It’s Christmas, and I’ve been so good for so long and all that lonely propriety has nearly smothered me. If I’m not careful, I’ll spend another ten years being equally well-behaved in the same sort of sweet, cordial, boring company my first husband afforded me…
She would not justify her request though. If Leo didn’t share her longing to explore what might have been, to take advantage of the single night fate had handed them, then so be it.
He laid his hand over hers. “I’ve wished too, Marielle. Across Spain, into France, at Waterloo, and then on to Vienna. I wished that even once, we might have anticipated our vows. I told myself that if I’d shared such intimacy with you, you would not have cast me aside. But those were a young man’s thoughts, and my desire for you is that of a grown man for a woman who knows her own mind.”
Desire. An accurate term, but not quite adequate. “My longing is not exclusively of the body, Leo. You were my first love.”
And despite marrying a good man, an honorable man, Marielle hadn’t met Leo’s like since they’d parted. He listened to her, he thought for himself. His humility was as genuine as his self-respect. The longer they’d talked, the more the past had merged with the present into one, bottomless ache.
Party joy, part sorrow, all longing.
“And you were my first love,” Leo replied, “but I am not entirely free to accept the offer you make, much as I’d like to.”
Well, damn and blast. “You’re married,” Marielle said, rising. “I envy your wife, Leo, and will thank you not to share specifics of this encounter with her.”
He was on his feet before Marielle had left the table. “I am not married.”
A small, selfish consolation. “And yet, you’re reluctant. I understand. We’d both put the past behind us, and now I throw myself at you, the epitome of the pathetic widow, and you’re no longer interested in what I have—”
Leo put a finger to her lips. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost all of your impetuosity. I am not married, I am interested in spending the night with you, but I am also about to embark on marriage negotiations with a suitable parti. We’ve agreed in principle to negotiate, nothing more.”
That was how the whole business began, as Marielle well knew. “You’ve incurred no obligation to this woman. I have no obligations to a prospective husband either.”
Though she’d been considering a suitable parti herself, as Leo had. A titled fellow of an age to settle down and see to the succession. Marielle was considering his suit only half-seriously, and mostly out of boredom and loneliness.
Leo took her hand in both of his, his grasp warm. The fire in the hearth had burned down, and the candles would soon gutter. The shadows showed her both the youth he’d been, and the man he’d become. Handsome would gradually yield to distinguished, and she would always, always find him attractive.
“What is it you want from me, Ellie?”
She wanted the past ten years restored to them, and yet, that wasn’t reasonable. Leo had apparently prospered during their years apart, and Marielle’s life would be the envy of many.
“I want to share this night with you, Leo. Let’s start there.”
He kissed her knuckles. “I want to share this night with you too, and will do so joyfully, but in the morning, I must see to some business.”
Was he limiting their encounter to a single night, or sharing his calendar with her? “I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow as well.”
Though Marielle already knew she’d be canceling her Boxing Day meeting. After the night she planned to spend with Leo, she’d need her rest.
And if he truly meant to pursue those negotiations with that dratted suitable woman, Marielle would need time to recover from the blow of losing him all over again.
Leo hadn’t indulged in many assignations. Trysting was a lot of bother, women sometimes got the wrong ideas, and in the back of his mind, always, was the thought: She’s not Marielle.
He knew enough though, to part from Marielle at her door, spend twenty minutes tending to his ablutions while ignoring Rafe’s snores, then steal down the corridor and tap softly on Marielle’s door.
She opened it instantly and hauled him into her sitting room by the sleeve of his dressing gown.
“Petunia is asleep across the hall,” she said. “She hears better than a hound, and sometimes has trouble sleeping.”
Marielle was in a blue velvet robe that swathed her from neck to ankles, and her sitting room was chilly. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and the covers had already been turned down on the bed.
Sometimes, impetuosity was lovely. “Petunia is your companion?”
“My companion, my conscience, my worst fear. I’m afraid I’ll look in the mirror one day and see I’ve become the older relation nobody truly wants to invite for a visit, but they do so out of pity.”
She locked the door, then paced to the window, where she twitched at curtains already closed.
“That fate will never befall you,” Leo said. “Are you nervous, Marielle?”
“Yes, and no. People do this—have liaisons.”
She hadn’t done this. Leo concluded as much from the way she eyed the open bedroom door, as if unsure she wanted to cross the threshold.
“It’s only me, Ellie. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.” And Leo would die a little too. To have his heart’s desire restored to him, then snatched away by doubts…
If nothing else, this encounter with Marielle had clarified one important point: He’d acquired a marquess’s title and wealth, but to acquire a marchioness through the calculation and cold-heartedness of a typical aristocrat was beyond him. The lovely widow probably was lovely, but what sort of woman chose her husband based on his title and his bank balance?
He’d keep tomorrow’s appointment, and make his apologies to all parties, as honor demanded.
“You’ve been to the Continent,” Marielle muttered, as if the fleshpots of Egypt had somehow been on his itinerary. “You’ve probably waltzed with Italian contessas and German princesses.”
“A few.” None of whom Leo could recall even by title.
“Leo… I was married to one fairly unimaginative man, who never sought passion from me, and hadn’t—I’m making a hash of this.”
Leo took her in his arms, loving the feel of her. “On Tuesdays, when you would often leave a letter for me in the oak tree, I’d pace and pace and pace, waiting for the sun to go down, waiting for my family to seek their beds. Waiting for the moon to rise. Minutes were like years to me then, and yet, when the time finally came to climb out my window—”
“You hesitated,” Marielle said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Because what if there wasn’t a letter waiting? How would you stand the disappointment, and endure until we might steal a few minutes in the churchyard on Sunday?”
His letters to her had been carefully placed in the crook of the tree trunk on Fridays, wrapped in oilskin in case the gods of weather were so disobliging as to send rain.
“There’s a letter in the tree for both of us tonight, Marielle. It says, ‘Don’t fret away this one, lovely opportunity. Trust your heart, and be brave.’” He kissed her, because once Marielle started fretting, she became fixed on her worries.