He had hurt her, not only with his body, which was unavoidable, but with his tongue. Lucian flinched as he remembered the raw pain in her eyes when he had told her that he could not love her. He took a gulp of claret, trying to wash away the memory.
Lucian had always been contemptuous of a rake’s lies. He prided himself that he had never found it necessary to employ such expedients to bed a female. Women came too easily to him, drawn by his strength, his skill at giving pleasure, and the dark challenge of conquering Lord Lucifer’s unconquerable heart.
He took another swallow of claret, still watching his sleeping wife. He had suspected that she would be capable of great passion and tonight she had proved him right beyond his wildest expectation. The magnitude of her first powerful climax had thrilled and stunned him as much as it had her.
She delighted him in bed as well as out. As he watched her sweet face, a wave of tenderness swept over him for her.
He could not love her, but he would make her happy. He would keep her in luxury, and he would give her ecstasy.
He would protect her, and he would recover Belle Haven for her.
Angel would have to learn that his love was not necessary. What he could give her would be enough.
It would have to be.
Chapter 18
Lucian stopped in the doorway of Ardmore’s great hall and watched his wife directing the people she had hired to reclaim the house from years of grime and neglect.
The stone floor had been scrubbed to enviable cleanliness. The soot and cobwebs were gone from the ceiling, revealing plasterwork scrolls and wreaths. The dark, dreary panelling on the walls was now several shades lighter and gleamed from vigorous polishing.
The hall was no longer bare of furniture. Angel had found some pieces in the attic and had them brought down. Two matching Gothic oak coffers, their carved panels separated by ornamental balusters, had been placed against opposite walls. In the centre of the room was a long oak table. Large bowls of colourful, artfully arranged wildflowers, Angel’s handiwork, brightened the table and the coffers.
When Lucian had first seen the house two days ago, he had scoffed at her assurance it could be restored. Now he was willing to concede that she would succeed.
In fact, he was beginning to think that Angel could accomplish anything she set her mind to.
She might have been a total innocent about sex, but she could run a household and handle servants with a facility that a woman twice her years might well envy. Angel had confessed to him that she had been running Belle Haven since her aunt, her father’s maiden sister, had died when she was fourteen.
Lucian was proud of his wife. With her ability to organize, she would have made a fine military commander. She also had a way of getting people to do willingly, even eagerly, what she wanted.
He envied her the easy rapport she had with the people she had hired. Her energy and enthusiasm and generosity seemed to be contagious, and they all tried to outdo each other in pleasing her.
But they still gave her husband a wide, nervous berth.
Angel, catching sight of him in the doorway, hurried over to him, asking eagerly, “How did your meeting with the tenants go?”
Not at all as Lucian had expected it would. None of them had reacted as men might reasonably be expected to when they were told that their rents were being cut in half.
Their faces had remained as hostile and suspicious after that announcement as before. Lucian had faced enemy troops who had hated him less than Ardmore’s tenants clearly did.
Even if they could not muster up any gratitude to him, he would have expected them at least to show relief that the intolerable burden they were now bearing was about to be lifted. But not even that was visible on their faces, only sullen distrust.
Lucian regretted that he had not taken Angel with him. She would have won them over if anyone could.
When he told her of the unenthusiastic response to his announcement, she said, “I suspect they did not believe you. After Lord Ackleton’s treatment of them, their trust will not come easily.”
Maybe she was right. He hoped so.
“It is crucial,” she was saying, “that you hire an honest, capable, trustworthy agent to run the estate in your absence.”
He had come to the same conclusion. “What would you say to my hiring Orin from Belle Haven. He is wasted there as a groom.”
“Oh, yes!” she agreed. “He would be perfect.”
“He can run Ardmore until I can pry Belle Haven away from the Crowes.”
“If you can,” Angel said sadly.
He caught her chin in his hand. “What little faith you have in your husband. Do not worry; I will get it back for you. And when I do, Orin can go back there if that is what he wants.”
Lucian looked around the hall, so changed since he had first seen it two days ago. “You have done an amazing job with the house, Angel.”
She blushed with pleasure and her wonderful smile spread across her face, warming him like sunshine. He had to fight back the urge to hustle her off to bed then and there.
It was going to be damned hard to tear himself away from her tomorrow for the journey back to London. He should have departed for the capital well before now, but it might be months before he would be able to return to Ardmore again, and he wanted to set things right before he left.
The queen had given him until tomorrow night at the very latest to be back in London, although she had wanted him to return much sooner than that. Lucian was courting disaster by cutting it so close. He was certain, though, that if he started at dawn tomorrow and rode as hard as he could, changing horses frequently, he could make it to the capital in time.
If, however, a mount went lame or some other accident delayed him, he would be in deep trouble. When the queen was angered, she could be as stubborn and unforgiving as her father, the former king.
Lucian had not yet broken the news to Angel that he would be riding ahead of her to London on horseback. It would be a gruelling trip, and he could not subject her to it. She would have to follow in his slower- moving coach. She would be safe enough with the armed outriders accompanying her. Still Lucian worried about her.
And he hated being separated from her. To think that he had initially planned to leave her here at Ardmore and never set eyes on her again. Now he chafed at being apart from her even for the journey to London. He told himself sternly that it was because she was so young and naïve and needed his protection. It was because she was his wife, and he guarded what was his.
Angel lay beside her husband on the big bed, content and satiated. He had left a candle burning on the bedside table because he said he liked to watch her when he made love to her.
She liked to look at him all the time. Angel turned to do so now. He lay on his side facing her. His eyes, fringed with long, thick, black lashes under those flaring jet brows, were closed. His dark face in repose, its harsh lines relaxed, looked sinfully handsome.
As if sensing her scrutiny, his eyes opened, silver framed in black. He smiled at her, a slow sensual smile that made her toes curl. Surely any man who looked at her like that and made love to her with the ardour and tenderness that he did must care for her at least a little.
She was convinced that she was making some progress in her campaign to penetrate the protective wall he had erected around his heart. Angel was determined to win his trust and his love—as he had won hers. She did not fool herself that it would be easy to do, but she would succeed.
Their stay at Ardmore had been so happy for her that she said wistfully, “I wish that we could stay here longer instead of having to go back to London. What time do we leave tomorrow.”
“I must leave at dawn. You may depart whenever you are ready.”
Angel gulped in dismay. “Am I not to go with you?”
“No, I go on horseback, and you will follow me in the coach. I cannot spare the time to accompany you in it.”
Cannot spare the time! Those were not the words of a man
who was coming to care for his wife. Angel’s happiness shattered like a china plate dropped on stone. And to think she had just told herself that she was making headway with him.
“Why not?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry.
“I must be in London by tomorrow night. I have important affairs to attend to there.”
Angel wondered dismally what affairs could be so important that he must desert her for them, but he did not seem disposed to enlighten her. “Please,” she pleaded, “let me go with you on horseback.”
His face took on that stern paternal expression she was coming to hate. “No, you cannot. I will be travelling at breakneck speed. You could not possibly keep up with me.”
“I could,” she protested. “I am an excellent rider.”
“Angel—”
“I do not want to be separated from you, Lucian.” It apparently did not bother him in the least to be parted from her. “Please, let me come with you.”
“I said no, Angel.” He was clearly annoyed by her persistence. “I am going alone. I do not want to hear another word about your coming with me.”
She turned her face away from him and puzzled why he was suddenly so eager to get back to London. She recalled the conversation she had overheard on the terrace of Fernhill.
“Only wait until she discovers she must share Vayle with his mistress.”
“She will demand that he give up Selina, but he won ‘t. Nor would I if I were in his shoes. Selina is worth ten of Kitty.”
And probably twenty of herself, Angel thought miserably.
Was that why he was so anxious to return to London? He wanted to get back to his mistress, whatever that was.
“Stop sulking,” Lucian growled.
“I am not,” she replied, her voice shaky. Suddenly he rolled her onto her back, and his face hovered over hers. His lips descended on hers in a hot, possessive kiss. She was helpless to resist it, and soon she was responding passionately.
When at last he ended the kiss, he gazed down at her with a smug, satisfied smile.
Angel looked up at him. “Lucian, what is a mistress?” His smile vanished. He looked the way he had when she had asked him how babies were made.
He studied her warily. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I want to know, and who better to ask than my husband.”
“Who worse?” he muttered, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
He pushed himself into a sitting position against the pillows, and Angel followed suit.
“How does a wife share her husband with a mistress?” she asked.
“I can see this is going to be another one of our unique conversations,” he said sourly, looking heavenward as though he were praying for patience.
“Does a man’s mistress live with him and his wife?”
Lucian’s expression defied her analysis. He said in an oddly strangled voice, “No, little one.”
“Then I do not understand how they share him.”
His lips compressed. “They share him in bed.”
Her face bloomed crimson with hot embarrassment and dismay. “You mean all three sleep in the same bed together?” she exclaimed, aghast. “I am sorry, but I would not like that at all.”
“Nor would I,” Lucian retorted, looking rather red himself. “And that is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
Lucian groaned. “Bloody hell, why did I allow myself to be dragged into this conversation? I mean that he sleeps at different times with both women, but certainly not under the same roof where his wife resides. Not unless he is a cad.”
“Why would that make him a cad?”
“Because it would hurt his wife.”
“So does his taking a mistress,” Angel pointed out.
“Not if his wife does not know about her. If a man is discreet, she need never find out. It is the way of society.”
“No wonder Papa had no use for society,” Angel said with conviction. “I do not understand why, if a man has a wife, he also wants a mistress.”
“Sometimes a man finds himself married to a woman he does not—er, want in bed.” Lucian looked as though he were picking his way through hot coals. “So he takes as his mistress a woman whom he does want that way, a woman he enjoys making love to.”
Angel decided that she did not like the idea of sharing her husband that way at all. “You mean,” she blurted, “he loves his mistress but not his wife.”
“Not necessarily. He might love neither. Just because a man has affairs with other women does not mean he loves them.”
“Affairs?”
“That is what the relationship between lovers is called.” His earlier words echoed through Angel’s mind. “I must be in London by tomorrow night. I have important affairs I must attend to there.”
So that was why he was rushing back to London. He could not wait to see Selina again. Angel felt as though a knife had been plunged through her heart. “She will demand that he give up Selina, but he won’t.”
Lucian’s hand touched her cheek gently. “Why do you suddenly look so upset?”
She ignored his question in favour of one of her own. “If a man has a mistress, it means he does not want his wife in bed?”
“Not always. He may want both women.”
Angel longed to ask Lucian whether he wanted both her and Selina in bed or only his mistress. For once in her life, however, her courage failed her. Lucian had promised her honesty, and she was not certain that she could bear to hear it.
Instead she asked, “What if a wife does find out about her husband’s mistress?”
“Angel, it is time to discuss another subject. Did you—”
“I want to know what a wife should do if she learns her husband has a mistress,” Angel insisted stubbornly. She must know how she was expected to act.
“If she is a lady, she ignores the liaison. She does not mention it to her husband, and she pretends that she knows nothing about it.”
Angel swallowed hard. “I see. And does she take a master?”
“A what?”
“If a wife finds she does not like her husband in bed, should she not take a master—since he takes a mistress?”
“She takes a lover, not a master. Her husband is her master!” Lucian suddenly looked murderous. “And a good wife is never unfaithful to her husband! A good wife does not take a lover.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” he repeated as though he could not believe she could ask such a foolish question. “Because when she married her husband, she took a vow before God to be faithful to him.”
“But he took the same vow,” Angel pointed out. “If he does not keep it, why should she?”
“Because it is different for a man than a woman.”
“Why is it different?”
Lucian looked harassed. “Because it is!”
“Oh, fie, that is no answer. And you need not shout at me.”
He leaned over her, snuffed the candle on the bedside table. “Damn it, Angel, go to sleep.”
Chapter 19
The London office of Thaddeus Wedge was in a dreary brick building on a crooked lane off Fleet Street.
Lucian was certain he would learn nothing about Lord Ashcott’s missing will from the late earl’s solicitor, but he wanted to take the man’s measure.
Wedge bowed Lucian into his office, assuring him effusively what a great honour it was to have his lordship call upon him. The room was dominated by a large oak desk, its top so cluttered with papers that Wedge’s visitor wondered how he ever found anything on it.
When Lucian was seated across the desk from Wedge, he wasted no time in getting to the point of his visit. “I am informed that you were the late Earl of Ashcott’s solicitor.”
“Aye, I had that honour.” Wedge was a ruddy-faced man of perhaps five-and-forty with small, shifty gray eyes. His gray wig looked as though it had seen better days.
Lucian instantly disliked and distrusted the man.
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br /> “Have you a claim against his estate, my lord?” Wedge asked.
“In a matter of speaking. Perhaps you are unaware that his only surviving child is my wife.”
Wedge started visibly at that. The news clearly did not please him. “No, my lord, I was not aware. Allow me to felicitate you.”
“Ashcott had a will drawn up shortly after the death of his son in which he left everything he had to his daughter, my wife.”
“No, my lord, that is not true,” Wedge said emphatically, his gaze meeting Lucian’s. “There is no such will.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“Aye, I will give you my oath on the Bible that I never drew up such a will for him.”
Bloody hell, the man was not lying. Lucian was certain of it.
“But my wife saw the will.”
“Your wife who would be the sole beneficiary of such a will had it existed,” Wedge pointed out. “No offence, my lord, but—”
“I am offended,” Lucian snapped. “My wife is no liar. Furthermore, her uncle also saw it.”
“Her uncle who is also dead.”
“What about the earlier will that Ashcott executed after he and his wife were separated in which he specifically disinherited her?”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Wedge averred, but this time his eyes momentarily failed to meet Lucian’s.
He was lying about this will, but not about the later one.
“My Lord, the last will that was executed by Ashcott is the one that was presented for probate.”
“You are lying, Wedge,” Lucian said bluntly. For an instant, fear darted in Wedge’s eyes, then recovering himself, he blustered, “How dare you—”
“I always dare to speak the truth.” Lucian stood up. “Rest assured I will not permit my wife to be robbed of her inheritance by the likes of you and the Crowes.”
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