by Brenda Joyce
“Come, let us go downstairs,” Mary said, placing her arm around her.
Virginia prayed for help. She said, “My lady? I truly must rest in bed this evening. I am afraid I would be very poor company if I joined you in my present state.”
Mary kissed her forehead. “I understand. I will have a light supper sent up. Virginia?”
Virginia turned away to avoid eye contact. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Everything will turn out for the best, I feel certain of it,” she said.
Virginia could not nod. Mary left, gently closing the door behind her. Virginia sank down in the nearest chair.
Nothing would turn out well. For it was simply too late. She would not marry Devlin, not even if he were the last man on this earth.
DEVLIN OFFERED HIS STEPFATHER a glass of red wine and then sat down in an adjacent chair. Edward sipped and said, “This is damnably good.”
“Yes, it is,” Devlin returned, glancing at the open door. But his mother and Virginia did not appear. The standing grandfather clock in the corner of the room chimed half past the hour. He hadn’t seen her since their terrible conversation that morning and he could not deny that he wished to see her now. He sincerely hoped that she had recovered from the encounter.
“I heard you have received new orders,” Edward commented, setting his glass down and comfortably stretching out his long legs.
“Yes. I leave in two weeks. I am to participate in our war with the Americans,” Devlin said.
Edward nodded. “It’s ironic, is it not? The triumphs in Canada, when we are so outmanned there, and the losses in the Atlantic, when we are the greatest navy on the earth.”
“The Americans are a tough and fierce lot,” he remarked, a pair of huge violet eyes, flashing with hatred, in his mind. He shifted, aware of a seizure in his chest. But it was her right to hate him and he was glad—he merely had to remind himself of this yet another time.
“And that affair last night?”
“I was wondering if you had heard,” Devlin said, bracing himself for the censure he felt certain was to come.
“Devlin, for God’s sake, what did you expect, bringing her there, that way?” There was disapproval in Edward’s tone.
Abruptly Devlin stood, wine in hand. “I was called in by St. John today. I’ve truly heard it all. Yes, I made a mistake, and frankly, I am sorry for it. However, Hughes got a beating—which is almost what he deserved.”
“And Virginia?” Edward stood. “What did she deserve?”
He tensed.
“Or rather, what does she deserve?”
“Edward, I am well aware that I have behaved shamefully. She did not deserve to be used in my scheme of revenge. But I have made amends, I hope.” He met Adare’s unwavering gaze. “I have purchased Sweet Briar, which I intend to give to her, and I will take her home when I set sail,” he said tersely.
“The son I raised knows what she presently deserves, and it is not to be tossed away over your father’s bloody grave.”
“I regret all that I have done,” he said sharply. “Isn’t it enough that I have bought Sweet Briar for her?”
“You tell me.”
Devlin met his dark, blazing eyes. “You know the life I have chosen—you know the man that I am. I am not a family man, Edward,” he warned.
“But your father did not raise you to be a rogue. He raised you to be the family man you have just spoken of.”
The blow was a fierce one, for Edward was right. “Do not bring my dead father into this,” Devlin said sharply.
“Why not? Your father’s murder is the crux of this matter—as it is the crux of your life. Good God, he died fifteen years ago! When will you let him rest in peace? When?”
Devlin turned away, trembling. Sean had said the exact same thing, but he could not let go of the past, the effort being beyond his capacity.
“There is only one manner in which you may make amends to Miss Hughes, and you damn well know it,” Edward said softly to his back.
He did know it. He had known it for some time now, though from precisely when, he could not be certain. The only real way to make amends was through marriage. And Virginia’s violet eyes flashed. Today there is only hatred.
Hatred, so much hatred…It was all Devlin knew and he had taught Virginia the horror of it, too. “I doubt she would have me,” he heard himself say.
“Of course she will have you! Will you marry her, then?” he demanded.
He faced his stepfather and the devil had returned, ripping not just his heart but his entire being in two. And he actually wished that he were a different man, one incapable of ruthless vengeance, a man capable of letting go of a ghastly past, a man worthy of Virginia’s love. But he was not.
Nothing had been resolved, nothing yet was finished.
“When will you decide that you have had enough of this terrible obsession? When will you decide that there is a chance for happiness? When will you choose joy over pain?” Edward demanded softly. “When will you choose to live?”
“If you had been murdered as Gerald was, Tyrell, Rex and Cliff would do just as I have to avenge you,” he said, speaking of the earl’s three sons.
“I hope not,” Edward said. “You know what you must do. I imagine that somewhere in the back of your mind, you have known all along.”
Mary stepped quietly into the room, closing the door behind her. “Devlin? I love you the way only a mother can love her firstborn, but this is about right and wrong. It is about honor and dishonor, and it is about duty. If you are truly my son—the son I have raised—you will do what is honorable and you will stand up with Miss Hughes.” Tears filled her eyes. “I know you will honor Virginia with marriage—I know it,” she said.
And he was lost. He could not refuse the woman who had borne him into this world, the woman who had raised him, loved him and succored him until his thirteenth year, when he had gone to sea. He could not refuse his mother, who somehow retained a remarkable and unrealistic faith in him, and they were both right, this was the only real means of making amends.
Last night I gave myself to you with joy and love.
He closed his eyes, fiercely resistant, sweating. He did not want this. He did not need joy, he did not need love, but surely he could marry Virginia and maintain a proper distance between them. Surely he could marry her while maintaining his true course—revenge. Nothing had to change, really, except for her title and the fact that her stay with him would now be a permanent one.
“Devlin?” Mary asked.
He turned and met her gaze. With a bow, he said, “I will marry Virginia. Plan the nuptials, I will be there.” And there, it was done, the act of honor, what was right, because there was no choice after all.
Mary cried out and rushed to embrace him, tears wetting her cheeks. “Darling, she will make a wonderful wife, I am certain of it.”
Devlin nodded but he felt dazed. And oddly, he was also relieved. He had thought to return Virginia to her home, never seeing her again. Instead, they had a lifetime to share.
God, he would have to tread with care or he might truly fall under her spell, he thought with a stab of uncertainty and panic.
“Edward, we have a wedding to plan,” Mary was saying with delight. “And no time in which to do it!” She smiled at Devlin. “I expect you wed within the next two weeks, well before you set sail on the Defiance.”
DEVLIN FOUND IT IMPOSSIBLE to concentrate on the task at hand. His first officer had presented him with a list of supplies that he needed to authorize, but the words on the vellum blurred. The oddest feeling of relief consumed him, and he could not get over the fact that he was to marry Virginia before the Defiance set sail on December 14.
He finally pushed the page away. Where the hell was Virginia, anyway? He understood that last night she had pleaded a headache and had taken a supper tray in her room. Her avoidance of him had been to his advantage, then, too—he had hardly wished to speak with her so shortly after agreeing to their m
arriage. But it was noon, another day, and he felt quite certain that she had not come downstairs for breakfast, either. Virginia did not loll about her bed. What was more likely was that she had gone out at dawn for a long walk. In any case, she continued to avoid him, and now he felt pressured to meet with her and discuss the fact of their future. Surely they could structure an arrangement that suited them both. He felt it urgent to do so, and he intended to put her on notice that little would change in their relationship except for her official title. And as important, surely she was pleased with the impending nuptials—surely she no longer hated him.
Benson appeared in the doorway. Devlin tensed and sat up more stiffly, expecting Virginia. But it was William Hughes who was ushered in.
He was very surprised. He stood.
Hughes inclined his head in a parody of a bow. Devlin imitated him exactly, becoming wary and cautious. “This is an unexpected surprise,” he murmured. What could Will Hughes want?
“Shall we cease with any pleasantries?” William returned, standing stiffly where Benson had left him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Devlin replied, moving out from behind his desk. William was very unhappy, very displeased—why? His curiosity knew no bounds. “Brandy? Scotch? Wine?” he offered, his blood heating with the call to arms that this visit signaled.
William made a dismissive gesture.
Devlin smiled at him. “And how is the health of your brother?”
William seemed to choke. “Cease with all pretense!” he cried. “I have had enough! You have sullied the good Hughes name for the very last time. I have come with an offer, O’Neill.”
His cold smile fixed, his hands clasped behind his back, Devlin said, “Do tell.” Had Eastleigh, the coward, sent William to do his dirty deeds?
His nostrils flared. He held out a banknote. “This is the best I can do. It is not fifteen thousand pounds, an absurd sum. It is three thousand pounds, and it is yours if you release my cousin.”
Devlin made no move to take the offered note. He was stunned—and then he almost laughed, as the money being offered him had been his to begin with, undoubtedly garnered from their sale of Sweet Briar to him. “Does your father know what you offer me?”
“Does it matter?” William asked caustically, telling him that he did not.
Devlin shrugged, accepting the note. “Actually, it does not.”
William looked at him with real disgust and walked out.
Devlin laughed softly, wondering what he would say and do when he learned of the impending nuptials.
When Hughes was gone, he glanced at the bronze clock on his desk. Now it was almost one. He went to the door. “Benson?” he called.
The butler appeared as if by magic. “Yes, Sir Captain?”
“I wish to speak with Miss Hughes.”
Benson nodded, swiftly leaving.
Devlin returned to his chair, eyeing the first list at hand, one of rations for his men. Salt beef, salt pork, peas, oatmeal, butter, cheese…he sighed and gave up. It had become an urgent matter, to discuss the impending wedding with Virginia. Was she actually ill? Or had she decided to walk all the way to London? He looked up as Benson stepped inside, drumming his fingertips on the desk. “Is she coming down?”
“She was not in her rooms, sir. But I did find this upon the bed. Most curiously, it is your seal—yet it is also addressed to you.” Benson handed him a sealed letter.
Devlin leapt to his feet, almost snatching the letter, instantly suspecting what was at hand. “That is all,” he said tersely.
Benson left, closing the door, and Devlin slit the seal, opening the letter.
The hand was feminine and it was addressed to him.
December 5, 1812
Dear Captain O’Neill,
I cannot marry you. By the time you receive this letter, I shall be gone. It has occurred to me, with no small amount of reflection, my behavior has been foolish in the extreme. It is definitely time for me to go home.
I have many regrets. Our failure to forge a genuine friendship is foremost among them. I also regret the harsh words spoken yesterday. Please know that I hold no grudge, and that in spite of all circumstance, I bear you no ill will. Indeed, the opposite is the case. I do consider you a friend, even if the feeling is not a mutual one. I wish you all the best, always.
Please give my best regards to your family, as they have been nothing but kind.
Sincerely,
Virginia Hughes
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE COUNTESS OF EASTLEIGH wasn’t certain that she had heard the servant correctly. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, her arms filled with the flowers she had picked from the greenhouse. She set them carefully down on the huge center table in the kitchen.
“Miss Virginia Hughes has called, my lady,” the liveried manservant replied.
For one moment Elizabeth stared, careful not to allow her face to change expression. But she was more than surprised, in fact, she was stunned. What could Devlin’s mistress want? Why had she come calling? Had they returned to Wideacre? And if so, why? Elizabeth knew all about the sordid affair at the Carew ball.
And she still did not know what to make of it. It was astonishing that Devlin had brought his mistress into polite society, but she had come to grips with the fact that she did not know the man who had been her lover for six years. Her neighbors, Lady Philips and Lady Cramer, had been very quick to tell her all about the ball and the duel almost to the death between her stepson and O’Neill. Lady Cramer had been present at the scene (she also knew, Elizabeth was certain, of her own involvement with O’Neill until recently), and she had been very obliging, regaling Elizabeth and Lady Philips with numerous details of the duel. According to her, O’Neill had been intent on murdering his rival and only his stepbrother had prevented him from doing so.
Elizabeth managed a smile and she quickly handed a dozen tulips to a housemaid. “Please set these in a vase and put them in my room,” she murmured. Why on earth was Devlin’s new mistress here?
She had yet to recover from his rejection, or worse, his using her so baldly to abduct her husband’s niece. If she did not hate William so, she would demand to know what it all signified. If she had not been a faithless wife, she would have asked the same of Eastleigh. But she could approach neither man.
Yet Elizabeth was no fool. She had been O’Neill’s mistress. Now her husband’s niece had that dubious distinction, and Devlin had purchased Waverly Hall from the family some years back. Elizabeth began to sense that some terrible plan was afoot.
“Bring refreshments, Walden,” she said, a decision made. Her curiosity won and she removed her apron, washed her hands and left the kitchen.
Virginia stood in the yellow salon, a pretty room quite large in size with a half a dozen seating areas, the furniture obviously tired and worn, and two large chandeliers hanging from the pink, gold and white ceiling. She wore a pale lavender dress with long sleeves and a black pelisse, her dark hair tightly coiled to the back of her head. Her posture was stiff and erect, indicating extreme tension, but Elizabeth had only to look at her strained little face, devoid of all coloring, and then into her large eyes, to realize with shock that she was heartbroken.
Her own heart lurched and the awkward urge to comfort the girl came. “Miss Hughes?” She smiled more naturally now as she stepped into the salon.
Virginia tried to smile back, but it appeared to be more of a grimace. “I am sorry if I am disturbing you, my lady,” she said, her tone low and hoarse.
“You are not disturbing me,” Elizabeth said, gesturing at a seat. “Although I will confess, I am quite surprised by your call.”
Virginia smiled sadly and sat down, perching on the edge of a faded bronze satin chair.
Elizabeth also sat, and thought, She really is terribly pretty, and I think I begin to see why Devlin would wish to have her. But she is so young… Elizabeth refused to recall her own age, but her husband’s niece was almost twenty years her junior. “Are
you in residence at Wideacre?” she asked politely.
Virginia shook her head. She smoothed down her skirts, gazing at her lap.
A silence fell. Elizabeth felt terribly sorry for her, as she appeared so lost and so miserable. At least I am a married woman, she thought, a woman of experience, one capable of bearing the brunt of real hurt. Surely Devlin had been Virginia’s first lover. No wonder she was crushed. Had he rejected her now, too? “It is such an exceedingly pleasant day for this late in the year,” she said. “Although I have heard that there will be rain before the week is out.”
Virginia looked up, biting her lip. “I must beg your help, my lady,” she whispered.
Elizabeth could not stand it. She reached out and took Virginia’s hands in her own. “My dear, you know we are family. Given the circumstances, I had not really thought about it, but now, seeing you so saddened, it comes back to me. Of course I will help you if I can.”
Virginia looked close to tears. “I must get home to Virginia,” she said. “And I have no money for the fare. If you could but lend it to me, I promise I would pay you back.”
Elizabeth did wish to help, but lending her any spare coin, when her funds were so strained, was out of the question. “What has happened, child?”
Virginia shook her head as if she could not speak. “I must go home.”
Elizabeth hesitated, choosing her words with care. “And Devlin will not let you go? For he certainly can spare the fare for your passage.”
Her face tightened. “I have run away, my lady, I have run away from him, and I must leave the country immediately, before he can possibly find me.”
Her brows lifted and she was seized with rabid interest. “But did you not love him?”
She held herself proudly. “Yes.”
“Has he abused you in some way?”
Her eyes widened. “Is it not abuse to be flaunted about the world as his whore?” she cried.
Her language took Elizabeth aback. “I have never understood his behavior,” she said carefully.
Virginia stood. For one moment she stared. “It is not my place to explain to you his motivations—I refuse to get between your family and him. I only beg you to spare me the fare to return to America. I cannot go on this way!”