Two Secret Sins

by Anna Campbell

  Eliot watched Verena’s eyes go wide and dark. He also caught more of that fear he was coming to loathe. Her hand began to shake. “You…”

  “It’s all right, Verena,” he said gently, reaching forward to take her glass and setting it on the small table between the chairs. “You don’t have to answer.”

  She was pale and troubled, but she sat stiff as a ruler in her chair and returned his straight glance with a straight one of her own. He braced for anger, the way she’d responded to his first proposal with anger.

  Whatever she said, it was sure to be a denial. It didn’t matter. He was sure that she loved him. He was even sure that she knew it. Although no way in hell was she ever going to admit it.

  Her expression remained stern, but he saw the flutter of her pulse in her delicate throat and the way she swallowed before she replied. He waited to hear what a presumptuous devil he was. But what she said surprised him as much as his statement had surprised her.

  “Yes, I do love you, Eliot. I don’t want to, but plague take you, I can’t help it.”

  By heaven, she was a woman in a million.

  He’d never admired her courage more. At his deepest level, he was overjoyed to know that she returned his feelings. Although he’d suspected for a long time that he wasn’t the only one enmeshed in emotions that lifted this affair far above mere sensual entertainment.

  But more immediate than gratification was his awareness that Verena didn’t confess her feelings with any happiness or relief. She spoke the words as if loving him was a curse.

  “If you love me—” he began, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  “We’re not children, and we don’t live in fairy land. My love is an inconvenience, and one I intend to conquer.”

  Her statement elicited a grim smile. “And how do you intend to do that? If you know the secret, I’d love you to share it with me. Because I only find myself more deeply in love with you every day.”

  His declaration didn’t find favor. Her eyes remained lightless, and she turned even paler. “Love doesn’t last. It will go away.”

  “How do you know? Have you been in love before?”

  He caught her quick flinch. “No.”

  “Nor have I. I doubt if it will go away. It certainly hasn’t so far. Aren’t you a tiny bit tempted to see if we can make a go of things together?”

  Before he’d even finished his question, she was shaking her head. Her slender hands shackled the arms of the chair so tight that the knuckles turned white. “I will not marry you, Eliot.”

  He could tell that she was waiting for him to harangue her the way, God forgive him, he’d harangued her before. Her strength of will shouldn’t surprise him. Her unquenchable spirit was one of the many things that he admired about her. If he’d wanted an easy woman to love, he could have chosen one of a thousand others.

  Verena wasn’t easy. But she was the only one for him.

  He kept his voice calm and reasonable. “Tell me why.”

  She regarded him as if afraid that he played some trick. “You know.”

  “Give me your reasons for not marrying me, and I’ll give you my reasons for why you should.”

  “You won’t change my mind.”

  “Indulge me.” Eliot sat back and extended his bare feet toward the fire. He hadn’t got around to putting his shoes on when he’d dressed. “Do you have anything better to do at half past four on a Thursday morning?”

  Her dark brown eyebrows arched. She’d got over her crying fit, thank goodness. That had made him feel frantic and guilty and frustrated, because he knew that if he offered comfort, she’d only reject him. “Sleep?”

  His grunt expressed wry amusement. “Who needs sleep when there’s interesting conversation on offer?”

  “Interesting is one way to describe it, I suppose,” she responded dryly. “All right, here are my reasons. I hope you won’t interrupt me to argue. Or we’ll be here into next week.”

  Eliot gave her a mocking salute, although the threat of staying here with Verena wasn’t much of a deterrent. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  She cast him an unimpressed glance under her lashes. They’d talked like this so often, with humor overlying serious purpose. This time, his entire happiness depended on the outcome of this discussion. His relaxation was only skin-deep.

  “You’re a respectable man with a spotless reputation. You’re the heir to a great title and a large fortune. You could do much better for a bride than a widow past first youth who promises to be barren. If you wed me, the odds are that there will never be a little Viscount Colville to christen. I didn’t conceive when I was married to George, and while I’ve been careful in the seven years since, accidents happen. But they never seem to happen to me.”

  She eyed him with more of that wariness, but he kept silent as he’d promised. In truth, he was surprised that she chose her chances of having children as her first point against marrying him. He’d imagined that she’d start with how she refused to entrust herself to another man.

  When he didn’t object to what she said, she went on. “I’ve had a thoroughly enjoyable time as a widow. I’ve taken the men I want as lovers, without giving a fig for what the old tabbies call me. I’m rich and independent and a duke’s daughter, which counts for something, however much I despised my father. I might be a bit too outrageous to suit the high sticklers, and I’m not likely to receive a voucher for Almack’s any time soon. But most of society is willing to overlook my peccadilloes and continue to associate with me.”

  All of this sounded as if she argued on his behalf, but he was too smart to fall for that. There was a “but” coming in all this.

  Eliot was right. It came in her next sentence.

  Her voice hardened. “But you have political ambitions, and Caesar’s wife must be above approach. Even if I regretted following my impulses, it’s too late to wipe out what I’ve done since George died. If we wed, people will snigger at your wife – and also at you for marrying me, when you could have me without a wedding ring. Nobody is going to make the dupe who marries Verena Gerard the country’s prime minister. If you take me to wife, you’ll have to say goodbye forever to any hope of leaving your mark on public life. It seems a large price to pay, when, as I said, I’m more than willing to share your bed without the church’s blessing. You’ll have to retire to private life, which would be a pity, because the country’s in trouble and there are so few genuinely good men willing to do the work to fix it up.”

  “England needs me?” he asked in an ironic tone, surprised to find that she took such a broad view of their personal issues. Although he shouldn’t be. She came from one of the most powerful families in the land. The Fleetwoods had always played their part in the government of England.

  “Don’t you think it does?”

  He shrugged and drank a little more of his wine. “I suppose the national crisis is a novel reason for knocking back a fellow’s proposal.”

  “You said you wouldn’t interrupt.”

  “Sorry.”

  Verena cast him a critical look. “And there’s your family. I know you hate your father. Believe me, I can sympathize. But you don’t hate Imogen, and I’m not fit company for a pure young girl, especially when she’s looking to make a good match. If I’m her sister-in-law, everyone will wonder if I’ve infected her with my immorality. She deserves better.”

  Verena stopped and leveled a stark gaze upon him. Her eyes held no hint of hope for a shared future. “So you see, marrying you is out of the question.”

  He took another sip of his wine. “Am I permitted to speak now?”

  “I hope you’ll agree with me.”

  He couldn’t help smiling at that. “I’m sure.”

  Eliot put down his wine and stared into the fire, as he considered his response. This was the fight of his life, and he knew it.

  “Those are all fair points,” he said slowly, without looking at her. Looking at her played havoc with his ability to put two coherent th
oughts together. “Before I refute them, let me be clear about what you’re suggesting for us. You’re saying that you’re content to go back to meeting here on Fridays and sneaking around and pretending we’re strangers?”

  Verena made a helpless gesture. Her wine remained untouched on the mahogany table. He suspected that she wanted to keep her wits about her. She knew as well as he did that what they said tonight determined their future. “In principle, yes, although we can be a little looser in our arrangements. One afternoon a week isn’t enough for me either.”

  Pleasure squeezed his foolish heart, to hear this confirmation that he hadn’t longed alone. “In that case, it will be even harder to keep our affair secret.”

  She shot him a wry look. “After your recent antics, that’s no longer possible. Although perhaps until Imogen marries, we should try to be at least a little discreet. If we’re an acknowledged couple, you won’t be seen as quite the saint you’re proclaimed to be. But you should still be able to play your part in politics. After all, you’re hardly the only man in public life with a mistress.”

  His lips tightened. “It’s always struck me as unfair that you’ve had – what? – not even a dozen lovers, yet you’re considered too outré for society’s arbiters of morality. While people like my father keep the brothels of London in business, and nobody bats an eyelid at their credentials.”

  “Five,” she said in a small voice.

  “Five?”

  “Five lovers. Six, if I include you.”

  Shock slammed through him and made him sit up and stare at her. “I’d heard it was more than that.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Rancor edged her tone. “You know what society is like. The gossips credit me with a different man in my bed every night and two on Sundays. That all sounds like far too much hard work. And anyway, not all my flirtations reached the point of consummation.”

  Eliot shouldn’t be pleased to hear that she hadn’t been as profligate as he’d believed. Long ago, he’d come to terms with the fact that Verena had shared her favors with other men before he’d entered her life. He’d found consolation in being damned sure that she hadn’t turned to anyone else since they’d come together.

  When he responded, he was very careful to keep his tone neutral. “I should have guessed that the stories were exaggerated. I know men who go through as many different bedmates in a week.” Including his father when he was on a spree.

  “It’s different for women, Eliot. You know that.”

  “But it’s unfair.”

  “Many things are unfair for women.” Her expression remained grave. “I have a name as a depraved wench. I’ll never shake it, even if I retire to a convent tomorrow and devote the rest of my life to good works.”

  He made himself smile, although the weary bitterness in her voice told him that she, too, had reflected on how harshly the world judged women who broke the mold. “I hope you’re not considering a convent.”

  “It might save me from another proposal.”

  “Nonetheless, it’s a drastic way to avoid an unwelcome suitor.” He paused. “So far, everything you’ve said sounds reasonable.”

  He could see that his measured response caught her unprepared. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “But I’m a man in love. Men in love are never reasonable.”

  Verena didn’t smile. He wished to hell that she took a moment’s joy from his love. It only seemed to burden her.

  “I think you have to be, Eliot. It’s odd, I’d never pictured you as someone prone to grand romantic gestures. You always seem to be the epitome of good sense. Or at least you did.” She subjected him to a disapproving inspection. “Although I suppose I should have expected something like this. I’ve always thought of you as a Galahad, and he was definitely a romantic figure.”

  “I’m no perfect knight.”

  “You are, you know. And you’ve set yourself the impossible task of saving the maiden in distress. But I’m not a maiden, and I’m not in distress.”

  He cast her a long look. “Aren’t you?”

  She shifted under his piercing stare. To avoid his eyes, at last she lifted her glass to take a sip. “Don’t be a fool. You know I’m not.”

  He didn’t know anything of the kind, but he wasn’t yet ready to address that particular issue. “So is it my turn to answer your points?”

  “If you wish.” She didn’t sound particularly interested. But of course she’d already made up her mind against marrying him. She was only going through the motions of giving him a chance to persuade her otherwise.

  “I do.” He ordered his thoughts before he started. “You fear that you can’t have children. It’s an important issue, or it might be if I cared. But I don’t.”

  “Eliot—”

  He raised his hand. “I did you the courtesy of hearing you out. You owe me the same privilege.”

  Her lips flattened, but she nodded her head as if conceding a point in a fencing match. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you. If you marry me and the Good Lord blesses us with children, I’ll be the happiest man in England. If you marry me and we don’t have children, I’ll still be the happiest man in England, because I’m living with the woman I love. Imogen can’t inherit the title, but if she marries and has children, I can leave them my private fortune. As far as the title and the entailed part of my inheritance go, there are plenty of cousins. The Deerforth title doesn’t mean much to me, perhaps because it means so much to my father. I certainly don’t think the pride of the Ridleys is worth the sacrifice of my every hope of happiness.”

  Verena shifted again, as if the burden of his love just grew weightier. He imagined it did.

  When she didn’t interrupt, he went on. “You mention my political career. I don’t care about being prime minister. I care about doing something useful with my life and my fortune. Parliament isn’t the only avenue of achievement open to a man. When I inherit, I can start with Hamble Park, which my father hasn’t run at all as I’d prefer. He thinks the people there exist for his convenience. I don’t. And let’s face it, I’m only twenty-nine. There’s plenty of time to step away from the limelight, then come back later. After you’ve spent twenty years as a faithful wife, I doubt anyone will give a fig for what you got up to before you saw the light and married me. Even if they do, it will be such old news. A thousand scandals will have come and gone since the remarkable Lady Deerforth kicked up her heels and thumbed her nose at the ton’s hypocrisy.”

  He’d caught her attention now. Those wide, shining blue eyes regarded him as if he belonged to some strange new species. “You must mind that I’ve taken men other than you into my bed.”

  Eliot shrugged, not even having to pretend his indifference to what she did before they fell in love. She was the woman he wanted. If he’d wanted an untouched little virgin, there were a hundred he could choose from, this season alone.

  “Must I? I certainly don’t want anyone else except me there now, but what you did before we met isn’t my concern.”

  Her mouth crumpled, and for a horrid moment, he feared that she might cry again. But after a visible struggle, she regained her composure, although her voice shook when she spoke. “I don’t deserve you, Eliot.”

  “Of course you do,” he said lightly and moved on to his last point. Or his last point to counter her list of reasons against marrying him.

  He didn’t want to listen to any more claptrap about him being a saint or a perfect knight or Sir Galahad. Verena more than anyone knew that he was as capable of sin as the next man. Especially when given adequate provocation.

  “Imogen’s stake in this is easy enough to cover. My father says that Lord Halston is about to offer for her. Once she’s wed, the gossip about you won’t have nearly as much power over her as it does now.”

  Verena frowned. “Is an engagement so likely between them?”

  “According to my esteemed papa, it is. If Imogen marries, you and I will have much more freedom to pursue our joi
nt future.”

  She didn’t look relieved. Instead she looked troubled. “You make a good case. Better than I thought you would.”

  “I do,” Eliot said, although he was a long way from feeling triumphant. Nothing in her voice or manner indicated that he’d won her over. “However, none of that addresses the most powerful thing that stops you agreeing to marry me. The damage that your brute of a husband did to you.”

  Chapter 13

  Verena’s heart slammed hard against her ribs, made her vision go black. She gasped and lurched to her feet, so clumsy with shock that she bumped the table. “Don’t…”

  The glass tipped over and wine spilled everywhere. “Oh, bother!”

  “It’s not important,” Eliot said, righting the empty glass. “Easy enough to clear up.”

  She had a sick feeling that he wasn’t just talking about the wine puddling over the table and dripping onto the Turkey carpet beneath. If so, he was an optimist. None of this was easy.

  He headed for the dressing room, while her shaking hand curled over the edge of the mantel. Her pulses raced, and her legs felt like jelly. So stupid that fear was her principal reaction to Eliot’s perception.

  Get some control over yourself, Verena.

  She wasn’t even sure why she was so overcome. After all, Eliot had tried before to discover what had happened in her marriage, and he was smart enough to know that she’d suffered under George’s rule.

  Perhaps she was so afraid because Eliot saw her too clearly. Those steady gray eyes penetrated the glamorous, self-confident shell of Lady Verena Gerard, who broke men’s hearts without a moment’s hesitation and who paid no attention to the world’s censure.

  Those steady gray eyes left her feeling vulnerable and naked. Tonight the cold wind of reality blew around her, and she was afraid that no nice warm blanket of illusion could keep out the chill.

  Eliot returned with a bowl of water and a pile of towels and soon had the mess cleaned up. Although she feared the priceless carpet would bear a permanent stain sure to break Merton’s heart anew.

  Eliot was a notably capable man. It was something else that she liked about him. With most of her lovers, Verena felt like the adult. That wasn’t the case with Eliot. But then, he wasn’t like any of the handsome, charming, eminently forgettable men she’d seduced through her brazen career.