Page 11 of Daring the Forbidden Earl
There is no way to rewind the clock, Johanna. Believe me, I wish there was.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift back to the first time he had seen her. She had been a young girl of four-and-ten, while he had been three-and-twenty, and had returned home to tend to his ailing mother. His real mother, not the usurper. He had not noticed Johanna, then, for his mind had been otherwise occupied, and she had been nothing but a child who was not really welcome at the country estate where his mother was suffering.
Four years later, they had crossed paths again and it had been an entirely different story. He had not long buried his mother and had fallen into a well of despair, when Johanna had arrived at the house like a ray of sunshine, piercing through his gloomy misery. He still remembered what she had been wearing—a gown of jade-green, brushed satin, with daisies in her hair.
“How I would have loved to have plucked those daisies,” he groaned in his daydreaming.
He had been besotted with her the very moment he had set eyes upon her, in her new womanhood. And he had hoped she harbored similar feelings, after they had spent their afternoons and evenings wandering the gardens, talking of everything and anything. He could still picture her shy smiles and coy glances, and the overwhelming desire her coquettishness had sparked within him. But, for once, it had been more than just raw, animal lust.
You might have been the only one I would have contemplated marrying, and then… Well, then you stabbed me in the back.
“I have something to tell you,” she had said, during one of their balmy, summer afternoon walks. They had paused on the bridge that traversed the river which bordered the estate, and he remembered leaning close to her as they stared down, together, at the minnows darting below.
His heart had leapt, thinking she was about to confess her feelings. “I believe there is something I have to tell you, too,” he had replied, gathering his courage. Before her, he had promised never to love, or seek love. Yet he had not been able to help himself, knowing that if he did not tell her that he adored her, then she might be swept up by another.
“I must go first.” She had sighed softly, but he had mistaken the meaning of that hushed breath.
He had nodded politely. “Of course, Miss Clevedon.” That had been her name, then. Johanna Clevedon. He had much preferred that young woman, though she was dead to him now.
“I… I am to… Goodness, why is this so difficult to say?” She had swallowed uncomfortably, fixing her gaze on the woodland ahead. “I am to marry your uncle. My father has arranged it, and your uncle has agreed. We are to be wed after the banns have been announced.”
Mark still recalled the way his heart had physically ached inside his chest as she had given him that terrible news. Had she been engaged to anyone else, he might have been able to forgive her, and in time, forget her. But to hear that she was to wed that man that he hated more than anyone in this world… He was not proud of it, but he had stormed away from her that day, and had not said another word to her until she had departed with her new husband.
After that, they had seen each other from time to time at various gatherings and social occasions, but he had only deigned to exchange words with her if he was forced to by his father and stepmother. Indeed, he would have been perfectly happy if he had never seen her again. That moment on the bridge had renewed his determination to avoid love at all costs, for it only ever seemed to end in heartbreak or worse.
Why love one woman when you can share a different kind of sensation with countless women?
He smiled in the hopes it might raise his spirits, but his usual code of seductive conduct echoed hollow in his head. Perhaps that was why he was so genteel when it came to rejecting women, for he had suffered a painful rejection of his own.
“Your letters, My Lord.” Chalke appeared, bearing a tray of tea things in one hand and a tray of letters in the other. It was quite the juggling act, and Mark feared the fellow might trip and upend everything. That might have given him a much-needed dose of levity.
“Apologies, My Lord,” the manservant said, evidently realizing the awkwardness in the room. “I did not mean to look over your correspondence, but I noticed a letter at the top that was not addressed to you. I was wondering if you wanted me to send it back out with the afternoon’s post?”
Puzzled, Mark thumbed through the small pile of letters until he found the one Chalke was referring to. The moment he saw the name upon the front, his eyes widened to the whites:Mrs. J. Carlton.
“Um… no, that is quite all right,” Mark said, a touch too quickly. “The Countess of Keswick is acquainted with Mrs. Carlton, so I will pass the letter to her the next time I visit.”
Chalke bowed. “Very good, My Lord.”
With that, the manservant left Mark to his moral conundrum. It was poor form to open another person’s letter, but ithadbeen delivered to his townhouse, so it was technically his mail. And the name on the front could be confused with his, if he squinted his eyes until they blurred.
I can always seal it again when I am done…
“No, I should not.” He threw the letter back down upon the silver tray as though it were too hot to touch. There, it seemed to thrum with some mystical vibration, drawing his gaze to it.
Feeling anxious, he pushed himself up out of the leather armchair and crossed to the window. He looked out at the street beyond, where carriages clattered by, and young girls in threadbare gowns tried to sell ribbons from broken baskets. All the while, the letter continued to call to him, tempting him with its Siren song.
“I could just take a quick look, so I know if it is urgent or not,” he said, as though to give himself permission.
He hurried over to the drawing room door and closed it firmly, so Chalke would not appear unannounced and catch him in the act. Heart thumping rapidly, he crept back over to the armchair and sat down, unable to find a comfortable spot for his backside.
“No… I cannot. It is beneath me.” He turned his face away from the letter and chewed on his bottom lip as the compulsion to snatch it up swelled inside him. Why, he was behaving like a young lady who had just received her first love letter.
His glance darted back to the irksome item. “No, Ishouldread it. If I wait until I see Nora again, and the letter calls for immediate action, then it will be too late, and perhaps something terrible will happen.” He snorted. “Something more terrible than seeing her wed to that disgusting worm.”
Reaching out, he tiptoed his fingertips across the varnished table and onto the silver tray. Pinching the letter between his two forefingers, he slid it back toward him, until it rested in his nervously jigging lap.
Do it, man! You can ask for clemency later!
