A Lady's Secret

by Sarita Leone

  Chapter 8

  Moonlight danced in his eyes when Nick looked over at her, sending a jolt of heat to her center.

  They had the carriage to themselves and were in no hurry to make the musicale in time for the opening notes. He had instructed the driver to give them a long, lazy ride, and that was precisely what they were getting.

  She leaned back against her husband. Contentment made her smile, even though no one could see the expression in the darkness. She sighed.

  “That sounds like a happy noise, my dear.” He spoke into her temple, his breath warm on her skin.

  “It is. Quite happy.”

  They had a long, serious discussion, late at night after they’d sated their desire. It was the first night he was at Willowbrook in far too long. It upset him to know she was less than content with their current arrangement, and he promised to be present more and on business less. And since it was mid-Season, with so many intriguing events to attend, they decided to remain at the estate with her family rather than return to their own home. There were, after all, more people in one place over the other, and that, the enjoyment of one’s friends and family, was a high point of any Season.

  He had been true to his word. He spent his days riding with Lord Gregory, or attending one of the endless lawn parties that filled their afternoons. Or, he and Lucie spent any moment they could steal in their apartment, locked in a lovers’ embrace.

  “I’m glad.” He rubbed his palm along her upper arm, just below the filmy emerald-green shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The night was warm, but a woman could not go out without the proper attire, so the shawl came along. “But you must promise me something. I absolutely demand it, Lucie.”

  Her husband had only ever demanded one thing from her, and that was part of their betrothal agreement. She had not strayed from the vow she made him.

  “A demand? Why, that hardly seems like you. Whatever is on your mind?” She searched his gaze, but aside from the pinpricks of moonlight reflected in the dark depths, she could see nothing unusual.

  “Promise me this: I will know the instant you are unhappy. I hate the thought that you were not altogether content with our marriage, that I had done something to upset you, and you did not tell me right away. I demand to know the minute I am being less than the ideal husband. You must promise.”

  Her heart thudded. He was a wonderful man, so kind he had agreed to marry her to save her family’s reputation as well as conceal the truth about her brother’s addiction. He had been selfless and loving, and had given her elderly father his word of honor that he would take care of the family estate, as well as the family that came with said property.

  “Oh, no, Nick—you must never think I was unhappy. I was—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. A gentle, sweet, soft kiss.

  “You were unhappy with me. It is understandable.” He placed a hand on her neck, cradling her head as he caressed her throat with his thumb. “It is no excuse, but I am accustomed to tending my affairs first, and am not yet used to having a personal life. My whole life, no one has cared whether I come or go, or when I return home to eat or sleep. It has always been…well, it has been a lonely life. I see that now. I am learning, Lucie. Please, promise you will not allow me to neglect you in any way whatsoever, ever again.”

  She nodded, the lump in her throat much too large for her to speak around. Knowing he never had a loving family was one thing; realizing the solitude of his existence was another. It hurt her that he’d ever lived thusly. The only thing she could do? Make sure he never felt acute loneliness again.

  Their kiss was tender. Her lips opened to his willingly, and they deepened their passion. The carriage was closed. The driver could not peek, and the two footmen who rode the back step were facing the road behind. They were insulated, in a world of their own, and they took absolute advantage.

  Lucie wore a gown with a full skirt. While it was fashionable to wear sheer, body-skimming gowns, she still favored the grander style for nights out. Now, she straddled her husband’s legs, her skirts billowing out on the seat around them.

  A low, deep rumble of appreciation when she reached down and undid the buttons on his trousers.

  “Why, Lady Grayson,” he murmured against her lips.

  She broke their kiss, looked down into his eyes with the most innocent expression she could conjure given she had his member in her hand.

  “Do you object?”

  “Do I feel as if I object?” He thrust his steely length against her palm, a slow push that brought the butterflies in her belly alive.

  She moved aside the fabric separating her skin from his. Teasing, she brushed the tip of his need against the slick of her desire. Nick swallowed a moan, so she repeated the motion, bringing him oh, so close to the place he wanted to be before slipping him just out of position.

  Their passion had been playful from the very first night. She learned from him how to please a man and how to be pleased in turn. Stalling fulfillment took self-control but was worth the effort.

  “Why, as a matter of fact, Nicky dearest, you don’t feel objectionable at all.” She moaned as she lowered herself onto him. There was nothing in heaven or on earth that could feel as incredible as being joined to one’s own heart.

  The motion of the carriage made short work of their passion. They laughed quietly, mindful of the servants just inches away, when it was over. Lucie lingered on her husband’s lap, putting off the moment when they would be two again, rather than one.

  A loud shout from the driver. Then, the horses whinnied, and the carriage ground to a halt.

  The footmen hollered, their voices harsh and their words unintelligible, as chaos broke out beyond their cozy world.

  Nick lifted her off him and settled her onto the seat. He fastened his trousers in haste.

  “Stay here, Lucie. No matter what you hear, stay here.”

  A quick brush of the lips, then he opened the door and jumped out of the carriage. He slammed the door, then was gone.

  Chapter 9

  The plush seats in Lord and Lady Harrison’s ballroom were comfortable. The warm breeze coming from the open French doors leading to the terrace was sultry against his skin. And the seemingly endless music was mesmerizing. It took a supreme effort for Oliver to keep his eyes open. He had caught his chin falling toward his chest twice so far, and had only kept himself from embarrassment by an elbow from the woman beside him.

  This time, the third, that Amy touched her skin against his evening jacket, had to be the last. He gave her a grateful nod, which she returned with a small acknowledgement. They had known each other forever so he had no fear she wouldn’t keep his secret.

  On the other side of Amy sat Miranda, dressed in her signature blue. Both sisters were lovely, each in her own way.

  The Spencer sisters’ parents were gadabouts and had never shown the ladies the love and respect they deserved. But the pair were not women to be dallied with. They would make good wives, prosperous matches and hopefully have the lives they were born to live.

  There was no sense encouraging Miranda when he knew in his heart there was no spark between them. So, he was polite, as he would be to any young lady, but kept his distance.

  Amy had no designs on him so she was quite safe to side beside. This past year she and an earl’s son had been on the high ropes, and while they hadn’t declared permanence to their friendship, the ton expected it be forthcoming. So, she was safe when it came to seating arrangements.

  He leaned close enough to whisper. “I am going for a turn about the terrace. It is too hot by far in here. Excuse me, please.”

  Amy grabbed his wrist before he could rise.

  “Take me with you, I beg you. I am dying from this heat—it is stifling, and if I don’t get some relief, I shall surely swoon.”

  The lighting was dim, but Oliver looked into her face to see her cheeks were, indeed, flushed. Her eyes had a sheen, as if she might dissolve into tears if he refused.

 
A nod. “People may talk.”

  “I don’t give a groat what people say. They will talk if I slide off this chair in a puddle, a victim to this close air.”

  His was the last seat in their row, so exiting required little effort. They did not disturb anyone with their departure, although they did garner a puzzled glance from Miranda as they rose. Oliver gave her a tiny nod, and a matching smile, to placate her.

  The air on the terrace was sheer delight by comparison to the sticky, perfumed fog they left behind. Oliver followed Amy to the farthest edge of the space, where she leaned against the wide stone wall and took a deep breath. He watched as she dropped her head back, closed her eyes and smiled. She’d been so under the weather recently that it was a good sign, he thought, to see her relax.

  “It is much better out here, isn’t it?” Oliver was less inclined to stick to prescribed topics of conversation with the Spencer sisters. They had, after all, grown up together so there was a closeness not found with others.

  Amy was equally relaxed. “Yes, much.”

  She glanced around them. Aside from several servants carrying refreshment trays, there were several other couples scattered about. Apparently they were not the only ones seeking fresh air.

  “Are you enjoying the music? The woodwinds are especially talented, I think.”

  “I love music. You know that, I don’t need to tell you. You’ve endured your fair share of evenings filled with Miranda’s pianoforte accompanying my harp. The music is fine, and it is a good night for it. It’s just much too warm in there for my taste.” A lace fan hung from a ribbon tied around her left wrist. She used it now, moving the air near her face with a slow, careless wave. He watched a tendril, a small curl, hanging near her cheek move languorously in the artificial breeze.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  A maid paused beside them, waiting while they looked over the glasses on her tray. Strawberry punch on one side, for the ladies. On the other side, port, for the gentlemen.

  Amy grimaced. Averted her face and fanned more enthusiastically. He waved the servant away, concerned by the way his companion suddenly turned pale.

  “Do you need to sit down?”

  She did not answer right away. He watched, as Amy swallowed. Once. Twice. Three times. A shake of her head, which sent the little curl bobbing beside her face.

  “No need. I am…I am fine. Really.” Her voice was shaky, and there was a glow to her that hadn’t been there before the drink tray was presented.

  He knew better than to believe her. Those who claimed to be fine were generally the ones who were anything but.

  “You are a beautiful woman who is feeding me a faradiddle. I taste it, you know.” The ploy worked, and he got a weak smile for his teasing. “My mother is quite concerned about you. Lucie is, as well. You have been not yourself for the past few weeks. Perhaps a consultation with Doctor Fairweather is in order?”

  She shook her head so hard the feather tucked into the back of her upsweep flew from its place. It fluttered to the stone terrace and landed at her feet. He bent, retrieved the embellishment, and held it in his hand.

  She made no move to take it from him, so he did not offer it at once. Instead, he watched as she struggled to keep her composure. It tore at his heartstrings to see her so distressed.

  “I do not wish to see a doctor.” The statement was softly but firmly spoken, punctuated by another brisk head shake. “No doctor.”

  He deferred to her, of course.

  “As you wish. But truly, we are concerned. You are not yourself, not at all. And you have been ill a number of times, which is not the best way to spend your days.” He searched his mind for a compelling line that might open the vault she kept locked against confidences. “And, I have noticed your, ah, companion is absent recently.”

  She did not look at him. “My companion?”

  Oliver should have realized something was amiss when she did not meet his gaze. “Lyle Roarke. I have not seen him these past weeks…come to think of it, I have not heard one word of him from anyone. Surely, you must miss him. It seems you two have a particular fondness.”

  When she looked up, she stared at a point beyond his shoulder. The darkness gave way to the lights shining from the windows in the houses surrounding this one, but he did not believe she saw either light or darkness. It was as if a curtain had been drawn over her eyes. A haunted look, matching the tone in her voice.

  “I have no knowledge of that man. He has not contacted me in weeks.” A stifled sob, the fan stilling in front of her mouth.

  He had no real experience with distressed females so he placed a hand on her shoulder in a brotherly gesture he prayed would soothe her.

  “Amy, I know there is something wrong. Can’t you confide in me?”

  She met his gaze. Shook her head. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “I need to leave,” she whispered. “Please, take me out of here.”

  Chapter 10

  Lights shone from nearly every window when the carriage pulled up to the front door. The ride from London had been silent, neither sister inclined to speak and Oliver more than happy to let them keep their own councils. He’d watched Amy sniff away a tear more than once. Miranda’s brow was so furrowed he wondered if it might remain thusly. She had never been an expert at hiding her emotions; now her vexation was as clear as a pebble in the bottom of a bucket of water.

  Miranda placed a hand on her chest and gasped as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Something is wrong—the place should be quiet at this hour.”

  The footman opened the door. It was difficult, but he allowed the ladies to exit before him. She was right, there could be no good reason for the manor looking like a birthday cake well past midnight.

  Amy murmured, “I do hope it’s not your parents. They both seemed fine when we departed. I pray nothing has changed.”

  They passed through the front door, not bothering to remove hats, gloves or shawls. The sound of excited voices came from the library, so they hurried to the open doorway.

  Oliver strode into the room. His parents, both in their nightclothes, sat on an overstuffed settee. Father had a reassuring arm around his mother, who, with her hair plaited and hanging over her shoulder, reminded him of a younger Lucie.

  Lucie and Vivian sat beside the fire. It appeared Vivian, also in her nightdress but with one of Will’s overcoats draped around her shoulders, soothed his sister. Tea filled china cups on the table beside the chairs. Not one cup looked as if it had been sampled.

  “Whatever is going on?” He walked into the center of the room, his gaze passing from face to face. The sisters hurried in on his heels; Miranda going to his parents’ side and Amy to kneel before Lucie and Vivian. “What has happened? And why is no one asleep?”

  Will and Nick were in the far corner near Father’s massive oak desk conferring with two of the grounds men. When they turned to face him, he saw the reason for the night’s excitement.

  Nick glared at him from one eye. The other, bruised purple and swollen shut. His lip was split, and his once immaculate attire was dirty, torn, and bloodied. Blood dried on his neck and had turned his white shirt collar crimson.

  His sister’s weeping filled the air. She was not prone to fits of emotion, so the sound was as heart wrenching as the sight of her husband’s face was shocking.

  He crossed the room, placed his hands on his brother-in-law’s shoulders. “Good God, man! What happened?”

  Nick opened his mouth, then closed it with a grimace. A trickle of blood from the lip, where it had burst open.

  Will spoke to the grounds men first. “As soon as help arrives, allow them entrance. And Doctor Fairweather’s carriage is to be admitted. But secure the grounds immediately. No one enters the estate—and make certain all men posted at the entrance are armed. Do I make myself clear?”

  The two men acknowledged their assignment. They left in a hurry, without looking at anyone in the room. The front door closed so f
orcefully they heard the slam, something almost unheard of at Willowbrook.

  Will gestured to the wide leather chair behind Lord Gregory’s desk. He looked into Nick’s one good eye. “Best sit down. The doctor may take a while to arrive. But the cook is on her way in with something to clean you up a bit.”

  Nick sat, turning away from the rest of the room. It was clear he was sparing the others the sight. It occurred to Oliver his consideration in the face of whatever had befallen him was highly admirable.

  Will stood behind the chair, using his body as a shield so as to further conceal the man. Oliver stood shoulder to shoulder with him, making an even more formidable wall.

  “What the hell is going on here? What happened—and where is the bastard who did this to him?”

  Nick laid his head back against the leather and closed his eye. It was painful to look at him, so he turned his gaze to the man beside him.

  “They were come upon by bandits on the road between here and Town. Their carriage left not ten minutes after yours did, so it is probable you passed the scoundrels on your way to the musicale.” Will’s hair stood on end. He plowed his fingers through it, sending his waves into an even greater mess. “They nearly killed him. And your sister, she saw it all.”

  Acid rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, then knelt in front of Nick, looked up into his battered face and hitched a breath. “I give you my word, I will find the ones who did this to you. And when I do, they will pay for this. I promise, brother.”

  Nick managed one word. “Lucie.”

  “She is safe. Now, let’s get you upstairs.” The cook and three maids entered, all bearing fresh towels, warm water, and assorted medical items. “You will be more comfortable in bed, and it will be easier to tend to your needs if you are lying down. Will, let’s lift him and carry him up.”

  Nick protested, waving one arm as he tried to rise. He barely made it to his feet before his knees buckled. When he fell forward, they caught him.

  The body knows what it needs, and the battered duke needed rest from his wounds. Blessedly, he lost consciousness so he was able to be carried without further protest. When they reached the wide staircase, servants and family trailing behind them, Will caught Oliver’s gaze.