by Donna Hatch
His lips, the same lips that had kissed her so sweetly only hours ago, were fixed into a straight line.
“Lady Elizabeth.” His rich baritone rippled over her and her heart swelled in response. “I have come to apologize. I lured you outside alone and into a compromised position. My behavior was unbecoming of a gentleman and I regret the difficulty in which my actions have placed you.”
The formality of his tone arrested all movement. Even her heart stilled.
He continued, “I hope someday you will forgive me, and that you and my brother will be content. He is a far better match than I and will make you an honorable husband.”
She stared in disbelief. Rather than a declaration of love, he was giving her away to another—without any sign of regret. How could he do that if he loved her? Surely more lay behind his words than what appeared.
His voice lowered. “Please give me some hope that you will not hate me all of your days.”
“No, of course I won’t.” She glanced at Father and Duchess as hope took seed in her heart. He’d been speaking just loud enough that her hovering parents would hear his words. Was this defeated apology only a ruse so her parents would not suspect his true plans?
She adopted his formality, speaking so her voice would carry. “I could never hate you, Mr. Barrett. I will always hold you in high regard. I am not faultless. I knew better than to meet with you without a chaperone but I wished to have a few moments where I might speak openly.” And kiss him again, but she knew better than to voice that. “I was foolish. I do not place all the blame on your shoulders.”
He touched her hand and raised it to his lips. “You are a true lady in every way. You will make an ideal wife.”
She tightened her fingers around his, reluctant to release him, and searched his face for any confirmation that he meant more than he said.
He caressed her fingers, his smile turning soft, and hope leaped within her breast. He wasn’t saying goodbye, she could feel it in his touch, in the affection in his eyes. He planned to still make her his, she was sure of it. Perhaps he planned to elope.
His voice hushed. “I shall never forget our diverting conversations. Or you.”
Her heart fluttered. He did love her and would come for her. She would do whatever was required to be his wife. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You will always have a place in my heart.”
He squeezed her hand, then stood and walked away, his back straight, his shoulders square. He stopped in front of Duchess and Father. “Your Grace, I wish to apologize for the difficulty and embarrassment I caused you and your family. Please know I hold you in the highest respect and I hope you will forgive a foolish young man whose heart got the better of his sense.”
His heart got the better of his sense. That was a declaration! Joy bubbled up inside her. He truly cared. He would never step aside and allow another to marry the girl he loved.
Tristan said something Elizabeth did not quite catch and bowed low to her parents. Duchess glowered at Tristan as if he were a dead rodent, but Father looked thoughtful. As Tristan straightened, he glanced back at her, inclined his head in a brief bow, promise glimmering in his eyes, and left the room.
Dearest Tristan! With the empowering strength of his love, she could become courageous and strong. She would survive Duchess’s punishment knowing the man of her heart would soon come for her and she’d never be forced to submit to another beating. She would suffer any scandal, even that of eloping, if it meant she would be his wife.
Mrs. Tristan Barrett would be the best wife ever; loving, faithful, and above reproach. In return, she, at last, would be loved and safe.
Chapter Six
Richard stared unseeing over the landscape near the front steps of Lord Einsburgh’s manor house where he’d been, well perhaps not enjoying the house party, exactly, considering his uneasy truce with Einsburgh, but at least enjoying the prospect of a good hunt…until last night’s disaster. Behind him, the voices of the servants mingled with the horses’ stamping feet and the jingle of harnesses attached to the coach waiting to take him home.
Then a thought struck him; he’d been so absorbed in his own irritation and in finding ways to pound some responsibility into Tristan, his horror at having to inflict pain on Leticia, as well as all the arrangements he had yet to make, he’d failed to consider Lady Elizabeth’s feelings. She might have all the sense of a half-wit, but she’d no doubt be distressed by last night’s events. As her betrothed, however reluctantly, he should, at the very least, have a conversation with her.
Tristan appeared, grim-faced from his encounter with the Pemberton family and said nothing as he climbed into the carriage.
Richard turned to him and put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder in an attempt at reconciliation. “I’ll join you shortly, Tristan. I need to take care of one last detail.”
He returned to the house and found the ducal family cloistered in the library. The very air thickened with tension.
At Richard’s arrival, Pemberton tossed down the day’s newspaper. The headline caught Richard’s eye; another story about the supposed King of Crime. At the moment, crime in London seemed trivial compared to Richard’s personal crisis.
Pemberton made a gesture at two girls seated on a settee. “Joanna. Leave us.”
Obediently, the younger and more beautiful of the two arose and slipped out of the room. Richard rested his gaze upon his intended. From a nearby window, sunlight fell upon her bowed head, tinting her brown hair dark red, almost mahogany. Her demure gown of pale pink accented her slender figure. She sat with her hands clasped in front of her.
Richard bowed to the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton. “Your Grace. I request permission to speak with your daughter.”
“Of course.” The duke and duchess moved to the far side of the room.
Richard approached Lady Elizabeth. Though the settee had room for two, Richard went down on his knees in front of her and placed a hand on either side of her legs, leaning on the edge of the cushion. She tensed.
Lady Elizabeth’s thick hair had been pulled back into a loose knot at the crown of her head, with a few wayward tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her lowered eyes were thickly lashed, fringed by a pair of high, arched brows. Her fair, unblemished skin bore no hint of a freckle. Her lips, though thinner than he would have liked, still had a pleasing shape. Her slightly pointed chin exactly like her father’s led the eye down to a slender, graceful neck.
Perhaps he’d been so focused on Leticia that he’d simply not taken the time to really look at Lady Elizabeth. Furthermore, her younger sister, Lady Joanna, a beauty of stunning proportions, outshone everyone within miles. Now that he gave Lady Elizabeth his full attention, he discovered her own quiet beauty.
At his silence, she glanced at him before her eyes darted away. Then, perhaps because she’d seen something reassuring, or unexpected, she met his gaze. Her clear, gray-green eyes danced back and forth between his as if to divine his thoughts.
The seductress of last night had vanished, and in her place sat a young, innocent, vulnerable girl. His future wife. He’d best begin things well.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “I know the circumstances of our betrothal are somewhat unique, but I feel it necessary to ask you; do you agree to marry me?”
Her eyes opened wide and her mouth parted. He realized she’d been pressing her lips together in a tight line. Now that they had relaxed, they were much more shapely. Lovely. Kissable. No wonder Tristan had been tempted. Any man would.
She seemed to take a thorough measure of him, her eyes continuing to dart between his. He waited for her reply. Her vulnerability evoked a protective instinct inside Richard. Her fragrance, a blend of roses and violets and some other fragrance he could not identify curled around his senses in an intoxicating blend of innocence and sensuality.
The thought took him aback. He shouldn’t be looking at another woman thusly, even a woman he must marry. Surely, his heart could not be so inconstant as to for
get Leticia this soon.
She moistened her lips, making them even more tempting, and shot a glance at the duke and duchess. “Yes, my lord. I agree to marry you.” The soft tones were flat, unemotional.
“Willingly?” he pressed.
She blinked and appeared to choose her words with care. In that moment, his estimation of her rose. Perhaps she would not always be rash. Faint hope glimmered that she’d prove faithful.
She lowered her eyes. “I will not have Martindale’s blood on my hands. Or Tristan’s. I must marry you.”
Stung, he drew back. “Of course.”
He didn’t know what he’d hoped she would say. If she’d gushed about all his fine qualities, he might have suspected her of spinning a tale. Nonetheless, hearing her blatant declaration that she’d only marry him to prevent bloodshed smote his pride.
So be it. Neither of them wanted this marriage, but he would do anything to protect his brother and his family honor. He and his father had worked too hard to repair the scandal to the Barrett name and the Averston title caused by his disloyal mother. Lady Elizabeth’s flaws could again smear his family’s name. An errant brother was one thing. An errant wife was another completely. He’d better lay down the law.
He stood. “I will, of course, require of you at least two sons—the proverbial heir and spare.” She seemed to fold in on herself. He didn’t know what she found repulsive: him or the idea of sharing a bed with a stranger. “Eventually,” he added. “No need to rush it. Beyond that, I ask little of you.” Remembering his resolve, he hardened his voice. “Except this; do not make the mistake of thinking I will allow any indiscretions. If I even suspect you to be unfaithful, I will take swift action. Is that clear?”
She paled, and her lips pressed into such a hard line that they almost disappeared. “I understand, my lord.”
Grimly satisfied he’d accomplished the unpleasant task of taking a firm stand with his betrothed, he turned, nodded to the duke, and took his leave.
The enormity of his impending marriage weighed upon him until he could hardly keep his head up. Though Lady Elizabeth might not be the immoral strumpet he’d first supposed, he didn’t dare trust her with his heart or she would make a fool of him. He’d refused to repeat his father’s suffering.
Regardless of her beauty, the thought of being bound to a faithless and indiscreet wife left him sick with dread.
Chapter Seven
Immersed in her song, Elizabeth sat in the music room of the Pemberton London House, miles away from the Einsburgh house party and the setting of her greatest joy as well as her darkest disappointment. In a moment of serenity, she plucked the strings of her harp, moving her fingers in familiar shapes and patterns. Though Duchess often snipped at her to stop wasting time on an activity for which she had no talent, Elizabeth loved the harp. Music brought her peace. It brought as much comfort as poetry.
A voice cleared. Startled out of her reverie, she paused, her fingers stilling over the strings, and glanced up.
A footman hovered in the doorway of the drawing room.
Elizabeth lowered her hand, the motion sending twinges of pain through her shoulders that had not yet healed from Duchess’ riding crop. “Yes?”
The footman bowed. “Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth. His Grace wishes to see you in his study.”
Elizabeth rocked the harp back onto its feet and stood, careful not to move her newly healing back overmuch. At the looking glass, she tucked in the fichu more securely around her neckline.
Her attention drifted back to her hair. Perhaps she should take the time to put it all the way up. As it was, only the sides had been caught up in a ribbon, leaving the rest to hang loose down her back. She lifted the brown curls to get a look at the back of her neck, but a dark bruise showed underneath her hair above the fichu. She’d have to leave her hair down to keep her disgrace concealed—thank goodness its thickness provided the covering she needed. After taking a moment to smooth her hair, she went to Father’s study.
As she entered, he stood and came to her, holding out his arm for her to take. “It’s a fine day; do take a turn about the garden with me.”
She nodded at the signal that he wanted to speak in private. A rare, sunny day greeted them as they stepped outside and strolled along the terrace to gardens more proportional to a country estate than a Townhouse. When the Pembertons constructed the manor house two hundred years ago, London’s city limits had not yet reached the area. Elizabeth breathed in the scent of herbs and flowers, and lifted her face to the sunshine.
Father broke the silence. “I wanted to express my pleasure with your decision to marry Lord Averston.”
Elizabeth allowed a rueful smile to turn up her lips. “I had a choice?” she teased gently.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “To be honest, my dear, I almost expected you to elope.”
Elizabeth looked down, hoping he didn’t see the guilty hope in her eyes. “That would be a fine show of gratitude to you and Duchess for all you’ve done for me.” She woodenly repeated the duchess’s words that had dogged her every failing.
“I’m sure you fancy yourself violently in love with Mr. Barrett.” Father patted her hand and smiled. “Young people often make rash decisions. I must say I’m gratified you see the wisdom in marrying the man I chose for you. I didn’t forbid you to marry Mr. Barrett because I wanted to remove your happiness; I wanted to ensure it.”
Elizabeth visually traced the contours of Father’s dear face. Though his ducal duties often limited her time with him, which often left her at the mercy of Duchess, she cherished unguarded moments such as these with Father.
Before she could speak, he continued. “My choice in young Lord Averston was not made in haste. He is a fine man—honorable, dependable, levelheaded. He’s very much like his father, a man I respected and admired. I grieved when he passed. His son has exceeded his father’s reputation and I am confident he will be a good husband to you.”
Elizabeth almost groaned out loud. Father’s description of Averston’s qualities sounded as joyful as a dry river stone.
Father awarded her one of his rare smiles. “I know that doesn’t sound exciting or romantic, but I trust you’ll understand later.”
“If you say so, Father.”
“You won’t believe this, but… I almost eloped.”
Elizabeth halted, staring at her father. “With Duchess?”
“Oh, no.” He smiled sadly. “With your mother—your real mother.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “You almost eloped with your mistress?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Very hard to believe.”
A faraway look shimmered in his eyes. “I was young and more guided by my heart then. Fortunately, I knew my duty; my father was in poor health and I had four sisters who depended on me to add to the family empire. So I gave up your mother and married Duchess, to whom I had been betrothed since her birth. She was the daughter of a marquis and had a substantial dowry of both lands and ready capital.”
He fell silent and only the murmur of trees broke the silence. A moment later, he turned and began walking.
Elizabeth fell in step with him. Gathering her courage, she asked the question that had only begun to take seed in her heart a moment ago. “Did you love my mother, then?”
“Oh, yes. Very much. She had a sassy tongue and a generous heart. She found joy in even mundane activities.”
Elizabeth reeled at the revelation. Duchess’s reminders of Elizabeth’s murky parentage and that she relied upon the ducal family’s charity and mercy had always forced Elizabeth into submitting to Duchess’s discipline. As a child, Elizabeth hadn’t known any better; like most children, she’d meekly submitted to the authority figure. Later, when she balked at being singled out for such pain, she had felt so unworthy and terrified at the prospect of being turned out and ‘fed to the wild dogs as she deserved’ that she’d obediently lifted her skirts with trembling hands and bent over to submit to
Duchess’s cane. Later, as Elizabeth grew closer to womanhood, Duchess changed tactics and forced her victim to bare her back to receive the lashing of a riding crop. Sufficiently cowed and convinced that she deserved nothing more, Elizabeth had always cooperated. The few times she’d resisted, the punishment had been doubly painful, as had her recovery.
Of course, all of it paled compared to the lashing she’d received after getting caught kissing Tristan. That one had been so bad Elizabeth had feared she’d broken a rib.
If she’d known she’d been loved and wanted, she might not have submitted to Duchess’s cruelty.
Father’s voice drew her thoughts back. “You have your mother’s miniature?”
“Yes. She was very beautiful.”
“Indeed she was. One of the most beautiful actresses of her generation.” He drew a breath. “When no warmth developed between Duchess and me, even after Martindale was born, I again took your mother as my mistress.”
If Elizabeth watched him any less closely, she might have missed the wistful longing that softened the lines of his face.
His voice hushed. “She never wanted another protector; she knew I’d one day return to her. I almost ran off to the continent with her then.” A quick, wry smile touched his mouth. “I couldn’t, of course. I’d never abandon my tenants and my responsibilities. Duchess didn’t seem to mind that I had a mistress as long as I was discreet and kept up public appearances of marital accord. Later, we had Mary.”
Their footsteps took them along the garden paths but Elizabeth hardly noticed the fountains or statues or foliage. Images of her younger father loving an auburn-haired beauty almost enough to abandon his duty filled her head.
“You probably know the rest,” he said, “how your mother died three days after you were born, and that Duchess gave birth to a third child—a stillborn—a week later. It seemed a sign from God. So I brought you home and claimed you as the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton. I wanted to make sure you had every advantage that your mother did not.”