by Brenda Joyce
Eastleigh smiled at his younger son, his expression impossible to read, just as deciding how long he had been standing there was also impossible. “Thomas. I did not know you had come down from town. How wonderful this is. When did you arrive?” He sauntered into the room, his gaze hooded, and as always, his tone held a sardonic note.
Tom politely kissed his father’s cheek. “Just a moment ago. You look well, Father,” he lied, for Eastleigh had to have put on another stone since the summer.
“I am very well.” Eastleigh glanced sidelong at William. “And hardly in my grave yet. What are you two discussing? Did I hear you mention our new neighbor, the so very heroic Devlin O’Neill?” Mockery crept into his tone.
William and Tom exchanged glances. The earl’s heir apparent spoke. “You do nothing, Father, nothing, while O’Neill pricks us with this dalliance of his. The situation has become a crisis and we are all being played for fools. I can hardly hold my head high while out in public!”
Eastleigh chuckled. “The only fool is O’Neill, as he can strut the tart about the royal court for all I care and it will do him no good.”
Tom and William looked at each other again. Tom stepped forward. “He hates us, that much is clear. And now it becomes clear that you hate him as well. Why? Why, Father? Damn it, you owe us an explanation—if one is to be had!”
“He stole my fastest stallion, my best dogs, my favorite house. And now he has my brother’s daughter in his bed and you ask me why?” His bushy brows lifted. “I have every reason to despise the man, who claims to be a gentleman but is actually a pirate.”
“No.” Tom confronted his father, his legs braced wide apart. He was half his size and far shorter. “Why does he seek to punish you? And us? Why?”
“Because he is a bloody savage, that’s why, exactly like his father,” Eastleigh said.
William and Tom exchanged startled glances. “You knew his father?” William asked in real surprise.
“Knew him?” Now Eastleigh smiled widely. “I killed him, my boy, in the coldest blood.”
SHE SIMPLY REFUSED TO believe it.
The Countess of Eastleigh sat rigidly in her personal coach, her husband’s coat of arms engraved on a gold banner on each side, resplendently dressed in a low-cut ruby-red silk dress and a black pelisse. Her gloved hands were clasped in her lap and she found it hard to breathe. This was impossible, was it not?
She had heard the rumor in London from a lady friend whom Elizabeth suspected guessed of her affair. That friend, Lady Farthingham, had mentioned over tea that Captain Devlin O’Neill was at his country estate in Hampshire, apparently with a new mistress whom he was openly abiding with. Elizabeth had not believed it, although at the time her smile had been plastered in place and her heart had raced. Devlin was many things, but he was a gentleman and gentlemen did not live with any woman out of wedlock. She had finally shrugged at Celia, saying she doubted he would spend any time on his new property, as she knew the place well and it was entirely rundown.
And she did know it well, as it was so close to Eastleigh. In fact, she had been to Wideacre on many occasions before its previous owner had passed away without any heirs. Devlin had also mentioned the manor once or twice in the time she had seen him over the summer in London, difficult times in which he had been immersed in a hearing, fighting for his survival. He had mentioned the old manor with very little interest. She had told him what she knew about it, but he had only shrugged. He had murmured once, “I doubt I will ever actually see it.” Elizabeth had known he had meant his words.
Two days ago she had heard the same rumor that he was at his country estate in Hampshire. Elizabeth had been surprised and dismayed. She was in London—and he was within miles of her home at Eastleigh. She’d left the ball early, ordered her maid to pack her things, and they had returned to Eastleigh the following day.
It was all she could do not to rush over to Wideacre the moment she arrived home, but not only did she need to visit her husband and concern herself over his welfare and health, she had two daughters she dearly loved and missed. Instead, she had seen to Eastleigh’s health and had spent the day with the girls. It was her stepson, William, who had casually let the cannonball drop.
“I suppose you have heard about our new neighbor, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth sat outside, watching her younger daughter riding sidesaddle over a series of small jumps. She applauded enthusiastically. Not looking at William, she had said, “I beg your pardon?” She very much disliked her eldest stepson.
“Oh, come!” He sat down next to her in a lawn chair, his long legs sprawling out. “My, Lila is such a fine horsewoman.” He faced her, his face too close for comfort. “We both know why you have hurried so quickly home in the midst of the new season!”
“William, I have no idea what you are speaking of,” she had returned, standing and fanning herself. “Lila!” she called as her daughter rode her chestnut horse up to the edge of the terrace. “That was wonderful, simply wonderful!”
“Thank you, Mother.” Lila beamed, her blue eyes sparkling. She whirled the horse and cantered off, clearly wishing to impress yet again.
William also stood, just behind her, uncomfortably close. When he spoke, it was in a whisper, and his mouth practically touched her ear. “Devlin O’Neill is in residence at Wideacre, and he has openly installed his mistress there.”
And Elizabeth’s heart had stopped.
Now she saw the brick pillars and the drive just ahead. Her heart felt as if it were lodged rudely in her throat. And there it burned. This was a mistake, she thought, a terrible mistake. Devlin could not possibly have a mistress at Wideacre—she was his mistress!
Of course, she had always known there were other women. But she did not care about Spanish barmaids and Sicilian whores. She did not care what he did when he was gone for months on end on a tour.
She did care, very much, what he was doing now.
VIRGINIA HAD ESCAPED THE house hours ago, taking a very long walk into the village and back. Now, as she entered the drive, she saw the carriage parked in front of the manor and froze. Dread began. She firmly—grimly—shoved it aside. Three days had passed since their first caller and there had been a dozen callers since. Apparently half of Hampshire knew that the infamous Captain O’Neill was living openly with his mistress and everyone had to come see for him or herself. She thought she was playing the game well. She kept her head high, her tone soft, she called him darling, touched and kissed his cheek, and the scandalmongers were satisfied. Devlin was satisfied. Only she knew how hard it had all become.
She hated every moment. It was like being a fish in a fishbowl. Or worse, it was like being a naked woman in a fishbowl, gawked at by lechers with terrible intent. And Devlin did not seem to care. But then, she would never let him know that the game had become such a terrible indignity.
She paused, staring at the front of the stone house, hugging herself. She was simply not up to another performance; she was not up to a severe and judgmental inspection. She debated going back to the road and continuing her walk when she noticed the banner on the carriage.
She knew it well. Her father had had a book of coat of arms and she had been shown the Eastleigh emblems at an early age. Her heart lurched. She did not know whether to be thrilled or dismayed. But Eastleigh must have come to pay her ransom. And maybe it was time to give up, maybe it was time to simply go home.
A part of her shrieked inwardly, refusing to be such a coward. Virginia ignored the silent tantrum, but as she hurried toward the house she wondered how easy—or how hard—it would be to walk away from Devlin O’Neill now.
“They are in the library, Miss Hughes,” Tompkins said, his eyes wide. And he was not smiling.
Virginia halted, confused. Devlin always entertained their callers in the parlor. And Tompkins always smiled. “Is something amiss?” she dared to ask.
His smile appeared, terribly strained. “Of course not. They are behind closed doors,” he added with
significance.
Virginia had been about to walk away. She halted and looked right at the butler. “It is my uncle, the Earl of Eastleigh?” she asked.
“It is the countess,” he said.
Virginia blinked. How odd, she thought, instantly envisioning an old woman as fat and gray as her husband. But maybe the countess had come to ransom her, as the earl seemed so feeble. She started forward, began to open the door, and the moment she did so, she heard the soft, cultured and sensual tone of a woman who was neither old nor feeble. The tone was of a young woman in distress.
Virginia froze.
“I don’t understand this, Devlin.”
The countess was calling him Devlin? Virginia peeked past the door, which was ajar by mere inches. She gasped.
A very beautiful blond woman, old enough to be William Hughes’s wife, not Eastleigh’s, stood facing Devlin, clearly aggrieved. She was more than lovely; she had a lush, seductive figure and a face of terrible, haunting beauty. Beyond dismayed, Virginia’s gaze shot to Devlin, but his face was a mask, impossible to read.
Her heart began to pound.
“Is it true?” the countess asked softly, touching his chest. No, God, no, Virginia thought, this cannot be.
“I’m afraid so, Elizabeth,” he said, and he walked away.
The woman cried out, a flush covering her cheeks, and she stared after him distraught, trembling, a woman with a breaking heart. “But I am your mistress,” she said. “And suddenly you replace me, like this?”
“I am sorry.” Devlin returned, handing her a brandy. “I never made you any promises, Elizabeth. I am afraid things have changed.”
Virginia clung to the door. Devlin’s mistress had been Eastleigh’s wife? It was too horrid to be believed and while she felt deeply for the countess, she was ill. She could never, ever compete with a woman like this.
Elizabeth held the brandy to her full, very bare bosom, her knuckles white. Her pallor was increasing. “I know you never made a single promise. Oh, God. I still fail to understand. I somehow thought that here in Britain I was all that you wished.”
“Perhaps you should sit down?” Devlin asked politely and so impersonally.
“I am in love with you, Devlin,” she cried.
“And I told you once, that would not be wise.”
“Oh, God.” Suddenly she looked ill enough to faint and she sat down with Devlin’s help. She clutched the drink but made no effort to sip it. “You don’t care. You don’t care at all, do you?”
His jaw flexed. “As I said, things have changed.”
“No, you were always heartless—I merely prayed that it was not true!” She somehow stood, eyes wide and moist. “Who is she? Is she an actress?” The countess was holding on to her dignity with what was clearly a great effort. She set the untouched brandy down. “I mean, you are living here openly with her. You have jilted me for some harlot?” Tears finally filled her eyes.
“You do not wish to make a scene, Elizabeth,” Devlin said calmly.
“But I do!” she cried. “And I wish to meet this woman you have so callously replaced me with!”
“I am afraid that is not possible,” Devlin said. “I am sorry if I have hurt you. Perhaps you should leave, before you say something you will regret on the morrow.”
“I have been your mistress for six years, and just like this, it is over?”
Virginia gasped and in that moment, she somehow pushed the door wide open and fell into the room. She landed on the floor in a heap, not far from where the lovers stood.
Virginia looked up slowly.
Devlin’s brows were lifted while the countess stared, still agonized and shocked. He said, “Spying, Virginia?” And he helped her to her feet.
Virginia wanted to ask him why, why had he done this? Why was he doing this? How many innocent people would he hurt to avenge his father? But she was incapable of speech.
“That’s her?” the countess cried. “But she is a child!”
Virginia fought for a degree of composure. “I am eighteen,” Virginia said. Then she curtsied. “My lady.”
The countess covered her brow with her hand, turning away. Virginia looked at Devlin, wanting to berate him and wishing, desperately, that she had never met this woman, not knowing what she did now.
The Countess of Eastleigh had been his mistress for six years. Virginia remained stunned and heartsick. Devlin would never fall in love with her, not if he had never fallen in love with the countess.
A terrible silence had fallen. Devlin broke it, speaking quietly. “Virginia, the countess is leaving. Why don’t you go upstairs for a moment or two? I shall be up shortly.”
Before Virginia could respond, a refusal on the tip of her tongue, the countess turned. “Virginia? Her name is Virginia?” Her gaze became wildly accusing and it turned to Devlin. “That is not my niece, is it?”
“I am afraid so,” Devlin said, and he seemed braced for her reaction. The countess cried out.
Virginia could not stand it anymore. She ran to her and said, “Please, do sit down. You are suffering a terrible shock. And you need not worry, really, he doesn’t love me—or even care for me—at all.”
The countess blinked at her, tears falling now. She said, “You would be kind to me?”
Virginia nodded. “Because you are right, he is heartless, and no one deserves to be cast off in such a manner.” She glared at Devlin. He was actually grim, as if displeased or unhappy with the entire affair.
The countess wiped her eyes and stared. “We thought you drowned.”
“No. I was transferred to his ship and—”
Devlin seized her arm. “You need not bore the countess with the details,” he said in real warning.
She glared at him and struggled to shake him off. “You are a bastard. Let me go!”
He started and released her.
Virginia sent him another murderous look. Perhaps, finally, she hated him.
He spoke to the countess, but never removed his stare from Virginia. “Elizabeth, I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”
“Yes, it is time that I left.” But she stared intensely at Virginia now, so much so that Virginia forgot how furious she was with Devlin and apprehension began. And finally the countess glanced at Devlin. “Have you hurt her?”
His brows lifted. “Hardly.”
The countess turned to Virginia.
Virginia flushed. “I am fine—all circumstances considered.”
“I hesitate to wonder what that may mean. Virginia, you are far too young, in spirit if not age, for a man like Devlin. I fear for you, my dear.”
Virginia didn’t know what to say. “His bark is worse than his bite,” she said, hoping her tone was light. Then added, “Usually.”
The countess glanced back and forth between them again. “Don’t make the terrible mistake that I made. Do not allow yourself to fall in love with him. He will never love you back.” Her smile was twisted and sad and she walked out.
It’s too late, Virginia thought. She walked to the door, staring after the countess, admiring her for her dignity and pride. She was unbearably saddened.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DEVLIN PACED THE DINING ROOM, stiff with tension. He glanced at his watch fob—it was well past seven. He glanced at the door, but Virginia did not appear there.
The table was set with crystal, fine china and gilded tableware, all brought from his ship. Covered platters steamed between the candelabra. Virginia was late.
She was avoiding him.
She had been avoiding him for three days, ever since Elizabeth’s visit, but that was for the best, as it was becoming harder and harder to trust himself around her. It was becoming harder and harder to use her callously as an instrument of revenge. He knew damned well their bargain and her charade was taking a huge toll upon her. He was sorry, when he did not want to be, and it would be easier in London.
He had only to recollect her teasing humor, or her sincere desire for friendship, her
passion or her outrage, to sorely wish to set her free.
If he set her free, all temptation would be gone.
Those men made me feel like a whore.
Guilt shackled him now. It was an emotion he was rarely visited with. He had wished to throttle Aston and pummel Jayson, instead, he had somehow played the game. Now, Gerald’s sightless eyes seemed to be accusing him of perfidy instead of begging him for justice.
His temples throbbed. He paced to the terrace doors, rubbing his neck, as if that might remove the turmoil and tension from his body, his being, his mind. Gerald’s accusing gaze turned into Virginia’s huge eyes, as accusing, and then they became wide with hurt, an expression he had come to know so well. He truly wished she had not come home to meet Elizabeth. He wished he could have spared her that afternoon.
But she had thought to befriend and comfort Elizabeth. She was the most unpredictable woman he had ever met. She was also the kindest and most sincere.
She lay naked in the bath: small perfect breasts, long, slender legs and in between, an intriguing cleavage covered by dark curls.
He knew that Virginia had no clue of how difficult it was, living with her like this. She did not know that he slept in the library, only coming to his makeshift bed just before dawn. He had let the servants think he suffered from insomnia and worked into the wee hours of the night.
He finally bounded up the stairs. Guilt continued to assail him. His path of revenge, once smooth, had become a twisting rocky road. He was doing what he had to do, what his father would want him to do—he was fulfilling his duty as Gerald O’Neill’s son. There was simply no other choice, not for him. His life was meant to be one of hatred and revenge. Sean was the one entitled to family and love.
He stumbled on the steps. What in God’s name was he thinking? Family and love? Those concepts had naught to do with him and they never would.
He did not feel reassured. Elizabeth’s soft, tearful words echoed in his mind, her advice to Virginia. Don’t fall in love with him. He will never love you back.