The Lady’s Sinful Secret

by Kelly Boyce

  Lady Blackbourne clapped her hands. “It is settled then. I am so pleased. Our families have had a rocky past, I understand, but those who created it are gone now and I would very much like to become the best of neighbors. Wouldn’t you?”

  The Countess’s gaze left his sister and landed on him, pointed and direct, her meaning well taken. Unfortunately, she had been misinformed. The parties who had created that rocky past were not all dead and buried. Two of them were still very much alive. He had no intention of improving relations between them. Glory had made her choice. He would not grovel for her favor now, as he had back then.

  The Dowager Countess of Blackbourne could celebrate her birthday without him.

  * * *

  Gloria glanced at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, leaning in to see the fine lines around her eyes, the first hint of grooves appearing around the corners of her mouth. Though the closer she came to the mirror, the more blurred the details became.

  She sighed. She needed spectacles. When had that happened?

  A soft knock sounded at her bedchamber door and she leaned back from the mirror, her reflection clearing as she did. “Come in.”

  Her son, Nicholas, opened the door, looking every inch a gentleman in his evening clothes, and yet somehow still maintaining a hint of the rogue he had always been. She turned and smiled up at him. If she had done nothing else right in her life, her children would remain her crowning achievement, a legacy to be proud of.

  “You look beautiful, Mother.”

  “Do I?” She had never been one to fish for compliments. It bothered her that she felt the need to now, but seeing Arran again made the years that had passed all the more prominent. She stared into the reflective glass. She was not so foolish to think she hadn’t retained some of her former beauty, as she fast approached her fiftieth year, but neither did she mislead herself into thinking that beauty would last forever.

  “I dare say the younger ladies will be quite jealous when you steal their thunder.”

  “You are too much the gallant, my dear.”

  What had Arran thought when he looked at her? Did he see a faded image of the woman he used to know? Or did he even care? So much had happened, so many things she wished to explain. But had too much time passed? She feared the answer was yes and the idea of that made her quite sad.

  Gloria stood, the silk and satin of her gown rustling about her. “Is it time to go?”

  “It is. Roddy is fast asleep and Abigail has deemed if we do not leave this instance, we shall be beyond fashionably late. Though I think when I arrive at the Assembly with the two most beautiful ladies in England on either arm, I will be heartily forgiven.”

  “Will the others be attending?”

  “Indeed. Rebecca has convinced Marcus it is his duty as a landowner to partake in such activities and despite his best arguments to the contrary, my little sister seems to have done the impossible and wrapped the poor man about her finger.”

  Gloria took Nicholas’s proffered arm. “And Lord and Lady Huntsleigh?”

  “They will be in attendance as well. Abigail has insisted Caelie has not increased to such a degree that she need hide away, and Spence never likes to miss a party.”

  “Wonderful. It will be lovely to have us all in the same place once again, if only for an evening.” And in the event the Sutherlands attended, a buffer of loved ones around her would help to distract from the unsolicited emotions Arran stirred within her.

  * * *

  An army of candles lit the Assembly’s main room and the crush of bodies warmed the vast area, chasing away the autumn chill. Soon winter would arrive. Short, cold days buried beneath a white blanket of snow that would hang thick on the branches of every tree and reflect the sun’s rays with such potency as to hurt the eyes just to gaze upon it.

  Gloria had always loved winter at Sheridan Park. Mostly because her husband had preferred to remain in London to oversee his business interests through the day and, as she had discovered after his death, warm the bed of his long-time mistress through the night.

  The irony of which had not been lost on her. He had accused her of infidelity, a charge she did not attempt to cry innocent of. She had loved a man not her husband. A man who should have been her husband if she’d had her way. But her wants and desires had been shoved aside in favor of her parents’ social-climbing ways.

  Her husband had lorded her affair over her for the entirety of their marriage, using it to keep her in place, reminding her always of her weakness and disgraceful behavior for having broken the marriage vows she’d been forced to make. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she had been weak and her actions reprehensible. But even so, all these years later, she did not regret them. Not once. Not for a moment.

  It was that fact that had fuelled Blackbourne’s loathing, she was certain. Yet, he’d done the same with no thought of repercussion.

  Spencer Kingsley, the Earl of Huntsleigh appeared at her side. “Would you care to dance, my lady? I’m afraid my wife has decided she is too tired to partake at the moment and I find myself quite at a loss.”

  Gloria smiled, thankful for the distraction Huntsleigh created. She readily accepted. She could count on him to keep up a stream of chatter peppered with amusing antidotes about everyone present, whether true or only supposition on his part. She simply adored the always charming future marquess. He and Marcus Bowen had been Nicholas’s closest friends for most of his life and had it not been for those two men remaining tethered to her son during his darkest period, she dared not think what the outcome might have been. For that alone, they would always be family to her.

  Huntsleigh leaned down to whisper in her ear as they made their way to the dance floor where partygoers were lining up for one of her favorite country-dances. “A little bird tells me that you have met your new neighbor. Is this true?”

  “A little bird?” She arched one eyebrow and smiled up at Spencer. Though she had tried to downplay the event when mentioning it to Marcus, apparently he had seen past her ruse and in turn passed the information on to his wife. She should have known better. “Does this little bird bear a striking resemblance to my lovely daughter?”

  “Indeed it does, how did you know?”

  “Hm. And yes, to answer your question, I did run into Mr. Arran Sutherland earlier this morning.”

  “Ah, but I believe it is Sir, not Mister. It appears the man has been knighted by the crown for his heroics in battle, much as his father was.”

  The news left her unsettled. She’d had no idea. After their last tryst, she’d not heard from or seen him again. He’d disappeared from her life as if she’d never existed in his. What had happened to him during the thirty odd years he’d been absent? What had he suffered? What were his triumphs? Had he missed her or thought of her at all?

  “I did not know. How wonderful for him.”

  The opportunity to discover more of what Spencer might know came to an abrupt halt as they took their place on the dance floor, joining four other couples for the quadrille. Too late, she discovered her folly.

  “Arran.”

  His name escaped her, too late to call back and attach the proper address of Sir and creating a familiarity that made her blush. But, oh how she loved the sound of his name on her tongue. It came out like a soft breath, a sigh that swept through her entire body.

  “Lady Blackbourne. We meet again.” Though he did not sound pleased over the encounter.

  Her gaze slid to the other couples, Mrs. Farquar and her brother, Jorge. Vicar Ellison and his new wife, Liddy. Had they noticed the coldness in his tone as she had? Her heart ached deep inside her chest.

  “Ah, then you are our new-old-almost neighbor.” Huntsleigh said. The Ellesmere countryseat, which Spencer would eventually inherit, abutted the opposite side of the Sheridan Park lands than the Sutherland estate. “I was most sorry to hear of your brother’s passing. I met the man only once, but I remember I liked him quite well.”

  “I thank you,�
�� Arran said, his voice steady, the deep baritone of it rumbling through her like a thundercloud. “And may I present my niece, Donald’s daughter, Miss Judith Sutherland. My sister had hoped to escort her tonight, but fell ill, so I have been given the honor.” He smiled at his niece and his formal manner struck Gloria as out of place with the wild, reckless young man she had fallen in love with. The man who had convinced her to run off to Gretna Green, leaving everyone and everything she knew far behind.

  She pushed the memory aside and focused on the young lady across from her. She did not stand out in a crowd by any means. Her dress, though well made and of fine material, had been left unadorned of many of the fripperies and frills the other young ladies wore. Her brown hair, though a thick, rich brown that shone in the candlelight had been twisted into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. It was almost as if she did her best not to attract any attention, yet Gloria noted a spark of intelligence in her dark eyes that intrigued her, a reminder that still waters ran deep in the Sutherland family.

  “It is lovely to make your acquaintance, my dear.”

  Miss Sutherland curtsied. “The pleasure is all mine. I must thank you for the kind invitation the Countess of Blackbourne extended to us this day. My family is looking forward to attending your birthday celebrations.”

  Gloria caught her smile before it could falter. Abigail had failed to mention anything about extending an invitation to the Sutherlands. Apparently her determination to breach the divide between their families had been rewarded. Still, she’d done the right thing. It would have been rude not to invite their neighbors.

  “I’m so happy to know you’ve accepted.”

  Though the idea of Arran inside Sheridan House left her unsettled. The last time he’d been there, sneaking in during another such party—

  No. She would not allow her thoughts to drift there. That memory had no place in her life now.

  “I must say, you look quite familiar to me,” Huntsleigh added, squinting at Arran as if the connection he sought could be found hidden in the sharpness of his cheekbones or the sternness of his brow.

  “I seem to be hearing that sentiment a lot of late.”

  Did Huntsleigh see it too? Fear trickled through her like ice water in her veins. She saw it, of course. But she knew to look. It lived around his eyes, in the quirk of his mouth when he began to smile, then caught himself. It dwelled in his gestures, his posture, the way he walked into a room. She had not considered it would be noticeable to others. If so, what would it mean?

  There was no time to deliberate on the implications as Mr. and Mrs. Quinpers and their son and daughter joined them, giving them their six couples for the quadrille and, after hasty introductions were made, the lively music began. The dance passed in a blur, Gloria’s mind working furiously to come to terms with everything that had happened in the short span of a day. The touch of Arran’s hand on her gloved one as they met briefly in the middle only served to muddle her thoughts further. Pleasure shot up her arm and made her skin tingle, but it was the intensity behind his gaze when it dropped to the locket around her neck that brought her heart to a shuddering stop.

  Did he know what she kept there?

  No. How could he?

  Blackbourne had made certain of that, hadn’t he, ensuring the truth never left her lips, or the tip of her pen. Her letter—a letter she’d thought Arran had received and ignored had been confiscated by her husband and destroyed before it ever left the house. Years later, during one of their many horrible arguments, he’d hurled that fact at her, then threatened if she ever wrote another he would destroy her, Arran, and everyone connected to them.

  It had been the same threat he’d used to force her hand into accepting his proposal, promising if she refused him, he would use his power to destroy the Sutherlands, who at the time borrowed heavily, mostly from Blackbourne, to expand their dairy farm. It would take nothing for Blackbourne to call in the loans and destroy them, sending the Sutherlands back from whence they came with nothing more than the clothes on their back. Gloria did not doubt his threats. When Blackbourne wanted something, he did not allow something as small and insignificant as a conscience to get in his way.

  When the dance ended, she made her excuses and escaped the crush to step outside the Assembly Rooms and into the cool autumn air with the hope it would restore her. A part of her rejoiced at having Arran so close at hand once again. For years she had pined, knowing nothing would ever come of it. No matter how hard she wished and hoped, he was gone from her life. Lost forever, or so she had thought. Yet, here he was. Returned.

  But while one part of her rejoiced, another wept. This Arran was not the young man she had given her love to. This was a man who had weathered the storms of life and been hardened by them. How deep did the scars go? Had the man she’d loved been lost forever by the circumstances he’d lived through? Had the years changed and altered him to such a drastic degree they’d erased all the attributes she’d fallen in love with?

  She shook her head and her shoulders drooped. It hardly mattered in the end, did it? His contempt for her was obvious. Any hope that had sprung up upon laying eyes on him earlier was dashed by his cold and brusque manner.

  Had the feelings they shared been nothing more than the fleeting infatuation of young love?

  No. She refused to believe that. She had loved. Completely and ardently. And forever. It was his memory she’d clung to during the long, bitter years of her marriage to Blackbourne. It was his face she saw whenever she closed her eyes in search of a small moment of happiness. The reminiscence of his touch, his body covering hers, filling her, were the things that had sustained her when she thought she could not bear another day.

  “Glory?”

  She spun on her heel, her breath lodged in her throat as the phantom of her thoughts materialized in front of her. She said nothing, unsure. If she chose wrongly he might disappear back into the crowded rooms.

  He took a step toward her, not stopping until he was close enough to touch. Oh, how she wanted to touch him! She curled her fingers into her palm, then hugged herself tight. For a moment, silence reigned and they simply stood, looking at each other. Into each other.

  What did he see? Regret? Despair? Hope? If only she possessed the ability to close her emotions off, keep them from her expression as he did.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked, attempting vainly to distract her thoughts from where they headed.

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward before he regained control of it. “As much as one can at such things. Judith and Patience are pleased with the outing, for that I am grateful. They are with Lady Huntsleigh at the moment.”

  She smiled at the affection in his voice when he mentioned his nieces. “I am happy they came. I look forward to getting to know them. I’m afraid I never had the opportunity to meet Judith before this evening.” Blackbourne had forbidden all interaction between her and the Sutherlands.

  “Hm,” was his only response.

  She opened her mouth to explain, but stopped. The time for explanations in that regard had come and gone and she couldn’t find the words to start anew, to make him understand that she had tried. “Will you and Mrs. Sutherland be attending my birthday party?” Abigail had indicated she’d not met his wife during her visit, nor had her name been mentioned during conversation. Curious.

  He left the question unanswered, instead surprising her by reaching out, his fingertips lightly brushing the line of her jaw. His brow furrowed, but whatever thoughts went through his head were not revealed on his features. Rivulets of pleasure rushed through her and it took every inch of her will to keep from turning into his touch.

  Just as well. He pulled his hand away, as if it had acted independently of the rest of him and surprised them both equally with its recalcitrant behavior.

  “You’re still very beautiful.” He said, tilting his head to one side and studying her, the two lines between his eyebrows deepening. A blush heated her cheeks beneath his inte
nse scrutiny. “I wondered sometimes—”

  He stopped and shook his head, as if to dislodge whatever thought he had been about to share with her. Still, the words lingered. I wondered sometimes. Had he? As much as she had of him? Daily? More?

  His gaze dropped to her chest and he lifted the locket up for closer inspection, resting it in the palm of his hand. How she remembered the feel of those hands upon her skin. Strong and calloused. Despite his family’s wealth, Douglas Sutherland did not allow his sons to be idle. How she longed to feel their strength once again, to know the power and safety of his embrace.

  She closed her eyes. Having him gone from her life had been a never-ending trial. Having him back in it, without the benefit of how they used to be, agony. She could not say which was worse.

  “You still wear this.” Though framed as a statement, she heard the question lurking behind it. What did she say? Yes, it reminds me that I was loved, once. The memory of you—of us—sustains me.

  Did she dare be so bold?

  She took a deep breath and tried to find her courage, but years of protecting Arran, of fearing what would happen if the truth were released, stayed her tongue.

  “I still wear it.” It would have to be enough.

  The muscle of his jaw twitched. Was that uncertainty in the deep cobalt blue of his eyes? If so, it lasted only a heartbeat before it disappeared. Perhaps she had only seen what she wished to. A trick of the moon, spurred on by the stars and her silly heart.

  “It opens, if I recall.”

  He pressed a thumb against the clasp, but she stopped him, covering his hand with hers. Warmth spread through her, torturous and delightful. Her heart pounded against her ribs. He gave her a questioning look. A silent request. She acquiesced and released his hand. Her breath caught in her throat as he pushed against the clasp and revealed its secrets. His thumb brushed against the contents with a light touch.

  “It’s a lock of hair,” she said. “Nicholas’s.”

  He gave no indication he’d heard her, only continued to stare at the inky lock of hair curled into the silver heart-shaped interior. Try as she might, she could not read his expression. After a quiet moment, he closed the locket and set it gently back in place. He took a step back, away from her. The small distance created became a chasm, every bit as deep as it was wide.