The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“You tell me nothing I haven’t berated myself with a thousand times. The damage is done, and can’t be undone.”

“There ain’t many ties can’t be untied,” she said, her tone brisk, “if a body’s willing to pay. I’d not give you a groat. But an annulment of this abominable marriage I’d consider a wise, very sound investment.”

His fingers tightened about the crystal stem. “That is out of the question.”

“Why? Don’t tell me the poor child’s breeding already?”

“Good God, no!” The glass jerked in his hand, splashing brandy onto the carpet. Only a few drops. A few tiny blots, that was all. Varian drew a steadying breath. “I mean that’s not the reason. I mean I should never consent to such a thing.”

She watched him with hard, pitiless eyes. Not that he’d expected or wanted pity. Nothing she’d said was truly unjust. “Poor child,” she had called Esme. That was what mattered. Like the bath and the food, it meant there was hope. A chance.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Tell me straight. I won’t be sweet-talked to the point. I’ve never cared for roundaboutation, and I’m too old to learn to like it now.”

He met her gaze straight on. “I want you to look after her for a while. I want her safe and—and well. I can’t risk taking her to London. My title protects me to some extent—from the sponging house, at least. But I don’t want Esme exposed to harassment. That’s why I brought her here.”

“I won’t support an idle rogue, I tell you.”

“Only Esme, only for a while,” he said. “I must go to London, bailiffs or not. There’s no other way to deal with my affairs.”

“And just how do you propose to deal with ‘em?”

“I don’t know.”

The dowager leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh. “Ain’t that just typical? Men never know, but they always ‘must,’ mustn’t they? They never know, not one blessed thing. Not a prayer of coming to the rightabout, yet you won’t let the poor girl go, will you?”

“No.”

“Want to have her safe in the country with her old grandmama, do you? For how long? Weeks, months, years? The rest of her life? No Season for her, no beaux, no chance for a proper match. Damnation, Edenmont, if you had to bed her, why couldn’t you have left it at that? I’d have found her a mate. Not every man has to have a virgin bride, whatever they say. Not that they’ve any business saying it, selfish hypocrites.”

Varian rose. “It’s no good telling me,” he said coldly. “She won’t wed another while I’m alive. If dissolving the marriage is your condition, then say so, and I shall take my offensive self—and my wife—out of your way.”

“You’re a base and selfish man,” she said, rising as well. “But I won’t have Jason’s girl starving or sleeping in alleys. She’ll stay. And you, my lord, may go to blazes.”

The bath was everything Varian had described to Esme that morning so many months ago: the great, steaming tub, the scented soap, the soft towels. Even the servant.

In response to Drays’ summons, Mrs. Munden had come chugging down the hallway like a tugboat, aimed straight for Esme, and towed her away, all the while tooting orders to various lesser servants who came rushing in from every direction. The halls quickly began to resemble the River Thames, with a host of vessels coming and going, carrying their diverse goods: buckets of coal for the fire, buckets of steaming water for the bath, valises, linens, and heaven knew what else.

All the bustle made Esme dizzy, tired, and anxious. Everything was done for her and to her, and nothing was under her control. From the moment she had entered this house, she’d been swept into its power. Her grandmother’s power.

The feeling did not lessen at dinner, though Varian was there, regaling the dowager with gossip from Corfu and Malta, Gibraltar and Cadiz—all the places they’d so briefly stopped at on their hectic voyage to England. Less than two months it had taken them. But that was because the schooner was racing a sister vessel.

The owners of both were rich, idle lords—Varian’s former schoolfellows. They had been touring the Greek islands when they heard the rumors of Lord Edenmont’s marriage. One believed it, the other didn’t. The result was a wager—and a mad dash to Corfu to settle it. The result of that, for Varian and Esme, was free passage to England.

As Varian was now pointing out to Lady Brentmor, his rakehell reputation had rescued them. Had he lived a life of rectitude, he and Esme would probably be in Corfu yet. The old lady was amused. She laughed loudly, as she had at the gossip he’d shared—in between berating Varian for proceeding in such a lackwit, harum-scarum way with a new bride.

After dinner, they returned to the green and gold room. The drawing room it was called. There Varian gave an edited account of their adventures in Albania. Lady Brentmor did not laugh so much then, or scold as much either, but stared into the fire, shaking her head from time to time. At last she called for her port and brusquely sent Varian and Esme away.

Though the dowager had made it clear she disapproved of Varian and viewed the marriage as an unmitigated catastrophe, she’d assigned the couple adjoining rooms.

The maid, Molly, had just left when Varian entered through the connecting door. He took up the brush Molly had minutes before laid down upon the dressing table, stared at it for a long while, then put it down. He placed his hands on Esme’s shoulders and gazed at her reflection in the looking glass. Then, in a few quiet sentences, he told her what he’d arranged with her grandmother.

When he was done, Esme jerked away from him and walked stiffly to the window.

“There’s no alternative, Esme,” he said. “If there were, I swear to you—”

“There’s no need to make vows,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I understand. I believe you.”

“You’re distressed all the same.”

“Only for a moment. It is not agreeable. My grandmother is a cross, rude old woman, but I have met worse, and worse could befall me. In Albania, the bride goes to her husband’s kin. As the newest of the family, she is lowest in precedence. All the women—mother, sisters, aunts, grandmothers—order her about. If they wish to be disagreeable, they can make her life wretched, and she must endure it, because she is outnumbered. Here, it is only one vexatious woman—and the maid tells me my cousin is coming.”

She had managed to compose herself while she spoke. She turned now, able to meet Varian’s anxious gaze with a reassuring smile. “Percival has been expelled from school—again—and my uncle is banishing him to the old lady, because he cannot be bothered with his troublesome son.”

“Esme, it’s not like that with me. You must know that, surely.”

“I know. I was not comparing you to my ignorant uncle. I only tell you I am glad Sir Gerald is so, for Percival will soon be here and I shall have an ally. You may go about your affairs with an easy heart. He and I shall outnumber her.”

Varian came to her then, put his arms about her, and crushed her close. “I’m sorry, darling. You can’t know how sorry. But I’ll be back soon. A few weeks. No more.”

A few weeks. In London. Among his old friends, like those idle men who’d brought them to England. Laughing, gambling, drinking, whoring.

Esme closed her eyes.

“Only a very short while,” he said.

She believed he meant it, for now at least, and now was all that mattered to him. Now, this night, was all she had. Then he’d go, and all would change. She’d not quarrel or complain, not this last night, the last one in which she might be sure of him.

Because she was sure, for this moment, she eased back in his arms and reached up to cup his beautiful face in her hands.

“Make love to me,” she said. “Enough to keep me these few weeks…until you come back…and make love to me again.”

It was still dark when Varian left the room. Esme was asleep, deep in dreamless sleep, he knew. He had shared her bed long enough now and lain awake often enough-watching, listening, thinkin

g—to know. He left while she was sleeping because he couldn’t bear a farewell. They’d said it without words last night, in those long aching hours of lovemaking. Then he’d drunk in her scent and her soft cries of passion, and loved her. Needily. And angrily. And desperately. He’d wanted to memorize her. He’d wanted to burn her into his heart, not so he wouldn’t forget, but that he might take her with him in some way.

He not been able to let her go since the night he’d first touched her. This time, he must let go. That “must” meant he dared not wake her, dared not say goodbye. If he did, his resolve would fail…and he’d fail her.

He’d made everything ready in his own room the night before, while the maid had helped Esme prepare for bed. He’d even written the note.

Varian had only to dress, take up his bag, and leave. He did so without looking back.

Eager to be rid of him, Lady Brentmor had apparently sent word to the stables. Though the sun was only beginning to rise, Varian found one stable man brightly awake and prepared to accommodate his lordship.