by Eva Devon
“I’ve met a lady if you must know, Bates.”
“And she won’t have you? Daft lass.” Bates grinned again. “Or perhaps all too clever. You’re a tricky bastard, Captain.”
The term bastard was applied by Bates as a fondness. . . The man had no idea to its truth. Even Bates had been left in the dark in regards to that secret. It was a heavy burden to keep from his oldest friend, but there it was.
“I don’t deserve her, Bates. And no, she wouldn’t marry me if I asked.”
“Ah. Well. Wenches come and go, do they not?”
This was easily said by a man who’d never loved a lass longer than the leave he’d been given by whatever captain he’d served.
Derek threw himself down onto the great, leather chair that was nailed to the floor and looked out the wall of pane glass to the busy waterway. “Not this one, Bates. Not this one.”
Bates was silent as he poured two brandies.
While the room was Derek’s private retreat, he’d always made it clear that Bates was allowed to come and go as he pleased. To drink as he pleased. To rest as he pleased. And to choose any book from the floor to ceiling, encased book shelves.
“Well, Captain, if she’s so special, why don’t you just do a bit of convincing? You’ve always had a way with the ladies.”
Derek laughed bitterly. “I have, haven’t I?”
“Not with the one?”
Truthfully, he’d never tried to implement his usual charms with Ros. Largely, he simply hadn’t wished to get her into his bed. He’d never actively tried. If anything, he’d done the opposite. Terror at actually having her in his arms on any sort of permanent basis had prevented that.
It was a miracle, though seemingly inevitable, that they’d had one morning together.
“Are you in love with the lass, Derek?”
The use of his given name shook Derek. Bates, no matter how close they were, almost never called him by name.
“People keep asking that,” he said bitterly.
“Then mayhap, they have a point.”
“I don’t know what love is.”
“That’s a bloody lie.”
“I love you, Bates, you great tough. I know that. I love Tony, too. . . But a woman? How does one love a woman?”
“Captain, if you love, you’re being foolish. Hiding behind foolish arguments.”
“Bates, you overstep.”
“Do I, indeed?” Bates held out the brandy. “Then words from one you respect. A heart to love, and in that heart, Courage, to make love known.”
Derek groaned then wiped a hand over his face. “Shakespeare?”
“Aye, Captain. He be wise in these matters.”
Years in school could not seduce him to Shakespeare’s pages, but Bates had insisted they read from the Bard on their long voyages and as time had passed, Derek had fallen in love with the characters of those plays and poems. It seemed unfair now, that Bates would use words from the same poet to urge him towards love that he, himself, had used to insist that he and Ros couldn’t be together.
Derek arched a brow and took a swallow before replying, “Are you calling me a coward?”
Bates shrugged.
“The devil you are!” Derek challenged.
“If you will not tell her you love her and you do?” Bates offered simply. “What else are you?”
“Bates, I should throw you overboard.”
“Who’d manage your ship if you did?”
“Bates,” Aston said softly. “You are more valuable than a fleet of ships.”
Bates blushed and he sniffed before drinking his full glass. “Find your courage, Captain. That’s all I say. Ain’t a braver man alive than you when you put your mind to it.”
“I’m surrounded Bates and you’ve joined ranks with those surrounding me.”
“If so many are so certain of this young woman, then you must at least consider it.”
“What? Join the sheep?”
“Captain, you’ll never be a sheep,” Bates pointed out then added, “lest it be a black one.”
Bates cocked his head to the side. “Mayhap your lady is not so snowy? Is that why you do love her?”
Derek shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve yet to confess that I do.”
“If you didn’t we’d have set sail already.”
“Bates, you’re bloody annoying,” Derek growled.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“It was, indeed, coming from you.”
And so it was. But he could have none of this. He’d already declared his course to Rosamund and he was not going to turn sail against the wind now.
Derek put his glass down and stood. “Bates?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I wish to sail in a fortnight.”
“Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once.”
“It’s a bloody good thing that I have no fear of death then, isn’t it.”
Bates sighed. “Aye, Captain.”
“Good.” And with that, Derek headed out of his quarters and down to the packed London roads. He had much to do if he was going to depart soon. But most of all, he was going to avoid Lady Rosamund at all costs.
Chapter 18
Over the years, Aston had always claimed loudly, and usually drunkenly, that he loved weddings.
He loathed weddings.
He hated them with an undying passion.
They symbolized what he could never, ever have.
An honest, open, equal, loving union.
Since he could never be honest, he could never have the sort of love that, say, the Duke of Blackburn and Lady Cavendish had found. And try as he might, he could never quite get rid of his bitterness over this fact.
So, he masked it as he did with most things.
Today, he’d worn his biggest, wine red hat, covered in feathers with a diamond and silver buckle. The thing was atrociously out of date but it was absolutely splendid. Distracting people with it, twirling it, doffing it. The thing had magical powers of its own, he was certain, and it kept the world from noticing the cold glint in his eye and the hidden pain in his forced, jovial tone.
As he grabbed a bottle of champagne from a passing silver tray, he knew that a fortnight couldn’t pass fast enough. Carefully, he retreated towards the hedge rows where he might have a few moments alone.
The past days, since he had determined to go abroad, had gone by like treacle in winter. Slowly. So terribly, terribly slowly.
And in that time, Derek seemed left to only one recourse. Somehow, he’d managed to fulfill a role he was least suited for.
Cupid.
And, God, how he hated that plump little devil. . . Though he seemed rather good at the fat-cheeked little fellow’s job.
He’d attempted to hide away from the world but his fellow dukes would keep coming to the Dukes’ Club, wailing and gnashing teeth that their lady loves were beyond their reach.
Most recently, there had been Duncan, Rosamund’s brother. The man seemed a cold fish, but in truth he was just one grand, hard shell hiding a particularly soft center. Derek quite liked the Scot. Far too easy to needle. But a good sort.
Then there was the Duke of Roth. A man he had wenched with and wrought hell with all over the world for many years.
Roth was a man who largely just liked to have a good time but was trapped by the grief of losing both his parents when he was but a child.
Becoming a duke when one was still in leading strings was no easy thing. It was a miracle Roth hadn’t turned out to be a total ponce what with everyone scraping and bowing from his earliest years. But Roth was also a good sort and eager to start a family of his own. . . Unfortunately, the lady of Roth’s choosing didn’t quite meet his qualifications for an ideal life mate. Which, of course, was total bollocks.
Suffice to say, with the travails of those lovelorn fools, it was apparently impossible for Aston to hide. No matter how of
ten he tried to find a quiet corner, he either spotted one of his friends in the turmoil of love or said friend found him.
In truth, all his fellow dukes had needed was a little push in the right direction. Men could be such tossers about love. Derek was no denier when it came to that conclusion. Still, both men were on their way to embracing connubial bliss.
Well, Roth hadn’t quite managed his happily ever after just yet, but Aston had every confidence that Roth would convince his lady that all would be well if she just married him.
Which was all very well, except he was twisting in the wind, utterly sans romance.
It would be wonderful if his own affair could end as simply as his compatriots had done. Alas, he was nowhere near as simple a fellow as his companions and thusly. . . There’d be no happily ever after for him.
Today he was filled with his own grating unease. Today, he was almost certainly going to see Lady Rosamund. It was her brother’s wedding, after all. Logic suggested she had to be somewhere about the giant and well-manicured garden. He’d tried to make his excuses, but Duncan had been insistent in his invitation and Derek hadn’t been able to refuse such enthusiasm.
He should have found a way. Devil take it. When had he become so soft?
Since blasted Rosamund. That’s when.
He hadn’t seen Rosamund in several weeks; long, empty weeks, nor had he tried to. . . Well that wasn’t entirely true. He’d gone to that one ball in the hopes of glimpsing her. He’d planned on hiding in the shadows but before he’d even spotted her, he’d spotted her brother looking like he was about to kill the Duke of Roth. The duke had been in deep conversation with Lady Cavendish and it was clear that the Scot had gotten a very wrong idea.
Whilst Aston had swept in to keep murder from happening in such a public forum, it had also meant that he’d been kept from a sight of Rosamund. Glorious, beautiful, tougher than granite stone, Rosamund.
It was almost certainly for the best.
If he could just survive the next few days, he’d be gone. Halfway around the world. And he’d never have to be tempted by her again.
He lifted the dark green champagne bottle to his lips and took a drink that looked far more deep that it was. He needed his wits about him just now.
“Your Grace?”
A ripple of dread and pleasure shimmied down his spine. Rosamund.
He didn’t turn. If he didn’t turn, she’d walk away and leave him safe. Leave him alone.
“Derek,” she hissed, apparently not dissuaded by his pretended deafness.
He coughed but he still ignored her. He felt frozen, a completely foreign sensation.
A well-placed kick hit his heel and he yelped.
“I am not a figment of your blasted imagination. So pay attention, won’t you?”
He eyes bulged and he hopped in quite an unmanly fashion as his foot throbbed.
At last, he faced his most worthy opponent.
“Lady Rosamund,” he managed, limping a few steps towards her.
She was positively glowing and simultaneously fuming. A stunning rose hue lit her cheeks and her red hair shone with an extra golden sheen.
My God, she was stunning in her pale green frock and softly curling hair. Her gaze though? Her gaze was pure daggers.
“You have my undivided attention,” he said, as the pain lessened from his foot. She had remarkable aim.
She nodded. “Follow me.”
There was no hesitation or doubt that he would obediently follow as she headed for the hedges.
He gave a single glance back to the almost out of sight, well-dressed and influential crowd milling about the garden to the sound of the string quartet.
They couldn’t be spotted heading off together, but nor was he about to have an argument with her so nearly in full view of everyone if he lingered.
So, he followed her down the pebbled pathway, keeping silent until they, at last, came out to a rather large fountain with a beautiful pool and tall shrubberies around it.
In the distance, they could hear the faint laughter of the guests and the sugary notes of matrimonial music.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“You look well,” he said at last.
She said nothing. A faint sheen of sweat had broken out on her skin.
“Actually, you look a touch. . .” His eyes wandered over her beautiful face. Something was different. Something wasn’t quite right. And as he contemplated what it could be, he recalled the self-hate he’d felt walking home the morning they’d made love.
Derek gulped.
“I’m. . .” She swallowed, her face going suddenly pale. “I’m. . .”
He should be panicking because he knew the words that were going to slip past her lips. But instead of panic, he felt something else. Something else, indeed.
Glee. Pure glee.
“I’m. . .”
She couldn’t seem to say it. Her lips clamped together and she looked on the verge of tears.
“You’re with child,” he declared brightly.
Her eyes flared. “How the devil did you know?”
“It is the natural conclusion to our last meeting and your reticence now—”
“Don’t be an arrogant arse.”
He couldn’t help himself. He was smiling. Smiling. In fact, he felt lighter than he had in years. If he had suddenly floated off the ground, he would not have been surprised.
“Do forgive me,” he replied. After all, one should always be agreeable with a woman who was enceinte. If one wished to keep their gullet intact.
She looked away. “I had no idea it was such a likely conclusion to what happened between us.”
“It isn’t with everyone,” he said. “But one or both of us must be—”
She raised a hand and gave him the eye. “Fertile. Yes. But being likened to a prime cow is not how I wish to be seen at present.”
“Do forgive me.”
“You said that already.”
“Shall I say it again? I’ll say it as often as it pleases you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re not upset.”
She made it sound a statement rather than a question.
“No,” he agreed.
“My God,” she gasped.
“What?”
She paled. “You’re pleased.”
It hit him then that she was not entirely sure of how she felt about being with his child and that his own sudden pleasure was shocking to her. What had she expected? Anger? He supposed that many men would be angry.
“I am pleased,” he admitted. “I love children. I imagine I shall love ours exceedingly.”
“But Derek,” she protested. “It shall be a bastard.”
“Why?”
She let out a frustrated sound. “I should think it rather obvious.”
“We are not wed. Clearly. But that can be resolved easily enough.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t inflict bastardy on anyone,” he said evenly. He had to tread carefully. Somehow, he’d find a way to keep his secret and marry Ros. He had to, after all. And whilst lying was the least desirable thing, he suddenly felt absolute, bloody happiness that life had taken care of his dilemma. He had to marry her. Whether he was deserving or no. Somehow he’d make it up to her.
“What about Tony?” she asked softly.
“I’d have married his mother if I’d known.”
“B-but you’re a duke.”
It was true, Tony’s mother had been of common station. Even lower in some eyes as an Irish gypsy. But he’d cared for her and she’d been the mother of his child. If he’d known about Tony, it would have been his only chosen course.
“I wasn’t a duke then,” he said. “And frankly, I wouldn’t have cared if I was.”
“Truly?” Rosamund asked, shock making her voice higher than usual.
“Yes.”
She was silent for a long time before saying flatly, “You didn’t want to marry me before.”
“What is it about you that would prevent it?”
To that, he couldn’t reply. “That’s none of your business,” he said with a degree of seriousness that he had not intended.
“It bloody well is, mon.”
He nearly laughed as her accent came full force, but he suppressed it. He doubted she wished to be laughed at just now but, God, he loved to see her in her full glory, eyes flashing, voice thick with a burr.
“It isn’t,” he said, holding firm.
She gaped at him. “You wish me to be your wife but it’s not my business?”
“Husbands and wives don’t have to share everything.”
Her eye twitched. Twitched. And he realized he’d taken a very wrong tack. His pleasure at her passion dimmed as he realized he’d backed himself into a dangerous corner. Now what? He couldn’t go back. No. He’d have to go further, wouldn’t he?
“You don’t wish to marry me, now do you?” he said lightly. “Not if there wasn’t the child.”
Something flitted across her features before she lifted her chin and said, “No. I’m not sure I wish to marry you now.”
“But you will,” he said, suddenly unable to stop smiling. His emotions seemed entirely at contrast to what he was supposed to be feeling.
“Why are you so happy?” she demanded.
“I told you. I love children.”
“No.” She eyed him up and down, suspicion written across her face. “That’s not it.”
“Yes it is,” he said, now feeling a hint of panic. Rosamund was a savvy person. And he didn’t wish her to see that, perhaps, he hadn’t held back when they’d made love because on some subconscious level, he’d hoped she might bear his child. He hadn’t done it on purpose. . . But he had not taken steps to prevent it.
“You were determined not to marry,” she pointed out. “Now, you seem all too pleased.”
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “I have to marry sometime. You’ll do nicely.”
“I’ll do nicely. As what?” she roared. “As your brood mare?”
“No!” he defended quickly. “As my duchess. Though several children would be perfectly acceptable. Since we’ve achieved one on our first go, I would assume that in the future—”