by Brenda Joyce
He tried to remind himself that he was not a small boy, that he was a grown man, but it did not work.
She vented her anguish for a long time, but eventually the sobs became hiccups, eventually the small blows she aimed at his chest lessened and disappeared. He did not let her go and he continued to rock her. Her fists uncurled, only to turn claw-like, and she was clinging to his shirt.
Although she no longer cried, a tremor swept her body. He swept his hand down her back, soothing her. He realized that she was falling asleep in his arms. “You will feel better tomorrow,” Hadrian promised her. “Tomorrow it will not seem so bad.”
She sighed. “I don’t hate you,” she whispered into his shirt. “Not really.”
He almost smiled, and another tear sparkled on his lashes. “Sleep now. In a few hours we will be home.”
Her grip on his shirt tightened. “I love you, Hadrian. I don’t hate you, I love you.”
He was shocked.
Her grip loosened and she sagged in his arms. Still stunned, he looked down at her and saw that she was in a deep, exhausted sleep. Very carefully, very gently, he laid her down on the seat. And he stared at her tear-ravaged face.
I don’t hate you, Hadrian, I love you.
She had only been delirious. Hadn’t she?
It was late that evening when the Duke and Duchess arrived at Clayborough. The Duke stepped down from the Serles’ coach first, his own doormen gaping at him when they recognized him before quickly recovering. But Hadrian had more surprises in store for them other than his disheveled appearance in another gentleman’s coach. He reached for his sleeping wife. She had not moved or made a sound in hours. Never had he seen a human being in such a deep sleep. Now he did not want to wake her, and very gently he lifted her into his arms.
Nicole stirred.
Hadrian carried his wife up the steps and into the foyer. Woodward, Mrs. Veig and his valet, Reynard, were hurrying into the room as he entered. No one so much as blinked at the sight of the Duke carrying his errant wife, barefoot and clad in a fur coat and asleep in his arms. Without pausing, he addressed Mrs. Veig. “When Her Grace awakes she will undoubtedly want a hot bath and a hot meal.”
As he started up the stairs, Nicole sighed, gripping him with her hands. He watched her face as he strode into her bedroom. Her eyes fluttered open. Gently Hadrian laid her down on the bed. “We are home. Go back to sleep. It is late.”
Nicole smiled at him. It was an artless, sleepy beautiful smile, and Hadrian’s heart somersaulted. Her eyes instantly closed again. He could not help wishing that he could receive many more of those smiles, and that they would be purposefully directed at him.
He had removed her wet nightgown hours ago and she was naked beneath the fur coat. He took it off quickly, pulling the many heavy quilts and bedcoverings up over her. Then he went to the hearth and started a fire.
The last words she had spoken to him still rang in his ears. He had been able to think of little else during the remainder of the journey to Clayborough. I don’t hate you, Hadrian, I love you. He knew she had not meant it. Had she?
He was afraid to hope. If she had meant what she had said, he would be the happiest man on this earth.
The fire beginning to blaze, Hadrian left the room, but not before giving his wife one last long glance. Hadrian strode into his own rooms, where Reynard was waiting for him. He handed him his greatcoat. “I too would like a bath and something to eat.”
“I’ve already drawn your bath, Your Grace. And Woodward is bringing your meal.”
Hadrian was suddenly restless. He patted the Borzoi, who had bounded forward to greet him, but he did so mindlessly, still thinking about Nicole. Woodward appeared at the door with a butler’s table. He wheeled it into the room and laid out the Duke’s napkin with an efficient flourish.
“Will you be taking your bath first, Your Grace?”
“Absolutely,” Hadrian said. He doubted he had ever been filthier in his life.
“Before you do, Your Grace, may I tell you that you have a visitor?” Woodward asked.
Hadrian was unbuttoning his shirt. “What visitor?”
“He arrived most unexpectedly yesterday just after you left. He had no card, and I would have sent him to the Boarshead Inn, but being as he had come all the way from America, I thought the better of it and put him on the fourth floor in one of the guest rooms.”
“Is it my courier returned from Boston?” He demanded sharply, hope leaping in his chest.
“No, Your Grace. His name is Stone, but he would not say what he wants. Mister Stone is presently taking a brandy in the fourth-floor library. I can tell him to await you there until after you have dined, or I can tell him you will see him on the morrow.”
Blood rushed from Hadrian’s head, and for the first time in his life, he felt faint.
“Your Grace? Are you ill?”
He recovered. He recovered to turn and stride towards the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, leaving Woodward staring after him. His father was here. He could not believe it—he would not, not until he himself laid eyes upon the man.
Hadrian Stone restlessly inspected the collection of volumes in the library—which was just one of several in the Duke’s residence. A terrific feeling of unease assailed him. He shouldn’t have come. He knew that now.
The anxiety that had gradually intensified during the long days he had spent crossing the Atlantic as meeting his son became more imminent was nothing compared to the distress he now felt. He had known his son was a duke, but nothing could have prepared him for his son’s estate, nothing could have prepared him for Clayborough.
He had expected luxury, yes. He had expected wealth. What he had not expected was a home fit for royalty as they lived a century ago, a home of palatial proportions and palatial pretense. All of his doubt came rushing to the fore. He was a simple man. His father had been cobbler, his mother a seamstress. He saw himself as a ship’s captain, not as a shipping magnate. He was wearing expensively tailored clothes, but he felt like a fraud in them, and would have much preferred a seaman’s wool sweater and rainslicker. Even this one small library overwhelmed him, for in truth there was nothing small about it.
What kind of man was he?
Hadrian Stone greatly feared that he was an arrogant one, and that he was about to be judged as unworthy by his own son.
A movement by the open door made him turn from his perusal of the stacks. A tall, powerfully built man stood in the doorway, half in shadows. Then he moved into the room.
Hadrian Stone knew the moment that the man stepped into the light that it was his son. His face was Isobel’s. Barely able to breathe and unable to move, he stared at the man—the grown man—who was his son.
And the Duke of Clayborough stared back.
Stone saw that although his son had gained most of his stunning looks from his mother, his jaw was strong and square like his own, and it saved him from being too handsome. And his eyes, his eyes were the same golden amber as his own. But the resemblance did not end there. The Duke of Clayborough also possessed the same immense height, the same powerful build, as his father.
And then Stone noticed his clothes. He saw a damp silk shirt and tan, soiled breeches. The Duke’s boots were glistening with rain and crusted with mud. Stone’s gaze again swept to his son’s face. There was nothing dandified about the man’s clothes—there was nothing dandified about his face, either. His son was a man, in every sense of the word, and one who had, by the look of him, endured an incredibly long, difficult day.
Relief filled the father’s veins.
The Duke was busy with his own inspection. Wide-eyed, Hadrian could not take his eyes off of the other man. His father was here. His father. Long moments passed. Hadrian shook himself out of the very real daze gripping him. “I had not expected such an immediate response to my inquiry.”
Stone hesitated. The cultured tones coming from the other man were a surprise, reminding him again that not just a different co
untry but a different class separated them, and his anxiety renewed itself. “How could I not come immediately?”
Hadrian shut the door and entered the room. “I must apologize for not being in residence when you arrived.”
Stone waved at him. “Obviously I was not expected.”
The two men fell into an awkward silence. Hadrian broke it by crossing the room. “Would you like another brandy?”
“Perhaps I’d better,” Stone murmured.
Hadrian meticulously poured his father a drink. “Have you seen Isobel?” The question was casual, without intent, as he desperately sought a topic to break the ice between them.
“No.”
Startled, Hadrian looked up, seeing the darkness passing over his father’s face. He knew when to withdraw—he knew better than to continue with the topic of his mother, although his father’s vehemence puzzled him. After so many years he would have expected indifference, not anger. He approached the other man for the first time, handing him his brandy. With no physical distance separating them, the two were silent and immobile, standing eye to eye and nose to nose, staring at each other.
“Damn,” Hadrian finally breathed. “This is damnably awkward. How in hell does one greet one’s long lost father anyway?”
Stone laughed suddenly. “Damn is right!” He exclaimed. “Thank God you can curse!”
Hadrian suddenly smiled, equally beset by nervous tension. “You wish me to curse?”
“It’s not that I want you to curse,” Stone said, his smile fading, “I was merely wondering if we would continue the conversation so formally.”
“We Englishmen are sticklers for formality,” Hadrian said.
“Yes, but you are half American.”
Hadrian stopped smiling. Finally his mouth softened. “I was eager to meet you,” he admitted. “Thank you for coming.”
“What father could stay away in such a situation?” Stone asked frankly.
“Many, I should imagine.”
Stone gained an inkling, then, into his son’s soul. “I have always yearned for a son. I have no children. None. Rather—” and he smiled, “until now.”
That smile told Hadrian everything. He had already learned from Isobel that this man was everything Francis was not. But he had been afraid, secretly afraid, that fatherhood would mean little to the stranger who had sired him. Yet it did not. His father was pleased to find out that he had a son. More than pleased, if the haste with which he had come to England was any indication. “And I always wanted a father like all the other boys had,” Hadrian admitted.
Stone looked at him. “You had a father.”
Hadrian’s face turned to stone. “I did not have a father. Francis knew I was a bastard. I did not know the truth, however, so I could never understand why he hated me. Finding out the truth has been the greatest relief of my life.”
Stone’s face was grim. “She should have told you long before this—she should have told me.”
Hadrian heard his tone—the condemnation—and stared. “She had her reasons.”
Stone instantly recognized the loyalty his son had for his mother, and he backed off. If he were to accuse Isobel of treachery, he would alienate his own son, whom he was aching to befriend. “The past is the past. I am thankful that I am still alive to see this day—to see you, my own son, in the flesh.”
Hadrian smiled. “I have looked forward to this day, too. Isobel only talked of you once but when she did, she made it clear that you were everything Francis was not.”
“Was he so bad?” Stone asked softly, terribly concerned.
“He was a drunk and a sodomite who hated not just me, but his wife. He was a coward and a bully. He abused us both. Until I turned fourteen and knocked him down with my own two fists.”
Stone was horrified. He suddenly had a clear image of Isobel as she had been thirty years ago, slender, proud and exquisitely beautiful, being struck by some featureless man who was her husband, a small boy holding onto her skirts. He shook off the sympathy he did not want to feel, not for her, and concentrated on his son instead. “Perhaps some day you will share your story with me.”
“Perhaps.” Hadrian turned away.
Stone knew that he had pushed too far, too quickly. He was an uncomplicated man; his son was terribly complicated. Yet despite what had to have been a horrific childhood, he was clearly a strong and honorable man. No one could talk with the Duke of Clayborough for long without recognizing his virtue and his power.
Hadrian turned again. “Do you want me to send for her?”
“No!”
Hadrian was again shocked by the vehemence in his father’s tone. A hazy comprehension, still unformed, began to fill him. “You said you have no children. Did you ever marry?”
“No.” Stone’s expression was ferocious. “As I said, the past is the past.” He softened his tone. “I have no wish to dredge it up, and I am sure your mother does not, either.”
In that precise moment, Hadrian disagreed. He disagreed and sensed the power of emotions too private and complex for him to identify, nevertheless, shrewd instinct made him decide to ignore his father’s wishes. “You are probably right,” he said placatingly. “How long will you stay?”
Stone smiled. He realized he was no longer anxious or afraid, not at all. To the contrary, his heart was ripe to bursting with love for his only child. His feelings were so consuming they left him breathless. He had never dreamed one could feel like this. “As long as I am welcome.”
“You will always be welcome here.”
Stone’s heart soared. He looked at his son and saw the faint blush on his cheek and instinctively understood how hard it was for him to be so frank, so soon. “Thank you.”
“There is no reason to thank me. You are my father. You will always be welcome here,” Hadrian repeated firmly.
A new thought which Stone had not really considered made him grow somber. “Does not my relationship with you endanger your position?”
Hadrian looked amused, he lifted a brow. “Ahh, I see. My position as the Duke? No, it does not.”
“But how is that possible?”
“Isobel was made a legitimate heir to Clayborough when she married Francis. Her father, the Earl of Northumberland, is a very shrewd man. I do have many cousins who would love to see me dethroned, so to speak, who would love to challenge Jonathan Braxton-Lowell’s will. But it will not come to that. Not because I covet power or position—which I do not. Not because I love Clayborough and would be loathe to give it up—which I would be. But because, no matter how important it is to me that you are my father, it is more important to me that Mother’s reputation remain intact. The truth about our relationship can never be revealed. For if it were to be revealed, I would deny it to protect her. And should I deny it, no one would dare to pursue the matter.”
“I see.” Stone was not disappointed, although a part of him would have dearly loved to claim Hadrian Braxton-Lowell as his son. Instead he was proud almost to the point of tears of his son’s fierce, unwavering loyalty and sense of honor. Yet he thought that there had been a warning in Hadrian’s tone. “I admire you, Hadrian,” he said quietly. “And I am proud of the man you are. I did not come here to claim you publicly or to disrupt your life. You need not worry on that score.”
“I know,” Hadrian said, equally serious. “I know without your having to tell me. You are not vengeful, you are not a fortune hunter, you are not petty. I do not need to know you better to know all of that.” And with rare humor, the Duke of Clayborough smiled. “You may be an American, but you are a man of honor.”
And Hadrian Stone laughed.
Isobel wondered what could be so urgent. It had been several hours past suppertime the night before that she had received an urgent summons from her son, requesting her to meet with him the following morning at Clayborough. Isobel was worried; she assumed the summons had something to do with his wife. What else could it be? What else could possibly be so important?
O
f course she would never ignore such a request. She had risen with the sun and set out for Clayborough an hour later. When she arrived at the ducal estate, it was still early morning. She nearly flew into the house.
“His Grace is still dining, Your Grace,” Woodward informed her.
Isobel blinked. Hadrian never took such a late breakfast—it was half past nine—and she could not imagine why he was doing so now. Her worry increased. “Is the Duchess with him?” She was almost afraid to ask, but hoping beyond hope that she was.
“No, Your Grace, the Duchess is still abed.”
Isobel almost swooned with relief. “So then she has returned!” she cried happily.
For a rare moment, Woodward also smiled. “Indeed she has. We are all most pleased, Your Grace. Although she did not exactly return.”
Isobel had known Woodward for too long to be surprised that he would volunteer information she did not ask for; obviously he wished to tell her something. “What do you mean?”
“His Grace brought her back.”
From Woodward’s barely suggestive intonation, Isobel surmised the worst. Hadrian had undoubtedly fetched his wife back; she could imagine the fight they must have had. She sighed and hurried on down the hall to the dining room.
“He is not there, Your Grace,” Woodward hurried after her. “He is dining in the music room—Her Grace prefers it so.”
Isobel lifted a brow, knowing in that moment that all would be well. Nicole Shelton Braxton-Lowell was taming her son, inch by scanty inch. It was about time that someone softened him up. She let Woodward open the doors to the music room and entered with a cheery smile. A second later she froze.
It was Hadrian—her Hadrian—Hadrian Stone. He was sitting at the table with her son, the two of them engrossed in earnest conversation, taking breakfast as if they did this every single day of their lives—father and son together. Her world spun crazily. She was sure that she would faint.