A Matter of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  John rolled his eyes. “Brother, they never knew only one of us returned. It was quite tricky, my pretending to be both of us…never at the same time, of course. And only for a few days, only until John convinced them that he would be leaving for America to seek his fortune.”

  “And Weddington?”

  “He was a bit of a bother. Always hinting that he thought I might be John—you. I had to sever that friendship. It was some time before I could sever it completely, though. Not until he got involved with that little trollop.”

  “You’ve been so diabolically clever.”

  “I had no choice. You kept claiming to be the heir apparent.”

  “Would you have ever released me?”

  “I don’t know. Matthews was terribly good at the task I gave him. I’d only expected you to be there for a few months. Until you were to be transported, but he feared moving you out of isolation would bring with it the risk of his actions being discovered.” John shrugged. “Or so he confessed when faced with his benefactor. And now you are once again trying to usurp my place.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, but I’m willing to let you have it all.”

  “Including your wife?”

  “No, not her.”

  “But if I am Robert, then she is married to me—”

  “Grant her a divorce.”

  “A divorce is so scandalous. Besides, even if she’s free of me, she can’t marry her husband’s brother.”

  “In America she can.”

  John arched a brow. “Are you going to America?”

  “Yes, I think we shall.”

  “Will you send me letters? I so like reading of your adventures. I think you should travel west, though. Virginia’s growing boring.”

  “I shall write you letters from wherever you like.”

  Torie watched as the man by door slowly shook his head. “Unfortunately, brother, I don’t trust you.”

  She watched in horror as he leveled a gun—

  “No!” she shrieked, rising to her feet, lurching in front of her husband. She felt fire pierce her body and explode within her, heard an echoing bang that she thought might cause the ceiling to cave in, found herself back on the floor, darkness creeping in along the edges of her vision.

  Had someone extinguished the lantern?

  “Oh, dear God. Torie? Torie?”

  She felt warm fluid seeping out of her, pooling around her. Everything around her was fading to black; even the voice calling to her was growing distant. She felt herself being wrapped in blankets, felt herself being lifted into strong., steady arms.

  “For God’s sake, man, don’t just stand there! Get to the village and fetch a physician. Now!”

  As she succumbed to the welcome abyss of oblivion, she realized she’d just heard the voice of the true Duke of Killingsworth.

  Chapter 21

  She sat in a field surrounded by raspberry bushes in bloom, the tiny flowers calling to her. Her husband was stretched out beside her, his head resting in her lap. He plucked a flower free of the thorny bramble and handed it to her. Resting in her palm, she watched as it miraculously turned into a raspberry. She placed it against the lips of the man she loved…

  Torie fought through the darkness, her body aching as though someone had tossed her off a cliff. She shifted slightly, pain slicing through her side. She moaned.

  “Shh, rest easy now.”

  She felt fingers combing her hair back from her brow. Opening her eyes, she saw the man sitting beside her bed, so much love and concern for her reflected in his eyes that she thought if a hundred men who looked exactly like him were lined up in a room, still she would be able to pick him out.

  He’d been there each time she opened her eyes, giving her a reassuring smile, bathing her brow, spooning broth into her mouth, urging her to get well, as though the choice were hers.

  “Robert?”

  “Shh,” he urged again, taking her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingertips. “You’ve been through a horrible ordeal. You need to rest.”

  He looked as though he’d been through a similar ordeal, and she couldn’t imagine that hers had been any worse. He had several days’ growth of beard, his hair was disheveled, his eyes rimmed in red, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

  “I know how to prove you’re Robert,” she whispered.

  “Dear God, Torie, you almost died. Do you honestly believe I care about the damned dukedom?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. “More than I care about you?”

  She could see tears in his eyes, which he was furiously blinking back. His hand was trembling when he laid it against her cheek. “I spent eight years alone, but when I thought I might lose you, that I might never again see your smile, or that tiny little dimple, that I would never hear you laugh…loneliness is not a big enough word for what swept through me. Despair so deep that I would give up everything, my titles, my properties, my name, everything for one more moment of holding you. Just one more moment.”

  Tears burned her eyes. She wished she had the strength to reach for him, to wrap her arms around him.

  “I can’t abide the thought of a world without you in it.” He averted his gaze, and she watched his throat muscles as he worked to regain control of his emotions.

  When he looked back at her, she was surprised to see that fury reigned.

  “And if you ever again put yourself at risk…what were you thinking to leap in front of me like that?”

  She placed her hand over his where it still cradled her face. “That I couldn’t abide the thought of a world without you in it.”

  He released a sob that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. He laid his head on her bosom, and she threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him close.

  “I never want to lose you,” he said.

  She wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t, that she’d figured it out, but she began growing weary, her eyelids heavy. She needed him to know how to prove his claims. Just before she drifted back off, she whispered, “Raspberry…”

  Raspberry.

  Torie had been going on about the silly fruit for two days now.

  Robert felt Torie’s hands relax in his hair, lifted his gaze to see that she’d drifted back to sleep. But at least she’d been awake for a moment. Tomorrow perhaps she’d awaken for a few minutes more.

  He’d thought Pentonville had been hell, but it was nothing compared to the agony of the past three days. He’d never felt so helpless. Realizing what she’d done, what John had done, seeing the blood pooling around her…an emotion he couldn’t describe had welled up inside him, and he hoped to never experience it again. Terror, cold and relentless. And when it had passed…

  Gingerly he moved himself off his wife, only to discover that she was once again awake, watching him, her eyes clear, the tiniest of dimples visible, a slight smile when he’d feared to never see one again.

  “Raspberry tarts,” she said softly.

  Smiling, he leaned nearer. “Would you like me to have Mrs. Cuddleworthy bake you some?”

  “No, they’re how you prove you’re Robert, the Duke of Killingsworth.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The first morning here, Cook told me that as a boy Lord Robert loved raspberry tarts.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “John doesn’t like them. I don’t know why I didn’t remember sooner—”

  “Torie, darling, it doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does. You’re the duke and proving it is so simple.”

  “With raspberry tarts.”

  Her dimple appeared, deepened. “So simple,” she said wearily, her eyes warm with love, not fever.

  He brought her hands to his lips, held them there. So while her fever had raged and her body had fought to heal, she’d been dreaming of saving him yet once again.

  “It’s even simpler than that,” he told her. “I simply have to be Robert, the Duke of Killingsworth.”

  “I don’t understand. How does that prove
—”

  “Torie, I realized that I don’t need to prove who I am. Not to anyone. When John shot you”—he shook his head, trying not to remember the blood soaking through her clothes onto his, the terror he’d felt—“when you lunged in front of him, when I saw you on the floor, for the first time since I escaped Pentonville, I truly became the Duke of Killingsworth. I wasn’t going to allow anyone on God’s green earth to get between me and what I knew had to be done to save you.”

  “I heard you,” she whispered in wonder. “In the mausoleum. And I thought, Whichever man is speaking, he is the duke.”

  Robert smiled at her. “No one questioned my orders. Not even when I ordered them to restrain John.”

  A look of worry passed over her features. “Where is he?”

  Reaching out, he combed the stray strands of hair from her brow. “Where he will never harm me or mine again.”

  “Where?” she insisted.

  “There is an asylum, in the countryside, not too far away. I had him taken there. He’s not a well man, Torie. There are times when I think he truly believes he is me.”

  “Whatever happened to make him—”

  He pressed his thumb against her lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ll ever learn the truth of John Hawthorne.”

  What he did know was that John’s parting words as he’d been led away haunted Robert.

  “She loved me first!” he’d screamed.

  Robert had responded like a child taunted by a bully. “I only care that she loves me last.”

  When she was strong enough, he would have to test her love…and his.

  Chapter 22

  As she regained her strength, Torie couldn’t help but be aware that her husband was ever so attentive to her needs, but also cautious as he saw to those needs. He brought her meals on a silver tray as though they possessed no servants to do so. He would watch her eat as though he thought it was the most amazing activity in the world.

  In the afternoons, he would wrap a blanket around her and carry her out to the garden so that she could benefit from the sunshine. Much to the diligent working gardener’s dismay, Robert would spend several moments plucking the brightest of the blossoms from the gardens until her lap was filled with an assortment of colors and fragrances. Then he would sit beside her and ply her with questions about the Great Exhibition and the many inventions and changes that had occurred since he’d been out of society. That was how he’d begun to refer to the time he was in Pentonville, not as his incarceration, or his imprisonment, or his brother’s dreadful act, but as the time during which he was out of society. He never wanted anyone to know that his brother had swapped places with him for a time. He wanted her to explain all the modern inventions so that he could carry on as though he’d never been away.

  As she told him of one thing and another, she was amazed at how much progress could be made in eight years.

  In the late afternoons, he would leave for a time, and while he always told her that it was to see to estate business, and while she knew that he had a good many duties that required his attention, she suspected that he was visiting with his brother. She knew Robert was saddened by the fact that his brother was locked away from society, more saddened by the fact that he didn’t know why John had turned against him or why John believed he was Robert.

  And doubts had surfaced surrounding the deaths of his parents. Arsenic was easily obtained, available for purchase from any chemist, a favorite among ladies who used it to enhance their complexions. The law did require that a person sign the Poison Book, but what happened to it after that…well, not everyone used it on her complexion. It was becoming a favorite murder weapon among married ladies who wished to dispose of their husbands. Robert had hired a man to travel throughout London, searching all the apothecaries’ books. Robert’s signature had been found in one of them, the arsenic purchased a month before his eighteenth birthday. And as Robert had never purchased poison, he had to believe that once again the act was carried out by John pretending to be Robert.

  But all that could be proven was that arsenic had been purchased. Not that John had actually used it. Although Torie had never thought that his complexion needed righting.

  She knew the knowledge her husband had gained haunted him, so she was relatively certain that he was spending some time with his brother, trying to discern what had shaped him into such a different man, but it was a hopeless task. He would return in the early evening, more somber and solemn, reflective. And she would seek to cheer him by sharing portions of the letters that Diana wrote to her, telling her of her exploits to find a man who wouldn’t bore her after a day or two.

  After Torie retired for the night, he would join her and simply hold her, as though she were delicate, too fragile for anything else. And they would talk.

  “I want to understand the kind of man you are. What you endured. How it might have shaped you.”

  “You are a morbid little thing, aren’t you?”

  “Were you beaten? Flogged?”

  “No. It wasn’t as bad as all that. Oh, a guard might strike you if you talked or didn’t put your peak on to cover your face. But they had a worse punishment: solitary confinement.”

  “I can’t see how that was different from what you were already asked to endure.”

  “At least in my cell, I could hear activity. So although I was alone within myself, I wasn’t completely alone. I knew others were about. I could hear them stirring as I worked my loom. I was fortunate in that regard. My job was to work the loom in my cell all day, to make cloth.”

  “I don’t see how you could consider any aspect of your experience fortunate.”

  “I survived. That was fortunate. And they would bring us a book to read from time to time. The worst part was at night, because everything got truly quiet.”

  “Is that when you learned to do your hand shadows?”

  “Yes. Each cell had a gas light to see us through the early hours of the night. Until the guards came through turning off our gas at nine, I would spend the time manipulating my hands, seeing what sorts of creatures I could create. And I would let them carry me away beyond the walls in which I lived. Elephants in Africa and camels in Egypt. I tried to create every animal I’d ever heard of. And people as well. I can create a hag and an old bearded man.”

  “I can’t imagine how lonely you must have been.”

  “I don’t want you to imagine it. I don’t want you to imagine any of it.”

  Then he would say, “Tell me about your life, what you enjoy, the things you like. I want to know everything about you.”

  “Well, let me see. My favorite color is red. My favorite season is spring. I enjoy long walks and…”

  But as she grew stronger, a part of her feared that it wasn’t her recovery that prevented him from making love to her, but a realization that he hadn’t chosen her to be the Duchess of Killingsworth. Rather his brother had. And she was a constant reminder of his brother’s treachery.

  The doubts bombarded her with increasing frequency and strength, like waves bashed up against the shore during a tumultuous storm. Especially late at night, as she prepared for bed, wondering if her husband would assume his role as her lover.

  Sitting at her dressing table, she was barely aware of moving the brush through her hair as she pondered her place in Robert’s life. She supposed any woman would be content with the attention he gave her, but it was difficult to settle for less when she’d once had more. And perhaps that was the source of her growing discontent. She’d considered it while she’d taken a luxurious bath. Thought about it while Charity had helped her with her nightgown. Thought about it after Charity left her for the night and she awaited her husband’s arrival.

  Divorce was the solution she kept turning to. He’d been a young man when he’d been imprisoned. He’d attended few balls, few dinners. He never had a chance to look over the debutantes, to select the one who might appeal to him most. He’d married her because she was the one who joined h
im at the altar.

  “You promised that someday you would allow me the privilege of brushing your hair.”

  Lifting her gaze to the mirror, she saw her husband’s reflection as he stood behind her, in a blue silk dressing gown that matched the shade of his eyes.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.

  “You seemed far away in thought, as you often accuse me of being, there but not really there. Where were you?”

  “It’s of no importance,” she lied. Tomorrow she would ask him for a divorce, but not tonight. She wanted one more night with him…and even as she thought that, she thought perhaps she’d ask him the day after…or after…How many days could she postpone facing the truth?

  Coming to stand behind her, he reached round and gently took the brush from her hand. “Everything about you is important.” Slowly he glided it through her hair. “I remember the first time I saw your hair loose, spread out over the pillow of that bed.”

  She watched him in the mirror, the intensity with which he gazed down on her. “My first night here, the night of the storm. When you brought me warm cocoa.”

  “I thought I would crush the bones in my hands, because I had to hold on to them so tightly to keep them from reaching for you.”

  “I wanted you to reach for me.”

  “But you thought I was someone else.”

  Something occurred to her.

  “The pox,” she whispered. “That first morning in the library, you said you had the pox, not a fox.”

  He appeared remarkably embarrassed. “I was trying to determine a satisfactory excuse for not fulfilling my husbandly duties. I wanted you to realize that the reason rested with me, not with any shortcomings on your part.”

  “But you don’t have the pox.”

  “No.”

  “But you were trying to find a way to avoid being with me.”

  “Not avoid being with you. Avoid making love to you. I had this insane notion that I could return you to John untouched.”

  Nodding in understanding, she swallowed.

  “That’s what I was thinking about earlier, when I was lost in my thoughts. How unfair to you it is that you found yourself with a wife whom you didn’t choose.”