Passion

by Lisa Valdez

  *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Heaven on Earth

  “I can’t believe you actually bought this huge screen,” Matt said.

  Bright sunshine streamed through Mark’s tall bedroom windows. Already in his formal wedding attire, Matt stood by the tall screen, running his hand over the intricate carving. Mark’s valet, Smith, moved efficiently around the room, tidying up as Mark adjusted his cravat.

  He glanced down at the parure of diamonds and pearls. The set had been in the safe with a selection of other jew­elry that had belonged to past countesses. They would have to do for Charlotte.

  It was tradition for Hawkmore brides to wear the Hawkmore emeralds. But after leaving Passion at the ro­tunda, he had gone to her room and left the emeralds on her dressing table. She was the bride of his heart, and he wanted her to have them.

  His head ached. Early the previous morning, he had watched her leave. Then he had gone to sit in her empty room. He’d sat there for a long time, writing her his first letter. It had been full of regret and sorrow, but he’d needed to put the words on paper. Before leaving, he’d taken her pillows. They were on his bed now.

  “You ready?” Matt asked, crossing to him.

  Mark snapped the velvet jewelry box closed. “No.”

  Matt smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay close and keep you from bolting.” He brushed a speck of lint from Mark’s shoulder and extended his hand toward the door. “On­ward, my brother.”

  Matt stood on Mark’s left as he knocked on the door of Charlotte’s room. A maid opened it and curtsied as his mother came to the door to receive the box.

  Mark extended it to her. “For the bride—a token of my esteem in acknowledgment of this occasion.”

  His mother glanced at the box and frowned. Flipping open the lid, her frown deepened. “Where are the emer­alds?”

  “The emeralds are mine,” he replied. “Where they are or what I do with them is none of your affair.”

  Abigail Lawrence rushed to the door, having heard everything. She looked in the box and her face reddened. She lashed out with the fury of a woman who still be­lieved she had a hold over him. “Where are they? All Hawkmore brides wear the Hawkmore emeralds. People will expect to see them.” She snatched the box from Lucinda’s hands, snapped it closed, and threw it at Mark. “Charlotte will wear the emeralds!”

  Mark’s hands shook at his sides, and he stared at her with a rage that he no longer need contain. Even his mother took a step back.

  But before he could respond with the venom that was upon his tongue, Charlotte appeared behind her mother. Garbed in a flounced gown of white lace, she lifted her chin. “I will wear what my lord gives me and nothing else.”

  Abigail whirled around and threw her finger toward the side of the room. “Get back into the dressing room! You are not to be seen!”

  Charlotte continued forward without looking at her mother. Matt bent and picked up the box.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Charlotte smiled. “In honor of this occasion, I am proud to accept your gift.”

  Mark nodded and removed the necklace from the box. Charlotte turned, and he clasped it around her neck. The scent from the flowers in her hair floated up to him, and he jerked back.

  Charlotte turned with a frown. “What is it, my lord?”

  Mark’s heart raced. “Those are orange blossoms you’re wearing. I want you to remove them.”

  “She will not!” Abigail said.

  “Oh, really,” Lucinda scoffed. “Her hair and her bou­quet are finished.”

  “Off!” Mark growled. “I want them off.”

  Charlotte turned to the maid as she began pulling pins and flowers from her hair. “I believe the rose garden is in bloom. Will you please arrange for some flowers to be cut immediately? Some white, some pink, and plenty of greens.” She gave the orange blossoms to the maid. “You may throw those away.”

  As the maid hurried off, Charlotte turned to him with a smile. “There. That was simple, wasn’t it?”

  She was trying hard to please him.

  “Thank you.” He bowed his head and handed her the box, which still contained the earrings and bracelet.

  She touched the necklace at her throat. “Thank you, my lord. I have never owned anything so fine.”

  Mark nodded. What else could he say to her? “You look lovely.”

  Charlotte smiled and began to speak, but her words were covered by a loud crash from below. Voices rose and then there was another clatter.

  Frowning, Mark and Matt moved to the railing and looked down two floors into the vestibule. Flowers and broken china were strewn across the floor. Mickey Wilkes was trying desperately to convince Cranford of some­thing.

  “What a racket he’s making,” Lucinda said irritably as she joined them.

  Abigail Lawrence glanced down, then paused and frowned.

  Charlotte peered around Mark’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Cranford,” Mark called to the butler. “I’ll see him.”

  Mickey whirled around and, before Mark could even step away from the railing, flipped a newspaper open and held it over his head. “It’s in the papers, milord!” he shouted. “The ‘ole bloody thing’s in the papers!”

  Mark’s heart began to pound in his chest as Mickey raced up the stairs. It was out? What would this mean? Where would it lead?

  Freedom? Passion? His blood rushed and his body tensed.

  Abigail Lawrence looked pale, and a flush was darken­ing his mother’s cheeks.

  Matt gripped Mark’s shoulder and frowned with con­cern. “What the hell is he talking about? Are you in trou­ble?”

  Mark put his hand over Matt’s. “No. I’m not.”

  Charlotte looked confused.

  Mickey skidded around the landing and, gasping for breath, slapped the paper and another folded sheet into Mark’s hands. “I go’ ‘ere as fast as I could, milord. I tol’ ya. I tol’ ya there be somethin’ more.” Mickey shook his head. “I’s a’ways right, I am. A’ways. A gen’leman read me th’ paper on th’ train. An tha’ there be one copy o’ many o’ another let’er. It’s circulat’in, milord, as a scan­dal sheet.”

  But Mark barely heard him, for while he held Matt at arm’s length, his gaze fixed upon the paper. The words blackmail, forced marriage, and to save his brother popped out at him. No names were mentioned, but he was the only “lord of import recently engaged to a com­moner.” It was all innuendo, but it was enough. At the bot­tom of the article it said Original Letter of Incrimination in the Custody of the Editor. What letter? He had burned the letter.

  He opened the other paper.

  “Copies o’ tha’ there be all o’er the streets, milord.”

  February 8,

  Dearest Abigail,

  I am writing to inform you that I am, at last, delivered of my son. I can say “my son” because he is all mine and only mine. He is the child of my choosing and the child of my making. He is handsome and healthy and has his fa­ther’s dark eyes. (And, I do believe, his father’s other re­markable attribute as well!) Heaven forbid, though, that he take too much after him and begin running about with the pruning shears! I can hear you tittering, my dear. But never mind that, I shall raise him up to be a proper lord.

  At this very moment, he is sleeping beside me in his bassinet. My darling Abigail, I cannot convey to you the sensual pleasure it gives me to see my little gardener’s son swaddled in the Hawkmore linens. I consider his birth an unparalleled coup on my part against the injustice of my marriage to George, whom, you know, I never wanted.

  I shall ensure my son has everything his brother has—and more if I can manage it, since he will not have the earl­dom (though even that could fall to him one day). 1 shall place him upon the pedestal of my heart and give him all my love. He will be what my first son is not—all mine. How ironic that I should hate my first son for his legiti­macy and love my second son for his illegitimacy.

  You shall receive a forma
l birth announcement shortly, but as you are the only sister of my secret, I had to write to you immediately and share my triumph.

  Well, my darling, my hungry little boy is crying for his supper, so I’d best go to him. Please write to me of the Chesterfield party. And you must tell me if Lord Harring­ton is still pining after me. I may decide to take him back, as soon as I can shed the maternal mantle that currently en­shrouds me. After all, I am ever so anxious to try out the techniques you informed me of for preventing children—and even more anxious for the act that necessitates such techniques!

  Yours,

  Lucinda

  Post Script: “My son” is christened Matthew Morgan Hawkmore.

  Mark shook with fury. He lifted his eyes to his mother. She stared at him with her hand pressed to her chest.

  “You swore to me that there was only one letter! You bloody swore!”

  “Letter?” Charlotte looked confused. “Is this about the letter?”

  “I don’t know what the hell this is about,” Matt said.

  Abigail jerked around to face her daughter. “What do you know of any letter?”

  “Susan gave me a letter that she found hidden in your room. She said it had to do with the earl, and she told me to read it. But I didn’t. I gave it to him.” Charlotte frowned. “I gave it to him, because I was certain you had kept it for some wicked use against him. And it seems I was right, for some ill news has appeared in the paper.”

  Mark scowled at Abigail. “You, madam, have been re­paid for your foul and reprehensible evil by the servants of your own household,” he sneered. “People who would have been loyal and respectful of you had you shown them any decency have, instead, dealt you a fatal blow.”

  Matt crossed his arms over his chest. “Everyone seems to have pieces of this puzzle but me. What the hell is going on?”

  Mark looked at his brother and his heart constricted. This would be hard news. He turned to Charlotte. “Please excuse us. I shall return to you shortly.” He grabbed Mickey’s shoulder. “Go, I’ll speak with you later.”

  Mark walked with Matt back to his room. Lucinda trailed behind them.

  Once the door closed behind them, Mark faced his brother.

  Matt held his hands out at his sides. “Christ, what the hell is it?” A vague anxiety dimmed his eyes.

  Lucinda glanced apprehensively at Matt but then walked to the windows.

  “Sit down, Matt,” Mark suggested.

  Matt’s frown deepened. “No.” Mark could see his anger mounting. “I don’t want to sit down. I want to know what the bloody hell is going on.”

  Mark looked at the paper and the letter and then at his brother. “I wish you never had to see these, but there can be no keeping them from you.” Slowly and regretfully, he held out both items.

  Matt glanced at them nervously and then snatched them out of Mark’s hand.

  Mark watched his brother’s face move from a mere frown to a tight mask of pain and fury.

  As his eyes reached the bottom of the letter, he closed them. His fist closed around the letter and his jaw clenched. And when his eyes flew open, they were red with rage.

  He fairly leapt at Lucinda. “You bitch!” She threw up her hands as he hurled the paper and the letter at her. “You lying, adulterous, disgusting bitch!”

  He flung up his arm to deliver a backhanded blow, but Mark threw himself between them and grabbed his brother’s arm.

  “I never expected this to get out!” Lucinda cried. “I didn’t even know if Abigail ever received that letter! She never answered it—I thought it had been lost!” She curled her hands around the very arm he had raised against her. “I love you, Matthew. I’ve always loved you.”

  Matt yanked away from both of them and, sweeping up the crumpled letter, held it up. “You don’t love me. I’m just your coup, your triumph over Father, who made the horrible mistake of being too old for you.” He indicated Mark. “Who made the horrible mistake of giving you a fine son. Who made the horrible mistake of loving you and remaining faithful to you while you spat in his face with your affairs.”

  Lucinda lifted her chin. “You know I have always loved you. I know you do.”

  “Yes!” Matt cried. “And I am ashamed of all the times I excused your behavior and let you fawn over me while you slapped Father’s face and treated my brother as if he were anathema.” Matt shook his head. “You loved me for all the wrong reasons—just as you abandoned Mark for all the wrong reasons. Your love is a burden, because it is only for your own selfish, pitiful gratification!” He visibly shook. “I despise your love, and I despise you!”

  She reached for his arm, but he snatched it away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me. And don’t ever darken my door again. You are not welcome at Angels’ Manor, and I shall immediately remove my things from the London house.” His eyes glittered and his voice shook. “For I am not your son. And I do not know you.”

  He turned his back on her.

  Lucinda lifted her chin even higher. She blinked back tears as she crossed the room. With a click, she closed the door behind her.

  The room was silent. Matt stood looking out the win­dows, just as he had earlier. Mark waited for him to speak.

  “You’ve been lying to me,” he said, not moving.

  “Yes.”

  “You would have thrown away your life—given up the woman you loved—to protect me.”

  “Yes.”

  Matt turned, and pain twisted his features. “Why? You didn’t think I was strong enough to bear this?” He stepped on the crumpled letter. “Do you think I would want you to sacrifice yourself for me? Did you ever think about how I would feel if this came out, and I realized you’d given up everything for me? I’d feel like shit, that’s how I’d feel.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Like I do now.”

  Mark nodded, “I did think about it. And I believed you were strong enough. But I worried about your love. I wor­ried that it wouldn’t survive this. And I couldn’t be re­sponsible for taking that away.”

  “Fuck you! Rosalind loves me. She loves me with a love that’s real and true.” His fists clenched at his sides. “Unlike the woman who just left, Rosalind loves me for me, not for what I represent to her. Do you think she would give up our love? Over this?” He ground his heel into the letter. “You’re wrong. Do you hear me? You’re wrong.”

  Mark’s chest tightened painfully. “I hope I am.”

  Matt swayed on his feet and dropped into Mark’s read­ing chair.

  “Christ,” he murmured. “Everything makes complete and terrible sense now.” He raised his red eyes to Mark. “How you must have hated all those damned lectures I gave you.”

  Mark frowned. “They were difficult. But most of what you said was right. Truth has a way of rising to the sur­face, even from a bed of lies.”

  Matt shook his head, and a sour smile turned his lips. “And there I sat offering to stud your heirs. I’m surprised you were able to stomach that, my brother.” He looked at Mark and his eyes filled with moisture. “May I still call you my brother?”

  “You are my brother, and you shall always be my brother. And if this day brings the end my heart prays for, I shall gladly petition to bequeath my title and lands to your heirs.”

  Matt’s lips turned in the smallest of smiles. “Forgive me for keeping you. Go to Passion and take back your happiness.”

  Mark trembled at the thought. But he didn’t dare dwell upon it for too long. “First I must go to Charlotte.”

  Matt nodded. “Go then. I will sit here and try to figure out who I am.”

  Mark gripped his shoulder. “You are nothing less than you have always been. You are a man of honor and nobility. You are Matthew Morgan Hawkmore. You are my brother.”

  Matt raised his eyes to him. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you tried to do. But never do anything like that again.”

  Mark tightened his fingers on his brother’s shoulder. “I love you, Matt.”

  Matt’s eyes dr
opped closed. “I love you, too.”

  Mark turned and made for the door. He paused and looked back. Matt had rested his forehead in his hand. “Is there anything I can get you—anything you need?”

  Matt lowered his hand. His face was wet. “I—I need Rosalind.”

  Mark nodded. “I’ll have her summoned.”

  He paused. He shouldn’t leave.

  “Go,” Matt ordered. “Go, and bring Passion back here, so we can have a proper wedding.”

  Mark’s heart raced and he hurried out the door. Lucinda waylaid him as he strode to Charlotte’s room.

  “Go, forward with the marriage,” she urged, her voice frantic. “If you don’t, it will throw everything into ques­tion. You can still save Matthew.”

  “You mean I can still save you.” God, she was insuf­ferable. “But that’s impossible, Mother. You have de­stroyed yourself. When you had the thoughtless, unmitigated gall to put those sickening words on paper, you chanced that the world would discover what a beast you are. Now they have.”

  Her face contorted into a vicious snarl. “Go through with it, or I’ll make sure you don’t get the commission for the library.” Her eyes narrowed. “Lord Fitzgerald has a particular fondness for me.”

  Mark looked at her and felt only disgust. “Go ahead. Do what you will. I’m sure once Fitzgerald gets wind of your letter, he’ll be positively rampant with desire for you.”

  Lucinda paled.

  Mark turned from her. “You’re finished, Mother.”

  She did not follow as he continued on to Charlotte’s room.

  He found the door ajar, so he pushed it open. “Miss Lawrence?”

  “I am here, my lord. Please come in.”

  Mark entered to find Abigail sitting stiffly in a chair. Charlotte stood before a long mirror, staring at her reflec­tion.

  “My mother has explained everything to me, my lord. She revealed her whole vile plot.”

  Abigail leapt to her feet and spoke to her daughter’s back. “You don’t understand what I am trying to save you from. You don’t understand what it’s like to never be quite good enough—what it’s like to have enough money but not enough breeding to be accepted into the best of soci­ety. I was only trying to save you. We would have had it all. We would have been untouchable.”