by Mary Balogh
Tresham took the glass and sipped from it. “You get yourself into the most unbelievable scrapes,” he said.
Ferdinand felt irritated again. He was three years younger than his brother, and Tresham had always been autocratic, especially since inheriting the title and all the responsibilities that went with it at the age of seventeen, but Ferdinand was no longer a boy to be criticized and scolded—especially in his own home.
“What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Throw her out on her ear? She is convinced that Pinewood is hers, Tresham. Bamber—Bamber’s father, that is—promised it to her.”
“Are you sleeping with her?” his brother asked.
“Am I … Good Lord!” Ferdinand’s hands closed into fists at his sides. “Of course I am not sleeping with her. I am a gentleman.”
“My point exactly.” Tresham had his quizzing glass in hand again. If he raised it to his eye, Ferdinand thought, he would be sorry.
“It was rash of her to insist upon staying here with me, of course,” Ferdinand said. “But it is also a measure of the trust she has placed in me as a gentleman. She is an innocent, Tresham. I would not sully that.” He thought guiltily of the kisses he had shared with her.
His brother set down his glass on a library shelf and sighed. “You really don’t know her, then,” he said. “You have not recognized her. I suspected as much.”
And Tresham did know her? Ferdinand stared as him transfixed, a premonition of disaster holding him motionless.
“She has looked familiar from the start,” he said. “But I just cannot place her.”
“Perhaps,” the duke said, “if she had introduced herself by her real name, Ferdinand, your memory would not have played such tricks on you. She is better known in certain London circles as Lilian Talbot.”
Ferdinand stood where he was for a moment longer before turning sharply and crossing the room to the window. He stood there with his back to the room, all the cloudy layers ripping away from his memory.
He had been at the theater in London one evening several years ago, sitting in the pit with some friends. The play had already begun, but even so, there had been a sudden noticeable stir from the boxes and a buzz from the predominantly male preserve of the pit. Ferdinand’s nearest companion had dug him in the ribs with an elbow and pointed with his thumb toward the party arriving late in one of the boxes. Lord Gnass, an aging but still notorious roué, was removing the russet satin cloak of his female companion to reveal a shimmering gold gown beneath—and a daring amount of the voluptuous flesh of the woman inside the gown.
“Who is she?” Ferdinand had asked, raising his quizzing glass to his eye, as a large number of other gentlemen were doing.
“Lilian Talbot,” his friend had explained.
It was the only explanation necessary. Lilian Talbot was enjoying enormous fame even though she was rarely seen in public. She was said to be lovelier and more desirable than Venus or Aphrodite or Helen of Troy all rolled into one. And almost as unattainable as the moon.
Ferdinand had been able to see that reports of her had not been exaggerated. Even apart from her glorious, shapely body, she had a classically beautiful face and hair of a rich dark red set in elaborate but elegant curls high on her head and trailing down onto her long, swanlike neck. She sat down, set one bare arm along the velvet edge of the box, and directed her gaze toward the action on the stage as if she were unaware that the attention of almost the entire audience was on her.
Lilian Talbot was London’s most celebrated, most sought-after, most expensive courtesan. But part of her allure was the fact that no one, not even the wealthiest, highest ranked, most influential lord of the ton, had ever been able to persuade her to become his mistress. One night was all she would grant of her favors to any man. Some said that no one could afford more than that anyway.
Lilian Talbot. Alias Viola Thornhill.
I am no man’s mistress.
“I saw her only once at the theater,” Ferdinand said, staring at the fountain in the box garden without seeing it. “I never met her. Did you?”
“Once,” Tresham said.
Once? “Did you—”
“No,” his brother replied coolly, without waiting for the question to be completed. “I preferred to mount mistresses for long-term comfort rather than one-time-only courtesans for sensation and prestige. What the devil is she doing here?”
“She is a relative of Bamber’s,” Ferdinand said, bracing both hands on the windowsill. “His father must have been fond of her. He sent her down here and promised to leave her Pinewood in his will.”
The duke laughed derisively. “She must have serviced him well if he was prepared to offer her such an extravagant gift after one night,” he said. “Doubtless he paid her outrageous fee as well. But he came to his senses in time. It is why I am here, Ferdinand. You might wait until doomsday for Bamber to exert himself. I called on his solicitor and persuaded him to let me see the will. There is no mention in it of either Viola Thornhill or Lilian Talbot. And the present Bamber has never heard of the former, though perhaps he has of the latter. He was clearly unaware that she was living here. Pinewood Manor is without a doubt yours. I am pleased for you. It appears to be a pretty enough property.”
Not a relative, but a satisfied customer.
He loved me. Ferdinand could hear her voice down on the riverbank as if she were still speaking. And I loved him.
Pinewood had been the impulsive gift of a grateful, dazzled man, who had just been well serviced in bed.
I will never lose my trust in him because I will never stop loving him or knowing beyond any doubt that he loved me.
Even the most experienced courtesan could be naïve on occasion, it seemed. Bamber had changed his mind. Her trust had been misplaced.
“You can order her off the premises without further ado,” the duke said. “I daresay she is even now packing her trunks—she knows the game is up. She could see that I recognized her. I will be eternally thankful that I did not bring Angeline with me. She wanted to come since Jane had to remain with the baby, but it has long been my practice to endure our sister’s incessant chatter only in small doses. Besides, I believe Heyward said no even before I did, and for some reason I still have not fathomed—it is certainly not fear—Angeline obeys him.”
But Ferdinand was not listening.
It is because he gave it to me, she had said only an hour or so ago when he had asked why she loved Pinewood. London’s most celebrated courtesan had fallen in love with one of her clients—and had made the cardinal mistake of believing that he loved her in return.
“Where will she go?” he asked, more of himself than his brother. If she was no relative of Bamber’s, her options were cut down considerably.
“To the devil, for all I care,” Tresham said.
Ferdinand’s hands closed more tightly about the sill.
“Good Lord, Ferdinand,” his brother said, “you have not conceived a tendre for the woman, have you? If this does not beat all—my brother infatuated with a whore!”
Ferdinand gripped the sill as if for dear life. “Whatever she is,” he said without turning, “she is under my protection while she is beneath this roof, Tresham. You will not use that word either of her or to her while you remain here, or you will answer to me.”
“Good God!” the Duke of Tresham said after a short, pregnant silence.
11
IOLA DRESSED CAREFULLY FOR DINNER IN A pale blue silk evening gown, fashionably high-waisted and low at the bosom, but neither overdaring nor dowdily demure. It was one Mrs. Claypole herself had commended. Viola had Hannah dress her hair in a smooth, elegant chignon. She wore no jewelry, but only an evening shawl about her shoulders.
She had no idea whether Lord Ferdinand and the Duke of Tresham intended to dine at home. She had no idea if she would be denounced and banished from the dining room if they were there. But she was no coward. She would not hide away in her room. Neither would she go quietly if they tried to r
id themselves of her company for dinner. After all, she was still living here under the assumption that she belonged here, that it was they who were the usurpers. No proof to the contrary had yet been shown her.
They were both in the dining room, both wearing black evening clothes with white linen, looking very much like the sons of Satan. They rose and bowed at her entrance.
They dined together, the three of them, in a strange charade of civility. Both gentlemen were meticulously polite, making sure that she had everything she needed, careful not to choose any topic of conversation that might exclude her. Under other circumstances, Viola thought, she might have enjoyed herself. But these were not other circumstances. She was scandalously alone with two gentlemen. One of them knew who she was—or who she had been. It was impossible to tell if the other did too. But he would soon.
Viola did not afterward know quite what had been served for dinner or how many courses there had been. All she took away with her was the impression that Mrs. Walsh had excelled herself in deference to the presence of a duke at Pinewood. She found the meal interminable and rose to her feet as soon as she decently could.
“I will leave you to your port, gentlemen,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I will bid you good night and go straight to my room. I have a slight headache. I trust you are happy with your room and have everything you need, your grace?”
“Everything, thank you, ma’am,” he assured her.
“Miss Thornhill.” Lord Ferdinand Dudley drew a folded piece of paper from a pocket of his evening coat. “Would you oblige me by reading this in your own time?”
The will? But it was just a single sheet. The Earl of Bamber’s will would surely be a fat document.
“Yes.” She took it from him.
It was not the will, she discovered when she had reached her room. It was not really a letter either. It was some sort of declaration, written in a bold, black hand. It stated that although the will of the late Earl of Bamber was not for copying or perusal by anyone unconnected with its contents, it had been produced and read in its entirety by the Duke of Tresham, his claim to an interest in its contents having been acknowledged. The paper asserted that beyond any doubt the will made no specific mention of Pinewood Manor in Somersetshire and none of Miss Viola Thornhill. It was signed by the duke in the same bold, black hand, and by George Westinghouse, solicitor of the late Earl of Bamber.
Viola folded the paper and held it in her lap for a long time while she stared into space. He simply would not have changed his mind. And he would not have delayed. He had known that his health was poor. He had not expected to live more than a month or two longer. He would not have forgotten.
She would not lose faith in him—not again.
The will must have been changed without his knowledge. But there was no way on earth she was going to be able to prove that, of course. And so she had lost Pinewood. How sad he would be if he could know! She felt as sad for him at that moment as for herself—she could feel only numbness for herself. He had thought she was safe and secure for life. He had been cheerful, even happy, as he had bidden her good-bye forever—they had both known it was forever.
A tear plopped off Viola’s cheek and darkened the fabric of her skirt.
THE DUKE OF TRESHAM stayed only until early afternoon of the following day. He was interested in seeing the house and park and home farm, all of which Ferdinand showed him during the morning, but he was eager to return to London and his family. The baby was colicky, he explained, and Jane needed his support during the nights of disturbed sleep. Ferdinand listened to the explanation in some fascination but without comment. Was it not a nurse’s job to stay up with a fussy baby? Did Tresham really allow his sleep to be disturbed by a child?
Was it really possible that a marriage that had begun four years ago as an apparent love match had continued as such? With Tresham, of all people? Could he possibly be steadfast in his devotion? And faithful to Jane? Could she be faithful to him? Even now, after she had dutifully borne Tresham two sons—an heir and a spare, to use the vulgar parlance? Jane was a beautiful woman, and a spirited one too.
Was there really such a thing as true, lasting marital love? Even within his own family?
But it was too late to take any real interest in learning the answer. One day too late. Yesterday she had been Viola Thornhill, wholesome, lovely, innocent. Today she was Lilian Talbot, beautiful, experienced—and deceitful to the core of her cold heart.
“I wish you had let me have a word with her this morning, Ferdinand,” the duke said as they stood together outside his traveling carriage. “You lack the necessary resolve for performing unpleasant tasks. And you are emotionally involved. I could have had her out of here by now.”
“Pinewood is mine, Tresham,” Ferdinand said firmly. “And everything concerned with it, even its problems.”
“Take my advice and don’t allow her to spend another night here.” His brother laughed shortly. “But Dudleys have never taken well to advice, have they? Will we be seeing you in London before the Season is over?”
“I don’t know,” Ferdinand said. “Probably. Maybe not.”
“A decisive answer indeed,” Tresham said dryly, and took his seat in the carriage.
Ferdinand raised a hand in farewell and watched until the carriage disappeared among the trees. Then he turned and walked back into the house with firm strides. It was time to get rid of the intruder. It was time to harden his heart and behave like a man. Like a Dudley.
The butler was hovering in the hall.
“Jarvey,” Ferdinand said grimly, “have Miss Thornhill in the library within the next two minutes.” But he paused when his hand was on the doorknob and the butler was already on the second stair. “Jarvey, ask Miss Thornhill if she will wait upon me in the library at her earliest convenience.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He stood at the library window, looking out, until he heard the door open and close behind him. He had not even been sure she was at home. He turned to look at her. She was dressed very simply in a light muslin day dress. Her hair was in its usual neat coronet of braids. He looked her over from head to toe. Perhaps after all Tresham had been mistaken, and his own memory had played tricks on him.
“Good afternoon, Miss Talbot,” he said.
She did not answer immediately. But his foolish hope died an instant death. A faint smile played about her lips. It was just the expression she had worn at the theater—and in the hall yesterday when he had presented her to Tresham.
“You address me by a name that is not my own,” she said.
“You knew very well where I had seen you before,” he said, his eyes raking her again, with anger this time. How dare she look just so at him! He had been kind to her. But then, she would despise kindness. Good Lord, he thought as if realizing it for the first time, he had been sharing a house with Lilian Talbot.
“On the contrary.” She raised her eyebrows. “Where did you see me, Lord Ferdinand? It was not in any bed you have ever occupied. I believe I might have remembered that. Of course, despite your claim to be wealthy, you probably could not have afforded me, could you?”
Her eyes were sweeping over him as she spoke, giving him the peculiar notion that he was being stripped naked and found wanting—rather as if he had regressed ten years or so to the time when he had shot up to a gangly, spindly height, all legs and sharp elbows and teeth too large for his face.
“At the theater,” he said. “With Lord Gnass.”
“Ah, yes, Lord Gnass,” she said. “He could afford me and liked demonstrating the fact.”
He could hardly believe how she had been transformed before his eyes.
“I suppose,” he said curtly, “Viola Thornhill is an alias. No wonder Bamber has never heard of you. I suppose no one at Pinewood or in the neighborhood knows your real identity.”
“Viola Thornhill is my real name,” she said. “Lilian Talbot died a natural death two years ago. Are you disappointed? Were you hoping to
sample her favors before you toss me out? I was always too expensive for you, Lord Ferdinand. I still am, no matter how large your fortune is.”
She was regarding him with that sensuous, scornful half smile. He was repulsed by it and by her words. But he felt his temperature rise despite himself.
“I would waste not a penny of my fortune on purchasing the favors of a whore, Miss Talbot,” he told her. He probably would have felt instant shame at his choice of words if she had shown any sign of mortification or even anger. But the look on her face merely deepened to amusement.
“I could not be tempted,” he added.
She came closer then, stopping just beyond touching distance—and after he had taken an involuntary step back until his heels clicked against the base of the wall behind him. Her eyes had become heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes, he thought. With a voice to match, he observed a moment later when she spoke again.
“That sounds very much like a challenge,” she said. “I am very, very skilled, my lord. And you are very, very male.”
She seemed somehow to have sucked half the air out of the room, leaving precious little to supply the need of his lungs.
“Would you care to make a wager?” she asked him.
“A wager?” He felt deuced uncomfortable, though he would not take another step back even if he could. He was already trapped against the window, looking like a bloody idiot. How had he maneuvered himself into this awkward position anyway? He was the one who had summoned her. He had been going to give her a piece of his mind before ordering her to leave before sundown.
“That I can seduce you,” she said. “Or not. However you want it phrased. Bed you. Pleasure you. Cater to all your deepest and darkest sexual fantasies.”
Fury held him speechless. This was the woman he had pitied? Grown to like? Even fancied himself half in love with? Considered marrying? Was he indeed so gauche? Such a dupe? So easily manipulated? For he could see clearly now that he had been clay in her hands from the first. She had soon realized that she could not drive him away and so had planned a different solution to her problems. She had accomplished her goal with humiliating ease—humiliating for him. If Tresham had not arrived when he had and recognized her, there was no knowing what the rest of the day might have accomplished for her. He might be betrothed to her now. He might at this moment be at the vicarage, arranging to have the first banns read on Sunday.