by Erica Taylor
“That’s why you wanted to study in England,” Sarah realized, the pieces falling into their places. “That’s why you took your father’s name again.”
“Heath did his best to shield me from the taunts, but he couldn’t protect me every hour of the day. And truly, it was rather irritating being a grown eighteen-year-old lad who need his brother’s protection. My presence wasn’t easy on him either, as he had his share of the tormentors, even though he was an earl and in line for a dukedom. At the end of term, I withdrew from Oxford, hightailed it back to Scotland and enrolled in Edinburgh Medical University, this time as William Gordon. After university, I joined the army as a surgeon just as the war against Napoleon was breaking on the Continent. I spent four years in France and three on the Peninsula. I patched up bullet wounds and saber slashes, held soldiers’ hands as they died from injuries I could not fix. None of them cared about my parentage. After seven years I’d had enough death, so I sold my commission and came home. I set myself up as a surgeon with physician training and went about my calm and non-exciting life. Until I was summoned to my father’s deathbed and I met you.”
He looked up at her then, almost as though he had only just realized she was still in the room.
“I met you and found myself so helplessly entwined that I didn’t know up from down. I was terrified to tell you the illegitimacy of my birth. And when I did, you brushed it off as if it was nothing to be concerned about. My great tragedy in life and you gave it no weight. I began to wonder if perhaps I had been wrong all along, perhaps society wouldn’t care, perhaps my father and Jilly and the boys at school had been wrong.
“After I went to my father and heard his ridiculous request, he told me marrying Anna—who I did not love and who was carrying someone else’s child—was the best I could ever expect from life, being what I was. And it all came crashing back to me.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Every hurt and insult and taunt and rock thrown came hurling back; Jillian’s disgust and rejection, that feeling of worthlessness, all came hurtling back and it shook me—tore me back down to the ten-year-old who’d just lost his mother and wasn’t convinced he was worth a scrap of anything good.”
“But, if you despised your father as much as you claim to,” Sarah wondered aloud, “why did you come running when he called?”
William took his time with the answer, and she watched as she turned the words over in his head.
“I’ve held the hand of many a dying man,” he replied, his voice even. “Watched as they pleaded with an invisible force for one last chance at fixing the wrongs in their lives. When given the opportunity, I did not squander the occasion with a boyhood resentment.”
“Despite everything, you still wanted to give your father a chance at redemption.”
William nodded. “At the very least, I owed him that much for giving me his name. No matter how much grief it has caused me to be illegitimate by birth, it was better than being illegitimate in name, as well.”
“You should have had more faith in me,” Sarah said softly, laying a hand lightly on his arm. “But I can understand how past injury has a tendency to discolor the present.”
“Why are you suddenly demanding these answers?” William asked. “Yesterday it seemed you wanted nothing to do with me any longer.”
Sarah shifted in her seat and took a sip of her brandy, welcoming the spiciness burning down her throat as a distraction from her feelings—the tears she wanted to shed as he told of his childhood pain, the frustration she was experiencing from the situation, and the comfort she felt when he was near.
“Last night I didn’t,” she admitted. “But once my tears subsided and I thought more about our conversation, I was left with questions, questions I was too overwrought last night to even formulate. When I learned this morning you would not be leaving, and that you might be in residence longer, I decided I needed those answers. Call it a bit of closure.”
William frowned into his nearly empty glass. “Sarah—”
“Will, it has to be closure,” she pressed. “You are married and not to me. There are lines here that cannot be crossed. It seems that our . . . feelings towards each other have not subsided in the months since we last saw each other, but that relationship—it cannot be. It’s a path that was wonderful for the time we journeyed together, but our paths are separate now. You have to see that.”
“I see it,” William replied. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“I don’t like it either,” Sarah admitted with a little shake to her head. “But it matters not. You and I, whatever we could have been together, will not be. Like it or not, that is where we are. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can heal.”
“And that’s what you’re going to do?” William asked, his gaze meeting hers. “You just plan to heal and move on?”
“I’ve become rather adept at it in fact,” Sarah answered. “Loss is a part of life. Accept it or it will destroy you. And I do not want that for you. So yes; we get to be sad for a time, but not forever. You will build a life and find happiness with Anna. Even if she was not your choice in bride, she seems kind and eager to make you happy. Accept her in my place.”
With a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest, William leaned his head back into the leather chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve missed you Sarah,” he said softly as his laugh subsided. “I’m sorry I mucked all this up. Please say you don’t hate me?”
Sarah smiled. She had missed his laugh, the crinkles in his eyes as he succumbed to amusement.
“Will, I could never hate you,” she admitted. “I may hate the situation, and the choice you were forced to make, but never you.”
“I’m glad,” he replied.
Sarah rose, not wanting to remain confined in her brother’s study any longer with the man she so desperately wanted to be hers.
“Will you join me for tea?” she asked, stepping around the tables and towards the door.
William shook his head. “Not just yet.”
“Will,” Sarah began but paused for a long moment, trying to wrangle her tumultuous thoughts into something resembling coherency. “Your father was wrong, the boys at school, Jillian Heyers—they were all wrong. Whether or not your parents were married to each other when you were born does not predetermine who you are. It is as much under your control as whether or not you were born on a Tuesday. But regardless of the fact you are not your father’s biological son, he gave you his name and you were his heir. The title is yours now. The best thing you can do now is rub that in the face of every person who ever dared snub you. You are a war hero, you’re a brilliant doctor and now you’re a duke. Now you get to prove them all wrong.”
After their conversation in Bradstone’s study, Sarah didn’t avoid William as she had before the Twelfth Night Ball, which William found reassuring. Perhaps she truly didn’t hate him. Though he despised her declaring their relationship over, it didn’t prevent him from sneaking longing looks at Sarah any time she was near. He was painfully aware of her, every fiber in his body reacting to her presence almost magnetically.
The day wore on, through luncheon, tea and finally dinner and cards in the music room. The ease of this evening was in direct contrast to the turmoil of the one before. Sarah even surprised him by agreeing to be his partner in whist when her younger siblings excused themselves for the night, leaving only Sarah, Andrew, Clara and William to play. Anna remained upstairs in bed all day and into the evening, her fever hovering and but it wasn’t high; she simply needed rest.
William managed a calm, indifferent demeanor, impressed at Sarah’s show of the same. Her steady hand as she lay down her cards, her refusal to gaze into William’s eyes, no matter how heated his look, demonstrated her strength of character. She might have been a bundle of tightly wound nervousness the night before, but tonight she was calm and collected. A facade she had perfected long ago. One he could only hope to mimic.
William paused in plac
ing his next card, an ace to trump Bradstone’s nine of spades, as shouting could be heard from down the hallway.
“What on earth?” Clara asked quietly as Bradstone stood from the table and William quickly followed.
Howards, the butler, came through the door quickly looking rather vexed.
“You grace,” Howards said with a bow. “There are two gentlemen here who are demanding an audience with his grace.” He nodded towards William. Having two dukes in residence was proving complicated.
Bradstone frowned and looked to William. “Are you expecting company?”
William shook his head. “Only my steward knows I am here, and he is upstairs.”
Bradstone set his glass down. “Please, Howards, show them here.”
Howards bowed before quitting the room, retuning quickly with two men, the pair of them dipping into bows before Bradstone, who looked awfully annoyed at their presence in his home.
“Well then,” Bradstone stated irritably. “You can begin by telling me who you are.”
The dark blond-haired gentleman spoke first. “I am Charles Horton, Earl of Islington, and this is Marcus Dawson, Baron Cabot,” he said indicating the gentleman on his left with dark curly hair. “We have urgent business with the Duke of Foxton. We were told he was here?”
Bradstone glanced at William. “Friends of yours?”
“I do not know them,” William replied. The two men’s eyes turned to him.
“You are Heathmont’s brother?” asked Islington.
“Of course he is,” Cabot proclaimed. “You might not look a thing like you brother but you have—”
“My mother’s eyes, just as my brother did,” William provided. “Aye, I’ve heard. I am the Duke of Foxton. The Earl of Heathmont was my brother. But I do not know you.”
“You don’t remember us?” Islington asked.
“No,” William said with a slow shake of his head.
“You would have known us years ago, at Oxford,” Islington continued.
“We are friends of Heath’s,” Cabot added, frowning. “Or I suppose we were his friends.”
“Shut it, we will forever be his friends,” Islington snapped at Cabot. “Our loyalty to him is the whole reason we are here.”
“Yes, let us address that,” Bradstone said, crossing his arms. “I ask again, why are you in my home?”
“We are trying to protect Heath, and you,” Cabot replied, looking at William. “We have come to warn you of Anna Kennedy.
William’s eyebrows shot skyward and Islington cursed under his breath.
“From your expression, I take it you’ve met Miss Kennedy?” Cabot asked.
“I am acquainted with Anna Kennedy,” William replied. “Or rather, she told me her name was Lady Anna, and my father confirmed her story. Are you claiming she has deceived me?”
“She deceived Heath as well,” Cabot replied.
“This all needs an explanation,” Bradstone stated. The two newcomers glanced at the Bradstone hesitantly before looking back to William.
“He stays,” William stated. Sarah and Clara quickly rose from their seats at the whist table, moving to leave the room.
“Everyone remains where they are,” William commanded, looking at Sarah, pleading with her to not leave. Whatever these men had to say, he wanted Sarah near him for support. Glancing at Bradstone, he added, “With your permission, Bradstone, I would like her grace and Lady Radcliff to be witness to this.”
Bradstone glanced at his wife and sister before nodding his permission.
“Anna told me she was Heath’s fiancée and that they could not be married before he died,” William explained to his brother’s friends.
“She was never his fiancée,” Islington replied. “She was his mistress, when he was staying in his hunting lodge near Sheffield. When she came to Heath and told him of her pregnancy, he refused to marry her. He couldn’t be certain the child was his, as she was well known for her promiscuity in those parts.”
William closed his eyes and groaned.
“You sent her away, did you not?” Islington asked.
“He married her,” Sarah supplied.
William let out a stream of ungentlemanly curses, uncaring there were ladies present in the room. Sarah didn’t flinch.
“I do not understand this,” William said, crossing his arms and glaring. “She had indisputable evidence. She had my father convinced.”
“What was her evidence?” Bradstone asked.
“My mother’s wedding band,” William replied. “Anna claimed Heath had given it to her the night before he died.”
“About that night,” Cabot interjected. “Heath died rather suspiciously.”
“Explain,” William commanded.
“We were all with him at the hunting lodge when Miss Kennedy came to tell him of her pregnancy, demanding that he marry her,” Cabot explained. “Heath flat out refused her, called her all sorts of horrible names, and had her thrown out of the house.”
“We all got deep into our cups that night,” Islington added, continuing the story, “and the next morning we all awoke in various positions around the study where we had passed out. Except your brother wasn’t there.”
“We found him an hour later, in the stables, having drowned in the horse’s water trough,” Cabot said.
“And no one knows how he got down there?” William asked, and the two men shook their heads. William swore under his breath.
“How did you find me here?”
“We’ve tried getting in touch with you for the past few months,” Cabot continued. “We seem to miss you every time we call, and you haven’t returned any of our letters. We even parked outside your house once, but our wives forced us to leave before you returned. We hoped you had been married before you inherited, and that Miss Kennedy hadn’t gotten her claws into you. Finally, your butler informed we might find you at Foxton Manor for the winter, but when you weren’t there we went back to London. It took some prying, but a sympathetic footman said you had been waylaid by the storms and we could find you here.”
“Then we were waylaid by the storm,” Islington interjected. “And the threat from our own wives if we missed Christmas. But it appears we are too late.”
“Two months too late,” William replied. “Just so I understand all that you’ve told me: the woman I was led to believe was my dead brother’s fiancée, carrying his child, and who I subsequently married because of these reasons, was in fact not his fiancée and might not be carrying his child. Is that correct?”
“That is the whole of it,” Islington replied.
Anger flared in William, burning through him and raging to be released.
“Bradstone,” he said with a bow to the duke. “Please excuse my rudeness, but I am in need of some fresh air.” And he quickly quit the room, so overcome with anger that he did not even dare to shoot a glance Sarah’s direction, hating what he would see and knowing his father was laughing in his grave, somehow having destroyed William one final time.
Sarah’s stomach churned at the news she had just heard.
What a catastrophic nightmare.
She watched William leave abruptly, the anger practically radiating off him, her heart clenching in despair as he fled the room without a backwards glance. Never had she seen such unchecked fury from him, as if his ferocity was about to consume him.
This worried her more than anything she had ever seen from him.
Sarah went to rise, but Clara stopped her with a delicate discreet hand on her arm. With a subtle shake to her head, Clara pinned Sarah in her place.
“This is quite the predicament he finds himself in,” Andrew said to the two gentlemen.
“Where is Miss Kennedy now?” Lord Islington asked.
“She’s asleep upstairs as we speak,” Andrew replied.
“She has been weakened with a fever and was in no condition to return to London or Foxton Manor, even after the storms reced
ed,” Clara explained. The two men looked at her surprised, it seemed they forgot there were ladies present in the room.
“My wife,” Andrew said, indicating Clara before nodding to Sarah. “And my sister, Lady Radcliff.”
Clara rose from her seat, her whist cards set down on the table, their game forgotten. “Gentlemen, we would be honored if you would stay for the evening, as we are the only warm beds in a few miles. I would hate the thought of you riding out again tonight in this cold weather.” Turning towards Sarah, she added, “Lady Radcliff, would you assist me in seeing to the rooms?” Clara rose an eyebrow, expecting Sarah’s cooperation. Sarah nodded and rose.
“Of course, your grace,” Sarah said smoothly, dipping into a curtsy to their guests before following Clara out of the room.
In the front foyer, Clara turned to her. “Now you can go after him,” Clara said, her voice firm. There was a fire in her eyes, and her jaw was set, and Sarah realized Clara was quite irate. The duchess opened a door hidden along the foyer paneling and pulled out a black greatcoat belonging to Howards.
“Howards won’t mind lending you his cloak for the evening, will you, Howards?” Clara asked the butler, handing Sarah the coat. It was a man’s garment, but heavy and warm, and it would suffice to keep the wind off her as she stepped outside.
“His grace headed in the direction of the stables, your ladyship,” Howards said. “Mr. Byrne went after him.”
“Sarah, find him,” Clara said to her forcefully. “A great injustice has befallen him, and he is going to need more than sympathy.”
Sarah nodded and set out from the house.
The wind had died down from the wailing earlier in the afternoon, but the air was cold, and darkness had settled in.
A full moon shone brightly overhead in the cloudless sky, illuminating the snow-covered fields in an eerie blue glow. Fortunately she knew the way to the stables by heart, haven stolen away from the house countless times as a child, bent on following her brothers on their adventures, even if it had to be on horseback.
She walked the familiar path around the house and down the hill, wondering what she could say to William to make any of this better, to alleviate his pain. What a blasted mess this had turned out to be.