Chapter Eleven

July 24, 1815

It had been two days since she'd accepted the marquess's invitation to become his mistress, and with that meant she would serve him in that role however he wished. To her, it wasn't all that scandalous of a proposition, for she was a widow and her cousin-in-law had already told him she didn't want a companion. Frankly, returning to America just now wasn't something she wanted to do either.

Because she was falling in love with Benedict Ormandy.

Perhaps it wasn't wise, and it certainly hadn't been anything she'd planned, but there was something about him that appealed to her, a man who needed her. Such a thing hadn't happened in a very long time, and it flattered her, but she also enjoyed being able to help. He was a man who wanted to be healed and come out of the shadows he'd walked in for far too long. Beyond that, he represented everything she had ever wanted in a man… even with the obstacles still attached.

Nothing was perfect in life.

Today, she was gloriously at ease with her life. Yesterday, Benedict told her she should go into the village and secure the services of a modiste, that she needed to have gowns and new clothing made exclusively for her. When she'd protested, he'd kissed the words from her then assured her he would have done that for any woman under his protection as mistress. After that, he'd given her a lopsided grin that had made her heart tremble and told her he might like to throw a dinner party or a rout, so everyone could see her and know that she was his.

Who was she to argue? Her husband only begrudgingly let her buy new clothing. With Benedict, it seemed nothing was off limits, and she didn't know how to act. What was marriage compared to freedom?

She frowned. But was it so bad to want love? That was something she'd not had with her husband. Was she destined to never have it with the marquess? No, he was different. She'd spied those budding emotions in his eyes the afternoon in the ballroom, when he'd almost talked of his feelings before hiding in the carnal.

"Ah, Mrs. Stowe. I'm glad I caught you."

"Oh?" Marjorie turned at the sound of Mrs. Perkins' voice. "Is something amiss?"

"Not at all." The older woman offered a smile. "A letter came for you from London. I believe it's from your cousin, so I put it in your room."

"Thank you. I hope she is having a lovely time." Did the staff know she was officially the marquess' mistress? Did it change how they saw her? "Uh, is His Lordship in residence this afternoon? There are a few things I wish to discuss with him."

"I believe he's gone walking to Hummingbird Lake."

"Is the earl with him?"

"No. Lord Traverston had an errand in the village." She shrugged. "Might I say that I have never seen His Lordship so… cheerful in years."

"Oh?" Now was the time to see what the housekeeper knew. "You believe he's… different these days?"

"He is. Why, just yesterday, I met him in the drawing room, and after concluding my questions regarding dinner, he waltzed me to the door." Surprise lined her face while she smiled. "He hasn't had that sort of humor since the early days of his marriage."

"How wonderful! Perhaps that means he has turned a corner mentally."

"You have made the difference, Mrs. Stowe." The housekeeper nodded sagely. "It is good he has you; your presence has changed his life."

Heat went through her cheeks. "I don't know about that, but I am glad he seems to be better than he was when I met him." While Mrs. Perkins regarded her with a knowing expression. "The marquess is a good man when he remembers who he is."

"And you, Mrs. Stowe?"

"What about me?"

The housekeeper dropped her voice. "Who are you? A widow turned mistress to a powerful man in British society? You have his ear, which could benefit many people. Already you have made quite the difference in this house."

Marjorie frowned. "I don't put much stock into titles or position in society or wealth." She shrugged. "I'm merely interested in the man."

"And that is but one thing that makes you different from every woman." Mrs. Perkins grinned. "Keep that knowledge in your mind, though, for mark my words. He soon won't be satisfied with only keeping you on as his mistress." She winked. "He'll take you to wife I'm thinking, once he finally realizes his first one is long dead."

"Oh, I don't know." Heat renewed itself in Marjorie's cheeks. "There was a time in my life when I desperately wanted to be loved. My husband certainly didn't care for me that way, but I don't want another husband who won't—or can't—love me like I need to be loved." She shook her head. "It is a waste of time and comes with its own complications."

"He'll come ‘round."

She frowned. "We can only hope. For the time being, I am content until he heals—"

"Nonsense, Mrs. Stowe. The marquess can heal married just as much as he can not." She tsked her tongue. "Now, shall I ring for tea for you?"

"No. Actually, can you have it packed in a basket? I'd like to find His Lordship. There are a few things I need to discuss with him."

"I will." The housekeeper grinned again. "I like you, Mrs. Stowe. You are the new life this house needs, exactly what His Lordship needs. Already, the staff completely adores you."

"I like them too. Such nice people, and this area of the country is gorgeous. No wonder he didn't wish to return to London, but on the other hand, it's quite forlorn, isn't it?"

"It can be, especially in the winter." She winked. "Unless one is married and in the midst of a honeymoon period." With a giggle, she headed toward the stairs. "Your basket should be ready in a quarter hour."

Nearly an hour later, Marjorie reached Hummingbird Lake. When she didn't immediately see Benedict, she took a bit of a ramble along the shore to immerse herself in the scenery and enjoy the peaceful nature of the world around her.

At one point, she discovered a delightful stand of oak trees. Two wooden boards were suspended by ropes from a stout branch of one of the trees, and she grinned when she recognized it as a swing. How long had it been since she'd enjoyed herself on such a thing? The whole area resembled a whimsical scene from a fairy story. Of course she stumbled upon it in England. Virginia simply didn't have anything like that or even the history one could feel in the very air at times.

After depositing her basket on a fallen tree, she went immediately to the swing and settled upon it. When it held her weight, she gave herself over to pumping her legs back and forth, which moved her higher and higher into the air. She giggled and as her inhibitions dissolved, she gave herself over to the charm of the place.

"I think I will remember you like this for as long as I live."

The sound of Benedict's voice made her gasp, for she hadn't been expecting him, but she didn't want to cease swinging. "Why is that?" she asked as he came around the trees and into her line of sight. This time, she made a sound of appreciation, for he was clad only in boots, navy breeches, and a loose fine lawn shirt open at the placket—the very picture of a man at ease in the country and with himself.

"When one is swinging, feeling the wind through their clothing and hair, going ever higher, one no longer has inhibitions or worries. And you, my dear, are the image of that, as if you've found freedom in flying and you are unwilling to give it up." He came forward, and at the fallen tree, he paused then sat upon it next to her basket. "Did you come out to fetch me or bring me sustenance?"

Marjorie stopped pumping her legs. "Both? I wished to talk with you."

"About?"

"This and that. Must I have a reason?"

"No, I suppose not." He removed the linen cloth from the basket and perused the contents. "This part of the lake is where I come when I want to ponder things."

"The location certainly is quiet enough for that." Still, she moved through the air, and it was glorious.

"My son Henry enjoyed this place as well. It was why I installed the swing. We spent many happy hours out here." Silence reigned for a few moments before he spoke again. "I can almost hear his laughter ring out, for he adored the swing. Often when the weather was fair, we would both come out here to play and swim, to hide away from real life."

"Where you both wouldn't need to worry about the title and responsibilities or being proper," she finished in a soft voice as her swing went lower and lower without her working to keep it aloft.

"Yes." That one word was laden with emotion. Moisture glinted in his eyes. "I miss him every day."

"Of course you would. He was your child."

He nodded. "I had two other sons. Charles was the first, but he died in infancy. His nurse put him down for a nap, and he never woke from it. There was no evidence of tampering or a known medical condition. The boy just didn't live." The tiny catch in his voice pulled at Marjorie's heartstrings, but she dared not interrupt him lest he close himself off again. "A couple of years later, Phillip arrived. He was hale and hearty and quite the happy infant." Benedict's grin was a wobbly affair. "Once he passed infancy, my wife and I were over the moon. We thought he'd grown out of the danger our first child had fallen into."

"What happened?" Him talking about his losses help to soothe those unhealed wounds in her own heart.

"Who can say? Fate? Luck?" The marquess shrugged. "Phillip reached the age of two and a half before death took him. It was chance, really. He'd contracted a fever. There had been some sort of illness going ‘round at the time; I'd been to see one of the men in the village and had been unaware his children were suffering from it. I… I suppose I brought it home and gave it to my child." His voice broke and he bowed his head.

"Oh, Syn, you couldn't have known. Your boy could have contracted the illness elsewhere if it was truly moving through the village." But her chest tightened, for any time a child was ill, there was the risk that they wouldn't survive. "Just like your first son's death wasn't your fault either."

"Yet I felt guilty, because those children were my responsibility." He shook his head. "I should have looked after them better, been near them more, done… something." A stifled sob stole away his words. "When Henry grew without issues, we held our breath. Then he was six, seven, eight and we were wildly excited and grateful… before our hopes were dashed."

Slowly, Marjorie's swing ceased to rock back and forth. She pushed off with her feet to keep the gentle momentum going. "Raising a child is a harrowing experience, and there is no guarantee they will ever attain adulthood." The backs of her eyelids itched with the urge to cry, but she tamped it down. For now. "We simply need to enjoy them while we have them, no matter what stage of development that is."

And remember them once they passed.

"That is all we are given, a handful of fleeting moments." He wiped at his eyes. "Why do we even try then?"

"To have something in this world? To put a little of ourselves into what we do?" She frowned. "We all only have a limited time on this earth, Syn. It is up to us to fill it in ways that will bring us happiness, to perhaps leave a legacy for whomever is willing to remember us."

"My legacy will not be having children." His words sounded so morose that she wanted to reach out and hug him.

"I'm sorry." The conversation had grown far too maudlin, but it was needed. "I am not certain I will be able to bear any more children or carry one to term if I were to discover I'm increasing." It was something she hadn't given thought to during her trysts with the marquess. "There are certain… changes a woman goes through at advanced ages to prevent such things."

"Did you think that was something I wanted from you?" He left the fallen tree and came toward her.

"I… uh, well I hadn't thought so until just now." She frowned. "Not that I assumed you wished to…" Heat went through her cheeks as her words trailed to a halt.

"Perhaps if we were both younger, if things were different, if I had met you sooner…" With the shake of his head, he walked in front of her swing and took hold of the ropes, which effectively stopped her movement. The look in his gray eyes was intense. Need zipped down her spine. "That is not to say I wouldn't welcome a child from you; however, I am beyond that time in my life, I think."

"Nonsense." For the first time, Marjorie considered that he would need an heir. "You can still sire children. All you need is a woman far younger than me, a woman you will take to wife." And not set aside for merely a mistress. The thought sent cold disappointment twisting through her gut. His time would be divided soon, and she would become an afterthought.

As it should be.

"I don't want a wife, at least not right now. As for you?" He leaned into her until his face was all too close to hers. "I want you , need that very uniqueness you have brought into my life. Without that, I honestly don't know what would become of me." Then he kissed her, gently, tenderly, sweetly, and though there was heat behind that meeting of mouths, he didn't rush to deepen the overture, nor did he make a leap to the carnal.

The sensation of falling assailed her as she kept her hands on the ropes and returned his advances. Each one was amazing in its simplicity, and the romanticism of them left her head spinning. This powerful man was usually so demanding and possessive, but in this one moment, he was like an eager young suitor, introducing himself to her for the first time. Another piece of her heart flew into his keeping. Only when she stood up from the swing did she loop her arms about his shoulders, and press her body into his, essentially offering herself to him.

With a groan, Benedict slid a hand down her back and at her rear, pulled her more snugly into his embrace where he deepened the kiss and sought out her tongue with his. "Every time I kiss you, it's as if you have bewitched me and I can think of nothing else." Before she could respond, he tugged her away from the swing only to move her over, press her back against the wide trunk of the oak tree, and kiss her again.

Despite the sensations racing through her veins and her want for him to go directly to foreplay like he always did, the marquess restrained himself to continue the gentle kissing and exploring of her lips that he'd started. He didn't seem rushed or hurried, and all too soon she gave herself over to his mastery. At this lakeside, so far removed from society, she was given a rare glimpse into the shadows and secrets that drove this man.

And she wanted to learn all of them.

Eventually, he pulled away with a sigh and a look of regret. "As much as I want to ravish the hell out of you right here, I will refrain in favor of doing justice to Cook's picnic."

"You are a sweet but complicated man, Syn." She didn't mind, for she knew that perhaps tonight or even early in the morning, he would visit her bed. He couldn't help himself.

"According to my wife, I'm a pain in the arse at times too."

"Men usually are, but as long as you aren't that in all aspects of your life, you should be all right." When he grinned, so did she. "She probably meant you are stubborn as well."

"No doubt." He led her to the fallen tree, and as he pulled her down to sit beside him, she came willingly.

For long moments, they watched ducks and geese paddle about the lake or go butts up as they hunted for aquatic life and other food beneath the surface. There was no need for conversation aside from the occasional comment about the wildlife, and it was the most wonderful afternoon she'd ever spent.

It certainly kept worries about the future away for a time, though how could she step back and watch him marry another when he finally came to his senses and realized he had responsibilities to his title?

Only time would tell.