Page 13 of The Broken Marchioness (Lords of Inconvenience #3)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I t’s not easy to talk about.”

Allan couldn’t stop staring at Frederica now. He wasn’t even sure he blinked as he waited for her to speak. The emotion on her face was ragged, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She turned away from him, running her hand up from her chest to her neck, almost as if she intended to stifle the words which wished to escape from her lips.

Allan didn’t know what else to do to make her speak, but there was something here he did not know, something he had to know if he was going to ever have any chance of making Frederica happy in this house.

“Freddie,” he softened his voice, surprised when that new nickname fell from his lips again. She turned to face him, those glistening eyes wide. He walked toward her, stopping when he was just a few inches in front of her. “You can trust me with anything. I need you to know that.”

Something relented in her face. A tear slipped out of her eye, and she brushed it hastily away.

“I know,” she said shakily. “You have helped me when no other would.”

“Then trust me now,” he pleaded, hurrying to find a handkerchief in his pocket. Rather than proffering it to her, he gently wiped away another tear, aware of the way she stared up at him in wonder.

It was a moment of softness and intensity. He didn’t want to break away from this closed-off feeling, the sensation that they were the only two people in the world.

“It was my other scandal,” she whispered.

With the words, that soft illusion broke. He passed her the handkerchief. She fiddled with it, staring down at it as she began her story.

“He wouldn’t let me go.”

“What do you mean?” Allan asked, his voice gratingly quiet.

“I mean from the moment we met, he was insistent. He was determined that we should marry. Oh, I could not stand him.” She turned away and moved toward the winged chair, gripping to the back of it. “He terrified me. He looked at me in a certain way. It was unlike anything I had ever known.”

“But you —” He walked toward her, reaching the chair, but she cut him off.

“I put myself in a dangerous situation. I made myself alone in a library. It was my own foolishness that I thought I was safe. My father was right. It was my doing. My doing that led to what happened next.”

It was not.

Yet Allan didn’t want to interrupt her again. He was determined to hear everything he had to know.

“He came,” she said in a horrified whisper, staring down at the handkerchief as she no longer tried to mop up the tears on her cheeks. “He insisted we married. He talked about love, but it wasn’t love.” She shivered. “It was possession he wanted.”

Allan watched her, examining every inch of the terror on her face. Never had he seen her so petrified.

“He tried to kiss me, and I pushed him off. I attempted to flee the room, but he was so tall and strong, he had me in his arms when the door opened, and we were seen together. I had to attack him to run. I threw a candle at him and just kept on running. I ran all the way to Charlotte’s house.”

Her breath hitched, and she stammered as she carried on. “I ran to a place I knew I could be safe.”

“Where?” Allan asked gently. “Where did you go?”

“To my aunt’s. Aunt Honora. My father and mother do not know. They don’t like her.” Her face softened into a sad smile. “She is the best of women. She took me in at her home in Cornwall. She never questioned me and just welcomed me with open arms. I thought I was safe until…”

She looked up from the handkerchief. “A letter arrived. From him. He insisted that I return to London, and that if I did not return, he would hurt Dorothy.”

Allan flung his hands into his hair, for it all suddenly made sense. He understood why Frederica was so desperate to find his sister that night at the Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

“You returned for her,” he whispered.

“I didn’t know what else to do. The morning we married, he sent me another letter,” she said, her voice still shuddering. “He’s obsessive. He told me to call off the wedding, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“That’s who you were looking for throughout the ceremony, every time you looked at the door,” Allan realized in horror. “You were fearful of him arriving to stop it.”

“I was.” She nodded firmly, now raising that handkerchief to dry some of her tears. “You see, Allan? This is all my fault. If I had not put myself in a vulnerable situation, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“That’s mad.”

“It’s not!” she insisted. “I am right to feel my parents’ censure.”

Dead air fell between them.

Allan wasn’t sure who he was more disgusted at — her parents or the man who had pursued her so vigorously. He wanted to ask the name of this gentleman, but also feared what he was capable of if he knew this man’s name. He might well fling himself from the house and go and hunt him down to break something and make sure he could never get Frederica alone again.

“Do you understand now?” she whispered after a minute of silence.

Allan still didn’t speak. He slowly rounded the chair, moving toward her.

“Please, say something, Allan,” she begged.

He reached toward her, offering his hand. He didn’t take it, for he would never force anything from her. Instead, he waited patiently. She tucked his handkerchief into her other hand then placed her palm in his.

Ever so slowly, so he could judge her reaction all the way, he raised her hand to his lips. Across the tops of her cheeks, there was a sudden pinkening. It gave him hope where he had not dared to hope before.

She is affected by me as much as I am by her.

He held that kiss to her hand far longer than he had done in the church at the end of the marriage ceremony. Slowly, he lowered that hand again, feeling his gut still trembling with excitement at the touch.

“Now, tell me, was that kiss your fault?” he whispered.

“What?” she asked, blinking madly.

“Was it your fault? Was it in any way your doing?” he pressed, his words slow.

“No.”

“Exactly,” he said with feeling, being careful to keep his voice quiet now. “I did what I wished to do. So how could that possibly be your fault? That night, this pursuer of yours did what he wanted. You see how that was not your fault either?”

Her lips parted. There appeared to be a lightening of her shoulders as she breathed in. The smallest of smiles appeared on her lips though it faded fast.

“You see?” he asked, desperate for her to agree.

“But…” Then her expression soured again. “Even if you’re right, and it was not my fault, people still were hurt because of me. My parents will always be ashamed and hurt by what happened. That is something I can’t undo, is it?”

Horrified, Allan released her hand. All the excitement he had felt at that touch withered away too.

“So, you intend to still suffer their censure? Even though you are blameless?”

“I’m not blameless. I’m still responsible for them being hurt.” She dropped her chin down. “They were right to speak to me as they did.”

“I never want to hear anyone speaking of you in such a belittling way. Least of all you! I do not understand you.” He shook his head and walked away. Allan knew he had to get away at once, or he feared saying something that he would regret in his anger.

“What? Where are you going? Allan?” she called to him.

He stepped into the corridor where he saw the gift he had purchased for her. Just the sight of it made him even angrier than before.

He grabbed hold of it and returned it to the room, not quite giving it straight to her but placing it heavily down on the table between them.

“For you,” he said darkly. “For correspondence.”

“Allan. You are giving me a gift? Why?”

“Because you may think you are not worthy of respect, but I do.” Allan threw the words over his shoulder as he marched from the room.

* * *

Even the scents of the roses could do little to distract Allan. He’d been sitting in the garden for what felt like hours. Mrs. Long had brought him tea, for which he had thanked her, but other than that, he sat alone, staring at the myriad of roses around him and thinking of all that Frederica had said.

She thinks so little of herself.

He regretted the way he had handed her the gift. He’d intended for that to be a nice moment between them and not the act of frustration it had ended up being, but he couldn’t turn back the hands of his pocket watch and do it all again.

A memory kept buzzing in the back of his mind. It was a conversation he’d had long ago about Dorothy in which they were discussing Frederica. It was one of the times he’d asked Dorothy if she knew where Frederica was hiding. Dorothy had denied it though the lie was obvious. When Allan asked if pretending not to know was helping anyone, Dorothy’s reply was tart.

“I’m helping Frederica. Trust me, Allan. Little good could come from her parents finding her now.”

He was tempted to agree with Dorothy all of a sudden, wondering if the fact Frederica thought so little of herself was all down to her parents.

A soft sound nearby drew his attention, and he looked up. Across the rose garden, standing between white roses, was Frederica. She hadn’t noticed him and was carrying a basket in her hands as she cut fresh flowers. She had to be preparing the stems for a vase, for she kept holding them together, examining how they would complement one another before placing them into the basket.

Move, you foolish man.

Allan urged himself to his feet. He walked up behind her to watch what she was doing.

“The roses in the bed to your left have the finer scent.”

“Oh, dear God.” She whipped around in alarm, dropping her basket.

Allan reached out and barely grabbed the basket in time to stop all the stems dropping to the floor.

“I see I am continuing to upset you today then,” he murmured, offering to carry the basket for her with a gesture.

“No, no, you just surprised me,” she said quickly, blushing so red that she competed with some of the reddest roses in a nearby bed. “Is this where you have been hiding all day?”

“It is.” He nodded. “It’s my safe space.” He looked at the roses around them. “I love my garden.”

“I…” she started somewhat timidly, motioning to the basket in his grasp. “I wanted to say sorry for how heated things were between us earlier. I planned to bring some of the blooms into the house.”

“You do not need to apologize,” he said keenly. “It is I who should apologize to you after making you relive such sadness. How about I accompany you as you pick the flowers? If you can stand my company, of course,” he teased her.

She offered the smallest of smiles.

“If you behave.” The fact she teased him back gave him hope. It was a glimmer of the Frederica he had seen that night in the Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

She walked along the roses, smelling the blooms he had told her had the finest scents.

“These are beautiful,” she whispered. “Do you throw such care into everything you do? Or just the garden?”

“I’m capable of more than just caring for my garden, you know,” he said with a low chuckle. She looked at him with a sort of mock surprise, raising her eyebrows. “I am,” he insisted. She turned away though he caught a hint of her smile as she reached to cut another bloom from a nearby bush. “I could care a lot more about things.”

If you would let me care for you.

Though her back was firmly to him at this moment.

“Maybe not this one.” He picked up one of the yellow roses from the basket.

“Why not?” She turned to face him again, attempting to take the yellow rose from his grasp. “It’s a pretty color.”

“And you’ll often find flies hiding in it.” He tried to tussle it from her, their fingers fumbling together across the stem.

“I could pull them out. It will make up the display perfectly,” she insisted.

“Ah, I like how you can state your opinion with me at least,” he said in challenge, still holding onto the rose.

“Of course, I can.” She smiled up at him, matching that challenge. “You are easy to state my opinion with.”

“Good. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He froze with his hand on the rose as did she.

It was that moment of softness again, the same sort of intensity he had felt in the parlor earlier that day.

A wild idea entered his head; it was the same idea he’d had some time ago now, a longing to kiss her, to indulge in a thrill that maybe could help them both forget all the sadness that had been between them that morning. His eyes even looked down at her lips.

He could picture it well. He could imagine brushing his lips against Frederica’s chastely and softly, not demanding but encouraging.

It certainly wasn’t in his imagination that she was looking at his lips too.

Now was the moment. Their fingers even slid together on the stem of the rose. He felt her touch against his own. It was soft and inviting, and he even had a mad idea of dropping the basket of roses, so he could take her in his arms and show her just how much he wished to act on all this attraction and softness between them, how much he longed to see what it could be like between them if she just lowered her walls to him.

Then he remembered her story with her last suitor. He recalled how she had been alone and felt trapped.

I will never force anything upon her.