Regarding her suspiciously, he slowly leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. She could almost see his mind clicking through the myriad reasons he did not want her to go to the Park merely to see a portrait. “Very well,” he snapped at last. “If you think you must see this portrait, I shall take you. But I think you should plan to stay at the Park. If Adrian comes for you, I shouldn’t want him to find you here alone, not like this.”
Like this. Did he mean heartbroken? Confused as to how people born of the same flesh and blood could be so cruel to one another? Or revolted by his eagerness to see an end to her marriage? “He won’t come for me, I can assure you,” she replied in all honesty. “Nonetheless, I must see that portrait.”
Benedict frowned, leaning forward again. “Whatever you think you may find, Lillie, it won’t be enough. I tried to warn you about him. He can’t be trusted, and he will only hurt you in the end. You should accept the fact that it is over,” he whispered gravely.
“The portrait, Benedict,” she muttered in response.
Throughout the drive to the Park, Benedict did his damnedest to convince her that she had lost Adrian, continuing his attempts all the way into the long hall that served as the family portrait gallery. But Lilliana ignored him. She was too engrossed in her search of the portraits and feared—not finding it right away—that she might have been wrong. But she hadn’t imagined it! Frantic, she walked up and down the long gallery, halting abruptly when she found it.
It was much smaller than she remembered. The oils had darkened with time, so the image of the man was not as vivid as she recalled. But it was him. Standing with one foot propped on a wrought-iron bench, one arm draped carelessly across that leg, holding a riding crop. Bold and proud, his sandy-brown hair was swept back and tied at the nape, and his hazel eyes seemed to pierce through her.
The very image of Adrian: his face, his shoulders, his hands. Adrian was the embodiment of his grandfather—his paternal grandfather.
Everything fell into place now; everything she had suspected and verified the last two days was painted on a canvas before her. She gazed up at the portrait, wondering why Adrian had never noticed the resemblance. But he had been young when his mother died, sent away so soon after that. And certainly no one here had pointed it out to him. She tried to imagine him walking up and down this hall, studying the paintings, but she realized he must have kept hidden away as a boy, fearing abuse, and then as he grew older—
“What in the hell is going on here?”
Lilliana turned calmly toward the sound of Lord Kealing’s voice. Amazingly, she was actually looking forward to this moment. “Good afternoon, Lord Kealing,” she said impassively.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his eyes slicing across Benedict, who seemed to shrink beside her.
“I asked Lord Benedict to bring me here,” she said matter-of-factly, “There was a portrait I very much wanted to see.”
Lord Kealing’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Apparently, then, you’ve seen it. Benedict, take her back to wherever you found her,” he snapped, and turned on his heel, prepared to march out the door.
“I noticed the resemblance of your father to one of your sons,” she called after him.
Lord Kealing stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to face her, his gaze searing her with rancor. “Benedict,” he snapped, “leave us.”
“But Father—”
“Leave us!” he bellowed.
Like a puppet on a string, Benedict jumped; he glanced nervously at Lilliana. “I shall wait for you in the drawing room,” he murmured, and quickly walked away.
Lilliana lifted her chin as he fled the hall and returned Lord Kealing’s steady gaze. Funny, but he did not frighten her. Instinctively, she suspected he was as much a coward as Benedict was. “As I was saying, my lord, your son Adrian bears a strong resemblance to your very own father, wouldn’t you agree?”
Not deigning to look at the portrait to which she pointed, he folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want?” he growled.
Without hesitation, she replied, “I want you to tell your son the truth.”
Lord Kealing smirked, his gaze raking across her as if she was so much garbage. “You are a ridiculously pathetic creature,” he sneered. “That portrait was painted posthumously. Of course it looks like him—who do you think the artist used as a model?”
Lilliana faltered and glanced at the portrait. Lord Kealing chuckled ominously. “You must think yourself particularly bright. Tell me, did he send you here? Does he send his hapless little wife to beg for him now?” he scoffed. “Get out before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.” With that, he turned, walking away from her.
Lilliana grabbed her reticule and hastily snatched a folded parchment from it. “You might be interested in this, my lord!” she called after him, and held the parchment up. But Lord Kealing continued walking, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Lilliana fumbled to open it. “ ‘My dearest Allison …’ ”
Lord Kealing stopped; he turned, glancing over his shoulder with such a look of hatred that she could not help but shudder. “You are a fool,” he breathed.
———
It was well past nightfall by the time Julian reached Longbridge, having stayed a little too long to share a pint or two with the cheerful wife of the shopkeeper in Kealing. The mansion was completely dark save a dim light at the far end of the west wing, but Julian stubbornly knocked a third time, refusing to believe that he might have to sleep under the blasted stars. No one answered. How very splendid, he thought wearily, and walked down the front steps, wondering just what he would do now.
The door suddenly opened behind him. Julian jerked around; in the thin light of a single candle stood Max. “Lord Kettering?” he exclaimed, clearly surprised.
“Max! Thank God!” Grinning with relief, Julian bounded up the steps. “I have surmised Albright is away, but I am hoping you might see your way into allowing me a place for the night,” he said, and clapping the butler on the shoulder, pushed past him into the foyer.
Max quickly shut the door. “He is not away, my lord,” he anxiously whispered as his eyes darted to the corridor on his right. “But I daresay he was not expecting callers. Of any kind.”
“Unfortunately, I was given some rather faulty directions from a simpleton in Whitten, and as I found myself in the middle of nowhere, I thought to beg for mercy from my old friend. He is here, then? Has he retired?”
“No, my lord,” Max said, looking very uneasy. “He is where he has been for almost two days. In the gold salon,” he muttered, and motioned frenetically toward the east wing.
In the gold salon for two days? That didn’t sound like Adrian, but then again, nothing much about Adrian seemed familiar anymore. A vague, dull sense of panic seized Julian—an image of Phillip popped into his head, an image of a dear friend whose spirit had been lost to this world while his body continued to function. He tried to shove it aside, tried to tell himself he was being ridiculously sentimental, but started quickly after Max all the same.
As he stepped across the threshold of the gold salon, Julian’s eyes needed a moment to adjust to the weak light of a single candle. Adrian sat in a chair near the cold hearth, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his chin cupped in the other. Max looked at Julian helplessly before stepping out of the room. Frightened by the dismal scene, Julian strode toward his friend. “What in blazes is the matter with you?” he asked, his voice booming in the silence.
“God, Kettering, do you ever send a note ahead?” Adrian asked apathetically. Julian snorted his response to that and began fishing around for a light. He found a three-pronged candelabrum and strode to Adrian’s side, using his single candle to light it.
When he was satisfied there was sufficient light, he glared down at Adrian with his hands on his hips. “Are you ill? I certainly hope that you are, because I cannot imagine what could be ailing you if it is not some horrid malady.”
�
��I would that I was so fortunate,” Adrian muttered, and lifting the whiskey to his mouth, took a long drink. With a disgusted roll of his eyes, Julian stalked to the sideboard and helped himself to a whiskey. “Bring the bottle, will you?” Adrian mumbled.
Julian pretended not to hear that, and returned to the hearth, falling heavily into a chair next to Adrian. He peered at his friend, his frown growing deeper. “What in God’s name has come over you?” he demanded.
Adrian shrugged.
Julian bristled with fear and indignation all at once. “Look here, man, I thought things bad enough a few days ago, but this is ridiculous. Look at you! How much whiskey have you drunk?”
Adrian slid a cool gaze to him. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t recall you were delivering a sermon here this evening. “
The look in his eyes struck a chord of fear in Julian—it reminded him of Phillip! The last few evenings of his life Phillip had had the same desperate glint in his eyes, the look of a man who was drowning. A deep-seated panic he had never before felt propelled Julian forward. Fumbling for his spectacles, he shoved them onto his nose and peered at Adrian. “What is it, Albright?” he asked earnestly. “This is so unlike you—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Adrian groaned, closing his eyes. “Please don’t attempt to mother me, Kettering. It doesn’t suit you in the least!” He stood abruptly, moving unevenly toward the sideboard, and filled his glass to the brim.
Just like Phillip used to do.
The dull panic took a painful hold—Julian frantically tried to assure himself that Adrian wasn’t the same man as Phillip had been, but he could not dismiss the guilt of having seen the signs of self-destruction and not doing enough about it. As hard as he tried to force the bitter memory down, he could not. The fact of the matter was that he had seen Phillip’s despair, but did not do all that he could—for a lot of reasons, true—but not all that he could do, and look what had happened. Perhaps he was reading more into Adrian’s demeanor than was there, but if there was any chance, the slimmest of chances, Julian could not allow the same thing to happen to Adrian. Lord God, never to Adrian.
“What are you doing to yourself? It is her? Is she doing this to you?” he suddenly demanded, surprised by the anger in his voice.
Adrian laughed bitterly. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? The Earl of Albright, done in by a woman in the end. Christ, how terribly amusing.” He chuckled darkly before tossing back half of the whiskey he held.
“Adrian!” Julian implored him. “I don’t know what has gone on here, but it can’t be worth this,” he said, sweeping his arm mindlessly to the side. “Would you destroy yourself over a woman?”
Adrian chuckled, “I should warn you, you are beginning to sound like Arthur.”
That stung. Julian hesitated, hiding behind a gulp of the whiskey he had poured. Whatever had happened between Lord and Lady Albright was none of his affair. He had said what he could but he could not force Adrian to listen. Yet he had made a vow. All right, but Adrian was not Phillip; he was not going to come up with some ludicrous way to kill himself. Phillip had been plagued by debt—a woman plagued Adrian. The two were hardly the same! Yet Julian could not suppress the sense of uneasiness. He had never seen Adrian look so gaunt, so haunted … this man was their leader, the one among them who was never intimidated. Nothing bothered this man.
Oh, but he was bothered. He was absolutely possessed.
Woman or no, Julian shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment. What in the hell could he say to convince him? “Don’t squander it,” he blurted helplessly, and opened his eyes. The glass froze halfway to Adrian’s mouth as he slowly turned toward him with a look of confusion in his eyes. “Don’t squander your life!” Julian said again.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Adrian scoffed. “I’ve had a bit too much drink, that’s all! Certainly you should know the signs, Kettering. God knows you have fallen into your cups a time or two.”
True, but he was not Earl Albright, the original Rogue of Regent Street. “Remember Phillip,” he muttered helplessly.
Adrian’s wince was painful, and he quickly looked away. “Have a care, Kettering,” he growled through clenched teeth.
It was too late for that—he had already opened his mouth. Julian suddenly leaned forward. “Don’t you see? Phillip let it destroy him—don’t let it destroy you, Adrian. You can survive this, whatever it is. Just go to Kealing and fetch her.”
Adrian’s head jerked up; his gaze riveted on Julian. “Kealing?”
Julian anxiously waved a hand in the direction of the door. “A quick trip to the inn—throw her on the back of your horse if you must, but just go and fetch her.”
Adrian sagged deep into the leather. “Kealing,” he muttered under his breath.
Julian left early the next morning. Embarrassed at having been found so incredibly intoxicated, Adrian could hardly look his friend in the eye as he mumbled a faint apology. Seemingly just as embarrassed, Julian nodded curtly, lifted his hand, and departed without another word. Adrian watched him until he could no longer see horse and rider, then began walking to no particular destination. Just moving.
If he kept moving, maybe he wouldn’t have to think.
Unfortunately, he could not help but think. Kealing. She had gone to Kealing when she had said she was off to the Grange. He suddenly remembered that the Dashells weren’t due until next week. She had lied to him, and he could think of only one reason why she would lie to him.
Benedict.
She had gone to Benedict, whether to consult him or feel his arms around her, he did not know or care. It mattered only that she had gone, had abandoned him for that sniveling bastard.
A sharp pain suddenly stabbed at the back of his eyes, and Adrian stumbled into the gardens. He had lost everything to Benedict, all that he was. Kealing Park, Archie … What was he thinking? Those things didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but Liliiana. He had lost the most precious part of his life. Wincing at another stab of pain, Adrian squeezed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. It always ended the same no matter what he did or achieved, Benedict always won in the end.
Adrian paused, blinking rapidly at the pain. He glanced upward, saw the cords strung along the walkways, cords she had strung for him so that he could walk freely despite his blindness. So that he might live again.
The pain suddenly blinded him, and Adrian went down on his knees. The wetness on his skin scared him, and he frantically lifted his hands to his face. What in the hell was this? His tongue darted across his lips, tasting the saltiness. God in heaven, these were tears! He had not produced tears since the day his mother had died, not once in all those twenty years, not even when he had been blinded. But these were tears, leaking from his heart and through his blind, blind eyes.
“Lilliana,” he gasped, and squeezing his eyes shut, he wrapped his arms around his middle, fearing that he might also be sick. Lilliana, Lilliana, don’t leave me, never leave me. Holding himself tightly, Adrian rocked back and forth, the irrefutable proof that he had a heart slipping from his eyes and sliding down his cheeks. His gut churned with nausea, every breath contracted painfully around his chest. All these years he had thought it was Kealing Park he wanted. But it wasn’t Kealing Park; it was her, the Princess of the Grange, the little demon who made him laugh, the vibrant angel capable of such incredible compassion and worldly pleasures. He wanted her. He loved her. Finally he understood what had been eating at him, destroying him bit by bit—he had lost the one thing on God’s green earth that mattered. Not Kealing Park, not his father. Lilliana.
Adrian threw his head back and looked heavenward, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. “Show me mercy, Lord,” he groaned. “Show me mercy once more, and I swear on Phillip’s grave I shall never squander it again.”
He waited, almost breathlessly. But the heavens did not open up and strike him with a bolt of kindness and mercy.
And Adrian doubled over with grief.
>
Twenty-three
LILLIANA HAD NEVER felt so exhausted in all her life. Or sick—her pregnancy seemed to keep her constantly nauseated. She trudged up the stairs of the Kealing Inn, using the railing to pull herself up to each step. When she reached the first floor, she walked slowly down the narrow hallway, believing that her heavy heart actually dragged on the floor. She desperately hoped Polly had gone to the public rooms as she had no desire to speak of the events at Kealing Park.
When she reached the door of her room, Lilliana took a deep breath and prepared to endure Polly’s disapproving questions. She walked inside, tossed her gloves and reticule on a chair, and lifted her arms to remove her bonnet. As she was quite certain Polly would come barreling out of the adjoining rooms at any moment, she was hardly surprised when she heard the woman’s heavy footfall behind her. Lilliana lifted the bonnet from her head and smoothed her hair into place before turning around.
He caught her completely by surprise, but she was too tired, too emotionally spent, too ill, for Adrian’s presence to do anything but register mild alarm. Leaning against the doorframe with one leg crossed negligibly over the other, his arms folded tightly across his chest, he looked impossibly handsome and proud … and angry. Lilliana wearily tossed her bonnet onto the chair and attempted a halfhearted smile. He did not even blink, but locked his glittering gaze with hers. She waited for him to speak; when he showed no inclination of doing so, she asked simply, “How did you find me?”
“Kettering,” he answered without hesitation. “Passed through Kealing yesterday and saw you. I was fortunate enough to find Bertram wandering about, peering in shop windows. Seems he is rather bored,” he said idly.
Lilliana nodded.
Adrian pushed away from the door and moved into the middle of the room, his arms still folded defensively across his chest, his eyes blazing with a curious glint of anger and trepidation. “Mrs. Dismuke has packed your things. I hope you have taken your tender leave of Benedict, because I am sending you home to collect your belongings.”
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