by The Rival
Her heart leapt. She trembled. “That would be wonderful, my lord.”
“Then you must call me Lionel,” he said, his gaze searching her face. His expression was intent now, he no longer smiled.
“I should be pleased to do so … Lionel,” she said as demurely as she could.
“I know this match between yourself and my brother is no love affair, but truly, Susan, he is not a bad or evil person,” he said soothingly. “He has merely lived on that savage isle far too long.”
This was not what Susan wanted to discuss. She was silent, dismayed, and at a loss.
“A woman like yourself will fix up his ill manners, supply the polish, so to speak, in no time at all—if that is what you are worried about.”
Susan looked down at her hands, clasped in front of her now. She remained silent. “I do not think he will ever change,” she whispered. “Besides …” She trailed off.
“Susan,” he whispered, and his fingertips touched her chin. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
It was like a jolt of lightning, streaking through her entire body. Susan looked up, incapable of breathing. Did she dare speak? She hesitated.
“Perhaps it is my brother’s … er … dueling … which has so distressed you,” Lionel said.
“No.” She was afraid to speak her mind when her heart begged her to do so.
“Unfortunately he had no choice but to accept Ashburn’s challenge.”
“I do not care about that,” she said seriously, unable to look away from him.
“You do not care that your fiance was accused of carrying on with the countess of Ashburn?” Lionel was incredulous.
“I do not love Garrick De Vere. Actually, I should be happy if his heart lay elsewhere. But everyone is wrong about the countess. Lady Ashburn is my dear friend. She only feels compassion for Garrick, she has said so numerous times.” Susan smiled.
But Lionel was not smiling, nor did he return her smile, he was very grave.
“Is something wrong, my … er … Lionel?” Susan whispered with some trepidation.
He touched her wrist briefly. “I am sorry. I did not realize you and the countess were so close.” Anger sparked his eyes.
“I do not understand,” Susan said slowly. “Is there something you are not telling me?”
“I am glad you do not believe the gossip,” he finally said.
Now she was alarmed. “My lord—I mean, Lionel, surely you do not believe the rumors?”
He did not answer her, but his expression was filled with pity.
And Susan thought of the kindest woman she had ever met, the most genuine, the most sincere, the dear, dear countess, and something sickened and lurched inside of her. Had Olivia lied to her, time and again? But Olivia was the kindest, most sincere person she had ever met! It was not possible. “Do not tell me that you think Garrick and the countess were involved,” she said thickly.
After a fatal pause he said, “My dear, sweet Susan, I saw them together. Clearly the countess feels far more for my brother than mere compassion.”
Susan stared in shock. “No.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “No,” she said thickly. “I am glad it was you.” But the hurting inside her was awful, and it had nothing to do with Garrick. How could Olivia lie to her? Why hadn’t she told her the truth?
His eyes fixed on hers. “A beautiful woman like you could do better, I am afraid, than my brother. Suddenly I am angry, Susan, for you. I am angry at them both.”
Briefly she forgot the pain of betrayal. She wet her lips. Wondering if she should truly blurt out what was on her mind. “I wish to do better,” she said softly.
“Do you?” he whispered, suddenly taking her palm in his and squeezing it gently.
“The real reason I cannot marry him is … he is your brother.” There, she had said it, dear Lord.
He stared. It was a moment before he spoke, and he did not drop her hand. “Yes. He is my brother, and if you marry him, that will make you my sister.”
She almost burst into tears. Instead she felt them interfering with her vision. She nodded.
“I am not happy about that, either,” he said harshly.
The tears stopped, and Susan blinked. “Lionel,” she whispered. Did he truly feel as she did? Were they forming an understanding?
Suddenly he lifted her hand and kissed it, firmly, through the delicate leather of her lambskin glove. Susan’s knees buckled. Her body throbbed. He said, “Susan, would you meet me in the gazebo later? I think there is much we should discuss.”
She could hardly believe her ears. Meet him in the gazebo … of course she should. “Yes,” she croaked.
“After supper. After everyone has retired for the night. I’ll go first. I’ll light a candle. When you see it, you’ll know the way is clear, and you should come,” Lionel said urgently and low.
Susan nodded, at once stunned and thrilled. It was so romantic, and it was like a dream coming true—this knight in shining armor was clearly in love with her, too. “Yes,” she said, smiling. “Yes, Lionel.”
Garrick realized that he was at Stanhope Hall. He stared up at the ceiling in his bedroom. Jesus. He felt good enough, he realized, to try to sit up. The pain had dimmed to an unpleasant, incessant ache. Thank God the worst was over.
“What are you doing?” his mother cried from the doorway.
Garrick hadn’t realized how hard it would be to raise his upper body and shift himself so he was sitting up in the big four-poster bed. He collapsed against the gold pillows, sweating. “Mother,” he said.
She ran forward to embrace him. “I would have called servants,” she choked, attempting not to cry.
“Please do not weep,” he said. “I am much better. Christ. I vaguely remember now. Lionel. The doctor. And you. You came to Caedmon Crag.” He knew how hard that must have been for her.
She sat beside him on the bed, gripping his right hand. His left arm was in a sling. His entire torso was bandaged as well. “Yes, we came to Caedmon Crag, your father and I.”
He stared, realizing in that instant what that meant.
“Garrick, I have thanked God every day in the chapel that you did not die! Ashburn wanted to kill you—and he almost did, from what I have heard!”
“Olivia.” He realized he had spoken aloud. His worry knew no bounds. Where was she? How was she? He had to find out. He realized that he was leaning forward, trying to move one leg off the bed. Pain racked his side—no longer dull or dim.
He clutched himself with his one good hand, panting and crying out grimly.
“What are you doing?” Eleanor cried again. “You cannot get up!” She was horrified. “Dr. McCaulkin said bed rest for a fortnight.”
“Olivia! Is she all right?” he demanded.
“Garrick, you are not getting up, and I am sure she is fine,” the countess said. “Why wouldn’t she be? She is not the first woman …” She stopped.
“She is not the first woman to what?” Garrick asked, sinking back against the pillows, hardly comforted by his mother’s words.
“She is not the first woman to be caught with her lover,” Eleanor said boldly.
But other women did not have husbands like Ashburn, and was that censure he caught in his mother’s tone? He was weak, and in pain again, too much so to stand up, much less ride to Ashburn Hall. Yet she was in jeopardy, he was certain, and if anything happened to her, he could not forgive himself. He was alive—and he must protect her. “Where is she? And where is her daughter?” He could not stand being helpless like this.
“I assume they are at Ashburnham,” Eleanor said.
“Someone is feeling better, I see,” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
Garrick stiffened and turned his head, to see Lionel leaning against the doorjamb in a royal blue velvet frock coat and gold breeches. Lionel came forward, smiling. “I am so glad,” he said—as if he meant it.
Garrick stared, in
that first moment of true coherence recalling everything—the duel, the morning before when Lionel had walked in upon him and Olivia, a witness to their affair, and all of his suspicions. He stared.
“Is this my greeting?” Lionel joked, kissing Eleanor’s cheek. “Good morning. Mother. I must say, supper was superb last night.”
Garrick wished he had not walked in, especially not while they were discussing Olivia. He was quite sure his feelings had been far too obvious.
“Thank you, dear,” Eleanor said distractedly.
“You are ravishing this morning, too. I see a good night’s sleep has done wonders for you, as it has done for my brother.” Lionel was jovial.
Garrick continued to stare. “You are in a fine mood,” he suddenly said. “I would think it to be the opposite.”
Lionel’s brow furrowed. “Now why should I be grim?”
“Because I am not ailing.”
Lionel no longer smiled. “I am glad you are on the mend, Garrick. Have I not proven my sincerity? I was your second at the duel. I cared for you for almost an entire day when you lay close to death before the physician came. Good God, what else must I do?”
“As far as I am concerned, you have not proven yourself,” Garrick said, fists clenched. He felt his cheeks heating with his anger.
“Dear, don’t do this,” Eleanor whispered, cupping his cheek. “You are not well yet. Please, a temper will not help you to heal.”
Lionel stared, eyes hard. “I cannot believe you, truthfully I cannot. But then, you always had a chip on your shoulder the size of a mountain, ever since we were boys. Am I not right, Mother?”
Eleanor blinked at him. “I do not want the two of you arguing now,” she said, her bosom heaving with her distress.
“Why don’t you leave?” Garrick gritted, but as always when Lionel suddenly made statements that rang eerily true, he was taken aback and suddenly doubting himself.
“Mother is right, we should not fight,” Lionel said, his tone changing. “The countess is at Ashburnham.”
Garrick froze.
Lionel smiled. “It is common knowledge.”
Garrick desperately wanted to ask if Hannah was also there, but he could not. He could only stare.
Lionel said, “You know, I have a grand idea. Why don’t I call on her in your stead? I am more than happy to convey a message for you, Garrick.”
His temper rose red hot again, in that instant. His smile was more a wolfish baring of his teeth, and he knew it. “I don’t need a message bearer,” he said.
“Well, at the least, I can tell her you are well on the mend,” Lionel said cheerfully. He paused at the door. “Being as she is as concerned for your welfare.” He bowed and left.
Silence fell. Garrick stared after his jauntily departing form, thinking of him at Ashburnham, while he, Garrick, remained weak and helpless and confined to a bed at Stanhope Hall. Damn it.
“Garrick, please. Do not allow yourself to get so upset,” his mother said softly.
He met her worried gaze. “I cannot help it. Olivia is in the hands of a cruel man, Mother.”
“The countess is his wife.”
His jaw flexed. His temples throbbed. The ache was worse now in his side, just when it had begun to diminish.
Eleanor forced a brighter smile on her face. “What is important is that you are getting better, that you are alive.”
That was important, but only so he could protect Olivia and find out the truth about Lionel. “My instincts tell me that he is an impostor.”
“What?” Eleanor paled.
Garrick attempted to sit up straighter. When Eleanor reached behind him to fuss with his pillows, he restrained her. “Stop. Please. Listen to me.”
Her chest rose and fell too rapidly. “Please, Garrick,” she whispered.
He caught her hand with his left palm. “Mother. I am well aware of the fact that this man looks like you and Father, and that he knows so much about all of us. But what do you really think? How can you not know the truth?”
She stared. “What makes you so certain? What have you found out?”
He thought her words strange but dismissed them. “I want to know how you feel,” Garrick said.
Her eyes widened; she dropped her hand and stepped back. “How I feel?” she asked tremulously.
“He is your son! That is, if he truly is Lionel. If anyone must sense the truth, it is you!” Garrick quite shouted.
Her face crumpled. “I don’t know. Dear Lord, I do not know what to think!”
He watched her pace away, covering her face with her hands, and he was seized with an inkling. “What are you hiding?” he cried.
She shook her head. Tears formed in her eyes.
“Mother?” His heart pounded now, adding to his general misery. For he sensed now he knew not what—and was filled with dread.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said, looking up. “I don’t know,” she repeated. She paused. “Lionel is not my son. I am not his mother,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Ibeg your pardon?” Garrick said, certain that he had misheard.
Slowly Eleanor turned away from him. She stared out the bedroom windows at the misty morning landscape. “Your father would kill me if he knew I was telling you this.”
He had not misheard. Worse, he thought his mother spoke literally. Garrick leaned forward, one fist clenched, holding the sheets. “You are not Lionel’s mother?” he gasped.
The countess faced him, her face pale, her eyes tear filled, her expression dismal, glum. “Lionel was six months old when I married your father, Garrick. But I raised him as if he were my own son.”
Garrick was speechless, in shock. It was a full moment before he could speak. “This is preposterous. The whole world must know. Who is Lionel’s real mother?”
“She was the twelfth countess of Stanhope, your father’s first wife,” Eleanor said.
He was stunned anew. “I have grown up believing you to be Father’s only wife! I did not know he was married before you! How could such a secret be kept? And why?”
She shook her head, a tear slipping down one cheek. “When I arrived as a bride at Stanhope Hall, the entire staff was new. And the village had been moved. At the time I did not think much of it. So many families have moved the local village, or parts of it, when they decide to rebuild their homes. I assumed Carston had been moved for the very same reason, because it interfered with the views or some such nonsense. But …” She paused, her tone throaty.
Garrick wanted to get out of bed but remained in too much anguish now to do so. His temples throbbed in unison with his side. The pain in his head was splitting. “To keep his first marriage a secret, he got rid of the original staff here at the Hall, and he moved the village. I am stunned. I must assume he sent some knowledgeable villagers away—but why? Why would someone go to such lengths? Did not the entire aristocracy know of this marriage?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why he acted as he did, but I do not think his peers ever knew he wed Meg MacDonald.”
“Meg MacDonald?!”
His mother nodded. “She was a MacDonald. Her family were northern Scots. Highlanders. Perhaps your father was afraid of retribution. I do not know.”
“She was a Scot! What retribution? Why would there be retribution?” Garrick asked sharply.
Eleanor finally looked him in the eye, her back now to the shrouded drive and lawns. “I am assuming they were against the marriage. After all, the Scottish people are as fond of us as we are of them.”
“My father secretly married a Highland woman,” Garrick muttered. “Why would he do such a thing? Did he marry for love?” But even as he spoke, he knew it could not be true.
“Do not even ask me how a Highland lass met your father. He never told me anything. I never dared to ask.”
“So you know nothing.”
She hesitated.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I know that Margaret MacDonald was
very pregnant when they wed. In one of her final months. I gathered that much.”
He had been forced to marry her, it was the obvious conclusion. But Garrick could not imagine his father, then the earl of Stanhope, being forced to marry anyone—unless it was with a saber held to his throat. No, he amended, unless there had been a dirk held to his throat. “How did she die?” he finally asked.
His mother hesitated.
“Mother?”
Eleanor finally met his gaze. “She killed herself,” she said. “By throwing herself out of the attic window.”
“My lord, I am very sorry to interrupt, but we must speak,” Sir John Layton said, flushed.
The earl of Stanhope looked up and spied the big-boned knight standing in the doorway of his library, his wig slipping, one ruffled cuff dangling out of one crimson coat sleeve, the other somehow tucked inside. He snapped shut the ledgers he had been working upon. He had far graver matters on his mind now than estate accounts, by damn. “Please, do come in, Sir John.” He stood up as Sir John bowed.
When the robust knight entered the room, Stanhope saw that his pallid blond daughter trailed behind him, her eyes and nose red from a recent fit of weeping. Her tears had splotched upon her pale blue-and-white sprigged gown. Immediately he sighed, growing grim. Now he knew the subject about to be raised, the forthcoming nuptials, and he had not changed his mind.
His heart lurched. Garrick had almost died. The fool. The idiot. To duel with Ashburn when he was no match for the man. But thank God there had been a miracle in this life of bitter, harsh realities. Thank God his son was alive.
“I am afraid I must be blunt,” Sir John said.
“Do sit down,” the earl responded.
“I prefer to stand.”
“I think I shall shut the door,” the earl began, moving from behind his desk.
“Do not bother,” Sir John replied sharply, freezing Stanhope in his tracks.
Slowly Stanhope turned. “Is there a problem, John?” he asked in his friendliest tone.
Sir John turned and dragged Susan forward. Susan now sobbed into an embroidered handkerchief. Stanhope was annoyed. “My daughter,” Sir John said, “has been seduced by your son.”