by Diana Ballew
Alex sighed heavily. “All right, Bella, what do you want us to do?” He gave Whit a woefully sad frown. “It is our fault. We did send him to her.”
“Yes, we are to blame for it.” Whit returned his friend’s soulful expression.
Isabella took a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot impatiently. “Well, first I want some answers, then we will start planning.”
Isabella sat on the sofa, her spine stiff, her hands stapled together in her lap. She was doing her best to appear calm and in control, but her nerves were in a knot of apprehension. Finally, she would have her answers. But what if they were not the truths that would allow her and Rafe to be together? What if it was worse than she thought?
Whit and Alex sat in the matching wing chairs across from her. They looked nervous, uncomfortable, guilty.
“All right, you two. I’m waiting.”
Alex cleared his throat and glanced at his friend. In return, Whit shrugged.
“Alexander Fitzhugh! I want the truth and I want it now.” She raised her brows and tilted her head. Usually, one of these looks had the servants scrambling to appease her. The result on her cousin was to cause him to blush. Isabella thought it telling.
“Look here, Bella,” Alex began, refusing her meet her gaze as he tugged at the cuff of his crisp white shirt and then the sleeve of his rust jacket, “it was never a situation meant to involve you.”
“Nonsense, Alex. You couldn’t have involved me more if you had planned to,” Isabella scoffed.
“Now, cousin, we still thought you plain and no temptation to Rafe. How were we supposed to know you’d become a beauty and that the stupid sod wouldn’t be able to leave you be?”
“Are you trying to insinuate I have some fault in this?” Her eyes narrowed. He grimaced as he looked at her.
“Of course not! It’s just that -”
“Alex! The truth of who Easton is.”
Alex and Whit again exchanged looks but this time it was Alex who shrugged, seeming to be at a loss as to how to continue.
“Isabella, my lady,” Whit began, flashing her a charming smile – which slipped at her stony expression. He coughed into his fist before he continued. “Rafe is not a butler.”
“That is beyond obvious, Lord Langley.”
“He’s not of the serving class at all.”
“I have already deduced such, my lord.”
“Why, he’s not even a bastard, actually.”
“Then what, pray tell, is he, precisely?” Isabella did not try to keep her mounting frustration from her voice. If not a bastard, what could he possibly be that would make him so unsuitable for her? A sudden thought flashed in her mind. Oh heavens! She hadn’t even considered it before!
“He is not . . .,” she clutched her hands tighter together, afraid to even speak the words aloud but forcing herself to anyway. “He is not . . . married is he?”
Whit laughed.
“’Course not!” Alex looked shocked at the very idea.
“Thank goodness.” Relief flowed through her. “Then why all this nonsense? Why was he pretending to be a butler? Why did he come to Kirkwood Manor?”
“Well,” Whit replied, “Rafe got himself in a bit of a situation and needed a place to stay out of sight for awhile.”
“But why?”
“Listen, Bella,” Alex said, leaning forward to rest his arms on his thighs and peering at her intensely, “suffice it to say that Rafe did something he ought not to have, quite by accident, and needed to vacate the city to avoid scandalizing a friend. That is all you need know about that.”
“For heaven’s sake, cousin, I am not a child. You cannot decide for me what I should and should not know about the man I love. Enough of this nonsense, I say. Tell me the truth.”
Alex glanced at Whit, who nodded to him.
“All right, me dear.” The earl sighed. “I suppose, given what has passed between you two, you have the right to know the whole of it.”
Isabella leaned forward, eager to finally hear the story.
“Rafe’s name is not Woodrow Easton.” Alex began, then frowned. “Well, actually, it sort of is. His full name is Raefiel Woodrow Atherton.”
“Then, he is not related to the Earl of Easton?” Confused, she looked at the viscount, who had supplied her that information through Lisbeth.
“Well, actually, he is the Earl of Easton.” Whit gave her an apologetic smile. “And the Duke of Devonshire, as well.”
“What!” Isabella’s mind raced, recalling bits of gossip her friend had told her of the “Debauched Duke,” as he was referred to in the gossip columns, and of his many affairs. “Heavens!” Her Rafe was that duke? She would be utterly ruined if word got out he had spent two weeks alone with her! She was beginning to understand.
“Cousin, we was only trying to help him out! He was in a spot.”
“So you sent this notorious rakehell to me, your drab, simple-minded country cousin? What spot?”
Whit answered. “He unwisely entered into a liaison with a woman. After he ended their ‘association,’ she threatened to tell all.”
“And,” added Alex, “if her husband found out, he’d have run Rafe through. We couldn’t allow him to be skewered, you understand.”
“She is married?” Oh, dear. It was worse than she thought. Her “Easton” was a duke who had affairs with married women!
“Yes, but Rafe didn’t know that, my lady.” Whit was quick to assure her. “He thought she was an actress.”
“An actress.” Why did he make it sound as if that explained something? At least Rafe hadn’t known this woman was married. That was at least one thing to his credit – one small thing.
“So, what you are telling me is the man I fell in love with is not a bastard, but a duke who is a notorious womanizer?” She remained calm and watched the two men nod to her, their expressions rather sheepish. She gave them a tight smile in return.
“I see.” She stood slowly and shook the wrinkles from her skirt with a sharp snap of her wrist. “Is there anything else I should know?” Gracefully, she stepped around to stand behind the couch, resting her hands on the back.
“Well,” Whit looked to Alex, then back to her. “He doesn’t believe in love.”
“Thinks it’s bloody rot, me dear.” Alex chimed in.
Ah, his comments in the garden that night made more sense now. He may not have been baseborn, but he was still a bastard. What a relief she had not confessed she loved him! He would have had a good laugh over that.
“And that is all?”
Whit shrugged.
“You are taking this rather well, Bella.” Alex looked puzzled but relieved by her calm expression.
“How else should I behave, cousin?” She forced a smile on her lips, cold fury welling up inside of her. “After all, I am a sensible girl, aren’t I?”
“Well, yes, you are.”
“I am not the sort of female given to extreme emotions, to fits of temper, am I?”
“Certainly not,” Alex replied, beginning to look rather nervous.
“Why, then, would you think I would be upset that you have all lied to me?” She sweetened her smile, her hands digging into the brocade fabric of the couch.
“’Lie’ is rather harsh, don’t you think, me girl?”
“Oh, do forgive me, cousin. Perhaps I should have said prevaricate? Or do you prefer dissemble? A canard, then?”
“She’s angry, Alex.” Whit said from the side of his mouth and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“But how can so sensible a person like me be angry, Lord Langley?”
“I think you’re right, boy-o,” Alex muttered, watching her with narrowed eyes. “We’re in for it now.”
Isabella continued to smile as she relaxed her grip on the sofa and began to smooth the material. She shook her head and stepped around the front of the divan to stand before the two men.
“Cousin,” she began cajolingly, then let
them both have an earful. “How could you! How could you lie to me and treat me as if I was some addle-brained simpleton!” Even the sight of them cringing before her didn’t ease her fury. “How dare you send a man to me who is known as the ‘Debauched Duke,’ even if I was ugly! Had you absolutely no thought for me, for my reputation? The lies!” She threw wide her arms and then began pacing. “The man I love is a cad, a libertine, a seducer of married women. He is so jaded he declares there is no love. He is a conceited, hypocritical fool.” She paused to glare at them. “Here I have been torturing myself, thinking his rebuff was made for noble reasons. I excused his behavior as chivalrous, gallant. Since I was above his station and it would have caused me scandal, he was pushing me away despite the love between us - for the sake of my honor. Bosh and rot!”
“Now, Bella -” Alex began.
Isabella held up a hand to forestall him. “Stop! Just stop the lies, Alex. I see the truth well enough now. I was a dalliance, a diversion from the boredom of North Bindlefork. I understand. If he cared at all for me, he could have confessed who he was and offered me marriage. There never was any impediment to our being together.” She wanted to crumble into a heap and sob. Instead, she started pacing again. What a fool she had been!
“If it is any consolation, I do think he loves you, my lady,” Whit offered softly.
“Enough, I say! I can take no more of this, sir. He obviously does not care for me.” Her voice hitched, and she blinked back tears. “If his heart held any tender feelings for me, he would not have left me and rushed back here to his many mistresses.” It was hopeless. Rafe didn’t want her. Her heart felt as if it was being ripped from her breast. “I want to go home, Alex.”
Whit stood and grasped her by the arms, stopping her frantic pacing.
“My dearest Isabella. Come, sit, and let me explain our friend to you.”
“What good does it do me now to know of him? I want to return home, sir. I have embarrassed myself enough by coming here.” Didn’t he understand her humiliation?
“No, you did a very brave thing, my lady. You followed your heart, even when you thought it futile to hope for a future with Rafe.”
His look was so earnest, she allowed him to lead her back to the sofa and sat beside him. The least she could do was hear him out. Not that she now had any hopes left.
“What can you possibly tell me that would change anything?”
“I can tell you that Rafe does indeed have feelings for you.”
“Nonsense.”
Whit gave her an amused frown. “Listen to me, Bella. I have known him since he was a young boy and can see he is in the grips of an emotion he has never come across before. While he may have had numerous liaisons, he has never had an affair of the heart.”
“Rot. How can a man, loved by so many, never have loved in return? How can he not know what he feels toward me?”
“I tell you, he has never been in love before, Isabella.”
“I don’t see how that could be possible.” She crossed her arms and glared at the viscount.
Whit smiled gently and patted her knee. “Allow me to tell you about Rafe’s father. He was a highly respected peer and brave military man - also, a great libertine in his day. Even after he wed the Dutchess, he continued openly with his many affairs. He was seen often with many beautiful young women and never tried to hide it from Rafe.”
“Gracious! His poor mother! To have had to endure such humiliation – why, she must have hated the duke.”
“On the contrary. She loves him still. She was never unfaithful, never even brought it up as far as I know.”
“Is she such a rug then, that she allowed her husband to trod upon her?”
Whit and Alex laughed.
“Not dear Anne, cousin!” Alex replied, shaking his head.
“No,” Whit said. “The Dutchess is a very outspoken woman, actually. I don’t know what their agreement was, if they had one, but this was the example Rafe grew up with. His father was the one who gave him the absurd notion that there was no such emotion as love and, by observing the many women his father was with, Rafe himself concluded ladies were a faithless lot. This has been cemented by the numerous married women he has been involved with – women who have had an ‘arrangement’ with their husbands, that is. He draws the line at seducing the wives of men who think their brides devoted to only them.”
“This married lady posing as an actress – her husband is such a man?”
“Exactly.”
Isabella sat back, lowering her arms and resting her hands again in her lap. Lord Langley had given her much to think about. “But why did he not . . . not take what I offered?” She felt herself blush and glanced at Alex. He was scowling again.
“None of us dallies with debutantes and virgins, my lady. The consequence for such sport is too high,” Whit explained.
“Meaning marriage?”
“Quite.”
“I see. Does Rafe also view his romances as ‘sport’?”
Alex snorted. “He’s had the ladies throwing themselves at him since before he was out of short pants. There’s not much sport in it when it comes so bloody easy.”
“Now, do you understand our Rafe better? Do you still want us to help you win his heart?” Whit was serious again.
Isabella sat staring down at her hands, the thoughts tumbling about in her head. Yes, she still wanted him, still loved him. No matter what they had told her about him, that wouldn’t have changed. But could she live with the idea he might not remain faithful to her? If he was so very decadent, what hope did she have that he would come to believe he loved her?
“I suppose I must try. If I don’t, I will always regret it.” She looked up at Whit, then her cousin. “If you really think he may have feelings for me then, yes, I do still want your help.”
She hoped she didn’t come to regret this decision even more than she might giving up.
Chapter 15
Rafe sat in his study, sipping at the brandy Tilbot had brought him a short while ago. It had been three weeks now since he’d left Isabella. His gloom had not lessened with the days. In fact, it only seemed to grow.
He missed her. That was it in a nutshell.
He missed the smell of her, the taste of her. He missed how her emerald eyes sparkled and her cheeks softly blushed when he teased her. He missed her sensual chuckle, the endearing way she would cock her head to one side while thinking, and how she trembled in his arms.
It was good his mother was in residence; else wise, he would not go out at all. They were due to attend Jeffrey Blake’s soiree this evening, but he still hadn’t mustered the courage to face all of those hopeful mamas with their mediocre little misses. It got more absurd the longer that he remained unattached. And this year, given his infatuation with Isabella, was by far the worst.
He had finally acknowledged this annoying passion for his country lady during one of his many recent sleepless nights. Each night as he lay there, the soothing embrace of Morpheus eluding him, he was plagued by visions of Isabella. Most often it was his last sight of her, standing in the foyer, cold, haughty – and so very hurt.
His mother was becoming quite concerned, he knew. Why, she had even brought the doctor home the other day to see if there was any medical treatment for his malaise. Rafe had assured the physician that his only ailment was a case of a guilty conscience. Although the doctor was satisfied, he knew his mother was not.
“Gracious, Rafe,” his mother had said the moment the doctor left, “you only pick at your food and you look beyond exhausted!”
“I’m fine, Mother. Just feeling a bit off lately, that’s all.”
But he wasn’t fine.
Sitting in the dark study, he wondered if he would ever feel like himself again. God, Bella, what have you done to me? He looked down at the glass in his hand, surprised to see it empty.
Isabella was better off without him. If he had taken her that last night, if he had stripped her naked and made love to her in the
moonlight as he had itched to do, she would be cursing him even more than she already undoubtedly was. But at least he might have gotten her out of his system, and the guilt would be a natural and fleeting thing, surely. Yes, the way he felt now was simply enhanced by unfulfilled lust. That was why she claimed his every thought, why he dreamt of her during his brief snatches of sleep. He had never desired a woman as much and had certainly never deprived himself of a willing partner before. She was his forbidden fruit – but, God help him, he still wanted to taste her. He wanted to plunge deep into her and hear her cry out again in wild abandon. He wanted to watch her eyes fill with amazement once more as she reached her release. He raked his fingers through his hair, thinking he was a fool.
He heard the clock in the entry chime the half-hour and sighed. It was time to go up and dress for Blake’s party. Well, perhaps tonight he would finally see a woman who struck his fancy and would rescue him from this damned depression he was wallowing in. It was highly doubtful, but still, one never knew when a pretty face would catch one’s eye.
“My dear boy, how very handsome you look!” Anne smiled at Rafe as he sauntered into the drawing room, but there was worry in her soft blue eyes.
“And you look radiant, Mother, as always.” He marveled how lovely and young she still looked, despite the tension in her face. She sat on the edge of the small brocade settee, her body stiff. She was studying his face intently, and he could tell she wasn’t pleased by what she saw. “You are ready to go, then?”
“Oh, yes. I am quite excited.” Anne rose and allowed him to drape her ermine-trimmed indigo cloak over her ruby gown, then she pulled on her red gloves as they left the house. “Lady Stella was telling me at luncheon today about a beautiful young woman that you simply must meet.”
Rafe rolled his eyes as he assisted his mother into the carriage.