Page 39 of When the Marquess Needed Me (The Rake Chronicles #4)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

L eith was barely conscious on the journey back to London. He stopped at inns and rested the horses as Preston demanded. He ate and slept.

But he could not think. He could not form any coherent thoughts.

He could only feel her loss. And feel how, if it continued, he would scarcely be able to recover.

When he got to Mrs. Bercine’s, she took one look at him and his grim countenance and pushed a glass of whiskey upon him.

“Thank you.”

“Where is your woman?” she asked.

He merely shook his head. And then, just briefly, she placed a hand on his shoulder and swept off.

Even that small touch of mercy had tears prickling behind his eyes. He blinked them away and swallowed the whiskey.

On this journey back, Leith traveled only with Preston. Charles had not come with them. Leith had asked the boy—it was clear that he needed to stay in Somerset with Sally. Given Leith’s new appreciation for love, he had not been able to reproach him. He had pressed ten guineas into his palm and told him that he’d always have a place with him if he needed it.

On the approach to London, his brain began to awaken somewhat under the effect of the familiar sights. But the turn of these thoughts only made him worse.

He thought of Monty. And the thirteen years the man had lived in the state that Leith now found himself.

Leith had not thought it possible for him to feel worse.

He was wrong.

Because he understood anew Monty’s suffering. And that it was he who had condemned another man, his best friend, to this miserable state. Leith had only been without Beatrice for two days and he had never known such acute misery. He did not think he would have the strength to endure what Monty had—and it terrified him. That he had been the means of delivering his friend to that horrible fate… He had never felt more worthless.

When he arrived back at his Leith Manor, he lurched through the door.

His only thought was of sleep. Perhaps, he thought, he could at least be unconscious to these horrible feelings.

“Thomas? Is that you?”

His mother.

He almost ignored her. He took a step towards the stairs.

But then, something, perhaps just age-old habit, or a boyish wish to have his mother comfort him, stopped him.

Leith walked towards the drawing room and stood in the doorway.

There, his mother sat, in her usual spot on the sofa, Bonaparte curled on her lap and a French novel in her hand.

“Darling,” she said, looking up at him. “You look dreadful.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

“Come here,” she said, alarm spread across her features.

He walked towards like a man going to the gallows. Since boyhood, he had tried to give her no trouble or anxiety. He had wanted to be in control of himself so that he may cause her no concern. But now, he knew, there was no hiding his true state.

“Sit,” she directed, and he obeyed, sitting next to her. “What happened?”

He opened his mouth to give a gruff retort but then found he could not make a sound. He closed his mouth again.

“Have you quarreled with Monty?”

His mother’s face was placid. She had been beautiful as a younger woman and she was beautiful now as an older woman, her blond hair half faded to white, her light blue eyes giving her kindness an imperious air.

He had never told her about his latest quarrel with Monty. No, he realized, she was referencing the times in boyhood and as a young man when they had fought over trifles. It had always soured his mood.

“Or Trem? Or the duke?”

He shook his head and swallowed.

“Is it Miss Salisbury then?”

He nodded, feeling faintly humiliated that he was so transparent.

“Oh, my darling. I am sure it is not as hopeless as it seems at present. I did like her. Although I suppose I would like anyone who touched your heart.”

“What do you mean?” he said, finally managing words.

“Well, I could tell by the way you looked at her that night at the opera that she was different. And then you disappeared altogether. I had so hoped—well, I hoped you had finally found love.”

“I did,” he said, unable to meet her eye. “But it all—” He completed the sentence by raising his hand and then letting it fall.

“Ah, I see. Well, perhaps, all is not lost.”

He wanted to believe his mother. But her words did nothing to lessen the ice that had settled around his heart.

“She has returned to Somerset. To be with her family there.”

“Well then, perhaps, my darling, you will have to go to Somerset.”

“She doesn’t want me there.”

“Have you talked of marriage? I know you are a traditionalist when it comes to these matters but, really, Thomas, if it is a matter of love—”

“ I am a traditionalist? Mother, you are one of the patronesses of Almack’s.”

She sighed. “ That I cannot deny. And I admit, in my younger years, I took comfort in adhering to the rules. Perhaps I made you too worried of breaking them.”

He scoffed. “I have hardly been an angel.”

“Oh, I know. You are a Rank Rake , darling. And now the last one standing. But even when you or your friends were at your wildest, you were always the one who strayed the least far from convention.”

“I never wanted to worry you. Overly.”

“I know, my love. And now I’ve gone and done something that has worried you.”

He grunted. “So you’re still marrying Gresham, then?”

“Yes, my darling.”

“Has the gossip been terrible?”

She sighed. “Well, they haven’t been kind. I am not sure how much longer I will be a patroness at Almack’s. But I had hardly enjoyed the work for years. So it is not a loss.”

“I suppose you really love Gresham.” It was odd to him that his mother might be possessed by something like the passion he felt for Beatrice. But it had to be something similar to drive her to take this step.

“I do. I loved Louisa with all my heart. As did he. And now we love each other very much. I do not think she would be cross.”

“I am sorry. For what I said before. I never thought you would remarry.”

“Neither did I. And it pains me to have my title change away from the one I share with you. But perhaps it will not sting as much if a new marchioness comes in while I am going out.”

“There seems little hope of that.” He sighed. “But I have proposed marriage. Since you are wondering.”

“She did not accept?”

He shook his head.

She covered his hand with her own. “It is a heavy thing, becoming the wife of a marquess. Perhaps, with time…”

Leith nodded, hoping, for his mother’s sake, that his countenance looked a bit more hopeful. He kissed her cheek, stood, and wished her a good night.

Leith appreciated his mother’s optimism. But he couldn’t feel it himself.

When he awoke the next morning, his dread and pain had only deepened. He thought of Beatrice in Somerset, how she would be seeing to her estate. He imagined her scheming with Malcolm and scolding Sally and laughing with George, Severn, and Philip. He felt certain that she didn’t miss him at all.

Furthermore, he had not forgotten his deepening shame about his conduct to Monty.

Lying in his bed that morning, he had no desire to see his best friend, to look upon his connubial bliss, and know that he had been the means of potentially preventing it forever. That he had been the cause of great suffering for one of the people he loved most in his world.

Nevertheless he felt honor-bound to report to Monty the events that had unfolded with Mr. Gordstone and Lord Holcombe, especially since Monty had been so instrumental in exposing their plot. And given that he was her cousin, albeit a distant one.

He dragged himself out of bed, called for the carriage, and went to Carrington Place.

He had expected, when he entered, to find Monty and Olivia ensconced, as they often were, in the drawing room, their happiness with each other so obvious that it caused him slight physical pain.

But instead, he was told that Monty was in his study. He thought of how old he and his friends had become. When they were young men, the study had seemed the province of their fathers, three out of four of whom were many years dead before their sons had reached majority. Now, twice in the past two weeks, he had called on one of his friends, to find him in his study, sitting in state like the lord he had claimed he would never become.

Leith, of course, had always used his study. It was a deuced useful room, in his opinion. But it unnerved him to see the likes of John Breminster and Augustus Carrington sitting behind their desks, looking over ledgers and seeing to their correspondence.

Nevertheless, he had come to see Monty, so to the study he went.

But what he saw there surprised him.

The study had been cleared of all its usual trappings and the carpets ripped up. Instead, trellises had been installed along the south wall and the hardwood floors gleamed.

“What in the devil is this?”

“Leith,” Monty said, with a laugh. “I thought you were in Somerset.”

“I was,” he said morosely, the reference to Beatrice knifing through him.

“Dear God,” Monty said. “You look dreadful.”

“Thank you.”

“Did everything come to rights with Beatrice and the Salisburys?”

“Yes, I scared off Mr. Gordstone and Lord Holcombe as you advised. They will not trouble them anymore.” He found himself, speaking of these events, feeling distinctly sick. He thought of Beatrice’s dark, mysterious eyes looking at him with reproach and thought he might actually cast up his accounts. He clenched his fist. “What has happened to your study?”

“Oh, yes. That,” Monty said, with a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. “You will think I am a besotted fool. But you know I never use my study. And Olivia has a green thumb. She would love a second conservatory—the first is filled with my mother’s hothouse flowers, but Olivia wants to grow herbs and the like. I am building one for her. She doesn’t know yet. It is to be a surprise.”

Leith looked around the room and marveled at how it had contrasted with what he had imagined he would see upon entry. Evidently, his friend did not hesitate to change for the woman that he loved.

“You are a very good husband,” he said, simply. His friend looked faintly mortified. They never said things like that to each other.

“Only Olivia can judge that.”

Leith shrugged. “Anyone who sees her cannot doubt her happiness with you.”

“Leith,” Monty said, moving towards him. “You left Beatrice in Somerset?”

Leith felt his throat constrict. And he realized, mortifyingly, that he wasn’t going to be able to stop from weeping. “She told me to leave,” he said, his voice coming out wavering. He turned away so that he wouldn’t have to look at his best friend.

“Do you love her?”

Leith closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. She won’t have me. And I am so sorry, Monty. You told me not to bed her. And I did. At first, I intended to keep my promise. But she told me that she would tell you that I asked her to do depraved things—that I was a beast—and I couldn’t have you thinking ill of me.”

Monty froze. “You thought I would believe such a thing?”

“Why wouldn’t you? After what I did to you and Olivia. I know you never forgave me. Not really. Because how could you?”

He was aware that his face was wet now. He had never cried in front of Monty before. He was sure of it. Nor any of his friends. John, Trem, and Monty—as boys, they had been more emotional than he, whether in anger or sadness. He had seen each of them cry tears of rage, at least. But never him. He had remained, always, aloof.

“Leith,” Monty said, stepping forward, and touching his shoulder. “I have forgiven you. I forgave you months ago.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is. If you haven’t forgiven yourself, then that is a different matter. But do not torture yourself on my account. Or Olivia’s.”

“How could you forgive me, Monty?” He looked back at his friend, needing to understand. “I have been separated from Beatrice for two days and I feel like I will die. And you endured thirteen years.”

Monty shook his head, his eyes exceptionally kind. “You did a foolish thing. And I will not lie. It caused us pain. When I first found out, you may remember, I throttled you. But, Leith, such a small thing, a letter written by a scared young man, should not have become between Olivia and I. Or it wouldn’t, if we had been surer of each other, more careful. You were not the only heedless youth of that summer.”

“What do you mean?”

Monty laughed. “For one, your letter did not sound like me at all. You probably do not remember, but you signed it with my title . Do you think I was signing out, Lord Montaigne , in the love notes I was leaving to the woman I was bedding night and day? I assure you that I was not.”

“I do not understand.” He and Monty had never spoken of these details. He had not realized, he saw now, that Olivia and Monty would have spoken of such things. But now he saw that, of course, they would have.

“Olivia sees now that she shouldn’t have believed it of me. But more than that, Leith, I should have made my intentions to her clearer. No, more than that, I should have thought of my intentions. She thought I was just a lord having a summer’s worth of fun. That she was just a maid. I never asked her to marry me. I never thought beyond the next time she would be in my bed. I was too young to understand that the feelings I had for her were of the rarest kind and that I could not take chances.”

Leith felt some relief trickle through him at this explanation. He supposed, put in this light, his sins did not appear as black as he had deemed them.

“Oh,” he said, swallowing roughly. “I see.”

“And I would have never believed Beatrice. You would never demand that an unwilling woman commit depraved acts— whatever that means—for your pleasure. That is not who you are.”

Leith tried to wipe away his tears with as much dignity as he could manage. But it only seemed to make them flow harder.

“Brother,” Monty said. “Come here.”

His best friend embraced him. At first, he kept his body stiff, humiliated at his complete lack of composure.

“It is all right,” Monty said. “It will all come to rights. I promise.”

And that is how Leith found himself sobbing on his best friend’s shoulder. It helped that he knew Monty understood. As he had said in his letter, Monty knew him too well to think that it had been anything less than the deepest feelings that had driven him to Somerset. Monty knew how fond Leith was of order, of routine, and that Leith would only disrupt his life under the influence of truly transformative emotions.

After a few minutes, Leith found that he felt better—and Monty patted him on the head and moved to ring for tea.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the only remaining armchairs in the room. “I won’t let you leave until you’ve had one of Mrs. Phelp’s scones. And there is more I have to say to you besides.”

Leith sat there in pleasant numbness, allowing Monty to direct his actions. His former self would have wanted to die after showing such weakness in front of one of his friends, even Monty—but now he could hardly understand why.

Once the footman had brought the refreshments, Monty pinned him with an ironic gaze and said, “I do feel somewhat guilty myself. I did not think you would take my warning about bedding Beatrice so seriously.”

Leith nearly spit out his tea.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I—well.” Monty looked exceptionally sheepish. Rather like the time that he had taken Leith’s finest new cravat, worn it to dinner without asking, and then spilled claret all over it. “Once we saw that Beatrice was quite determined to become your mistress and would broker no alternative, Olivia and I couldn’t help but see that she appeared…well, rather perfect for you. And I was afraid that you would stash her in your St. James’s town house and never give her a second look because she hadn’t been your choice. And so, knowing your nature, I thought if I told you that you couldn’t bed her, you might be…more interested.”

Leith felt himself blanch. And here he had thought Monty above such tricks.

“Damn you. Well, it worked. Rather too well.”

“Perhaps I know you too well. You hate breaking rules—but you also can’t help doing so.”

Leith sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “It is true, I suppose.”

“I did not mean to cause you such distress. On my honor. I didn’t. And I certainly never thought she would use the occasion to threaten you into bedding her. Although we must admit that she was rather ingenious in that regard.”

“She is ingenious in every regard,” Leith said, pain radiating through him.

“You are in a desperate way.”

He grunted. “I asked her to marry me.”

“She rejected you?”

Leith nodded.

“Well, you might need to pose the question a few times. Olivia refused the first few times I asked. She took a little persuading. Only a town house all her own, a few sentimental presents, and a world of bedsport did the trick. Not that I minded doing any of those things. And certainly not the last.”

“Really? She rejected you?”

“She was not eager to become a countess. And I couldn’t blame her.”

“Beatrice wants to spend all her life in Somerset. She doesn’t want to leave her beloved bloody estate.”

“Then, perhaps, you need to go back to Somerset.”

His mother had said the same thing, Leith realized. Perhaps, he thought, there was something in the idea.

“Perhaps it was foolish of me to leave. She just seemed so decided. I asked her if I should leave and she said yes.”

“How many times did she ask you to leave?”

“Once. Or twice. We were quarrelling. It is hard to say.”

Monty groaned. “You’re a blockhead. She said it during a quarrel and you listened?”

“You haven’t seen Beatrice during a quarrel,” he grumbled. “She would have Napoleon and Wellington both begging for the sweet succor of an unconditional surrender.”

“I don’t doubt it. You should have seen the woman when she waltzed into our drawing room insisting that we make her your mistress.”

Leith startled at that. He hadn’t realized that Beatrice had requested that she become his mistress in particular.

“She wanted to be my mistress?”

“Yes, she was very clear on that,” Monty said with a laugh. “No other would do.” He took a sip of his tea. “I also must tell you one other thing. I was quite surprised to find it out. And I feel, again, a bit guilty on your account.”

Leith felt uneasy. “What is it?”

“Well, as it turns out, Beatrice Salisbury isn’t my cousin.”

“ What? ”

Monty once again had that claret-on-guinea-cravat look.

“I thought she was! She said she was. And you know that I am related to half of the gentry and aristocracy. I have so many cousins—it is impossible to keep track. I meet new cousins every year of my life, especially of the more distantly related variety. And so I didn’t question her claims.”

“Monty,” Leith said, dismay radiating through him. He had thought he was defiling a Carrington family member against his best friend’s express wishes. It now turned out that Monty had wanted him to bed the woman…and she wasn’t even his relative.

“And my mother is traveling! She is the keeper of all such things. But then Beatrice—not your Beatrice, my sister, Beatrice—was there when we were visiting Lawrence in the countryside, and I told her about the appearance of this third cousin. And she insisted that we had no cousins by the name of Salisbury who lived in Somerset or at a place called Parkhorne Hall. I argued that of course we did, and she insisted that we didn’t. In the end, we pulled up the peerage and, lo and behold, my sister Beatrice was right.”

“ Monty. ”

“We are related, however, to a family by the name of Salisbury who live in Cornwall. So you can understand my mistake.”

“So, then, why on earth did Beatrice come to you for help? If you are not her cousin?”

Monty shrugged. “That, my friend, will be your mystery to unravel.”

“I need to return to Somerset,” he said, realizing that Monty was right. He had been a blockhead to leave.

“You need to return to Somerset,” Monty said, his smile wide but sympathetic. “And I wish you all the luck in the world in making Miss Salisbury—whoever she may be—your wife.”