“My lips are sealed.”
“I thought so. I’m very glad. Papa didn’t approve of ladies riding: he said it was unfeminine and dangerous. But I saw Jane watching Lady Nell ride yesterday—she’s a very accomplished horsewoman, isn’t she?”
“Best seat in the county,” Nash confirmed.
“And this morning Jane found one of Nell’s girlhood riding habits in an old trunk in the nursery. It had a couple of rips in it but Jane—my Jane, who has to be forced to take up a needle—happily sewed them up without a word of complaint! And all day she’s been whispering to Nell in corners and disappearing on mysterious errands. She’s determined to outdo the boys, of course.”
He laughed. “My money’s on Jane.”
They turned down the pathway that skirted the stables. Early roses were coming into bloom all along the south-facing wall, soaking up the warmth of the sun. The rich rose scent surrounded them and she hugged his arm unselfconsciously. There was a spring in her step he’d never seen before.
She was born for this life, he thought suddenly. A country house filled with children. How could he drag her off to foreign lands and a life of careful diplomacy?
“You like it here, don’t you?”
She glanced up with a smile, her eyes shining. “It’s wonderful. Everyone is so kind and the children are happy and excited and busy and . . .” She let go his arm, plucked a rose, and twirled around. “I feel suddenly free . . . and young and alive.”
“Youareyoung and alive.” And sweet and lissome and utterly irresistible. He caught her twirling body in his arms and swung her off her feet. They twirled together, until, dizzy, he staggered sideways and collapsed against the wall, Maddy clasped to his chest, laughing and breathless.
“But you’re not—” He broke off, shocked by what he’d been about to say.
“Not what?” She laughed up at him. “A fool in—”
He stopped whatever it was she’d been about to say by covering her mouth with his in a swift, firm kiss. Then he set her abruptly on her feet, suddenly chastened, almost serious.
In silence they walked on. Nash couldn’t believe what he’d been about to say to her.But you’re not free—you’re mine.Claiming her. Claiming her, what’s more, on a surge of possessive lust. Jealously.
He stared blindly ahead as he strode along the path, seeing in his head his mother twirling coquettishly, laughing, teasing, tormenting . . .
It was in the rose garden at Alverleigh. Nash was . . . eight? Nine? Children weren’t allowed in the rose garden, but he’d hit a cricket ball over the hedge and had sneaked in to fetch it. He’d found his parents strolling among the roses. Fearful of being caught there, he’d hidden. And watched.
Father was picking roses and giving them to Mama, who pulled them slowly to pieces, one by one, tossing the petals at Father’s head, and laughing as he brushed them from his hair.
Father picked off the thorns, but he must have missed one, because Mama’s hand got scratched and she exclaimed, and held it out reproachfully to Father. Nash could see the thin line of blood on her palm.
Father had taken her hand and licked off the blood, carefully, licking up her arm. Then he’d growled like an animal and snatched her up against his chest—just as Nash had done with Maddy—and carried Mama into the house. They were laughing and murmuring and left a trail of rose petals behind them.
But later that day Mama’s bags stood in the hall and they were screaming at each other, Mama white and tense and brittle, and Father so enraged his face was dark red and mottled and terrifying.
Nash and Marcus had watched from behind the rails of the staircase, quiet as mice, knowing they’d be beaten if they were caught eavesdropping. Nash wanted to do something to make them stop. Marcus said no, nothing could. It was always like this when Mama came home. She hated the country.
But Nash wouldn’t listen. He knew how to make Mama happy again, make them both happy, and stop the terrible screaming. Taking the hidden servants’ stairs, he ran out to the rose garden and plucked a dozen roses.
He even picked off all the thorns, like Father had, so Mama wouldn’t scratch her fingers. His hands got all scratched and bloody himself but he didn’t care. As long as Mama stayed . . .
He still remembered how hard his little heart beat as he stood in the hallway, holding out the roses to his mother, so determined to make her happy again.
He’d never forget the silence as the yelling suddenly stopped, the shocking silence that somehow pressed on him like a physical weight.
And the terror as his father turned on him with a hiss of rage.
He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He just squeezed his eyes shut and held out the roses to Mama. His hands shook. And Mama laughed.
Father dashed the flowers from his hands and flung him from the room, halfway across the hall . . .
Mama left for London shortly afterward.
Father stayed long enough to give Nash a severe beating for interrupting his parents’ conversation and for stealing the roses. And then he’d beaten Marcus for not stopping Nash—he was the eldest, Nash’s behavior was his responsibility.
