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by Jo Beverley

  “His pet?” David swallowed. He would not shout at the old woman. “And so he disowned his pet and left her in an inn yard with her dying husband?”

  Lady Wordham gaped at him. “What? What do you mean?”

  What did she mean? This odd act was most distasteful. “You must know Lord Wordham tracked my parents to an inn.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And that he was dragging my mother away when my father came back from the village.”

  “I don’t believe he was dragging Harriet anywhere…”

  “When my father tried to defend my mother, he tripped and hit his head on a rock. He died after your husband left.”

  Lady Wordham frowned at him, anger clear in her eyes. “Who told you that? Surely not your other grandparents?”

  “They did…” Or had they? Had he actually heard that story from Grandda or Grandmamma? He’d grown up with it, but he might have heard it from Alex or even one of the villagers. Now that he thought about it, neither of his grandparents had talked much about his father’s death. Grandmamma had told him wonderful tales about how beautiful and spirited his mother was and how clever and bright his father was, but had she actually told him what had happened at the inn and what Lord Wordham had or hadn’t done?

  “No, I’m not certain…I don’t know where I heard that story. But if it isn’t true, why didn’t my mother go home to you? Why did she come to my father’s parents? And why didn’t you come to her funeral or ever visit or write me?”

  Damn. He sat back and took a breath. He sounded much too emotional.

  “I said Harriet was strong-willed and stubborn, and I’ve admitted my husband was as well.” Lady Wordham shook her head. “I don’t know exactly what did happen, only that when Harold came home, he was a broken man. He told me Harriet had disowned him—disowned us—that she’d said she wanted nothing more to do with us, that she held us responsible for your father’s death. And he felt responsible. No, he hadn’t laid a hand on the boy, but he knew if he hadn’t pursued them, Luke would not have fallen and died.”

  It was exactly what he’d thought, too, but now it seemed slightly unfair. If he ever had a daughter—he and Grace—he would damn well pursue her if she ran off with some man.

  “I do know Harold stayed away a week,” Lady Wordham said. “He told me he stayed near Harriet—she wouldn’t let him stay with her—until your parents arrived to take her and your father’s body to Riverview.”

  “All right, I suppose I believe that. At this point it is only hearsay.”

  “As is the story that Harold deserted Harriet.”

  “True.” He could stop now—he should stop now. A portion—a large portion—of the wound had been healed; he could part on cordial terms with Lady Wordham. But if Grace were here, she would not let him stop; he knew it. She would insist he try to heal the whole wound. And she would be right.

  “But why did you not come to my mother’s funeral?” He gripped his hands tightly together. “Why did you never come see me?”

  “I wanted to; dear God, I wanted to.” Lady Wordham reached forward as if to touch him, but stopped herself and dropped her hand back into her lap. “Emotions were raw then, Dav—Lord Dawson. I believe your grandparents did blame Harold for causing their son’s death and, as I said, we agreed they had some basis for that belief. And Harold and I—well, if your father had not gone off with Harriet, none of it would have happened. She would not have died, either.”

  David opened his mouth. How dare she lay any blame on his father?

  She rushed on. “Even though we knew Harriet was equally at fault—we never thought your father had taken her against her will. But we were not totally rational at the time.” She leaned forward again. “Can you understand at all, Lord Dawson? Can you imagine having a daughter, having her run away, having…”

  Lady Wordham used her handkerchief again.

  Yes, the damnable thing was he could imagine it—now that he had met Grace, he could imagine it very clearly.

  “As to why we did not visit you, we never felt we would be welcome. And we could understand that, too. Your grandfather had lost his son; you were now his heir. You needed to be at Riverview to learn to manage the estate. You were happy—we did ascertain that.”

  She paused and took a shuddery breath, glancing at him and then down to her lap where her fingers twisted in her skirt. They were so thin and fragile looking.

  She spoke very softly, her voice fragile as well.

  “Now, with Harold gone…I just had to see you. Ask you to forgive me; see if we could…We’ve both lost people special to us…”

  She was right. She’d lost a daughter and a husband; he’d lost parents and grandparents. What would be served by refusing to recognize that fact?

  He still had one grandparent left.

  He felt a burden shift, lighten. He smiled. “Well, Grandmother…should I call you Grandmother? I’m afraid I’ve already had a Grandmamma, but—”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, please. I would love it if you would—”

  His grandmother dissolved into tears. He hesitated a moment, then sat down beside her and gathered her into his arms.

  Grace sat on the window seat in her room and stared out at the wet lawn. A very tall figure with a short, moppy dog came into view. She smiled. Was that Mr. Wilton with Hermes? They made a very odd pair.

  Hermes took off across the grass after a squirrel. He chased it up a tree, barked vociferously for a few minutes, and then trotted back to Mr. Wilton.

  Aunt Kate should be with them. Why wasn’t she? Was she still feeling poorly?

  What was the matter with her? She’d been an early riser when they’d first got to London; now she didn’t get out of bed until almost noon and more times than not greeted the day clutching a basin, her stomach sadly unsettled.

  She must be ill. She should see a doctor, yet when Grace had suggested as much, she’d turned very pale and had refused, insisting it wasn’t necessary.

  What could Grace do? She’d been so certain the problem was somehow connected to Mr. Wilton. She’d thought once she got the two of them in the same place, everything would be resolved, but so far that plan hadn’t worked. Aunt Kate was still not in plump currant. Mr. Wilton must have had nothing to do with the problem.

  Well, they had only been here a short while. She might be too impatient. She needed to give it time—but not too much time. If Aunt Kate were not better by the house party’s end, Grace was going to insist a doctor be called. She would go and fetch one herself, if need be.

  Mr. Wilton and Hermes had moved out of sight. She should go downstairs. She would like to go for a walk herself, but it was too damp. She was not as intrepid as Lord Dawson’s uncle. Well, and the rain was starting to come down harder now.

  She would go out later, when the weather had cleared. Perhaps she would look for Lady Kilgorn. How tragic that she and her husband had been estranged so long. They had married very young…had they wed for love or for duty?

  Hmm. Thinking of estrangement, had Lord Dawson met with Lady Wordham yet? She hoped so. It was wrong to maintain such enmity for so many years. Perhaps the sin had been great, but it had happened over thirty years ago. And Lady Wordham was old and frail—she didn’t have many more years left to her. It was time to find a way to forgive.

  It was time for Papa to forgive, too.

  Mr. Wilton and Hermes came back into view, moving at a brisker pace. She grinned. Perhaps the man was not that intrepid.

  She should go downstairs. She would, in just a minute.

  Could Papa forgive the Wiltons? He was not the forgiving sort, but maybe he could find enough charity to accept Aunt Kate marrying Mr. Wilton. If Mr. Wilton would bring Aunt Kate pleasure in her declining years, surely Papa would not begrudge her that comfort? He knew the Weasel would not take good care of her.

  And if Papa would not object to Aunt Kate marrying a Wilton, how would he feel about…

  No. She would not consider it. Her situation
was nothing like Aunt Kate’s. Aunt Kate was Papa’s widowed sister; she was Papa’s only child. It had been just the two of them for so long—as long as she could remember. Much as he might bluster, much as he might drive her to distraction—to anger, even—she loved him. She could not marry his enemy. She could not leave him all alone.

  John Parker-Roth would make a fine husband. She liked him well enough. He was intelligent, even interesting if one were interested in plants. His family was very congenial, though his mother’s paintings were a bit…It wasn’t as though Mrs. Parker-Roth hung her artwork throughout the house. As long as Grace avoided her studio, she could avoid embarrassment.

  And once they were married…

  Perhaps John was merely reticent. Once they were married, surely he would…After all, he was a man. He had a mistress. He must know how marital relations were conducted. Surely he would be able to perform adequately. Perhaps he was even more skilled than David in the amorous arts.

  She closed her eyes and rested her head against the window glass.

  No. It had been one thing to consider marriage dispassionately when she had never experienced passion, but now…

  Last night on the terrace had been wonderful—the solid strength of David’s arms surrounding her, the hard security of his chest, the touch of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. He’d made her feel sensations she’d never felt before—and not just physical sensations.

  Men might find women interchangeable, but she was not a man. And David had not made her feel interchangeable. He’d made her feel loved—not just wanted, not just lusted after, but loved. She’d never felt so cared for, so valued, so cherished before.

  Tears leaked out and ran down her cheeks as the rain ran down the window glass.

  Dear God, what was she going to do?

  Chapter 16

  Kate looked out her bedroom window and saw Alex and Hermes walking across the lawn—Alex so tall and straight, his long legs eating up the ground, Hermes scurrying to keep up.

  She leaned forward. She loved watching Alex. As silly as it was to say it, her heart leapt whenever she saw him. She felt a thrill, a surge of pleasure and happiness…until she thought about what she had to tell him.

  She closed her eyes briefly. How was she going to tell him?

  She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She saw a squirrel run past Hermes; the demented dog took off after it, barking wildly. The squirrel scampered up a tree trunk and high into the branches, yet Hermes still barked at it. She smiled slightly. What went through that little canine head?

  Her eyes traveled back to Alex where he stood watching Hermes. He had such broad shoulders and such small, tight a—

  She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. Where had that thought come from?

  Still, it was true—Alex might be forty-five, but he carried himself with the vigor of a man half his age.

  He did other things with youthful vigor as well—

  Her cheeks were burning again. She turned away from the window.

  It was kind of Alex to take Hermes out. She had been indisposed again or she would have braved the wet to go with him.

  Perhaps.

  If she’d gone with him, she should have felt compelled to tell him…

  She pressed her hand to her lips. The thought made her stomach twist.

  When would this nausea end? Surely she would not be condemned to spend nine months worshiping at the basin every morning. Didn’t most women feel better once the first few weeks were past?

  She stood sideways in front of the looking glass once again, spreading her hands over her stomach. Was there a slight bulge there?

  No, it was her imagination. Her stomach was just as flat as always…for now. But eventually…perhaps soon…

  She had to tell Alex. This wasn’t a secret she could keep for long.

  She went back to the window. Alex and Hermes were out of sight.

  Would Alex get angry when she told him? Standen certainly would, and she would have to tell him, too. She didn’t relish listening to him bellow at her, but the thought didn’t twist her heart the way the thought of Alex’s anger did.

  She sat down heavily on the window seat. Alex had good reason to be angry. She had tricked him, though not intentionally. But he already doubted her veracity. More than doubted—he was certain she was a liar. He’d spent all these years thinking she’d been engaged to Oxbury when she’d gone with him into Alvord’s garden. She hadn’t been, of course. Standen had made that deal behind her back. She hadn’t even seen the announcement in The Morning Post—her brother had bundled her into the carriage for home long before the paper came out. She didn’t discover she was engaged until Reverend Posten read the banns at church the next Sunday. She’d almost fallen out of her pew.

  But Alex thought she had tricked him—and now she had to tell him she had tricked him again—that he was going to be a father when she’d promised him she was barren.

  She smoothed her skirt over her lap. What would he do when she told him? Would he wash his hands of her—or would he ask her to marry him?

  He might propose. He was honorable, chivalrous. He’d mentioned marriage that night at Oxbury House.

  So what would she answer if he did ask?

  She didn’t know. She’d imagined the scene too many times to count since she’d realized she was increasing. Sometimes she was brave and told him no. He should not be penalized for her mistake. But other times she was a coward and said yes. The thought of being pregnant and unwed was terrifying. She would be cut by society, and her child would be a bastard, always living on the fringes of the polite world.

  Her palms were clammy; her breath came in short gasps—

  She must not panic. She forced herself to inhale and exhale slowly. She would talk to Alex. Soon. She could not put it off much longer.

  She would need somewhere private. Once she finally mustered her courage, she would not wish to be interrupted. An isolated spot somewhere on Lord Motton’s estate might serve, but she would have to first persuade Alex to go with her. And she would have to wait for a sunny day; today was far too damp…

  She was procrastinating again. It might well rain all week and then where would she be? Heading back to London without having discussed the issue with Alex at all.

  Surely there was some place in this very large house where she and Alex could be assured uninterrupted privacy.

  Her eyes went directly to the door by her bureau. It connected her room with Alex’s. She’d assumed it was locked. Was it?

  Alex was still out with Hermes. This would be the perfect time to find out.

  She put her hand on the knob, turned, and pushed carefully. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Holding her breath, she peered inside.

  “Aunt Kate—”

  “Eek!” Kate banged her head against the doorjamb.

  “Oh, dear. Are you all right?” Grace hurried toward her from the hall while Kate slammed the connecting door closed and stepped away from it. She did not want Grace speculating about that other room—or, more precisely, the room’s occupant.

  “I’m fine. You just startled me.” Kate steadied her voice. “Did you want something?”

  Grace frowned at the door, a puzzled expression in her eyes, but then shrugged and turned to Kate. “I came to see if you wished to go downstairs.” She smiled slightly. “I found I was getting tired of my own company.”

  Kate forced herself to smile as well. “How fortunate, because I, too, am tired of my own company. Shall we go downstairs and see what mischief Miss Smyth’s monkey has got into?”

  Grace laughed. “Or what outrageous things her parrot has said?”

  “Yes.” Kate took Grace’s arm. “Miss Smyth’s pets do enliven the party, don’t they?”

  She would go downstairs now, but tonight…Tonight she was going to open that connecting door.

  “So what do you think I should do, Hermes?”

  Hermes tilted his head as if giving the qu
estion careful thought and then barked enthusiastically.

  Alex nodded. “Yes, I think I agree. I must take the issue up with Kate as soon as possible. Today. Tonight at the latest.”

  Hermes wagged his tail and then took off after a squirrel.

  If only his life were so simple. Well, he didn’t really wish to be a dog—at least not a silly little lapdog like Hermes—but he did wish things were less complicated.

  He should not have accepted Kate’s invitation to come to her bed. He’d known it was wrong at the time. He should have stayed home with David, had a glass of brandy in the study, and gone up to bed early. His own bed.

  But, damn, it had been good. So good. Even now, standing in the damp, in the middle of Motton’s lawn, he could get lost in the memory.

  He closed his eyes and saw her again—as he’d seen her every single night since he’d scrambled out that damn window at Oxbury House. It was a wonder he ever got any sleep; he’d been reduced to relieving his…tension the way he’d done it as a boy, with his hand. It was that or lie stiff, hard, and sleepless all night.

  He felt himself growing hard now. How could he not? She’d been so beautiful—hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, her lovely small breasts almost glowing in the candlelight, their sweet nipples taunting him. And her graceful waist, her flat belly with its delicate navel, the sweet nest of curls between her lovely, white thighs…

  And the feel of her…her hair, like silk; her skin, like rose petals. Her breasts fit the palms of his hands perfectly, her nipples pebbling so sweetly when his fingers…and then his lips…brushed them.

  She’d grown hot and damp at his touch. Her scent had surrounded him. Her mouth had tasted like heaven, and when he’d come inside her…

  He’d dreamed of her, of being with her—in her—for twenty-three years. Even when he’d tried not to, when he’d told himself she was married to Oxbury, she would never be his, still his dreams took him to her bed.