Page 21 of The Marchioness of his Desire
He reached out his hand and placed it gently on her arm. She tensed at his touch, her body growing rigid, and he took a step forward, so that they were almost touching. Rebecca’s maid raised her eyebrow. Rebecca did not shy away as he put his arms around her, leaning forward to kiss her forehead, a shiver of delight running through him as he did so.
“Did you not already make that decision long ago? You do not love him, Rebecca. I know you do not,” he whispered.
“But I know my duty,” she whispered.
“Then I can only appeal to your heart,” he said, and stepping back, he bowed and swiftly took his leave.
“Well?” Ian asked, when he had climbed back into the carriage.
“She will come round; it is the best hope for her,” Nicholas said, tapping his cane on the carriage roof and indicating for the driver to pull on.
“So, you are to be a married man?” Ian said, reaching over and taking Nicholas by the hand, shaking it vigorously.
“For convenience sake, yes, though I cannot promise to be the best of husbands to her,” he replied, and Ian frowned.
“Then why do it?”
“Because a part of me still loves her; it is not entirely a sorry state of affairs. But her heart is torn between duty and desire. I can only try to make amends for the scandal and see her reputation restored. I owe her that much,” Nicholas replied as they drove off through the park toward Somerset House.
* * *
Rebecca had little time to think of what had just occurred, though she could not help but admit it was an attractive proposition, for it was only a few moments after Nicholas had left that a second caller was announced, and Edward’s calling card was handed to her on a silver tray by the butler. A knot formed in Rebecca’s stomach, and her heart began to beat fast at her breast, knowing the awkwardness of what was to come. But what choice did she have but to speak with him? A moment later, there came a knock at the door, and she steeled herself for their encounter.
Edward bowed to her. Gone was his usual bantering joviality, and his face portrayed a serious disposition, such that she averted her eyes as she curtsied, awaiting his onslaught. Would he be outright angry with her? Or quiet and menacing like a snake, coiling itself around her and tightening his control? Her palms were clammy, and she tried her best to hide her terror as she waited for him to speak, the silent anticipation worse than the lashing of his tongue.
“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” he said, and Rebecca began to stutter.
“I do not know what came over me. It was a moment of mad stupidity, Edward. You must believe me,” she said.
“I trusted you, and to think that it was at the very moment of our betrothal. There I was, the happiest man in all of London, in all of England, with you upon my arm, until at the very first opportunity you slunk off to … to that man,” he growled.
“It was not like that, Edward. I had no idea that Nicky … Lord Somerset would be there. When I met him in the library, he was drunk, and his words barely made sense. The kiss meant nothing,” she said, though in truth it had meant everything.
“And I am supposed to believe that? What sort of woman behaves in that manner? I thought I knew you, Rebecca, but clearly I do not know you at all,” he said.
She looked at him sadly. Despite not loving him, she could not help but care for him. He had offered her salvation, a means of escape from this sorry life at the hands of her uncle, and one moment of madness had seen that all so easily cast away in the throes of a passion which would never come to more than scandal and sorrow.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, for there was nothing else that she could say.
“Sorry? Do you think that is enough? I am humiliated,” he said, and all of a sudden he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Edward, please, you are hurting me,” she cried, a wild look now coming over his face, as he gazed down at her, his whole body shaking with anger.
“You were promised to me,” he snarled, and she tried to push him away.
“Please, Edward, let me go,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
“What possessed you? Your name will be mud. You shall have nothing and no man, not even the great Nicholas himself will want you,” he cried, shaking her forcefully.
Rebecca had never seen this side of him before, the anger so palpable, his rage so eagerly aroused. He terrified her, and she wanted to flee, to cry out for help, in the face of this monster who had now turned upon her.
“I know, I have told you, it was a moment of madness, I could not – I would not …” she stuttered, as he raised his hand as though to strike her.
“I could cut you off; I could see that no man would ever touch you again. But I can be merciful, Rebecca. Yes, I can be merciful and forgiving. I have watched you and Nicholas these long years past, you always preferred him, did you not?” he asked, and now his words were soft and menacing.
“I … I did not know, he is a dear friend, we were all friends, but the two of you had that silly disagreement. I do not even know why you fell out. Were you jealous of him? His title, his time at Eton, the prospects he had? You seemed to change overnight, Edward. Once you were friends, and now it is as though the two of you are sworn enemies,” she said, unable to understand the animosity he displayed.
“A man who always believed he could take what he wanted, have whatever he wanted, was entitled to whatever he wanted. But I had to work for what I have, to prove to myself and to you that I was worthy. But oh no, Nicholas, the marquess, the heir to the Dukedom. Like father, like son. Taking what he wanted and with no thought to anyone else, least of all the poor, pathetic Edward Johnson. Ah, but now I have power, Rebecca. Power because of your actions,” he said, a smile playing over his face.
