Rebel Love (Heart's Temptation Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Are you to send me to the guillotine as well, then?” She knew she was exhibiting cheek, particularly given her circumstances, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Insolent minx.” He frowned at her. “Count yourself fortunate I don’t have one at my disposal, else I’d be using it on whatever blighter has done this to you. And you are to have nothing. No fripperies or hundred-pound Worth gowns until I deem your time of punishment to be over.”

  Her time of punishment. Really, after all the scandal he’d recently brewed, this was rich indeed. “Am I to wear a scarlet letter of shame?”

  “It is a miracle that I once considered you a quiet, biddable girl who would settle down with some bookish earl and never so much as sneeze at the wrong time of day.”

  “I am not sure if I should be insulted or pleased.”

  “Insulted, by God. I never would have thought you had the devil in you.”

  She’d had the devil in her all right, but not in the way her brother would like to think. She wisely kept silent on that particular gem of wisdom. “Perhaps I waited until now to show my hand.” She shrugged. “Take what you want from me. Bury me away in the countryside forever. I will never tell you anything more.”

  “We shall see,” he vowed, his tone deadly. “We shall see.”

  t’s a glorious day,” murmured the Duke of Devonshire to Bella as they walked slowly through the Marleigh Manor gardens. “I must say, the countryside is particularly refreshing.”

  Stones crunched beneath their heels. The day in question was rather cold but sunny enough to warrant a jaunt away from the dowager’s chaperoning ears. She looked to him, thinking him handsome enough. He was tall, blond-haired like Jesse, and yet so different. Where Jesse had been bold and passionate, Devonshire was cool and composed, quick to offer praise and yet always above reproach. He had wooed her mother as well as wooing Bella, for he was clearly a man who knew the way of the world.

  She pulled her dolman more tightly around her walking dress to stave off the chill. “It is indeed quite bright and pretty for this time of year.”

  It was odd indeed, she thought, to be walking and talking as if all were right with the world. But everything was wrong. The smile she donned was false. The silk Worth gown she wore had been hand-picked for the occasion by her mother. Bella couldn’t be bothered with such trivial details any longer after her life had been altered in such an awful, irrefutable way.

  Her babe was gone now, forever lost because she’d been stupid enough to take out her mare in a storm. She would never forgive herself. The pain was an awful, gaping chasm inside her. Thank the blessed angels her mother didn’t know. Her brother and Cleo had been true to their word and kept her secret, and although Thornton had done his utmost to learn the identity of the babe’s father, she had maintained her silence. She supposed he’d quite given up on her.

  So it was that she’d been paraded before the poor, unsuspecting duke like a mare trotted out for the consideration of prospective buyers. She shivered, as much from the December air as from the dreadful feeling of emptiness within her. It all seemed so much like it had been a nightmare now, and she was dressed to her best yet still just a husk of her former self.

  “I wonder, my dear Lady Bella,” the duke began, interrupting her morose thoughts, “if you’ve enjoyed my time here at Marleigh Manor as much as I have.”

  Bella’s gaze snapped to his, searching. Was it possible that he was more perceptive than she’d given him credit for being? Had he sensed her detachment? She pursed her lips, crafting her response with care. “You must know I find your company most delightful, Your Grace,” she murmured at last.

  Truly, the duke was a kind man. If she needed to be married off to anyone—which her brother assured her she must, given her ruined state—it may as well be someone as quiet and compassionate as he. Of course, she hated being dishonest with him. He deserved a wife who could love him with a whole heart. Bella’s had been so badly bruised and battered that she wasn’t even certain it could ever recover.

  “I’m honored by your compliment,” he said, giving her a warm smile. “I must say that I treasured the brief opportunities we had for conversation at Lady Cosgrove’s house party. Afterward, your letters sustained me. Your knowledge of literature, particularly the works of Anthony Trollope, is to be admired.”

  If she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge that she too had enjoyed corresponding with the duke. He shared her love of novels. But exchanging letters with him had nevertheless been a pleasant task, even if she’d done it mostly to appease her insufferable mother.

  Guilt skewered her at the expression of frank admiration on the duke’s face. “I look forward to discussing The Eustace Diamonds with you, sir, should I ever have the opportunity to finish reading it.”

  “My lady.” He stopped abruptly, turning to face her and take her hands in his. “Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but I must tell you that over the last few months, I have come to think of you with great fondness.”

  Oh dear. She swallowed, the guilt blooming more and more within her stomach with each word he spoke. “I am fond of you as well, Your Grace.” For the first time, she realized he had neatly diverted her so that they were no longer visible from the windows of the drawing room where the dowager waited. He wasn’t immune to the ways of men, it would seem.

  Slowly, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was warm and firm, closed-mouthed and surprisingly passionless. She supposed she had come to expect kisses that devoured. Jesse’s kisses had been hot, hungry and demanding. They had not been tepid and polite. Before she could further compare, it was over as quickly as it had begun.

  She blinked, looking up at him, feeling none of the sensations Jesse’s kisses had evoked within her. She felt instead a curious ambivalence. Apparently, the duke mistook her puzzlement for pleasure, because he dipped his head again. This time, he kissed her with more insistence, opening his mouth slightly over hers.

  Bella pulled back abruptly, overcome. She’d just been through the most difficult time of her life. She most certainly wasn’t ready to be exchanging kisses in the gardens with a new suitor as though she hadn’t anything more important to worry about than whether or not her hat matched her slippers.

  The duke appeared contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said on a rush. “I didn’t mean to insult you, my dear. I quite lost my head.”

  If his cool, quick kisses were the result of losing his head, she was a mermaid. And the last she’d checked, she had feet, not fins. Blessed angels, Bella thought they were hopelessly mismatched. She felt utterly horrid, leading him down a path from which there was no return. He didn’t even know who she was. For that matter, Bella didn’t even know who she was any longer. She’d certainly lost every last crumb of her idealism.

  “It is I who must apologize, Your Grace,” she told him, her voice laden with guilt. She wanted very much to like him. Perhaps she could like him, given time, but she was too broken now to care for anyone. “You see, my heart has been broken, and while I count you to be a cherished friend, I’m not able to feel for you as I ought. You are a perfect gentleman and have been most kind to me this last week. The truth is that you deserve much more than I can give you.”

  He brought her hands, still linked with his, to his lips for a kiss. “You are to be commended for your honesty. I shall treat you to the same. I very much believe in taking on a wife who is my equal in every way. You are intelligent, well-versed in the arts of society, the daughter of a noble family. If I were to tell you I loved you, I would be lying. But I think I can grow to love you, and I hope that you might also grow to love me in return.”

  She frowned, considering his surprising soliloquy. “But Your Grace—”

  “Pray,” he interrupted gently, “think over what I’ve said to you. Hearts, like crumbling castle walls, can always be mended.”

  He still wanted her as his wife. She hadn’t been prepared for such a reaction. She had to admit his reas
oning seemed sound, his logic quite pragmatic. She already respected him. Feelings of tenderness for him could surely follow in time. Love, however, was another matter entirely. She needed to tell him as much.

  “Your Grace, I am confident that I have lost the only man I shall ever love.”

  “And I’m equally confident that I can rival any man for your affections.” He smiled, lowering their entwined hands. “You are yet young, my dear, and young love always hurts the most.”

  “With utmost respect, Your Grace, I beg to differ,” she countered. “Love is not ruled by age but by passions and unruly hearts. Besides, you aren’t a great deal older than I.”

  The duke raised a brow. “I’m old enough. But let’s call a truce, shall we? I too have been in your most unenvied shoes. I know all too well that a broken heart smarts worse than any broken bone ever could.”

  His understanding only increased her sadness. He was almost too good, really. Why did he have to be so understanding? The weariness in her made her want to trust him. She tilted her head, considering him. He didn’t seem especially capable of a grand passion. “I hadn’t realized,” she said simply. “You appear so stalwart.”

  The duke’s expression grew shuttered. “Outward appearances hide a multitude of things, Lady Bella. The sooner in life you learn that lesson, the less disappointed you’ll be.”

  Unexpectedly, her mind turned to Jesse. He had hidden much from her, it seemed, including his true nature. Otherwise, he never would have disappeared from her life with nary a goodbye. He’d left her alone to face the consequences of their glorious night of passion, alone to face the horrible anguish of losing their babe. He hadn’t even known of its existence. He likely never would. Nor, she supposed, would he care about the tiny life she’d carried within her for almost three months before having it ripped from her body. Their precious babe had been snuffed out as effectively as a timid fire in the grate. To nearly everyone else, the babe had never been real. To her, the babe had been everything. Yes, the duke was right. Outward appearances could hide a vast amount of secrets, some of which would never be made known. Tears stung her eyes.

  “Don’t cry, darling Bella.” The duke startled her by taking her in his arms for a comforting embrace.

  He smelled rather nice, she thought, a musky blend of man and leather. His coat was fine and soft against her cheek. If only she had loved him instead of Jesse Whitney. Life would have been more bearable, surely. She never would have been alone and stupid, riding her horse in a storm. She never would have lost her babe or the man she loved. The tears unleashed themselves steadily upon her, racking her body with sobs. Had she been herself, she would have been dreadfully embarrassed. But she was a ghost wandering about in the skin of the woman she’d been, and the ghost didn’t give a fig for keeping up appearances.

  He comforted her, patting her back as though having a woman crying her eyes out in his arms were the most natural position in the world. “Everything hurts less with time, Lady Bella. You shall see.”

  She fervently hoped he was correct in his assertion. She nodded miserably against his lapel, unable to formulate a reply. Perhaps one day she would be capable of functioning as a normal person again. Lately, it seemed she fluctuated wildly from emotion to emotion. The worst was the sadness. It never left her.

  “I must return to my estate today, my dear,” he murmured, still stroking her back. “But I should like to return in a fortnight. While I’m away, pray mull over all I’ve said to you. I believe quite firmly that we can make a remarkable match. But I shall leave the decision to you. If you write me, I shall come to ask the marquis for your hand.”

  Bella looked up at the duke, tears making her vision blurry. “I w-will think on it, Your Grace. I th-th-thank you for the honor you pay me.”

  “Very good, my dear.” He pressed a brotherly kiss to her forehead. “Now dry your eyes. I fear if we tarry a moment longer, your lovely mother will come barreling around the bend to demand I marry you at once.”

  She managed a small laugh at the image of the dowager coming upon them in full dudgeon. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Any time, Lady Bella,” he said kindly. “Any time.”

  Acrid gun smoke stung his lungs. The clash of hand-to-hand combat rattled around him. Bayonets collided with swords and daggers, minié balls whistling through the air as angry hornets. Men screamed. Canisters were emptied into human flesh. Horses whinnied and fell. Fear gripped his heart like a giant’s unrelenting fist. Before him, the bodies of his comrades stretched out, faces twisted into death masks, stomachs and heads blown open, oozing life’s blood as if it were no more precious than water in a stream. The devilish bellow of a cannon blast roared through the din of battle. The howitzer cut down a swath of men to his right. Heads and limbs were torn from bodies.

  Jesse fumbled to reload his gun. A Yankee officer rose from the heavy cloud surrounding him, sword poised to run him through. He tried to scream, move, shoot the bastard, but somehow his hands had been rendered powerless. No sound emerged from his throat. The blade arced toward him, dripping in the red blood of the wounded, ready to plunge into his gut. This was it, he thought, his final moment before death. He felt the sword skewer him, the ripping pain unlike any earthly sensation he’d ever felt before…

  Jesse returned to consciousness with a start. He stood in utter darkness, and for a moment he wasn’t sure where he was or how he’d gotten there. He was sweating, his breathing heavy, fists clenched and aching. Christ, he must have been caught up in one of his nightmares again. Taking a deep breath, he tried to shake the remnants of the dream from his sleep-fogged mind. Gradually, reality returned to him. After traveling across the Atlantic on a tossing, hellish ride, he had at long last arrived in England with Clara. Now he was in London, in his own chamber.

  Thank God.

  Slowly, he took a few steps in the direction of what he fancied was the gas lamps. He’d only been here for one night and he’d been sleeping in so many different places that it took him some pause to gather his sense of just where the hell he was. He had arranged for the purchase of a house in Belgravia during his stay in America. It had been dear in price but necessary if he wanted to begin a life with Bella. And he wanted that life more than he wanted breath in his lungs.

  The house itself was grand, as befitted a woman of her position in society. He was glad, for he’d bought it sight unseen. While he’d stayed in many fine establishments over the years, he had to admit that there was something about this edifice that had felt different for him the instant he’d walked in the door. This was not merely a shelter but a home, the place where he’d at long last plant his roots.

  Blindly, he felt before him until his fingers discovered the ridge of his oak bed. He followed its sturdy lines to the gas lamp and lit it. The room illuminated in a subtle orange glow. He gulped in air, trying to calm his jagged nerves.

  The nightmares were getting worse, damn it. They’d been plaguing him with a relentless persistence ever since he’d gone back to Virginia. Hell. In the flickering light, he caught sight of his fists. They were cracked open, oozing scarlet blood. Jesse lit another lamp and made his way through the chamber, searching for what he’d damaged. It wouldn’t be a surprise to learn he’d destroyed something with his fists. For some inexplicable reason, his fits were worse than they’d ever been before.

  He stopped dead when he saw the wall.

  Damn it all. There was a series of deep, bloody craters in the damask wallpaper. Christ. This wasn’t the first time he’d damaged his surroundings. It had been occurring with alarming frequency of late. What the hell was wrong with him? He looked down at his hands in the faint light, flexing his fingers. They ached with each motion but he didn’t think they were broken.

  Jesse went to the washstand and poured fresh water into the waiting bowl. While the house was relatively modern, the bathing chambers still weren’t plumbed. He would have to work on that. Heaving a sigh, he plunged his hands into the bowl and scrubb
ed as if the act could rid him of the wounds he’d inflicted upon himself. The journey back to England had been a long and arduous one. He hadn’t lingered in Virginia a breath longer than necessary, but still he had been gone for far too long as it was. After Lavinia’s passing, he had needed to see through the selling of her home with the profits to be held in trust for Clara. Afterward, he’d left as if the hounds of hell were on his heels.

  And indeed, perhaps they had been.

  A hesitant knock at his door interrupted the bout of self-hatred overtaking him. Christ. He looked down to realize he was nude. With a curse, he stalked to his wardrobe and withdrew a thick, quilted dressing gown.

  “Enter,” he called, suspecting he knew all too well who was on the other end of the rapping.

  True to form, Clara stepped inside his chamber, the door creaking loudly in her wake as she snapped it closed behind her. “Mr. Whitney?”

  Ah, no matter how many times he heard her refer to him as though they had no familial connection at all, it still stung. She refused to refer to him as her father. While he did his utmost to uphold the pretense that her insistence didn’t affect him, the plain truth was that he was hurt by her denial of him. He knew she’d been through a great deal of upheaval, and he could only hold out hope that she would accept him in time.

  “Yes, daughter,” he murmured, the word still feeling somewhat foreign upon his tongue. “Whatever is causing you distress?”

  “I heard a commotion,” she said, sounding hesitant.

  She wore a billowing lacy nightdress that he supposed had followed her from home. Lord knew he hadn’t bought her a stitch of dress since he’d met her. He didn’t know how. Indeed, it was his fondest wish that Bella would take over with the girl who had his face but remained a stranger to him. It seemed she wanted to hate him, regardless of whether or not he’d had any control over his presence in her life. She knew he had not, but he could only guess that she suspected there was a hidden motive for Lavinia’s secretive nature. While his daughter had said upon their first meeting that she knew the tale of his relationship with her mother, he’d begun to realize that the naïve girl really hadn’t been given the full story by Lavinia.