The door to the room opened, and two women entered, one plain and proper, clearly a lady, and the other large and aproned, carrying a teapot. The lady’s gaze found Bourne’s across the room, and she flew to him, landing in his strong embrace. He crushed her to him and pressed his face to the crook of her neck as she wrapped her arms about his head, threading her fingers into his dark locks and whispering to him.
Mara was torn between gaping at the display—so incongruous with the man with whom she had interacted—and looking away from the deeply emotional moment.
When he finally pulled away, his unpleasant personality returned. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The lady did not seem to register the tone. “You should have summoned me yourself. I should not have to receive word from Pippa.” She paused, her fingers coming to his cheek. “What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing.” He looked away, and so did Mara, her gaze falling to Pippa, standing at Temple’s other side, watching her.
“It’s not nothing, Michael.”
“It’s fine.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.
“Who hit you?”
The countess’s lips twitched. Mara willed her to stay quiet. Luck was not on her side. “Miss Lowe hit him.”
The plain woman pulled herself up to her full height and looked to Pippa. “Who is Miss Lowe?”
Pippa pointed at Mara, who wished she could disappear. “She is.”
The other woman faced her, gaze tracking her bloodied dress and haphazard hair and no doubt haggard face before landing on Mara’s right hand, which had dealt the blow.
One blond brow rose. “I suppose he deserved it?”
Shock had her meeting the lady’s eyes. “He did, rather.”
The lady nodded. “It happens.” She turned back to Bourne.
“I most certainly did not deserve it.”
She raised a brow. “Have you apologized?”
“Apologized!” he sputtered. “She hit me. On her way to kill Temple.”
Mara opened her mouth to protest, but the woman did not give her a chance to finish her sentence. “Miss Lowe, have you plans to kill Temple?”
It was the first time anyone had thought to ask the question. Mara told the truth. “No.”
The woman nodded, and returned her attention to Bourne. “Then my husband no doubt deserved it.”
Bourne’s gaze narrowed as Mara registered the meaning of the words. This woman was the Marchioness of Bourne, and willing to stand up to the horrible man without hesitation. Surely she should be sainted.
“You should not be here,” Bourne grumbled.
“Why not? I’m a member and married to one of the owners of the club.”
“This is no place for a woman in your condition.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I am increasing, Michael, not infirm. Pippa is here.” The marchioness indicated the countess, who was, indeed, with child.
“It is not my fault that Cross does not love his wife the way I love mine.”
Cross raised a brow at the words before looking seriously to Pippa. “I love you a great deal.”
“I know,” Pippa said, and Mara wondered at the simplicity in the words. The countess’s perfect understanding that she was loved.
She imagined what it would be like to be loved with such certainty. Her gaze flickered to the man on the table. To his strong jaw and long arms, and the hand that lay flat against the wood, palm curved and empty. She wondered what it would be like to slide her hand into that space. To fill it.
To love and be loved.
Mara returned her attention to the Marchioness of Bourne, whose attention remained fixed on her husband. “Michael,” she said softly, “Temple is as much mine as any of yours.”
The woman turned to face Temple’s still form, and worry etched her brow as she reached for him, her fingers grazing his good shoulder before pushing dark hair from his brow. Bourne came to stand with his wife, pulling her tight against his side, anger and pain etched on his handsome face.
“Good God,” she whispered, leaning into her husband’s embrace.
“He will live.” The words were harsh, torn from Bourne’s throat, equal parts will and worry.
Something tightened in Mara’s chest as she watched the tableau. This man—whose life she’d toyed with—she hadn’t ruined him. He had dozens who cared for him, friends who would go to any lengths to save him.
How long had it been since someone had worried for her? How long since she’d dreamed of it?
How long since she’d deserved it?
She did not like the answer that threatened.
She turned to the woman with the teapot. “Is that the tepid tea?”
The woman nodded, her own gaze glassy as she watched Temple. “Oui. I brewed it myself.”
“Thank you, Didier,” Pippa said as Mara took the pot and poured the brown liquid into a tumbler she pulled from a nearby decanter of scotch.
“I hope there’s some magic in that brew. Lord knows he could use it,” said the marchioness.
“Willow bark,” the countess replied. “It’s said to fight fever.”