Someone cleared his throat from the open doorway of the conservatory.
“One hates to interrupt,” the Earl of Wanstead said.
“But—” Viscount Luttrell had lifted his head and was looking down into Christina’s eyes. “I hear a but about to be uttered. You cannot be persuaded to go away, Gerard?”
If the floor had opened up beneath Christina’s feet, she would gladly have dropped through it. She resisted the urge to push violently away from the viscount and start trying to explain.
“I need to talk to her ladyship,” the earl said. “About tomorrow’s concert. Ralph told me she was here a few minutes ago.”
“I must have a friendly word with Milchip,” the viscount said with mock menace, stepping back. He bowed to Christina. “Until later, ma’am.”
She turned away as he left the conservatory, and fingered the leaves of the orange tree.
“Should I have allowed myself to be persuaded to go away?” the earl asked softly.
“There was mistletoe,” she said, despising her own eagerness to justify herself. “It would have been ill-natured to refuse to be kissed beneath it.”
“Your headdoeslook lovely framed by a pillow,” he said.
She whirled around to face him, her eyes flashing. “I would have you know,” she said, “that I am not your possession, my lord. Neither am I Viscount Luttrell’s. I am not answerable to either of you or to anyone else.” Which was a foolish thing to say, she knew even as she said it. She was this man’s dependent.
“You are right,” he said curtly. His face had that hard-jawed, cold-eyed look she remembered from his arrival at Thornwood. “And this scene ought not to have been surprising to me even without the existence of the invisible mistletoe. I know from bitter experience how well you are to be trusted, after all, do I not?”
Her eyes widened. “Trusted?” she said. “To do what, pray? To stay away from all other men for the rest of my life merely because of what happened yesterday? If you will remember, my lord, you yourself said that yesterday was an ending.” And perhaps a beginning, he had said—if there was a child.
“If there should happen to be a child,” he said coldly, echoing her thoughts, “I would like to know whose exactly it is, my lady.”
She swayed on her feet and only half heard him swear profanely.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, running the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Devil take it, Christina, why am I always at my very worst with you? Do forgive me, I beg you. That was a—a filthy thing to say.”
“If there should happen to be a child,” she said, “the whole world will know exactly whose it is. It will be mine, mine alone. And I will love it with all the love in my heart, just as I love my daughters. Fortunately children need not bear the stigma of their paternity, whether legitimate or illegitimate. They are precious in themselves. If I am with child, you need not ask who the father is or whether I even know. It will not matter who the father is, and none of you will ever know—you, Viscount Luttrell, any other man I may allow into my bed during the next month or so.”
His face was very pale. She was glad of it.
“I am sorry,” he said. “The words are inadequate, but I mean them. I am sorry.”
“For making it possible thatyoumight be the father?” she asked. “For lying with me yesterday?”
“Yes, for that too,” he said quietly. “It should never have happened. I am sorry.”
She had felt only angry until this moment—blindly, furiously angry. But now she felt unaccountably hurt too, and empty, and bereft. She turned her back on him again and took a few steps farther away from him.
“Why did you come?” she asked him. “Just to ensure that Lord Luttrell did not enjoy today what you enjoyed yesterday?”
She heard him draw a deep breath and hold it for a few moments. “It sounds trivial now,” he said. “I need your assistance—in a magic act I intend to put on at tomorrow’s concert.”
“Magic?” she said.
“A few things I have learned over the years,” he said. “Mostly objects vanishing and reappearing elsewhere. It will amuse the children and perhaps some of the adults too. I need a female assistant.”
“And you think I may be willing.” She half turned to him.
“Ithoughtyou might,” he said. “Now I think you probably will not. Will you?”
“Yes,” she said.
Why? Just to prove him wrong? Because she was intrigued? Because it would solve the problem of what she was to do for the concert? Because such an act must be rehearsed and they would have to spend some time alone together? They always quarreled bitterly when they were alone together—or they made love.
