When a Stranger Loves Me (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 3)

by Julianne MacLean

  Chelsea strove to keep her voice under control. “How many times must I repeat this? The performance to which you are referring happened when I was eighteen. I was young and foolish. Since then I have been living here in exile with you, without complaint, for seven years. I have not once asked for anything for my own happiness. I have been dutifully paying the price for my mistakes. Does that not count for anything?”

  “I tried to talk to Melissa just now,” her mother said, ignoring everything Chelsea had just said, “and she was hiding something. I could see it in her eyes. You’re not scheming to make him fall in love with you and propose, are you? So that you might get out of marrying Lord Jerome?”

  “Of course not.” But then Chelsea’s back went up, for she was tired of paying for that mistake she made all those years ago, and she wanted her mother to know it. “But what if I were? And what if he did propose to me? If I wanted to marry him, I would.”

  Good Lord, what was she saying?

  Her mother’s face went white as stone. “You insolent girl. Clearly you have not learned a thing. You have no sense at all.”

  “Why? Because I might want some joy for myself? It is not fair what you ask me to do! Lord Jerome is more than twice my age, and he is a horrid, self-regarding, repulsive man.”

  “You must do your duty, as we all must,” her mother replied.

  “You might speak differently if it was you who had to marry him.”

  “He doesn’t want me. He wants you because you will be able to give him heirs.”

  Chelsea recoiled in disgust at the thought of sharing a bed with Lord Jerome, especially now that she knew what would occur—and when she knew how enjoyable lovemaking could be with a man like Jack.

  “I will be miserable.”

  Her mother scoffed. “Well, if you think the handsome stranger in our midst has just washed ashore to save you from your fate, you are a fool. He could be a fish merchant for all we know, in which case a match would be completely inappropriate. You are the daughter of an earl. You will not marry beneath you.”

  “Beneath me? I am the lowliest of the low, according to you.”

  Her mother said nothing to refute her claim, which only incensed Chelsea further.

  “And you must know he is not a fish merchant,” Chelsea continued to argue. “He may even be a duke or a prince. Surely you would not oppose it then. Or would you? Just to see me miserable?”

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “If he is a duke or a prince, you are even more a fool than I thought, to think that he would propose. Honestly, Chelsea. You forget sometimes that you are ruined. No man of such eminence would ever have you as a wife. You would be lucky if he were inclined to use you as a mistress, which would never happen, of course, because I would not permit it. That is why you must settle for Lord Jerome.”

  “Settle? Like you did?”

  Her mother pressed her lips into a hard line. “I loved your father.”

  “You loved that he was an earl. That’s what you settled for. You resigned yourself to a marriage without love, and therefore a life without joy or laughter or passion.”

  “Passion fades. A title does not.”

  “I see. Then allow me to understand. While you were married, you had a title and what else? Boredom? Resentment? Contempt, even? That’s what I remember most about you and Father, which is why I ran away with that ‘unsuitable’ man in the first place, and why I would do it again in a heartbeat—with that equally unsuitable man outside in the garden.”

  There. She had said it. The truth.

  Her mother’s cheeks flushed with fury. “You just say these things to spite me.” She walked out and slammed the door behind her.

  For a fleeting second Chelsea thought she was off the hook—until a key slipped into the lock from the outside and turned.

  Chelsea gasped. Leaping out of her chair, she ran to the door, grabbed hold of the knob and rattled it frantically. “Let me out of here, Mother! You’re behaving like a child!”

  “You are the child, Chelsea, not me,” her mother replied from the other side. “I will not let you run off again and leave us all here to rot. I am writing to Lord Jerome today, and I will tell him to come and collect you as soon as he is able.”

  “But you won’t rot!” Chelsea shouted, suddenly desperate to save her future by any means possible. “I have a plan. I am trying very hard to do my duty at this very moment. I might have already succeeded.” But she would not know for sure for at least a few weeks.

  There was a long silence on the other side of the door. “What plan?” her mother asked.

  Chelsea let go of the knob and took a step back, certain that if she tried to explain, it would come out all wrong, and her mother would faint out there in the hall, or worse—do exactly what she said she was going to do and tell Lord Jerome to come straightaway.

  “Why don’t you talk to Sebastian?” Chelsea suggested. “He will tell you everything.”

  “Sebastian knows?”

  “Yes.” There was another long silence on the other side of the door. “Go and see him, Mother, I beg of you,” Chelsea pleaded.

  The only response was the sound of her mother’s shoes, treading heavily down the hall to the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  An hour later Chelsea woke to the sound of a key turning in her lock. Groggy from a nap, she sat up and watched the door, curious to see who would come in to talk sense to her next.

  The door opened and her brother peeked his head in. “Don’t throw anything. It’s only me.”

  She rose from the bed and smoothed out her hair, tucking the loose strands back into place. “Did Mother speak with you? Am I to be shipped off to marry Lord Jerome in the morning?”

  Sebastian entered the room and reached into his pocket. “She said to give you this.”

  “What is it?”

  He handed her a tiny bottle.

  “It’s her favorite perfume,” Chelsea said.

  “Yes. She suggested that you should wear it tonight.”

  Chelsea looked up at her brother and frowned. “What are you saying? What does this mean?”

  “Exactly what you think it means. Clearly, it’s her way of informing you that she consents to your master plan.”

  Slow to comprehend what Sebastian was saying because she was having a hard time believing it, Chelsea opened the bottle and sniffed it. “Was she intoxicated when she spoke with you?”

  He let out a melancholy sigh. “If only.” He strolled to the bed and sat down. “After she got over the initial shock, I believe she wished she had thought of it herself. Although she did suggest that it would have been simpler to send Melissa to him, instead of you, assuming it is my fault there is no heir.”

  Chelsea smothered a gasp. “What did you say?”

  “I told her hell would freeze over first. I love my wife, and no other man will ever put his hands on her —not as long as I have breath in my body. It’s difficult enough for me to let you go through with this. My own sister. I must tell you that there have been moments when I wanted to bash down his door and throw him out on his ear. I have not been sleeping well.”

  Chelsea touched her brother’s arm. “I’m sorry it’s been difficult for you, but perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that he has been very good to me. It has not been unpleasant. And if this saves me from having to marry Lord Jerome, I will forever be in your debt for allowing me to do this. You will be saving me from a terrible fate.”

  Sebastian did not look up, and Chelsea could see that her words were doing little to console him.

  She decided to take a different tack, to try and lighten his mood. “Besides, if we did send Melissa and she conceived, the child would not be of Father’s bloodline, and we do have some scruples.”

  “Not many,” Sebastian replied quietly.

  Still hoping to ease
his conscience, she crossed the room to her dressing table and began to comb her hair. “Does this mean Mother will not write to Lord Jerome today?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ever hopeful, Chelsea turned to face her brother. “And does it mean I will not have to marry him? Ever?”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Sebastian replied. “There will have to be a male issue before she lets go of that safety net. I suspect she will write to him and string him along until you give birth.” Sebastian’s eyes were streaked with red as he regarded her. “If things work out, that is, and if you find yourself with child.” He paused. “Were you being honest with me, Chelsea? Is he good to you? Does he treat you well, because if not—”

  She interrupted him. “He is lovely, Sebastian. Truly. If things were different, I could see myself falling quite head over heels.”

  They were the words her brother needed to hear.

  “Well,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat, “I hope you know how grateful we are for what you are doing. Melissa is overjoyed. Truth be told, it wouldn’t matter to her if it was a girl or a boy, or a donkey for that matter. She is just so happy, Chel.”

  In some ways, Chelsea was pleased to hear it, yet at the same time, she could not bear to think of it. She did not want to imagine a baby growing in her womb—perhaps a boy, who would grow up to be tall and handsome, with dark, wavy hair, a strong, confident disposition, and creative, like both his parents...

  “Where is Jack now?” she asked, thrusting those thoughts from her mind.

  “In his guest chamber. He mentioned feeling tired. I don’t think he’s fully recovered yet.”

  Chelsea looked at herself in the mirror and dabbed some perfume behind each ear.

  Her brother watched her for a moment, then glanced uncomfortably toward her desk. “I suppose I should leave you to your letters.”

  That was not why he was leaving, and they both knew it.

  Chelsea finally met his gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “Thank you, Sebastian, for speaking to Mother,” she said, “and for buying me time.”

  He merely nodded at her, then walked out and closed the door behind him.

  She picked up her brush and continued to comb out her hair, ignoring the pain from the knots that had tangled while she slept.

  “You’ve forgiven me, then?” Jack asked as he drew back from a kiss. He and Chelsea had just made love up against the door of his bedchamber, for she had come to his room with one thing on her mind. As usual, he could not resist her.

  He nuzzled her cheek and stepped back, realizing only then that he had not withdrawn at the proper time—again—and he wondered why he was inclined to take these risks, when he still had no idea what lay in his future. Or his past.

  Next time, he promised himself... Next time he would be more careful.

  She pushed away from the door. “We already agreed that there is nothing to forgive,” she said. “You were right when we spoke outside earlier today. You have not kept anything from me. I knew what I was getting myself into when I came to you the other night, and I have indeed been more than satisfied.”

  He watched her for a strange moment as she walked seductively to the window. “But there is something different about you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re closed off. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Am I being silly?” he asked. “I think you are still angry about what happened in bed this morning.” He hesitated. “Or perhaps hurt is a better word.”

  “I am neither,” she quickly asserted as she pulled the curtain aside with one finger and looked out. “I am simply trying to be realistic.”

  “How so?”

  She faced him and he had the distinct impression she was giving a great deal of consideration to her answer, almost as if she were plotting one of her stories, deciding upon the most effective piece of dialogue for her protagonist.

  “I don’t want to become too attached to you,” she said at last.

  He studied her eyes and saw a hint of vulnerability there, mixed possibly with some melancholy.

  But it was an honest answer—at least he believed it to be so—and it gave him some reassurance that he had not lost her completely. She was still being open with him.

  He approached her. “And is there a danger of you becoming too attached?”

  “There is a danger of anything. You are very pleasant to be around. Most of the time,” she added playfully.

  “When I am not calling you by other women’s names, I suppose.”

  “Precisely.”

  He smiled gently. “I’ll try not to do that again.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  For a moment more they stood without talking, merely looking at each other while the waves rolled up onto the shoreline outside the window and the clock ticked steadily on the mantel.

  Jack noticed the heavy beat of his heart. He felt restless, filled with a yearning that seemed to have no cure—for he could not possibly close the space between them. How could he, when he did not know who he was, or if he was even free to care for Chelsea the way he wanted to?

  Then, for some unknown reason, he remembered the urgency he had felt the night before regarding his mysterious responsibilities and felt again that he was letting someone down. The feeling dropped into his stomach like a stone. Someone needed him. Of that, he was certain. There was a duty he was expected to fulfill.

  God, was there a wife?

  He looked down at the floor.

  “So until we know more about you,” Chelsea said, her voice more forceful now, almost as if she had read his thoughts, “I will simply keep my heart out of it, as you should do as well.”

  “That’s probably wise,” he heard himself saying, without looking up, because he was not in a position to offer his heart, or any kind of promise that involved the future. As things stood presently, he could offer Chelsea nothing, and she knew it.

  Pembroke House, London

  “He has left us in the lurch,” Vincent said to Devon as he walked into the library at four in the morning. “I’ve searched everywhere he could possibly be in London, and no one has seen him.”

  “He wouldn’t desert us like this,” Devon told him. “Not intentionally. I know our brother. He is as dependable as they come.”

  Vincent went to pour himself a drink. “Did you hear any news of him at the club? Has anyone heard from him?”

  “Not since that night you’ve already mentioned, when he returned to the palace talking about a night at the tables with a certain wild young buck with a pretty sister. You had mentioned that the gentleman’s father is involved with the London Horticultural Society.”

  Vincent nodded. “And we both know that the Horticultural Society the main beneficiary in Father’s will if we don’t all marry by Christmas. Did you get the man’s name?”

  “The father is George Fenton, Baron Ridgeley. He is director of the Society,” Devon replied.

  “Have you gone to see him?”

  “I went to his house here in London,” Devon replied, “but there was no one there, except for a butler who informed me that the family was in France, which leads me to suspect—”

  “That Blake went off with them without telling us. Perhaps he went there to elope.”

  “It’s possible,” Devon said, “though not typical of him, unless a message became lost on its way to us. In fact, I hope that is the case. It would certainly be preferable to our brother lying in an alley somewhere with his pockets emptied, or at the bottom of the Thames because of a disagreement over a card game.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Vincent said. “So tomorrow...”

  “Tomorrow we try to discover where the family has traveled to in France and get word to them.”

  “At least now we have something to p
in our hopes on,” Vincent said. “Mother will be pleased to hear it.”

  “I won’t be pleased until we have him in our sights,” Devon said.

  They each downed their brandy.

  “Do you think he was courting that girl?” Vincent asked.

  “The sister? It is entirely possible, and just like Blake to do his duty without a fuss. If we’re lucky, he has already proposed.”

  “Well, if that is the case,” Vincent raised his glass again, “we shall be one step closer to securing our inheritances, with three brothers taken care of, and only one left to tame before Christmas.”

  “To marital bliss,” Devon said, holding up his glass.

  Clink. “To marital bliss.”

  Chapter 13

  “Maybe I am a magistrate,” Jack said casually while he and Chelsea lay naked in bed a week later, after making love all afternoon. “Or a solicitor.”

  Chelsea bent her knee and draped her leg across his thighs. “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I think I must do something, and I doubt I am a laborer. My hands are not rough enough.”

  “An artist?”

  He glanced over at the pile of drawings strewn across the table by the window, then shook his head. “No, I think I enjoy sketching too much. I can’t imagine using it to earn a living.”

  She sat up and rested her chin on the back of her hand. “If you ask me, I think you are a gentleman of some stature—and an idle one at that. You spend your days reading the paper, riding around your country estate, hunting, going to balls, sipping brandy at your club...that sort of thing.”

  He nodded, accepting that it was entirely possible he led such a life.

  “Would I be happy doing that, do you think?”