Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 20

  Disconsolately, he returned to his desk and retrieved the file from its secret drawer. It was such an easy job, he had no need of any recce. He’d do it tonight. That would tell him something, surely? He looked at his drawings, scanned his notes, waiting for the familiar sense of excitement, but nothing happened.

  He remembered the last time. Deborah’s clutching that damned dog, trying to stifle her laughter. The sheer exhilaration of their escape, the reckless gallop, the thud of their horses’ hooves, the steam of their breath in the cold air, the frisson of awareness, knowing she was there at his side. And afterwards in the boathouse…

  And yesterday, in her bed. And before that, all the other days. That strange squeezing in his chest when he looked at her—there, he could admit to that now. The stupid things he saved up to tell her. The things she knew about him that no one else knew. Did all this, then, amount to love? And if it did, even if it did, what did it mean, what could it mean, when she was so patently still living under the cloud of her past?

  A soft tap on the door roused him from the mire that this question enveloped him in. ‘Mrs Murray called,’ his batman said. ‘She has returned earlier than expected and asks if you wish to join her for dinner. Her husband and her mother-in-law will not be with her, she said to tell you.’

  Elliot grinned. ‘That is most fortuitous.’ It wasn’t as if he’d be picking the lock on the house in Berkeley Square any time before midnight. ‘I’ll wear the black coat and the grey pantaloons,’ he told his man. ‘I shall most likely go on to my club. Tell the servants not to wait up.’

  Knowing full well that his master never visited his club, his batman gave him a knowing look. ‘You need have no fear, I shall make sure you are not seen.’

  Quite taken aback by this remark, Elliot could only stare as the servant left the room. He picked up the file on his lap, gave it another quick glance, then cast it on the flames of the fire. It seemed Alex Murray wasn’t the only man with suspicions. He’d better make damn sure this next act didn’t turn into his final one, if that was the case!

  * * *

  It was a close call. The kind of close call Elliot would have relished, back in the old days. Back in the days before Deborah. He was careless, quite distracted by what Lizzie had told him of Jeremy Napier over dinner, and did not check the rooms on the third floor, or he would have spotted the light shining through the gap at the bottom of the door. The general, whose conscience was not as clean as Elliot believed, was prone to nightmares, and had become a most reluctant sleeper. As the Peacock’s pick slid the last tumbler on the safe’s lock home, a creaking in the hallway outside alerted him.

  The old man who peered around the door of the dining room wore only a nightshirt and a cap. He was frailer than Elliot remembered. His bare feet made him look vulnerable. Though he had no option but to ambush him, covering his toothless mouth with a muffler to stop him from crying out, the ropes he used to bind his victim to the chair were loosely tied. Still, he could easily have completed his task, but the contrast between the brash, muscular general Elliot remembered and the scrawny man who flailed weakly at his bonds was too much. Henry would never have approved such a conquest. Elliot had better uses for his energies. The thirst for revenge, which had flourished like a weed inside him for years, was already wilting. Now it began to shrivel. He closed the safe without retrieving what he had come for, taking care to keep his face out of the old man’s line of sight. The peacock feather remained tucked inside his pocket.

  The night was warm, a light cover of cloud covering the sky as Elliot made his way along Mount Street. It was late enough to be early. There was no one about to disturb his thoughts, only the echo of his footsteps to accompany him. Deborah was right. He had been hiding, but he did not need to any more. The Peacock had served his purpose. Like Bella, he would die. And Elliot—Elliot had no desire whatsoever to risk dying with him.

  He touched the feather in his pocket. The last one. Perhaps he would keep it as a memento. As the dawn began to filter through the clouds, he turned homewards. He did love Deborah. He was in love with her. It was so obvious, he should be laughing at himself for being so blind. There wasn’t any other explanation for what he felt. There wasn’t any other he wanted now

  either. He loved her and he was pretty certain that she loved him. If he could only persuade her to let go of the past.

  Could he? Would she? His steps faltered. What Lizzie had told him was not common knowledge, but, according to her, it was accepted fact in Jeremy’s circles. Deborah had been married for seven years. She must surely know the truth? Yet if she did, why was she so determined to assume so much of the blame

  for the failure of her marriage? No, it was impossible that she did not know the truth. He simply needed to persuade her that neither shame nor blame attached to her. Why could she not see that for herself?

  As he made his way slowly home, his brow furrowed, Elliot veered between anger and pity. The utter misery of two people bound in such a marriage was almost beyond contemplating. Their vows had sentenced them to a lifetime of failure. Sixteen years in the army, where a blind eye was turned to men who took their comforts where they could, had taught him that there were some men as irrevocably inclined to men as he was to women. Unlike many of his fellow officers, Elliot was confident enough in his own sexuality neither to judge nor to feel threatened. Under any other circumstances, what Lizzie had told him of Jeremy would have been of no import.

  Save that Jeremy had been married to Deborah. His pretending to love Deborah, marrying her for her money, was bad enough, but to have used her in such a calculating way—no, Elliot could not forgive that. Not that it mattered. What mattered was Deborah, who seemed unable to forgive herself for her husband’s rejection. He couldn’t understand it.

  Deborah had said that she was done with the past, but it was patently untrue. What if she was never done? What then? An abyss opened up under his feet as he contemplated this possibility. Elliot clenched his fists. There could be no more hiding for either of them. He would make her see that. Failure was simply not an option.

  * * *

  Deborah was working—or trying to work—about as successfully as she had tried sleeping, telling herself not to worry and attempting to stop reliving that afternoon of love-making. The page in front of her was not blank, but covered in a hotchpotch of squiggles, blots, tearstains and—she noticed with dismay—Elliot’s name. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Thinking about him led to remembering every kiss, every look, every touch. The ecstatic quiver and clutch of her muscles around him as he entered her. The soaring high of her climaxes. The bliss of skin on skin. The scent of him on her. Remembering made the jolt back down to reality so much harder. It made the panic, that he was gone for ever, that she had ruined all, so much more difficult to quell.

  She picked up her pen again and stared blindly at the page. She wished he would call. She was not ready to face him. She was terrified he would not call. She wanted—she wanted—she wanted—the one thing she could not have. That much was constant.

  A knock on the door made her jump. Leaping to her feet, her stomach a seething mass of nerves, Deborah looked down quickly at her ink-stained pinafore. A glance at her reflection in the hall mirror confirmed the worst. She had a blob of ink on her cheek and her hair looked as if she’d had some sort of fight to the death with curl papers.

  Elliot on the other hand looked very Elliot-ish, she thought as she opened the door. His coat was dark blue, not one she had seen him wearing before. His waistcoat was grey, as were his pantaloons. His cravat was more elaborately tied than usual, with a sapphire pin winking discreetly in the folds. She stared up at him wordlessly, caught in the memory of him without any clothes, in her bed, his face taut with desire as she took him into her mouth. Her face flamed.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Too embarrassed to meet his eye, Deborah held the door wide and let him precede her into the parlour.

  ‘You’ve been working,’ E
lliot said.

  Deborah quickly snatched up the smudged, wasted bundle of papers and held them defensively to her chest. Her hands were shaking. He had perfectly good clothes on, she didn’t need to keep thinking about what was underneath. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said, her voice an odd combination of breathless and harsh. It was true and it was a lie. Like everything these days, or so it sometimes felt.

  Despite having spent the rest of the night rehearsing every variation on the scene which was about to unfold, Elliot was still lacking a battle plan. He tried in vain to quell the unaccustomed panic which knotted his stomach. The last time he had seen her, Deborah had been naked, flushed from their love-making. Here, in this very room, it had started. The teasing. The kissing. The touching. Their eyes met and Deborah looked away quickly. She was blushing. He was—just thinking about it, and he was—dammit, he shouldn’t be thinking about it!

  Elliot made to sit down, realised Deborah was still standing, and propped himself up against the mantel instead. His mind went blank. He had a thousand things to say and he couldn’t think of one. He nodded at the papers she was holding against her like a shield.

  ‘Bella’s final curtain, I take it,’ he said. She thrust the bundle into a drawer. ‘I read two of your other books,’ he told her.

  Deborah dropped into her seat at the fireside. ‘Which ones?’

  Taking his cue from her, Elliot, too, sat down.

  ‘Arsenic and Wolfsbane.’

  Were they going to just sit here and make polite conversation about her books? What else was she expecting? ‘Did you like them?’ Deborah asked. Her voice sounded desperate. She had to calm down.

  Elliot nodded. ‘It was strange, reading them and knowing that you wrote them. I can see why they are so popular; you are very talented.’

  ‘But you did not like them?’

  ‘Oh, I did. They are clever and exciting and—sad.’

  Deborah winced. ‘They are supposed to be witty. No one has ever described them as sad, to my knowledge.’

  ‘I have the advantage of knowing the author. I doubt anyone else would see Bella as I do,’ Elliot said.

  It was the gentle way he spoke, which made the tears clog her throat. Deborah swallowed convulsively. ‘How—how do you see Bella?’ she asked eventually.

  She was as pale as she had been flushed a few moments ago. She looked as if she were bracing herself for a blow. Elliot’s heart did its squeezing thing. He hated seeing her like this. ‘Bella,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘she doesn’t let herself be defeated, does she? But she doesn’t win either. She is so intent on playing men at their own games, she doesn’t know how to be a woman. That’s what is sad.’

  Deborah sat slowly back into her chair. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wish you would tell me about it,’ Elliot said. ‘I wish you would trust me.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Elliot, don’t you know more than enough already? I can’t. I can’t talk about it. It’s over, Jeremy is dead and buried, surely that’s all that matters?’

  He got to his feet and pulled her from her chair, holding her tight. ‘It’s over, but it’s not buried. It’s still there, hurting you.’

  ‘I still feel so small sometimes,’ she whispered. ‘When I was married, I used to feel I was shrinking. I used to want to be so small no one could see me.’ Deborah drew a shaky breath. It hurt so much, remembering the ghostlike figure she had become. She hated the idea of showing herself thus to Elliot, but she realised now, with a leaden heart, that if she did not he would never understand, and if he did not understand it would always be there between them, a barrier to any sort of friendship. And she so desperately needed any sort of friendship, for she could have nothing else.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said finally. It was an agony, suffocating the love which had only just put out the first green shoots, but it would be much, much more painful for her to let it bloom. These last two nights, pacing her chamber, she had tried so hard to talk herself out of the truth and failed miserably. She loved him so much. She knew what she had to do, but she so much wished she did not have to. ‘You’re right,’ she said again.

  That determined little nod she gave was his undoing. ‘I love you so much,’ Elliot blurted out. Stark, and to the point, and utterly true. The relief of it. He took the shock on her face as surprise. ‘Deborah, I love you,’ Elliot said, warming to the task. ‘I’ve never said it before, not to anyone. I’ve never wanted to, but I think I could get very used to saying it to you. I love you.’

  ‘Elliot!’ Deborah stared at him, aghast. The words she most longed to hear, which she had not thought for a moment to hear, for just a few wonderful seconds made her heart soar. Then plummet. ‘Oh, Elliot.’

  He caught her hand again. ‘I know. I know that it’s sudden, it’s a shock to me, too, but I know it’s right. I won’t change my mind. I’m absolutely sure, I couldn’t be more sure. I know that your marriage still haunts you, but—’

  Deborah yanked her hand free. ‘Elliot, you have to stop! It doesn’t just haunt me, I can’t escape it.’

  ‘You can. I can help you. I know, you see—’

  ‘You can’t help me,’ she interrupted, wringing her hands in anguish. ‘I wish you could, but you can’t, and I can’t let you try. I would fail you in the end. Elliot, I could never make you happy.’

  ‘I can’t be happy without you.’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t say that.’ Deborah dug her nails into her palms. ‘Listen to me. You need to listen to me. I had no idea that you felt—but it will pass, I know it will pass,’ she said fervently, the words she had recited over and over in the night to give her courage, though they failed to convince her. ‘You just need to listen.’

  Her voice had a feverish quality that worried him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to kiss away the frown which scarred her brow, to tell her it would be all right, but everything about her—her rigid stance, the clenched fists, the tight white face—warned him against such action. He had waited so long for her to trust him, but it felt all wrong, more like an end than a beginning. He wanted to tell her that he knew. He wanted to smooth the path to her confession, but the very fact that she was finding it so difficult kept him mute. Could Lizzie have been misinformed? Was there some other dark secret he knew nothing about? The optimism which had lightened his step since last night scuttled off like a frightened rabbit. It took all his resolution to remain calm, but he managed to sit down, to cross his ankles in an appearance of negligence. ‘I’m listening. Tell me. Take your time.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I must tell you.’ Deborah took a turn around the room, then straightened her shoulders and resumed her seat. ‘You know that my marriage to Jeremy wasn’t happy. I told you he married me for my money, but that wasn’t the only reason. His family are an old and revered one. They pride themselves on having the line passed down through direct heirs. Jeremy needed a son. So when I came along with my fortune and my bloody great wide-eyed innocence, I made it so easy for him. I was so desperate to be loved, you see.’

  Her voice began to break, but when Elliot got up to comfort her, she motioned him away. ‘No. Stay there. I can’t talk if you touch me and I need to explain.’

  Elliot sat back down again, feeling as if he were preparing for a battle in which his forces were vastly outnumbered. Was she going to tell him about Jeremy or not? Deborah was twisting his handkerchief round her fingers, but she seemed calmer. Ominously determined. ‘Go on,’ Elliot said, trying to sound encouraging.

  ‘It was a disaster, right from the wedding night. Jeremy couldn’t—he found me repulsive. He—we did not manage to consummate the marriage for some time, and when we did it was a—a painful experience for both of us. I didn’t know any better. He could not—when he came to me—which he did at first, as often as he could bear it, for his desire for a son was even stronger than his disgust of me. It was always in the dark. I was not to touch him. I was always—he made me—with my back to him. And he was—he wasn’t like
you.’

  She was blushing deeply, concentrating on her fingers, his handkerchief, but determined to finish, no matter how embarrassing. ‘It was awful, but it was my fault. I knew that, I knew that I was just not the sort of woman who could—and the more I worried about it the worse it got. One night I tried. Those books—I wasn’t reading them for Bella that first time. I thought if I could—so I—I can’t tell you what I did, but it failed. He hit me then, for the first and only time, and I hated him. That’s when Bella Donna was born. Poor Jeremy, he was every bit as destroyed by the whole farcical performance as I was. I hated him, but I could not blame him. It was my fault.’

  ‘Your fault!’ Unable to contain his outrage, Elliot leapt to his feet.

  ‘Don’t be angry, Elliot. I’ve been angry for years and it doesn’t help. It was wrong of him, I know it was, but if I’d been a better woman, maybe we—I don’t know. He tried, you know, in the beginning, he did try to love me, and God knows, so too did I try, but I simply wasn’t good enough.’

  Staggered by her ignorance, Elliot dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘I can’t believe—you really didn’t know? You had no idea?’ He took a deep breath, forcing his fists to unclench. Another deep breath. ‘Deborah, it wasn’t your fault. My God, I still can’t believe—all those years and he didn’t tell you. I can’t believe no one told you. Kinsail—he must have known.’ He took an agitated turn around the room, struggling to find the words. ‘You really didn’t know?’

  ‘Known what? Elliot, what didn’t I know?’

  Elliot took another deep breath. Her face, utterly bewildered, nearly set his temper flaring again, but he managed to damp it down. She didn’t know. She really didn’t know. All those books she had written and she didn’t know. It was unbelievable.

  ‘Elliot, you’re frightening me. What didn’t I know?’

  ‘About Jeremy.’ He sat down abruptly. He needed to let go of his anger. She had been deceived. It was done. What mattered was explaining. And understanding. He needed to help her. He could help her. He could. Elliot laced his hands together in an unconscious reflection of Deborah’s. ‘You were right about one thing. Jeremy needed a wife, but not for the reasons you think. Or not only for those.’ He sat forwards, leaning his elbows on his knees. ‘Look, I want you to know that I haven’t been spying on you or sniffing around your past. I wanted you to tell me yourself, but when I realised how I felt about you, I needed to know, so I asked Lizzie. Jeremy was a—a…’ Elliot struggled to find the right words.