by Mary Balogh
THE DUKE OF RIDGEWAY watched his daughter leave the group with her governess and make for the stables and her puppy. And he wished that he could go with them, take the dog out into the paddock, and romp with it and with them for half an hour.
But he had Lady Underwood on his arm, and the Grantshams were engaging them in conversation.
The picnic, he thought, had gone well enough. Sybil had been alarmed at his announcement that Pamela was to be taken, and had looked defiant when he had reminded her of a broken promise to allow the child to come down to see the ladies on the day of their arrival.
But she would not have to worry about having to look after her daughter, he had told her. Her governess would do that—at Pamela’s own request.
Pamela had been in the highest of good spirits and had been made much of by all the ladies and by a few of the gentlemen too. She had grown flushed and loud by the time they had reached the ruins, but Fleur had taken her quietly by the hand, whispered something in her ear, and taken her to see the inside of the tower—Sir Ambrose Marvell had followed them there.
Fleur herself had succeeded in staying in the background the whole of the afternoon and had assisted in the serving of the picnic food at his wife’s request. She had made no objection at being treated like a menial servant. Indeed, he had thought, she was probably glad of something to do.
And so they were home, and if he were fortunate he would have a few quiet hours to himself before dinner—unless Lady Underwood contrived to keep him in her company, that was. They made a rather noisy entry into the hall. Jarvis was waiting for him there and bowing before him.
“You have visitors in the saloon, your grace,” he said.
The duke sighed inwardly. Who would be calling at this hour of the afternoon? He hoped it was no one who would linger. He turned to make his excuses to Lady Underwood and strode toward the saloon.
“Visitors?” he heard his wife say in her light, pleasant voice. She had been in the best of spirits all afternoon, Shaw dancing attendance on her every movement.
The duke stopped inside the doorway of the saloon and clasped his hands at his back. Strangely, he did not feel particularly surprised, he thought, taking in the bronzed good looks of his brother, his fashionable clothes, his smile. He had surely always known that Thomas would come back.
“You look as if a feather could knock you backward, Adam,” Lord Thomas Kent said. “Have you no welcome for me?”
“Thomas.” The duke extended his hand and strode toward his half-brother. “Welcome home.”
Lord Thomas was smiling, but his eyes moved beyond the duke’s shoulder as he took his hand.
“Thomas.” The word was whispered, but it filled the saloon.
Lord Thomas’ grasp loosened on his grace’s hand and his gaze fixed on the figure in the doorway. “Sybil,” he said, and his eyes and his smile softened. He moved toward her, both hands outstretched. “How beautiful you look.”
“Thomas,” she whispered again, and her small white hands disappeared into his bronze grasp.
“Sybil,” he said quietly. “I have come home.” Then he turned his head, smiling. “Do you know Bradshaw?” he asked his brother. “Matthew Bradshaw, Lord Brocklehurst, of Heron House in Wiltshire? He was the first friend to call on me after my return from India. And he helped persuade me that I should come all the way home. I have brought him with me for a few weeks.”
His grace shook hands with Lord Brocklehurst. “You are welcome,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Brocklehurst.”
“India?” the duchess was saying, her large blue eyes fixed on her brother-in-law, her hands still clasped in his. “You have been in India, Thomas?”
“Yes,” he said, “with the East India Company. I came back to see if jolly old England was still in the same place. So you are the Duchess of Ridgeway after all, Sybil?” He squeezed her hands before releasing them.
“In India,” she said. “All this time?” And she began to cough.
“I’ll escort you to your room, Sybil,” his grace said, taking in her pallor and the spots of color high on her cheeks. “The afternoon’s outing has been exhausting for you.”
Surprisingly, she took his arm without argument and went with him after he had directed his half-brother to entertain their guest until dinner.
She said nothing as he led her along the hallways to her sitting room and rang the bell for her maid. She just held her shoulders back and stared blankly ahead of her, occasionally coughing.
“Armitage,” she said when her maid came into the room, “I will want you to undress me and brush out my hair. I wish to lie down.”
She sounded like a tired and bewildered child.
The Duke of Ridgeway, closing her door quietly behind him as he left, could not remember a time when he had felt more furiously angry.
LORD THOMAS KENT WAS WHISTLING. It felt good to be back. Even though he had left vowing never to return just as vehemently as his brother had ordered him never to do so, it was, after all, Willoughby, his childhood home, his father’s home. And all his own for many months when Adam had been reported dead in action.
Yes, it felt good. And it had been worth all to see Adam’s face. Good breeding had provided him with an almost adequate mask, of course. Brocklehurst had probably not even realized that the greeting the duke had afforded his brother was less than cordial. But Adam had been white-hot with rage. Lord Thomas knew his brother well enough to have detected that without even looking for it.
It was not nearly time to go down to dinner. He still wore his silk evening shirt open at the neck. His man was brushing his velvet coat, and paused in his task to answer the tap on the door.
“You may leave, Winthrop,” Lord Thomas said, smiling at his visitor. “I shall ring when I want you to return.”
The man bowed and left the room.
“Well, Sybil,” Lord Thomas said softly, still smiling.
“Thomas,” she said, fragile and lovely in pale blue silk, her hair loose down her back. “You came home.”
“As you see,” he said.
“You had the courage to come back,” she said, “though he drove you away.”
He smiled at her.
“Oh, Thomas,” she said, “you have come back.”
He turned his hands so that his palms faced toward her, and she uttered a little cry and hurtled across the distance between them and into his arms.
“Did you think I would go away from you forever?” he said against her hair.
“Yes,” she said. “I thought you must stay away since he had ordered you to do so. I thought you would never be able to come back. Thomas,” she wailed, looking up at him with horrified and tear-filled eyes, “I married him.”
“I know, love. Hush,” he said. “Hush.” And he found her mouth with his own, ravishing it with his tongue while he wrapped his arms about her small and pliant body. “Ah, you are so beautiful. More lovely than ever, Sybil. How could I have stayed away from you forever?”
“I have not known how to live without you,” she said, her voice high-pitched with emotion. “Thomas, I have been half-dead without you. You went to India? I had no idea. I did not know where you were or even if you were still alive. And I don’t think he knew either, and if he had, he would not have told me. Why didn’t you write? Oh, why didn’t you give me some sign?”
“It would not have done,” he said. “You know it, Sybil. It was kinder to let you think me gone forever. Dead even. Have you been half-dead without me?” He framed her face with his hands and gazed into her large blue eyes. “But you married him after all, Sybil. I did not expect it of you. I thought you would have remained faithful to my memory. I thought you would have refused him, anyway, of all people.”
“I had no choice,” she said, “with you gone. Oh, Thomas.” She hid her face against him, pressed herself even closer to him. “You were gone. I had no choice. I thought I would die. I wished to die. But he came day after day to beg me. And I did not c
are anymore with you gone. I married him. I hated him, but I married him.”
“Hush,” he said. “Hush. I am back now, love.” He kissed her again lightly, then more deeply. “Back where I belong, and everything will work out, you will see. Is it time for dinner yet?”
“Not for a while,” she said. “There is time.”
“Is there?”
He stood back from her and smiled. And she comprehended him, bit at her lip, and reached up trembling hands to the buttons of his shirt. He gazed into her eyes, his own serious, as he slid the blue silk from her shoulders and down her arms and cupped her naked breasts in his hands. “How does Adam treat you?”
“He doesn’t.” She looked at him in distress. “Thomas, don’t talk about him. Please don’t. I ought not to be here. I should go. I just wanted to talk with you privately.”
He laughed softly. “There is more than one way of talking,” he said. “And I have been starved for you, Sybil. Don’t leave me now. He won’t be looking for you?”
“No, he won’t,” she said. “Thomas. It isn’t wrong, is it?” She buried her face against his shoulder as he lifted her into his arms. “I only ever loved you. You do believe that, don’t you?”
“And I only ever loved you,” he said, laying her down on the bed and stripping away her clothes. “Why do you think I came home?”
“For me?” she said. “You came because of me?”
“Mm,” he said, lying down on top of her and moving against her soft flesh. “God, you’re beautiful, Sybil. How could you ever have thought I would not come back to you?”
Beyond the surging of his desire he thought of the unlocked doors of his dressing room and bedchamber and wondered with a certain amusement what would happen if his brother walked into either room.
“Ah,” he said against her mouth as he plunged into her. Yes, indeed, it really was very good to be home again.
THE DUKE OF RIDGEWAY had not talked with his brother beyond an exchange of the merest pleasantries. As the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, he noticed that his wife was even more happy and animated than she had been since the arrival of her guests, and his jaw set in anger again.
He had been going to visit his brother’s room before dinner, but he had stopped himself at the last moment. Years of having to take responsibility for the well-being of others and his years as an officer had taught him that when possible it was better to let anger cool before taking action.
He would wait until the next day, he had decided, before confronting Thomas and demanding an explanation, and before he decided what he must do, if anything.
“I have sent for Pamela,” the duchess was telling Mrs. Grantsham and Lady Mayberry, her voice eager, her face bright. She included her husband in her smile when she realized that he was within earshot. “She should be here at any moment.”
“For Pamela?” he said with a frown. “Won’t she be in bed, Sybil? And very tired after this afternoon?”
“I sent a message to Nanny earlier to keep her up and get her ready,” the duchess said. “I wish her to meet her uncle. How could I deprive my darling of the pleasure of sharing in his return?” She smiled dazzlingly at the duke.
Of course! He clamped his teeth hard together and stood very still.
“You must instruct Nanny to take her back to bed after five minutes, then,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, “but it is Miss Hamilton who is to bring her down, Adam.”
What was she up to? The duke frowned.
He had not long to wait. Pamela, all dressed up in frills and bows, her hair styled in dozens of ringlets, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkling with excitement and tiredness, was brought into the room by Fleur, who curtsied and stood quietly inside the door.
The duchess took her daughter by the hand while the ladies fussed over her as they had that afternoon.
“You wanted to see all the ladies dressed for the evening, darling,” the duchess said, stooping down and smiling at her. “Well, here they are. What do you think?”
Lady Pamela beamed up at her, and the duchess hugged her.
“There is someone I want you to meet,” she said. “Someone you have not met before, though I have told you a great deal about him, and I daresay Papa has too. A very important gentleman.” She led Pamela to an ironically smiling Lord Thomas Kent. “This is your uncle Thomas, darling. Make your curtsy to him.”
Lady Pamela did as she was bidden and looked curiously up into the face of her uncle, who so much resembled her father except that his features were more openly handsome and carefree.
“So you are Pamela,” he said, one finger holding up her raised chin. “You do not have much of your mama in you, do you? You are all your father.”
The duke turned away, unable to watch. And his eyes focused on Fleur, who was still standing just inside the door. But she no longer did so quietly and impassively. Her face was so pale that her lips looked blue. He was on the point of crossing hastily to her side when her hand—shaking quite as badly as it had during that first night—reached blindly for the knob of the door, found it, and turned it clumsily.
And she was gone, leaving the door ajar behind her.
He was left staring at the spot where she had stood. But this was not the first time she had been in company with their guests. She had been at the ball two nights before and at the picnic that afternoon. Why the sudden attack of nerves? Was it Thomas’ presence? Had she met him before? In London, perhaps?
Had Thomas been another of her customers? He knew he had been her first, but he had often wondered if he had been her last too. There had, after all, been a lapse of five days between his encounter with her and Houghton’s hiring her as Pamela’s governess.
By some bizarre coincidence, had Thomas had her too? He felt a wild rage at the thought.
Or was it Brocklehurst, perhaps? He also was someone she had not seen until that evening. Was he the one who had been her customer and the sight of whom had sent her all to pieces?
He closed his eyes briefly.
“But where is Miss Hamilton?” the duchess was asking brightly. “Did she not realize she was to wait for Pamela?”
“I gave her permission to leave,” the duke said. “I told her that I would take Pamela back to the nursery myself.”
The duchess looked at him reproachfully. “But I was planning to present my daughter’s governess to Thomas,” she said, “and to Lord Brocklehurst, of course. Well.” She shrugged. “Another time. To bed, then, darling, with Papa.”
She turned back to Lord Thomas as Lady Pamela set her hand in her father’s and left the room with him.
“She was the one,” her grace said very quietly, “Adam’s doxy. I wanted you to see her, Thomas, and know the humiliation he has subjected me to.”
“Not any longer,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “I will not let him hurt you any longer, Sybil.”
FLEUR HAD THOUGHT HER day was over. Mrs. Laycock was tired after a few busy days and had not invited the governess, as she often did, to spend the evening in her sitting room. Fleur sighed when Mrs. Clement summoned her to the nursery to inform her, tight-lipped, that her grace had requested she escort Lady Pamela to the drawing room after dinner.
“But will that not be after Lady Pamela’s bedtime?” she asked.
“Lord Thomas Kent is home,” Mrs. Clement said. “Her grace wishes Lady Pamela to meet her uncle.”
Fleur thought that Lord Thomas Kent could just as easily have been brought to the nursery the following morning, but she said nothing. She returned to her room to put on her best dress and brush and coil her hair again.
She was not comfortable as she led her pupil into the drawing room later. Lord Thomas Kent had once been Matthew’s friend. He could not possibly know her, of course. But his presence at Willoughby was a strong reminder of that constant threat to her security and happiness. She stood inside the door, her eyes lowered, and hoped that no one would feel it necessary to take
notice of her. She hoped that Lady Pamela would not be kept long. The child was very excited and very tired.
She raised her eyes as the duchess led her daughter across the room, and looked at Lord Thomas Kent. He was the duke’s half-brother, she knew. But anyone could have mistaken them for full brothers. They were remarkably alike except that Lord Thomas was not quite as tall or his face quite so hawkish and severe in its expression. He smiled and was very handsome.
She glanced at the duke to note the contrast between the two and found him watching his brother talk to Lady Pamela with that dark expression that was so characteristic of him. She shivered. How could two men look so much alike and yet so very different?
And her eyes strayed beyond his grace’s shoulder to another gentleman, shorter too than the duke, fair-haired, inclined to stockiness. He was looking very directly at her, a gleam of—what?—pleasure? amusement? triumph? in his eyes.
She looked down hastily at the carpet between her feet and felt her heart and every pulse pump the blood painfully through her body. The room about her, the loud buzz of voices and laughter, the reason she was there—all fled from her consciousness, and she was aware only of a strawberry-red rose in the pattern of the carpet. It had a dark green stem and brown thorns.
There was no air in the room. Her hands felt thick and vibrating, as if the blood could not force its way through them. She was losing control of her hands. There was no air to breathe.
There was a door next to her. She reached out a hand to turn the knob, could not find it, bumped her knuckles against it, grasped it, could not control it, and then blessedly jerked the door open.
She fled along the hallway, hesitated when she reached the staircase, fled into the great hall, wrenched open one of the front doors without so much as glancing at the footmen, and fled down the horseshoe steps.
Fresh air. And darkness. And space.
She ran.
She was among the lime trees when pain and breathlessness forced her to stop. She grasped a tree trunk with both hands as the breath sobbed into her lungs, and she doubled up against the pain in her side.