“Oh, Adrian! He believed he was forced into marrying her, and he could never quite forgive her for it,” she said sadly.
Furious, Adrian jerked his head up. “His disdain for me!” he all but shouted. “I am his son!”
Allison blinked with surprise. “Of course you are his son. How could you think differently?”
“What in the bloody hell was I supposed to think?” he roared. “My father despised me from the moment I was born!”
“Oh no,” she said softly. “Oh no, Adrian! You are his son!” she insisted.
“Then tell me why.”
Her gaze slipped away from his. “I can’t explain why, precisely. But he never forgave Evelyn, and he never stopped caring for me. I suppose all of it, wrapped up together—”
“That’s not good enough,” he said angrily. “He got another son on her, a son he loves dearly—”
“No,” she quietly interjected.
No? Speechless, Adrian gaped at her as myriad doubts about everything that he had ever known rifled through his brain. “Wh-what do you mean by that?” he stammered.
“Please, allow me to say it all, because I fear I shall never be able to speak of it again. I was sent to London, but I complained to my father. I thought it horribly unfair that I was the one to be punished for Evelyn’s … indiscretion. So Father sent me to Venice as the companion of two young girls, where I was quite miserable. A few years passed, and I finally came home of my own volition, sick to death of being hidden away. My father was furious—he was frightened to death of scandal and did not want me anywhere near this parish. But I still loved Archibald. And I was terribly angry with Evelyn. I felt betrayed … robbed of a happiness that should have been mine. I defied my father and took a small house near Kealing Park and changed my name.
“It wasn’t long before Archibald learned of my presence and came to me. It was obvious that the esteem we held for each other was still quite strong. Oh God, how ashamed I am to tell you these things!” she suddenly cried. Reluctantly, she looked him squarely in the eye. “It wasn’t long thereafter that I discovered I was carrying your father’s child.”
Adrian was incapable of speaking. He was incapable of breathing. He had another sibling; another child of Archie’s lived somewhere.
“Archibald was enthralled, but I was terribly frightened. An illicit affair was one thing—I wanted to hurt my sister as much as I wanted to love the man who should have been my husband! But a child … a child was such an enormous responsibility—and to be born out of wedlock! But Archibald was ecstatically happy—he called the baby his love child and doted on him from the moment he could hold him in his arms.”
Adrian gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his hands were hurting. “Where is he now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Allison closed her eyes. “He is Benedict,” she whispered.
The room began to spin; Adrian lurched forward and buried his face in his hands. An eddy of deep-seated pain churned ruthlessly in him, and he unconsciously released a moan. He heard Allison’s choked cry, felt her hand on his head.
“Oh my dear, I would not hurt you for all the world, you must believe me! But it is high time you knew these things, and if what your wife tells me is true—”
“What more?” he blurted angrily, lifting his head. “What more is there?”
She withdrew her hand. “Archibald wanted his son to have the best of everything, to be raised in the bosom of his family home. I fought him as best I could, but I was powerless against him. He stole my son from me. That is when he began to treat Evelyn with such terrible hatred. It happened that I knew one of the maids at the Park—my resemblance to Evelyn was apparently unnoticed—and she spoke freely of the goings-on there. She told me everything—the horrible things he said to her, the way he treated you. When I tried to speak with Archibald about it, he became very angry. It was his belief that she deserved all that he could give her for having ruined his life. I never knew he could be so cruel! I began to despise him for it. The more I understood how shallow and cruel he was, the stronger his tendency toward abuse turned on me.”
Allison labored to rise from her chair and walked to the small window in the room. “After a time, he stopped coming. I wrote him, begging him to bring Benedict to me, but he would not let me see my son. I suppose Evelyn must have found the letters, because it was she who arranged to meet Father in Cambridge, and begged him to bring me along. I remember every moment of that day. It was the first time I had seen my son in two years, and it was the first time I knew that Evelyn loved him as her own.
“After that, just a few years passed before Evelyn died. I received a letter from her shortly before she died, in which she explained everything. My sister died of a broken heart for having betrayed me—something Archibald would not let her forget a single moment of her young life. When she died, Benedict was lost to me forever too. I was terribly despondent. Father settled a small stipend on me with the understanding that I would remain here, under an assumed identity. I had no one … I don’t know how I survived the years that passed before I found William. He knows everything, of course, and loves me just the same. And I swear to you, I never would have told another living soul if Lady Albright had not convinced me it was necessary for your happiness and, ultimately, the child she carries.”
Those words kicked him squarely in the gut. Astounded, Adrian felt something snap inside, and his heart surged to his throat, choking him. The child she carries … In shock, he stared at Allison’s back. A child. A child? Never in his wildest imagination could he have conjured up something so fantastic. A sharp pain jabbed at the back of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut as he tried to fathom it all. The startling revelation of his birth, of Benedict’s birth. Of the child she carries! And then the inevitable image in his mind’s eye he could not suppress, the image of the ogre who had done this to all of them.
Archie.
He declined the offer of tea, anxious to get away from the little cottage that had turned him inside out. He thanked her for her honesty, promised to call again soon, and strode out the door.
He rode dangerously, taking the crow’s path to Kealing Park. He pushed Thunder as his mind unraveled all that he had ever been, revealing the brittle foundation, brick by crumbling brick. The well of hate that sprang in him now shook him to the core. Archie had stolen everything from him—his mother, his heritage, his sense of who he was. And he had given it all to Benedict, his bastard son. His bloody love child. And how frighteningly close he and Benedict had come to repeating his mother’s doomed history made Adrian queasy. He couldn’t think of that, not yet. He first had to attend to some unfinished business.
The windows were ablaze with light at Kealing Park, and as Adrian stood in the drive he was somewhat amazed that the desire to have this home no longer burned in him. No, at this moment he rather preferred Longbridge, where at least there was a measure of peace. But not here. This house had never known a peaceful day in its life.
He walked up to the door and lifted the brass knocker, rapping loudly. A few moments later the door was opened by Peters, the butler who had served his family since Adrian could remember. He frowned when Peters’s face fell, and before the butler could react he pushed past him. “Where is my father?” he demanded curtly.
Peters looked terribly pained and glanced sheepishly toward the front hall. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am under strict instructions—”
Adrian did not wait for him to finish but abruptly headed down the long corridor to the main drawing room. He rather suspected Archie and Ben were having a glass of port and a friendly chat about all the magnificent things they could do to Kealing Park, his rightful inheritance. When he reached the double oak doors, he flung them open and strode across the threshold.
Archie was alone and shoved to his feet, spilling the book on his lap onto the floor. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Adrian smiled dangerously as he clasped his hands
behind his back. “I think you know very well, Father. It appears there have been some details of my past that have been … lacking.”
The blood drained from Archie’s face. “She has told you then. That wife of yours is a high-and-mighty miss—the two of you deserve each other. All right, so you know. Whatever you may do, do it to me. But I beg of you, do not ruin Benedict.”
Adrian’s pulse soared to dangerous heights. “Do not ruin Benedict?” he shouted. “After what you have done to me, you would ask that I protect him?”
Archie fell into his chair. “Benedict is my true son, no matter what you will say to me. I love him. I cannot bear to see him dishonored,” he mumbled helplessly.
He might as well have pierced Adrian’s heart with a bloody arrow—his words squeezed the very life from him, made him fight for breath as he gaped at the father who had allowed a son to believe he was a bastard. “I am your son! I am your rightful heir!” he roared.
Archie shook his head, still unable to look at him. “You are her son.” In disbelief, Adrian stalked to where his father sat. “All these years you allowed me to believe I was a bastard. How in the hell could you be so cruel?” he demanded.
“You have no idea the suffering I have endured because of you! I loved Allison; I would have married her! But Evelyn—that girl seduced me and forced me into marriage because of you! She ruined my life!” he cried, “You ruined my life!”
Dumbfounded, Adrian was absolutely incapable of speech. Lord knew he despised his father, but he had never thought him so … pathetic. “She was sixteen,” he heard himself say. “You were what, two and twenty? Would you have me believe a sixteen-year-old innocent overpowered you and forced you to fornicate?” he demanded harshly.
Archie colored. He suddenly sprang from his chair and moved unsteadily to the hearth. “She was a wanton, taunting me with her body and her eyes,” he spat.
Fighting the urge to strangle the foul breath from Archie’s lungs, Adrian snapped, “You have done me a grave disservice, my lord. I have all the necessary proof I need that you have attempted to ruin me without cause. I could drag you through the courts—you are aware of that, I presume?”
Archie’s eyes widened with fear. “What do you want? Tell me what you want, and I will give it to you,” he pleaded.
What he wanted, had wanted all his life, was no longer relevant. The monumental struggle to be accepted, the many ways he had desperately sought this man’s approval, now seemed like some macabre joke to him. It was almost a relief—at the very least his indiscretions and mistakes over the years, including Phillip’s death, had never amounted to the cowardice and irresponsibility embodied in the man standing before him now. It seemed to Adrian, in this clarifying moment, that what he had really ever wanted was Archie’s attention. But no more. He never wanted even to look at him again.
Unnerved by his silence, Archie took a step forward. “Just tell me what you want and it is yours, but I am begging you, do not dishonor your brother,” he pleaded.
“You mean my bastard brother, don’t you?” Adrian asked, then smirked when Archie’s face turned almost gray. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said, almost amicably. “I want my rightful inheritance restored to me. I want you to rescind the papers that have labeled me a scoundrel in so many words. And naturally I want you to drop your ridiculous suit to hold Longbridge in trust. In exchange for that, I will keep your dirty little secret.”
Archie nodded quickly. “Anything,” he said. “I will have the papers drawn up and sent to Longbridge without delay.”
Disgusted, Adrian turned on his heel and strode across the room, anxious to be gone before his blood turned sour. But … there was one last thing. He turned sharply to face his father for the last time. “There is one more thing,” he said quietly. “You must tell Benedict.”
“Tell me what?”
Both men jerked around; Benedict had stepped into the room unnoticed, was standing just at the door, looking like a frightened boy. “Tell me what?” he asked again, his voice quivering.
Adrian shifted his gaze to Archie, whose pallor suggested he would be ill at any moment. “Tell him about his mother,” he said, and without another word walked out of that room, leaving Benedict regarding Archie with grave curiosity.
Twenty-four
HE PRAYED FOR a full moon and rode through the night to Longbridge, unconcerned with the inherent dangers. He refused to allow himself to dwell on the question of whether he was too late, which left him to struggle with his enormous burden of guilt. He was drowning in a sea of confusion; he had accused of every perfidy the one person who could toss him the lifeline he so desperately needed, and then had banished her from his life. Just as Archie had once banished him.
He had sunk to a new, unfathomable low—he had no idea how to climb out of the abyss he had fallen into. But, oh God, he loved her—and it was almost beyond his ability to comprehend why that was so bloody difficult for him.
It occurred to him on that wild moonlit ride that he wanted nothing more than to be like the Princess of the Grange. With all his heart he wanted to illuminate the world around him as she did, to trust as she did, to believe as she did. But he couldn’t do it alone; the only thing he knew with certainty was that he was frightened unto death with the prospect of losing her. For a man who had never needed anyone, he needed that parish princess with all the desperation of a dying man. The irony was not lost on him—all his life he had been careful not to form attachments of any kind, convinced he would lose in the end. Well, he was losing. Badly and completely.
Frankly, he had been losing all his life. It was crystal clear to him now—how terribly prophetic he had been, crediting the painful losses in his life to his uncanny knack for destroying those he cared about. Now he could plainly see that the destruction had come not because he cared too much—but because he didn’t care enough.
His mother, well, he had lost her before he ever understood what caring meant. His father had never been his to lose. But there was Phillip—he hadn’t cared enough to look past the deterioration of that man’s spirit, had allowed himself to believe that Phillip was a grown man and capable of taking care of himself. Phillip had no one, really, to whom he could turn, no one who truly cared. And he had let Phillip slip, numb to the signs of despair.
And what of Benedict? His brother had done unspeakable harm to his marriage by lying to them both and forcing the wedge of suspicion between them. As much as it troubled him to think of his traitorous brother, he could not help wondering what course their lives might have taken if he had just shown Benedict how much he cared for him. And he had cared once, somewhere deep down where the affection had festered like a disease until it had eaten through his heart and destroyed whatever relationship they might have had. For all his weaknesses, Benedict was what Archie had made him. In fairness, Adrian could not hold that against him. If only he had taken a greater interest in his brother, if only he had tried to love him. That was what Benedict had needed from him.
Which was precisely what he would write to Ben, along with the promise of an annuity and a hope that things might one day be reconciled between them. And he would send another letter to the little cottage near Fairlington, thanking his lady aunt for her honesty and requesting that she and Mr. Fletcher join them soon at Longbridge. He had lost his mother, but he would not lose his aunt, not now, not when he needed her to help him through the quagmire that was suddenly his life.
Which left him with the most gaping wound—the seemingly impassable gulf that spread between him and Lilliana, hopeless to span. It was his fault. Regardless of what Benedict had done, it was he who had at first ignored her, then looked for something to distrust. She had saved his sorry life, and for that he had accused her of loving Benedict.
Ah, yes, he was indeed a desperate man. As hard as it was for him, he was willing to flay himself open to her inspection, show her the ugly madness that had caused him to accuse her, the deep shadows and cobwebs that surrounded his he
art. He would do anything for that woman, he grimly realized; he would lay down his life for Princess Lillie of the Grange if that would bridge the gulf. Because without her, he was hopeless—a veritable dead man.
He needed her to save him.
The sun was beginning to show itself on the horizon, and Lilliana spread her hands across her abdomen as she gazed out her window over the gardens for the last time. For once her belly was calm, but the illness in her heart and mind churned with confusion. How could she possibly leave this way? What should she do, leave a note behind to tell him she was carrying his child? Since that awful encounter in Kealing she had been torn between the responsibility of carrying his child and the deep hurt that urged her to leave.
Her dilemma was simple: If Adrian Spence needed anything, it was his own child to hold, his own flesh and blood to draw the love from that wretched heart of his. But neither could she live without the life she carried in her womb. And she couldn’t live with Adrian.
Lilliana sank onto the cushioned window seat and pressed her forehead against the cool panes of glass. She had long forgotten her anger; the fury had been replaced with a deep despair. After all she had been through, the thought of losing him forever was far more painful than the shallow reasons for his lying to her. He had been distrustful of her, but what could she expect? After the life he had led, it was a wonder he had not tossed her out altogether with his suspicions. Unfortunately, she had no hope that he would ever change.
He was such a sad figure of a man, really, and not the dashing young earl with whom she had been so enamored. How empty his lonely life must have been—devoid of true human companionship, of love. His father had laid the foundation upon which Adrian had built an impenetrable wall around him, and that single inability to allow someone into his heart was what had created the deep chasm between them. She felt helpless standing on this side of the chasm, desperate to reach him in some way but hopeless to bridge the gap. He might as well be standing on the other side of the world.
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