anxious to know whose hand would be played first in the forthcoming drama. Would it be Nicholas, begging forgiveness or Edward, dismissing her outright and assuring her that her name would be forever mud?
As it happened, it was neither the Marquess nor the naval officer who called first that morning, but rather Samantha and Catherine arrived just as Rebecca was finishing breakfast. There was still no sign of Rebecca’s uncle, and she had Lyddie bring them tea in the morning room, grateful for the companionship of the two women she could count on to be far more forgiving of her faults than others would be.
“Not everyone is talking about it,” Catherine said, taking a sip of tea and fixing Rebecca with a reassuring smile.
“And there is bound to be some fresh scandal at court in the days to come. The Regent cannot go a week without some intrigue involving the Fitzherbert woman,” Samantha said.
“Am I to be compared to a Popish harlot?” Rebecca said, raising her eyebrows at Samantha, who laughed and shook her head.
“I am only suggesting that it is not as bad as you think. Today your name is mud; tomorrow it will be someone else’s,” she said.
“Yours if you continue your association with me,” Rebecca replied.
“Oh, rubbish, Becks. We would stand by you through thick and thin, though my mother did forbid me from seeing you,” Catherine said.
“Then why are you here?” Rebecca asked, astonished to hear that she should have created such animosity so quickly amongst the titled classes.
“Since when did I ever listen to anything my mother and father said? If I did, I would already be the Marchioness of Sussex, married to that ghastly Henry Bloom and mother to his children. No thank you. Neither Samantha nor I can understand why you are so desperate to marry. Besides, maybe it was a good thing. If you must marry, then Nicholas is a far better match. I always thought so,” she said, and Samantha nodded.
“I can think of nothing worse than walking down the aisle and promising subjection to a man. But if that is what you want, then so be it. Their posteriors are both acceptable,” Samantha said, winking lusciously at Rebecca.
“I do not think I shall have the choice of possessing either posterior. Not now,” Rebecca replied.
They were doing their best to cheer her up, but the thought of all which lay ahead hung heavily on her mind, and Rebecca was in no mood for light heartedness. They had just finished taking tea when the door of the morning room flew open, and her uncle stood before them, wreathed in a silk smoking jacket with a glass of brandy in hand.
“Lord Weston,” Samantha said, as she and Catherine rose and curtsied.
“What is this? Act one of Macbeth? How now ye hags,” Rebecca’s uncle said, and Samantha laughed.
