Veil of Honor

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Bedford cocked his head and raised a black brow.

  Will sighed and ruffled his hair, irritated. “I quite forgot, Bedford…” He hesitated. “Jack is home. He lives here, now, with…with my sister, his wife.”

  Bedford came to a halt, looking down at the house. “Gwendolyn, yes? The quiet beauty.” He considered the matter, his jaw working. “That was two years ago. Perhaps it is time to let bygones pass.” His voice was quiet.

  Will considered the man, surprised. His little sister, Mary, had died less than a year ago. Most of the gossips attributed her death to a broken heart and not the infection that had taken her. Jack had been nearly engaged to the girl for years before the newspapers revealed he was secretly involved with Jenny all that time.

  “If you’re sure…” Will said. “I’d be happy to take you to the Lamb and Clover in Brighton, instead. Everyone will understand.”

  Bedford shook his head. “If Guestwick can look me in the eye, then I can muster the grace to shake his hand.”

  “You’re a good man, John.”

  Bedford moved down the gentle slope, with a grin and a shake of his head. “I still don’t understand how your great family survived that scandal, Rothmere. By rights, your reputations should all hang in tatters.”

  Relieved, Will hurried to catch up with him. “Love wins out, I suppose. And it was that—a true love match.”

  Bedford rolled his eyes. “Love?” he breathed, disgust rich in his voice. “You sound like a man engaged, all doe-eyed and breathless about the wonders of marriage. I didn’t think you, of all men, would succumb to that particular disease.”

  In the past, Will might have snorted his own derision and waved the awkward moment off, in full agreement that men who gave in and got themselves married were betraying the brotherhood of bachelors. He and Bedford had spent many evenings drinking to the loss of yet another bachelor.

  Now, though, Will concentrated on his feet and not tripping down the slope, discomfort cramping his belly. He didn’t want to dispute Bedford a moment after the man had shown such character and grace. Only, Bedford’s analogy of marriage being a disease conflicted sharply and distastefully with the swirl of ideas and possibilities his father had planted at Christmas.

  * * * * *

  There were dozens of men standing about the entry hall. As the hall had a fireplace of its own and colorful rugs and chairs, most of them lingered there to warm themselves and partake of the mulled wine that Collins and his footmen were handing out.

  Will and Bedford moved among them, making their way to the drawing room on the other side of the house. Will couldn’t see anyone in the front hall who lived in the manor. It was just his guests for the moment, although with breakfast about to be served, the members of the household would surely appear soon, including Jack.

  Will wanted to warn Jack about Bedford’s presence before the two confronted each other. It was only fair that Jack have a chance to brace himself. Jenny, too. The consequences of that horrid summer in London still rose occasionally to catch the two of them by surprise. Sometimes, society members shunned them at public events, despite the ton in general accepting them as a most romantic couple. Jack’s bids for engineering projects had sometimes failed despite being the lowest or fairest, while explanations given to him for taking a higher bid made no sense.

  Society as a whole may have forgiven Jack and Jenny, yet some individuals were slower to come around. It was reasonable to expect that Bedford would be one of them, despite his statements outside.

  Collins appeared magically by Will’s side as he moved into the drawing room. “My Lord Rothmere, Mr. Stephenson arrived at the house a short while ago. He is asking to speak to you at your earliest convenience.” Collins was a spare man with a high forehead, mousy hair and astonishing green eyes behind spectacles. He was unexpectedly young for a butler, yet Raymond added to the man’s responsibility with each passing year.

  That was perhaps understandable, given that four individual families lived in the manor, along with odd cousins and children. Raymond managed several estates, too. Will had learned not to dismiss anything Collins said. The man was intuitive and clever.

  “Ray Stephenson is here?” Will said, startled. “My estate manager?” he added.

  “Indeed, my Lord. He came down on the night train from Kirkaldy. I put him in Lord Marblethorpe’s office, where he can use the desk for his papers. He carried a great many of them.”

  Impatience and irritation touched Will. “I can’t break off here to coddle him over irritable tenants,” he said. “I’m hosting a shooting party, Collins. Tell him to write me a letter and send him back home.”

  Collins pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “Perhaps, as the man has traveled a great distance to see you…”

  Will clamped down on his impatience. “What do you suggest, Collins?”

  “I can have breakfast served to him, at least, my Lord. Then, perhaps, once the guests have settled down, you can meet with him in my Lord’s office to hear the man out. I can arrange a carriage back to the train station for him, in time for the noon train to St. Pancras.”

  Will nodded. “Thank you, Collins. That will mollify him, I’m sure.”

  Collins gave a graceful nod of his head, then straightened, his gaze moving beyond Will. “Oh dear…” he murmured.

  The odd note in the butler’s voice made Will turn on his heel to spot what had alarmed him.

  Bridget stood just inside the open front door in a muddy traveling suit and her hair in disarray. She looked about the crowded front hall with an expression that was as close to despair as Will had ever seen on her face.

  Chapter Four

  Grand social affairs were so rare at Marblethorpe that to find herself in the midst of one was a nasty shock. Bridget pushed at her hair, that was escaping her poorly made bun, aware of how shoddy her appointments were. She had given little thought to them when she left London yesterday morning and cared nothing for the startled looks sent her way. Brooks, her maid, had stayed here at Marblethorpe, for Bridget expected to use one of Taplow’s staff for the few services she required.

  All she had cared about was to return to Marblethorpe as quickly as possible and pull her mother to one side and speak to her. Her aching heart would ease, she was sure, once she unburdened herself to Natasha.

  Instead, she was confronted with a hall thick with people, most of them strangers and all of them men.

  Bridget didn’t have the courage or strength to ease her way through them. She would have to be polite and charming. She would not snub Raymond’s guests. It would be impolite and an insult to Raymond.

  Only, she didn’t have the energy for charm and chatter.

  Will pushed his way around the circles of men and Bridget’s heart sank even farther. She had forgotten Will was staying at Marblethorpe over Christmas.

  Worse, he was heading for her, his gaze on her face.

  As soon as he got close enough for her to speak, she said quickly, “I will go around to the portico door, Will. I won’t intrude.”

  Will took her arm. “Don’t be silly,” he said, his voice as low as hers. “You look ready to collapse. Come in. Come. The morning room isn’t being used.”

  “No, really, Will. I just want to go to my room.” Her mother would eat breakfast with the guests. She would not be able to speak to her just yet. With a houseful of guests, it would be prudent to wash and change and have Brooks see to her hair before appearing once more.

  Will shepherded her through the men, his other arm out to hold them away from her and stop them from stepping backward and tripping over them. He pushed against backs and shoulders, making room for her hoops.

  Relief touched her. At least she would not have to walk all the way around to the portico on the east side of the house.

  At the foot of the stairs, she made herself smile at Will. “Thank you.”

  A tiny furrow dug between Will’s brows. “I’ll see you up to your room.”

 
“No, Will,” she said, alarmed. “You’re in hunting clothes. You’re a part of the group. You should go back to them.”

  “It’s my shooting party,” he said. “They won’t miss me while the wine flows. Up you go. Go on.” His hand pushed gently at her back.

  She didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, she lifted her hoop and climbed the stairs. Will stayed beside her, taking the stairs two at a time to her every two steps and he used the middle of the staircase while she used the banister.

  Bridget hurried along the wide corridor to her room at the back of the house. She wanted to put a closed door between her and the world. She wanted silence.

  Will pushed open her door and stepped aside.

  Gratefully, she moved into the room. She had never been so glad to see the canopy bed and her old dressing table. The door shut behind her and she turned to look at it, surprised that Will had left without a last word.

  He stood with his back to the door, watching her.

  Bridget’s heart thudded sickly. “What are you doing?”

  “Even a fool like me can tell from your face that something has gone badly awry, Bree. You look…ill.” He dropped his hand from the doorknob. His fingers curled in against his palms as if he wanted to make fists of them. “What happened with the duke? Are you engaged?”

  His soft question broke the dam she had built to hold back the hot stew of despair and humiliation building in her for more than a week. She had held it all inside, intent upon reaching her mother and gaining wiser council. The closer she came to Marblethorpe, the greater the internal pressure grew, until she felt like a steam engine with no safety valve and a stoked boiler, the bolts shuddering loose and threatening to fly.

  Bridget sank to the floor, her face in her hands, as the black miasmic sludge poured from her in thick waves. She could no more hold it back than fly. “He lied to me, Will! He lied! Oh, I was such a fool. Who am I to think I could catch a duke? At my age? Oh, it was humiliating! He…he…used me!”

  She wept, her body shaking, as the sobs tore at her chest and her throat.

  Will’s strong arms came around her and she was lifted…not high, but enough to be placed back down upon his lap. He turned her face into his shoulder and held her.

  That Will was the one to witness her humiliation made it both worse and far, far better. His silent comfort eased the ache in her chest and let her cry freely. She gripped his lapel and hid her face against the rough wool of his jacket, her shoulders shaking.

  She didn’t realize she was speaking, at first. As she had been doing for days, now, she relived over and over again the evening with Taplow in the empty house, reviewing it and revisiting her stupidity. “I don’t believe he ever intended to marry me,” she murmured, her cheek rubbing against Will’s shoulder. “He wanted me to think he would, so he could…so we…Oh, Will, how could I be such an idiot? He let me think that to…be together…that it would help us both settle in our minds that marriage was right, that we would be good together.”

  Will didn’t speak, yet his body tensed against her shoulder.

  The dam was breached, though. Bridget could not halt the flow of words, not even if the tension he was feeling was disgust. She must get it out. All of it. “That first night and the next, he repeatedly told me he was selfish, that he wanted time with me alone. Then the following morning…” Now she could not speak. That had been the moment when she first realized the truth.

  “That would have been Christmas morning,” Will ground out, his voice filled with some emotion she didn’t recognize.

  She nodded, closing her eyes. She tightened her grip on his lapel.

  “What happened, Bree?” Will asked. “Tell me. Just me. Not another soul in the world need ever hear of it once you’ve told me. It will stay with me forever.”

  Bridget put her hand to her face, the half that wasn’t resting against him. “I woke and the bed was empty. He was gone. The house was empty, Will. There was no one at all. I had to…I dressed myself and walk to the village to find a cab to take me to the station. Then, to London by train. The train was empty, too.”

  “Because it was Christmas day,” Will said. His voice was even tighter and harsher, this time.

  “I got to the townhouse on Park Lane that afternoon,” Bridget whispered. “No one was home, of course. It’s closed down for the winter. I stayed in the kitchen. I worked out how to light the stove and that let me heat water. There were preserves in the pantry…”

  “You’ve been in the townhouse this past week?” Will asked. This time, his tone was mellower.

  “I wrote letters to him. Two a day. I still hoped it was a misunderstanding, that some family emergency had pulled him away and we could meet somewhere and go from there. There was no answer, of course.”

  As the week wore on without a reply, the horrible truth became clearer. It had taken a full week for her to come to grips with the situation her ignorance and foolish hope had delivered her into.

  “When I knew for sure no reply would ever arrive, I knew I must come home,” Bridget whispered. “I didn’t want to. I would rather be in Timbuktu than here, even though I have no idea where that is—”

  “Africa, I believe,” Will murmured.

  “Africa, Australia, anywhere would be better, only I’m a stupid woman who can barely get herself to Sussex alone.” She sighed. “I suppose you must want to laugh at me, Will, for my sheer idiocy. You’ve likely made such arrangements with ladies many times. I should have understood from the outset what Taplow wanted, only I was so…so thrilled at the idea of a duke as a husband, after all these years of not a single hope…”

  Will lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were grave. “There have been arrangements,” he admitted. “Many of them, over the years, although I never once made a promise I didn’t intend to keep. The lady always understood that.”

  Bridget dropped her chin again, her cheeks flaming. “Taplow did not make any promises, either. It just felt as if he was. I wanted to believe it, I suppose. He did not promise, Will.” She had recalled every moment with Taplow, during the week she crouched beside the kitchen stove.

  “Taplow?” Will breathed, his shock blatant.

  Bridget squeezed his lapel. “You said this would remain between us,” she said quickly. “You said nothing else would come of it.”

  “I didn’t know it was Taplow,” Will said, his voice flat. “Well, that explains much.” His arm tightened about her. “You’re not stupid, Bree. He wanted you to believe the potential for marriage was there. He implied it, or you would not have allowed him in your bed.”

  Bridget met his gaze once more. It was easier this time, for no disgust or amusement showed in his eyes. “Then he has done this before,” she said slowly.

  “I thought him to be…” Will hesitated, then ground out, “My understanding was that he was like me—that he had a way with the ladies. I thought he found amenable and sophisticated partners. Until now, I did not know he was luring maidens with false promises. Implied or not, he deliberately misled you.”

  “You cannot confront him, Will,” Bridget said quickly. “I will die of shame if you do! Everyone will know!”

  Will’s throat worked. “He dishonored you.”

  “I did it to myself. I walked into it, Will. I was a fool, such a fool. Mothers teach their daughters to never be alone with a man for this reason. I ignored that and now I must face the consequences.”

  “Consequences…” Will breathed. “Christ, Bridget, did he not even take care of…” He lifted her chin again. “I have to ask and you will hate to answer, but you must. Did he…come inside you? Was there fluid? In you?”

  Bridget closed her eyes, her humiliation deeper than she ever thought might be possible while crouched close to the stove in London, clutching a tepid cup of tea. “Yes,” she made herself say, although her voice was weak.

  Will patted her back and lifted her. “Here, sit in front of me, so I can see your face,” he said, puttin
g her back on the rug. He rearranged his limbs, crossing his legs and threading his fingers together in front of him. His blue eyes were steady. “There might be a child come out of this, Bree.”

  She put her face in her hands once more and moaned. How could she possibly move forward after this moment? She wanted to die.

  Will gripped her wrists and pulled her hands from her face. “There is only one way out of this,” he told her.

  “A way exists?” she whispered.

  “Just the one. We must marry.”

  The fragment of hope that burned in her chest withered. “You and I?” she breathed. “No, Will. We cannot.”

  “Why not?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “You are a peer with indisputable antecedents. The family will consider it a suitable match and so will society.”

  The first tendrils of something she suspected was horror curled through her. “You’re not a marrying man, Will. We get along like flint and stone, anyway, but that’s quite beside the fact that you like…you like the way you live. You cannot give that up for me.”

  Will pushed his hand through his hair. The blond was darkened by dampness from the foggy morning. Of course, he had worn no hat out there. “If you must know,” he said slowly, “my father is stepping up the pressure. He wants an heir, Bree. You and I at least understand each other. You know what I am like. Any other maid would wed me thinking she married a husband. You would not.”

  Bree put her hand to her waist. “You would allow a…a bastard to be your heir?”

  “It may not come to that, yet,” Will said, even though his jaw rippled. “You must get married, though, to counter the possibility.” His fingers tightened against each other, the knuckles growing white. “Say yes, Bridget. No one else will ask.”

  Bitterness touched her. “No, they won’t,” she agreed heavily.

  “I meant,” Will said quickly, “only that no one else knows your predicament, except Taplow, who created it. If we are married, then what he did is neutralized.”

  “Neutralized,” she repeated. “Such an odd word for a marriage proposal.”