My Reckless Surrender (11 page)

“Do you need help?”

What she needed was a long soak in a bath and a night's sleep. What she needed was a few hours without a howling conscience. What she needed was the chance to go back in time to a month ago. Before the devil offered her everything she coveted if she committed just one small sin that did no harm to anyone else.

One small sin that now threatened to destroy her.

“No, I'll manage,” she said huskily.

Absurd to feel so close to tears. What she'd done today finally put her dreams within reach. That's what she needed to think about, not the piercing sweetness of Ashcroft's possession.

Laura touched her arm as Diana started climbing the stairs. She lowered her voice. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

From the time Burnley first broached his plan, Laura had listed pitfalls, including the possibility that Lord Ashcroft was violent. Diana wished Ashcroft had been less careful with her, less willing to rein in his desire to ensure her plea
sure. She desperately needed to find something about him to dislike.

I do him no harm.

The rote insistence didn't even register against the shriek of her conscience. It had been easy believing him immune before she met him. Harder when she'd breathed his musky scent, touched his sleek skin, listened to his hoarse praise while he took her to the stars.

Laura didn't immediately release her, although they both knew Lord Burnley hated to wait. “Are you sure? You don't seem yourself.”

Diana shook herself free, and a humorless smile twisted her lips. “I just whored myself in return for life as a marchioness. Of course I'm not myself.”

A frown drew Laura's fine dark brows together. “You slept with him, then?”

Diana made a derisive gesture toward her disorderly clothing. “Isn't it obvious?”

Laura looked pale and distraught. “I wondered if, when the moment came, you'd change your mind.”

Diana knew what her friend really meant was she'd hoped some shred of ethical behavior would surface from the murk in Diana's soul.

She couldn't retreat now. She'd gone too far down Lord Burnley's luxurious path to hell. And she couldn't tell Laura that her desire for Ashcroft was so powerful, she'd barely recalled her wicked plans once he'd touched her.

She could hardly countenance that reality. The honesty of her passion made her scheme all the more tawdry.

And made her feel a whore indeed.

“No, I did it,” Diana said curtly. She turned and purposefully marched up the stairs. “Please tell Fredericks I'll be ready in twenty minutes.”

“As you wish.” Laura's voice was flat with all the things she resisted saying. Thank the Lord, she did resist.

L
ord Burnley's carriage rolled through the impressive stone gates marking the boundary of the Cranston Abbey estate.

After several tumultuous hours of reminding herself why she'd gone to London, Diana had a firmer grip on her unruly emotions. Every mile she traveled away from Lord Ashcroft helped.

When she embarked on this plan, she'd known she needed to be strong. That she needed more strength than she'd ever imagined was difficult but not a disaster.

She'd be careful. Ashcroft need never find out what she was up to. The affair would reach its natural end as all his affairs did, and he'd move on to his next conquest. She'd become a marchioness and create a fulfilling future here with her child.

Simple.

Nothing changed her original arrangement with Lord Burnley. Ashcroft might prove more complex, more compelling, more…
everything
than she'd expected. But that didn't alter her mission. Or the rewards that awaited her if she held her nerve.

The moon was at three-quarters, sailing in a clear sky
above the thick woods that covered the hills behind the Abbey. Not that she needed light to see where she was. She knew this place better than any other in the world. The estate encompassed the geography of her heart.

Joy surging, she leaned out the window and drew a deep, steadying breath of fresh country air. The fragrances of Cranston Abbey filled her senses. Rich earth. Dankness from the lake, low because of the hot weather. Newly cut grass.

But her happiness at her homecoming was for once tarnished. Under the familiar essences, another scent lingered. A scent reminding her she was no longer the woman who had departed through these gates for London. Although she'd washed before leaving Chelsea, traces of Ashcroft's passion clung to her skin and hair. It was like he was still with her.

The deceit she practiced in London seeped down to poison the place that had always been her personal heaven. Would that be the case from now on? Or would the potent magic of Cranston Abbey keep her transgressions at bay?

No matter. Cranston Abbey was worth it.

She repeated the words over and over like a silent prayer as the carriage followed the lime-tree-lined driveway. They rounded the bend in the road, and just as the genius who designed house and grounds had intended, the Abbey sprang into view like a perfect miracle.

However many times she witnessed this marvel, wonder still transfixed her. Down in the valley, the magnificent baroque façade seemed to call a welcome, telling her it missed her, that it wanted to enfold her inside its elegance forever. That she and only she could ensure its well-being.

She'd adored Cranston Abbey all her life, first ignorantly as the bailiff's motherless daughter, cosseted by the denizens of this enchanted kingdom. Only later had she comprehended how lucky she was to be part of this splendor.

When she married William at nineteen, she'd loved him. But if he hadn't been Lord Burnley's secretary and librarian,
tied to the estate, she wondered if she'd have accepted his offer. She'd received several marriage proposals before William's and always refused, claiming her father needed her. Her love for the Abbey was strong, infinite, self-sacrificing, and it had only grown stronger over the years.

But her love had always contained a bitter core.

However she dedicated her life to this beloved place, she could never lay claim to it beyond what her employer allowed. Until Lord Burnley offered a satanic bargain that would give her all she coveted if she compromised every principle.

She'd hardly hesitated.

As she watched the long, symmetrical façade of the house loom closer, she couldn't help thinking she'd made the right choice. She would become the custodian of Cranston Abbey. Her blood would continue forever in this place, her footstep would echo in its corridors, her ghost would haunt its galleries.

Nothing would stop her.

Not lying to a man who showed her only consideration. Not the fermenting guilt that weighted her belly even now as she surveyed the treasure that awaited if she persisted with her quest.

Could she already be pregnant? The idea was impossible to encompass. Yet it was as real as the ebony window frame under her gloved hands.

In agonized tumult, she closed her eyes and relived again the liquid surge of Ashcroft's seed into her womb.
Dear God, let a baby form. Let the child be a boy. Let him grow to be a worthy custodian of the Abbey.

 

Fredericks ushered Diana into the house and down the elaborately painted and gilded halls toward the library. Diana hardly glanced at the images surrounding her. Although she knew every panel. She knew every inch of this estate like a mother knew every feature on her child's face.

It was late, well past midnight. Burnley had summoned her, he'd be waiting. Even old and ill, he exercised despotic power over his domain.

The marquess sat at his desk, a Boulle monstrosity that reputedly had once belonged to Louis XIV. Diana suspected the French king's arrogance hadn't matched Lord Burnley's.

He ignored Diana and studiously completed reading the document before him with eyes that needed no help from spectacles. As she regarded him, she noted the toll of a lifetime of lovelessness, scheming, and acrimony. Lord Burnley had always been considered handsome. No longer. Now the evil in his soul was written on the harshly carved features.

Lamplight was kinder than day, but nothing hid the ravages of disease. Not long ago, he'd been a strong, terrifying figure, a monolithic presence in the lives of his tenants and servants. That was before last year, when fire killed his two sons and their families.

Diana recalled the day when news arrived of the Christmas celebrations that ended so calamitously. The fire had started overnight and engulfed the old manor at Deshayes before the residents could save themselves.

The loss of life had been appalling. Not just Lord Burnley's heirs, but servants and family friends and relatives passing the festive season with the Fanshawes.

That winter, Lord Burnley had conducted one of his periodic feuds with his oldest son. He'd brooded in Cranston Abbey instead of attending the family Christmas.

His absence had saved him.

In spite of the all-encompassing horror of the tragedy, Diana had never seen grief in the old man. She knew the fire had proven a blow to his ambitions. The Fanshawes had held high office since the reign of Henry VII. Suddenly, at the age of seventy-five, Edgar Fanshawe was the last of the direct line. One day, the succession was secure unto the second generation. The next, a distant American cousin, descended from an obscure junior branch, was the closest male heir.
Diana hadn't needed to hear the marquess's derisive dismissal of this fellow to know how that knowledge chafed.

Lord Burnley was proud and amoral and accustomed to shaping obedient destiny. For several months, he'd become a hermit, stewing on his misfortunes. He'd emerged changed, still purposeful and focused, but death had laid its bony hand on him.

Before he departed this world, he intended to make one last desperate attempt to control the future.

Which sparked this Machiavellian plan Diana helped bring to fruition.

Finally, he laid aside the paper. He steepled his long thin fingers and surveyed her out of sharp green eyes that conveyed a complete lack of pleasure.

She straightened and returned his stare. She was always bold with him—strangely, she suspected he respected that quality. It was certainly among the reasons he'd chosen her for this task. That and her fatal longing for Cranston Abbey.

“What do you have to report?” he barked.

So typical he didn't waste time on social niceties. But then, they both knew time was one luxury he no longer had.

She hesitated although she knew what she had to tell him would gain his approval.

Her shyness was absurd. They both knew why she'd gone to London. After what she'd done, she had no right to claim modesty. Still, the words stuck in her tight throat.

She found herself challenging him instead of announcing her triumph. Which felt like no triumph at all. “If you're going to drag me away from London whenever the mood takes you, you risk everything.”

His lips thinned until they almost disappeared. She hid a frisson of fear. He was a devil, Mephistopheles to her Faust. He wouldn't care if he destroyed her in his bid to control Cranston Abbey beyond the grave. This scorpion might be old, but he was still poisonous.

His voice emerged as a growl. “Where did you go this afternoon? My man lost you after you left Chelsea.”

Dismay flooded her although she should have expected this. “You're having me watched?”

He didn't even blink, his eyes lizardlike in the flickering light. “Of course.”

Drawing herself to her full height, she fought the urge to cling to the elaborately carved chair in front of her. It had been a long day, exhausting, emotional, wrenching. Her head felt like it was stuffed full of wool.

He had a right to know where she'd been. It was painful to force the words. “I was with Lord Ashcroft.”

She awaited some expression of approbation. Instead, the old man's eyes sharpened and his rake-thin body braced with quivering tension. “How can I be sure?”

She summoned her courage. Like all predators, if he sensed weakness, he'd attack. “It's too late to decide you don't trust me, my lord.”

“I don't trust anyone.” He tapped his fingers together in front of him without shifting his gaze. “Tell me.”

Betraying color flooded her cheeks, and she stiffened. Surely, this foul old man couldn't expect a detailed description of Ashcroft's technique in bed. “We made love.”

He made a disgusted sound. “He fucked you. Don't pretty up what happened. Did he leave his seed?”

Quivering with humiliation, she swallowed to clear the obstruction in her throat. She should have realized Burnley would subject her to an inquisition. “Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

Her spirit revived and she snapped a reply. “He's a man. We copulated. What else do you need to know?”

“Did you see him unclothed?”

The question was odd, although at least Burnley wasn't asking her to relate each moment of Ashcroft's possession. “Yes.”

A taut silence descended. After a few bristling seconds,
Burnley made another of those impatient sounds. “Well? Speak, girl!”

She spread her hands in confusion. What did Burnley want her to say? “I didn't notice anything unusual. He wasn't deformed.” Perhaps that was behind these questions. The concern some defect would pass to the heir. “But my husband is the only other man I've seen naked. I don't have too many grounds for comparison.”

He scowled and his hands tightened so his bony knuckles shone white. “Most unsatisfactory. Is that all you have to say?”

Helplessly, she stared at the marquess. Lord Burnley's wrath was a terrifying force. She had no wish to provoke it. Especially as she didn't know how she'd incurred his displeasure. She thought he'd be delighted.

Clearly, she'd been wrong.

Her mind scrabbled for a description of Lord Ashcroft's body. The picture was vivid in her mind, as if painted in oils. Her voice faltered as she began. “He's tall, strong, lean. Broad shoulders. Dark hair on his chest but not too much. No scars that I saw.” Then she remembered. “And he has a birthmark on his hip shaped like an oak tree.”

It was as though something sucked the tension from Burnley. He collapsed back in his huge, high-backed chair, and his breath rattled in his dry throat. His talonlike hands relaxed and spread on the green leather blotter before him.

Satisfaction smoothed the deep lines on his face. “Ah.”

Nothing more. Bewilderment filled Diana. “Is the birthmark important?”

“Damned important, you fool girl.” The old man's lips curved in a ghost of a smile.

When she didn't respond, he went on. “It's the Fanshawe mark. Tarquin Vale is indeed my son. And you carry his seed.”