Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(26)

“You are serious,” she said.

“About your being a coward?” he said. “What would you call yourself, Viola? A virtuous, dutiful woman? What end does your virtue serve? And virtuous by whose standards? Dutiful to what or to whom? To a family that has allowed you to leave Bath alone when you are clearly in deep distress?”

“I am not in distress,” she protested. Oh, surely she had not shown any outer sign . . . But she had told him she had had to get away, that she had rejected all offers of a loaned carriage and servants. It was unlike her to confide so much to a virtual stranger.

“Perhaps it was not clear to them,” he said. “Perhaps they merely believed you were being stubborn and deliberately awkward. Perhaps they have not noticed your distress. You are very good at hiding inside yourself, are you not?”

All her insides clenched, and she grew cold. How did he—? What did he think—? “What else am I supposed to do?” she asked, stung. “What else could I have done all my life? Be an emotional, hysterical, vaporish burden upon all who know me?”

“Many women are,” he said. “Such behavior is their call for help, or at least attention. But not you. You have chosen all your life instead to keep a stiff upper lip and a rigid backbone. You have character, Viola, and that is admirable. But even strong characters have their limits of endurance. You have reached yours, I believe.”

How could he know her so well when he did not know her at all? “And the answer is to throw all responsibility to the wind and run off with you without a word to anyone?” she asked him. “For the pleasure of more days like yesterday and more nights than last night?”

He tipped his head slightly to one side in apparent thought, and his eyes narrowed. “In a word, yes,” he said. “Why end something that has been so very pleasant when one does not wish or need to end it? Why not prolong the pleasure until it reaches its natural limit? For it will, you know. All passion has an arc. We should enjoy it while it lasts and part amicably, without pain or regret, when it is over. When all is said and done, you owe more to yourself than you do to anyone else, much as you may love all those someone elses, and much as they may love you.”

Oh, she knew what was happening right enough. His words were far more dangerous than his lovemaking during the night had been. For his lovemaking had been all physical sensation and emotion. His words appealed to her reason and seemed, on the surface at least, very persuasive. But it was seduction pure and simple.

When had she ever done anything just for herself? Everything in her upbringing and life experience had taught her that pleasing herself was the ultimate selfishness. Her life as a woman had always had but two guiding principles: duty and dignity. Duty to her family, dignity in the face of society. And where had it got her? Was the love her family felt for her enough? Did they need her? Even Abigail? Even Harry? She would die for either of them—she knew she would—if doing so would take away their hurt and ensure them a happy life. But it could not be done. Her death would in no way ease their living. They would somehow forge their own lives without any real help from her.

Who would die for her? Or give up all personal gratification for her? Perhaps her children would. Perhaps her mother would. Even her brother. But would it make any difference? Would she want any such sacrifice? It had never occurred to her that she might need anyone to care for her. She did not.

Why should she not care for herself, then? Where did selfishness end and the need to live one’s precious, only life begin?

Who would suffer if she ran away with Marcel Lamarr for a short while?

But was she merely reacting predictably to what she recognized as expert seduction? Dancing as a puppet to his strings? Rationalizing?

“Yes,” she said in answer to her own questions, but she spoke the word aloud, and her voice sounded quite firm. “Let us do it. Let’s run away.”



* * *



? ? ?

Marcel Lamarr, Marquess of Dorchester—he had omitted the title when signing the inn register—took a look at the axle on the hired carriage. It was new and appeared to be sound enough. He looked closely at the horses, which had already been hitched to the carriage, without actually lifting any legs to examine the shoes, and judged them to be sorry creatures, though probably adequate to their appointed task, at least for a few miles. He ignored the shabby outer appearance of the vehicle and opened the door nearest to him. Threadbare stained seats, fraying at the edges, met his disapproving eye and a smell of staleness his nose.

“I need the lady out here and in there without further ado,” an impatient, impertinent voice said from behind him. The coachman, presumably, wearing soiled linen beneath an ill-fitting stained coat, and a greasy-looking hat upon greasy-looking hair.

The Marquess of Dorchester turned and looked the man over, his eyes moving from oily head to scuffed, mud-caked boots and back again. “Indeed?” he said.

The coachman had frozen in place, and Marcel had the satisfaction of seeing fear in his eyes as he snatched off his hat and held it to his chest with both hands. “If you please, Your Honor,” he said. “I need to get the lady where she’s going and get myself back to Bath for more business tomorrow. It’s my livelihood. Your Honor, sir,” he added.

“The lady will come when the lady is ready,” Marcel informed him. “Until then you will wait, whether it be five minutes or five hours. When she does come, you will convey us to the nearest town. I have been told it is eight miles distant. There the lady and I will remove to a different carriage. We will refrain from insisting upon a return of the unused portion of the fare the lady paid you in advance and upon demanding compensation for the extra expense she has incurred as a result of your negligence in leaving Bath with a defective vehicle. I may, if you conduct yourself with professional decorum from this moment on, pay you a small bonus before you spring your horses in the direction of Bath and further business. I trust I have made myself clear.”