by Candace Camp
“Priscilla! You think I knew who I was? That I was only pretending not to remember?”
“Of course I think that. Who wouldn’t? The Duke appeared, and immediately you stepped forward and said, ‘Hello, Father.’ You did not have to think or have your memory jogged. You didn’t go blank. As soon as he arrived, you were able to drop the charade, to admit who you were. I don’t know why you felt you had to pretend before. Perhaps you thought it would be safer. But could you not have trusted me not to tell anyone? I feel like such a fool—only a naive country miss like me would have believed that you could remember nothing. Why did you have to go through all that nonsense about trying to discover who you were and why anyone would try to kidnap you?”
“Priscilla! Wait—”
“It was obvious,” Priscilla rushed on heedlessly. “No wonder Oliver followed you. You really are an heir, even if you aren’t the Duke himself. I don’t know why I didn’t see that—an American going to the Aylesworths’ solicitors, then riding to Elverton. I was as stupid as the Duchess, thinking that because you are too young you could not be the Duke, but not realizing that the Duke could have had children, American children. I didn’t think. I was too caught up in a mystery that didn’t exist…too given over to the romance of it all—”
“No!”
“How did you keep from laughing when I told you that I did not care that you didn’t know who you were, didn’t care if you were a thief or a married man or lowborn—when all the time you knew you were a marquess! Did you think that when I found out the truth I would be so dazzled by the title that I would not mind? That I would fall down at your feet and be thankful that you had made me your mistress? Well, I am not! I feel cheap and despoiled. Used. And I wish you had gone to any other house than this one to play your little game!”
As she talked, overriding his efforts to speak, the color first drained from his face, then returned in a bright red flush, and by the time she finished, he looked as if he might burst. He waited for a long moment, visibly struggling to restrain himself.
Tightly he said, “Priscilla…sit down.”
“I will not! I prefer to—”
“I said, ‘Sit down,’ damn it!” he roared.
Priscilla dropped into a chair, wide-eyed.
“I have stood here and let you revile me long enough. Now you are going to listen to what I have to say.”
Priscilla lifted her chin, but said nothing.
“I never lied to you. Not once. I did not know who I was. I could remember nothing about myself before I woke up in that miserable hut. I was completely in the dark until my father walked into that room. When I saw him, my memory returned. I was not even aware of it. I saw him and started toward him, and suddenly, the word father tumbled out of my mouth. It surprised me as much as you. Then I realized—I remembered him. I remembered it all. I knew who I was, where I came from—New York City, by the way. What I do for a living—we are in shipping. I represent the business. That’s why I have been to Singapore and Canton and those other places. I go around the world, dealing with foreign merchants. I have a younger sister named Adelia, whom everyone calls Delia. My mother died two years ago. I know it all. I remembered it all, as if some part of my brain had been taken out, then suddenly replaced.” He paused and said grimly, emphasizing each word, “But not before my father appeared in that room. I swear it to you. I did not lie.”
Priscilla stared at him. She wanted to believe him. She did believe the sincerity in his firm voice, in the set of his jaw, in the glint of his eyes. Yet, somehow, there was something in her that wanted not to accept it. “How could you remember it so suddenly? How could it come back to you like that?”
“I don’t know. I lost it just as suddenly. Maybe I would have remembered sooner if I had seen someone who was familiar before that. But I was so far from everything and everyone that I knew. I had never even heard of Elverton or the Duke of Ranleigh.”
“What?” Priscilla gaped at him.
He nodded emphatically. “Yes. It is true. Even if I had recovered my memory, I would not have known that my father was the Duke. My name is Bryan Aylesworth. Father never told us that he was a marquess in England. Hell, I couldn’t have told you what a marquess was.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. He never talked about England or his life here. I could not even have told you when he came to the United States.” Bryan shrugged. “It never occurred to me to ask him why he emigrated. I guess I assumed that he was looking for a better life, a chance to make a fortune, or whatever. I am not sure that my mother even knew.” He smiled faintly. “It must have given my father a secret laugh—my mother’s family looked down on him, said he was ‘parvenu rich.’ They were always going on about how they were Van der Beecks, one of the first families in the state, back when New York was New Amsterdam, and he was just a poor nobody when Mother met him. They liked to say it was Mother’s connections that had brought him most of his business. When Mother would fire up in defense of him, he would smile and say that it didn’t bother him, that family names didn’t count for much.”
“This is all so…so…” Priscilla brought her hands to her head, as if pressure would somehow put all her thoughts in order.
“Bizarre?” He let out a grunt. “You can imagine how I feel. One minute I didn’t know who I was, and the next I not only remember my past, I find out I am someone other than what I have always thought.”
“And to add to it, I accuse you of lying.”
“Then you believe me? You know I wasn’t lying to you?”
Priscilla sighed and nodded, sinking back into her chair. “I believe you. It’s too absurd not to be the truth.”
“Thank God! I knew someday my sheer absurdity would be of some benefit to me.” He grinned, coming toward her, his hands outstretched to take hers.
Quickly Priscilla stepped away. “No, wait. John—I mean, Bryan—we cannot.”
“Cannot what? Kiss? Why? Don’t marquesses do that sort of thing?” His expression was slightly puzzled, but still amused and cheerful.
“No. I mean, of course they do. But, well, not you and I. There is too much between us.”
“Whatever are you talking about? The only thing between us is the space that you are creating.” He was frowning in earnest now. “Everything is cleared up. I know who I am, and this title apparently even makes me respectable in Englishmen’s eyes. The two ruffians who abducted you are in jail, and shall be for years. And I understand that they are ratting on our friend Oliver in great detail. He has already taken to his heels. Father knows about Bianca and what she tried to do to him and me. The only thing left to resolve is that murder thirty years ago, to prove Father was not the one who killed her. But that doesn’t mean that you and I cannot be together.” He paused, then added quietly, “Or does it? Is that what is troubling you? That I am his son? Do you think he is a murderer?”
“No. I mean, well, honestly, I have no idea whether he is or not. But if he is your father, I find it hard to believe that he could be.”
“Then is it the reputation?” His face was hard. “Do you not care to be with a man whose father is under a cloud?”
“No! Honestly, John—Bryan—how could you think that of me? You are not your father, and even if he did do it, that doesn’t make you bad.”
“Then what? Why won’t you marry me?”
“Marry you?” She stared at him, stunned.
“Yes. What did you think I was talking about?”
“I—I’m not sure. I didn’t think. But I did not hear you ask me to marry you.”
“I probably didn’t. I am not very good at this sort of thing—never done it before, you see.” He cleared his throat, “Miss Hamilton, will you do me the honor of marrying me? Or do I have to be formal and ask your father for your hand?”
“No. Of course not. But this is all so sudden. I’m not prepared.”
“It doesn’t take preparation. I am not asking for a speech. A simple yes will do.�
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“I cannot!” she cried out, twisting her hands together. “It is impossible. We can’t be married.”
“Why not?” He frowned impatiently. “Damn it, Priscilla, it isn’t like you to play games.”
“I am not playing games! Honestly. But I cannot marry you. You are a marquess now. You will be the Duke of Ranleigh someday.”
“So?”
“So you have to marry according to your station. You cannot marry some little nobody with no money. You have to marry as befits a duke.”
“I don’t have to marry in any way except as I choose,” he retorted. “What a load of hogwash. You told me you did not care about rank or title or any of that stuff.”
“That was when I thought you didn’t have one! It is all different now. You are a marquess.”
“Would you quit saying that? You make me feel like I’m a disease or something. It doesn’t matter whether I have a fancy title. I am still me.”
“You don’t understand. There is a great deal of responsibility that comes with a title. Responsibility to your family and your name and your land. To all the generations of dukes who have gone before you.”
“What does that have to do with my marrying you?”
“You have to marry someone worthy of being a duchess.”
“You are more worthy of it than anyone I know. You are smart, beautiful, generous, brave….”
“No, I don’t mean worthy in qualities. I mean worthy in name. My family is genteel, but we are not nobility. Oh, scattered here and there among the family tree may be the odd knight, or even a baronet, but there are no earls or viscounts or dukes.”
He shrugged. “That doesn’t bother me.”
“I told you. You are not the only one you have to consider. You have a duty to your name.”
“Blast my name. My name isn’t marrying you, I am.”
“No one is,” she replied firmly. “Bryan, be reasonable. If I were wealthy, perhaps a respectable family would be enough, but you know that we are merely genteel and poor.”
“Somehow, marrying a person because she is rich does not sound very noble to me.”
“It’s more practical than noble. It is the sort of thing that one has to do sometimes in order to save the…the family traditions.”
“What?”
“Ranleigh Court,” she said bluntly. “It is falling apart, and the Aylesworths don’t have enough money to repair it adequately. Everyone knows that they shut up the east wing years ago because they could not afford to keep it up. It needs money spent on it—lavishly. And the lands are in need of improvements. The family is not penniless; it is just that they haven’t nearly enough to devote to the estate. That’s what I mean about responsibility to the family. Someone who is heir to a dukedom has to think of things like that, has to put that before everything else.”
“Well, I don’t,” he retorted bluntly. “Father has enough money to refurbish the old place.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t come back here for the rents, or however the dukes make their money. I told you we were in shipping. He has enough money to repair Ranleigh Court, or rebuild it, or whatever he wants. I have no need to marry for money. And I certainly am not going to marry some girl because she has a name that pleases you or my neighbors or even my father. I intend to marry you.”
Priscilla blinked, stunned. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and say yes. She had done more than enough, she told herself, to make him see reason. If he still insisted on marrying her, then it was not her fault that he married beneath him or that other people might talk. But it was her fault that he did not know that she wrote adventure stories under a man’s name. And if word of that were ever to leak out—as it doubtless would, if she were to become a marchioness and be subjected to the ruthless scrutiny of Society—it would be a terrible scandal. The proud Aylesworth family would be humiliated, and it would be because of her.
“No,” she said reluctantly. “There is— It’s just—Well, there could be a terrible scandal if you married me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, if I were to marry you and go into Society, everyone would poke into everything I have done. The gossips would be looking to find some scandalous tidbit about this country nobody who snagged the Aylesworth heir.”
“And have you done something reprehensible?” His eyes danced with amusement. “What? Danced too many times with a man at a ball? Or, let’s see, maybe you didn’t write a thank-you note soon enough?”
“I am perfectly serious!” Priscilla snapped, annoyed at his laughter. It was killing her to turn him down, and she thought she was displaying great honor and nobility. And he had the temerity to laugh at her! “There is a scandal…. In the past, I have done some things, and…and if that got out, it would humiliate your family.”
“Something worse than being the prime suspect in a murder? We already have that little scandal in our family.”
“Of course not. But it would make it worse. One scandal is one thing, but then, to marry a nobody, that’s a second one, and then if they found out about me, it would offend everyone, and—well, it would be a mess. And I don’t want to be the one who embroils your family in it.”
“You are not joking, are you?” He regarded her seriously. “You have actually done something scandalous? Something that would get you tossed out of Society?”
“Yes, by quite a few members of it. And there would be gossip. Awful gossip.”
“What is it? I cannot imagine you having committed any serious sin.”
She looked at him, agonized. What if she told him her secret and he was repulsed by it? What if he was relieved that she had not accepted his proposal? What if he found her unfeminine now, and turned away from her in disdain? She had considered confiding her secret to him a few times, particularly when he had been worrying about what he might have been in the past and she had wanted to comfort him. But she had always held back for fear of what his reaction might be. He seemed a forward-thinking sort; he disdained many of the hide-bound British ideas and traditions. But what if that was because he was an American? It did not mean that he was a proponent of women’s rights, or that he would not be shocked by the idea of a woman doing something like writing a book, and particularly the kinds of books that she wrote. She had heard even some of her father’s intellectual friends talk with great contempt of women trying to step into things that had always been a man’s province. She had never even told the vicar, whom she loved and respected, about her writing, because she had heard him remark with great sorrow on other women who had deviated from God’s design by taking on a man’s work.
“No, Bryan, please do not ask,” she murmured.
Bryan was thoroughly curious now. He could not imagine what Priscilla could have done that would be so scandalous. “Did you kill someone?” he asked, joking.
“No! Bryan, please.”
He frowned, thinking. “You—you’ve been married. And you got a divorce.”
“Bryan!”
“You had an affair.”
“No! Is that what you think of me?”
“No, of course not. I am just trying to think of what you could have done.”
“Well, stop. You know, I think, that it would be impossible for me to have been married or had an affair,” she told him pointedly.
“Oh.” He could not keep from smiling sensually as he thought of the time they had made love. “Of course. You’re right.”
“Stop smirking,” she snapped. “I am not answering any more of your questions. Please, just go.”
“Not until you give me a good reason why you will not marry me.”
“I can’t. Bryan, please, just trust me. Believe me. It would be impossible. Ask your father. He will tell you how a duke must marry.”
“I don’t think you will get the answer you want from him. Remember, he married a titleless American.”
“Why must you make this so hard for me?” Priscilla cri
ed out, tears welling up in her eyes.
“I must,” he answered simply, coming forward and taking her hands in his. She tugged, trying to pull her hands out of his grasp, but he would not let her go. “Don’t you see? I cannot let it be easy for you to send me away. You will have to want me gone more than I want you for my wife. That is the only way you can get rid of me.”
“I have refused you. Can’t you accept that?”
He shook his head, smiling as he raised each of her hands to his mouth in turn and laid a soft, lingering kiss on it before he set it free. “You know I am far too stubborn for that.”
Priscilla’s insides went as soft as mush as he brushed his mouth against the backs of her hands. She thought of his lovemaking and the way his lips had caressed her body all over. That was what she was giving up, she thought: a whole lifetime of Bryan’s caresses and kisses. A whole lifetime without his smile, his laugh, his wit. She bit her lower lip, forcing back the acceptance that tried to leap from her throat.
“You will have to say yes to me eventually,” he said. “I intend to keep on trying.”
She shook her head, but he disregarded it.
“I will take my leave now,” he told her. “But I promise you that I will be back. I will not quit until I have the answer I want.”
Then he turned and strode out of the room. Priscilla stood silently, listening to his footsteps in the hall outside. When the front door closed behind him, she collapsed onto the chair behind her and gave way to a torrent of tears.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE DUKE OF RANLEIGH STRODE into the dining room. “Ah, good morning,” he said politely to the two other occupants of the room, the Duchess and her son, Alec.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Alec jumped to his feet to greet him. He had been impressed by the other man’s stature and demeanor last night at the party. He looked the part of a duke, Alec thought, and, frankly, he was relieved not to have the burden of the title. He was now only a younger brother, third in line for the title, and once John—no, Bryan—got married and had a son, he would be even farther away. Alec could see all the advantages of the freedom that offered. His mother would no longer be able to bind him with the responsibilities of being a duke, and he would be off to the army, somehow, some way.