by Debra Glass
Primrose’s heart broke for her husband. In spite of their father-and-son disagreements she knew it weighed on Adam to watch his father waste away. She reached to cover his hand with hers but he snatched his away.
A muscle in his jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed. He shot to his feet. “I have nothing but concern for the earl. I know you and he have a long and conspiratorial relationship.” He glanced at Primrose and she cringed. “However I cannot accept this diagnosis. Nor can I condone his treatment. That waif hired to care for him is inept and in my opinion lazy. I demand you send me a more experienced nurse immediately. I’d also like the apothecary’s name so that I might review the efficacy of the earl’s treatment.”
Gallagher rubbed his face. “Mr. Patrick Wright is the apothecary. He is the best in his field.” He clambered to his feet. “My lord, I assure you we are doing our utmost in Lord Thorley’s case.”
“With laudanum? I know for an absolute fact opiates are not cures for anything.”
Gallagher shook his head. “The best we can hope for is to make him comfortable in his last days. I never meant to insinuate that you’d only returned to Scarborough Hall in order to claim the title.”
“Come,” Adam barked at Primrose.
Still stunned, she blinked. He’d used the same tone and word earlier but with an entirely different connotation. When they were together he was every inch as forceful but here his command was far different. She gained her feet and glanced apologetically at Gallagher before she moved toward the exit.
Adam whirled and pulled open the door for her. It closed with a resounding boom behind them, garnering the attention of several patients in the waiting area.
Adam didn’t speak until they were back inside the coach. “I want to know everything. When did he first start to show symptoms? And who has access to his medicines other than that insipid nurse?”
* * * * *
After Adam ordered for them he handed the menus back to the waiter. The world around him blurred as he leaned back in his chair and watched Primrose sip her wine. Had he ever realized what a true beauty she was? Clad in a gown of blush-colored satin that brought out the lovely hue of her cheeks, she looked every bit the prim and proper wife—though he knew she was so much more. Her dainty high lace collar slenderized her graceful neck. A jaunty hat perched atop her piled-high golden coiffure and the way the feather bobbed when she moved her head made him smile.
It’d been too long since Adam had been in the company of well-bred ladies wearing clothes. He smiled at the thought.
Primrose leaned slightly forward. “They’re all staring.”
Adam’s gaze darted around the small restaurant, recognizing several faces from past season’s parties, most of them old hens who nattered on about anybody and everything. As soon as he made eye contact with them they hurriedly averted their gazes and turned back to their cups of tea and petit fours.
For the first time in his life he completely realized Primrose’s position in society. Though she was the wife of the man who would inherit an earldom she was still an American, an outsider.
Guilt flared within him that he’d thrown her to the mercy of these societal cutthroats. He marveled at the fact she’d waited for him all that time. How would he ever make amends?
He smiled. “Let them stare. They’re all pea-green with envy over your beauty.”
Primrose’s eyes widened, making her look delectably innocent. Her cheeks colored. “Don’t tease me,” she joked.
“Oh I’m not teasing, darling. You are stunning.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Even more so when you are wearing your collar.”
Her lips parted and she sucked in a quick breath. His effect on her tickled him. He’d flirted with scores of women, dropping compliments meant to make their clothing melt away but with Primrose his praise was sincere. She was different. She was…well…his.
The knowledge was a revelation.
He glanced around as if others might see it written on his face. He cared for her. He cared what happened to her.
He’d thought any sort of real affection had been driven from him when he’d heard his mother’s deathbed confession.
Panic and something else he couldn’t define fluttered in his stomach, making him wish he’d ordered something stronger than a table wine. He felt control slipping through his fingers and he grappled to seize it firmly once more. “I’m taking you to the club soon.”
Her glass stopped midway to her mouth. She ceased to blink. “The…club? When?”
Ah there it was.
He inhaled deeply as control clicked like the workings of a precision clock. His world shifted blissfully back into place. “Soon.” Maybe it would do him some good to see her under the lash of another.
Perhaps witnessing her submission would clarify the riotous emotions churning in his gut.
“I-I’m not ready,” she blurted. But in contradiction to her declaration her pupils enlarged. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Oh she was ready, all right. She’d been ready.
He just hadn’t been keen on introducing her to that part of his world yet. Something about taking her there seemed irrevocable. It would change them both, connect them in a way that shook him in his boots.
He’d always assumed he’d inherit the title and estates once the earl died and live out his guilt-ridden life at Scarborough Hall. But suddenly the thought of keeping secrets from Primrose, of subjecting her to further scrutiny by the highly judgmental members of the ton had become unthinkable to him.
A deep need to be all the things he knew inside he wasn’t welled like a rogue wave, choking him. He snatched his napkin off his lap and coughed into it. “Excuse me,” he muttered.
He’d never cared what anyone thought of him until scant moments ago when he’d gazed across the table into his wife’s blue eyes and saw a future unfolding between them.
He felt sick. He was no better than his mother whose memory he’d cursed on a daily basis since she’d told him who he was—who he wasn’t.
Without warning the blurry cause of five years of anger became crystal clear. It had nothing to do with Primrose or even Thorley for that matter. No. Adam grieved for the man he thought he was, the one he wanted to be—the one Primrose needed him to be.
The world seemed to close in on him all at once. His vision blackened at the edges and he struggled to remain conscious. He gripped the edge of the table.
“Adam? Are you unwell?” Concern permeated her words. “Adam?”
He set his wine on the table. His gaze darted around the room. Look at them all. They think I’m one of them. They have no idea…
“Adam?”
He swallowed thickly. She thinks you’re one of them. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I’m…I’m not the rightful heir, Primrose.” He’d uttered the words before he could stop himself.
There goes my control again.
Her pink lips pursed. Her forehead crinkled with concern. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them. He leaned forward so that no one else would hear. This was hardly the time for his confession but he could contain it no longer. His heart hammered so hard he thought his chest might burst. “The earl…the earl is not my father.”
Primrose shook her head. “You can’t mean that.”
But even as she protested, he saw the cogs in her brain spinning as past events clicked into place. Stunned realization hardened her eyes.
He wanted to kick himself. Hard. “I cannot hope for your forgiveness. I don’t ask for it.”
She stared, obviously in shock. “How…who…”
“Some artist or some such sired me. My accursed mother admitted it to me on her deathbed. The title should rightfully belong to Hamish.”
He expected her to cry, at least to storm out. She didn’t. Such compassion filled her eyes that it compelled him to look away.
“This explains everyth
ing,” she said, her voice oddly devoid of emotion—of accusation.
Their gazes met and held.
She continued. “It explains why you had to be tricked into marrying me. Why you left Scarborough Hall. Why you entombed yourself in those sordid drug dens. Oh Adam, if only I’d known.”
“You could have married Benedict and been happy.”
She blurted a sardonic laugh that attracted the attention of several patrons nearby. “Benedict? Adam, please,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Do you really believe I would have ever been happy with him? After everything that’s passed between you and me?” She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “How can you be so blind?”
This was not the reaction he’d anticipated. It most certainly was not the response he deserved. Confusion rattled him.
“It doesn’t change anything of course,” he explained. “Since Thorley accepted me as his own I cannot by law relinquish the earldom when it is passed to me. But…Primrose…it’s not fair to you. If you’d rather we didn’t try to have a child I understand.”
“Marrying for a title was my parents’ aspiration. Not mine.” She dropped her gaze and then lifted it once more, looking up at him bashfully from under lowered lashes. “I married for…for a different reason.”
His mouth refused to work. His pulse rioted and he ceased to breathe.
She cleared her throat. “Granted my feelings weren’t as…intense…as they are now—” she started before he interrupted.
He couldn’t comprehend this. He wasn’t ready to hear a declaration of affection from her. Given that was what she was about to proclaim. Was the woman mad? And yet a tendril of hope snaked through him. “What are you trying to say?”
She reached across the table and took his hand. An odd mixture of fear and happiness lurked in her eyes. “It wouldn’t matter to me if you were a cobbler or a blacksmith.” She blinked, obviously near tears but even Adam could tell her sentiment stemmed from something other than sadness.
For most of his adult life he’d chased the dragon to avoid experiencing such maddening, conflicting lunacy. Feelings were for other people. For poets and artists. Not him.
Oh why wouldn’t the bloody floor just open up and swallow him whole?
Then reality crashed down around him. She didn’t have feelings for him. Most likely she couldn’t sort out her emotions either. After all, he’d been her first lover. It was the sex that had her all agog and gazing at him with those shining eyes. Nothing more.
His chest tightened and he grasped for control. He waved his hand at her in nonchalant dismissal. “Don’t be droll. This is serious. I have done a good many horrid things in my life but I’m not ready to be an…an earl, especially when the title should rightfully go to my cousin.”
Primrose’s mooncalf smile evaporated. She looked dejected. “That’s not what I was intimating. Not at all, Adam.”
He knew good and well it wasn’t. It pained him that he caused her discomfort but he’d had to do it. He had to regain control.
She traced a design on the tablecloth with her index finger and then looked back up. “What else can we do?”
We? His chest hurt. After everything… Release her. Go back to the eastside where your kind belongs.
He opened his mouth to silence her but the waiter approached with their food. He served Primrose and then put Adam’s plate down, causing them to break their handhold.
“Is everything to your liking, my lord?”
Adam relinquished Primrose’s gaze. “Yes. Very much so. Thank you.”
She lifted her fork. Her head tilted knowingly to the patrons at the right and left. “I think it would be prudent to discuss this later.”
Adam nodded dumbly. His confession gave him the feeling some great burden had been lifted off him but fear plagued him that in a short time Primrose would realize the ramifications of his declaration and come to her senses.
* * * * *
Primrose sat across from Adam, warm and dry inside the clarence carriage as rain came down in a torrent outside. The wheels growled as they churned on the sodden cobblestone streets. Adam sat, eyes fixed on her, his long legs sprawled as if purposely invading her space.
She still could not believe his admission. He wasn’t Thorley’s son. Her stomach knotted and her heart filled with sorrow for Adam. He must have been crushed to discover his mother’s infidelity, to learn he was not the earl’s son. And the earl… The dear man worshiped Adam.
“Does Hamish know?” Primrose heard the words leaving her lips before she could take them back.
His stare never wavered. “No.”
“The earl?”
Adam shook his head. “I would never do that to him.”
She blinked against hot tears. “You didn’t leave on our wedding night because of…of me, did you?”
His nostrils flared as he drew in a breath. “At the time I thought I did. More than that I sought to punish the earl…for not…for not being my father. I wanted to die until that night some filthy pickpocket dared hold a knife to my throat. It was childish of me.”
She clenched her gloved fist to keep from reaching across the brief expanse of the coach to take his hand. All those wasted years…
“I was ashamed,” he admitted. “As soon as my mother told me of my true, humble lineage I resolved never to marry. I hoped that I would die young and the title would pass—as it should—to my cousin.”
“You could have told me. I would have understood.”
“Would you have?” One dark eyebrow lifted in question. “I hardly knew you the day we said our vows.”
Primrose lifted her chin. “I would have understood,” she repeated, tapping her chest for emphasis.
The ice in his eyes warmed. “I left to give you an out. You could have had the marriage annulled and gone back to America.”
“I know,” she said softly, her voice all but drowned out by the hammering rain.
“Did your parents force you to stay?”
“No,” she whispered. “I’ve told you already. I stayed because I hoped you’d return. One day turned into one week. That week turned into months and then years.”
“And then you came looking for me.” His mouth turned up in a smile that melted her tension.
“Why are you so damned stubborn?” she asked, returning his smile.
“Because I know what I am. Who I am. No one deserves to be shackled to a pretender.”
She arched an eyebrow. “It was I who shackled you if you recall.”
He chuckled. “It was wicked of you and I still haven’t forgiven you for it.” His playful tone indicated otherwise.
“I’m still awaiting my punishment.” Her cheeks flushed with warmth at her bold statement.
“And you shall have it, but Primrose, you’re avoiding the issue at hand.”
She sighed. She didn’t want to talk about this. With all his morose talk, he seemed to be pushing her away with both hands and at the same time drawing her ever closer. Confusion muddled her thoughts.
His gaze drifted toward the rain-soaked window and a muscle in his jaw flexed. “I feared you’d want to be free of me.”
Pain stabbed her in the heart. The last thing she wanted was to be free of him. She wanted to bear his children, to spend the rest of her life waking up next to him. Why couldn’t he see that? “I apologized to you for my part in tricking you into marriage but I am not sorry for it, Adam. Given the chance I’d do…” Her throat constricted. “I’d do everything all over again.” She swallowed thickly. “Except for let you leave.”
He was silent for so long she thought she might scream but determination set in to make him utter the next words. Finally his shoulders rose and fell heavily as he drew in a deep breath. His lips parted and just as he was about to speak a loud crack came from under the carriage.
The vehicle lurched to the side and the last thing Primrose saw before the carriage toppled was Adam lunging toward her to drag her into his arms.
/> Chapter Eight
“Primrose…”
Adam’s voice sounded far away but rushed suddenly toward her with sickening clarity. “Prim darling, are you all right?”
She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to stay here enfolded in her husband’s arms, but something was wrong. Something happened…
Willing herself to consciousness, she opened her eyes and immediately regretted it.
The coach had overturned.
She lay on top of her husband, his hand shielding her head as the door swung to and fro above her. Outside, the shrieking of a horse pierced the waning rumble of thunder.
“Are you hurt?” Adam asked, his gaze rambling over her face as he obviously searched for scrapes or bruises.
Awareness of her body seeped back slowly. Other than budding soreness she felt no sharp stabs of pain. “I’m fine I think.”
His sigh fanned her cheek.
Alarm flooded her. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he said as he lifted her off him. “I need to see about the driver and the footmen.”
Drawing her feet up, she scooted back to give him room to maneuver in the awkward confines of the coach.
Seizing the doorframe, he nimbly hauled himself up. The coach shook as he leapt to the ground.
Clutching at the seats Primrose stood, eyeing the opening. There was no possible way she’d ever be able to get out the same way he had. Not wearing these heavy skirts.
Great droplets of water dripped in from the overhang of trees above and she shielded her face as she listened to the terse voices outside.
“He’s dead,” she heard Adam’s voice over the wild screaming of the horse.
Dead? Someone had died? The driver? One of the footmen? Primrose bit the back of her knuckle to keep from crying out.
“Give me your pistol,” she heard Adam say.
Holding her breath she awaited the shot she knew would follow. It rang out with a crack that rent the muggy air and then the horse’s cries abruptly stopped. Dear God, what had happened?