Marrying the American Heiress: A Victorian Historical Romance (Brides of Scandal Book 2)

by Diana Bold

  Michael cleared his throat self-consciously. “I think it will be bearable.”

  “Bearable?” Dylan gave him a piercing look, then shook his head. “I’d say you like your lovely little American wife a hell of a lot more than you’re willing to let on.”

  Michael shrugged with deliberate casualness, uncomfortable with the entire discussion. “I never said I didn’t like her.”

  Dylan laughed. “Well, I hope she manages to thaw that cold heart of yours. I’d like nothing more than to see you find even a taste of what I’ve found with Natalia.”

  “Ah. It’s like that, is it?” Michael returned his brother’s searching stare and was pleased to realize that at long last, Dylan appeared content. Something seemed to be bothering him, true, but beneath it, there was a new ease with the world and his place in it.

  Dylan had obviously found that elusive thing called love and was a better man for it.

  “I’m happier than I ever thought possible,” Dylan agreed. “But I didn’t come here to talk about our beautiful brides.”

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment, and Dylan’s smile faded. Rising, he strode to the sideboard and poured them both a healthy shot of brandy.

  Michael watched him, then refused when Dylan offer him a glass. “It’s a little early for this, isn’t it?”

  Dylan shook his head grimly. “Trust me. You’re going to need it once you hear what I have to say.”

  Michael took the brandy, his apprehension building. Dylan sat down again, drained his glass, then took another drink straight from the bottle.

  “I hardly know where to begin.” Dylan wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his gray eyes troubled. “No matter how I phrase it, this is going to hurt you. Probably far more than it hurt me.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Dylan. Quit trying to prepare me and just say whatever it is you have to say.” Michael took a bracing sip of his own drink, his brother’s warnings and manner striking unreasonable fear into his heart.

  Dylan took a deep breath. “I know why the earl didn’t want me to find out that Grandfather left me Aldabaran.”

  Michael let out an inward sigh of relief. Apparently, this was just another battle in the war that had been brewing between Dylan and their father since Dylan had been old enough to talk.

  “It had nothing to do with the money, as we originally believed,” Dylan continued. “He simply didn’t want me to go back there. Ever. He must have feared what I’d remember if I did.”

  “What are you talking about?” Michael’s unease came back in a rush. Damn Dylan and his circular manner of storytelling. He’d never been able to just get to the point.

  Dylan took another drink of brandy. “He didn’t want me to remember the fight he and our mother had on the night of her death. He didn’t want me to remember I’d found out he wasn’t really my father.” Dylan paused and met Michael’s gaze levelly. “He didn’t want me to remember I had seen him push her to her death.”

  Pain exploded somewhere deep inside Michael. He struggled to absorb his brother’s words. It was too much to take in all at once, so he focused on the most important part. “Are you telling me she didn’t kill herself? That he murdered her, in cold blood?”

  Dylan nodded solemnly. “I witnessed the entire argument, then I followed them outside when she tried to escape.”

  For a moment, Dylan seemed lost in the past, his pale eyes distant. Then he visibly shook himself. “After I saw him push her, I ran. I found an old smuggler’s cave to hide in. It took Patrick Macpherson, my real father, more than three days to find me. When he finally did, I was half frozen, nearly paralyzed with fear. I wouldn’t tell him what had happened. I guess I somehow managed to block it out.”

  Patrick Macpherson was his mother’s Scottish groom. Michael hardly remembered the man, because his father had only allowed him to go to Scotland a few times.

  Michael pressed his hand to his throbbing temple, sickened. It all made sense now. Fiona had loved Dylan more because he was her lover’s son.

  How very tawdry it all sounded.

  No wonder Dylan had been so quiet and shaken when he’d finally returned to London after his mother’s death. He’d been a mere baby, just seven years old.

  Still, Michael couldn’t stop himself from questioning his brother’s outlandish tale. “Are you quite certain? Surely, you know the consequences of making such an accusation.”

  Dylan’s handsome face contorted with pain and anger. “Bloody hell, Michael. Would you stop worrying about the consequences? I just told you that your father is a murderer. He killed our mother! Can’t you stop worrying about how this will affect the family’s reputation for just a moment and think about how this affects you?”

  Michael stared at his brother, stunned and disbelieving. He didn’t want to think about what this meant to him. Despite their differences, he loved his father desperately.

  How could this be true?

  Deep down, he knew his father was a selfish, unreasonable bastard. Obviously, it hadn’t been enough to kill Fiona. He’d continued to take his fury out on Dylan on a daily basis when the two brothers were children.

  Dylan, who had always been entirely blameless. An innocent child.

  “What are you going to do about this?” Michael asked, amazed to hear how calm he sounded.

  Dylan shrugged. “I’ve struggled with the answer to that for the past month. My first impulse, of course, was to come back here and kill the son of a bitch.”

  At Michael’s sharp intake of breath, Dylan laughed bitterly. “You needn’t worry. That’s not why I’m here. Natalia talked me out of such insanity. She reminded me how very much I have to lose.”

  “That’s good,” Michael replied, relieved. He didn’t want Dylan to pay for the crime that his father had committed. “But if you’ve known this long, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I wanted to, but Natalia convinced me I should wait. There’ll be a horrific scandal when the truth comes out, and we didn’t want to jeopardize your chances of winning Miss Marks.”

  “Scandal.” The word sounded foreign on Michael’s tongue. He’d never been involved in a scandal, except indirectly through Dylan. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “That’s up to you.” Dylan ran his hand through his dark hair as he always did when he was nervous or upset. “I decided to let you deal with it. This will affect you far more than it does me. I don’t want to ruin your life. I just thought you should know.”

  Shocked, Michael stared at his brother. “You aren’t going to demand retribution? You aren’t going to insist he be prosecuted for his crimes?”

  “I have everything I need in Scotland. I’m happy. For the first time in my life. Despite the renewed grief I’ve felt over Mother’s loss, I’ve been quite pleased to find out that Patrick is my father. He’s been very good to me.” Dylan cleared his throat, obviously overwhelmed by emotion. “It took me a while to realize it, but that’s enough. I don’t need to see that old bastard pay in order to be happy. Natalia taught me that.”

  “So, you’re leaving it up to me?” Michael still couldn’t believe it.

  Dylan got out of his chair and squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “You’re the most honorable man I know, Michael. I’m certain you’ll do what’s right.”

  * * *

  “I’m certain you’ll do what’s right.”

  Dylan’s words haunted Michael long after his brother and the rest of their guests had departed. Still overwhelmed by the scope of his brother’s revelations, Michael felt lost, adrift.

  Unable to bear his wife’s sweet concern, he told Emma he had things to do and returned to the library. Once there, he picked up the decanter of brandy his brother had started and finished it off.

  My entire life has been built on a lie.

  How could he go on? How could he pretend nothing was wrong after learning his father had committed such a horrific crime?

  At the very least, the Earl of Warren des
erved to rot in Newgate for what he’d done.

  Yet Michael knew once he stepped forward, once he told anyone what he knew, his life—as he knew it—would be over. The scandal would be horrific. He could never again hold his head up in public. His old distinguished name would become worthless.

  He had a wife to consider now. Any scandal that touched him would touch her.

  Not that Emma seemed the type to be overly concerned by scandal. She’d created quite a few of them on her own.

  Still, the task that lay ahead of him seemed overwhelming. Where should he begin?

  He had to confront his father, of course. He wanted to look into the old bastard’s eyes and assure himself Dylan was telling the truth.

  Unfortunately, he already knew Dylan hadn’t lied.

  It made an awful kind of sense. It made so many missing pieces of his childhood fall into place. Dylan wasn’t the only one who’d been shattered by their mother’s death.

  Michael remembered the day his father had called him in to the library and told him his mother wouldn’t be coming home. Warren had told him he mustn’t cry. He was far too old, at the age of eleven, to need a mother anyway.

  Michael had nodded and left the room. He hadn’t cried. But his mother’s death had broken him somehow. Made him into the cold unfeeling man he knew himself to be.

  Somehow, like Dylan, Michael had forced himself to forget it. But instead of forgetting all the bad things, Michael had forgotten all the good.

  He’d forgotten the way his mother had crept into his room at night, telling him stories and stroking his hair until he fell asleep. He’d forgotten her laughter and gentle kisses.

  How could he have convinced himself she didn’t love him?

  She’d told him she did at every possible opportunity. And now he understood why she’d had to get away, why she’d left him periodically, even though it must’ve killed her to do so.

  No doubt, she’d found solace and comfort in Patrick Macpherson’s arms. A loving haven against her husband’s cruelty.

  Michael fought his anger and grief, unwilling to give into them, unwilling to let himself feel all the things that raced through his mind.

  It was a battle he already knew he wouldn’t win.

  * * *

  He isn’t coming.

  Emma sat before the burning embers that had once been a roaring fire and forced herself to face the fact that her husband had abandoned her on their wedding night. Feeling like a fool, she plucked moodily at the sleeve of the virginal white satin and lace nightgown that had been a wedding present from Jane.

  She’d been breathless with excitement when she’d put it on just a few hours ago, trembling at the thought of Michael slowly taking off. Now it appeared ever more unlikely that such a thing would happen.

  Of course, she’d known Michael wasn’t as thrilled by their marriage as she was. He still considered it his duty. A means to an end. A way to save Sherbourne Hall. But during the last few weeks, she’d thought he’d grown to care for her. At least a little.

  Besides, from everything she’d seen and heard during her rather unconventional life, she’d long ago come to the conclusion that no man ever passed up freely offered sex.

  And it was his duty, by God! He had a line to procreate, an heir to sire. How distasteful she must be, to make a man like Michael forsake his duty.

  Frowning, she stood and headed for the door. No matter his reasons, she deserved an explanation. There was no excuse for this sort of behavior, and she’d be damned if she’d put up with it!

  Halfway to the door, she paused. If she went to him, gave him a piece of her mind about his duty, he was bound to think she wanted him to come to her tonight. He’d see her disappointment and realize how much his rejection had hurt her.

  Had he hurt her?

  With a deep sigh, she threw herself across the big bed. Burying her face against the satin counterpane, she forced herself to admit the truth.

  She was hurt. She was disappointed.

  She’d expected him to do and say all the right things. She’s expected him to initiate her into the ways of lovemaking with such tender thoroughness it took her breath away.

  After all, that was one of the advantages of marrying a man who was absolutely perfect.

  Instead, he’d chosen the most important night of her life to do the unexpected, to break the rules and confound her expectations. Which didn’t say much for the future of their marriage.

  Perhaps she should just get out now while she still could.

  The thought caught hold and spun through her mind in relentless circles. Why should she stay in a marriage that would only lead to heartbreak?

  Michael had chosen not to consummate their vows. In doing so, he’d given her grounds for an annulment.

  It would serve him right if she walked away.

  The mere thought splintered something deep inside her heart, but she suppressed the tears that sprang to her eyes. She refused to allow herself to believe the damage had already been done.

  He would not break her heart. She wouldn’t let him.

  She’d take her dowry and continue to explore the world. Perhaps, in time, she’d find someone else to accompany her. Someone who longed for adventure and excitement as much as she. Someone who wasn’t afraid to reach for happiness and hold on tight.

  Michael could face the consequences of tonight’s actions—the whispers, the gossip, the scandal of her defection—by himself.

  As for her father, she hated to hurt him, hated to disappoint him, but during the last week, she’d come to understand he’d never cared if she married well. All he’d ever wanted was to see her happy.

  Decision made, she extinguished the light and crawled beneath the covers, determined that this would be the last night she spent in this bed. Tomorrow morning, she’d inform Michael that one night of marriage had been more than enough.

  Michael Blake had picked the wrong woman to shun. Let him look elsewhere for the money he needed to save his precious estate.

  She was taking her fortune with her when she left.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma waited all morning for the opportunity to sever her relationship with her husband. But as the day wore on, it became quite clear that if she wanted to speak to Michael, she would have to search him out. He obviously had no intention of coming to her.

  She couldn’t rid herself of a sinking feeling that somewhere, deep in her heart, she’d hoped he’d apologize for his behavior. She’d hoped he’d come to her, kiss her in his soft sweet way, and offer some plausible excuse for abandoning her on their wedding night.

  When dinner came and went, and she still hadn’t heard from him, her fury mounted to a fever pitch. Had he left her here? Had he gone back to London without even telling her goodbye?

  What had she done to deserve such treatment? Less than forty-eight hours ago, he’d held her in his arms and told her how much he wanted her. Had it all been an act, a farce to get his hands on her dowry? Had he never really felt anything for her at all?

  The servants probably knew where he’d been hiding, but pride kept her from asking them. How humiliating, not to know where her own husband had gone.

  Finally, unable to stand the suspense any longer, she asked her personal maid to find out what Michael had been doing all day.

  The maid disappeared for an interminable time. When she returned, she had the strangest news. Apparently, after their guests had gone the previous afternoon, Michael had closeted himself in the library and started drinking himself into oblivion.

  Emma couldn’t believe such a thing of the Michael she’d come to know. He wasn’t the type to drown his problems with alcohol.

  The more she thought about it, the more her anger became diluted by confusion. She had to see him. She had to find out what happened.

  She made her way through the darkened house. Silently, she let herself into the library. Just inside the door, she stood and stared at her husband with mounting concern.

&
nbsp; Someone had lit a fire in the grate and the flickering flames outlined the desolation of his beautiful face. An untouched dinner tray sat on the table beside him, along with an empty bottle of brandy. A fresh bottle hung between his long elegant fingers, and he lifted it to his lips as he stared into the flame.

  “Michael?”

  He flinched at the sound of her voice. His blue eyes flashed with pain and anger. He flung the bottle aside, and it shattered against the stone fireplace. The sudden noise and violence seemed doubly loud, given the preceding silence.

  “What the hell are you doing here? I gave explicit instructions that I was not to be disturbed.”

  Unwilling to let his anger deter her, she moved farther into the room. “We need to talk.”

  He turned away. “Go away, Emma. I don’t want you here.”

  That hurt, but she kept on, crossing the room until she stood in front of him then knelt between his knees and forced him to meet her gaze. “Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

  She placed her hands on his thighs and looked at him, trying to see what lay beyond his shattered blue gaze. What on earth could have happened to make him lose control so completely?

  He flinched at her touch. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “This has nothing to do with you. Can’t you just leave it at that?”

  “Of course, I can’t. What a silly question. You’re my husband, and you’re obviously hurting. What kind of a wife would I be if I just let you sit here and brood in the dark, alone?”

  “The kind of wife who knows I only married her for her dowry!”

  She sat back, stunned and hurt. Quick on the heels of her pain came the realization of how terribly rude he’d just been. Michael Blake was too well-bred to be so rude.

  Something had to be very wrong.

  Squaring her shoulders, she met his simmering gaze. “Maybe I’m the kind of wife who wants to make you want me for more than my money. Please, Michael, if we’re ever going to have any kind of marriage at all, you’ve got to tell me what’s wrong.”