She shook her head, her face stunned.
As a gentleman, he had told his mistress very little about his wife, but now he wanted Maddy to understand. “When my father died, the estate was bankrupt. I married Vivian for her dowry. In return, she became Lady Farnsworth. A common arrangement.”
He shook his head. “I never dreamed how high a price I would pay for Hazeldown. I treated Vivian with the respect due my wife, I gave her a position she could never have achieved as a merchant’s daughter, I gave her children. But it was never enough. She wanted to own me, body and soul, and when she couldn’t, she made my life hell. It wasn’t because she loved me, but because she needed to dominate. She wanted me to give you up because she couldn’t bear to think that I had found some happiness.”
Madeline laid her hand over his with silent sympathy. He continued. “For eight years you made my life worth living. You were wrong to leave like that, without telling me, but . . . it was so like you to act from a generous spirit.” Her heart was a steady throb under his palm. “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”
He leaned forward and claimed her lips, and this time she made no attempt to resist the rising swirl of passion. She kissed him fiercely, glorying in the rediscovery of every remembered inch of his body, still not quite believing they were together again. If lightning were to strike her dead in the morning, she would die content for having loved Nicholas one more time.
Later, when desire was temporarily satisfied, they lay in each other’s arms and talked as they had so often in the past. She spoke of Diana and Geoffrey and Edith, and how she had learned to pluck a chicken again. He talked of Hazeldown and his children. She had watched their growth at second hand and delighted in knowing that his daughter had married and presented him with a grandchild, that his younger son enjoyed life in the army, that his heir had become a keen agriculturist.
She was dozing with her head on Nicholas’s shoulder when he said, “When shall we be married?”
She turned her face up to his. “It is quite unnecessary that you marry me. With my past, it would cause something of a scandal. I’m content to be your mistress.”
“That’s not what I want for either of us.” Her braid had long since come undone and her hair drifted across his chest. He stroked the thick dark strands, then leaned forward to brush a kiss on her forehead. Like him, Maddy was no longer young, and the lines of living in her face made her all the more dear to him. “All my life I have done my duty to Hazeldown and the Farnsworth family. Now I’m going to do something for myself.”
She smiled and snuggled closer. “If you still feel that way when you are out of mourning, we can talk about it then.” As she sank into sleep, she reminded herself to tell Diana that falling in love with one’s protector was not always a bad thing.
* * *
In the years that Diana had known Madeline, she had seen her friend go from despair to resignation to a deep, unshakable serenity. Now she saw Maddy radiant with joy. For the next week Lord Farnsworth was at the house constantly. Since he acted as his own land agent, he could not be away from his estate for too long during the summer, and he made the most of the time before he had to return to the country.
Farnsworth was a mercurial man, quick with words and laughter and occasional impatience. He watched Madeline in a fashion that made Diana wish that Gervase regarded her that way, rather than with the dark, puzzled wariness she seemed to inspire in him.
After Lord Farnsworth left, the house seemed quieter than ever, and Diana welcomed a visit from Francis Brandelin. Though he was as polite and charming as usual, he was edgy, and she guessed that he had been drinking. For courage, perhaps? They talked of commonplaces over tea, with Francis crumbling the cook’s excellent cakes without eating any. He reminded her of Geoffrey when her son had something regrettable to confess.
Deciding it was time for a bit of coaxing, Diana poured herself more tea. “Is there something you wish to discuss, Francis?” They’d reached a first-name basis quickly. Leaning back in her chair, she added with grave reassurance, “You know that anything you say to me will go no further.”
Carefully setting his own cup in the exact center of the table, he said in a low voice, “I know that. But . . . it is still almost impossible to speak.”
“Because words have power, and once you say them, what you fear will become true?”
He considered a moment, then gave her a fleeting smile. “I suppose that is it. You’re very perceptive.”
“Not perceptive,” she said with regret. “Experienced at not being able to say what should be said.”
He gave her an inquisitive look, but today was not the time to talk about her problems. Instead she said, “Because words have power, saying them can also set you free.”
He stood and crossed the room in quick, nervous steps, coming to a halt in front of a window, where he stared out, his hands linked behind him. “I know that, Diana. I suppose that is why I want to tell you about . . . about my weakness. Because talking to you may be the beginning of freedom.”
She rose and walked quietly to the window, standing to the side so she could see his profile. “What those men said about you at the Cyprians’ Ball . . . it was true?”
“Both true and false.” Francis swallowed hard, the tendons in his neck drawing taut. “Young boys are separated from everything they know and sent to school, thrown together without privacy, tormented by older boys. Intense friendships can develop. Sometimes they behave in ways that the world considers . . . unnatural.” He turned to face her, his light blue eyes as bleak as the hinges of hell. “Most men outgrow such things, pretend that they never happened. Despise the very thought, despise those who behave that way.”
“But you did not?” Her voice was very gentle.
“But I did not,” he answered flatly. “I hoped, prayed that I would outgrow my . . . unnatural desires. As an adult, I have never acted on them, but it doesn’t matter. The desire is still there.” Francis shrugged, then gazed across the room, his eyes distant. “It’s ironic, you know. I’m the exact opposite of most men. I like women, I really do.”
He glanced at her a little shyly. “I like you a great deal.” His eyes slid away again. “But I don’t want to . . . to make love to women. It wasn’t just Eton. I think I was born this way. I’ll never be what the world considers normal.”
Diana had a flash of insight. “Something has changed recently, hasn’t it?”
“You reallyareperceptive.” He turned back to the window, absently watching a curricle pass. “Ever since I came down from university, I have behaved like a proper young gentleman, doing all the proper social things. I’ve gone to balls and met young misses, always taking care to avoid raising expectations. I hoped I would meet a girl I could fall passionately in love with and everything would be all right, but it never happened.”
“And then?” Diana prompted.
“I have fallen passionately in love.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “But not . . . not with a woman.”
