tell some tale, he supposed, as the game broke up with the arrival of the tea tray. A youthful betrayal that ended with the child dying. Or perhaps she would not trouble with arousing sympathy, perhaps her wealth and her name would be enough for someone like Bishopstoke.
Or I could marry her. The thought hit like a thunderbolt.
Avery drank a cup of tea that he did not taste, excused himself and went upstairs to the nursery wing. Alice had a small room off the main nursery where a nursemaid slept, one ear alert for the charges in her care in the rooms on either side and in the cots around her.
As he expected, Alice was fast asleep, one hand tucked under her cheek, her hair in its bedtime braids, her favourite doll on the pillow. He watched her in the dim light of the glass-covered nightlight, marvelling at the perfection of her skin, the curl of her lashes, the pout of her lips. Perfection, until one saw the scratch on her hand where she had been teasing the stable cat, the tiny smudge of mud under one ear that bath time had not dealt with, the stubborn tilt of her chin, even in sleep. She was a real person, not a doll, and he found her endlessly fascinating.
She was his world. He had taken her out of duty and out of guilt and she had rewarded him with unconditional love and trust and all she had asked in return was the love he felt for her. And all that was missing from her life was her mother and an end to the fear that he knew she had buried deep inside her, that somehow it was her fault that her mother had left.
Unable to resist, Avery stroked her hair, so soft under his hand. He could give her that mother, although how they could ever explain the circumstances of her birth and Laura’s rejection of her, he did not know.
He tried to think it through logically, assess the facts as though they were terms in a treaty. Laura had behaved shockingly, thoughtlessly, with Piers and she had turned on him when he had returned to war and his duty. She had sent her daughter away, as she was bound to do or face ruin. But instead of finding her a home close by, one of ease and elegance, one where she could watch over her, she had sent her to a remote dale and a life far removed from her rightful place.
And she had simply forgotten her for six long years while she lived a life of pleasure and reckless enjoyment. But, he struggled to be fair, she had been very young. She loves Alice now. Can I take the risk that she will be a faithful wife and a good mother? Can I take the risk that she will not steal Alice’s love from me and then hurt the child?
Selfish, he castigated himself. This is not about you, this is about Alice. She will not stop loving you. Will she...?
He stood there, wrestling with his demons, watching the child. The prickling sensation at the nape of his neck came on gradually, then the unease crystallised into the sound of another person breathing in the room. Someone was behind him.
Avery turned, swift and silent on the balls of his feet, and saw Laura sitting quite still on a low chair in the shadowed corner. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘Watching her, as you watch her. Loving her while I can.’ The breathy whisper was quite clear in the still room.
‘You cannot stay here.’
‘No,’ she agreed softly, a ghost in pale ivory and dark shadows. ‘Will you help me to my chamber?’
Avery bent to drop a kiss on Alice’s cheek, then turned and lifted Laura out of the chair and into his arms. She gasped and clung and he murmured, ‘Quieter this way, there is less chance of you stumbling.’ That was true. So, too, was his need to have her in his arms again, soft and fragrant and dangerous. Desirable and vulnerable. Yes, he would ask her to marry him. And pray he was right to trust her.
She did not struggle, only curled her arms around his neck and was silent as he nudged the door closed with elbow and hip and strode to the top of the stairs. Her room, and his, were on the floor below. He had taken the precaution of discovering which was hers—why he was not certain, unless it was to help him sleep more easily at night, knowing she was not close.
The stairs were dimly lit and the froth of her skirts and petticoats were enough to stop him seeing where he was putting his feet. ‘Keep still.’
‘I am,’ she murmured, and he realised that she had not moved. Only his body was reacting as if she writhed against him, his skin sensitive as though every nerve was exposed, the fret of linen against flesh almost intolerable. There was a tightness, a weight in his groin, and he set his teeth to ignore it and to ignore the whisper of her breath, warm against his shirt front, the tickle of her hair against his chin, the subtle assault of some expensive, elusive perfume in his nostrils.
It seemed to take an age to negotiate the stairs. He was two from the bottom when she murmured, ‘I am sorry, Avery. I wish...’
He stopped. ‘Sorry for what?’
‘For this antagonism between us.’ Her voice was husky with something that his body recognised at a visceral level. Desire. For me, or simply for physical pleasure? ‘I wish...’ She twisted in his arms and lifted her face. Her lips grazed his chin and then his throat, and fire shot through him. ‘Please, Avery.’ He felt the words more than heard them. Then she tipped back her head. ‘You are right, I tease. But I am not teasing now.’
Avery did not speak. This was no time for words. Nor place, not here. He had decided to offer her marriage, now it was as though the Fates had been listening to his mind. He took the final steps to the floor, then turned left to his bedchamber, not right, to her door. In his arms Laura gave a little sigh and curled herself closer.
He held her one-handed as he turned the knob, then froze at a faint sound. It was as though something had fallen. But there was nothing to be seen and he shouldered open the door.
Darke had gone, as usual, leaving a lamp turned down low on the dresser. Avery disliked being attended at the end of the day. He preferred to undress himself and wash slowly in cool water, taking his time, thinking over what had passed and what the morrow would bring, shrugging on a banyan and taking a book to the fireside chair until his eyes were heavy with sleep.
Now he carried Laura to the bed and set her carefully on her feet beside it before returning to the door. His hand hovered over the key. ‘I will lock the world out, not you in.’
‘Leave it, I trust you.’ She smiled faintly at his raised eyebrow. ‘In this, at least.’
‘Why, Laura? Why have you come to me?’ Propose to her now, or afterwards? Afterwards, instinct told him. Do not complicate this moment. In passion, in the aftermath of passion, surely he would see the truth in her.
She half-turned from him and ran her fingers pensively over the old chintz bedcover, tracing the twining flowers and stems that some long-dead lady of the house had embroidered. The curve of her neck, the elegant line from bare shoulder to ear, was exposed to him, pearl-pale in the lamplight. Between her breasts was a shadowy, mysterious valley where a gold chain glinted.
‘It has been a long time,’ she said finally, without looking up. ‘You think me loose, but there has not been anyone since...since before Alice was born. And there is this thing between us. This desire. I feel cold inside almost all the time. Flirting and laughing is no longer enough. And with you there is heat, even if there is nothing else but dislike and suspicion.’
Avery had not expected this frankness, this simple confession of need. His body stirred, eager, but he did not move. She spoke of nothing but desire, dislike, mistrust. Could he ever replace that with even the basic tolerance marriage would require? He probed a little, testing
