by Bold, Diana
Relieved to be out from under his thumb for a few hours, the girls were thrilled to continue on without him. When they arrived, Andrew pulled her into the parlor and firmly shut the door behind him, leaving an amused Sabrina standing in the hall.
Before Rebecca could say a word, he drew her into his arms and held her tightly. “How are you holding up?” he asked softly into her hair.
She sagged against him, grateful for his tight embrace. “I am fine, just eager for this to all be over with. I’m looking forward to being your wife.”
His tension seemed to ease, and he hugged her even tighter. “I am happy to hear that. Everything seems to be moving so quickly. It’s a bit dizzying, isn’t it? I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”
She frowned up at him. “I don’t. Do you?”
He stepped back and shoved a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture that she’d come to know so well. “Of course not. I’m just a bit... anxious, I suppose. This is a big step. Not one I could ever take lightly.”
She was glad to hear that, because when they’d first become engaged, it had seemed as though he’d just bought another horse for his stables and probably given the entire matter even less thought. “Everything will be all right,” she said, realizing it was her turn to offer up some assurances. “After tomorrow, my father will no longer have a say in anything we do. It will be just the two of us, and we can live our lives as we please.”
He gave her a sudden smile, and it was like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Grabbing her hand, he tugged her toward him. “Come here, you lovely, amazing creature.”
As she came up against him once more, he leaned down and kissed her, and the passion that always seemed to be simmering between them exploded. He kissed her as though he’d die if he didn’t get a taste of her, and she clung to him just as fiercely. His hands roamed her body, more daring than he’d ever been before, and when he slipped his hand down her bodice to cup her breast, the thrill of it made her knees buckle.
He held her tighter, keeping her from falling, his mouth trailing down her throat, leaving pure fire in its wake. When he pulled down the front of her dress and placed his mouth where his hand had been, she couldn’t help but cry out with the sheer pleasure of it. She wished that they could just skip the ceremony tomorrow and go straight up to his bedroom.
He must have felt the same way, because he suddenly stepped away, his breath hitching as he stared down at her bare chest for just a moment before hurriedly putting her back to rights with trembling hands. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his green eyes burning. “I can’t wait to make you mine.”
She broke his gaze, her cheeks flaming. “I feel the same way.”
Silence fell between them, all the promise of the next evening hanging heavy between them, and then he gave a husky laugh. “I suppose we should go to dinner.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Rebecca was seated beside Andrew and across from Sabrina as dinner was served. Judging by the amused glances that Sabrina was shooting her, she must still look as though she’d been thoroughly kissed. She wanted to check her bodice, to make sure that he hadn’t somehow left a mark on her, because she felt marked to her very soul.
Each stolen moment of time she got to spend with her fiancé made her like him more. He continually surprised her and only in the very best of ways. She couldn’t wait until they were able to start their life together.
With a bit of a shock, she realized that very soon, this would be her house, her dining room, her servants. With that in mind, she smiled at the maid who was serving her, causing the woman to rattle the serving dish and look a bit nervous. Remembering herself, Rebecca tried to focus on the conversation Sabrina and Andrew were having about Napoleon.
She was just about to ask him a question of her own, when a commotion arose from down the hall. A woman’s shrill voice carried to them from the direction of the entryway, along with a cultured male voice she assumed to be the butler, trying to calm the woman down.
“Andrew!” the woman suddenly shouted, quite clearly.
“What the devil?” Andrew rose, his face pinched with confusion and annoyance.
“Andrew!” Running footsteps thundered down the hall, and suddenly a woman appeared in the dining room doorway, dragging a small boy who looked about four behind her. She came to a skidding stop, then gazed around the room with wild eyes. “Where’s Lord Trowbridge?” she cried. “I must speak to him. It’s most urgent.”
The woman had blond hair and blue eyes, and she wore a red dress that showed her ample cleavage and slim waist. She looked like a harlot. The little boy, however, was the spitting image of Andrew.
Rebecca’s heart plummeted to her toes. She’d known that this was too good to be true. He had a mistress, obviously, and a bastard child to boot. She couldn’t believe they were standing here in his house, demanding his attention on the eve of her wedding.
The little boy looked terrified, and Rebecca’s heart went out to him. None of this was his fault.
The usually unflappable butler appeared suddenly behind the woman, looking flustered and out of breath. “So sorry, milord. She got past me.”
The woman still looked confused, staring at Andrew as though she’d never seen him before, which was ridiculous, given the fact that she’d obviously borne him a son. Rebecca started to wonder if the woman had gone mad. Then a chill swept through her. Perhaps this woman was seeing what Rebecca had caught glimpses of all along. Was this man truly not Andrew?
He tore his gaze from the woman and child and gave Rebecca a pained look. “I am very sorry about this, ladies. Please, continue eating. I’ll go take care of this, and I’ll return shortly.”
Rebecca could only nod, too flabbergasted by this turn of events to argue.
He strode toward the woman, gently taking her arm and turning her away from the dining room. “Miranda,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“Who are you?” the woman hissed, trying to pull away from him. “You’re not Andrew. Where is Andrew?”
Rebecca couldn’t hear his reply, and moments later, a door slammed shut farther down the hall, barring any chance of them hearing anything else.
“Well,” Sabrina said, sounding just as confused and worried as Rebecca felt. “That was certainly unexpected. Who do you think that is?”
Rebecca met her cousin’s indignant gaze, trying to tamp down her own fear and dismay. Beneath the table, her hands were trembling. “I imagine she’s his mistress.”
Sabrina nodded. “The boy... I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” Rebecca said shortly. “Though I suppose this doesn’t really change anything. Many men have mistresses. I suppose bastard children come with them.” She couldn’t believe she sounded so calm, because inside, she was falling apart.
If someone would have told her a few weeks ago that she’d be having dinner with Andrew and then his mistress and bastard son would barge in, causing a scene, she wouldn’t have been surprised at all. But she’d truly thought Andrew had changed. She’d begun to hope that he’d actually be faithful to her.
What a fool she’d been. At best, this proved she’d have to share her husband with another woman. And the alternative... she couldn’t even wrap her mind around what this truly meant.
“Well.” Sabrina drew herself up with righteous indignation. “That may be true. But he never should have let this happen. The mistress should never be paraded in front of the wife. You should not have had to see that.”
Rebecca fought the tears that stung her eyes. She would not give into them. She would not allow him to see how badly he’d hurt her.
“I wonder why she didn’t recognize him,” Sabrina suddenly mused. “He hasn’t been gone that long. Do you think she’s mad?”
Her cousin’s words cut through her growing upset, making her own doubts buzz around in her head like a swarm of angry bees. Who would know Andrew better than his mistress? While Rebecca had found him slig
htly changed in appearance and greatly changed in personality, she’d never known him that well to begin with...
“I’m sure she’s just overwrought,” Rebecca finally said. “Whatever brought her here, she obviously isn’t thinking clearly.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell her cousin of her own suspicions. Despite this turn of events, she felt the need to defend him.
But she wasn’t leaving Trowbridge Manor until she got some answers.
CHRISTIAN FOLLOWED the woman, who could only be Andrew’s mistress Miranda, into the study, firmly closing the door behind them. He couldn’t believe this was happening. She couldn’t have picked a worse time to show up. He wouldn’t be surprised if Rebecca was getting into her carriage this very moment.
She backed up, jerking the little boy with her. The child let out a small cry, drawing Christian’s gaze. The lad was thin and a bit dirty, as though he hadn’t been taken care of properly, and his big green eyes were filled with tears as he watched them with obvious fear.
“Who are you?” Miranda asked again, drawing his gaze back to her. “Where is Andrew?”
“Miranda, you’re beside yourself,” he said, trying to persuade her. “Surely, you recognize me.”
She shook her head, wild-eyed. “No, you’re not Andrew. I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s been my lover since I was sixteen.” Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “I knew something was wrong when he stopped writing. And then my monthly stipend didn’t arrive, and I got a letter in someone else’s hand telling me he was done with me. You’re not Andrew! What have you done with him?”
Christian winced inwardly. He hadn’t even considered that Andrew’s handwriting had been different, that someone who’d received lots of correspondence from him would notice that right away. “Calm down,” he told her, still trying to placate her. “I’ll reinstate your stipend. I’m sure that was an oversight as I recently fired my estate manager.”
“You’ve killed him, haven’t you?” she cried. “You look like him, but you’re not him. You’re an imposter trying to take his place.”
She was growing more hysterical by the moment, and she obviously wasn’t going to be convinced that he was Andrew, no matter how hard he tried. He scrubbed his hand over his face and met her gaze, deciding directness was his only option. “Are you more upset by the loss of Andrew or the loss of the money?”
That took her back a bit. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“If your stipend were to continue, perhaps even be raised, would that be enough to keep you in good fashion? Perhaps if I were to let the boy come here when he is older and train under the butler? Would that be enough for you to leave here tonight secure in the knowledge that I am, indeed, Lord Trowbridge?”
As he’d hoped, a calculating gleam came into the woman’s eyes. There were far worse paths for her boy than to be a butler in a powerful household. “What would happen if you weren’t Lord Trowbridge?”
“If someone were to make trouble, if questions were asked, if you continued to demand more, then your stipend would definitely stop. Forever. Is that what you want?” He hardened his gaze, willing her to understand what he was telling her without having to actually say the words.
Tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, obviously understanding that Andrew was dead but also understanding that her best bet now was to allow things to remain as they were. Sensing he’d made some headway, he approached her slowly and laid a hand on her thin shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
She shook him off, her eyes darkening. “I want it in writing. Everything you said.”
He nodded. “Give me a day or two to have my lawyers draw something up.”
“I want ten pounds tonight,” she said. “To tide me over. My rent needs paid.”
It was a small fortune, enough to pay the woman’s rent for ages. He sighed and went over to his desk, opening a drawer and counting out ten pounds from the rapidly dwindling amount that he’d received for selling the captain’s commission.
His gaze caught again on the boy, and he realized that he was looking at himself at that age. It chilled him a bit, and he promised himself that he would do right by the lad, who was, after all, his nephew. He wanted to ask his name, but that would be admitting that he was not Andrew, and he found that even though they’d come to an understanding, he could not confess such a thing to her.
He gave her the money but held on to it when she would have snatched it away. “I will help you. I will take care of the boy. He is blood to me. However, you must not come here again. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded. Then a calculating gleam came to her eyes. “How much would you pay me to go away forever? I’ve been wanting to move to the city. I only stayed here because Andrew insisted.” She jerked her head at the boy. “He wanted to see Sammy every now and again. But now, there’s no reason for me to keep him. I can drop him off at a workhouse and find a new man. One who’ll want me more than Andrew ever did.”
Sammy.
The boy turned his wide green eyes upon Christian once more, obviously understanding a bit of what his mother had said. Christian couldn’t believe she spoke so casually of getting rid of her own son. He’d obviously been nothing more than a means of blackmailing Andrew into the stipend.
He thought of his own years in the workhouse, the horrible conditions and the lack of even the barest amount of human decency. How could he sentence this boy to such a fate?
With a sinking heart, he knew that he couldn’t. Sammy was his to protect, and Miranda had just become his enemy. She could destroy him if she wanted, and he needed to find a way to get rid of her, while ensuring that she’d never come back asking for more.
He looked down at the money in his hands, and then grimly added more until he held one hundred pounds. Miranda’s eyes glinted with avarice, and she reached out greedily. He snatched the money back and held it just out of her reach.
“I am the Viscount of Trowbridge,” he said menacingly. “If you were ever to claim otherwise, I would destroy you. Do you understand?”
She nodded quickly, her gaze still fixed on the money. “Of course, milord. I was mistaken to doubt you. You’ve just been gone so long I was confused is all.”
“Good.” He held her gaze. “I have very powerful friends. No one would believe you. And you won’t like what happens if you ever try to come back for more.”
She gulped, then nodded again. “I understand.”
He still held the money out of her reach. “Do you? Because if I had any doubts, I’d keep this money and find a way to dispose of you right now.” He didn’t mean it, of course. But he put all the darkness he’d found within himself during the war into his tone. He could not afford to have her keep blackmailing him, constantly holding this threat over him.
“Please,” she whispered. “Only let me go, with this money, and you’ll never see me again. I swear it.”
He jerked his head toward little Sammy. “You won’t be taking the boy to a workhouse either. He’ll stay here, with me.”
Her eyes widened, but then she nodded again. “You’re ever so generous, milord. It’s more than the little bastard deserves, for certain.”
“Get out of my sight,” Christian told her, thoroughly disgusted. Reluctantly, he released the money. She quickly squirreled it away down her ample cleavage.
Whirling around, she left the room, slamming the door behind her, without even sparing a glance at her son. Christian sagged against the side of the desk, his pulse thundering in his ears. He’d come so close to losing everything tonight, and he still wasn’t sure the threat was over. For all he knew, Miranda was on her way to fetch the constable right now. Then a laugh choked in his throat.
Who would believe the word of a low-class strumpet over that of a viscount? It was a sad truth that had been used against him more times than he could remember. Strange, unnerving, and not altogether pleasant to be on this end of it for once. Was it really that simple though? Could he simply deny any allegat
ions that came against him and have his word believed without question?
A small whimper caught his attention, and he looked over to find young Sammy pressing against the side of a chair, his little body trembling with silent sobs.
Grimacing, Christian crossed the room to his side, dropping down on his knees and pulling the little boy into a fierce embrace. “It’s all right, Sammy,” he whispered. “It’s all right. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’m going to take care of you.”
The boy resisted for half a second, then sagged against Christian’s, his little hands fisting in his shirt as he suddenly gave into his sobs, crying as if his little heart would break. It probably had. His mother had abandoned him.
As bad as Christian’s own childhood had been at times, at least his own mother had loved him desperately and done her very best to take care of him.
He could do no less for his nephew. Already, his own heart was expanding, making room for this little boy who shared his blood. “I’m your father, Sammy,” he found himself saying, wishing it were true, wishing that even this did not have to be yet another lie. “I’m your father, and I’ll never let you go.”
He wasn’t certain how he’d manage it, but he’d find a way to raise Sammy as his own. He pushed to his feet, the boy still in his arms, and walked over to sit on the sofa, cradling the child to his chest.
The door flew open, and Theo strode in, his face a mask of worry. “What happened? What did she say?” He skidded to a stop. “Why is the boy still here?”
Sammy cringed against him at the anger in Theo’s voice, and Christian patted his back, trying to comfort him.
“She threatened to leave him in a workhouse. Said she didn’t need him anymore and he’d only hamper her attempts to find another protector.” He lifted his gaze to his uncle’s, knowing all the protectiveness he felt for the lad must be reflected in his eyes. “He’s my blood, Theo. I couldn’t let her do that.”
“What are you going to do with the boy? Surely, you don’t think your new bride will be happy with this turn of events? And what about the woman? Do you think she’ll go to the authorities?”