by Trisha Telep
Angelique pulled away suddenly, as though a pitcher of frigid seawater had been dumped upon her head. What was she doing? Allowing her heart to be broken yet again? By the same man who’d nearly destroyed her two years before?
Disgusted by the whimper she heard coming from her own throat, she covered her breast with her chemise and whirled away, then made haste to the staircase. It took only seconds to scamper upstairs, where she quickly entered her bedchamber, closing the door tightly behind her. If she’d had a key, she would have locked it.
Whether it was to prevent Heyworth from entering, or to keep herself from making the same foolish mistakes with him again, she was not sure.
Two
Heyworth was up early, but he didn’t enter the breakfast room until Angelique and her aunt had gone in and begun their meal. He wanted to give Angelique no possible avenue for avoidance. Of him.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, drinking in the sight of her.
“Your Grace,” said the elder Miss Drummond, “I had no idea you were still here. Why, I . . .”
“There is a horse race tomorrow down at Maidstone. Which means, of course, there are no rooms to be had within twenty miles.” He took a seat across from Angelique, who would not look at him. Still, he took satisfaction in the blush that rose on her cheeks, for she was obviously recalling the intensely sensuous interlude they’d shared the night before.
“I hadn’t heard,” said Minerva. She turned to Angelique. “Did you know of it?”
“No, Aunt.”
“Well, it has naught to do with us,” the older woman remarked.
Heyworth did not take his eyes from Angelique as he stirred his tea and half listened to her aunt discourse on the subject of escaping to the country only to find the crowds of London encroaching on their little corner of Berkshire. He’d never spent a morning with Angelique before, their courtship always taking the conventional course: afternoon rides in the park, balls and soirées in the evenings.
In the time before their aborted wedding day, Heyworth had imagined vividly the mornings they would soon spend together in bed – making love before the servants brought their breakfast, feeding each other tender morsels between heated kisses, then making love again before they arose to face the day.
She wanted him. Heyworth had no doubt whatsoever of that. If only he’d kept his silence last night, she would never have recalled the reason for her precipitous abandonment of their nuptials. He’d have driven her as mad with desire as she made him, and they’d have consummated their bond. Then Angelique would have had no choice but to make use of the special licence Heyworth had had the foresight to procure before coming to Berkshire.
But, dash it, he wanted Angelique to trust him. It had been far too easy for Rathby to convince her of Heyworth’s alleged misstep. He did not understand how she had so easily believed Rathby’s lies rather than his honest declaration of love.
For he did love her. He’d buried himself in his work – and his grief – and tried to forget her two years before, but it had been impossible. He was determined not to err this time. For he knew how much he had to lose.
Angelique was never happier to have an interruption than when Squire Stillwater arrived. She had slept badly the night before, and felt exhausted – from the funeral, the travel, the late night nearly succumbing to Heyworth’s seductions.
She rose quickly from her seat when Thornberry announced him, intending to go into the drawing room to receive their old family friend. Her grandmother and Mrs Stillwater had been close in years past, and she had always been more than kind to Angelique.
“Bring him in, Thornberry,” said Heyworth, stopping Angelique in her tracks. “Set another place and let him join us here.”
She scowled at Heyworth, looking squarely at him for the first time since he’d entered the breakfast room. She had not trusted herself to do so before.
And with good reason. He was outfitted as any gentleman might be, in a green waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes, a black cutaway frock coat, and dun-coloured trews. And yet he filled them out as no other gentleman could do. His raw masculinity was beyond tempting, but Angelique wanted nothing to do with a man who could lie so convincingly to her.
Her father had made a far too frequent practice of it with her mother. Women, drink and cards . . . Viscount Derington had done it all, and lied to Suzette through his teeth about his women and his gaming losses. His behaviour and the pain it caused her mother had taught her well. Angelique had no intention of losing her heart to a scoundrel like her father. When Rathby had told her the truth about Heyworth, she’d picked up her skirts and fled as quickly as possible to Florence, where she had friends.
“Good morning, good morning!” said Squire Stillwater as he entered the breakfast room.
He was barely as tall as Angelique, had the ruddiest complexion and brightest smile of anyone she’d ever known. The sight of him there, in Primrose Cottage, brought back memories of earlier days, and Angelique felt a deep twinge of grief for the loss of her father. She hadn’t shed a tear for him, and yet now she was on the verge.
She took a sip of tea to clear the sudden burning in her throat.
“Oh dear,” said the Squire. “I fear I have interrupted your breakfast.”
“Not at all,” said Heyworth, as though he owned Primrose Cottage. Angelique was temporarily glad of his proprietary manner, for it changed the cheerless direction of her thoughts. “Please join us.”
“Alas, but no. I cannot. We heard word of the Miss Drummonds’ arrival, and Mrs Stillwater bade me to ride over first thing . . . well, nearly first thing—” he chuckled “—to invite you to sup with us this evening at Tapton Manor. We had no idea Your Grace was here as well. You’ve come down for the race?”
“Aye,” Heyworth replied. Angelique looked at him sharply. Hadn’t he come to Berkshire . . . well, for her?
“The festivities are in full swing. Perhaps you’ll go into town and enjoy the fair – a real medieval exhibition with . . . Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear.” Stillwater seemed to take note of Angelique’s mourning attire all at once. He and his wife had travelled to London for the funeral, of course, but they were not compelled in any way to observe a mourning period for Viscount Derington. “Please accept my sincere apologies . . . I should never have mentioned—”
“Thank you, Squire. Though we cannot attend any of the activities in town, my aunt and I would be pleased to join you this evening. ’Twill be an intimate gathering?”
“Oh yes, of course. Our granddaughter, Caroline, and her husband have come down, and we’ll have a few neighbours as well.” He turned towards Heyworth. “And of course, Your Grace, if you would care to join us.”
Heyworth gave a slight bow of acquiescence. “I would be honoured to escort Miss Drummond and her aunt.”
“Esc—?” Angelique closed her mouth tightly and bit her tongue. She needed no escort, especially not an arrogant nobleman who quite obviously believed that women ought to worship at the sight of him. As she had done last night, much to her chagrin.
She knew better now.
It was truly unfortunate that Angelique was unable to come into town and enjoy the lively fair with its jesters and jugglers, its roving musicians and craftsmen’s booths. Heyworth remembered that she enjoyed such entertainments. They’d attended plays in Drury Lane and concerts in Vauxhall Gardens. They’d played cricket in the park in May of that fateful spring when Heyworth had courted her, and ridden together along the pretty bridle paths near Primrose Cottage.
But with her father so recently in his grave, she could not indulge in such frivolity. Heyworth knew it was not going to be easy for her, not that she’d been close to her sire in recent years. Derington had been an inept father, and an even worse husband, if the rumours were to be believed. He’d run through his own inheritance and, as far as Heyworth could ascertain, the Viscount had left only a small annuity to support Angelique and her aunt.
There’d been no dowr
y two years before, when Heyworth had offered for her, but that had been no obstacle to his intentions. She might have been destitute for all he cared. He had wanted Angelique and Angelique alone.
That had not changed. If anything, he wanted her more today than he had two years before.
It was a particularly warm day even here in the country, and Heyworth was glad to have escaped the heat and stench of London. He felt confident of his mission in Berkshire, convincing Angelique of his sincere intentions and winning her as his wife. There was nothing that mattered more to him.
A large number of London’s fashionable set had arrived for tomorrow’s race, and Heyworth knew he wouldn’t have been able to hire a room even if he wanted one. He stabled his horse and took in the sights of Maidstone while he walked through the crowded lanes. He had one purpose in mind, but was interrupted by a sour greeting from his one-time nemesis. Rathby.
Heyworth had forgotten Rathby owned a country estate nearby. The bastard had been on friendly terms with Derington and his family, which was the reason he’d had the opportunity to tell his lies to Angelique. And why she had believed him.
“Heyworth, what are you doing here?” There was no mistaking the hostility in Rathby’s voice.
“I’ve come down for the race, of course,” Heyworth replied as smoothly as he could. He had no intention of mentioning Angelique’s presence at Primrose Cottage, although it was only a matter of time before Rathby discovered it for himself. “Have you bribed anyone this time round, Rathby?”
The other man coloured deeply. “You have your nerve, Heyworth. Naught was ever proved.”
“No, but you forget – I saw you with my own eyes. Paying off a jockey. My guess is that you’re far more careful not to be seen these days.”
The Earl sputtered, and Heyworth brushed past him before the man could refute the charge, his mind whirling with possibilities. Rathby’s presence could very well work to Heyworth’s advantage, if he played him just right.
Solidifying a plan in his mind, the Duke entered a little shop of novelties. Several other shoppers were looking at the wares displayed on the shelves while the proprietor looked on. Heyworth browsed the offerings, bent on finding just the right gift for Angelique.
He spied it almost immediately.
“Would you mind,” he said to the shop owner, pointing to a lovely music box on a high shelf.
“Of course, My Lord,” said the man, who moved a ladder into place and climbed up to retrieve the box that featured a pair of dancing dolls on its top – a blonde lady, and the gentleman as dark as Heyworth. “They dance while it plays a right pretty tune, sir.”
He handed it to Heyworth, who gave the key on the bottom several twists. When he set it on the counter, the dancers moved around a clever little track on top while the box played a tinkling version of the Mozart waltz that had been his first dance with Angelique.
“How much?”
Heyworth paid the man and watched him wrap it, then he went back to the stable for his horse. He had a short visit to make at Squire Stillwater’s manor before returning to Primrose Cottage. And a favour to ask.
“Tell my aunt I’ve gone to the lake to read,” Angelique called to her maid as she stuffed a book into a small satchel alongside a spare shift, a thin blanket and a towel. Fortunately, Minerva was napping. She would be horrified to know Angelique’s true intentions.
Well, it was nearly as hot in Berkshire as it was in London, and Angelique had become accustomed to swimming on sultry days while in Italy. So even if Minerva wouldn’t approve, Angelique had no qualms about taking a short dip in the private lake nearby. She hoped the cool water would help clear her head.
She wanted to dispel all memories of Heyworth’s touch. She would never marry the man, and such intimacies were absolutely unacceptable. She couldn’t succumb to him again. The bond between them was merely physical attraction. There was no substance to his intentions – no honesty beyond the pleasure of the moment. Angelique refused to become the same kind of wretched victim her mother had been, waiting for the man she loved to favour her with his presence. Always wondering if her husband’s assertion of love was sincere and true, or yet another falsehood from an inveterate womanizer.
The lake was small, and its location a secluded little glade, the perfect haven in which to spend a warm, sunny afternoon with her dismal thoughts. It was quite different from the lake near her little villa in Florence. There was hardly any beach at all, with an unkempt lawn and trees growing right up to the water’s edge.
It was where her father had taught her to swim when she was a child, when he had found it amusing to pretend to be a father.
It was peaceful and quiet at the lake, but Angelique found it painful to think of her father, of the weeks he’d been ill before she’d come home. She hadn’t believed his first letter, and it wasn’t until the third that she’d realized he was in earnest. He was dying.
She’d been so damnably stubborn.
The sun shone brightly through the trees, and bees buzzed about the clover in the grass. Derington had once been a devoted father. In those days, he hadn’t gone running off every night to chase skirts and lose his money at the gaming tables. Angelique didn’t know what had caused him to change, but the change had not endeared him to her. She had barely acknowledged him as her father.
She forced aside her upsetting memories and put her satchel down beneath a tree. She pressed the blanket to her breast and smothered her sorrow, refusing to shed the tears that threatened. There was no point. She could not imagine that he’d have wanted her to weep, anyway.
Swallowing the thickness in her throat, Angelique spread out the blanket she’d brought. She sat down and removed her shoes and stockings, then took a quick look around to be sure she was truly alone before unbuttoning her bodice.
In a few short moments, she was completely undressed, but for the thin cotton chemise she wore under all her dull, black clothes.
She stepped into the water and found it refreshingly cool. After she waded out deeper, she lay back and floated, gazing up at the clear blue sky while she tried once again to empty her mind of all its troubling thoughts.
But her melancholy would not abate. Nor would her questions. Angelique could not understand why her father had thought it acceptable to make Heyworth trustee of her funds. When her father had come to Florence to chastise her for leaving England, Angelique had made it perfectly clear that she would never wed the Duke. Obviously, Derington thought they were well matched, in spite of Heyworth’s philandering ways. Her father must have believed that renewed contact with the Duke to work out the disbursement of the annuity would result in a new engagement.
It would not.
A bleak sob escaped Angelique and she came to her feet. Her father did not deserve her tears, yet her eyes filled and she found herself weeping over his loss. Whatever had occurred between her mother and father, Derington had been her papa. He’d taken her on pony rides and bought her sweets. He’d carried her on his shoulders and pushed her in the swing behind the cottage.
The guilt for leaving him alone during the last months of his life had been niggling at the edges of her awareness, but now it overtook her. She stumbled out of the water, feeling anything but refreshed. When she reached her blanket, she fell to her knees, then lay down and pressed her face into the soft cloth and cried as though her heart was broken.
At first, when Heyworth had come upon Angelique wading out of the lake, he’d thought himself the most fortunate of men. Her chemise was nearly transparent, allowing him a view of her perfection. Her every move was a seduction, her high, full breasts swaying as she left the cover of the water, her long graceful legs stepping from the lake. He felt a deeply visceral reaction at the sight of her.
And then he realized she was weeping.
Her indifferent exterior had been just that – an exterior. It was clear, in spite of her anger with Derington, she felt the loss of her father deeply.
Heyworth felt like a
cad for ogling her while she was in such obvious distress. Without considering how she would react, he went to her, knelt beside her and put his hand on her back, gently caressing her shoulder. She turned to him suddenly and clung to his shirt, allowing him to hold her as she wept against his chest.
“H-he made me s-so angry,” she sobbed.
“Aye, I know, love.”
“He was unfaithful t-to my m-mother.”
Heyworth knew that, too. But he kept his silence.
“And h-he made you tr-trustee.”
“Hush, my darling. We’ll work that out.”
She looked up at him with the most beautiful teary eyes he’d ever seen. “H-how? You have complete—”
“No. Whatever you need – ’tis yours to use as you see fit.”
She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek. “R-really?”
His heart twisted in his chest at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes and the tears that fell from them. “Of course. I never meant to keep you from your inheritance, Angel.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, content to merely cradle the woman he loved in his arms.
Three
Angelique slept like the dead for an hour or so, after walking back to the house with Heyworth. He had not attempted to kiss her or touch her in any way after she pulled herself together, and she . . .
She could hardly credit that she’d been disappointed. She didn’t want him to touch her. And yet . . .
Heyworth’s caresses were unlike anything Angelique had ever known. He was strong yet gentle, insistent but patient. She yearned for his embrace, but did not want to encourage his attentions. He’d told her she would have control over the annuity, when her father had given him jurisdiction over it.
It was all too much. She did not want to grieve for a father who’d hurt her mother so deeply, and who had seen nothing wrong with tying her to a fiancé who was unfaithful. And yet that fiancé was being so kind to her now.
Heyworth handed Minerva into the enclosed carriage, and when Angelique looked round, she saw that there was no horse saddled and ready for him. “You are not riding?”