My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Duncan followed the path along which the two women had fled, through the garden, through the open door, into a sunny dining parlor. Boxes and crates were stacked everywhere with footmen and maids running in circles. Duncan stood there a moment, unnoticed, then cleared his throat.

  A young girl looked up from where she leaned into a slatted crate and gave a frightened squeal.

  "Your master," Duncan ordered, well used to such reactions and bored by them. "Tell him the Earl of Cleaves has arrived."

  The servant backed out of the parlor, bumping into a portrait against the wall as she made her way out the door. "Yes, m'lord," she cried, trying to upright the painting of someone's sour-faced grandfather. "Right away, m'lord."

  Not a minute later, Lord Hollingsworth and his wife came hustling into the disorganized parlor.

  "Your lordship, let me offer my apologies for not being about to greet you at the door!" Hollingsworth bowed. "I hadn't been informed you'd arrived. Such a chore organizing a place that's not been occupied in twenty-five years and dealing with a household of females with vapors. You understand?"

  Duncan bowed gracefully and nodded, trying to be polite. "I understand entirely, sir."

  Lady Hollingsworth tapped her husband's arm with a painted fan.

  "Goodness, my apologies again." Lord Hollingsworth took a lace handkerchief from his ruffled sleeve and wiped his wide forehead, beaded with perspiration. "My wife, sir, Lady Hollingsworth. Lord Roderick, the Earl of Cleaves, my dearest."

  Lady Hollingsworth, a plump woman with sleek hair dyed the color of eggplant, curtsied. "Your servant, my lord. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you," she bubbled.

  Duncan bowed again, this time with irritation. He was convinced that if only the English would give up this absurd notion of introducing and being introduced, they'd gain a full score of years to their lifetime. "Your servant, madame."

  She rose, red-faced, clasping her hands so that her breasts rose above her pink silk bodice. "Would you care for a refreshment, my Lord?"

  "No, no thank you. I'm expected elsewhere shortly."

  "Surely you're staying for supper?" She nudged her husband.

  Hollingsworth gave a start, flustered. "Indeed, indeed, sir, you would honor us with your presence."

  "The kitchen is a mess, but I've just hired the most wonderful cook," her ladyship prattled. "He's just arrived from France. There'll be fresh goose with the most exquisite raspberry jelly."

  Duncan lifted his hand, wishing he were anywhere but here. Even an Iroquois red-ant hill was beginning to look inviting. "I assure you I cannot stay."

  The Hollingsworths then lapsed into a weighty silence, standing in the dining parlor, a rolled tapestry separating them from Duncan. They were obviously trying not to stare at the purple veil he wore, but were doing a poor job of it.

  Finally Duncan, completely losing his patience, spoke up. "You'll recall I've come but to meet your daughter and sign the necessary agreement." He cleared his throat. "I haven't much time."

  Lady Hollingsworth raised her hands to her purple hair. "Heavens, yes. My apologies, your lordship, for my ill manners." Then she spun on feet surely too small for her ample frame and fled the parlor.

  This time Duncan made no attempt at polite conversation with Hollingsworth. Instead, he crossed the room to where three works of art rested along the wall, having just been removed from their crates. He studied first one painting, then the next with great concentration. Reaching the third, he crossed his arms over his chest with a sigh of approval. "Ah, a Botticelli."

  "A collector, are you, your lordship?" Hollingsworth was wiping his damp brow again, obviously relieved to have something to speak of.

  "No. Only an admirer."

  The sound of feminine footsteps in the hallway immediately caught Duncan's attention. His betrothed was approaching. Finally he would have a look at his dear lady-wife-to-be.

  But Duncan took his time in turning to greet her, giving himself a moment to fantasize. He couldn't help but wonder what she would look like. Would she be short and plump like her mother? Or would she be like her young sister? Would she have hair the color of autumn leaves and a rich, deep, sensual voice? Would she be a cold fish a man had to drink himself half silly to bed, or would she have a body he would crave to touch.

  Duncan frowned. With the luck he carried, he guessed she'd have yellow buck teeth and a hairy wart growing from her chin. He turned to greet her.

  She had neither.

  But just the same, Duncan was immediately disappointed. His betrothed was none other than the cowering woman of the garden. She was small with tawny hair and a pert mouth. She reminded him of his mother . . .

  "Your lordship, this is my daughter, Beatrice Mary."

  The woman dipped low into a subservient curtsy, obviously frightened out of her wits.

  Duncan bowed, a bad taste in his mouth. Now that he had gotten a closer look at her, he suddenly felt ill. "Your servant, madame."

  "Yours, sir," she responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Duncan watched her as she lifted her small, trembling hand to brush her neckline.

  This wasn't going to work, damn it.

  Duncan knew he was expected to marry this Hollingsworth. It was his duty. The Rodericks and the Hollingsworths had betrothed their children as infants before the war. Duncan owed this to his deceased father. It was the right thing to do. . . . Yet how could he marry a woman who looked so much like his bitch mother?

  Immediately the thought of the redhead in the garden flashed through his head, replacing hazy images of his dear lady-mother, Constance. Duncan recalled the silhouette of the redhead's rounded breasts pressing against the wet linen of her smock. He had been able to see her pale areolas through the transparent undergarment. Her pink nipples had taunted him, teased him . . .

  Duncan looked up at Hollingsworth, scowling with displeasure. "You have other daughters?" He did not look at Beatrice again, though he could hear her hyperventilating.

  "Yes . . . yes, I do." Hollingsworth's voice trembled. "Beatrice is the . . . the eldest."

  "I want to see them."

  Hollingsworth looked up with rounded eyes, his mouth gaping open to show a recent abscess. "My . . . my lord?"

  Duncan raised his hand beneath the purple veil and wiped his mouth. "Humor me," he stated flatly. "I want to see her sisters." If I must marry a Hollingsworth, he reasoned, why not the best of the lot? "Now."

  Two

  Duncan stood in the baron's dining parlor, his hands on his hips, trying to control his irritation. "I asked to see your daughters, sir."

  "These . . . these are my daughters." Hollingsworth gestured weakly toward Beatrice and her three sisters, who all stood in a line before Duncan, their eyes downcast.

  Duncan frowned. The four women were all similar in appearance with honey-blond hair and comely enough faces, but she was not among them. "These are all your daughters, sir?"

  Hollingsworth glanced uneasily at his wife, who fluttered near the doorway. "Your lordship?"

  "It's a simple question!" Duncan came toward the man. "Are these all your daughters or not? I saw a young woman in the garden." He turned to address Beatrice, who had looked up when Duncan had raised his voice. She immediately lowered her gaze to the floor again. "The woman in the garden with you." He touched his periwig. "Red hair, very wet." His mouth twitched into a smile, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "She said she was your sister. What is she, some bastard relation?"

  Beatrice's lower lip trembled. She seemed unwilling or unable to meet her betrothed's gaze. "N—n—no, your lordship. She's as legitimate as I. That—that was J—Jillian, sir."

  Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. "So where the hell is she?" He glared at the baron. "I asked to see all the daughters, sir. It's the least you can do, considering the circumstances of your debt."

  Hollingsworth glanced at his wife, his face reddening.

  The baroness looked at Duncan, at her hus
band, then back at Duncan again. "Our—our daughter Jillian is indisposed at the moment, your lordship. She—she had an accident. She—"

  Duncan had had his fill of civility. He wanted to see the red-haired chit, and he wanted to see her now. "I will see her."

  Lady Hollingsworth gave her husband a nudge. He looked at Duncan. She prodded him again. "Surely," the baron stumbled, "I don't see why—"

  "Do you wish me to leave and consider this matter at an end? I can have my goldsmith send you a list of your debts, sir." Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Would thirty days' grace be acceptable before you pay in full?"

  Hollingsworth's eyes widened. Both men knew that to repay Duncan with interest, it would take practically every pound the Baron possessed. Both men knew a daughter was not worth a man's ruination. "I—I don't understand, your lordship."

  "I think you do."

  The baron turned to his wife. "Get her."

  She lifted her brows meaningfully. "She's wet, sir. I sent her to her chamber. She's not dressed properly."

  "I don't care." Duncan clenched his teeth. "Bring her down stark naked if it pleases you, madame, but I want to see her and see her now."

  "He doesn't care." Hollingsworth nodded weakly, almost as fearful of his wife as he was of Duncan. "You heard his lordship. Get her—now."

  After a moment's hesitation, Lady Hollingsworth lifted her pink skirts and hurried from the room, leaving her husband and their four daughters to stare at the mysterious earl.

  Duncan turned his back on them, returning to study the paintings he had looked at earlier. He knew he was behaving irrationally. He was betrothed to the meek Beatrice. Why couldn't he just accept the fact as most other men did? He knew he should marry her, get her with his child, and then return to the Maryland Colony and his mistress as he intended. Beatrice would truly be but a small annoyance.

  But somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother's cold voice. The truth was, he didn't know if he could sleep with Beatrice when she reminded him so much of Constance; and after all, the whole point of this marrying fiasco was to get a son, wasn't it?

  The baroness appeared in the dining parlor a few moments later with the redhead from the garden in tow. Jillian, wasn't that what they had said her name was? He liked the sound of it.

  Jillian took a place beside her sister Beatrice; but while the other four young women all stared at the floor, Jillian looked him straight in the eye.

  She wore a pale-blue silk dressing gown; her feet were bare. Her wild, red mass of hair, still damp and curling at her temples, fell over her shoulders.

  A virgin sacrifice, Duncan mused.

  The baroness clasped her hands. "M—my daughter Jillian, your lordship."

  Duncan made a slight bow.

  Jillian barely paid him due honor. She was staring at him as if he'd just called her to the gallows.

  "Not caught a chill have you, madame?"

  He saw her cheeks color, and he chuckled. So even if the chit were swimming in the fishpond, she had some sense of decorum.

  Duncan turned to the baroness, suddenly feeling much better. He almost smiled as he spoke. "Tell me, madame, do you have trouble in lying-in?"

  Her brow furrowed in a most unattractive way. "Your lordship?"

  He raised a hand. "Birthing? Have you trouble? I see you have no sons."

  The baroness glanced at her husband, then back at Duncan, her tone softer . . . apologetic. "We were not so blessed."

  "Stillbirths?"

  "O—one— a daughter, too. But pardon me your lordship if I ask why—"

  "You want me to marry your daughter, don't you?" he went on impatiently.

  "Well, yes. Of course. It's all been arranged."

  "Well, I want children, madame. Isn't it true that a daughter follows in her mother's footsteps? I want to be certain she's healthy enough to produce an heir."

  The baroness glanced at her eldest daughter. "Well, of course she's healthy, your lordship. Beatrice rarely faints and never gets the ague."

  Duncan turned to face the Hollingsworth daughters. They were all staring at their slippers, obviously frightened or disgusted by his appearance. Perhaps a little of both. Even his dear betrothed kept her gaze lowered. But not Jillian. She was looking at him as if she wanted to sink a dagger into his heart, that or challenge him to a duel.

  Duncan was amused, which pleased him. So little amused him. He touched his veil lightly. "Does this frighten you, madame?" he questioned Jillian.

  She shrugged. "No, your lordship. I fear nothing but God and my own willful ways. I'm merely curious."

  Duncan did not smile, but he liked her response. He liked the tone of her voice and the fact that she was willing to stand up to him. Few men were. There was something about his size, the way he carried himself, the confidence of his speech, that intimidated most, and Duncan tended to use that to his advantage.

  He tucked his hands behind his back and walked the length of the parlor, passing each young woman one by one, his footsteps echoing off the plastered dome ceiling overhead. Slowly he turned and retraced his steps, knowing the Hollingsworth family waited. "All right," he finally declared. "I will marry your daughter, my lord. But this one." He stopped before Jillian.

  Beatrice gave a strangled cry.

  The sisters all sucked in a great breath of air in unison.

  Jillian stared coldly.

  "Heavens! Heavens!" The baroness threw up her hands. "Impossible. Morton! Tell his lordship that's impossible. The agreement was signed for Beatrice. Jillian is younger. She must wait her turn in line to be married. He must marry Beatrice!"

  The baron took his ever-present handkerchief from his sleeve and began to mop his brow. "Im—impossible, sir. The agreement was made for you and our eldest daughter," he repeated after his wife.

  Jillian crossed her arms over her pert, young breasts. "I won't marry him," she declared to anyone who would listen. "I won't marry Beatrice's betrothed. I won't marry anyone but Jacob."

  "She can't marry him," Lady Hollingsworth wailed. "Tell him, Morton. Tell his lordship."

  The baron groaned. He spoke to his wife as if Duncan weren't standing not three paces from them. "But he says he wants Jillian, not Beatrice. He—"

  Duncan's mouth twitched in a smile. The room was suddenly in an uproar. The sisters were all talking at once. The baron and his wife were arguing hotly. Beatrice sniffed, tears running down her cheeks. Only Jillian stood in the middle of the madness utterly unaffected. Yes, this young woman would do; she'd do nicely.

  After a moment of the infernal noise, Duncan raised his hands. "Ladies, ladies!" he boomed. "Sir . . ."

  Suddenly the room was quiet and Duncan was in complete control again, precisely the way he liked it. "Sir, I beg you consider my proposition wisely," he addressed the baron. "My father made the agreement with you that I would marry your eldest daughter. Give me the girl I wish, and I will absolve you of your entire debt to the Roderick family." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Nothing has changed here, sir, except that I wish to marry not that one," he pointed to Beatrice, "but that one." Duncan indicated Jillian with a casual wave.

  "Father." Jillian looked to the baron, her dark gaze piercing. "I will not marry my sister's betrothed. You can't do this to Bea! Not for money!"

  The baron glanced at Duncan in obvious distress.

  "Come, come, sir, have a backbone. It's your right to marry your daughters as you see fit." Duncan spread his hands. "I'm obviously a qualified suitor; and sir, quite frankly, you need this union."

  "But Beatrice—"

  "I don't mean to be disrespectful, sir, but the truth is that I will not have her. It's nothing personal, only that she reminds of someone I do not wish to be reminded of. I want the redhead." He did not look at her. "Jillian shall be my bride."

  The baron wrung his hands, glancing at his wife, then back at Duncan. "Could . . . could we discuss this further?"

  Duncan lifted the watch that hung on a chain at his waist and
checked the time. "No, sir, we cannot. As I stated earlier, I have an engagement. Make your decision here and now and let the matter be done."

  "No, Father!"

  "Morton, you have to look to your responsibility to your entire family," the baroness said swiftly. "Jillian is not your only daughter. You've the others to consider. How will you find them suitable husbands with nary a pound to your name?"

  The baron looked at Jillian. The girl had crossed her arms over her chest, thrusting her lower lip out. He turned back to Duncan. "I suppose that will do, your lordship."

  Jillian blanched. "Father . . ."

  Beatrice broke into new tears.

  The other sisters again began to talk at once.

  Duncan smiled, pleased with himself, pleased to have this affair over with. Now he could attend a supper of a friend he'd known from Oxford and not be bothered with this matter again tonight.

  The baroness waved her hands, shooing her daughters, including Beatrice, from the room. Only Jillian remained. She stood between her distraught parents, staring at Duncan, her anger plain on her lovely young face.

  "I'd like to speak with my betrothed alone for a moment, if you don't mind, sir," Duncan said, amused by the chit's boldness.

  The baron looked at his wife.

  "It's not generally done—"

  "Now," Duncan said.

  "But, I suppose that will be all right," the baroness rattled, "considering the fact that you'll soon be wed . . ."

  The baron and the baroness were already backing out of the room. "We—we'll prepare the papers, sir," Lord Hollingsworth said. "It will take but a minute to replace Beatrice's name with Jillian's. I'll have it ready in my office momentarily."

  Jillian watched her mother and father retreat from the dining parlor. Cowards, she thought. You didn't want to do it, but you let him bully you. You sacrificed me for the sake of your cash box; but worse, you sacrificed Beatrice.

  The earl stood before her, watching her with a lazy amusement, an amusement that made her want to strike that smirk from his scarred face. It was obvious that she meant nothing to him, that Bea meant nothing to him. He didn't care that he had just ruined two women's lives. . . . After all, they were just women, weren't they?