Sara couldn’t decide if he seemed more upset or relieved, expressionless as he was, peering down at her father.
“Meaning,” the duke continued, “that Phillip and I arranged the contract to be null and void in the event that you took over the dukedom at any time before the ten years were met.” He shrugged and added, “Your father and I felt that a duke should be able to choose his own bride, regardless of our own feelings on the matter.”
“Which were ...?”
“That the two of you would make a good match, naturally,” he said, as if shocked Justin would venture to think otherwise.
“Naturally,” Justin drawled, and his dark eyes slid to Sara. “Without thought or care to who we would be, or how we would feel once we were of age to actually honor the contract. You simply ... made the choice for us.”
Sara was shocked. Beyond shocked, she was mortified. He might as well have said he hated her, for all he’d practically just announced to the room that he didn’t think they were a good match.
How could he?
Well. She would not sit idly; allow it to go any further. Rising, Sara smoothed her skirts, tipped her chin, and even though she was dying inside, somehow managed a, “Please excuse me,” before brushing past Justin for the door.
“Sara,” she heard him whisper, but she couldn’t find the will to heed.
She left without another word, without giving anyone an inch to add a retort or comment.
Even when, as she crossed the threshold into the hallway, he called her name, louder, for a second time.
TWENTY-THREE
Seconds passed as Justin stared at the doorway through which Sara had virtually run.
He’d hurt her.
Days ago he’d made an oath to inflict physical pain on anyone who would dare cause her harm, and he’d gone and done the unthinkable. Watched her beautiful face, the color in her eyes, transform from an expanse of lucent shock into a veil of anguish.
All because of him.
His heart clenched, head pounded. Going after her was useless. Especially since he, being a member of the male species, would find some covert way to make matters worse.
“What,” Kilkenny said as Justin, relinquishing the notion that he should find Sara and set matters straight, finally turned around, “did you hope to accomplish by saying that?”
Justin ground his teeth. He’d been in a foul mood before entering this room, and now he was damn well ready to kill someone. “She needed to know the truth.”
“The truth!” Kilkenny snapped. “Since she was but a wee child, she’s shaped her life around a marriage to the Marquess of Carrington.”
“Ah, but therein lies the crux of the matter, does it not? The contract says nothing about her marrying a duke. As you said, a duke should have the right to marry whomever he deems worthy.”
“My daughter is worthy!”
“I never said she wasn’t. But the facts are simple, Your Grace. She was to marry a marquess, not a duke.”
“Your father made the contract.” Kilkenny opened his hands in a defenseless gesture. “We added the clause about your taking over the dukedom any time during the span of the decade after the fact because it seemed like the right thing to do.”
“My father’s idea, no doubt.” Justin thought of all the lectures his father had given on making sound decisions, stepping up, being not only a man but a duke. Bloody brilliant considering now he had the authority to make those ducal decisions, this one was out of his control.
“Actually no,” said Kilkenny. “That was my idea.”
“Forgive me,” Sebastian said before Justin could ask the duke why, if he wanted a good match for his daughter, he would see fit to insert such a stipulation. “But I always thought the marriage contract between my friend here and Lady Ballivar had something to do with the Regent producing an heir ... not producing an heir ... or ...?” He sank into the empty space beside Anna, stretched his legs out in front of him. Laid an arm along the back of the velvet upholstered settee.
Anna straightened, hands clasped firmly in her lap. She exchanged a glance with Sebastian, who regarded her with a gentle smirk and a raised brow. Her cheeks colored, and she quickly looked away.
“Or something to that effect,” Sebastian finished, continuing to gaze at Anna, now fidgeting with a piece of lint on the arm of the sofa.
What the deuce was that all about?
Justin shook his head. “How do you know anything about the terms of my betrothal contract?”
“People talk,” said Sebastian. “You, of all people, should know that.”
“Indeed.”
“Originally,” Kilkenny said, “when Phillip and I spoke of making the contract, it was to be under the assumption that if the Regent failed to produce an heir within the ten year tenure of the contract, then upon its expiration, it would be honored.”
“But ...” Sebastian paused thoughtfully. “That is to say ... and do forgive me, Your Grace, for being so direct. But weren’t you and Tethersal a trifle, ah, how shall we put it? Foxed at the time?”
“Sebastian,” the duchess quietly chided. It was the first time she had spoken without crying since entering the room. “There is no need for vulgarity.”
“He is right, my lady,” Kilkenny admitted. “But the war had just ended. Those particular provisions were never meant to be the real merit behind the contract.” He smiled ruefully. “No. I discovered that after we were both sober, and he produced the real contract, drawn by his solicitor.”
“So, really,” Sebastian said, “the contract was a normal writ of betrothal. Yes?”
“Yes.” Kilkenny gazed up at Justin through tapered eyes. “But I did not mean for my only daughter to come all this way, to leave the only life she’s ever known, only to have her spirit crushed like she was naught but a piece of rubble ‘neath a horse’s hoof.
“Mark my words, Tethersal.” He pointed a thick finger at Justin. “You will understand when you have a daughter of your own. When all you want for her is security and happiness and someone ... someone who will be good and faithful to her. A man who will love and respect your daughter as you have. And yet you,” he emphasized with a jab of his finger, “have treated mine as if she were no more than a chamber maid.”
“She has been well cared for,” Justin said, peeved by the duke’s insinuation that he, Justin, would purposely do anything to hurt Sara. The woman he loved. The woman for whom he’d rather die than allow anyone to cause her pain.
Even though he had, indeed, done just that. Served it up royally, too, causing her to nearly stumble over her words as she fought to control the tears swimming in her eyes.
Oh, yes, he’d noticed the tears.
“And I have only,” he fought to continue, “ever treated her with respect and dignity. She is a fine young woman, deserving of nothing less. Including a husband who will love and cherish her, and I ...” He stopped himself. He needn’t reveal this well of emotion rising inside. The agony of knowing Sara no longer belonged to him.
She would leave England, go back to her home in Ireland.
She would be free to marry whomever she chose.
Surreptitiously, he shifted his gaze to Cavanaugh, who was standing off to the side, eyes averted, hands folded in front of him.
She would marry him. Patrick Cavanaugh. He was the right choice, and really, nothing else made more sense. The man could give her what she wanted. Love, cherishment, security.
Children.
Justin cringed inwardly. The thought of Cavanaugh with his infernal good looks, covering Sara’s petite, naked body with his, made Justin’s blood boil. Cavanaugh kissing her, touching her, making love to her in a marital bed. Where time after time she became impregnated with child after child after child. Cavanaugh’s children.
Daughters. Sons.
Plural.
Because Sara said she wanted several. And Justin had no reason to doubt her. Children flocked to her as if she were the pied piper incarnate, so why w
ouldn’t she have enough sons and daughters to pack an entire town?
“Well,” murmured Kilkenny, “what’s done is done.”
Indeed.
Justin regarded the Duke of Kilkenny with, what he was certain was, a shamed expression. He shouldn’t have spoken to her so harshly; he hadn’t meant it. Wanting Sara came as naturally as breathing, and contract or no contract, he still wanted her.
However, did she want him? Were a handful of stolen kisses and a few fleeting moments of passion enough to keep her? She’d known Cavanaugh since childhood, had spent a chunk of her life talking with him, dancing with him, getting to know him. How could Justin possibly compete with that?
He couldn’t.
It was that simple.
If he didn’t get out of this room, with these people, namely Sara’s father, then he was liable to start smashing objects against the walls. That ugly vase from Spain, the one with the dancing pigs his mother so prized, would be the first to go.
“Sebastian?”
Sebastian stood, straightened his jacket. “Your Grace?”
“White’s.” Justin turned to the footman stationed beside the door. “Have my coach brought ‘round.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
His mother, now the dowager duchess, stood, Kilkenny rising quickly after her. “I hardly think now is the time for you and Sebastian to flit away to your club, Your Grace.”
“Don’t.” Justin put up a hand, turned his head, bit back an oath. A sharp inhale through his nostrils and he attended his mother evenly. “I shall not permit you to address me as Your Grace, Mother. I am still your son.”
“Yes, you are still my son!” Her hands fisted. In one was a silk kerchief bearing an intricately stitched “T”; his father’s. “But you are also a duke, and as such, you should remain with your family. Mourn the loss of your father.”
Justin’s chest tightened. He hated seeing his mother like this, worn and stressed. He knew he needed to stay, but he just couldn’t. Sara was here, probably packing as they spoke, and he couldn’t bear to remain knowing in a few days she would be gone.
Out of his life.
Forever.
“I cannot,” he said. His mother went rigid with disapproval. “Sebastian, you coming?”
“Of course.”
Anna closed her eyes and sighed. Whether from Sebastian vacating her side or the animosity hanging in the air like a breadth of dense fog, Justin couldn’t say.
He hoped it was the latter; else he’d have to strangle his best friend.
And really, he didn’t much care for drinking alone. If, that is, he was so inclined to drink, which he hadn’t been for longer than he could remember. But nothing else would dull the pain as effectively. Not after he’d lost Sara, then gone and made an ass out of himself afterward.
“Have you nothing else to say, then?” Kilkenny said as the dowager drifted to one of the Venetian windows overlooking the east garden.
Through the rain-streaked glass she stared, blindly, her back ramrod straight, chin lifted. As though she could weather the most ferocious storm, if only to maintain what small ounce of dignity she had left.
“No,” Justin murmured hoarsely. “Nothing.”
Kilkenny shook his head at the same time Cavanaugh shot Justin a glare of raw censure. The gates of hell may’ve very well opened right there in the depths of the Irishman’s green eyes, inflamed as they were. He was well beyond angry; only a fool would’ve said otherwise.
But Justin, tired of everyone in this damned room, especially the Irishman who stood to be Sara’s husband, couldn’t stop himself: “Something to say Mr. Cavanaugh?” Because if the bloke did have something to say, now would be the time. That wretched vase of Mother’s could easily be smashed against a head instead of a wall.
“Only that you’re making a grave mistake,” he replied brusquely. “I warned you of her sensitivity, her spirit, and what have you done? Broken it.”
“This is out of my control,” Justin said, frustration barely held in check, “and this conversation is over.” He glanced at Sebastian, who nodded his understanding, and turned for the door.
“You stood here and spoke offensively to her as if she were nothing to you,” Cavanaugh said hastily, and Justin, feeling every muscle in his body tense in response, paused at the door.
This was not happening. Cavanaugh, who may as well be shouting his victory from the rooftop for all the ways this entire situation had gone to his benefit, was choosing now to slap Justin on the wrist for speaking to Sara in an unpleasant manner.
Justin swore under his breath. Turned around.
“You hurt her,” Cavanaugh continued, clearly struggling to tamp down his anger. “Deliberately. In front of everyone, I might add, and to what purpose? To prove to all of us”--he motioned to the others, who were so quiet they appeared statuesque--“your outright defiance of having been betrothed all these years?”
“I have nothing to prove,” Justin said petulantly, because he didn’t. He couldn’t prove his love to Sara when he’d behaved like a selfish bastard.
“Don’t you?” Cavanaugh challenged, and took another step forward.
“We’re finished, Cavanaugh.” Justin flourished his hand with finality. “You’ve won, and I do not possess the fortitude to endure any more of this ... this ...” There were no words for what this was.
Defeated and irritated beyond all reason, Justin stepped back, fearing if he didn’t, he’d have Cavanaugh by the scruff of the neck and strangled before the next clap of thunder.
The Irishman swallowed his retort and steeled his jaw. Apparently he didn’t find a great deal of appeal in the idea of a tearoom brawl either. Too much the model of perfection, Justin suspected resentfully. At least Sara would never have to worry about her life being anything less than ideal.
Ideal husband. Ideal life.
He had to get out of here.
“Pardon,” he managed to mutter, and then, “I believe my father will be buried the day after tomorrow.” He stopped, swallowed, ran a hand through his hair. Blinked a few times, just as he always did when he was fighting for words.
As Sara did when she had something to say.
“Although I am certain you are eager to return to Ireland,” he said “I would regard it as a mark of profound favor if all of you would stay for the service.”
Anna murmured a soft, scarcely audible, “As would I,” and managed to smile when Kilkenny offered a reassuring, fatherly gaze.
His mother, however, did not turn from her inert stance at the window, but Justin could see her throat working. Hopefully she wouldn’t start crying again. At this point, he didn’t think he could stand to stay and offer her comfort.
“We would be honored,” Kilkenny said, though Justin sensed the anger lingering in his tone. What close relationship their families once had would never be the same, if it even existed at all. Justin suspected once the duke and Cavanaugh and Sara left, all ties would be broken.
They would have to be. He couldn’t very well have them over for Christmas holidays, while Sara and Cavanaugh’s children toddled around the house, reminding him constantly that Sara wasn’t his.
“No,” he muttered.
“No?” Kilkenny echoed.
Cavanaugh’s brows rose in inquiry.
“That is, I thank you for your loyalty to my family,” Justin amended. And before the duke could respond--and, more importantly, before Justin lost his well-practiced composure--he quit the room, Sebastian-- his unfailing, devoted friend Sebastian--close on his heels.
*** *** ***
Two days later the duke was laid to rest. Though the continuous rain would not permit a lengthy service, the rites were reverently performed, and there wasn’t a soul present who left the cemetery without knowing just how much the late Duke of Tethersal had meant to the kingdom. Loved by all who knew him, he was. And without pretense of the illness he suffered for over a decade.
Even the servants couldn’t walk
past his portrait, positioned in the honored spot at the top of the stairs, without bursting into tears.
Sara decided it was all relevant to the entire situation. The duke was dead. Her betrothal contract was non-existent. It still hadn’t stopped raining. The dowager’s flower beds were in standing water. Ironic considering Sara felt as if she, too, were drowning. What little piece of a heart she had left ached constantly.
She imagined, on some level, it always would.
Because nothing would ever be the same. She would never be the same.
She’d fallen in love, given her heart freely, and to what end? All to have her original preconception of English nobility reiterated a thousand times over when Justin, peering down at her in his god-like, ducal manner, practically admitted he didn’t want her.
Even as they gathered at the gravesite, he couldn’t look at her without narrowing his eyes. As if the very sight of her was outright painful. And all the while, as they stood huddled in pairs beneath a canopy of black parasols, shoes muddy, backs soaked, Sara repeated Justin’s words over and over in her head.
Without thought or care to who we would be, or how we would feel once we were of age ...
God, but she was a fool to have believed he loved her.
Sara sat at her vanity, staring into the oval mirror as she drew the pins, one by one, from the coiffure Lana had arranged that morning before the funeral. After peeling off the black bombazine gown she’d borrowed from Anna, for the entire garment was soaked and sticking to her skin, she’d slipped into a nightgown and sent Lana for some tea, hoping the hot liquid would aid in restoring warmth to her body.
But this chill she couldn’t seem to shake; the crawling thought that in two more days, she, her father and Lana would leave Mayfair for good.
She’d never see Justin again.
Sara swallowed and blinked back an errant tear, her eyes hazing. Eventually he would marry. He would have children, heirs. Sons and daughters who looked just like him with a few contributing features from their mother, whomever she stood to be. Someone beautiful, Sara imagined, for Justin could have any woman he wanted. Once word got round of his new bachelor status, an incursion of hopeful mamas would arrive, shoving their young daughters at him at every turn. With that amount of attention, he would be married within a month.
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