by Anne Gracie
“By the way, I’ve discovered who Danny’s father is,” he told her quietly.
Her head whipped around. “Who?”
“Take a guess.” They’d speculated about it in bed often enough, but there was no proof.
“Phillip’s father?”
He nodded. “I discovered the evidence in the estate record. Lakeside Cottage was only part of one of my cousin’s minor estates. He sold it off piecemeal, a chunk at a time to pay his gambling debts, retaining only the main house by the end. I suppose it would have been the next to go if he hadn’t died. There is a note in the estate records, just over seven years ago, noting a tenant’s cottage and small farm acreage to be transferred to the use of Judith Glover and her child.”
“Danny and his mother.”
He nodded. “Of course I had no idea of this when I sent Phillip to live at Lakeside Cottage.” He glanced at the boys racing each other around the paddock, whooping and laughing. Half brothers. “A mistake that ended well, I suppose.”
He lowered his voice. “The interesting thing was the phrasing of the document. The cottage and farm were transferred ‘to the use of Judith Glover and her child for their lifetime.’”
“But Judith’s dead. And Danny’s no longer there.”
He nodded. “I had the document checked over by my legal man, and I have every right to throw that brute Glover off the property.”
She clapped her hands. “Oh, that would be wonderf—” She broke off. “But what about that poor downtrodden woman and those little children? I can’t see Glover putting himself out to support them if he was put off the farm. He’s the type to look after himself first, and abandon them to their own devices.”
Hart smiled. He knew she’d react like this. “I’ve been giving that some thought. The farm is Danny’s by right, and though he doesn’t want to live there now, it would be to his advantage to own some property in the future. I can transfer the property permanently into his name, and rent it out to the Glovers.”
She nodded. “I suppose that’s the sensible thing to do. I just wish . . . But there are the children to think of. And though the man is a brute, I’ve never heard Danny say anything bad about the woman.”
Nor much good, Hart thought, but he supposed the woman was too downtrodden to withstand her husband’s orders. “I could offer them tenancy of the farm, but only in Mrs. Glover’s name. Then, technically at least, she would be in charge.”
Her eyes lit up. “What a marvelous suggestion, Hart. Horrible Glover will then have to defer—at least in theory—to his wife, and if he leaves, she’ll still have the security of a home.” She sobered. “But I think you should talk about it privately with Mrs. Glover before you do anything. Just in case Glover reacts badly and takes it out on her.”
He nodded. “Good idea. You can come with me. She’ll probably feel more comfortable talking to a woman. But I’ll tell the boys about their relationship at teatime. I think they’ll be thrilled to find they’re half brothers. I’ll discuss the question of the farm with Danny too. He’s young, but he’s shrewd.”
Chapter Twenty-two
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope . . . I have loved none but you.
—JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION
A month. They’d been married a month already. George found it hard to believe. In some ways it felt like they’d been married forever; in another it felt just a short time, the time had flown so swiftly.
It wasn’t quite an anniversary, but she thought it deserved a little celebration.
After all, she had promised to rub, cherish and olé him. There had been quite a lot of rubbing—she grinned to herself—and the cherishing had been lovely too. Now it was time for some celebrating.
She woke early and chivvied him out of bed for a dawn ride—and not the kind he wanted. “On horseback,” she said, and he’d groaned and turned over. And then, grumbling, got out of bed.
It was a perfect late summer morning and the ride was glorious. On returning home, she went upstairs for a quick bath, and he went into the library where his mail awaited him.
Joining him at the breakfast table, she noticed he looked rather grim. “Is anything the matter?” she asked.
He nodded. “I have to return to London. I can’t stay down here any longer. I have important things to deal with and I can’t attend to them from here.”
“You’re leaving?”
He nodded. “In the morning.” He barely looked at her, just frowned at the documents on his right. He rarely brought correspondence to the breakfast table.
A cold lump formed in her belly. “Tomorrow?”
He glanced up. “Yes. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but this little sojourn, delightful as it has been, must come to an end.”
The lump hardened, and something was blocking her throat. “What about the boys?”
“What about the boys?” But it wasn’t really a question. His blank look confirmed that as far as he was concerned the boys were her business.
George’s porridge congealed slowly in the bowl. He was saying it was over. The honeymoon—the honey month—was over. And he was returning to his life in London, and she was going on—to what?
And the terrible thing was, this had been her idea. She was the one who in the settlements had specified a house of her own, a house in the country, separate from the duke. She hadn’t done anything about looking for a house yet.
“Can we stay here for a while? The boys and I?”
His brows snapped together. “Here? You want to stay here?”
She nodded. “I don’t have a house of my own yet. I suppose we could go to my uncle’s place, Ashendon Court, for a while, if you don’t like us staying here.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “No, stay here as long as you like,” he said coldly and returned to his correspondence.
“If you’ll excuse me,” George blurted, “I have things to do.” She hurried from the room and made for the privacy of her bedchamber—only she didn’t have a bedroom of her own. There was no privacy here. Everything in it evoked his presence.
Those wretched settlements. She’d thought back then that it was how she wanted things, but now she’d changed. She’d done what she’d thought impossible—fallen in love with the duke. But she wasn’t going to go back on her promises.
He said he’d want conjugal visits. She would respect that—and if she dreamed about him every night, well, wouldn’t that be almost as good as having him in her bed?
No. She knew the difference now. And it wasn’t just his lovemaking she’d miss.
Or the look in his eyes when he was thinking about taking her to bed. Or the way his voice would deepen and turn to warm, dark chocolate. And melt her from the inside out.
It was also the low-murmured conversations they had in the dark, about nothing much, just the day’s events and stray thoughts and plans. He listened, really listened.
And she’d miss waking up in the night and feeling his big warm body lying spooned around her on chilly nights, or sprawled in relaxed abandon just a fingertip away. And the scent of him, not just his cologne, or his fresh-pressed linen, but the intoxicating man smell of him, like nobody else, unique and himself.
The duke. Others saw his pride, his arrogance, his cold control—the man she’d imagined he was when she first met him. But now she knew the real man beneath the stern facade, the man who cold-bloodedly entrapped her and proceeded to seduce her—and not just in the bedchamber.
He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously, who valued honor and honesty, who would put off a much desired honeymoon in Venice to search for a small lost boy he hardly knew. And then take in that boy and his illegitimate half brother as his own responsibilities. And teach them how to be men.
A man who would take a half-wild, prickly, suspicious, difficult, contrary, lanky, flat-chest
ed, boyish female, put up with her wild starts and even try to understand them—and then marry her and cherish her as nobody ever in her life had cherished her.
She dashed the tears from her eyes. She would not become a watering pot. All his life, his mother had tried to manipulate him with emotion. George would not do the same. She would honor the agreement she’d so foolishly made. Calmly, reasonably and without fuss.
And if he wanted her out of his way, living in the country as they’d agreed, while he did whatever he did in London—and she would not even mind if he wanted to see those dreadful women who pursued him so shamelessly—well, yes, she did mind, she wanted to wring their scrawny, bejeweled necks!—but she would try not to show it. She would try to be dignified, as a duchess should. At least while he was watching.
She would remain in the country with the boys. It wouldn’t be a hardship—she loved the countryside.
And if she missed him, as she would—terribly—well, who was it who’d made that stupid condition in the first place? What was that saying? Be careful what you wish for.
This was what he’d wanted, what they’d agreed to, after all. And though it would half kill her to let him go, she would do it. Because she loved him, and wanted him to have everything he wanted. And she refused to be a millstone around his neck.
They made love several times that night, and it was wonderful and terrible, bittersweet and achingly moving. They didn’t talk much. George had no words; she was afraid if she tried to say anything, it would all spill out in a terrible emotional flood, and she’d be no better than his mother, trying to make him stay when he wanted to leave.
And he was never terribly chatty in bed.
But, oh, every touch, every caress . . . She did her best to save them up in her mind, to keep for later and revisit when he was gone, but each time he took her to the edge . . . and over . . . and her awareness splintered into glorious rainbow-colored shards.
* * *
* * *
Hart’s bags were packed, and the carriage was waiting. They’d made love at dawn, and it had left him feeling empty, completely shattered.
But she, she seemed calm and organized and dignified. She’d arranged food and drink for the journey, as if he were a child being sent off to school. The boys, solemn and serious and looking unhappy and bewildered, shook his hand like little men, and then she sent them back inside.
He was gutted by the ease with which she was preparing to wave him off, out of her life. But he had no leg to stand on. He was the blasted fool who’d signed the blasted settlement documents agreeing to her blasted conditions.
He hated those conditions now.
But he’d trapped her into marriage in the first place, and he owed it to her now to give her the freedom she desired. At least he’d insisted on conjugal visits. But, oh, how would he ever bear long months without her? Or weeks. And not just in bed.
He’d always believed he was a naturally solitary fellow. She’d changed all that.
She’d even taught him to enjoy the company of two rambunctious little boys.
George was the sun around who they all rotated, the source of all warmth and life.
But Hart had always prided himself on his control and he wasn’t about to crumble now and make a fool of himself. And entrap her into the kind of marriage she had explained quite clearly that she didn’t want.
He kissed her good-bye, and if it was a little desperate and needy and he could hardly make himself let go of her, well, that couldn’t be helped. It was nothing to what he really felt.
He climbed into the carriage, took a deep breath and rapped on the roof. With a jerk the carriage set off. Hart didn’t look out the window. He hated good-byes, didn’t want to see her standing there, waving, her lovely gray eyes bright with unshed tears . . .
Bright with unshed tears?
Unshed tears?
He rapped loudly on the roof of the carriage, and without waiting for it to stop he threw open the door and jumped down.
George took a few steps toward him. “Did you forget something?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes. You.”
She stared at him, her expression unreadable.
“I don’t want to leave you, George. I don’t want us to live in separate rooms, let alone separate houses or separate towns.” He took another deep breath, and forced the words out that had been stuck in his throat for so long. “I want us to stay together, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.”
“You do?” she whispered.
“I do. I love you, George—oof!” He staggered back, battling for balance as he hung on to his wife, who had run at him full pelt and hurled herself bodily into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him, kissing him frantically, plastering his face with kisses. “Oh, I love you, Hart, I love you so much, I know you didn’t want love but—”
“Who said I didn’t want love?”
She pulled back a little. “You did.”
“I can’t have been such an idiot.”
She gave him a misty smile. “You were. We both were. I didn’t want marriage and now I can’t imagine life without you.” She kissed him again and he thought his heart would burst.
With George still wrapped around him, planting small kisses on every available piece of skin, he carried her inside and marched straight up the stairs to their bedroom.
They made love again, and afterward, shared the thoughts and feelings they’d bottled up so long, too careful, too respectful of what they imagined the other had wanted.
“When you said you had to go to London, I thought you meant that was the end—you said, you actually said it was the end of our delightful sojourn. What else was I to think?”
“Not that. I’m a clod, a stupid, unaware clod. I do need to go to London, but all I meant was that it was the end of our time here. Our time, not my time. I’d assumed we would all go to London together. But when you asked to stay behind . . .” He hauled her close and said into her hair, “I felt like I’d been kicked.”
She stroked his neck tenderly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I trapped you into marriage in the first place. I wasn’t going to force you to stay with me, just because I . . .”
“Because you . . ?”
“Because I was madly, deeply, thoroughly and permanently in love with you.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” Her eyes glittered with tears and she kissed him again. “I’ve known for ages that I love you, but I didn’t want to be like your mother and use emotion to manipulate you. I would rather die than force you to stay when you didn’t want to.”
He laughed. “Anyone less like my mother, I couldn’t imagine.”
After a while, she murmured, “It’s exactly a month since we were married. I’d planned to olé you.”
He moved suggestively against her. “Oh, I feel very oléd.”
She laughed. “They turned out to be rather good wedding vows, don’t you think?”
“I doubt the bishop would agree, but I’m perfectly satisfied. More than satisfied.” He kissed her again. “Olé!”
Epilogue
You are invited to a ball to celebrate the marriage of
the Duke and Duchess of Everingham
at Everingham House
in London.
George was finding it was easier to be a duchess than she’d feared. She had only to express a wish, and it was done. The duke had an army of servants eager to provide their new mistress with whatever she wanted.
The Everingham House ballroom glittered and gleamed. Decorated in green, cream and silver, with ferns, pale orchids and other white flowers from the duke’s own conservatories, and silver-painted branches tied with scarlet ribbons, the air was fragrant with the scent of flowers and the tang of beeswax.
George took one last loo
k at her reflection and nodded. Tonight, at Hart’s request, she was dressed in scarlet again, a new ball dress, and the rubies he’d given her on her wedding day.
Her heart was so full. She was happier than she’d ever dreamed was possible. She had a big sprawling family she loved and who loved her, a smaller instant family of boys, dogs and horses—Sultan had been bred to several of the duke’s mares. And, best of all, she was married to a tall, stern, arrogant, beautiful man who adored her, and demonstrated it daily—and nightly—in so many ways.
And the blessings kept coming.
Earlier in the week, baby Bertie had been christened, with George and Hart as his godparents. And then, immediately afterward, in a move that surprised many, young Danny Glover was also christened—and with the same godparents.
“The lad has never been christened, and it will do him no harm to be known as godson to the Duke and Duchess of Everingham,” Hart had told George when he planned it. She’d hugged him. It was a generous and thoughtful move on his part. The connection would do much to ameliorate the disadvantage of Danny’s birth.
Her coldhearted duke; she’d been so wrong about him.
And now there was to be a grand ball.
“You look stunning,” Hart said from the doorway. “Ready?”
Arm in arm, they walked downstairs, to where their family and closest friends had gathered for dinner before the ball. They were all there, everyone who’d ever mattered to her—even Martha looking proud and stylish in her new bronze silk bombazine dress. Heaven knew how Hart had persuaded her to come to London, but he had.
At George’s request, they entered the dining room informally and seated themselves around the table however they wished. This was just for family and friends. Champagne was poured, and Hart was about to give the signal for the food to be brought in when George tapped him on the arm, then rose to her feet.
“I know it’s not done, but we are all family here, and I want to make a speech,” she said. Aunt Agatha lifted her lorgnette and pursed her lips.