Lady Belling's Secret

by Bright, Amylynn

  “I know I have a great deal of respect for her. I care about her.” Dalton swallowed again. “I sure as hell lust for her.”

  “Well, I suggest you curb that particular sensation immediately!” Thomas threatened, preparing to rise out of his chair and commence the thrashing that had been cut short earlier.

  “Don’t forget, she’s still, at this moment, my fiancée. I haven’t released her from her promise. I can still sue for breach of contract or some other such nonsense. I can make one hell of a mess for you and her family if I’m so inclined.”

  “Will you? Step aside that is?”

  “I don’t know.” Dalton eyed him from over the glass. “I can’t believe I’m asking this question about a lady, especially one I’m planning to marry. Based on what I’ve walked in on this evening, just how far have…” Dalton didn’t complete the sentence.

  “Far enough that I’m not going to answer your question.” And that was as much as Thomas wanted to discuss on the matter of his intended’s reputation.

  “I see.”

  Thomas was pretty sure Dalton did see.

  They sat in silence for another long moment, both of them drinking and presumably thinking about the same woman. Thomas knew their lives, Francesca’s reputation, and the love and respect of his adopted family were tenuous, their fates held in the hands of the drunken, angry Marquess who was well within his rights to ruin them all. He stretched out a long leg and scratched the rump of the puppy nearest him. He waited, stealing glances at the other man as he drank and considered. Thomas took another sip of brandy and tried desperately to figure out what had gone so wrong this evening.

  He would swear he hadn’t intended for them to get caught, and he even thought it was true, but the minute she’d accused him of planning the whole thing, he began to question himself and his motives. He’d behaved abominably throughout this entire affair. He’d turned out exactly how his father had repeatedly predicted. He should never have kissed her, much less bedded her, but he wasn’t sorry he had. Discovering Francesca still loved him after all this time had been a balm to his soul after coming home from the war to a heap of intimidating responsibilities and unwanted feelings about a dead family that would never be resolved. After a lifetime of being unworthy of his family’s love, he didn’t think he could bear it if he proved unworthy of her love, too. All he could do was cling to it like a drowning man and fight for her like he’d never fought for anything before.

  Thomas looked up from his thoughts to see Dalton eyeing him. “What?” he asked and swallowed the last of the amber liquor in his glass. Where the hell was Masters with the extra bottle of brandy?

  Dalton also drained his glass. “Why the devil are you here?”

  “I live here.”

  “I know that, you great drunken ass. I meant why aren’t you with her? Obviously I interrupted something rather intimate tonight, and if she loves you like you think she does, why are you sitting here in the dark getting drunk instead of with the lady?”

  Thomas rubbed his hands vigorously across his face and then through his hair. “Several reasons actually. My best friend has banished me from the house. Even worse, and I am sure that this would please you to no end, but I messed it up tonight.” His sigh was heavy, and he felt weary. “I don’t know how, but I did, and she stormed out.”

  “Well, I must admit that does provide me some sort of perverse pleasure.” Dalton chuckled. “Just out of curiosity, what did you say so that I don’t make the same mistake?”

  “Where the hell is that man with the brandy?” Thomas leaned his head back in his chair and hollered, “Masters!”

  At that very instant the heavy paneled door opened and the butler walked in with the bottle. “My lord.” His voice was dry and even. The servant left the bottle on the far side of the room, his quiet little version of rebellion. “Will there be anything else? Fine then, good night, my lords.” He turned on his heel and left the library before Thomas had a chance to respond to the question, shutting the door behind him with a stern-sounding click.

  Thomas snorted. “Well, I suspect I’ll be punished for that. The man is quite creative when it comes to putting me in my place.” He dragged himself from the fine leather chair and crossed the room to the bottle. He grabbed it by the neck and returned, stopping to fill Dalton’s glass before his own, and then slumped back in the seat.

  Dalton lifted his glass in salute before sipping. “So let me get this straight. The plan then is to sit here in your admittedly comfortable library, drink expensive and splendid brandy with a romantic rival who hasn’t yet decided if he’s going to shoot you at dawn, anger your servants, and brood?”

  “I think so. At least I don’t have any other ideas,” Thomas admitted.

  “May I ask another question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why do you keep bears in your house?”

  Thomas roared with laughter, awakening the bears, who trotted over to their master with curiosity shining in their black eyes. “They’re not bears. Remember the dogs from the park that day? They’re puppies.”

  “You own two of those hellhounds?” Dalton asked, eyes wide with astonishment. “Why?”

  “I bought them for her.”

  “Is that why she’s not speaking to you? Now that I could understand.”

  “No. She doesn’t know I bought them.”

  “Oh.” Dalton studied the beasts for a minute before hanging a hand over the side of the chair to entice one of the pups over. He sank his hand in the dog’s long, silky hair and scratched. The puppy sat down heavily on Dalton’s foot and leaned into his leg. “Well, they do have a certain appeal.”

  Thomas grunted into his glass, his attention concentrated on the fire. The evening that had started so contentiously settled into a companionable silence as both men drank from their brandy and petted a sleepy dog.

  “Are we allowed to talk during this brooding session?” Dalton asked.

  Thomas didn’t answer. He simply looked at Dalton with unspoken permission.

  “Why aren’t you with her now?” Dalton repeated his earlier question.

  “I hoped you had forgotten that question. You want to know what I did wrong? I told her she couldn’t leave with you because she was mine. Then she stormed out.”

  Dalton started laughing, deep belly laughs that caused him to throw his head against the back of the chair. Thomas sat there and glared at him. And the bastard kept laughing.

  Finally Dalton got a hold of himself enough to squeak out, “Really?”

  Thomas squinted his eyes at Dalton and nodded. That set off a whole new bout of hilarity. Thomas didn’t know what was so bloody funny. What the hell was this jackass laughing at? And Dalton went right on laughing, great bellowing guffaws. It turned out they were catching. Before he knew it, Thomas was laughing along with him. He still didn’t know what was funny, but the relief felt wonderful.

  After several minutes the laughing subsided to manly snickers and deep giggles. Dalton wiped his eyes and exhaled a funny, contented sigh that concludes a great round of laughing.

  “I still don’t know what was so funny,” Thomas admitted.

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think it was because she was so terrified of the look of you after I gave you that beating yesterday?”

  Thomas exhaled through his teeth. “You look far worse than I do.”

  Dalton let out a drunken giggle but then turned serious. “How well do you know Miss Belling? For that matter, how well do you know women?”

  “I know women just fine, thank you very much,” he said defensively. “And I’ve known Francesca since she was six or so.”

  “Just because you’ve known many women, doesn’t mean you know women.” Dalton shook his head. “I mean, how well do you know the woman Frankie has become?”

  “I know her better than you ever will.” Thomas didn’t gloat when he said this. He was simply stating fact. Whatever the problem was
with him and Francesca, he would figure it out and fix it. He had to.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see,” Dalton noted dryly. “And you know damn good and well that isn’t what I meant. How well do you know her personally?”

  “I know that she is intelligent and witty. She is strong and brave. She loves children and dogs, even enormous, slobbery dogs, and she is very patient with both.”

  “Look, the fact of the matter is I really do like Frankie, and I certainly lust after her.” Dalton extended a calming hand. “But I don’t love her. I will certainly survive a little ego bruising, but I doubt your liver will survive botching this up any worse than you already have. Someone needs to help you, you giant ignoramus, before you lose her to me completely.”

  Thomas listened to Dalton’s speech with a fuzzy head, and after a moment he offered a non sequitur. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

  Dalton raised his eyebrows, rested his glass on his knee, and stared at Thomas. “You are hopelessly besotted with her,” Dalton declared.

  “Yes, ridiculously so.” Thomas rose from the chair and stalked over to the fireplace. “This is about what’s wrong with Francesca, not about what’s wrong with me.”

  Dalton leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other, one ankle on the opposite knee. He nodded at Thomas across the room. “All right, if that’s what you think,” said Dalton dismissively. “Have you told her this?”

  “That I love her? Yes. In a thousand ways.”

  “So let me get this straight. You informed Francesca that she wasn’t allowed to do something because you owned her?”

  “That’s the gist of it.” He had the good sense to be embarrassed. The truth hit him like a ton of bricks. He stood at the mantle, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and then pinched the bridge of his nose, all while shaking his head at his own unbelievable stupidity. “Oh dear God.”

  Dalton chuckled heartily. “What we need, my good man, is a plan. And just so you know, I can’t plan on an empty stomach.”

  The gentlemen, followed by two sleepy puppies, adjourned to the kitchen. The entire staff was asleep so they helped themselves to the larder. Their new camaraderie flourished under the auspices of more good brandy, thickly sliced ham and Cook’s fantastic bread. They ate sandwiches and spicy mustard. They opened several containers of peaches and at least three different jars of jams and pickles as well. The baked goods were plundered, and they happily made dents in several good wheels of cheese.

  Initially, Thomas was leery of Dalton’s goodwill, but finally the man admitted he wasn’t a glutton for punishment and that he liked and respected Francesca enough to bow out of the race. Besides, he told him around a mouth full of apple pie, he wasn’t too keen to marry a woman in love with another man.

  When Thomas asked later for Dalton’s opinion of love, Dalton humored him. Dalton said something about leading a horse so far to the water before he drowned himself in his own stupidity. Or something like that. He was pretty drunk. Then they toasted to feelings. They also toasted to dogs, bears, excellent pickles, and the state of the last horse auction at Tattersall’s. They talked and toasted long into the night about deep and meaningful things as only the exceedingly intoxicated can. And of course they cleaned up nothing. When the cook came in the kitchen in the morning, she nearly had a heart attack.

  Masters found the four of them passed out in the library right where he left them. Thomas slumped in the huge leather chair, his head thrown back, his feet propped up on the ottoman. His jacket lay on the floor with his cravat in a tumbled heap. His waistcoat was undone, as well as the top several buttons of his shirt.

  Dalton had taken over the sofa, his long frame draped from one end to the other. His shoes were off, and he was stripped down to his trousers and un-tucked shirt. Both men and dogs snored loudly. Masters simply shut the door to the library, after calling the dogs to go outside, leaving both men to their slumber. The fact that it was more of an alcohol-induced unconsciousness than a real sleep didn’t matter either way.

  Both men were aroused by the smell of coffee and warm bread.

  “Good morning, my lords.” Masters set the tray down and walked over to the heavy drapes, pulling them wide and letting in the blasted morning sun. The groaning from both men brought a smile to the servant’s usually staid countenance.

  Thomas moaned. “Masters, dear God, you’re killing me.” The pounding in his head had to be loud enough for that blasted butler to hear.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “How much did we drink last night?” Dalton sat up and rubbed his face vigorously.

  “I have found at least four empty bottles of brandy, my lord,” Masters confirmed. “Being fairly confident of your condition, I have brought coffee and warm bread. Fresh bread, since all the loaves from yesterday seemed to have disappeared.” Masters made a discreet little cough and then went on. “Also, the jam is fresh, but I am sorry to say that there will be no peaches this morning.”

  “Ah yes,” Thomas murmured, trying not to talk too loudly. Or move too quickly. Or think too hard. “We did get a little hungry last night. I hope we didn’t leave too big a mess. You will give Cook my apologies, Masters.”

  “Already done.” Apparently appeased by the obvious misery of both men and Thomas’s sufficiently repentant attitude—it never paid to anger the cook after all—Masters took pity on them. “I have taken the liberty of advising your valet of your condition, my lord. A hot bath is being drawn. I am sure you will recover greatly after a good steam.”

  “You really are remarkably good to me, Masters,” Thomas admitted, thankfully.

  “Yes, my lord,” Masters agreed. “Lord Dalton, can I call around a carriage for you? The Harrington carriages are quite well sprung.”

  Dalton sat motionless on the sofa, cradling his head in his hands. His voice was muffled and barely audible. “That would be excellent. Thank you.”

  Masters took himself from the room, leaving them to pull themselves together.

  “Well, I feel like death warmed over,” Dalton moaned.

  “You look like it, too,” Thomas opined.

  “While you, on the other hand, look fantastic this morning,” Dalton responded dryly. “Just how do you do it?”

  “You’re not going to make me laugh. If I do, I’m sure to embarrass myself and ruin this expensive rug.” Thomas dragged himself to his feet and poured himself some coffee. Once he decided it was going to stay down, he drained the cup and poured another. “So, did we figure anything out last night?” He honestly wasn’t sure what all happened the previous evening.

  Dalton signaled for a cup of coffee, and while Thomas filled his mug, Dalton bent down and put his boots on, apparently setting off a whole new wave of nausea to contend with. “Ugggh,” Dalton moaned, but he did look a little better after the coffee. “What did we figure out? I was informed that Francesca loves you and not me. We determined that you love Francesca and I do not. Regardless, she is very angry with you because you are a giant ass who doesn’t know women. I think that pretty much sums it up.”

  “Succinctly put. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Dalton tucked in his shirt, donned his jacket and shoved his cravat in the pocket.

  “Did we come to a conclusion how to deal with the rest?”

  Dalton peered at him with bloodshot eyes. “I’m still undecided.”

  Thomas walked him to the front hall. Masters was there with the door open, and as he’d promised, a carriage was waiting.

  “Is the sun always this bright?” Dalton complained and then placed his hat on his head, the stylishly narrow brim pulled as low as possible over his eyes. “White’s later?”

  Thomas gently nodded in the affirmative, averting his eyes from the glare coming from the open front door.

  “Well then, I’m off.”

  Thomas turned around and dragged himself up the stairs to his room and the lure of a steamy bath. He may not have accomplished the end goal, but at
least he wasn’t meeting the fiancé in the park at dawn with a pistol. That was something.

  Somehow he’d figure out how to fix things with Francesca. He loved her. Surely that would win out.

  And really? Was it always this bright in here?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thomas was undressing with the assistance of his complaining valet, Johnson. His evening clothes were beyond rumpled from having been slept in—on a sofa no less.

  “Well at least I didn’t sleep in the jacket, eh, Johnson?”

  “Small consolation, my lord.” Johnson looked woefully at the wad of white linen he’d just pulled from the jacket pocket. Once upon a time it had resembled a starched-white, perfectly folded cravat. “Oh, your lordship.”

  Thomas eyed his man fingering the smashed folds of the material. “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “No, indeed.” Johnson laid the ruined cravat across the back of a chair, but Thomas noticed a distinct glistening about the man’s eyes.

  The waistcoat came next. “Dear Mary, Mother of God! Is that mustard?” Johnson picked at a yellow stain on the white silk brocade.

  Absurdly, Thomas felt like he should apologize to his employee for the sorry state of his kit. The man was certainly weeping now.

  “Never fear, my man. If it won’t come out, I shall let you pick out another one.” Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s not like he’d killed his dog. Speaking of dogs, where were his? Before he could inquire on the whereabouts of his animals, there was a loud commotion on the landing outside his room. Hadn’t he asked for no disturbingly loud noises? His head was splitting.

  The din grew closer, and he could make out voices but not any words. He had one cuff unbuttoned and his other elbow cocked to undo the other when Christian stormed in with a sputtering butler in his wake.

  “I apologize, my lord,” Masters stammered, slightly out of breath. “He just burst past me when I opened the front door.”

  Thomas eyed his friend. “That’s quite all right, I’ve been expecting him.” He waved, dismissing the butler and his valet. “I can finish up myself, Johnson, while I talk with his grace.”