A Heart So Innocent

by Charlene Cross

  “But, George,” she shouted, tugging at her hand, yet he refused to release it. “You don’t understand. It wouldn’t be fair. I don’t love you … not the way you deserve to be loved. I—”

  “You will, Aidan,” George countered, pulling her into his lean arms, not noticing how she’d instantly stiffened. “I promise, someday you will love me as much as I love you.”

  And as his lips lowered over hers, a wave of emotion swept the throng surrounding them, their cheers swelling to a roaring crescendo, rolling through Aidan like a forceful tide. Yet, in response to George, she felt nothing—nothing at all.

  2

  At precisely half-past eight, a loud knock sounded on the door of Westover House, a highly fashionable home located in St. James’s Square. What now? Justin Warfield, the Duke of Westover, wondered, irritated with the lack of solitude he’d found in his own home of late.

  Upon his return from France two weeks ago, there had been a continuous influx of well-wishers and curiosity seekers invading his privacy, day and night, half of whom he didn’t know. No doubt, Justin thought cynically, the unexpected visitor was yet another eager father hoping to make an alliance between himself, the “much-sought-after” Duke of Westover, and the man’s insipid virginal daughter. Would the lot ever leave him in peace?

  The knocker fell again, and Justin bounded to his feet, tossing his newspaper aside. “Pitkin!” he shouted to his elderly butler. “Answer the blasted door!” He saw the thin white-haired man scurry past the sitting-room doorway. “I’m not at home—to anyone!”

  The door gave a slight groan on its hinges, and an emphatic voice echoed through the vaulted entry, sounding vaguely familiar to Justin. A moment later, Pitkin appeared. “Lord Edmonds insists on seeing Your Grace.”

  Although he would have wanted it otherwise, Justin decided he couldn’t very well deny an audience to George Edmonds. If he did so, his great-aunt Pattina, who was also George’s godmother, would be furious with him and would undoubtedly make her displeasure known upon discovering his refusal. Not wishing to be the recipient of one of Aunt Patti’s verbal attacks, Justin acquiesced. “Send him in, Pitkin.”

  “I beg your forgiveness for the intrusion, Your Grace,” George said, perusing the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired Duke of Westover, who was a half dozen years older than George’s own twenty-two. “But it’s most urgent that I see you.”

  Justin’s silvery gaze inspected the shorter man through the fine breaks in his long dark lashes. Stalky of build, shoulders obviously padded beneath his gray coat, George appeared extremely anxious. “You seem as though you’re on the verge of becoming unhinged, Edmonds,” Justin commented while motioning his guest to one of the matching giltwood armchairs. “You weren’t, by chance, involved in the plot to kill our Queen, were you?”

  George’s eyes widened. “Me? Never! Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Justin fought the desire to roll his eyes. Edmonds never could tell when someone was joshing him. Even from childhood, George had been far too serious. But given his strict upbringing, his stiff demeanor was understandable. “I was merely jesting, George. If I’ve given offense, I beg your forgiveness.”

  “No offense was taken, Your Grace.”

  Justin seated himself; George followed suit. “So, George, what pressing matter brings you to my doorstep?”

  “I need to ask a favor of you,” George said, coming straight to the point, then watched as one of Justin’s dark brows arched over an unreadable gaze. “I … I know it’s presumptuous of me, but I cannot think of another person I can trust. If her father finds out, he’ll have my head.”

  Justin’s lips twitched as he tried to hold back a chuckle.

  “Are you intimating you’ve compromised some young maid?”

  George blinked. “Heavens, no!”

  The throaty chuckle did erupt. “Then, what are you trying to say, George?”

  “I … I’m in love with a beautiful young lady who has consented, only a few hours ago, to become my wife. Her father, however, has made other arrangements. She’s to be pledged to another. If we are to marry, we must elope within the next several days, or she’ll be lost to me.”

  Justin frowned. “Forgive me if I seem a bit slow, but I don’t understand how I fit into this.”

  “To pull it off, I’ll need your assistance,” George said anxiously, pleadingly.

  “George, I’m not one to engage in clever little gambits,” he lied, for his half-dozen love affairs had been precisely that. Once the hen was in the coop, he quickly lost interest. “Devices of intrigue are best left to someone—”

  “Your Grace, I’m most hesitant about asking, but when I returned to my lodgings a short while ago, there was a message sent from Moorsfield, my father’s estate. There’s been a fire. The note made no mention how extensive the damage was, but with my father in India, on the Queen’s business, I must leave within the hour to see to the repairs—that’s if the place still stands. Dash it all!” George exploded, popping from his seat, his fists balled at his sides. “Just when she’s finally changed her mind and declared she’ll marry me, this has to happen!”

  Justin viewed George at length. Collating the sketchy bits and pieces gleaned from the viscount’s words, he gathered Edmonds had previously proposed to his intended, only to be rejected. But with an impending marriage, no doubt forced upon her, the young lady had suddenly changed her mind, George now being her matrimonial choice. Was poor, unassuming George simply the more palatable of the two offerings? Knowing George had very little experience with women, Justin feared the man was dashing headlong into disaster. In his eagerness to wed, he might very well be consumed by his ladylove, his heart devoured by the conniving woman. “Who is this … this woman?” Justin asked harshly.

  Certain his request would be denied, George fell back into his chair, defeated. “Lady Aidan Prescott—the Duke of Atwood’s daughter.”

  Atwood! Justin thought, masking his surprise, for less than two weeks ago Alastair Prescott had been one of the many numbers who’d pressed for a union between Justin and the man’s daughter. Although Justin had refused all such requests, in as friendly a manner as possible, there were several odd occurrences shortly after his renunciation of Aidan Prescott, making Justin suspicious that Atwood nursed some sort of vengeance toward him.

  The first was when, at auction, Atwood had beaten him out of a particularly fine thoroughbred Justin wanted to use for stud with his prize mares, stabled at Warfield Manor, his country home, several hours’ drive north of London. The bidding had become heated, the numbers astronomically high. Hesitating a mere second to debate whether the stallion was actually worth the amount last bid, Justin heard the gavel fall. Surprisingly, Atwood, not his agent, signed the draft for the thoroughbred. Later Justin learned the duke had then sold the stallion to another bidder, who had dropped out much earlier, for a lesser sum.

  Next came the sale of several pieces of coveted artwork, three Rembrandts included, that Justin wanted for his private collection. The outcome had been the same, with Atwood winning out. If Justin had had any doubts there was some sort of reprisal fixed against him, fostered by Alastair Prescott, those uncertainties were quickly set to rest. While in the midst of negotiating the purchase of a piece of prime land bordering Warfield Manor, suddenly all discussions were ended and the land sold, its new owner unknown. Yet all signs pointed to the Duke of Atwood, and Justin was certain he’d been the target of the scorned duke’s ire.

  “Do you love this Aidan Prescott?” Justin asked finally.

  “With all my heart,” George confessed.

  Justin viewed Edmonds carefully. “Does she profess her love for you?”

  The viscount’s gaze shifted. “Sh-she looks upon me with affection. Sh-she—”

  “Are you certain she’s not simply using you to save her own skin?” Justin asked almost cruelly, and watched George blanch. Did the man have some reservations of his own? he wondered.

  “She�
�s agreed to be my wife,” George stated firmly. “That’s all that matters to me.”

  “Take care, friend, that she doesn’t rip your devoted heart to shreds,” Justin warned, his gaze steely. “You might wish to ponder your hasty decision a bit longer. On the morrow, after a long night’s rest, things may come into sharper focus.”

  “I don’t need time to think on it,” George stated adamantly, coming to his feet again. “My decision is made. I love her. I want Aidan as my wife. I have since the moment I first saw her. If I can’t have Your Grace’s help, I shall seek assistance elsewhere.”

  Never had Justin seen George react so steadfastly. Yet the man’s heart was involved. Foolish as it might have seemed, Justin found he could not deny George’s request—whatever it was. “Sit, George, and tell me what it is I’m expected to do.”

  “Your Grace, I’m most grateful,” George said, a wide smile spreading across his usually serious features. “I was certain I could count on you.”

  “On with it, George.”

  “Quite. My plan was to elope with Lady Prescott, three days hence. If you could simply deliver Aidan to the inn at Gretna Green, I would be forever in your debt.”

  Justin digested George’s words. The prestigious Duke of Westover demoted to a mere delivery boy! he thought, smiling derisively to himself. Should his peers get wind of his entanglement in this, he’d be the laughingstock of all London. Yet, it might be well worth the gibes, especially if his involvement were purposely made public—after the fact. By playing the bearer of Cupid’s arrow, he could at the same time gain reparation, for the Duke of Atwood’s underhanded maneuvers would not go unpunished. “I’m to be entrusted with your bride’s care and to safely deliver her into your arms at the Scottish border. Is that all?”

  “No. I don’t have time to communicate with her. I’ve hired a coach and it’s waiting outside.”

  Justin noted George’s embarrassment and suspected the man felt somewhat inferior because he didn’t own a conveyance himself. Since George’s father, the Earl of Coxby, was noted for his niggardly ways, there was a fixed acceptance throughout the peerage of George’s circumstances. No doubt, Justin thought, the elder Edmonds still retained the first farthing he’d ever clutched as a lad; but the father’s tightfisted manner did the son little good. Justin watched as George slipped a sealed note from his breast pocket.

  “If you could give her this”—he handed it to Justin—”it will explain why I had to leave so suddenly. I was to meet her tonight at Lord and Lady Quincy’s soiree to finalize our plans. But if you could go in my place and account for my absence, I would be most grateful. The final arrangements must be made between the two of you with utmost expediency. I trust you’ll keep this under wraps.”

  “I’m well noted for my clandestine affairs with the ladies, George. Once found out, I’ve already moved on to another,” Justin said with a chuckle, and observed the surprised look in Edmonds’ eyes. “You have no need to worry,” he reassured him. “Your lady will be safe with me.” Justin tucked the note into his pocket. “You do realize Lady Prescott shall have need to stop at an inn along the way so she may rest and refresh herself?” Justin saw George’s nod. “It’s a rather compromising situation,” he cautioned. “If anyone should get wind of this, your bride’s reputation might be ruined. As long as you understand the risks and have no qualms, then I foresee no problem.”

  “I trust Your Grace, emphatically.”

  Justin’s brow arched ever so slightly. Given his reputation with the feminine gender, which in reality was more myth than fact, most men wouldn’t allow their fiancées or their wives—not even their mothers!—within a mile of him. Either George truly felt he could entrust Lady Aidan Prescott into the Duke of Westover’s hands without any fear whatsoever, or George was an extremely desperate man who hadn’t pondered the full magnitude of his request. Although Justin knew, unequivocally, that nothing would happen—for he was highly selective, his personal tastes lending themselves to more experienced women, preferably beautiful young widows—he thought George rather naive. “Your confidence is most reassuring. If all goes well, in a short time you shall be a married man,” Justin said, rising. “Now, I suggest you be off to make certain your bride has a place she can call home.”

  After conferring on the exact day, time, and place where the three would meet near the Scottish border, George vigorously pumped the duke’s hand, then bade him farewell.

  The door closed and Justin’s lengthy strides carried him back into the sitting room, where he folded his long frame into his chair and tried to resume reading his paper. But he found he couldn’t concentrate and tossed the thing aside. Springing to his feet, he crossed the room and poured himself a brandy; a dark mood settled over him.

  Of all the nights for him to stay home, wanting to escape the crush of London society, he had to choose this one! Blast it all! Why had he consented to help George with this unseemly bit of chicanery. Dispatching young women across the countryside was not his idea of enjoyment! Should anything go wrong, it would be his head, not Edmonds’.

  Then, again, this was not just any young woman. This was Lady Aidan Prescott, Alastair Prescott’s daughter. Although he’d never had the pleasure of meeting the daughter, he’d certainly had the distinct dissatisfaction of encountering the father. And the thought of thwarting Atwood’s noble plans for a lucrative alliance between the man’s daughter and whomever Atwood had chosen for her was truly a catharsis that would free Justin of his anger, while at the same time enabling him to exact his own revenge.

  “A fair-and-just reward,” Justin said in salute, and downed the contents of his glass. “Pitkin,” he called, setting the glass aside and angling toward the doorway, “have my coach sent round. I’m going out.”

  Aidan was seated in the ballroom at Lord and Lady Quincy’s stylish home, located on Park Lane, across from Hyde Park, vigorously fanning herself as she watched the doorway for George. On her right sat Lady Manley.

  “My hair is suffering from the stiff wind you’re creating with that thing.” Eugenia’s hand caught Aidan’s, stopping the strenuous motion. “What has you in such a dither?”

  “Nothing,” Aidan lied, for she’d not said a word to her friend about George Edmonds’ proposal of marriage. Nor that they were to meet here tonight and finalize their plans. “I’m simply in one of my restless moods.”

  “Well, please don’t be tempted to release your pent-up energies by doing something that might cause a stir. You’ll only make your father more determined to rid himself of you.”

  “I promise to behave, Eugenia. You have nothing to fear.”

  Eugenia’s fine brow rose skeptically. “I’ll hold you at your word, Lady Prescott. This is one of the most prestigious parties of the season. Should you ruin this one, you’ll never be invited to the Quincys’ again. Nor, might I add, to any other party in London—ever.”

  Mischief danced in Aidan’s violet eyes. “What do you think it would take to have me cast from the cradle of London society altogether?”

  “Not much,” Eugenia said blandly. “Why would you even wish for that to happen?”

  “If I were a simple maid of common birth, then I could choose the man I wanted to marry.”

  Eugenia laughed lightly. “A misconception on your part, dear friend. Arranged marriages are prevalent among the commonplace as well as the peerage. You’re fooling yourself if you believe otherwise. Besides,” she said, her gaze running the length of Aidan’s ivory satin gown, its low neck and elbow-length sleeves adorned in black Chantilly lace, “you’d look rather silly milking a cow in that garb.” Eugenia’s smile grew impish; she winked. “And we both know, dearest, your passions for the latest designs from Paris are insatiable. So I doubt you’d much enjoy the more mundane life, Aidan.”

  Aidan’s light laughter tinkled through the air, clear as a bell, though her friend’s statement was completely untrue. Actually, Aidan’s reputation as a clotheshorse was unfounded. Her continuous
shopping sprees were not to appease her boredom, thereby stocking her wardrobe with the latest in fashion, as many of her friends thought. Unknown to them all, her purchases were in the way of serviceable woolens, shoes, mittens, medicines, or whatever else the orphans might have need of. Not even Eugenia was aware of her secret enterprise. After all, Aidan truly believed that one did not find one’s way into heaven by touting one’s good works.

  “A point I hadn’t considered, Eugenia,” she said, smiling. “You are right, of course.” She glanced toward the doorway again, looking for George. “A milkmaid swathed in satin—”

  Laughing violet eyes connected with a magnetic silvery gaze across a span of twenty paces, and Aidan instantly swallowed her words. Hopelessly, she stared at the tall, handsome stranger, his long-lashed eyes slowly measuring her, from the champagne-colored miniature rosebuds crowning her intricately styled coppery locks, downward over her creamy shoulders, to linger momentarily on her décolletage, then sweep to her ivory-satin-slippered feet peeking from beneath the hem of her gown.

  A light flush crept upward from the erratic pulse that beat wildly in Aidan’s throat to spread itself over her hot cheeks. Flustered by the stranger’s raw appraisal, she quickly pulled her gaze away from the brazen man. Having noted his impeccable dress—his black evening attire molding itself to his broad shoulders and slim waist—she thought he’d displayed a lazy sort of nonchalance. Worldly and sophisticated, he had a devil-may-care attitude about him and an ego to match! Falsely denying any feminine interest in him, Aidan snapped open her black lace fan and began to cool her flaming face.

  “Who is that man?” she whispered to Eugenia, her eyes downcast, for she dared not look at him again. Ridiculously, she still felt herself reeling from his intense gaze; an odd tingling sensation pricked along her entire body. “Do you know him?”