The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  Claire thought Gray’s mother—who insisted that she call her Mother Charlotte—as beautiful as she was vivacious. There was a marked resemblance between mother and son. Her dark hair was the same color as Gray’s, streaked with only a small bit of silver.

  “Just think, children, next year we’ll have a little one to light up our lives.”

  So. Charlotte knew that she was with child.

  A lump lodged in her throat. She didn’t dare look at Gray. At least someone in the family was glad of the baby.

  “Come, children. I’ve gifts for both of you.”

  There was a pair of ear bobs for Claire, a new chain for Gray’s watch—and a dozen tiny little caps and gowns for the baby.

  Claire was about to express her regrets, for she had no gift for his mother either. But then Gray left and came back with a beribboned box for his mother. He presented it to her with a flourish.

  “From Claire and I,” he said.

  Charlotte opened the lid and exclaimed. “Oh, children, you shouldn’t have!” She lifted a mink hat from the box.

  Gray directed his gaze to Claire. “You’ll find my mother likes to receive gifts as much as she likes to give them.”

  “And that’s as it should be.”

  “You’ll also find my mother is quite taken with hats.”

  “A woman can never have too many gowns or jewelry or hats,” Charlotte announced. “When you are past your confinement, Claire, nothing would give me more pleasure than to take you shopping in London. I’ve just discovered a new milliner. You won’t mind, will you, darling?”

  “So long as you do not garb my wife in peacock feathers,” Gray said dryly. “They look quite ridiculous.”

  My wife. How strange that sounded.

  “You see?” Charlotte laughed. “You don’t fool me, Gray. You are just like your father. He was ever so generous when it came to opening his pocketbook for his wife’s pleasure.”

  She clasped her hands together. “Oh, but I cannot wait until next year. Lavish I shall be, the doting grandmama indeed, and shower the little one with gifts. No, don’t think to stop me. Your sister has learned that I will do as I will and see that the little ones are sure to have every little plaything they desire.”

  It was Mrs. Henderson who told Claire that Gray’s sister Jane lived in Scotland with her husband and three children.

  “Dear me,” Charlotte said crisply. “I’m prattling on. And look at the hour. I’ll have a bit of supper . . . oh, no, dear, you needn’t tend me. You scoot off to bed now. You must be sure to take your rest.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Claire discovered, Charlotte Sutherland was a woman of whimsy. She was constantly moving, flitting here and there.

  Claire couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I cannot believe your energy!” she said one day. “You make me feel like one of the ancients.”

  “That’s to be expected. A woman in your condition tires easily. That is why you must rest.”

  Claire made a face. “Well, this woman is growing tired of being indoors. At this rate I’ll be fat as a sow when the baby comes.”

  The weather had been dismal the last few days, dismal and cold.

  Charlotte stood at the window. She pushed aside a fold of the draperies and peered out. “Oh, look! I see a bit of blue . . . oh, and now the sun!”

  She turned to Claire. “Come. You are right. I wager the day will be a lovely one. I vow, too lovely to stay inside.” She swung around in a swish of skirts. “What do you say the two of us go for a ride?”

  “Ride?”

  A peal of laughter rang out when she spied Claire’s dubious expression.

  “We will take a cart,” she announced. “You’ll certainly not be riding while you’re expecting my grandchild.”

  “I’m not a very good rider in any case,” Claire confided.

  “No? When you are able, Gray will have to teach you. He’s an excellent horseman. Born to the saddle, his father always said.”

  Of course, Claire thought wryly. She suspected her husband would settle for no less than excellence in whatever endeavor he took on.

  “Well,” added Charlotte, “except for the time he fell off his pony and broke two of his fingers. Of course he was too proud to admit defeat. He was back on the pony that very day. I suspect stubbornness played a part there.”

  Claire bit her lip, holding back a laugh. No doubt, she thought.

  Snugly bundled in cloaks and furs, a blanket tucked over their laps, they set out.

  Charlotte handled the roan with small but capable hands.

  As Charlotte predicted, the sun came out, dazzling the frozen countryside. They trotted along, their cheeks rosy from the brisk wind.

  After a while they rolled to a stop along the road. Charlotte climbed down while Claire watched, open-mouthed.

  “Oh, I’ve no need for assistance, my dear. I am hardly as dainty as I look. Of course, I’d never climb down unassisted if we weren’t alone.”

  She extended a hand to Claire, who shook her head. “I’m per—”

  “Absolutely not! Here, my girl, let me help you.”

  Once on the ground, Charlotte looped her arm through Claire’s while they walked along the path.

  After a while Charlotte stopped.

  “Look there. You see the stone fence climbing over the hill? The boundary of Sutherland land extends along that fence there.” She smiled. “Gray used to come here quite often, all through his childhood.” A smile creased her lips. “He’s always had such pride for the Sutherland name.”

  Claire stared out at the hillside. Barren though the trees were, there was a kind of grandeur in the land. No wonder he was prideful.

  Charlotte frowned. “What is it?”

  Claire took a deep breath. “I understand he has been away for three years—until now. Was it because his wife died?”

  Charlotte’s smile faded.

  “When I asked him, he . . . all he said was that things change.” Claire paused. “He must miss her dreadfully for it to affect him so.”

  “He is like many men, I think. They tend to—to close things off, I think.”

  They turned back to return home then. Claire napped a while, then joined Charlotte and Gray in the dining room.

  When they finished the meal, Charlotte sighed. “I find I’m not yet ready to retire,” she said. “Claire, are you fond of playing chess?”

  Claire made a face. “Not well,” she pronounced. “My—” She broke off. She had been about to say that Oliver taught her.

  She kept her silence, though, not wanting to dampen the mood.

  “Perhaps you and Gray will play,” she finished lamely.

  “Yes, come, Gray. Claire, come watch. I shall show you how it’s done.”

  Something in Claire’s breast seemed to tighten when she saw him smother a smile.

  The game ended with Charlotte the winner.

  She sat back with a laugh. “There, Claire, you see!”

  Gray arched a brow.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “What would you say if I told you I let you win because you’re not a particularly good loser.”

  “Poppycock! I beat your father at many a game, too!”

  This time Gray didn’t bother hiding his smile.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes?”

  “Were you aware I learned from Father?”

  “Indeed. That’s why I came out the winner here. You played like your father.”

  “My point, precisely.”

  “Oh, bother. Next you’ll be telling me that he—” Charlotte stopped short, then: “He let me win?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Oh! And all these years I thought I truly was the better player!” she said with a chuckle. “And what of your sister, Gray? The two of you played many a game. As I recall, your father taught her, too. Did you let her win as well?”

  A pained expression flitted across his face.

  Charlotte
let out a peal of laughter. “Now you have your comeuppance, boy!”

  Not long after, Charlotte rose and announced her intention to retire for the night.

  “I think I shall, too,” said Claire.

  “Let me escort you ladies.”

  They descended the stairs on Gray’s arms, one on each side. Claire wanted to sink beneath the carpet when they bypassed the double doors that led to the master bedroom before stopping at the door to Claire’s bedroom.

  Charlotte bid her good-night, and Gray opened the door and turned to her. “Sleep well.” He bent and brushed her cheek with his lips.

  It was the first time he’d done that. Claire stepped into the chamber and slowly shut the door. A pang went through her. Her tremulous smile faded.

  Had Charlotte seen it? Had she known that they did not sleep together?

  Well, now she knew.

  Claire hated that the brush of his lips on her cheek was solely for his mother’s benefit.

  Her heart squeezed.

  She shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t have mattered.

  Yet somehow it did.

  Over the next few days, Gray spent the daylight hours tending to estate affairs. Charlotte and Claire repeated their afternoon ride and walk. The three of them met for dinner, then retired.

  One afternoon a light rain began to fall.

  At the drawing room window. Charlotte fussed. “Oh, pooh. We shall have to spend the day indoors.” She let the curtain fall back. “Wait! Claire, have you visited the garret?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let us go exploring,” Charlotte declared.

  There were many stairs to climb up to the garret. They had both begun to tire when they finally spied a door.

  Reaching it first, Charlotte swept it open.

  “Oh, good heavens!” She traced a finger across the arm of a chair and held it up. It came away covered with dust. She picked up a broom and swiped at the cobwebs.

  The garret was a hodgepodge of furniture and trunks.

  “Oh, I could see little girls exploring here,” said Claire, “perhaps dressing up and playing lady of the manor.”

  “Oh, yes, as I recall, the children spent many a rainy afternoon here—just like the two of us!”

  They explored further. “Oh, look,” exclaimed Charlotte. “Here is the cradle Jane and Gray slept in.”

  “It’s beautifully carved, isn’t it? All it needs is a bit of paint.” Claire admired it. “I should love to have it for the baby.”

  “Excellent idea, m’dear.”

  Claire couldn’t hold back a smile. “I have a difficult time envisioning Gray as a baby.”

  “Do you? I believe there are several portraits here somewhere.” She moved toward the wall. “Oh, look, here they are!”

  Charlotte pulled it away from the wall.

  “Dr. Kennedy called him a fine, strapping lad,” Claire said.

  “Did he, now?”

  Claire tipped her head to the side. “Mother Charlotte, why do you smile so much?”

  “Come see your fine, strapping lad.”

  Claire stepped over to the portrait. There was a young girl with dark hair who looked like Charlotte. And the boy—

  There was a lad of about eight or nine years old, clearly identifiable as Gray, standing proudly beside his sister.

  But Claire couldn’t withhold a laugh. “My word, look at his cheeks!”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said dryly. “He oft had his hand in the biscuit crock. His father called him robust. Jane used to tease him that he’d swallowed a pair of apples.”

  There were several other paintings stacked together. Claire moved to look through them. A quick glance at the next revealed a man and woman.

  Beside her there was a sharp intake of breath. Charlotte spoke quickly. “That is Gray and—”

  “Yes. Yes, I know. It’s Lily.”

  Claire heard her own voice as if she were far, far distant.

  Had the world turned on end, she wouldn’t have been able to tear her eyes away from the portrait. There was Gray, standing with his hand on the shoulder of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Gray and his wife Lily . . .

  And the baby she held.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At breakfast the next morning, Gray rose from the table. “Forgive me, Mother, but I’ve some business to attend to today. Shall we say our good-byes now?”

  Charlotte planned to leave for Bath that day. “Yes, indeed, my boy. I hope to see the two of you soon—no, wait—the three of you.”

  Claire remained where she was.

  Gray had moved to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Safe travels, Mama.” He straightened up then and glanced at Claire. “Don’t wait on me for dinner,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Claire didn’t look up. He was short. A little abrupt. She was stung. Stupid, foolish tears rose to the surface. She’d excused herself early from dinner last night but hadn’t slept well. She kept seeing the portrait in the garret. Why had Gray never told her about his child? He should have. Pride and embarrassment held her tongue. It was something that should have come from him.

  She’d managed to keep the tears at bay last night. Now she couldn’t. It was no doubt the baby; sometimes it seemed like she couldn’t quite contain her emotions.

  She tried to blink back the tears. No use! And now Charlotte had glimpsed her distress.

  When Gray had left, Charlotte took both of her hands. “It’s seeing that portrait, isn’t it? I cannot make excuses for Gray, but I see in your eyes that you care . . . You do, don’t you?”

  Claire tried to hold it back, but a half sob emerged. “I don’t want to. I don’t. I shouldn’t! He—he killed my brother. In a duel.”

  Charlotte sucked in a breath. “I didn’t know. And yet you are here. His wife. And Gray . . .”

  “I should hate him—I did. Oh, I do! And yet so much is changing . . . there’s so much I don’t know.” Claire shook her head. “I sense it. I know it.”

  “Please, dear, listen to me,” Charlotte said. “He cares about you—”

  “He doesn’t.”

  Charlotte smoothed her brow. “Claire . . . already I love you as a daughter. He cares . . . oh, you’re wrong, dear. A mother knows such things. And I can only tell you this. He wasn’t always so harsh. So cold. He is not an unfeeling man! I beg of you, take heart. Be patient. I see a change in him . . . I think you’re exactly what he needs! You’ve spirit enough to match him.”

  By the time Charlotte was ready to depart, Claire’s tears had dried. They hugged—and then it was Charlotte who leaked a tear.

  Shortly after she left, Claire collected her cloak and sturdy boots. Her mind reeled every time she thought of the portrait.

  There was a small graveyard out past the garden that she hadn’t yet explored. Now, it was as if some unknown sense inside guided her steps. A part of her marveled at the age of some of the graves. Some dated from the fourteenth century.

  And then, beneath the now barren limbs of a cherry tree, she saw the marker.

  Gray’s wife, Lily. The name meant chastity. Purity. Claire bent and brushed the leaves away from the headstone.

  Lily Eugenie Sutherland.

  She had died in 1811. Three years ago, as Paulette had told her.

  And Lily wasn’t buried alone.

  The madonnalike figure held a babe in arms. Next to the graceful lily was an angel-cherub.

  William Grayson Sutherland had also passed on the same year.

  Buried together, mother and son.

  And it made perfect sense . . . Gray’s familiarity with the birth of Penelope’s baby. He’d already gone through it with Lily.

  She pulled her cloak more tightly about her. It was bitterly cold. Her head bowed, her gloved fingertips clasped together before her, was how Gray came upon her.

  “Claire! For pity’s sake, you’ll catch your death out here.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I am in the best of health. Did Dr. Kenn
edy neglect to inform you?”

  Gray didn’t miss the censure in her tone. So. She’d realized Dr. Kennedy had come at his behest.

  “It’s time for tea,” he said. “Come.”

  “No.”

  Gray’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  There was an acid bite in his tone that hadn’t been there before.

  Claire matched it. He saw that her beautiful golden eyes were alight. Defiance burned into anger.

  Gray held his silence. It was just as he’d told Clive. He’d thought to retire his bride to the country and think of her as little as possible. But no sparrow was she.

  She gestured toward the grave. “You told me you had a wife, Gray. Shouldn’t you have told me you had a child?”

  His silence grated.

  Claire was outraged. Finally he said, “I found no need to—”

  “No need!” Her cheeks burned with hurt. “You married me, Gray. No matter the circumstances, didn’t I have a right to know?”

  “It happened long ago, Claire.”

  It might have been yesterday.

  “It is a part of my life that has closed.”

  Fool! It will never close until you let it.

  He gestured vaguely. “It changes nothing in our marriage. It doesn’t change why we wed. It doesn’t change why we must remain wed.”

  Claire choked back an angry sob. How could he be so cold? The man had a will of steel and a heart of stone.

  “Go back to London, dear husband. Better yet, go to hell.”

  He slanted an acrid smile, turning her words around on her. “I’ll return to London when I am ready, Claire. And, as you see, I am not.”

  Gray was stymied.

  He should have gone back to London—he’d planned to once his mother left. He’d told himself he wouldn’t stay. So why, two full weeks into January, was he still here? In the place he’d sworn he would never return to? Once the holidays had passed, why hadn’t he taken care of what business there was and headed back to London?

  Doubtless Claire thought he remained to torment her. But he was the one in torment!

  She sat next to him at meals, her manner cool. But the child growing within Claire seemed to agree with her. She was thriving, her hair shining, her cheeks pink and glowing. And her body . . . He chided himself for taking such avid notice. Her breasts were plump and ripe and full, her skin like purest cream, offering titillating glimpses that overflowed her gown when she chanced to bend forward. He was disgusted with himself; he felt like a randy youth. She tantalized, she teased, she tempted. He suspected she didn’t even know it. But he felt himself pulled ever deeper into that spell of awareness with every day that passed.