by Brenda Joyce
“Virginia?”
She started and saw him approaching. She swallowed and said, “I did not mean to pry. I was looking for you. I saw your orders.”
He paused, glancing at the open letter. “My orders are classified.” His gaze was steady upon hers.
“Classified?”
“They are meant only for my eyes and those of the Admiralty and the Department of War.”
“I am sorry.” She was breathless; she didn’t know what to do now. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” He was staring grimly at her. “As soon as possible.”
He could have merely acknowledged the fact; his choice of words was a dark blow. She gripped the desk. “As soon as possible?” she echoed.
His gaze did not waver. “Yes.”
Surely this did not mean anything, surely this had nothing to do with her or the night they had shared. She wet her lips. Her pulse pounded. “Can you not delay awhile?”
“I don’t think so.” He faced her soberly. “I will take you home—back to Virginia.”
Her heart felt as if it had dropped right out of her body and through the floor. “What?”
He was far more grim than before. “I will find another way to ruin Eastleigh. It’s time for you to go.”
Virginia sank down in his chair. She was in utter disbelief. He would send her away now? After their passion, their love? “But…”
“But what?” he asked too sharply.
“But last night,” she implored. “Everything is different now…isn’t it?” And she prayed she would not cry.
He did not look at her, pouring a drink. Were his hands shaking? “You need to be freed, that fact has not changed.”
She was quickly becoming devastated. “But,” she said, frozen on the inside, and on the outside, too, “but we made love last night.”
He tossed back a shot. “Don’t,” he warned.
Virginia managed to stand up, holding on to his desk as she did so. “I know it,” she insisted stubbornly.
He finally looked at her, his face taut, his expression so similar to the one he’d worn last night after the ball. “I do not want to hurt you again, Virginia.”
“Then do not do so,” she cried.
“Why do you still demand the impossible of me?” he cried in return. “Why not leave this alone? I will return you to Sweet Briar. This is what you want!”
She stared, her heart, so badly pierced, beginning to break apart into small pieces. “It’s not what I want,” she whispered.
He stiffened and he was clearly angry. “Do not ask me to give you something I cannot, and will not, give.”
The tears fell. She could not stop them. She stared, and with the hurt, there was almost hatred. “So it meant nothing…last night?”
He drew his shoulders back. “I enjoyed myself very much, Virginia, as I know you did, too. But it meant nothing.”
She cried out, and had she been closer, she would have struck his handsome face.
“Clearly, I should not have given in to my passion last night. You are too young and too innocent to understand men, Virginia—and I am only a man, and not a romantic one. I am sorry. I am sorry you think last night meant more than it did. Now, I have a ship to attend to.” His shoulders squared, he turned and started for the door.
She somehow stood. Her tone sounded frigid to her own ears. “How odd it is,” she said harshly.
He froze but did not turn.
“They say love and hate are the opposite sides of the same coin. I never understood that before.”
He stiffened even more—and he looked back at her.
She smiled without any mirth. “Last night I gave myself to you with joy and love.”
He stared, no expression on his face or in his eyes, none at all.
“Today there is only hate.” And even as she heard herself utter the terrible words, she wished she had not—she hated herself, too, for her cruelty.
His face twisted and he bowed. “It is your right. Good day, Virginia.” He walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DEVLIN TOOK THE WIDE front steps to the Admiralty two at a time, his mouth set in a grim line. He had received notice of this meeting but an hour ago. He had been expecting such notice; after all, all of London would be talking about the affair last night and the befuddled old men in blue were no exception. His conduct had not been that befitting an officer and a gentleman.
Other officers and their aides were coming and going; Devlin did not nod at anyone, as he saw no one. A beautiful pale face with furious violet eyes haunted him instead. Last night I gave myself to you with joy and love. Today there is only hate.
His mouth twisted. There was a terrible piercing in his chest as her hurtful declaration echoed, but he was glad, fiercely so, that she had come to her senses. He deserved only hatred, not love, and he was relieved, as fiercely, that finally she would cease imploring him with her every manner to love her in return.
“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant was waiting for him inside at the top of the marble staircase.
Devlin shoved his thoughts of Virginia aside. His feelings were not so easily shunted; both guilt and regret tormented him. He calmly accepted the lieutenant’s salute. Inwardly he remained in turmoil.
“Admiral St. John is waiting, sir,” the young officer added.
Devlin knew the way—how many times had he been called to Brook Street to be set down? A dozen, perhaps more. He preceded the junior officer down the hall, knocked on St. John’s office door and was instructed to enter.
He did so, saluting smartly and giving no indication of any surprise or any other feeling when he noticed Admiral Farnham present. He removed his bicorn, tucking it under his arm, remaining at attention.
“Do sit down, Captain,” St. John said, his florid expression grim.
Devlin nodded and took a chair.
St. John took his seat behind his desk, while Farnham sat in an adjacent chair. “I am very sorry to have called you in today,” St. John said grimly, “especially after the most unpleasing hearing of last summer.”
Devlin said nothing.
“The events of last night have come to my attention, rightly so. Do you care to explain yourself, Devlin?”
“Not really.”
St. John sighed. “Tom Hughes has taken a dozen stitches. His head is concussed. He states you attacked him unjustly and unfairly. How do you rebut?”
“He is well enough to make an accusatory statement?” Finally, Devlin smiled. “I should have inflicted far graver wounds, then.”
St. John shot to his feet. “This is hardly amusing. This is conduct unbecoming an officer, sir.”
Devlin also stood. “And the unprovoked assault on a lady of character is conduct becoming an officer?”
St. John was flushed now. “I beg your pardon, but a woman of no virtue has no character.”
Devlin stiffened, real anger rushing through him; he controlled it. “Miss Hughes is the Earl of Eastleigh’s niece. She is a gentlewoman of both character and virtue.”
“Do you deny that she is your mistress?” Farnham accused, still seated, his black eyes gleaming.
Devlin did not hesitate. “I do. I am afraid there have been malicious gossips at work—Miss Hughes has been my guest and nothing more.”
Farnham snorted. “The world knows she is your mistress, Captain. A woman of no virtue, she undoubtedly provoked Tom’s attentions.”
“She did not,” Devlin said flatly, fighting the urge to smash his fist in Farnham’s large red nose. “Eastleigh’s conduct should be at question here.”
“Were you there?” St. John asked.
Devlin turned. “No.”
“Hughes said she invited his interest, clearly and openly. She suggested he meet with her at a later date, perhaps on the morrow. She was so seductive he lost his patience, which is when you happened upon the scene.”
Devlin’s fury knew no bounds. “And it is the word of Thomas Hughes against
the word of a whore?”
“Those are your words, not mine,” St. John said. “Your attack on Tom was beyond the bounds of gentlemanly conduct. This is my last warning, Devlin. One more incident and you will be court-martialed on the aforementioned grounds. There is no room in His Majesty’s navy for a ruffian and a scoundrel.”
Devlin knew that once again this was a battle he must lose. Nothing ever changed. The admirals ranted and raved over his insubordination and independence, but in the end, he was always given his liberty again. They dared not lose his competence of command and his superiority in naval battle. This time, though, his heart knew no mocking triumph. This time, he felt ill.
Defend Virginia as he might, it was more than time for her to go. She had no future in Britain, thanks to him.
An honorable man would simply marry her.
He was astonished with his thoughts. He dismissed them instantly. An honorable man would have never used her so abominably in the first place.
“Do you comprehend me, Captain?” St. John asked.
Devlin jerked, his brooding far too intense for comfort, and he bowed. “Completely.”
“Good.” St. John came forward, smiling. “Will you have a brandy?” he asked, the crisis clearly over.
Devlin nodded; three brandies were poured and passed around.
Sipping appreciatively, St. John then said, “You have received your orders?”
Devlin nodded. “Yes, I have.”
“When can you set sail?”
“As you suggested, sir, within two weeks.”
St. John nodded. “Try to hasten your departure, Devlin. The news arrived today. The HMS Swift was captured by the USS Constitution. I do not know how they are doing it, but the Americans are owning the seas and I am counting on you, my boy, to swiftly change that fact.” He saluted him with his glass.
Devlin set his snifter down and bowed. “Of course, my lord,” he murmured. “I shall make every effort.”
St. John beamed, pleased.
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAPPENED?” the Earl of Eastleigh demanded coldly of his younger son.
Tom Hughes lay in bed, his torso and one arm bandaged, as his manservant took his breakfast tray from the room. “My head pounds, Father. Would you please refrain from shouting?” he said.
Eastleigh stared. “I was not shouting.”
William stood beside him, pale. “This is simply insufferable.”
“Be quiet.” Eastleigh looked his youngest son over. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I will live,” Tom said. His face tightened. “That bastard only got a set down. He went before St. John and he only got a set down.”
“He is probably paying them off,” Eastleigh spat. “Either that or the man has had nothing but luck his entire life.” And that would change, he silently vowed.
“This is beyond insufferable!” William erupted. “First he parades our cousin about Hampshire, openly flaunting their liaison, destroying her and, by association, our entire family! Lord Livingston did not receive my wife the other day. She is always received there—Lady Livingston loves Cecily! But now the best of friends are the worst of friends—after all, we have a whore in the family! This is beyond insufferable. It has to stop!”
“I admit that I never expected him to go so far as to take her to the Carew ball.” Tom was clearly disgusted.
“And you had to pick a fight with him?” Eastleigh asked, his tone icy.
“He attacked me,” Tom exclaimed with indignation. “She is our cousin—and she is a fetching little thing. I think I had every right to sample her charms—but the savage attacked me!”
“You have only encouraged the gossips.” Eastleigh was outwardly calm, but inwardly, he seethed. He agreed with his sons. O’Neill had to be stopped. But the question remained, how? He felt certain that nothing short of killing the man would dissuade him from his revenge.
“I am sure all of London will do nothing but speak of last night’s entertainment now. Do you know I dread the dinner party we are attending tomorrow?” William finally sat down. “At least we have an offer for Sweet Briar. Although the buyer wishes to remain anonymous and we are selling the place for half its market value.”
“I didn’t know!” Tom smiled, pleased. “This shall help ease our depleted coffers for a while. Father, you must be thrilled.”
Eastleigh did not really hear him. His sons were both weak; they were both fools. But he was not weak, never mind that he was older, impoverished, obese. He had killed once before with as much chagrin as one felt when swatting a fly. The Irish were mostly savages. He knew that firsthand, having spent his youth as a soldier stationed among them. He had never favored Catholic emancipation and he despised the fools who did. No Catholic should be able to vote or own land—and no Catholic should be as wealthy and powerful as that savage, O’Neill. What would it matter if he killed one more time?
He had so little now to lose.
Eastleigh began to plan.
VIRGINIA STOOD AT HER WINDOW, looking out at the Thames as the twilight grew, where several yachts sailed among the more plebian traffic of dories, dinghies and skips. It was suppertime, but she had no intention of going downstairs to dine. Although she could not remain hateful—she would never hate Devlin O’Neill—her heart had been broken for the very last time. She smiled sadly, bitterly, recalling every moment of her conversation that morning—and every moment spent in his arms last night. But she had had enough. It was over now and she was going home.
Her sadness felt like grief, heavy and depressing, a weight that threatened to sink her down.
Virginia heard voices on the terrace below her window. Her puppy came to stand beside her, whining.
She started, as she had not known they were having company. She heard a man’s and a woman’s voice, both terribly familiar.
Her cheeks heated. She recognized the woman instantly and she thought, oh no! For it was none other than Mary de Warenne, which meant the man with her was the Earl of Adare.
A knock sounded on her door. Virginia was hardly surprised, and reluctantly she turned. “Come in.”
Hannah smiled at her. “Captain asks fer you to come down to dine, Miss Hughes. Her ladyship and his lordship are here, as well.”
Virginia smiled grimly. “I have a headache,” she said. “Please send my regrets, but I will not be going down to dine tonight.”
“Shall I bring you a supper tray?” Hannah asked, instantly concerned.
“I have no appetite,” Virginia said.
When the maid was gone, she walked over to the sofa and sat down, pulling the puppy, whom she’d named Arthur, close, staring at the fire in the hearth while stroking him. Then she buried her face in his fur, but she did not cry.
It hurt so much. The heartache this time was worse than it had ever been, because she had truly allowed herself to hope and dream of Devlin’s love. But how foolish and naive could she be? Devlin had no heart. He was incapable of loving anyone. He had proved it once and for all. She simply could not wait for the future, for a day when he was not even the vaguest memory.
And that day would come, she insisted to herself. It would, although perhaps it might take some time. But surely in a year or two, or maybe even three, she would not even recollect his features.
She felt even more anguished and more saddened than before.
“Virginia?”
Virginia gasped, turning.
Mary de Warenne stood in the doorway in a ginger silk evening gown, trimmed with bronze lace. She smiled. “I knocked several times. I’m sorry, but when you did not answer I thought to come in and check on your welfare. Are you all right?”
Virginia stood. “I have a headache, but it will pass,” she said tersely.
Mary smiled. “May I?”
Virginia had no choice but to nod. Miserably, she whispered, “Do come in.”
Mary did so, closing the door behind her. She paused at Virginia’s side, her expression far too inquisitive and far too search
ing. “How are you, my dear?”
“I suppose I have a bit of an influenza,” she managed. She dreaded the interview she sensed would follow.
Mary searched her eyes. “I understand you and my son have been living together openly.”
Virginia flushed. “You are very direct.”
“I am very ashamed,” Mary said, and although she was blunt, her tone was soft. “I raised Devlin to know right from wrong and to treat women with respect.”
Virginia backed away.
“He has used you terribly, I fear,” Mary said.
Oh, dear, the anguish had returned, vast and full force, threatening to break like a flooding dam. Virginia turned away.
“I am truly furious with him. But what I want to know is if he has hurt you—other than your heart?”
Virginia gasped, whirling. “I cannot answer that!” she cried.
“I believe I have answer enough,” Mary said gently, and she came forward. Before Virginia could protest or elude her, she had embraced her. “I like you very much…daughter.”
Virginia knew she must not cry. Then she realized what Mary had called her and she flinched. “What did you say?”
Mary smiled and brushed some curls away from her eyes. “I called you daughter.”
Virginia shook her head, speechless.
“For you shall be my daughter—very soon. Edward and I have discussed it at some length. Some small length, actually, as there was so little to discuss. My son will do what is right.”
Virginia shook her head, disbelieving, backing up.
“He will marry you, Virginia, have no fear, and he will treat you with the respect owed a wife. Of that I have no doubt,” Mary said firmly. “Edward is speaking with him now.” And she smiled, waiting for Virginia to tell her how pleased she was.
But Virginia could not speak, not for a long moment. She was in disbelief. Briefly, she saw herself in her wedding finery, Devlin in his dress uniform, standing before a priest. Then she shook the terribly fanciful image aside. She finally said, hoarsely, “Thank you, my lady.”