“Who is it from?”
“It doesn’t say.” She tore it open and pulled out several sheets of paper. The handwriting was feminine and flamboyant. As Abigail began to read her eyes widened and her mouth firmed. “It’s from my mother.”
He watched as her teeth began to chatter as if she had caught a chill. “She killed Patrick,” and the note fluttered from her fingers as she wrapped her arms around her middle and began to rock forward and back.
He grabbed the pages but he could not read them. “Tell me, my love. How could she have killed Patrick?” He wondered if she had heard him, but on a shudder she took back the note and began to read.
Abigail,
I had a chuckle at the new name you selected for yourself when you left. “Abigail” means “father’s joy.” Did you know that? Given I’m not sure who your father was, and at this point it doesn’t matter, it’s pricelessly funny.
I never wanted a child. What was I to do with a girl child? The upbringing I had, I could never love you. If I let myself love you and then you died—it was another heartache on top of many heartaches I did not want. I did not know anything different than to use you as a tool to line my pockets, because my start in life taught me that money mattered—money meant the difference between life and death. And like everyone, I wanted to live.
I’m writing this on my deathbed—ironic! The life I led has caught up with me, and I am riddled with disease. I’m not looking for sympathy, as I’m sure you are not looking to give it. I’m pretty sure we will never meet again, as I will most certainly be going to hell and you, my blood, have succeeded against all the odds, and with no help from me, and will likely go to heaven, for God has definitely been on your side.
You are the one thing I’m proud of, and yet the only hand I had in your success was giving birth to you.
When that snake Patrick Neville came to me months ago asking questions about a woman named Abigail, I once again saw it as an opportunity to make money. I sold him your sordid story. You made me very rich—again. Thank you.
It was the first time I had thought of you in…well, forever, and suddenly I was consumed to learn all about your life. To my amazement you have become the respectable and talented Miss Pinehurst, with a little “sister,” Dora. Tsk, tsk, names again. “Dora” means “God’s gift.” You saw your daughter as a gift—how you were ever my child…Anyway, I have been spying on you. It came to my attention that you are living the life of a proper lady. Even have the Earl of Argyle sniffing around your skirts. I thought maybe you were his mistress, a step up from me, but still in the profession.
Then only yesterday, Patrick Neville came back. He wanted more details, as it seemed the earl was going to ask you to marry him, and Patrick told me he was going to court to ensure that did not happen. He offered me more money for the name of your father. It’s funny, but as a dying woman, money suddenly didn’t mean anything.
Yet the idea that my daughter, the daughter of a whore with an unknown father, could become a countess was priceless. Patrick Neville was just another stupid man. He did not understand why I would not help him.
It was a simple matter to get a man to kill him. I knew plenty of desperate and greedy thugs. The payment for such a task was my business, but where I’m going that won’t matter.
So, I know you will probably not waste a moment mourning your old ma and I don’t want your thanks for ridding the world of that horrid man. However, perhaps you’ll say a prayer and ask that God who has been kind to you to perhaps ask the devil to go lightly on my soul.
Your mother
By the time she’d finished reading, Guy’s mouth hung open. Abigail wondered what he felt about his betrothed’s mother killing his cousin. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she couldn’t help it, she burst into tears. “She killed a man. I’m the daughter of a whore and a murderer.”
“Shh,” he breathed as he drew her onto his lap and held her tight. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. My father tried to kill me, remember. He would have succeeded too, if not for Reginald. Your mother and my father were not so dissimilar, except for an accident of birth.”
“I guess we were both just lucky in our parentage,” she said, and laughed. Her smile died. “I can’t forgive her.” He hugged tighter. “I could have forgiven her being a whore, women are left without many options in this life and pride and virtue don’t feed you, but the way she treated me…Whoring me out at such a young age, her daughter! When I had Dora…I could not understand how she could do that. From the moment Dora was born I loved her so much and I just wanted to protect her.”
“Your mother wasn’t as strong as you. Whatever she went through in her young life turned her bitter. It made her incapable of loving anyone. I feel sorry for her.”
The carriage trundled along, rocking from side to side, and Abigail loved sitting in Guy’s lap. His arms were comforting.
“Let’s not talk about my mother, or Patrick, ever again. I want to focus on the future. Our future. I love you.”
“I love you too. Shall I tell you what I think our future will hold?”
Abigail snuggled into his chest and closed her eyes, emotionally exhausted from the past week and the note from her mother. She loved listening to Guy’s voice as he detailed their future together. How he couldn’t wait to make her his wife. How they would redecorate the house and nursery. How he would become the most successful Merino breeder in England. How he couldn’t wait to hold their first babe in his arms, and pick the names of the sons she would bear him.
They stayed sitting together, Abigail on Guy’s lap, holding each other close, telling each other what they were looking forward to most in their lives, as the carriage traveled toward home.
As they left London and her past behind, a weight lifted from her heart and she knew, like Guy with his secret inability to read, she did not care if someone learned about her terrible beginning in life. Because the man she loved with all her heart loved her back regardless, and they were about to start a long life together.
Home. A place of safety where no one knew her past or his secret or, better yet, nobody cared.
As she slipped into sleep it struck her that when you love someone, you loved them with, or despite of, all of their flaws.
Because only love was perfect.
Epilogue
ARGYLE ESTATE—FIVE YEARS LATER
Guy stood next to the fireplace and looked at Abigail’s painting of the rare Ghost Orchid where it hung with pride of place over the mantelpiece. It had taken only a few months to find the Ghost Orchid plants, but another two years before they flowered. He could not believe that was three years ago. Time was passing swiftly.
“Father, Father, look at the picture I drew. It’s of Patches, my new pony. Look, I even wrote his name underneath.”
Guy bent and scooped his four-year-old son into his arms. Alfred squealed, as pride and love made Guy hug him just a little bit too hard. They had named their first son Alfred because it meant “wise or clever one.” Guy didn’t even care that the lines and squiggles underneath what Alfred had drawn were unreadable to him. His son could read and write. His son was not afflicted. His world was bright and filled with hope.
“All that worry for nothing,” his beautiful wife whispered in his ear.
“He has his mother’s reading ability—but not, by the looks of it, her ability to draw.”
She slipped her arm about Guy’s waist as he held their son. “Don’t be so sure. He’s young yet.”
They were in the drawing room, getting ready for Kit, Dora, and their son, Bertie, and daughter, Bella, to arrive. It was Dora’s birthday and they wanted to celebrate it together.
“Where is my clever grandson?” the Dowager Lady Argyle said as she arrived. Five years ago she had reluctantly accepted their marriage, and as the years progressed and society remained oblivious to Abigail’s past and Guy’s affliction, she had warmed to Abigail. Plus when his wife bore Guy a son, Abigail could do no wrong in
his mother’s eyes.
Alfred wriggled in Guy’s arms, wanting to get down and run to his grandmother. Guy tipped him upside down, Alfred squealing in glee, before lowering him to the floor. His son raced to his grandmother, who had treats for him.
“What time will little Sara wake?” Guy asked. Sara was his two-year-old daughter. He would have to wait to see if she was afflicted.
“Soon. Nurse will bring her down when she does and is changed.” Abigail hooked her arm through his, and they walked to take a seat on the settee. “Please don’t spend her early years worrying if she will learn to read or not. I saw how it made you hold back from Alfred. We will love her regardless and we won’t let her suffer as you did.”
He knew what Abigail said was right, and he loved his children and would any more that might come, with God’s blessing. “I just don’t want them to be different, to have to struggle like I did, and have to hide a part of themselves. I want my sons to be able to attend Eton and Oxford. I want my daughters to be the belle of the balls, with their choice of many suitors. All the things I didn’t get to do or have.”
She nodded. “I do too. But would it be so terrible if they couldn’t go to school, or were not the belle of the ball? Look at our family. Look how happy and blessed we are. And you and I did none of those things. We found love.”
He pressed a kiss to Abigail’s lips. “Have I told you recently that I love you.”
“Not since you woke me early this morning, loving me with that wicked mouth of yours.”
He laughed. “I wasn’t the one who insisted on going riding all morning, and not on her horse.”
“Well, you’re built like a stallion. A woman has desires too, you know.”
“As long as you only desire me, I’m more than happy to have you ride whenever you feel the need.”
“I shall remember that later tonight.” Then she giggled and blushed. It reminded him of how beautiful she looked spread over his bed, a flush of pleasure marking her body. He would find her beautiful and desirable even if they lived to be a hundred.
Just then they heard the sounds of children clambering up the stairs and soon Bertie and Bella raced into the room. Bertie was the same age as Alfred and the boys were as close as brothers. Little Bella was slightly older than Sara and she followed the boys around like their little shadow.
The birthday girl entered, and Abigail rose to greet her daughter. The two of them had grown closer from their shared pregnancies and never went a day without speaking to each other.
Guy welcomed Kit with a handshake and a glass of brandy. His and Kit’s relationship had deepened even more as they became fathers. He’d made Kit Alfred’s godfather, an honor Kit had been humbled by.
The two men had continued to invest in Merino sheep and Kit had accumulated so much wealth he didn’t need to work for Guy, but chose to out of friendship and loyalty, the things that money could not buy.
“I hope this dinner is not going to last long. Abigail has offered to have the children to stay over, and I have plans with my beautiful wife.”
Guy smiled at Kit. “I shall ensure we do not drag the meal out. The children will tire early anyway.”
He elbowed Kit in his side as he picked up Alfred’s drawing. “Look what my son drew.”
Kit looked at the terrible sketch of a barely recognizable pony and a grin swamped his face. “He can write.”
“My son can read and write.”
Kit raised a glass and they toasted in silent thanks.
“I don’t know when I’ll tell him that his father can’t read. I want him to be old enough to understand. My biggest fear is he will be embarrassed by his father, or worse still, despise me.” Dread, like lumps of lead, sat in his stomach at the thought of admitting to his son why Kit would be the one helping him learn how to run the estate.
“He loves you, and he will know what kind of good, honorable man you are. He won’t care. I’m looking forward to the day he will take my place at your side.”
“You want to leave my employ? I know you could be doing other things. If you want to leave I won’t stop you. Abigail will help me and Mr. Mathis has proved to be trustworthy.”
“Everything I have, my wealth, Dora, my family, I have because of you. You saved me on the battlefield. You brought me home to Argyle House and gave me a job. You led me to Dora, and nothing in the world will ever repay you for those gifts.”
“That’s a no, then.” And he smiled just as Dora stepped forward for a birthday kiss from her stepfather.
“What are you two talking about?” she asked.
Kit snaked his arm around his wife’s waist. “How Guy is going to rush us through this dinner so I can take you home and have you all to myself.”
She reached up and pressed a kiss to Guy’s cheek. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” she said, making Guy blush. “Would you mind getting started, then?”
He cleared his throat and said, “I think we should move through to the dining room. Mother, shall I escort you?”
“I’d prefer Alfred to escort me tonight. Come along, my little man.” Alfred looked so proud walking his grandmother into dinner.
Abigail arrived at Guy’s side. “Why the rush into dinner. Sara isn’t even awake yet.”
“Kit thinks I’m racing through the evening for him and Dora. They want to leave early since they have a night with no children. However, really I’m rushing so I can have my wife in my bed for a night of loving, before we have a bedchamber full of children in the morning.”
Abigail pressed a kiss to his cheek as they walked to the dining room. “I do love how you think, my love. How about I tell Cook to eliminate that fourth course?”
“I love having such a beautiful and clever wife.”
And as Lord and Lady Argyle walked into their dining room, filled with the people they loved the most, Guy hoped Reginald was looking down on him with a big grin on his face. He could almost hear his brother saying, I knew you could do it.
With a lot of love and support he’d proved he most certainly could.
This book is for all of us who struggle with obstacles, disabilities, or life in general. It makes the successes and achievements that much sweeter.
Dear Readers,
Thank you for joining me on the heartfelt journey of this story. I wrote this book while helping my cousin, and his two boys, aged nine and seven, after the tragic loss of his wife and their mother in a freak car accident.
It was hard writing through the tragedy, but it reminded me that the love of those around you gives you the strength and courage to carry on. The parallel was evident. Love gives you strength even in tragedy. It protects you, and heals you, and without love the world would be a lonely and sad place.
Here’s to love, the most commanding four-letter word in the world, and the power it has to heal.
PHOTO: MALCOLM BROW BLUE FISH STUDIOT
USA Today bestselling author BRONWEN EVANS grew up loving books. She has always indulged her love of storytelling and is constantly gobbling up movies, books, and theater. Is it any wonder she’s a proud romance writer? Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award. She lives in Hawke’s Bay, New Zealand.
bronwenevans.com
Facebook.com/bronwenevansauthor
Twitter: @bronwenevans_NZ
BY BRONWEN EVANS
The Disgraced Lords Series
A Kiss of Lies
A Promise of More
A Touch of Passion
A Whisper of Desire
A Taste of Seduction
A Night of Forever
A Love to Remember
A Dream of Redemption
Imperfect Lords
Addicted to the Duke
Drawn to the Marquess
Attracted to the Earl
Read on for an excerpt from
A Kiss of Lies
A Disgraced Lords Novel
by Bronwen Evans
Available from Loveswept
Chapter One
LONDON, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1815
“Get up!”
If not for the fact that the rage-filled voice bellowing in his ear was speaking English, Christian Trent, the Earl of Markham, might have thought he was back in France.
Certainly the press of cold steel at his throat flooded his brain with memories of the war: nightmarish memories, pain-filled memories. Memories he fervently tried, but hopelessly failed, to forget.
Experience had taught him that when one was in such a precarious position, with a sword at one’s windpipe, with the identity and reasoning of the attacker unknown, one was wise to act cautiously.
Without moving a muscle he pried an eye open and tried to focus on the person who was holding the deadly weapon at his neck. The slight movement of his eyeball sent pain stabbing through his head. His mouth tasted like sawdust. Christ, he must have drunk more than he thought last night.
“I repeat, get up!”
To emphasize his request, the attacker’s sword point pierced Christian’s skin. A small trail of warmth trickled down his neck.
In a ghostlike voice, so as not to disturb the pounding in his head, Christian answered, “How can I get up with that sword at my neck? I might still be half foxed, but I have enough wits about me not to push myself upon your weapon,” and with his hand he batted away the blade.
The sword immediately swung back into place.
As lethal as the sword itself, the voice uttered, “That would save me the bother of killing you.”
For a split second Christian welcomed the idea of death before he doused it with an exhaled breath.
He ignored the cannonballs rioting in his head as he twisted and turned, desperate to untangle his limbs from the satin sheets wrapped around his naked body. He did his best to ignore the dizzying weakness his movements evoked. The headache had him willing the contents of his stomach to stay down.
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