“After my father’s death, I saw life like a game board.” He gestured to that symbolic object in her hold and she moved her keen gaze from it to Nick. “It was easier that way,” he went on quietly. “I saw the boy I’d been, my father, even my sister and mother, as those weak, powerless figures. I never wanted to be that man.” A sad chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Oh, I never wanted to be king, but I wanted to be master over myself. But more, I wanted to be what my father was not. A hero.” His throat constricted. How very pathetic and small he’d been. He appreciated that now, as a man who’d lived life.
Setting the pawn down on the bench, Justina claimed the spot beside Nick. She reached up and, with a delicate butterfly caress, angled his face toward hers. “Oh, Nick,” she said softly, running her eyes over his face. “You still don’t see, do you? You’ll continue to make mistakes. We both will.” Her lips turned up in a tender smile. “But I do not want a hero from the gothic novels I’d read. I want you.”
“I love you,” he rasped. “Justina…”
She captured his face in her hands and held his gaze. “Take me home,” she urged with a gentle smile, palming his cheek. “With you. Where I belong.”
And at long last, the thread binding him to his darkened past snapped.
He was free.
Epilogue
One Fortnight Later
London, England
Nick had spent the past thirteen years mired in hatred. Seeking revenge. Bitter. Hurting. Justina had shown him there was something far more powerful, beautiful and healing—love.
There would always be regret. For who he’d been. What he’d done…to himself, to Justina. Her family. His own kin. But as she’d promised, they’d moved on together.
“Oomph,” she grunted as Nick inadvertently steered his blindfolded wife too close to the wall.
He brought them to a stop and whispered into her ear. The hint of honeysuckle on her skin wafted about his nose, intoxicating like fine brandy. “My apologies.”
Justina angled her head back. “A visit from Byron?” she ventured.
Nick laughed, the mirth real and full as it rumbled in his chest. “You are relentless, love.”
“Determined,” she corrected. “And Byron?”
“Relentless and determined,” he allotted, as she was in every aspect of life. Through the folded satin cravat covering her eyes, he tweaked her nose. “Sir Byron would have to return from Ravenna,” he pointed out.
His wife searched a hand about and found his nose, returning the measure. “Ahh, but then wouldn’t that be the surprise?”
“Indeed, you’re correct. It would.” He gripped her by the shoulders and directed her forward. “But that’s still not it,” he whispered into her ear.
Her breathy laughter flitted off the hallway walls as she allowed him to steer her onward. “Shelley?”
A grin tugged at his lips. “You guessed that already.” As she’d been guessing since he’d escorted her from their chambers earlier that morn with mention of a surprise waiting.
“Him,” his wife corrected. “I guessed him. Not that.”
“Very well. Him. And no, Mr. Shelley is not paying a visit.” He paused. “Perhaps someday.” He brought them to a stop. “Here,” he murmured, positioning her in the center of the doorway. Reaching behind her, he slowly loosened the knot holding the cloth in place. It fell with a fluttery wisp to the floor.
Justina blinked slowly. “Here,” she breathed. She took a tentative step forward and then paused mid-movement. Her keen gaze touched on every aspect of the former parlor. From the gilded chairs in their neat rows, to the white satin upholstered sofas arranged in each corner of the room, to the lectern at the very center of the room. Wordlessly, his wife wandered inside. At the protracted silence, he shifted on his feet.
He’d wanted to give her a place where she was in control. Where the topics and discussion could be guided by her and her clever intellect. She trailed her fingertips along the back of one of the gold chairs. Suddenly, uncertain, Nick cleared his throat. “It is a salon,” he said lamely, when she wheeled back to face him. “Or that is what I’d hoped. Or intended. Or thought.” Stop rambling. He compressed his lips into a line. And yet, it mattered to him that this mattered to her.
“I see that,” she whispered, returning her attention to the converted space.
“I want you to have a place that is yours,” he explained, needing her to understand. “Where no pompous man presumes to dictate your thoughts. I thought it could be a place where you encourage other young women to—oomph.” He staggered back as she charged over.
Quickly righting them, Nick immediately folded her in his arms. Happiness shone bright in her eyes, blending with so much love that it filled every corner of his being, making him all the stronger for it. “You like it, then, Your Grace?” he asked, brushing the pad of his thumb along her lower lip.
“I adore it, Nick,” she returned.
“You are free to invite anyone you wish. You do not have to have me in attendance. I—”
“I want you at my side,” she said solemnly, collecting his hands in her own. “Always and everywhere. Forever.”
He had lived in a state of hatred and ugliness for so long, he’d once believed his soul was dead. Incapable of light or goodness. She’d saved him. Set him free and restored him to the person he’d once been. “Forever,” he pledged and claimed her mouth in a kiss that promised that very gift.
The End
Beguiled by a Baron
By
Christi Caldwell
Dedication
To Reagan and Riley: my strong, smart, loving, and kindhearted daughters.
Vail and Bridget’s story is for you.
Chapter 1
Leeds, England
Spring 1820
Lady Bridget Hamilton had believed she’d made her last great sacrifice where her brother, the ruthless, soulless Marquess of Atbrooke, was concerned. She should have learned better—long ago.
Bridget gave thanks for having the foresight to leave her ten-year-old son, Virgil, in the care of their maid-of-all-purposes, Miss Nettie, who’d been with them since Bridget herself was a babe in the cradle. Keeping her son away from Archibald ensured he’d never grow up like the ruthless bastard.
“I beg your pardon?” Bridget said in frosty tones.
Born partially deaf in her left ear, it was possible she’d misheard Archibald. She had certainly failed to detect lesser words and tones than the ones he’d uttered. Yet, by the mercenary glitter in his ruthless eyes, she’d all the confirmation she needed.
He reclined in his seat; an upholstered chair with faded fabric and tears showing its age. “Oh, come, you make more of it than it is,” he drawled. His words forced her back to a different time. To the first and only time she’d left that remote, crumbling estate her family kept, with Archibald’s child in tow. In the end, Bridget had left with unexpected work from an old book collector…and also her nephew, rejected by his father. That same miserable bastard who now kicked his feet up. He dropped his gleaming black boots upon the French refectory table. “You’ve certainly undertaken far more than this small favor.”
Bridget lingered her gaze on his immaculate, and what was more, expensive footwear. Fine boots when he was in dun territory chasing a fortune and being hunted for the money he owed others. Costly articles when she and her son should live in the squalor that they did, in this ramshackle cottage. “Yes,” she said quietly. But those decisions had been ones she’d made…not to help her derelict, reprobate brother but rather to right the wrongs he’d inflicted upon others. “I have. As such, you should be ashamed to come here and put any requests to me.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she flattened her lips. Archibald was incapable of shame or regret. He’d been born with a black soul that not even the Devil would have a use for.
A flash of fury sparked in his eyes and he surged forward. “But there is where you are wrong, Bridget. I asked you for nothing. I dema
nded it of you.” It was not, however, the palpable outrage in his words that gave her pause, but rather the location of his feet. His dirt-stained heels kissed the edge of a document she’d been studying, prior to his arrival. That venerated script that she’d been asked to evaluate and study by a London scholar who’d no qualms in dealing with a young lady adept in antiquities. Those revered pages would provide much-needed coin and were also to be respected for the history contained within them. “Goddamn it, Bridget,” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “It is a chore to pay you any damned visit, even when you serve a purpose.”
So, he’d mistaken her silence for an inability to hear him. That had been a cherished tool she’d used over the years to gather the thoughts, words, plans, and opinions of the soulless siblings she’d been saddled with.
With her white-gloved fingers, she rescued the book and tucked it under the table—out of his reach, vision, and feet. She’d learned long ago that her brother’s attention was sparse at best. He could be distracted the same way a dog might when thrown a bone. “You don’t have a use for antiquities,” she finally said.
Archibald smirked. “I’ve developed a newfound appreciation for them.”
“Oh,” she bit out. “Since when did you care about anything?” Anything that was not a coin or a bottle of spirits.
“Since I learned the cost of this particular artifact,” he supplied, looking altogether smug. “Lord Chilton has it.” A crazed glitter lit his eyes. “And I want it. Need it,” he whispered.
So, he’d learned the value of those books. She curled her hands into balls. He’d never been the bookish sort. He’d mocked her and jeered her love of literature and ancient texts and documents. Only to now, all these years later, find the value of them. Of course, it should come to be because of his own financial failings. He’d been living in hiding these past two years, which was no doubt because of the creditors after him. And yet, he always crawled out to the Kent countryside like a determined rodent that Cook would never succeed in ridding from the kitchens. “You want me to enter a nobleman’s household, masquerade as a servant in his employ, and rob him while he sleeps?” Mad. Her brother was as mad as their sister, who’d just been committed for the attempted murder of the young Duchess of Huntly.
Archibald scoffed. “You’re rot at subterfuge, Bridget. You don’t need to wait until the dead of night. The gentleman is off seeing to business most days and nights. The time will really be yours to choose.”
“Which particular book?” she asked with an inquiry that came forth more of her passion for those records and less to aid him in his plans of theft. She’d sacrificed enough in her life: her respectable name, her ability to move freely in the world. She’d not also now sacrifice her honor. Not for a material scrap or coin. Not even a small fortune.
“It is the first edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.”
Her breath caught and she froze, unmoving. “Chaucer,” she breathed. Impossible. Predating the fifteenth century, that great work was a rarity that every last bibliophile would be champing at the bit for.
And my brother wants me to steal it.
Bitterness and hatred turned her blood hot. Bridget shoved to her feet. “I cannot help you in this.” Not even if I wanted to, which she most decidedly did not. “One cannot simply steal a first edition of Chaucer’s work and then sell it without the whole of the world knowing one was complicit in that crime.”
Archibald wagged a finger. “Ah, yes. But, you see, I’ve already found a buyer.” Of course he had. The rotted bastard. The men and women he kept company with were people whose souls would one day make up Satan’s army. “We’ve made arrangements. I acquire the copy and he’ll turn over twenty-five thousand pounds.”
She choked on her swallow. Her brother named a vast sum that could ensure the livelihood and security of an entire family for two generations to come. “You’ll simply squander those monies on whores and your clubs and wicked parties, Archibald.” Bridget gave her head a disgusted shake. “I’ll not steal for you. You’ll do your own theft,” she said, infusing an air of finality to that vow. “I’ve done much for you.” Certainly more than he’d ever done for her. No, Archibald had only ever brought shame, pain, and turmoil. “But I’ll not do this.” She took a step toward the door. “We’re done—”
He jumped up. “What you’ve done for me? The only reason you’ve found work with Lowery—”
“Lowell,” she forced out past her fear. The funds she received from the ancient bookkeeper were what afforded her the money to feed her son and see him cared for. If Archibald yanked that away, with it would go the fragile security Bridget had established for her boy. “His name is Mr. Lowell.”
“Regardless. You have your employment because I secured work for you with those bloody books of his.”
Indignation driving back fury, she went toe-to-toe with him. “Do not pretend you’ve done any of this for me, or…Virgil,” she seethed. “You were always self-serving.” The funds she earned were split half with her wastrel brother, all because he’d found her the post. “You simply used my skills to pay for your gaming and whoring.”
The air slid from her lips on a painful hiss as he shot a hand about her wrist. He crushed the delicate bones in a punishing grip. Tears dotted her vision. “You do not end discussions, Bridget,” he whispered against her right ear. “The only reason you exist in any way is because I allow it,” he threatened, tightening his hold.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, refusing to let him see he hurt her. Not allowing him to know he terrified her still. She knew the evil he was capable of and didn’t doubt he’d choke the life from her without compunction if the mood struck him. But she also knew that to answer him now and cede this point would only empower him.
With a growl, he flung her arm. She resisted the urge to rub the tender flesh and, instead, planted her feet. “Damn it, I need that book, Bridget.”
He asked her to steal and risk her name, reputation, and very life. And then, where would Virgil be? Unbidden, her gaze went to the closed doorway and, for the first time since Archibald had put to her his scheme, dread iced her spine. For this plan moved beyond her and the greedy monster before her. It involved her ten-year-old son, Virgil, who’d find himself motherless if she were caught in a criminal act…against a nobleman. “I have responsibilities here in Kent. I earn coin that you benefit from, I’d remind you.”
“Pfft.” He scoffed. “A damned pittance that won’t solve—”
“—the mess you’ve made of the Hamilton fortunes,” she cut in. And he’d demanded her hard-earned coin countless times or he’d threatened to reveal her identity to the community as no widow, but an unwed whore of seven and twenty as he’d too often called her.
“This will solve all my problems, though,” he said with a pleased smile.
His problems. In short, she’d benefit not at all from the book he expected her to steal. Not that she’d seek or take a pence of stolen coin but, nonetheless, it still spoke to her brother’s self-centeredness. He proceeded to enumerate a tidy list. “I’ll not need to live in hiding anymore,”—she far preferred him slinking in shadows—“I’ll pay off the damned bastards holding my debt. I’ll wed a fat-in-the-pockets heiress who’ll deepen my wealth. It’s really quite brilliant.”
Yes, as far as villainous plans, it rather was. “I won’t,” she said with an air of finality.
He let out a beleaguered sigh. “You’ve always been an obstinate one. Always trying to be proper and well-behaved. As though that would have earned you anyone’s regard or note.” She curled her fingers reflexively into tight balls. “No one will ever notice you. They never did,” he said without inflection.
Bridget brought her shoulders back. “I’d rather be invisible than seen for a blackness in my soul, as you are.”
Archibald lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “If I cared about another’s opinion, I’d have been destroyed long ago. You, however, are t
he one hiding in the countryside, living a pretend life and poring over your,” he nudged his chin at the books scattered upon the table. “Dull books.” He caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and proceeded to walk about her very much a predator sizing up its prey. “I wonder… hmm.”
Bridget forced herself to remain still through his deliberate show. Questions screamed around her mind and she quelled them. A woman of seven and twenty, she’d been the brutalized sibling of two monsters and then eventually cast out. Neither of them knew anything about her. She’d far more calm and control than Archibald or Marianne had ever credited.
Her brother stopped before her. Nearly four inches taller than her own five-feet seven-inches, he still towered over her enough to command a space. He stuck his face close to hers. “You know you want to ask me what I’m thinking. You want to know what is going on inside my head.”
“I know it can be nothing good,” she rejoined.
“And that is enough,” he continued as though she’d not spoken. “It is enough knowing that you care. Just as you care about the boy.”
Despite her bid for control, her entire body recoiled. Virgil. The one person who truly mattered. A person she loved so wholly and who she’d sacrificed her own life to protect. Heart hammering, she swung her gaze to the doorway, grateful her son was away from this monster.
“You and I both know the truth about him.” She’d wager every coin she’d earned evaluating antiquities that Archibald didn’t even know the child’s name.
“Don’t,” she whispered. Where did she find the steely strength to form that response? Where, when inside every nerve was stretched tight and she was poised for battle?
Archibald grinned a cold, unfeeling grin. He gripped her head tight in his hands and dragged her close. “He’s not your boy,” he taunted. “He’s all mine. His mother was a whore who’s dead at her own hand.”
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