“Edward?” Martin’s voice was level, calm but cold. “Why did you do that?”
“It’s obvious.” Facing them, standing squarely across the hearth, Edward lifted his chin haughtily; Amanda all but gaped at his dismissive, contemptuous stance. “You two—you never think of anyone but yourselves. Have you considered what pain you’ll cause others by raking up this old matter—a crime that’s been judged, paid for, the case long closed? The families—the Fulbridges, Ashfords and all our connections—finished with the scandal years ago. There’s no purpose in pursuing the matter now. What can you hope to gain?”
His lip curled. “You”—with his chin he indicated Martin—“were judged and found wanting ten years ago. Regardless of whether you’d committed the crime, they all believed you had, so you paid, then, for your wildness. It was your own doing.” Edward shrugged. “You were deemed the right one to carry the burden of guilt.” His gaze raked their surrounds, the sumptuous, expensive decor. “You’ve managed. No reason you can’t continue to bear the load. It’ll be the best thing for the family.” Edward glanced at Amanda. “Even if it means you won’t be able to have everything you want.”
Amanda knew just how a rabbit felt when facing a snake. She’d known Edward all her life; she could barely credit the coldness in his eyes.
“So,” Martin said. Edward looked back at him and Amanda breathed again. “You burned the diary because you believe I should continue to bear the odium for a crime I didn’t commit to spare the family further scandal.”
Edward’s expression hardened. He nodded. “It’s for the best.”
“Whose best, brother dear?” Luc ranged alongside Martin, blocking access to the door. “Are you sure you don’t want the old scandal left alone because any thorough investigation will implicate you?”
Edward sneered. “Of course not. Everyone knows—”
“That when riding you invariably carry a crop.” Luc nodded. “Indeed. Just as we now know it was you who murdered Buxton—you who found him up on Froggatt Edge, who struggled with him and drove him to the lip, wielding your crop.”
For a moment, Edward’s face blanked.
Luc’s lips curved but his blue eyes were cold as the grave. “That’s right, brother dear. The crop. Martin never had one, never needed one. You couldn’t manage a horse without one. And that, all the family knows.”
Edward jerked as if Luc had struck him. His lips twisted oddly, then he refocused. “Nonsense! Anyone could have picked up a crop.” He glanced back at the diary, nearly reduced to ashes.
“Sarah never kept a diary, Edward.”
“Heh?” Edward jerked upright, blinked at Martin, then glanced back at the burnt book.
Amanda seized the moment to edge around the chaise.
Edward saw her, but looked at Martin. “What are you saying?”
“That there never was any real diary. We let it be known there was one, and that it identified the man who raped Sarah, the same man who killed Buxton to ensure he was never brought to answer for it—”
“To ensure his reputation, which even then was all he had, wasn’t harmed,” Luc put in.
Martin waited, then said, “It was you, Edward, wasn’t it? You who hurt Sarah . . .” For the first time, emotion glimmered in Martin’s voice; rage glowed in his eyes. He stepped forward. Edward backed away—his boot hit the hearth.
“Can you even begin to imagine how she died?” Martin’s voice steadily gained strength. “Or the pain Buxton must have suffered—before you finished him off.” He stepped closer. “Let alone the anguish you caused my mother, and my father, before they, too, died?” His tone lashed as he asked, “How many lives were ruined, Edward—all by you?”
Edward gasped, looked down. Amanda saw his chest swell.
Then he vaulted the chaise, landing beside her—he shoved the chaise into Martin and Luc. She screamed and turned to flee.
Edward grabbed a hank of her hair, cruelly yanked her back, twisted his hand until she whimpered in pain. He hauled her up to her toes against him.
Click! From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a sliver flash, then felt cold steel against her throat.
“Stand back!” Edward yelled as Martin and Luc surged to their feet. They teetered on the brink of lunging across the chaise, but stopped. Their faces, and that of Reggie behind them, registered their shock.
“That’s right.”
She felt Edward nod.
“Stay where you are. You don’t want your latest love to die, too, do you?”
Crash!
The sound was so startling it made them all jump—the boom echoed around the room.
“You dreadful boy! Your mother wouldn’t believe her eyes could she see you now. How dare you, sirrah!” Lady Osbaldestone surged forward, the tap-tap of her cane loud on the boards. The screen behind which she’d been sitting lay rocking to one side; Devil and Vane were close on her heels.
Edward gaped, frozen, as she stormed toward him.
“You’re a worm, same as your sire! Should have culled you at birth. You’re a blot on your household escutcheon.” She halted a yard away. “Take that!”
Before anyone could blink, her cane sliced through the air and came down with a thwack on Edward’s wrist.
“Yahhhh!” He dropped the knife.
Martin and Luc launched themselves over the chaise.
Lady Osbaldestone got in one good lick with her cane as she closed a claw about Amanda’s arm and yanked her free, dragging her to safety—helped on by a shove from Martin—as he and Luc wrestled Edward to the floor.
Reggie watched from the chaise, egging them on.
“Hah!” Sighting one of Edward’s hands groping on the floor, Lady Osbaldestone stamped on it. “Sniveling coward!”
Devil forcibly drew them aside.
The door burst open. Jules, a scimitar gleaming in his hand, his expression ferocious, rushed in, followed by Joseph. Vane quickly crossed the room to reassure them.
It was over quickly; neither Martin nor Luc were in any mood to pull their punches. Battered and bloody, Edward lay snivelling on the floor as his brother and his cousin slowly rose to their feet.
Martin turned to Amanda; Lady Osbaldestone released her with a surreptitious push. Not that any push was necessary to send her into Martin’s arms. He hugged her hard, then tipped her face up and examined her throat. “The bastard nicked you.”
Fury vibrated in his voice. “I can’t feel a thing,” she lied. The cut was stinging, but stinging was a lot better than what might have been.
The reality suddenly hit her; she sagged against Martin, glad of his strength, his solidity. He looked across the room, nodding an affirmation to Jules that all was well. He and Joseph departed. Vane closed the door.
On the instant, a furious knocking, followed by the bell pealing incessantly, heralded what sounded like an invasion. Everyone in the library froze, listening, hoping Jules and Joseph could hold the line . . .
That hope proved futile.
Feminine tones, decidedly autocratic, penetrated the room. Amanda knew them well. She glanced at Devil, saw his jaw harden. He looked, pointedly, at Lady Osbaldestone. Who narrowed her eyes back.
“Wasn’t me,” her ladyship declared. “Must be one of you two”—she waved her cane at Devil and Vane—“who can’t keep his secrets.”
“We haven’t even seen them since you grabbed us,” Vane growled.
The door opened; Honoria, Patience and Amelia swept in. Honoria’s gaze swept the room. “Now this is more like it! Amanda, you are going to have an enormous job decorating all this before the wedding.”
Descending on her, Honoria hugged her without removing her from Martin’s embrace. “Patience—here. She’s been cut and it’s bleeding.”
Honoria turned to Lady Osbaldestone, who, Martin now noticed, had paled; the old harridan allowed herself to be guided to a chair. Patience took over with Amanda, taking her to sit on a chair near the window so she could tend her wound. “We do
n’t want any unslightly scars.”
Martin let Amanda go, and watched, amazed. They were only three women, yet . . . within seconds, they’d seized the whiphand.
Amelia had settled Reggie, also rather pale, back on the chaise. She inquired after the bellpull, then crossed to tug it; when Jules appeared she ordered warm water in a basin and cloth to tend her sister’s cut. After glancing at Luc, she also ordered an ice pack.
Martin looked at his cousin. A large bruise was spreading over Luc’s chiseled jaw. It was from a blow Edward had aimed at Martin; Luc had intercepted it.
After one pointed look at her spouse, Honoria had dispatched him to get a glass of something for Lady Osbaldestone. Vane had been similarly dealt with, and ordered to supply drinks to all others in need. From what Martin overheard, Honoria, Patience and Amelia had worked out their plan for themselves; they’d kept watch from a carriage in the lane beyond the courtyard wall. They’d heard Amanda’s scream and come running.
Having had all his hostly duties usurped, Martin crossed to Luc, still standing over Edward, prone and moaning on the floor.
“Leave him.” Martin looked down at Edward. “If he moves, Lady Osbaldestone will just hammer him again.”
Luc laughed shakily. “I still can’t believe she did that.”
“She’s a terror with that cane.” Vane handed them glasses, then nodded toward the fireplace. “Let’s go over there—there are things we need to discuss.”
Devil brought a glass of wine for Reggie. “No spirits for you, so I was instructed.” Reggie humphed but accepted the wine.
Jules returned with a basin and cloths; Amelia hurried to take them, then went to help tend her sister. The men gathered before the hearth, Reggie beside them on the chaise, and got down to business: how to deal adequately with Edward, and how to minimize the social damage his perfidy would inevitably cause. The first was easy enough, the second anything but.
Then the ladies joined them, disposing themselves on the chaises. Honoria looked at her husband. “What have you decided?”
Devil glanced at Martin, then stated, “Neither the law nor society will accept anything less than banishment for life.” He looked at Edward who’d dragged himself up to slump against a bureau. “He can choose where, but we’ll need to see him off English soil, and that as soon as maybe. Too many people knew the revelation was to occur this afternoon. A result will be expected.”
Honoria looked at Luc. “You agree?”
“Yes.” Luc glanced at Edward. “I’ll see him on the packet myself.”
“Very well.” Honoria’s gaze rested on them all. “Now, what about the rest?”
“That,” Devil admitted, “was as far as we’d got. We need to do something to protect the Ashfords, but what . . . ?”
Honoria humphed. “Indeed.”
“Quite ridiculous,” Lady Osbaldestone opined. “This business of the sins of the brothers being visited on their sisters and all others in sight, no matter how undeserved. In this case, it’s quite clear the felon”—she bent a vengeful glance on Edward—“was in no way insane or unstable. He was simply rotten to the core, and that’s all there is to it. An unfortunate throwback to the less admirable side of the paternal line, but you”—she pointed at Luc—“will clearly relieve future Ashfords of the taint.”
Luc blinked, looked nonplussed.
Lady Osbaldestone ignored him. She looked at Honoria. “Well, my dear? You’re a duchess, Amanda here is an almost-countess, and I’m not entirely without influence myself. I suggest we get busy.” She glanced at the clock, sent a sly glance Martin’s way. “Unfortunate timing, but I daresay you and I alone can reach enough ears to ensure that the important dinner tables hear of the wonderful relief.”
The men exchanged glances; it was Devil who asked, “Relief?”
“Good gracious, man! Of course relief! Just think how unhappy the situation would have been if the Ashford girls had received offers before this dreadful business had been resolved! A positive morass of potential uncertainty has been avoided! Now those girls can come out and gentlemen can marry them with confidence that there’s no rotten apple left in the family’s basket, that all has been settled and everything’s as it should be.” Her ladyship surged to her feet. “You just have to think of these things from the right angle.”
Leaning on her cane, she looked at Patience. “You know Minerva Ashford well enough, I believe?”
Patience nodded. “I’ll go there immediately and explain it all.”
“She’s a level-headed woman for all her once-wild ways. She’ll see quick enough how we mean to go about it and know just how to have her girls behave.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “Right, then! We’d best set to.”
She stumped toward the door. Everyone else sprang into action.
Martin rang for Jules; Jules summoned Joseph who with Devil helped Lady Osbaldestone out to her carriage, left waiting in the mews.
A quick discussion decided that Luc and Jules would escort Edward to Dover and put him on the packet. Vane, parting from Patience, who left with Honoria to spread the social word, returned as Edward started a moaning, carping monologue; Vane leaned down and said something—Edward shut up.
Straightening, Vane regarded Edward through narrowed eyes. “I’ll come with you. You might just need an extra—totally disinterested—hand.”
With that settled, Jules and Luc hauled Edward, growing more vocal by the minute, to his feet. One look from Vane and he shut up again.
Joseph arrived somewhat belatedly with an icepack. Amelia grabbed it and raced after Luc.
“Here.” She caught him at the door and hauled him back. Vane took his place and bundled Edward on. Amelia framed Luc’s face with one hand; with the other, she molded the icepack to his injured jaw. He winced, but she held him still. “There! Now hold it in place until the ice melts. The others can manage Edward until then.”
Luc took the icepack, held it in place. His eyes touched hers.
Amelia smiled, turned him to the door and pushed. He went, pausing in the corridor to glance back at her, nod his thanks, before following the others away.
Amelia sighed, then returned to the chaise as Amanda reappeared after seeing Honoria and Patience out. Amelia glanced at her, then slipped her arm under Reggie’s and helped him to his feet. “Come on. I’ll have them find a hackney and you can tell me all about your head on the way home.”
“Like how much it hurts?” Reggie managed a weak smile for Amanda and Martin, then let Amelia lead him away.
“You haven’t even told me how you got hurt. I haven’t heard all the details.”
Their voices faded as they headed down the corridor. Joseph looked in and raised a brow. Martin waved him away; Joseph closed the door after him.
Martin looked at Amanda, then opened his arms. She walked into them; he closed them about her and buried his face in her hair.
* * *
Later, when night had claimed the courtyard beyond the library windows, they lay on the daybed, skin to naked skin, the fire roaring in the hearth, the platters of delicacies Joseph had brought hours before on a low table before them.
Replete, at peace, sated to their bones, they simply lay and savoured the sweet taste of happiness.
Dreamed of the future.
Martin glanced down at Amanda. She was lying on her side, facing the fire, her back to his chest, her bottom fitted snugly to his loins. He’d draped a translucent silk shawl over her naked limbs, not to conceal them but to shield her from drafts. She shifted, reaching for a canape; the silk shimmered over milk-white skin, fine-textured, sheening like satin. He’d spent the last hours gorging his rapacious senses, filling his mind with the wondrous sensation of touching her—all of her, every last inch.
Filling his soul with the bone-deep knowledge that she was his, now and forever. Filling his heart with the wonder of it all.
Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Never, ever, did I believe I woul
d have all this.”
Not even prior to that day ten years ago. This, this wondrous emotion that had somehow taken over his life, had never been a part of his dreams, his expectations. Now he couldn’t imagine life without it.
Her lips curved, her smile serene, mysterious, elementally feminine, but she only leaned back against him, letting her body sink against his—a wordless acceptance of what was.
He knew it, but yet . . . it was now he who needed more.
He nuzzled her ear. “You haven’t given me your answer.”
She glanced at him, met his gaze. Smiled. Lifted a hand and lovingly traced his cheek. “Do you really need to hear it in words?”
“Just once.”
“Then yes—I’ll be yours. I’ll marry you and be your countess, and bear your children and redecorate your house. Although apparently Honoria thinks the order should be reversed.”
She turned onto her back, wound her arms about his neck and drew him down for a kiss—a kiss that lengthened, deepened, opened the door to desire again, but Martin held it back, kept the fires at bay.
Eventually he lifted his head. There was one more question unresolved between them.
He looked down into her eyes, as blue as cornflowers under the sun. “You asked me before why I wanted to marry you. I gave you an answer, a truthful answer, but it wasn’t the whole truth.”
She stilled; he closed his hand around hers, and could have sworn he felt her heart quiver.
“I want to marry you because . . .”—his eyes on hers, he raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her fingers—“it’s my duty to marry some lady like you, because I feel honor-bound to marry only you, because our marriage is dictated by society, and not least because of the child you may very well be carrying.”
He held her silent with his eyes, pressed another lingering kiss to the fingers he held trapped. “But most of all, I want to marry you for a very simple reason—because I cannot imagine living without you.”
He looked down at their hands, shifted his grip, twining their fingers. “And if that’s what the poets call love, then yes, I love you. Not in myriad ways, but in one all-consuming overwhelming way. In a way that has come to define who and what I am—in a way that now forms the very core of me.”
On a Wild Night Page 43