by Diana Quincy
“From the moment I laid eyes on you, I have loved you as my own.”
He closed his eyes against the stunning physical pain ravaging his body. “You did not give birth to me.”
Her answer came in a soft voice, infused with tenderness. “You are not of my body, but you have always been the son of my heart.”
He searched her face, unable to put a name to the agony rippling through him. “Cyrus was my father in truth?”
She dipped her chin in answer. “You have his blood.”
“How can it be?”
She stood and went across the room, and then she was back pressing a glass of water into his hands. “Drink, and I will explain everything.”
He obeyed, the boy in him responding to the brisk, no-nonsense mother in her. He brought the glass to his lips, almost choking on the cool water. When he finished, she took the glass, the swishing whisper of her skirts telling him she’d moved away again. Elbows braced on his thighs, Sebastian looked blindly down at the carpet and fought for breath, mindlessly eyeing the swirling designs between his boots.
Matilda told her story in deliberate, even tones. Of how Cyrus Stanhope had married her, a young girl of good standing, not for love, but because of the generous dowry she brought to the alliance. Cyrus, it seemed, had not always been pious and had taken mistresses in the early years of their marriage. But Maria Teresa Alvarez was different. Cyrus met the young daughter of a Spanish nobleman during his grand tour and had instantly fallen in love. They parted because she was already promised to her first cousin, the Count of Vallado. They renewed their acquaintance years later, when the Count and his wife visited London on a diplomatic mission. Sebastian appeared nine months after that trip, once the couple had returned to Spain.
Sebastian finally raised his head to look at the woman who was no longer his mother, who had never been. “What happened to the woman who gave birth to me?”
“She died in childbirth. The count knew you were not his. He told his acquaintances you had perished along with your mother.”
“How did I come to be in England?”
“Although he was your legal father, Vallado intended to foster you out to a family in the Spanish countryside. I could not allow that.”
His throat closed. How she must have suffered because of him. “How did you bear it when Cyrus asked you to raise his bastard?”
“He did not ask. I insisted. You were just a babe, alone in the world without a mother to protect and care for you. It was our duty to do right by you.”
Shame burned in his chest. “How you must have detested me, day after day, having to face the evidence of a faithless husband.”
Her eyes went shiny with emotion. “You took hold of my heart the moment your nursemaid put you in my arms.” She smiled at the memory. “You had a head full of dark hair, and you looked at me with those green eyes that are so like your brothers’. From that moment, you were mine, and you still are.”
He pushed heavily to his feet, feeling as though he dragged a parcel of rocks with him. “Why did my father hate me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand his question. “Cyrus did not hate you, but it was”— she paused as if searching for the right words— “difficult for him to be reminded of his moral failure.”
“Difficult?” He choked out an acid laugh. “For him?”
“You were such a gift to us, for our family. Your sterling character and constancy helped steady all of your brothers, then as now.” She placed a hand on his arm. “After you came to be with us, your father changed his ways. I never heard of him taking another mistress. We came to have a genuine care for one another.” Which is how Sebastian remembered his mother and father, with a true affection between them.
His understanding of the world shifted, battering his senses. He looked at Matilda and really saw her for the first time in as long as he could remember. Certainly since that long-ago day when he’d concluded his mother was a whore. She stood erect and proud, her form still slim and dainty, hands clasped in front of her. To him, she had always been a jezebel masquerading as an angel. Only now, he knew it had never been so. Matilda Stanhope was the embodiment of goodness.
He walked to the woman who had been his true mother and knelt before her. He took each of her hands, soft with the comfortable wrinkles of age, and brought them to his lips, first one and then the other.
“Forgive me, madam, for I have aggrieved you most terribly. Of all of the actors in this sordid drama, only you have acted with true honor and moral rectitude.”
She urged him to his feet and brought his hand to her softly weathered cheek. “It was no trial. You have always been so easy to love.”
“You deserve a more dutiful and attentive son than I.”
“I have him,” she said in a certain tone. “No mother could wish for a finer son. You have always made me most proud.”
Feeling swelled painfully in his chest. For the first time since he was a boy, he allowed his mother to take him into her arms and comfort him while he cried.
Chapter Sixteen
Bella sat at her new desk unsuccessfully attempting to concentrate on estate business. Sebastian had been gone all night. A note she’d sent around to Matilda the previous evening confirmed he’d left his mother in the late afternoon. So many hours ago. Where could he be?
Davison appeared on the threshold. “My lady, you asked to be informed when the master returned.”
“Yes.” Relief loosened her tense muscles. “Where is he?”
Worry lines creased his forehead. “He has gone to the mews, my lady.”
“The mews? He means to ride?”
Davison cleared his throat. “If I may speak frankly, my lady.”
She rose to her feet, pressure bearing down on her chest. Something was wrong. “Yes, what is it?”
“The master does not seem himself.”
“He has had a trying time of it. I will go to him.”
“My lady, he appears to have imbibed.”
“Imbibed?” Sebastian drinking spirits? “He is in his cups?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Alarm replaced disbelief. She hurried past the butler. “Thank you, Davison. I will see to him at once.”
Rushing to the mews, she wondered what exactly had transpired with Matilda that would drive Sebastian to drink. The sounds of pounding and grunting emanated from the mews as she approached. Entering, she found the grooms standing silently together, their attention fixed on a far corner where Sebastian, stripped to the waist, slammed his fists into a heavy puncher’s bag affixed to the rafters with a heavy rope.
His back to them, he pounded relentlessly, grunting at the effort each swing cost him. Sweat glistened off his bronze torso, rivulets of perspiration streaming over the firm contours of his arms and down his powerful back.
“Please leave us,” she said to the grooms. “Go to the kitchen. Ask Cook to give you tea.” She wanted them far away, outside of the range of hearing.
“Yes, my lady,” they murmured in acquiescence, shuffling out of the mews.
“Make certain we are not disturbed,” she said, closing the mews doors behind them. Turning, she leaned back against wooden frame, her gaze on her husband. He had bullish stamina; the power of his strokes did not appear to diminish at all. She pushed off the door and approached him, walking to the opposite side of the puncher’s bag. The heavy swinging bag almost threw her off balance.
He grabbed the heavy bag with both hands, stilling it before it could topple her. “You should not be here,” he said through harsh breaths. “I prefer you not see me in this state.”
“That’s just as well since I prefer not to see you in this state.”
His tousled hair was wet with exertion; perspiration shimmered over his stark face and strong neck, glinting over well-formed pectoral muscles and the sinews of his hard stomach. “Then we are in agreement. Please return to the house. I’ll join you when I am done here.”
“When will that be?
When your hands are bloodied and you collapse from exhaustion?”
His hard stare met hers, the green in his eyes so dark it was almost black. “I implore you to return to the house.”
She laid a light hand on his bare arm. “What happened with your mother?”
He pulled away from her. “It seems the old Spaniard knows of what he speaks.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Turns out I’m as much of a Stanhope as Cam—or Edward, Will, or Basil for that matter.”
“So,” she said slowly, processing his words. “Cyrus was your true father.”
“I’ve got the old bastard’s blood in my veins.” His stormy gaze met hers. “All these years I thought he detested the sight of me because I wasn’t his son. But it seems the fact that I am of his blood is what made me contemptible to him.”
“But why?” The ache in her chest deepened for him. “That makes no sense.”
He swooped down to grab a bottle of open brandy from the floor. “It seems I reminded Mr. Perfectly Pious of his human failings. I am the product of his adultery.” He tipped the bottle into his mouth, the cords of his throat worked as he guzzled from it.
She cocked a brow. “I doubt drinking will be of any more help than pummeling that bag.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t believe I asked for your opinion.”
“When have I ever waited to be asked for my thoughts on anything?”
He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Get out.”
Her heart clamored in her chest. She’d never seen him like this before—unkempt, foxed, and raging—so unlike the controlled gentleman she’d become accustomed to.
His eyes narrowed. “I said get out, madam.”
“No.”
His face darkened in a way that frightened her. He leaned toward her, his posture threatening. “Leave me, or I will not be responsible for what I do to you.”
Fear uncoiled in the pit of Bella’s belly, but she straightened her spine. “You could not harm me. I know the man you are.”
He erupted, leaping at her and forcing her up against a wooden support beam. She smelled the spirits on his breath and forced herself not to recoil from it. He brought his face close to hers, his breath whipping lightly against her cheeks. “You know me, madam? How is that possible when I don’t know myself? A stranger’s blood courses through my veins. Neither of us knows what I am capable of.”
“I know you don’t have it in you to harm me. You will not frighten me away.”
A dangerous glint entered his eye. “You think not?”
Without thinking, she curved a hand around his neck and pulled him to her lips. He came willingly, bringing his lips roughly to hers, forcing her mouth open, driving his tongue mercilessly inside, obviously expecting her to protest. She did not. Instead, she opened her mouth wider and softened into him, inviting him to take whatever he wanted. Whatever he needed. He kissed her with a fierce recklessness, a passion so different from the considerate, controlled way he usually loved her. She sensed that beneath the anger and roiled feelings that she, finally, was getting a glimpse of the real Sebastian.
The scents of exertion and perspiration, heat and emotion, laced his masculine essence. The raw force of it fired Bella’s blood and she kissed him back with equal vigor.
He pulled back abruptly, torment etched in his face. “Why do you accept me? I am not worthy.”
“You will never convince me of that,” she said breathlessly. Putting her hands behind his head, she pulled his mouth back to hers and kissed him with everything she had. Her tongue delved into the damp heat of his mouth, taking in the swirling taste of brandy.
His mouth softened against hers and he took voracious control of the kiss. Plundering deep, he stroked inside her mouth with greedy, feral movements, provoking a maelstrom of sensation that threatened to knock her off her feet.
He stopped abruptly, backing away from her, leaving her cold and empty.
She ran her hands over the wide expanse of his bare chest, both soft and hard under her fingers. She touched her lips to his damp, salty skin, peppering light kisses all along it. Her fingers ran down into the waist of his breeches.
He groaned and tried to pull away, but she would not let him. She pushed him up against the wall, pulling open his breeches, reaching in to stroke the hardened male flesh.
“I will not allow this to continue,” he uttered, struggling to control himself. “Stop.” His hands flattened against the rough wooden slab of wall behind him, as if he did not trust himself not to grab for her.
He gasped when she dropped down to her knees. He reached to pull her back up, the gentleman in him trying to prevent her from doing what she intended. She shook off Sebastian’s hand and took him into her mouth, sucking hard, determined not to let him leave her now. Falling back against the wall, he closed his eyes and let out an anguished sound, pain and desire etched on his face. His release came quickly and he tried to pull away before it did, but she would not let him. She suckled harder, greedily pulling on him until she sampled the sweet, salty taste of him.
She let him know she wanted him, all of him—even now. Especially now. She didn’t care who gave birth to him or who had fathered him. She wanted him as he was. And she knew in that moment, as clearly as she breathed, that she loved him completely, with a fullness she’d never known possible. And always would.
…
Losing himself in her mouth shattered what little remained of Sebastian’s self-control. Leaning against the wall, the rough wood digging into his back, his senses scattered as he let himself go for the first time since he could remember.
The way her luscious lips sealed around his male flesh—drawing out all she could— completely unmanned him. He saw black when he exploded into her hot wet mouth, blasts of light pierced his vision when his body convulsed powerfully around her. Drained of strength, he slid to the floor as the last tremors of release shook him, the wood scraping his bare back.
Shifting her body, she settled beside him and leaned back against the wall. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, allowing him to take in the fine lines of profile, the firm chin and elegant turn of her delicate throat. She released a sigh. “That was unlike anything—”
“You could obtain a divorce, you know.”
Her eyes opened. “On what grounds? A surfeit of pleasure?”
He shook his head, shame and mortification heating his insides. “I don’t know what possessed me to allow that.”
Her mouth curved as she gave a lazy stretch, her lush breasts straining against her bodice. “It was an impulse. One can’t always be in control, Sebastian.”
“I’ll not have your pity.”
Her throaty laugh contained genuine mirth. “I assure you I am not that philanthropic.”
His chest squeezed at the thought of releasing such an enchanting creature. “You could divorce me for fraud. I am not what you thought when we married.”
“I was thirteen. I barely knew your name much less who you were.”
“Please be serious. This is hardly a laughing matter.”
“What is the fraud? Should I protest that instead of a mere mister I find myself wed to a Spanish earl? I would be laughed out of the Lords.”
Pain pulsated in his head. “You’re to be a duchess in your own right. Your children should not bear my muddled bloodlines.”
“Muddled? You’ve seen His Grace. The Traherne line could use an infusion of fresh blood.”
“Please be serious.”
“I am,” she said in that firm way of hers. “I married Cyrus Stanhope’s son and you are that.”
A fresh wave of pain swelled in him at the thought of the father who all but disavowed him. Trying to swallow it away, he tipped the bottle back, welcoming the bitter burn that set his throat and chest ablaze like the fires of hell. He lobbed the emptied bottle into a bale of hay, where it landed with a useless thud. “Whoever said drinking dulls the pain was an arse.”
She scooted up off
her bottom and knelt before him, folding her legs underneath her. “If anyone’s been swindled, it’s you. You’ve been cheated out of your birthright.”
Did she think he cared about the title? “I have no real right to Vallado. We all know it. For God’s sake, even the solicitor knows it.”
She shook her head. “I’m not talking about the title. You are a true Stanhope. You are Cyrus Stanhope’s son. You deserved better than what you got from him.”
A fresh swell of emotion roiled over him. “I won’t challenge you on that.”
Pushing to her feet, she held out her hand to him. “Come along. You need a hot bath and an even hotter cup of coffee.”
He obliged, wrapping his hand in hers, hoping she could pull him to safety. Once they returned to the house, she ordered the bath and dismissed his valet before disappearing into her adjoining chamber. Sebastian sank into the steaming water, savoring its enveloping heat, although nothing could wash away the truth.
Returning in a dressing gown, Bella took the soap and began to wash his back. He leaned forward to give her better access. “My valet could do that.”
Her hands glided over his back. “I don’t mind.”
“I’ve put you through enough.”
“Lean back and close your eyes.” She poured water over his head. Its warmth splashed over his closed eyes, running down his face and shoulders.
She began to wash his hair. “You are always taking care of me or the duchy or the foundlings.” She pressed a kiss against his neck. “Let me take care of you for once.”
Closing his eyes, he sighed and leaned back against the tub. She massaged his head as she washed his hair. Her fingertips moved to his temples in soothing, circular movements. A warmth stole over him.