Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Miss Sinclair,” Cynssyr replied in a hateful, matter-of-fact tone. “Collect yourself, if you please.”

  Aldreth gave him a black glare and snapped, “Have you no pity, man? At least let her get over the shock.”

  “To what end?” he asked.

  “I should have let Devon hit you.”

  “Devon?” said Anne, horrified. “Devon knows?”

  “Hell, Anne. Everyone knows.”

  Ruan laughed. Amusement without mirth. Dark and quite ugly. Now that he’d recovered from his fit of lust, he remembered the consequences of his indulgence. “At this point, Miss Sinclair, the trick would be finding someone who did not.” He caught a glimpse of pale eyes wide with disbelief before he deliberately turned to Ben. He would not feel sorry for her. He absolutely refused. Ben, unfortunately, had nothing to say.

  Anne tried to take a deep breath and discovered she could not. “I don’t know him, Aldreth. I don’t even like him. How can we be married?”

  “Naturally, the choice is yours,” Cynssyr said.

  “The hell it is,” said Aldreth.

  “You cannot force her to marriage, Ben.” She stifled another sob. He wondered if she was going to faint. But, no, she caught her breath, and the tears he expected failed to materialize. She earned his grudging admiration for that. “If you refuse, Miss Sinclair, and later discover I have got you with child, you have only to apply to me and I will settle a sum of money upon you and the child. And,” he added as an afterthought, “I will acknowledge it as mine.”

  She gave Ben a panicked look.

  “The possibility exists.” Ruan spoke as if he referred to the odds of rain spoiling a picnic, so as not to send her completely over the edge and into full-blown hysteria. Despite her age, despite his having had her lovely mouth on his cock with him ready to scream he was that close to coming, despite everything they had done, she was so innocent such an outcome stunned her. He wondered if he had indeed made her pregnant.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered. “Dear God.”

  Ben tugged on his cravat. “An illegitimate child would destroy Cyn as much as it would you.”

  As for him, Ruan reflected, in such a case, he would spend the rest of his days rusticating far from anything or anyone who interested him. Savage gossip he didn’t mind, but under the facts of this case, the loss of his good name was not recoverable, not to be overlooked by the people who mattered. She said nothing, just looked at him as if he were a hunter with his finger on the trigger and her a doe with nowhere to turn. Well. So. Rather apt, actually, he thought ruefully.

  “Think of the consequences, Anne,” Ben said. “Your father will turn you out, don’t doubt that for a moment. You will live the rest of your life in shame and disgrace, and so would the child.”

  That gave Ruan a start. The child Ben so blithely spoke of would be his child. His flesh and blood. And the child’s mother innocent of the shame.

  “I do not want to marry him,” she said in a sort of hopeless voice.

  “Anne,” Ben said sadly as he delivered what Cynssyr knew would be the killing blow. He knew Ben loved her too well not to use every weapon, however despicable, at his command. “You were unconscious when the two of you were discovered. If you do not marry Cynssyr, with what he has done, with so many witnesses to your incapacity when it happened, he is finished in society. Forever. He took your innocence.” Ben closed his eyes.

  What scenes his friend saw behind those tight shut eyes Ruan knew only too well. Him covering Anne, head back in a howl of almost ungodly pleasure; The blood when he rolled off her, baffled by the intrusion; His sister-in-law sprawled on her back, insensible and naked for any and all to see.

  Ben’s eyes snapped open. Iron crept into his voice. “He will be a man known to have deliberately and maliciously—” He whipped up his hand, cutting off Ruan’s attempted protest at his characterization of the event “—deliberately and with malice, ravished a drugged woman, a spinster of heretofore irreproachable reputation. An innocent formerly innocent of men.”

  Anne felt the noose tightening about her neck. She tried to swallow. For some time, she stared at her feet. At the bandage wrapped around her ankle. Lord Ruin. Married to Lord Ruin. All this time she’d been frantically searching for some way to stop him from marrying Emily, and here it was. On a silver platter. She smothered a very inappropriate urge to laugh.

  “I have no illusions about my importance relative to you, your grace.” At last, she looked up. “Under any other circumstance I’d be whisked away to the deep countryside never to be heard from again and this meeting would never have taken place.”

  “Quite true,” he said.

  Aldreth walked to her and stood hands on his hips. “I don’t give a damn what happens to Cyn. He can rot in hell for all I care. It’s you that matters. What will you have, Anne? Wretched poverty or wealth beyond imagining? Which will you choose?”

  Ruan saw a flash of frustration. Unexpected spirit. “I don’t want to choose.”

  “You’d risk a bastard when legitimacy is within your power? Think what that means. And not just for you, but for Emily and Lucy, and even Mary.” She shook her head, but Ben gave no quarter. “You’d deny your child Cynssyr’s birthright? Stop shaking your head like that.”

  “It isn’t fair. Aldreth, please. It isn’t fair.”

  “You haven’t the right to ruin a child’s life,” Ben said in a low, harsh whisper. “You have no right to take that gamble.”

  She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “I know that. Aldreth, I know. But it isn’t fair.”

  “To hell with what’s fair, Anne.”

  “I don’t want to marry him, and I daresay he doesn’t care to marry me.”

  “What either of you want no longer matters.”

  She shivered, the proverbial goose walking over her grave, and looked at the two men. “I know. I know I haven’t any choice.”

  Aldreth sat heavily on the sofa, head in his hands. “Thank God,” he whispered. He lifted his head, looking at Anne. “The arrangements have been made. Cyn will marry you this afternoon. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “I am sure, Miss Sinclair,” Ruan said with no conviction whatever, “we will get on splendidly.”

  Slowly, she rose, gripping the chair back-for support. All she could think about was Devon. She had lost him again, and this time she would never get him back. “That hardly seems likely, sir.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The ceremony took place in the chapel at Corth Abbey. Ruan had obtained a special license very early in the morning before his bride was awake and knew she was to be a bride. He fetched the parson on his way back. Every wedding had its tearful women, but in this case the tears were in no way joyous. Ruan’s mother provided the ring, offering her own wedding band until such time as Ruan could replace it with one of his choosing. Anne’s finger was slender, and the gold band slid on too easily. His wife.

  Pretending this was a happy occasion took a toll on everyone. Devon, of course, glared murder. Thomas Sinclair glowered, which wasn’t so different from his usual expression, and was drunk well before the clergyman stood to read the vows. Benjamin was uncharacteristically subdued, with none of his trademark good humor. A waterfall of tears came from Lucy and from Mary a sort of grim acceptance when the parson pronounced their sister a duchess.

  Silent, Emily looked stunned, but not, Ruan thought, heartbroken to have lost him to her sister. Miss Cooke laughed nervously, and her mother shushed her too loudly. Clearly Miss Truitt understood too much and her brother too little. For some reason, Lady Prescott, whose single word had dashed the aspirations of many a social hopeful, appeared to have taken a liking to Anne. He assumed this was his mother’s doing, for she would know that without Lady Prescott’s approval, Anne had few prospects for success in London.

  Wearing green satin that did not suit her coloring, the new duchess of Cynssyr stood to one side of the room, pinched and tired as she accepted congratulations. Som
eone had fashioned a bouquet of tea roses and pansies from Devon’s greenhouse. She clutched them and said what was required of her. Nothing more. Pale as death, she smiled only when someone, usually his mother, reminded her she ought. At least her response to Lady Prescott was more than a nod.

  He stood at her side feeling curiously protective of her. She had not wanted to marry him. Not by any means. But she had, and so saved him from the loss of the only occupation he had ever wanted for himself.

  A celebratory luncheon was served afterward. The pile of cucumber sandwiches and a genoise Ruan was sure Cook had meant to serve for dessert but had hastily dressed up to look like a wedding cake went pretty much untouched. Ruan kept as much to himself as he could but Anne, surrounded by Fairchild cousins demanding to know how long she had been secretly in love, had no reputation to protect her from inquiries she could answer only with evasions or outright lies. Her eyes were mirrors of panic at bay. He saw her father take her aside, letting her hobble painfully to the far corner of the room. Well, at least he’d got her away from those women. Sinclair spoke to her urgently, but he could not tell from her expression what he might be saying to her. Perhaps congratulating her on her conquest, reminding his daughter of her success where every other woman had failed.

  He went outside, taking a route that avoided any guests, and thought about his wife who did not like him. Oughtn’t he feel as trapped as she looked? He didn’t. He stood in the garden wondering why not and smoked three cheroots, one after the other until he felt vaguely sick then headed inside for a few cucumber sandwiches to settle his stomach. Hoping to find the repast not yet cleared, he went into the drawing room. Devon, the only occupant, stood by the fireplace staring at something, the merest veneer of civility covering his black frown. The cucumber sandwiches remained. He made straight for them. He took a sandwich and ate it.

  Devon turned as Ruan dispatched a second sandwich and took another. “Well, Dev, old man?” he said, throwing down the remainder of a third sandwich.

  “I cannot fault you for being yourself.”

  “The answer to a different question.”

  “It’s the best I can do.” Silence stretched between them. Devon let out a breath. “Do not make her unhappy.” His eyes reflected rare emotion. Anguish. “Swear it, and I’ll forgive you anything. Even this. Swear. On whatever soul is left to you, swear you won’t treat her like all the others.”

  There wasn’t any question of his obligations in the matter. “I swear it,” he said without hesitation. He’d have promised anything to salvage his friendship with Devon.

  “You made a vow before God and now me,” Devon said. “That ought to mean something. Even to you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A footman appeared in the doorway holding a salver on which there lay a single envelope. “Your grace.”

  “From Katie?” Devon asked as Ruan took the letter.

  He ignored the provoking tone. The seal broke with a soft crack. Not from Katie, which he’d already surmised from the unscented paper. His secretary’s precise hand covered half a sheet of paper. “From Hickenson.” He scanned the contents and swore. “Hell. The ruddy great fools.”

  “What?”

  “Some damn fool’s accused lord Buckley of assaulting all those women.”

  “Buckley? That’s ridiculous.”

  “They want to hang him.”

  “No great loss if they do.”

  “Something’s up. They’re moving too quickly. Hell. The Judicial Committee is called to session. Castlereagh is after me for a meeting and Thrale means to stop the pensions bill.” He gestured to the waiting footman. “No reply. Tell the duchess we’re leaving immediately.”

  “Your grace.” The footman bowed deeply.

  Devon stopped the man with a formidable glare. “You can’t take Anne to London,” he told Ruan.

  “Why not?”

  “For God’s sake, at least let the gossip die down!”

  “So, I’ll just let Buckley hang.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what the hell am I to do with her?”

  “Send her to Satterfield.”

  “By herself?”

  “It’s close enough to Town for you to at least maintain the fiction of a blissful marriage,” he said wryly. “Besides, you should have this nonsense about Buckley stopped within the week.”

  Ruan thought of all the matters his precipitous marriage jeopardized by his absence from Town. Parliament was in session, he had appeals to hear, a dozen petitions to review, not to mention the Privy Council. No, he could not afford to be away. “No more than a fortnight, anyway. All right then. Have my horse brought round. Henry and Dobkin are to accompany me.”

  The footman waited for Devon’s nod before he bowed. “As you wish, your grace.”

  “What a bloody nuisance.” Ruan stood tapping his thigh. So far, marriage was every bit as inconvenient as he’d dreaded. “I suppose I ought to tell her the news myself.”

  “Yes,” Devon said. “I suppose you should.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Ruan found Anne in his room, surrounded by his trunks. Neatly packed by the ever efficient Dobkin, they stood stacked and ready to be sent on to Satterfield. Well, now to London instead. She stood at the window, clutching the damask curtain, head bowed to the darkly rich material. Though he could feel the tension in her, she wasn’t crying. No flood of womanly tears. She simply stood there holding the curtain like a drowning man would a rope. “Miss Sinclair,” he said curtly because he very much disliked tears and quite plainly there would soon be tears aplenty. Then he remembered she wasn’t Miss Sinclair anymore. “Anne.”

  She slowly turned from the window. No sign of emotion marked her expression. He’d never thought of women as creatures capable of any particular control when under duress, but Anne’s composure impressed him. Those damned spectacles of hers made it impossible to see her eyes and even begin to guess what she was thinking. She curtseyed. “Your grace.” She wore her wedding gown, green satin old enough to have lost some of its sheen. He still disliked the color on her.

  “Urgent business calls me to London,” he said abruptly. “I leave within the hour.”

  “I understand.” She pushed her spectacles toward the bridge of her nose in a gesture he thought was pure habit.

  “I’m sending you to Satterfield.” He walked part way in, and half-leaned, half-sat against the larger of his trunks, wondering why she reminded him of Devon. The moment he and Dev met, he knew they’d be friends. He felt that now, the same unspoken, unquestionable certainty of compatibility. Which made no sense at all, but there it was.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. Her breath caught, refusing to give voice to the grief he now saw in her eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Ask me no questions...”

  “And I’ll tell you no fibs,” she concluded, a faint, wry smile curving her mouth.

  “Then no fibs between us, Anne. I am your husband. You may tell me anything. Anything at all.”

  She lifted her hands, palms up. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find it’s all been an awful dream. Only I haven’t.”

  “We must make the best of the hand fate dealt us.”

  “I am very good at making the best of things.” She returned to the window, staring steadfastly out as if fascinated by the view. “But I want my life back the way it was.”

  “Put your regrets aside. They do no one any good. Least of all us.” Late afternoon sun lit her hair, bringing out subtle shades in her braided bun that ranged from palest gold to silver-white. Not plain hair by any means. Just a plain arrangement. As with her figure. Plain coverings hid the beauty of her form.

  “Never, ever, has it mattered what I want. Not to anyone.” She pressed her forehead to the window and spoke in soft, constricted words. “Always, I must accept someone else’s decision about my life. First Papa. Then Aldreth. Now you. But I am not a puppet
to be manipulated as if I don’t matter.” She clenched a fist to her throat. “I am not.”

  “What is it you want? Jewels? New gowns?” he teased, thinking of having his fingers threaded in masses of silver-gilt hair. “A box at the Opera? A pretty mare and an elegant carriage round out the usual requests. I’m a generous man and think I can be a generous husband.” Midnight blue would be her color, he thought. Yes. Dark and dramatic tones in counterpoint to her coloring. Rich silks and sensuous velvet, as soft and luxurious as her skin.

  She turned again, perfectly composed. “I want to go home.” They stood close enough that he could touch her. Which he did. A soft, gentle stroke along her cheek. For him, the contact was a lightning strike, a bolt of sensation that leapt from her and shot through him like fire through dry grass. She gasped, and that made him wonder if she’d felt it, too. “I don’t want to feel,” she whispered. “I want only to get through this without disaster.”

  “Without inconvenient feelings.” He felt a bit at sea because he’d never in his life had so perfect an understanding of any woman. Women as a species he understood quite well. But any woman in particular? Never. Until now. She was a stranger to him, but not a stranger.

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “In that, Anne, we are in accord.” He had the damnably persistent feeling he’d known her for years and could speak to her without dissembling. As if she were a long lost friend with whom he had only to become reacquainted. Again, not what he was used to when dealing with women.

  She shook her head. “This cannot possibly succeed.”

  “I will take care of you. Never doubt that. You are my wife. I take care of what is mine.”