Family. The jewel she would hoard away if she could, keep for herself, a jealous, greedy dragon. She should have been bitter, perhaps. She should have thought the bond that held families tight in one another’s arms false or too fragile. Perhaps if she’d not been saved by two Cavendish men so quickly after her world had fallen apart… But she had been, and so she’d seen an uncle’s love for a nephew, a father’s love for his children than ran deeper than the Nile. She’d seen how love could run so deep it carved a cavern of pain inside you. Should have scared her. But she wanted it.
She wanted to say yes.
She would not. Precisely because they were her jewels—Jackson and Lord Eaden, his wife and daughters, and the children. She prized them more than anything in the world, and she would face a howling, gnashing threat to keep them whole and sound.
They’d only healed recently, only found love and peace in the last few years. An unbreakable association with her—like the one marriage would forge—would mar that peace, shatter it entirely. It was one thing to say, “Oh, we hired the girl, but had no idea of her background” and quite another to make her an immovable part of the family.
What did the marquess want from her? Whatever it was, she would not let him hurt them.
Jackson’s hand lifted to her cheek, a spring wind sweeping too soon through a winter night. “I wish you wished to marry me, luna.”
And ruin him in the process? She pushed past all his silly endearments and stumbled for a truth to give him, found one, though it wasn’t the one Jackson wanted, nor was it the entire truth. “I want to work. Only that.”
Birds wheeled out of the branches above them, echoing her words with angry caws.
What to do with her hands when she wanted to lift them to his chest, press her palms into the flat planes of muscle there, and curve her fingers into the linens and wools that smelled like him, smelled of paper and ink and a hint of whisky. What to do with them? Let them fall and harden at her sides.
He made a humming sound in his throat. “Hm. Work. Only that. Well then, you shall.”
Her heart became a heavy stone.
He brought his fingers to her chin. Only a very gentle pressure was all it took for him to force her gaze toward his. “When you know what you want from me, tell me. Until then, I shall keep my distance. It’s what you wish, anyway, and I’d set the world on fire to give you your desires.” A quick, hard kiss—stars falling down from the heavens and into her skin—and then the warmth of his body disappeared.
His voice lifted from the direction of the garden gate in the darkness beyond her closed eyes. “Do not worry I’ll repeat my attentions at Seastorm. I’ll ask nothing of you there. No teasing or flirtations. I’ll follow you into no tower rooms. There are none to retreat to. I’ll leave you to work, as you wish.”
She crossed her arms over her belly as if protecting herself from a physical blow. Of course she secretly wanted him to follow her, lived on the guarantee he would do so.
But she let him go without a word and ignored the gaping wound in her chest.
The gate creaked open and slammed shut, and he was gone.
He was going home, and she would have to find a new one. She saw that clearly now. She could no longer torture them both as she’d been doing. She did not deserve his patience or his loyalty. Not when a connection to her—the real her—would ruin the perfect family idyll that had given her shelter from the storm six years ago.
For most, going home offered respite, rest from a long journey in a cozy nest of comfort and familiarity.
Not for Miss Gwendolyn Smith.
Mrs. Mary Bartlett.
Lady Mary Gwendolyn Lytemore.
She had no home except the arms of the man who loved her, and those she’d rejected time and again.
The door to the Cavendish townhome opened, spilled faint light, then closed behind him.
He wanted marriage, and so did she. With him. But marriage was a curse, a charade, a nightmare. She’d never enter that dreaded state again, especially since doing so would reveal her true identity. She’d have to sign the register, the certificate, as Lady Mary Lytemore, after all. A woman who died six years ago. It would be that woman who married Jackson, who hung the weight of her scandal around his neck. An excellent reward for his patience and love.
She reached her room, collapsed on the bed, turned her winter-chilled cheek onto her pillow, and slipped her prayer-folded hands beneath it to warm them. But paper crinkled beneath her fingers.
The letter. A snake, a viper waiting to strike.
She could not let it.
She jumped from the bed and stumbled to the writing desk. Quickly, she had a pen prepared, and her hand flew across the paper, leaving splotchy ink in uneven lines behind.
Cursed Sir,
Do not attempt to reach me again. You will not be able to find me. Do not attempt to contact Miss Marianne Crawford again. You will not find her, either.
