Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  He was taken aback, but he hid his surprise. “Then we shall have to move the date of the nuptials forward.”

  “No.” The single word was thunderous. Sir John had become red in the face. He raised his hand, his forefinger extended, shaking it. His entire body was shaking. “Your eldest son. Lionel. He seduced my daughter, by damn, and I expect him to marry her!”

  Stanhope recoiled, eyes wide. But a moment later he had recovered from his surprise. He should have known. Calmly he asked, “Do you truly expect me to believe this … this … plot. of yours to disengage your daughter from Garrick so she might wed Lionel?”

  “This is not a plot. The bastard took her last night. Susan came to me this morning.” Sir John grabbed her arm and dragged her forward another step. “Did Lionel De Vere seduce you or not last evening?”

  Her mouth opened and no words came out.

  “Susan!” Sir John barked.

  Susan collapsed into a chair, sobbing hysterically into her hands.

  Stanhope folded his arms across his tan waistcoat and eyed her dispassionately. “Theatrics do not move me. Nor do hysterics.”

  Sir John stepped in front of him, his posture ominous. “My daughter was innocent until your son—your older son—got his hands on her last night in the gazebo. She does not lie, Stanhope.”

  Stanhope stared at Sir John, then walked to the door and waylaid a passing servant. “Find Lord Lionel and tell him his presence is sought immediately in the library,” he said.

  Susan gasped, looking up. “Oh no!” she cried.

  “Oh, yes,” Stanhope replied grimly.

  The ticking of the huge pendulum clock in one corner of the room could now be heard as Susan abruptly ceased her violent crying, as Sir John and the earl waited for Lionel. Suddenly he was strolling into the room, an easy smile upon his pleasing features. But he took one look at everyone and his smile faded. “Good morning. What is amiss here?” He added, “Is Miss Layton ill?”

  Susan, who was staring at him with wide, starry, hopeful eyes, immediately burst into tears all over again. And Sir John cried out, striding forward, his intentions clearly violent. Stanhope stepped between him and his son.

  “You will marry her,” Sir John cried as Stanhope blocked his path.

  “I will marry whom?” Lionel asked with consternation.

  Susan gasped and hiccuped on her sobs.

  “My daughter!” Sir John shouted.

  “Calm yourself,” the earl snapped, and he faced Lionel. “Miss Layton claims to have been seduced by you last night. Is it true?”

  “No.” Lionel’s reply was flat and immediate.

  Susan ceased weeping, staring at him in sheer, nearly comical disbelief.

  He looked at her. “Dear Miss Layton. I hardly seduced you.”

  Susan’s eyes remained wide and stunned, her shoulders shaking visibly, her small bosom heaving. She was incapable of speech, even when prompted by her father.

  Stanhope and Sir John turned toward Lionel.

  “I see there has been a misunderstanding,” Lionel said easily enough. “I did meet Miss Layton last night in the gazebo. She has made her feelings for me very clear in the past two weeks since we first met. But I am afraid I rebuffed her advances, gentlemen. She is affianced to my brother, dear God. I am sorry, Miss Layton, to have to say this,” he added in a kinder tone.

  Susan was standing now, her mouth hanging open.

  “He is an incredible liar!” Sir John exclaimed. “My daughter might have fallen in love with him, but she would never put herself forward indelicately, not ever!”

  “I am afraid we have reached an impasse, Sir John,” the earl said firmly. “As I said earlier, this plot of yours will not work.”

  Sir John stared at Stanhope, his face now turning purple.

  “Papa,” Susan whispered in alarm—her first spoken word during the interview.

  He waved at her dismissively, staring coldly at Stanhope. “The engagement is off,” he said. “I am breaking it now. And I shall tell the whole world of the perfidy of your family, by God! Susan, come.”

  Unable to take her eyes off Lionel, tears spilling from them, Susan obeyed, walking woodenly to her father.

  Stanhope spoke to Sir John’s back when he was at the door, stopping him in his tracks. “Do you really want to do battle with me and mine, my friend? Do you truly think to win? If so, you are making a grave mistake.”

  Sir John gave him an incredulous glance. “I love my daughter,” he finally said. “And she has been wronged. Some things are worth fighting for, no matter the cost.”

  “I will destroy you, John,” the earl said in a tone better used to discuss the day’s races.

  Sir John took Susan’s arm and propelled her from the room. A silence fell. It was broken only by the slow, loud, tick-tock, tick-tock of the pendulum clock.

  “You fool,” Stanhope said.

  Lionel raised both brows in a look of extreme innocence.

  Stanhope marched past him and slammed closed the door. “Don’t play the gentleman with me. I know you took her. Miss Layton would not have a clue as to how to make an advance upon a man, even if her life depended on it.”

  “Father,” Lionel began, his tone no longer light or easy.

  “Why?” the earl demanded. “Why did you do it? Granted, she was easy, but there are a hundred women you could have had, without repercussions.”

  Lionel finally shrugged. “She is pretty enough. I am sorry. My male desires got the better of me—and she has been making cow eyes at me ever since we met. Besides, haven’t I done Garrick a favor?”

  “I wanted that marriage, by damn!” the earl roared.

  Wisely Lionel remained silent.

  The earl paced. After a pause he stood still, hands in his hips. “And if Layton has her examined?”

  “I will deny it. I will say it must have been Garrick.”

  The earl looked at him, shook his head, and finally laughed, softly. “We both know Garrick despises her and would not touch her before the nuptials. I am quite sure he is waiting for the engagement to be broken off.” His expression darkened and he cursed.

  Lionel grimaced. “I am sorry, Father. I know what I did was wrong. I got … carried away.”

  The earl walked to his desk, but as he did so, he gave him a sidelong look. “Did you? I do not think you a man of passion, Lionel, unlike your hotheaded brother. I do not think you could get carried away by anything or anyone, not ever.”

  Lionel stared. Finally he said, “The apple does not fall far from the tree, does it, Father?”

  The earl laughed briefly, gruffly.

  Suddenly Lionel hesitated, appearing uncertain. “Father, this may seem a bit premature, but as you are in need of an heir, why do you concentrate upon Garrick? I am not the rebel that he is.”

  The earl smiled at him. “I am thinking about you, Lionel. Have no fear. Your future is very much upon my mind—and I shall soon take care of it.”

  Lionel searched his gaze and smiled. “Then I look forward to learning what it is you intend for me.”

  “In fact,” the earl said quite casually, “tomorrow I intend to make a public announcement.”

  Lionel started. “A public announcement?” He could not mask his hopeful expression.

  “Yes. Tomorrow I shall proclaim you the viscount of Caedmon Crag—and my long-lost heir.”

  Arlen paced his apartments in his dressing gown and slippers. He paused to pull back the draperies, but it had begun to drizzle and the morning was hardly inviting. He dropped his hand, closing the dark blue hangings upon the endlessly boring scene. In a few hours he and Elizabeth would leave for London, thank God, for the country could drive a man insane. But he had yet to decide how to punish Olivia.

  Damn her. The bitch.

  There was a knock upon his door and he turned, calling out, “Enter.” His heart turned over as Elizabeth entered his room.

  She smiled at him, and in that moment, clad as she was in a dark pink sil
k morning gown, she was the most radiant, beautiful woman he had ever beheld—but he had thought that since she was twelve. “Good morning, dear,” she said. She briskly crossed the room and pulled open the draperies.

  Immediately he walked to the door, which she had closed, and opened it. “It is but half-past ten. Neither of us is an early riser. Do you think you should be in my rooms?”

  She waved airily at him. “No one would dare disturb us, Arlen. Oh, do not be such a prig. Everyone here knows how fond of me you are. Do close the door so we can talk.”

  His smile was forced, but he did as she wished. “I am sure that no one knows just how fond of you I am, my dear.”

  She lifted one brow and laughed at him, as if she did not care what the entire staff—or the entire peerage—thought. But then, that was Elizabeth. So very sure of herself. “We are off to town today,” he said.

  “I know. But, in truth …” She hesitated. “I have not been feeling so well, and I was thinking of staying here in the country for a few days.”

  Immediately he crossed the room and took her hands in his. He remembered that she had been ill during that horrid, endless carriage ride to Caedmon Crag, and he also remembered that she had not felt well soon after leaving Cornwall, after the duel. “But you despise the country far more than I.”

  “I do. But I mean it. The air seems to have settled whatever malady I was afflicted with. I am not sure I am able to spend an entire day traveling to town just yet. You can go on without me, Arlen. I do not mind. I would just spend a day or two more here, resting, and then I will join you in town.” She smiled at him.

  “I could stay here with you,” Arlen said hesitantly. But he was thinking of how damn bored he was, how he had been so happy at the prospect of leaving Ashburnham. On the other hand, he was most content wherever Elizabeth was.

  “Dear.” Elizabeth cupped his cheek. “Houghton remains in town for two more days—I received the missive yesterday. Remember?”

  He did, but barely.

  “After that, he’s off to his box in Scotland with some cronies of his. And you shall have me all to yourself in town.” The look she gave him was very coy, very direct, very, very fatal.

  Arlen quickly summed up the situation and nodded. “Then I will go on ahead of you, my dear, and amuse myself with a few male friends until your return. But I expect you to rest so that we can enjoy ourselves when you do return—at the end of the week.”

  Elizabeth smiled and kissed his cheek. “Have no fear. What else is there to do in the country but eat and sleep?”

  Arlen did laugh.

  “So,” she said. “Have you decided what to do with your faithless little wife?”

  Arlen stiffened. “Do you have to remind me of her treachery?”

  “Tsk, tsk. And with Garrick De Vere, no less.” She seemed amused.

  “I had him. I was tripped. I did not slip,” Arlen cried, furious that he had not killed Caedmon.

  “I saw the entire thing, as did Manion. No one tripped you, Arlen. But Caedmon must enjoy cuckolding you, hmm?”

  He hated it when Elizabeth taunted him, knowing she did it on purpose. “Perhaps I will cuckold him,” he snarled, “after he weds Miss Layton.”

  “I doubt he will ever marry her, and Arlen, dear, could you really ever desire that child?” One imperious black brow lifted.

  Her meaning was clear. He cursed and paced.

  “Well, I certainly can quite understand Olivia’s attraction to Garrick De Vere.” She did laugh.

  He whirled. “Why do you now throw the past in my face?” he demanded. “Do I need to be reminded of your treachery now? Do I?”

  She was wounded. She recoiled. “I was sixteen years old. He was one year younger, but very adept. He seduced me, Arlen. I hardly knew what was happening—and we have gone through all of this before!”

  Suddenly he found himself standing before her—and he had to know. “Did you like it? Did he make you scream in pleasure—and in pain?”

  “How dare you,” she said coolly.

  In that instant he thought he might lose her. “Elizabeth! I apologize!” he cried.

  But she was walking across the room, toward the door. “I will call you when I have returned to town—whenever that may be,” she said, her tone dripping ice.

  He hurried after her, putting his body between her and the door so she could not leave. “I must punish my wife,” he said with some desperation.

  “I have the perfect plan,” Elizabeth said, no longer cold and withdrawn. She smiled. “I thought about it in the middle of the night. Obviously you will send Hannah away—and that will solve your problem of having such an odious child. Lock her up. I know the perfect place.”

  “And Olivia?”

  She shrugged. “Let her stay here. She does so enjoy the country.”

  “Elizabeth, do you think she will stay put? She will not, not unless I keep her in chains, and that, I believe, is against the king’s law.”

  “Arlen, drug her. Have her water and wine and tea dosed with laudanum morning, noon, and night. Reduce her mind to nothingness. She will wander around this house a demented old woman, well before her time. And who will know the truth? I’ll leave my maid here to do the deed.” Elizabeth smiled at him.

  “You are brilliant,” Arlen said, awed. “This way I will avoid any further scandal.”

  “Absolutely.” Elizabeth was smug, then suddenly her expression changed. She turned a distinct shade of green, her eyes registering alarm.

  “Elizabeth!” Arlen cried.

  But she was running across the room, bending over, and retching violently into the chamber pot.

  As much as Arlen despised sickness of any kind, he loved his sister, and he went to her and helped her stand upright when she was done. He guided her to a chair—she leaned heavily upon him—and handed her a glass of water and watched her drink it. “My God,” he said after a few minutes had passed. “You are still ill.” She had been as violently nauseated during their journey to and from Caedmon Crag.

  “I am not ill.”

  “What?”

  “I am pregnant,” Elizabeth said without remorse.

  He stared. “No.”

  “It is a fact.”

  He continued to stare, a dozen scenarios racing through his mind. “Surely Houghton …” But that was hopeless, for the man was impotent, or so Elizabeth had claimed.

  She turned and stared at him as if he were an idiot. “Do not be stupid,” she said.

  In the five days since returning to Ashburnham, Olivia had been wise enough to keep to her rooms—and out of her husband’s way. But every passing minute was an eternity as she waited for her sentence of doom.

  Garrick. His death would be the first sentence of doom. Did he live? None of the servants would accommodate her whispered plea to go to Stanhope Hall for news. Did he remain at Caedmon Crag? Was he dead? Had there already been a funeral? Oh, God!

  She covered her face with her hands, telling herself she must not cry, she must be strong, he could not be dead. But there had been so much blood. She was never going to forget the sight of him, lying crumpled at the base of the wall of the keep, blood covering his torso, his breeches, and pooling on the ground beside him, dear God. And all because of her.

  And it was futile to think that right now they could be together with Hannah in France if he had run from Arlen instead of accepting his challenge.

  She had to know. She had to know the truth. She had already debated either walking or riding to the Hall herself. For she would walk the entire distance if she could not steal one of her husband’s horses. But she did not dare leave Hannah; she did not trust Arlen.

  She had to protect Hannah and herself from her husband’s wrath, which would surely come. It was only a matter of time.

  But now five days had elapsed since the duel, and Olivia almost dared to hope for a reprieve. Maybe, this once, Arlen would let things be, let the scandal die a natural death, and not seek revenge upon herself and
her child. Then she decided that he would not be vindictive only if Garrick were dead.

  She wept.

  And when the tears finally ceased, for the hundredth time, the image of Garrick’s bloody body remained engraved upon her mind. There was no point in prayer. She had prayed herself senseless. She had prayed until her knees were sore, her back stiff, her lips numb. She had prayed for his life, and she could not pray anymore.

  If only she were not a mature, adult woman. If only she believed in miracles and fairy tales. But she did not. She never had.

  Olivia crossed the threshold of her room, wiping her wet eyes, to press her ear against her closed bedroom door. When she heard no sound from the corridor, she opened it carefully, peeking out. No one was about. She swiftly crossed the hall and let herself into Hannah’s room. Hannah was on her bed, playing with two small handmade porcelain dolls. She lifted her head and smiled at her mother.

  Olivia went and sat beside her, holding her tightly. “I love you so,” she said impulsively.

  “I know, Mama,” Hannah said. “I love you, too.”

  “What did you have for breakfast?” she asked lightly. Her tone belied the sadness in her heart. Hannah knew everything a child should not know by now. And she had said she did not think Garrick De Vere to be dead. On the other hand, she had confessed that she was terrified by all that had happened, and she did not trust herself anymore to know the truth. Her little girl was growing up. And she was only eight years old.

  Hannah’s face fell. “Eggs, Mama. I do miss Miss Childs.”

  “I know, darling,” Olivia said, stroking her hair. Suddenly the door opened and Arlen stood there, causing her to cry out. In the next instant she saw his face, the hatred in his eyes, the satisfaction, and she drew Hannah to her side, holding her there tightly. The time had come at last, the time to face Arlen’s wrath.

  “I would like to speak to you,” Arlen said calmly enough. “In your room.”

  He was going to do something terrible. Slowly, her hand still on Hannah’s shoulders, Olivia stood up.

  “Mama, don’t go,” Hannah whispered, gripping her palm tightly. “I’m scared.”