Shattered Rainbows fa-5

by Mary Jo Putney

"It would be worth your while to meet him. Besides the title and the estate, there is an income of about two thousand pounds a year." He gave a dry little cough. "Captain Melbourne is a distinguished officer, but a military career is seldom lucrative, especially in peacetime."

  She bit her lip, knowing she should reveal Colin's death. Yet if her grandfather would only consider her as half of a married couple, telling the truth would lose her this heaven-sent opportunity for financial security. The alternative, taking another husband, was unthinkable, even if it would gain her ten thousand pounds a year. Temporizing, she asked, "Is my grandfather in London now?"

  "Oh, no, he hasn't left the island in years. As I said, his health is failing." Harwell looked troubled. "That is an understatement. He is bedridden, and his physician believes that he will not last out the summer. Though his will is strong, his body is very frail. That is why he wants you to travel to Skoal with your husband immediately."

  "What if he doesn't like what he sees?"

  "He needn't leave you a penny." The solicitor smiled. "But there is no reason to suppose he will disapprove of his granddaughter. He has heard of Saint Catherine and her work on the battlefields of Spain. He is anxious to meet you."

  "The feeling is not mutual," she said tartly. "What kind of man would disinherit his son for marrying a woman as fine as my mother?"

  "A stubborn man," Harwell said quietly. "And a lonely one. I can appreciate your doubts, but please, consider carefully. The laird is your blood kin. If you walk away from him, you disinherit not only yourself, but your daughter, and any other children you might bear. More than that, you cut yourself off from your own unique heritage."

  Hearing a yearning note in the solicitor's voice, she asked, "Do you know the island well?"

  "My father was born there. He was the laird's London agent before me. I've visited the island often over the years. It's a wild, beautiful place." The solicitor gave a faintly embarrassed smile. "One might almost say magical."

  Once more Catherine heard her mother's voice, this time saying, "The daffodils will be out now on the island." There had been a pause before her father replied, "Soon they will be out here." She had been too young to recognize the wistfulness in the mundane comments. Suddenly she wanted to see the island that shaped her parents. And, if possible, she wanted to win the inheritance that would give her and Amy financial freedom.

  She rose to her feet. "You've given me much to think about. I will let you know my decision tomorrow."

  "Excellent." The solicitor also stood. "Bring your husband as well, since he is intimately involved in your decision."

  Blindly she went out into the sun. Such a legacy would solve all her problems. But one thought was blazingly clear. She needed a husband, and she needed one fast.

  Chapter 18

  It had been years since Michael had set foot in Ashburton House, but it hadn't changed. It was still enormous, grand, stifling. The butler, Riggs, had acquired a few more gray hairs, but his face was still supercilious.

  Michael handed over his hat. "I presume the death watch is in the duke's suite?"

  "Yes, Lord Michael."

  He turned and went to the majestic staircase. As he climbed the polished marble steps, he remembered sliding down the sweeping banisters. He had gotten into trouble every time he was caught, but that had never stopped him.

  Though the mansion had not changed outwardly, he felt a subtle difference in the atmosphere. It was charged with the hush of a household waiting for death. A footman in powdered wig and knee breeches stood outside the duke's chambers. Recognizing a Kenyon, he opened the door with a bow.

  Michael took a deep breath, then entered, crossing the sitting room to his father's bedchamber. He tried to remember if he had ever set foot in it before; he didn't think so. He and his father had never been on intimate terms.

  The bedroom was claustrophobically dark and heavy with the scents of medicine and decay. It was a shock to see his father's wasted body lying in the bed, dwarfed by the velvet hangings and massive carved posts. Abruptly it hit home that the ogre of his childhood was dying. As a soldier, he respected the power and finality of death, and he found himself feeling some compassion. The fourth Duke of Ashburton had finally found an enemy he could not bully into submission.

  A dozen people were clustered uneasily around the room: his brother and sister and their respective spouses, the duke's valet and secretary, several physicians. His sister,the Countess of Herrington, scowled at Michael. "I'm surprised to see you here."

  His mouth tightened. "If my presence is unwelcome, Claudia, that can be remedied."

  His brother frowned at the byplay. "This is not the place for squabbling. I invited Michael because Father wants to see him." Though all of the Kenyons were tall, with dark chestnut hair and chiseled features, the Marquess of Benfield had the cold eyes and flinty authority of a man who had been raised to be a duke. There were times in their childhood when the brothers had gotten on fairly well. There were only two years between them, and as a child Michael had called his brother Stephen.

  It had been decades since he had used any name but Benfield.

  "Is that Michael?"

  The hoarse whisper caused everyone to turn to the bed.

  "Yes, sir. I've come." Michael stepped close and looked down at his father.

  The duke was a shadow of his former self, all strained bones and will, but in his eyes, anger still smoldered. "Everyone leave. Except for Michael and Benfield."

  Claudia started to protest. "But Father-"

  The duke cut her off. "Out!"

  There was a shuffling as people left the room. Though Claudia's face was stiff with anger, she dared not disobey.

  Michael glanced at Benfield, but his brother gave a slight shake of the head, as much in the dark as Michael.

  The duke said in a thin, rasping voice, "You want to know why I called you here."

  It was a statement, not a question. Michael braced himself; he'd been a damned fool to think there was a chance of an eleventh-hour rapprochement. There could be no reconciliation where there had never once been harmony. Wondering what parting shot his father had in store, he said, "It isn't unreasonable for a father to wish to see all of his children at such a time."

  The duke's face twisted. "You are not my son."

  Every nerve in Michael's body went taut. "As you wish, sir," he said coolly. "It doesn't surprise me to be disinherited, though I'll be damned if I know what great crime I've committed. I've never understood."

  The age-paled blue eyes blazed, "You are not my son!Can I say it any more clearly than that? Your whore of a mother admitted it freely."

  Michael felt his lungs constrict until he could scarcely breathe. As he struggled for control, he looked from the duke to Benfield, seeing the same bones and coloring that faced him in the mirror every morning. "With all due respect, I look very much like a Kenyon. Perhaps she lied in order to anger you." God knew that the duke and duchess had fought like pit vipers.

  The duke's face reddened with a fury that had festered for decades. "She spoke the truth. You were fathered by my younger brother, Roderick. I found them together myself."

  Benfield sucked his breath in, his face showing the same shock that must be on Michael's.

  "She didn't like my affairs, so she decided to pay me back in kind," the duke continued. "Said she'd always fancied Roderick-that he was better looking and better in bed. That I should be grateful to her, because if anything happened to Benfield and you inherited, the duke would still be a Kenyon. Grateful! The bitch-the treacherous, bloody-minded bitch. She knew I had no choice but to accept you, and she reveled in it."

  He went into a fit of coughing. Hastily Benfield offered him a glass of water, but the old man waved it away. "Roderick had always resented me for being the elder. Georgiana gave him not only the chance to cuckold me, but the possibility that Roderick's son would inherit. Vicious, the pair of them."

  Michael felt numb from head to toe, and his lungs
were barely capable of expanding. Strange to think that he had been brought into existence to serve as a pawn between a man and a woman who despised each other. No wonder his childhood had been saturated with hatred. "Why did you choose to tell me now?"

  "A man has a right to know who his father is." The duke's mouth twisted. "And since Benfield will be head of the family, he should know the truth. Maybe now he'll get busy and sire a son. Besides, he's soft and might treat you like a member of the family if he doesn't know better."

  "You needn't worry," Michael said, unable to conceal his bitterness. "He's never been very brotherly in the past."

  "You're just like Roderick," the duke snarled, ancient fury vivid in his expression. "The same damned green eyes. Smart, strong, arrogant, better at everything than my own son." Ignoring a choked exclamation from Benfield, he finished, "I should have exiled you to the Indies, as I did Roderick."

  Michael wanted to lash out, to wound the man who had tormented him all his life, but what was the point? The duke was dying, and the hatred he had nurtured had been its own punishment. "I suppose I must thank you for finally being honest with me. Good day, sir. I wish you a peaceful death."

  The duke's bony fingers bit into the coverlet. "I despise the fact of your existence, yet I… I couldn't help but respect you. You served with honor in the army, and you built a fortune from no more than a younger son's portion. I would have liked an heir like you." He gave Benfield a contemptuous glance, then looked back at Michael. "I wanted another son. Instead, I got you."

  "I would have been your son if you had wanted me to be," Michael said tightly. Feeling on the verge of dissolution, he turned and walked toward the door.

  An ashen Benfield intercepted him, catching his arm. "Michael, wait!"

  "For what? The duke has said everything worth saying." Michael jerked his arm away. "Don't worry, I'll never darken any of your doors again. I wish you much joy of your inheritance."

  Benfield started to speak, then stopped, silenced by the ice in Michael's eyes.

  He swung open the door to the duke's sitting room. Claudia and the others stared, trying to divine what had happened. Looking neither right nor left, he walked across the room and into the hall. Down the polished stairs, one hand on the banister because he was less steady than he pretended. Past the butler, then outside into the blessedly cool air. It soothed the suffocating heat in his lungs.

  So he was a bastard. It explained everything: the duke's obvious loathing, the smug way his mother had petted and spoiled him when she was in the mood. Claudia and Benfield had sensed the duke's attitude and become contemptuous in their turn. What should have been a family had become a holocaust.

  He had never known Roderick, who had died in the West Indies when Michael was an infant. He had vague memories of being told by the elderly Kenyon nurse that he was just like his poor dear uncle. She had been more accurate than she knew.

  Instead of returning to Lucien's house, he deliberately went in the opposite direction. Now that the first shock was over, the news of his birth was curiously liberating. It hadn't been his fault. He had done nothing to justify his father's- no, the duke's-ruthless criticisms and savage whippings. When he was sent to Eton instead of Harrow, the traditional Kenyon school, it was not because of his personal failings.

  All of his attempts to be the best, to prove himself worthy, had been doomed to fail, because nothing could have made the duke accept him. Yet the struggles had not been valueless, for they had shaped his character, made him what he was. Feeling like an outsider, he had developed an empathy for other outsiders that was unusual in someone raised as the son of a duke. That empathy had led him to befriend Nicholas and Kenneth and others, greatly enriching his life.

  Though the news was jarring, it was of no real significance. He was still the man he had always been, both his flaws and his strengths. If he ever told the truth to his closest friends, they would not care. They had provided shelter, both literally and emotionally, when he was growing up, and they would not abandon him now. He had become a wealthy man through mining and investments to prove that he did not need the duke's help. Because of those efforts, now it didn't matter that he would inherit nothing.

  He thought back, reinterpreting the past in the light of this new knowledge. He had not lost his family, because he had never really had one. Oddly, he found that he no longer hated the duke. A better man might have treated his wife's bastard more kindly, but the duke had never had much kindness in him. It was characteristic of the duke's cruelty that he could be so disdainful of his own son in front of Benfield's face. Pride and propriety were his ruling passions, and it could not have been easy to be continuously confronted with the proof of his humiliation.

  After Michael walked his way to peace, he returned to Strathmore House. It was better to know the truth than to remain in ignorance. Nonetheless, he felt almost as exhausted as during his long convalescence after Waterloo. Thank God for Nicholas and Clare, who taken him into their own home and cared for him like a brother. With such friends, he didn't need a family.

  His tranquillity lasted until the footman handed him a card. "There is a lady waiting to see you, my lord."

  Her heart pounded when she heard the salon door open and his familiar footsteps. She donned the serene expression of Saint Catherine, then slowly turned from the window.

  Michael had seemed younger, more carefree, that time she had seen him in the park. Now that she was closer, she saw that the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened, and he seemed strained. But there was warmth in his voice when he said, "Catherine?"

  Dear Lord, would she be able to carry through such a deception? Throat tight, she said, "I'm sorry to bother you, Lord Michael."

  "Are we on such formal terms, Catherine?" He crossed the room and gave her a light, friendly kiss. "It's good to see you. You're as lovely as ever."

  Releasing her hands, he asked, "How is Amy? And Colin?"

  "Amy is wonderful. You'd scarcely know her. I swear she's grown three inches since last spring. Colin-" she hesitated, searching for words that would be partially true, "is still in France."

  Unsuspicious, Michael said, "I'm forgetting my manners. Please, sit down. I'll ring for tea."

  Knowing she must speak before she lost her nerve entirely, Catherine said, "I'd better state my piece first. I need some rather unusual aid. You-you may want to throw me out when you hear what it is."

  Michael's expression became serious and he studied her face. "Never," he said quietly. "I owe you my life, Catherine. You can ask anything of me."

  "You give me more credit than I deserve." She swallowed hard and reminded herself of why she must lie. "I'm afraid that… that I need a husband. A temporary husband."

  Chapter 19

  Michael stared at Catherine, wondering if he had heard properly. The obvious, vulgar interpretation could not be true. Perhaps he'd fallen from his horse and landed on his head and this whole day was a fever dream. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm sorry, my thoughts are rather scrambled." She sat down and drew a deep breath. "I've just come from a solicitor's office, where I learned that I'm the only granddaughter of the Laird of Skoal. My grandfather wishes to look me and my husband over to see if we are worthy of inheriting the island. According to Mr. Harwell, the laird is very ill, so it must be done soon. It would take weeks to notify Colin so he could return from France. By that time, my grandfather might be dead and this opportunity lost."

  "You can reach Skoal from London in two or three days."

  Catherine smiled mirthlessly. "Alone, I'm not good enough. Mr. Harwell said the laird wants to approve my husband as well as me. Otherwise, the island may be left elsewhere." Her eyes slid away. "Since Colin can't possibly get here in time, could… could you come with me for a few days and pretend to be my husband?"

  In its way, this request was as shocking as the duke's announcement. "You're joking."

  "I'm afraid not." She bit her lip. "I know this is an outrageous req
uest, but I can think of no better solution."

  There was definitely a God, and He had a very strange sense of humor. Michael said carefully, "In other words, you'd like me to take part in a charade to deceive your grandfather."

  "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it? I hate the idea of deceit. Yet, to be blunt, the legacy would be welcome. Very welcome indeed." Her mouth twisted wryly. "To be even more blunt, my grandfather might approve of you more than Colin. I gather that the laird is looking for reliable hands in which to leave Skoal."

  And Colin Melbourne was not the steadiest of men. Remembering the signs of financial strain in Brussels, Michael could understand why this legacy was vitally important to her.

  Catherine continued, "It's not as if the deception will cause any harm. A woman can run an estate as well as a man, and I will learn whatever is necessary."

  He wondered if she feared that Melbourne would refuse to live such an isolated life. Or perhaps she could no longer accept her husband's infidelities and wanted to build a life of her own. Whatever her reasons, he could not ask. But there were other questions that must be answered. "The mere thought of telling a lie has tied you in knots. Are you a good enough actress to successfully pass me off as your husband?"

  She closed her eyes for the space of a dozen heartbeats. Then she opened them and said easily, "I'm an excellent actress, Colin. I can do whatever I need to do."

  She was serene Saint Catherine again, and her voice was so convincing when she called him by her husband's name that he felt chills. Were all women born deceivers? A good thing she was nothing like Caroline, or she would be dangerous.

  Perhaps she could carry off the charade, but could he? They would have to spend a great deal of time together. In public, they would have to mimic the physical and verbal intimacy of a long-married couple. In private, he must keep his distance. Feeling about her as he did, the combination would be sheer hell.

  Of course, she did not know how he felt about her. She also had the innocence of a long-married, monogamous woman. She had forgotten what unruly beasts men could be, if indeed she had ever known. Yet he could not say no. Not only because he had given her a carte blanche for help, but because he could not resist the opportunity to be with her. He was as much a fool as he had ever been. "Very well. You have yourself a temporary husband."