My Reckless Surrender (12 page)

D
esperately, Diana searched the old man's face for some resemblance to the son who'd proven such a generous and passionate lover. As always, she found no likeness, apart from perhaps the green eyes. Eyes that right now sparked with something approximating joy, if Satan could feel such a positive emotion.

Perhaps Ashcroft instead resembled his wayward mother. The lady who had presented another man's child to her husband as heir to the Vale estates and titles.

When Burnley had told her about Ashcroft's parentage, he'd been remarkably close-lipped about the countess. He'd snapped Diana down when she'd asked about the woman who had given birth to his bastard son.

The marquess lifted a bell on the desk and rang it sharply. Immediately, Fredericks entered, officious as ever. “Yes, my lord?”

Burnley made a sweeping gesture. “Wine.” He returned his attention to Diana. “Sit, girl.”

Blinking with astonishment at this acknowledgment she was human, she subsided into a chair. In truth, her legs were close to giving out. She felt so tired, she could hardly speak. “Thank you.”

She accepted a glass of claret from Fredericks and sipped, but the fine vintage tasted acrid on her tongue. Everything tasted acrid right now. She knowingly deceived Lord Ashcroft, so she couldn't claim any particular morality, but she loathed Burnley's crowing triumph.

The man she used was worth a million of her coconspirator.

Her coconspirator had what she wanted, God help her.

Burnley took a gulp of wine as Fredericks left with a discreet bow. The liquor couldn't be good for the marquess's health, but she forbore commenting. He was old and sick. He was welcome to what pleasures remained. She just wished those pleasures didn't include his gloating satisfaction.

“I take my hat off to you. I didn't believe you'd do it.”

She didn't find his admiration gladdening. After tasting her wine, she set it down on the desk. She felt sick and light-headed. Tiredness, she told herself, although she knew most of her malaise stemmed from self-disgust and a long, hard sexual session after many chaste years.

When she didn't speak, Burnley's tone became aggrieved. “I would think you'd be happy. If your womb quickens, you're set for life. Don't tell me you're having second thoughts. Not when you finally faced the fence and jumped it.”

Second thoughts. And third and fourth thoughts into the thousands. She couldn't reveal her conscience's writhing discomfort. It would be like speaking the King's English to a Mongolian nomad. Burnley had no acquaintance with scruples.

“If I get with child, I'll become your wife,” she said dully.

He slammed his hand on the desk in a brief return to the vigorous man she remembered. “Damn you, chit. If our plan works, you'll be a marchioness with guardianship of the heir and control of this estate until the boy reaches his majority.”

“It mightn't be a boy,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time since he'd broached this scheme.

However he chose to ride roughshod over her uncertain
ties, Lord Burnley's ambitions faced enormous stumbling blocks. “If it's a girl, you'll still be rich beyond your wildest dreams. And the girl gets all my property that's not entailed.”

“I mightn't get pregnant.”

He glowered. “You're damned gloomy for a woman with a fortune in her sights. Don't forget, it's not just you in the lap of luxury, but your father and that Gypsy slut as well.”

She liked to tell herself her father's future had weighed heavily in her decision to cooperate with Lord Burnley. But in her heart, she knew it was the lure of this house that made her betray everything she believed in.

She still remembered her astonished elation when Burnley suggested the scheme. The interview had been awkward, difficult. A man who never admitted weakness had to explain he was riddled with cancer, and one irreversible effect of the disease was impotence.

At last, she'd comprehended Burnley's deep anger since the fire. It wasn't sadness for so many lives lost. It was frustration that he was in no position to spawn a new heir.

To secure the succession with a child of his blood, he needed a woman willing to whore herself to his bastard son. The bastard son Burnley despised and who remained ignorant of his heritage. The woman had to be of otherwise unimpeachable virtue and discretion because once she fell pregnant, she'd become Lady Burnley.

His bailiff's widowed daughter was perfect on all counts.

God help her, she'd agreed within a day. Presented with the promise of taking over the running of Cranston Abbey, she couldn't say no.

Weak, greedy Diana.

But the risks had seemed so minor and the rewards so princely. As marchioness, Diana had no ambitions to cut a figure in society. Instead, she intended to live quietly, raising her son to love the estate as she did. After all, the Abbey would be his when he turned twenty-one.

The chances of running into Lord Ashcroft once the affair ended were minimal. He'd have no reason to assume the child she gave Lord Burnley was his.

Unless he calculated the months…

Unless he was suspicious…

Unless the child looked like him…

Before she'd met him, she'd assumed Lord Ashcroft wouldn't care about eventual consequences. She'd since discovered he cared deeply. After today, one thing was starkly clear. If he ever found out she'd deceived him and stolen his child, he'd be furious.

Burnley watched her with his reptilian regard. “Does he want to see you again?”

“Yes.”

“The ruffian is a connoisseur of the petticoat brigade. You have hidden talents, Mrs. Carrick.” He spoke the last words with a sarcastic edge as if reminding her she'd lost any claim to virtue.

She hardly noticed. He couldn't castigate her more than she castigated herself. Her honor was gone. She could never claim it back.

“Don't wait long.” Burnley shifted in his chair and fleeting pain contorted his face. “The more he uses you, the more likely his seed takes. We can't assume once is enough.”

She cringed at his frankness although she should be accustomed to it. His plan wasn't that different to mating a prize sow to get a litter of fat piglets.

With every moment, the old man looked more drained as his elation faded. His assertion that she didn't have long to achieve her aim wasn't his usual bullying. It was true.

If she was any judge, Edgar Fanshawe would claim his seat in hell well before winter.

Timing was everything.

In a little over three weeks, she should know if she was pregnant. Otherwise, she'd have to wait into September. After that, the fashionable hordes returned to London. Her
chances of concealing her scandalous liaison would diminish. She also acknowledged the undeniable risk that Lord Ashcroft would tire of her. She might have decided he possessed unexpected qualities, but facts spoke for themselves—he never stayed with a woman long.

“I'll return to London in the morning,” she said, rising. “I'd like to see my father before I go.”

“If you must.” Burnley paused to catch his failing breath.

She didn't like this man, she feared him, she knew how cold and manipulative he was. But simple humanity made her protest that he sat up working when he needed his bed. “My lord, why don't you rest?”

He scowled, his eyes filmy. “We're not damn well married yet, girl. Save your nagging until there's a ring on your finger.”

She should have known she wasted her concern. “Your pardon, my lord.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “And when you get back to London, wring Ashcroft dry.”

 

The next morning, Diana appeared at the door of the study in the neat little house where she'd grown up. Familiar scents overwhelmed her. Paper. Ink. Her father's old spaniel Rex. The dog raised his head from the rug before the unlit hearth and banged his tail in welcome.

John Dean dictated a letter to Ezra Brown, the young man from the Abbey staff whom Burnley supplied as assistant in Diana's absence. Sun poured through the open casement window behind her father, lighting him like a saint in a devotional painting.

The young man had his back to the door and didn't realize he was under observation. Her father, however, tilted his grizzled head and directed his gaze to exactly where she stood. She was used to this immediate awareness of what went on around him although she knew it disconcerted strangers.

“Diana?” His soft voice was warm with pleasure, and his face lit with expectation.

“Yes, Papa.” She stepped into the room as the secretary turned in surprise. He was a shy young man who reminded her of William before she'd married him. “You look well.”

It wasn't completely true. Her father looked tired and harried. And the stacks of paper on his desk were considerably higher than they'd been before she left. She'd already noticed the air of neglect the house wore in Laura's absence. The knowledge only added another layer to the suppurating guilt that had become Diana's constant companion.

Her father stood and stepped unerringly around the desk, opening his arms wide. “Daughter, I'm glad you're back.”

She'd sneaked into the house and slept in her room for the few remaining hours of the night. After the decadent splendor of Lord Peregrine's house or even the more modest luxuries of Chelsea, the narrow cot had seemed incongruously innocent.

For all her exhaustion, she'd tossed and turned, and disturbing, difficult dreams shattered what scraps of slumber she snatched. Most involved Lord Ashcroft banishing her from his life, contempt darkening his lean face.

Eventually, she'd lain awake listening to the familiar sounds of home. The faint creak of the house as it settled. The chirp of a night bird. The distant bustle of their two servants starting work before dawn.

Every sound insisted she no longer belonged in this haven of safety.

She'd risen early to alert the staff to her presence. She'd told them not to let her father know she was here. They'd been puzzled, but they'd obeyed. While her father might be titular head of the household, Diana had been mistress since long before her marriage.

She'd eaten in her room, then dressed in one of her old gowns. It too felt unfamiliar, and her eyes, freshly accus
tomed to fashionable clothes, immediately recognized that the dress was cheap and worn.

Now she rushed into her father's embrace. His arms closed around her with the unconditional love she'd known since she was a little girl.

If he learned of the evil she did, would he greet her with affection? She buried the troubling thought as she buried her head in his shoulder. Hot tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. The arms she snaked around his waist returned his hug with unusual fervor. She tried to draw on his strength as she had so often.

Awareness of her sins prevented her taking comfort from her father's presence.

He was the one who broke away. Diana straightened her spine and battled for composure. She summoned every acting skill. He'd immediately divine the slightest hint of distress or falsehood.

She'd considered not seeing him. But the gossip mills at the big house would soon alert him to her visit. If she didn't look in on him, he'd worry.

He worried anyway. As was clear from the frowning, fond glance he leveled on her. “I've missed you, child.”

“I'm so glad to see you, Papa.”

Most days they worked closely. She might be bailiff in all but name, but he was still a source of advice and wisdom and experience. She suffered a pang of nostalgia for the busy, worthwhile, honest life that had been hers until she left for London. She also missed her father, his integrity and his sweetness and his endless trust in her.

A trust she no longer deserved, she was grimly aware.

John Dean directed a glance toward his secretary. “Ezra here is a worthy substitute, but you and I are such a team.”

“I hope he isn't working you too hard, Mr. Brown.” She made herself smile at the young man.

Brown blushed and stood with an eager expression. She'd
long ago realized Ezra Brown harbored a tendre for her. She'd thought he'd grow out of it, but he never had.

“He's taught me a great deal, Mrs. Carrick, even in this short time. I'll be sorry to return to my work at the Abbey.”

She deliberately made her tone light, as if she spoke of unimportant matters. “You won't be going back just yet, Mr. Brown. I'm only here to collect a few belongings. I'm for London this morning.”

In a few minutes if his lordship's carriage arrived on time. She'd delayed this meeting until the last possible moment so her father couldn't quiz her.

Her belly clenched with anguish as she watched disappointment shadow her father's expression. “Must you? There's work here. Work only you can do.”

How typical he wouldn't mention that her absence left him lonely and lost, rattling around this house like a pea inside a box. She'd even taken Laura away.

Mr. Brown ducked his head, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing as if he scented an argument in the offing. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Dean. I'll find Mr. Parker and ask about the lumber for the west wing.”

“Yes, yes,” her father agreed with a hint of impatience.

John Dean was the kindest of men. The edge in his tone indicated that his assistant wasn't everything he'd hoped.

When they were alone, Diana forced herself to persevere with the story she and the marquess had agreed upon what felt like so long ago, although it was only a matter of weeks. Disconcerting to think subterfuge had completely altered her life in that short time.

“Lady Kelso is most insistent I return.” She hoped her father wouldn't hear the lie. “Lord Burnley wrote to say he appreciated my efforts.”

Her father looked unconvinced. “Why should Lady Kelso care whether a stranger does her bidding? What are you and Laura to Lady Kelso? You waste your time in London, Diana. And I…need you.”