Passion and Pride (A Historical Romance) Read online

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “Um… thank you,” was all she could muster.

  His face fell the slightest bit. “To keep you safe while we’re apart.”

  She smiled. “I thought your brother was going to do that.”

  “He is, I just… I want to be with you, to protect you. This is… this is the only way I know how when I’m not at your side.”

  She clasped his hand. “So come with me tomorrow.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  His face clouded over even more. “We’ve talked about this.”

  Instinctively she knew that to force the issue would only hasten the storm she feared was on the horizon. And of the last few precious hours they had left before they parted, she did not want to spend even a second of them quarreling.

  She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, it’s quite lovely. I shall stab any villains who attack me and think of you as I do it.”

  “You don’t like it,” he said, crestfallen.

  “On the contrary, I like it quite a bit… though…”

  Here she tugged at his arm until he got back into bed.

  “…as far as a sword goes, it is a poor substitute for yours,” she whispered, letting her hand drift below his waist.

  She felt the dangling, heavy weight of it settle across her palm. Within seconds, and with a few soft caresses, his limp member began to thicken and expand until she could barely get her fingers around its massive girth.

  Evan promptly forgot about her disappointment over the knife.

  23

  He saw her off early the next morning. The footmen placed her belongings in the carriage, including a small trunk filled with her manuscripts.

  Andrew stood off to the side, looking churlish and out of sorts, as Evan and Marian said their very reserved goodbyes. They had kissed tearfully two hours before; all they could do now was speak with their eyes.

  She looked tired – they had gotten barely any sleep the night before – but her face was radiant. Her plain cotton dress was simple, but to Evan, her beauty would have outshone any lady at court.

  “Thank you for the use of your carriage, Mr. Blake,” she said as she gazed into his eyes.

  “My pleasure, Miss Willows. God speed on your trip.”

  She curtsied, her eyes never leaving his face, and then Andrew helped her up into the carriage.

  “Take care of her,” Evan said, his voice choked with emotion.

  “Of course,” Andrew answered curtly, then stepped into the carriage himself.

  Evan watched the carriage ride away down the drive, then turned back to the house with a heavy heart.

  Three days seemed like a horrifically long time.

  24

  Evan arrived in London three days later. He drove the carriage solely by himself, as he did not want any of the servants at Blakewood to know what would transpire over the next week in London. He boarded the horse at a stable and rented a hackney and driver for his time in the city.

  Likewise, he had already arranged to rent rooms near the Mayfair District. Though he wanted a certain amount of discretion in his comings and goings, he most certainly did not want to delve into the poorer side of town.

  After washing and changing, he called at the Willows household in Clapham at one o’clock. Marian answered the door, her face aglow at the sight of him. Mrs. Willows followed close behind her.

  Mrs. Willows was a handsome woman, though the cares of life had worn her down. Evan could see that she must have been a great beauty in her time. Now she was nervous and agitated, especially concerning her daughter.

  “Mother, may I present Mr. Blake, the son of Lord Blake,” Marian introduced them. “Mr. Blake, my mother, Mrs. Willows.”

  Marian’s mother curtsied, and Evan bowed.

  “I wanted to thank you so much, Mr. Blake, for your kindness to my daughter,” she said. Her voice was strained, as though she were one piece of bad news away from tears.

  “It is our great pleasure to have her at Blakewood,” Evan said pleasantly.

  “Would you care to come in?”

  “Mother, Mr. Blake is very busy, and we must leave – ” Marian protested.

  They had concocted an elaborate story about Evan needing to be back at Blakewood that evening. Instead, they would drive back to Evan’s lodgings until their lunch the next day with Pemberly – about whom Marian had told no one, in case the meeting yielded nothing of substance. Marian had her bags packed and sitting by the door, ready to go –

  “Nonsense, we’ll only be half an hour at most. Mr. Blake?” Mrs. Willows implored him, looking as though she might weep if he said no.

  Given the nature of his relationship with her daughter, Evan could not find it in himself to refuse. Half of it was guilt; the other half was a curiosity about Marian’s life before him.

  “I would be delighted,” he smiled, much to Marian’s chagrin.

  25

  Evan looked around the small drawing room as he sat in a slightly creaky chair. It was a nice, respectable, middle-class drawing room – and as such, it was a specimen Evan had only rarely encountered before in his life. He looked at the aging wallpaper, the lace on the tables, the clock on the mantle, and the silhouette portraits hanging on the wall as though he were surveying the living quarters of some exotic denizens at the furthest edges of the British Empire.

  Marian sat across from him with a look of impatience. Mrs. Willows poured tea for them all.

  “Your brother was very charming, Mr. Blake,” Mrs. Willows said as she handed him a teacup.

  “Ah, you met him, then?”

  “Yes. A very nice man.”

  “My father would be pleased to hear you say that.”

  Actually, Evan’s father would loudly contradict her with tales of whoring and gambling, but that was not exactly a proper topic of discussion at the moment.

  “Speaking of fathers, I am very sorry you were not able to meet Mr. Willows,” Marian’s mother said. “He is at work right now.”

  “I understand he works for a very reputable shipping company,” Evan said politely.

  Mrs. Willows looked at him with an air of confusion. “How did you know where he works?”

  Across from him, Marian tensed up.

  Yes – how, indeed? It was certainly not told to me by your daughter as we lay together in bed one night…

  “I believe your sister mentioned something to that effect when we discussed Marian coming to stay with us.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Willows said, apparently mollified. “Yes, we were quite worried about Marian before you agreed most kindly to take her on at Blakewood.”

  “Mother,” Marian whispered.

  “There is no need to be worried about your daughter, Mrs. Willows,” Evan assured her. “She is a perfectly lovely and charming young woman.”

  “She has an obstinacy and headstrongness that will not do her any favors in finding a husband.”

  “Mother!” Marian said louder, her face turning red.

  “Well, we have been nothing but delighted by Marian’s presence at Blakewood, Mrs. Willows,” Evan smiled.

  “That was not what my sister wrote me,” Mrs. Willows said, her mouth tight-lipped.

  Evan froze with his teacup halfway to his lips. Not knowing the contents of the letter, he did not quite know how to react.

  “…oh?” he finally managed.

  “Mother!” Marian exclaimed, barely keeping her horror in check.

  “Marian’s head is full of daydreams. She does not take her life or her obligations seriously, Mr. Blake.”

  Marian stood up. “Mother, it is time for Mr. Blake to – ”

  “Sit down,” Mrs. Willows commanded her daughter.

  In those two words, Evan glimpsed where Marian’s inner strength came from.

  Marian slowly sank back down into her chair.

  “I am concerned about my daughter’s future,” Mrs. Willows said, her voice tremulous.<
br />
  “I think you have nothing to fear, Mrs. Willows.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “She is very talented – ”

  “How do you know?” Mrs. Willows asked sharply.

  Again, he had overplayed his hand.

  “I… have read some of her writing,” Evan improvised.

  Marian looked quite pale. Her mother sat there staring at him.

  “Not something she wrote while she lived here?” Mrs. Willows finally asked.

  Since he had never read anything Marian had written, it seemed perfectly acceptable to continue the lie.

  “No, I believe it was something she wrote while at Blakewood. Poetry. About a sparrow. Quite lovely,” Evan said, then sipped his tea.

  Mrs. Willows frowned, then looked at Marian. “I did not know you wrote poetry.”

  Marian forced a smile. “I only just started.”

  Mrs. Willows turned back to Evan. “I find it curious that you had her escorted here, and yet must retrieve her so quickly.”

  “Ah… my brother escorted her here, but he is staying in London for several weeks. I was here, but I am recalled to Blakewood on business matters… so I thought it best if I take Miss Willows back with me.”

  “I see.”

  Her tone indicated she did not believe him one bit.

  Evan sipped his tea again. In the silence of the sitting room, he was more aware than ever of the clock ticking on the mantle.

  “Well,” he finally said, “we really should be going.”

  “Yes,” Marian said, and bolted to her feet.

  Mrs. Willows smiled thinly. “I do hope you will come back to visit again, Mr. Blake.”

  “When my travels permit me, Madame.”

  In the hallway, he called out to the hackney driver, who came inside and retrieved Marian’s things.

  Marian said her goodbyes to Mrs. Willows. There was real affection there, though equal parts exasperation. At the end, she kissed her mother on the cheek.

  Evan put out his arm to escort her down the steps.

  “Mr. Blake,” Mrs. Willows said.

  Evan bowed slightly. “Mrs. Willows.”

  “Mr. Blake… you will take care of my daughter, won’t you?”

  The woman’s face suddenly betrayed the pain and worry she felt. Evan had no idea exactly what she knew, but his guilt surfaced again.

  “Of course.”

  “She is very dear to me, and I… I worry about her future.”

  “There is no need to worry, Madame; she has a very bright future indeed.”

  The older woman attempted a smile, but it was not convincing.

  “Goodbye, Madame.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Blake. Goodbye, Marian.”

  Marian kissed her mother again, and then they were into the carriage.

  The last image Evan had as they drove away was of the older woman standing alone on the steps of her home, her face anxious and haunted, as though she were watching something precious slip further and further from her grasp.

  26

  Marian contained herself until they reached the house. She waited the driver was paid and left – and then she threw herself upon Evan.

  After they kissed passionately, she pulled away. “How I have missed you!” she murmured.

  “Show me,” Evan grinned.

  He led her to a resplendent bed chamber where they tore off each other’s clothes, and made love with frenzied abandon.

  After a short respite, she traced a finger on his chest.

  “Do you think Lord Pemberly will pay me enough that I might make my living as a writer?” she asked timidly.

  “From his letter, I would say so. He seems quite enthusiastic.” Evan rolled over against her and began to suck at her breast.

  “Not as enthusiastic as you,” Marian giggled, and took him into her arms for a second bout.

  27

  They dined at an extraordinary restaurant where the food was better than anything Marian had ever eaten, even at holiday family dinners. There was sirloin of roast beef, turkey, and duck. Artichokes and French beans complemented the main dishes. The wine was the best she had ever tasted. Being able to eat a meal with her beloved and stare into Evan’s eyes by candlelight was one of the most romantic things she had ever experienced – after all, it was the first time she had ever done so.

  She felt slightly out of place in her plain dress, as most of the other patrons were wealthy men and women. She wondered if they were watching her and secretly sneering at her behind her back… but the corner where their table sat was dark, and after fifteen minutes or so, she forgot that there was anyone else alive but her and Evan.

  There was only one sour moment in the entire evening. The waiter was pouring wine for the both of them when he casually asked Evan, “Would you and your wife care for dessert, sir?”

  “Miss Willows and I will have the apple tartlet, and a glass of port for myself,” Evan answered, lightly stressing the word Miss.

  To Marian’s ears, it could not have been clearer that he was saying, This woman is not my wife.

  It bothered her immensely at the moment he said it, though by the time they left, she had drunk enough wine that she had forgotten it completely.

  28

  After a luxurious night of making love – and then again in the morning – they took a simple breakfast and arrived at Pemberly’s shortly before one o’clock in the afternoon.

  It was a beautiful house on Upper Grosvenor, small but grandly furnished. The servant showed them in to the drawing room.

  Pemberly walked in a few minutes later, still dressed in a smoking jacket. “Good God, Blake, why did you have to come so early?” he yawned.

  “Early?!” Evan laughed.

  “You know my London hours are adjusted to allow the maximum allotment of drinking and carousing,” Pemberly said, and walked over to Marian with his arms held wide. “Here she is! The writer, the artist, the woman of the hour! Welcome, welcome! It is not often this house sees someone so enormously gifted as you – well, I mean, besides myself. How are you, o newest jewel of my publishing empire?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Marian answered shyly.

  “The parrot’s tongue seems to have lost its razor’s edge, I see. But as long as she has not lost her powers of the pen, all will be well. Sit, sit! Williams!” Pemberly yelled over his shoulder. “Set out a table for myself and my guests! Only the best! Well – only the best for myself and the lady, third-best for Blake here!”

  The butler appeared briefly at the door. “As you wish, sir,” he said, then was gone.

  “So,” Pemberly said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them greedily, “have you brought the rest of your works?”

  Marian opened the small valise Evan had carried in and set out the manuscripts, each bound with ribbon, one by one on the table in front of her.

  “I feel like Ali Baba in the cave of the thieves, looking at riches untold!” Pemberly exclaimed as he picked up the first packet.

  “Perhaps it would be best not to use the word ‘thieves’ in connection with our dealings here,” Evan joked.

  “It was an allusion, you Philistine,” Pemberly sniffed. “You have the literary soul of a turnip, did you know that, Blake?”

  “And the turnip thinks that perhaps now would be a good time to discuss terms.”

  “Oh ho! So you’re earning your fee now, are you?” Pemberly said mischievously.

  “I am acting only in Marian’s best interests, that is all.”

  “And what say you, my literary liebling?” Pemberly asked.

  She blushed. “I am quite new at this, so… I will trust you and Blake to hash things out.”

  “Oooooooh!” Pemberly said, sounding like a child who has caught someone kissing. “Such familiarity between the former servant and her master! You should really make your current ‘research’ the subject of your next novel, my dear.”

  Marian blushed even more.

  “Terms,” Evan said forceful
ly.

  “Said the turnip,” Pemberly muttered. “All right, I am prepared to offer you an advance of ten pounds against royalties of eight percent, after sales of a thousand copies. That’s eight percent for all future works, as well.”

  Marian’s eyes lit up. For her, the amount was large; ten pounds was more than she would make as a servant for an entire year.

  But for Evan, the amount was appalling.

  “Ten pounds?!” he exclaimed. “She can’t live off that!”

  “It’s an advance,” Pemberly snapped. “If her works sell, then she’ll make considerably more than that.”

  “You spend ten pounds a week just on wine and whores!”

  “What do you take me for, man?” Pemberly growled. “I’ll have you know, my wine and whores cost far more than that!”

  “And you offer only ten pounds?!”

  “What do wine and whores have to do with her advance?!” Pemberly railed. “We are making a writer of her, not a member of the peerage!”

  “You are taking advantage of her!”

  “As a publisher, that is my job! What, are you now the protector of the downtrodden and the masses? Will you be offering advances of a hundred pounds apiece when you inherit your father’s fortune?”

  “Your offer is a pittance!”

  “Actually, it’s extremely generous. Most publishers don’t even offer advances for first-time writers, you ignorant fool!”

  “How can she write if she’s living in penury?”

  “Hmmm… she can live here.” Pemberly turned to Marian. “You can stay here and write for as long as we continue our arrangement. That way, I can keep the whip on you.” He turned back to Evan. “There. Is that suitable? Room and board in one of the finest estates in London, plus a ten pound advance?”

  The idea that she would live in Pemberly’s house – and the realization that she would no longer be at Blakewood – hit Evan full-force. He stumbled momentarily, then regained his footing.

  “Better – but she will require a twenty-percent royalty.”

  Pemberly half-sputtered, half-laughed. “Are you MAD? The best-selling writers in all of Europe only command sixteen percent!”

  “Sixteen, then.”

  “Did you not hear me?! Best-selling! Sixteen percent!” Then Pemberly pointed at Marian. “Not even published! Eight percent!”