“There were no other men, Nicholas.”
His expression was disbelieving, but he released her, unbuttoning his wet greatcoat and throwing it across a chair. The last years must have been difficult ones for Nicholas, Lord Farnsworth. He was thinner and grayer than when she had last seen him, and he looked haggard in his black clothing.
Madeline knew he would not leave without making love to her, and she craved that, even though the problems still lay between them, even though scars that had partially healed would be ripped open again. So thoroughly had she believed that he was gone from her life that she had never imagined such a scene, and now she was unsure how to proceed.
His intense gaze holding hers, he said slowly, “I couldn’t believe you would leave like that without telling me. I came back from Hazeldown and you were gone, the servants dismissed, the furniture in holland covers, not a single personal thing of yours in the house. Your man of business wouldn’t tell me anything, even though I had referred you to him myself.” The anger was leaching out of him, leaving the pain.
“Why, Maddy?”
She realized that the truth was far less hurtful than what he imagined. She took his hand and drew him to the sofa, sitting at the far end from him. “I left because I was dying, and I didn’t want you to see.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “You appear healthy enough.”
“I am now.” She pressed one hand to her breast in the old reflexive gesture. “There was a lump . . . it was growing rapidly. The physician said it was only a matter of months.”
His anger returned. “Did you trust me so little that you thought I would abandon you to die alone?”
She said gently, “No, love, I knew that you wouldn’t. That’s why I left.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice was flat, but his eyes were naked and vulnerable.
“Have you forgotten what was happening then? Your wife threatened that if you didn’t give me up, she would ruin you.”
His face worked for a moment. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. But I chose you. I was prepared to let Vivian do her worst.”
Madeline leaned back against the sofa, her face deeply sad. “Her considerable worst. Your children would have been torn in their loyalties, your family ripped apart, your reputation ruined. Even Hazeldown might have been threatened.” His arm lay along the sofa back, and she reached over to take his hand. “It was too high a price to pay for a few months with a dying woman.”
He turned his hand and caught hers, gripping convulsively. “You should have let me make that decision.”
She looked into his beloved face. He was not what the world called handsome, but his craggy features had distinction and they were inexpressibly dear to her. “Can you honestly say you did not feel any relief when I left?”
He hesitated, unable to deny her words. After a long silence he said slowly, “I wondered at the time if you left because of some misguided impulse of nobility. I did everything I could to find you, but you might have vanished from the face of the earth. Where did you go?”
“Yorkshire, to the village where I was born.” She gave a wintry smile. “My sister wouldn’t have me under her roof.”
He swore again while she continued. “Diana, the woman you terrified in my old bedroom, saved me from a blizzard and gave me a home. More, she made me part of her family. It was a blessing to be accepted, not condemned.”
Madeline closed her eyes briefly, remembering. “I grew stronger and the lump gradually disappeared. When I came back to London, I visited the physician who had treated me. He said such tumors are unpredictable. Usually they kill, but sometimes, inexplicably, they go away.” Opening her eyes again, she said, “That’s the whole story. It was very simple, really.”
“Why did you come back to London?”
“Diana wanted to live here.” Madeline swallowed hard as he released her hand so he could caress her arm under the sleeve of her robe. A delicious, melting sensation flowed through her body, and they both knew that she was his for the asking, at least for this night.
He slid down the sofa and took her face between his hands. The anger was gone, leaving gentleness and desire. “Why didn’t you let me know you had returned?”
Her pulse was quickening and it was hard to remember what had been so clear. “My health has improved but your wife still has the power to ruin you. And so much time had passed . . . time enough for you to forget me.”
His green eyes were tender now. “Do you think that only women know how to love?” He kissed her.
She moaned, hungry for the familiar touch and taste and weight of him. Her arms went around his neck, pulling the hard length of his body against her. There had always been rare passion between them, and the years of separation had fanned it to inferno heat.
As his lips moved to her throat and he opened her robe, she found that she was crying. Through her tears she whispered, “Oh, Nicholas, I love you so. Your wife will eventually find out and we will have to separate again, but let us make the most of what days or weeks we have.”
In the drama and intoxication of reunion, he had neglected to tell her the fact that made all the difference. “Vivian is dead.”
Madeline gasped, her body stiffening as she stared at him. He smiled wryly. “Don’t look like that. I didn’t murder her.”
He slid his hand into her robe and circled her breast, holding it with gentle possessiveness. “In one of God’s little ironies, she died six months ago of the same disease that you had. Didn’t you notice that I’m wearing mourning?”
