Part 18 (2/2)
She spun around to see Antonia standing in the curve under the entrance hall staircase. Her daughter inspected her, eyes wary and bright with concern.
”Antonia, what are you doing there?” Marissa asked more sharply than she intended. ”You weren't eavesdropping again, were you?”
Those golden eyes widened, the picture of offended innocence. ”No, Mamma, of course not,” Antonia protested. ”I was just coming up from the kitchen. Cook made gingerbread today.”
Her beautiful girl held up a thick piece of fragrant cake. She looked so pious that Marissa gave a reluctant laugh.
”Very well, my love. I believe you. This time. But you know very well you shouldn't be snooping about the entrance hall.”
Her daughter's face split into an enchanting grin. She took a healthy bite of the gingerbread, ignoring the motherly reprimand.
Antonia's slight figure went fuzzy as Marissa blinked away the tears blurring her vision. How in G.o.d's name could she ever leave her own child behind? The pain of it just might kill her.
She silently scolded herself for the momentary weakness. What she did, she did for Antonia. To keep her safe, untainted by the mistakes of her family. It was Marissa's choice, and the only one that made sense.
”Come along, darling,” she said, forcing a smile. ”I must go out soon, but there's still time for us to read a story together.”
Antonia slipped a warm hand into hers as they mounted the stairs. ”What were you and Uncle Edmund talking about, Mamma?”
Marissa frowned, trying to look stern. ”Nothing you need to know. You're far too curious, Antonia. It's not at all ladylike for you to pry into other people's affairs, especially those of your elders.”
Antonia looked aggrieved. ”But no one ever tells me anything.”
Marissa ran a gentle hand over her daughter's glossy curls. She would have to tell the child everything, and soon enough. But not tonight.
The words caught in her throat. ”You should be happy that they don't.”
Russell Square, London.
Marissa stood quietly before him, garbed in a grey, modestly cut evening dress a perfect example of an aristocratic widow, so untouchable she might as well have been on the moon. But touch her Anthony would, and soon. In fact, it would be a miracle if he didn't pull her down on to the carpeted floor of his study and shred every article of expensive clothing from her body.
Even if it made him feel like the most callous brute in England.
”There's no need to stand on ceremony,” he said. ”Please have a seat.”
She frowned and remained where she was, likely because his suggestion came out sounding like a command.
He sighed. ”Marissa, I would rather you not stand there like a disobedient child waiting for a scold.”
She made a small, scoffing noise but took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the sofa. Her trembling fingers betrayed her nervousness. He thought he should be deriving some satisfaction from that, but he wasn't.
Ever since she left his offices that afternoon, he had been struggling with a growing sense of remorse. He didn't like it. But her outburst had forced him to consider that Marissa probably had been a target of her father's retribution, just as she claimed. He was a fool for not realizing that sooner, but the wounded boy of thirteen years ago had lacked the understanding that came with being a man.
Not that Anthony was ready to forgive her at least not yet. The possibility still existed that she was trying to manipulate him with her tale of woe. Better to wait and hear what she had to say.
And he hoped to G.o.d she said yes. He had been in a painful state of arousal all afternoon, all because of one d.a.m.n little kiss that hadn't lasted much more than a minute.
”Something to drink? A sherry, perhaps,” he offered. Whatever she had to say, alcohol would make it easier for both of them.
She took her seat, perching on the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt. Clearly, it would take more than one drink to settle her nerves.
”I'll have a brandy. And please make it a big one,” she said in a clipped voice.
He bit back a smile and poured out two gla.s.ses of the finest French brandy his s.h.i.+ps could smuggle into England.
After handing her the gla.s.s, he settled into a chair opposite the sofa. As much as he wanted to crowd her, something held him back. That d.a.m.ned remorse, he supposed, or the strained look around her eyes and the slight quiver of her pink mouth. Marissa had always been pluck to the backbone, but tonight she seemed as fragile as a b.u.t.terfly emerging from its coc.o.o.n.
”Have you reached your decision?” His voice came out on a husky pitch.
”I have,” she said, her air both tragic and dignified. ”I will agree to your terms if you will defer my brother's debt to his satisfaction and provide appropriately for my daughter.”
His heart stopped, then started again, thumping out a painful tattoo. His intellect had told him she would agree she had no real choice but his bone-deep sense of her had expected more resistance.
”I'm gratified by your decision,” he said, struggling to keep the sound of relief from his voice. The last thing he wanted was for her to realize the power she still wielded over him.
He came to his feet and moved to sit next to her. She stiffened, but didn't shy away.
”I'm curious, though,” he continued. ”Why did you decide to agree?” He was more than curious. Suddenly, it seemed imperative he know the reasons why as if his future depended upon it.
”Not for Edmund's sake, if that's what you're thinking,” she said with a scowl. ”You were right about him he's not worthy of the sacrifice. I do this to provide for my daughter.”
Her azure eyes briefly met his. She looked pathetically valiant, like a tragic queen in a melodrama. Or Joan of Arc consigning herself to the flames.
Frustration had him clenching his teeth as it dawned on him that he had no desire to take a martyr to his bed. Not even if that martyr was Marissa. Her n.o.ble self-sacrifice would freeze him more thoroughly than a winter storm in the North Atlantic.
”Is that the only reason?” he growled.
Her startled gaze flew to his. He didn't bother to hide his irritation.
She studied his face, probing for answers to unspoken questions. Then she blushed an enchanting shade of pink and dropped her gaze.
”No,” she whispered. ”It's not the only reason.”
He waited impatiently. ”Well?” he finally prompted.
She met his eyes, and he saw a hint of her old fire. ”You didn't deserve what happened to you.”
”So, you're offering yourself up as a means of atonement, is that it?”
Her mouth kicked up in a wry smile. ”Something like that.”
He took a gulp of brandy, feeling gloomier by the minute. This was not how he had envisioned the scene playing out. He should be feeling triumphant after all those years spent developing his schemes, step by careful step. Vengeance against the Joslins against her had given his life purpose. And now, when he had prevailed and Marissa was finally under his thrall, what did he truly feel?
Not triumph. Not even simple satisfaction. What he felt was . . . hollow. As if he'd lost something important he could never get back.
Anthony captured her elegant chin between his fingers. ”Did you mean what you said today?” he asked harshly. ”That you were desperate to find me?” She tried to pull away but he tightened his grip, forcing her to meet his gaze. ”I want the truth, Marissa. No more lies or secrets. Not any more.”
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