My Reckless Surrender (28 page)

B
urnley's words struck Diana silent as if he produced an ax and brandished it before her.

The child. The child who made her sick every morning. The child who grew relentlessly in her womb. The child resulting from lies and treachery. And breathtaking joy.

Without thinking, she stroked her belly with one hand as if she communicated with the baby. Her father didn't know about her pregnancy. Laura must—the signs were unmistakable if you lived as closely as she did with the other woman—but she hadn't said anything.

Diana hadn't spoken a word about her pregnancy since Ashcroft made that preternatural leap of intuition in the woods. Burnley had avoided the subject when he'd asked her to set a date for the wedding.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She thought if she didn't talk about the baby, the baby wasn't real. When of course the baby was.

Wake up, Diana.

The baby's existence meant she couldn't continue to drift in this dumb, suffering trance, as passive to her future as a steer on its way to slaughter. Soon her future would batter on her door and scream for decisions. Lord Burnley's pres
ence now meant she had to act, had to decide, had to choose some path.

“Yes, there's the child,” she said tonelessly, the admission a defeat.

The old man appeared relaxed, approachable, in a way she'd never seen. Her gaze fastened on the hand that held his stick. He might sound at ease, but his grip was painfully tight. His hand was thin and clawlike, nearly transparent. Like something that already belonged to death, not life.

“You believe I did you a great wrong,” he said heavily, when she didn't continue.

Questions of good and evil weren't the usual topic between her and the marquess. She cast him a startled glance, but he stared at the magnificent house, just as she had.

Whatever the state of his soul, hers was too black to endure another lie. “No, I did the wrong myself.”

Through the sleepless nights, she'd had ample opportunity to assign blame. Some essential honesty made her recognize that her own weakness had brought her to this pass. Lord Burnley could never have coaxed her into bartering her virtue if she hadn't been flawed to begin with.

“You imagine yourself in love with that worthless blackguard.” Burnley sounded irritated, as if she'd let him down by falling prey to emotion. She supposed she had. “I should have considered the possibility, but you've always been a woman of remarkable good sense.”

“Good sense hasn't marked my actions recently, my lord,” she said dryly. She had no intention of acknowledging her feelings to Burnley.

“He's an eminently forgettable fellow.”

Oh, how wrong he was to dismiss Tarquin Vale. The awful irony was Burnley couldn't see he'd produced a son to be proud of. Handsome, strong, intelligent, and with a surprisingly firm grasp on principle for someone universally touted as a conscienceless rake. Ashcroft had always been so much more than she bargained for.

Not that she deluded herself that Ashcroft was any plaster saint. He was used to getting his own way, he was spoiled, he was stubborn, and he certainly hadn't stinted his sensual explorations.

Faults certainly. Not irredeemable ones.

He was still far too good for her. That was tragically apparent. Had been apparent from the first if she'd used her eyes and not let her own ambition and Burnley's prejudice against his only remaining child blind her.

“Hard to forget him when I carry his baby,” she said with a bite.

She waited for Burnley to protest, at her rudeness if at nothing else. He remained silent.

When he did speak, he surprised her. Although she should have guessed where this conversation headed. Her slowness in realizing what he was up to was just another symptom of her abiding misery. She wasn't usually so dozy when it came to Burnley's manipulations.

“I want you to think of the child as mine. I already do.”

Dismay held her motionless. He couldn't mean to renew his suit. She'd refused him. Categorically.

“Lord Burnley…” she stammered when she summoned breath to speak.

The hand on the stick clenched until the knuckles rose hard and round against the skin. “Listen to what I have to say, Diana.”

“I can't marry you,” she said flatly.

She turned to face him. His eyes burned in his worn face. Green eyes. Like his son's. The blazing glare made it impossible to look away.

“Consider the facts. You've achieved exactly what you set out to do. You seduced the scoundrel, you bring Cranston Abbey an heir of the direct line. All this because you love the house.”

Once she had, but she'd changed. Now she'd gladly con
sign every stone in the Abbey to Hades in return for one glimpse of the man she loved. “I…”

He gestured with his free hand to silence her. “You're the perfect guardian of this heritage. A heritage your child can hold, completely, legally, without question. Your blood will walk these halls, your blood will own this land, your blood will join the glorious line of Fanshawes. Doesn't that make your heart leap? I thought you the only woman in the world who could focus on the end rather than fretting over the means. What's happened to your ambition?”

“Lies and deception smothered it,” she said, still in that flinty voice.

Burnley made a contemptuous sound. “Sheer rot, woman. You're not thinking clearly. You haven't thought clearly since you met that damned degenerate.”

She lurched to her feet. This was torture. Although she should have been prepared. Burnley never gave up on what he wanted, and he wanted an heir for the Abbey. Which meant he wanted her for his wife.

“Stop it,” she said sharply. “I won't listen. You're like the devil, twisting facts until I can't tell right from wrong.”

Anger glinted in his eyes. “You dare to speak to me with such insolence?”

“I dare.”

Surprisingly, his thin lips stretched in a smile. His eyes sparked with admiration. “What a marchioness you'll make. That's the spirit I've always seen in you. Not this moping coward.”

His compliments gave her no pleasure. “I won't be your marchioness.”

She waited for an explosion, but he sent her a serious look. “You're still not thinking straight, Diana.”

“Aren't I?” she asked with a hint of challenge.

What right did he have to prod and pick? She wanted to be left alone to seek perdition her own way. Floating with
out complaint toward oblivion. She didn't like the way Lord Burnley awoke her temper. It meant she felt. And feeling hurt like an amputation without opium.

“It's absurd. You've endured the worst.” He straightened, and briefly he was the man who had ruled the estate like a despotic king. “Now you won't accept the reward you've worked so hard to attain. Ashcroft won't give a fig what you do. Believe me, you humiliated him. He won't come for you. Even if he did, even if he was weakling enough to forgive you, he'd offer you nothing better than a role as his temporary mistress. When he's had his fill, degraded you completely, he'll pass you on to some other rogue. It's not a fate you'll relish, my dear. The heat of Ashcroft's passion is fleeting as a candle's. It won't warm you for long.”

“I know there's no future with Ashcroft,” she said dully, wishing she could argue. Burnley only reiterated what she'd told herself in the lonely watches of so many tear-drenched nights.

“If you reject me, what future do you have, apart from disgrace and ruin? You're going to bear a child. Don't you think that child would rather be brought up as the Marquess of Burnley than as a pauper drab's bastard?”

His questions smarted. Because much as she hated him, she had to acknowledge he was right. She had more than herself to consider. There was a baby.

Burnley must have scented his advantage because he went on more emphatically. “And what about your father and Miss Smith? Do you think they'll appreciate losing the roof over their heads because of your fine sense of ethical imperatives?”

“Would you…” She couldn't bear to finish the question.

The smile developed an edge of superiority, became more what she was used to. “I can't offer employment to a woman who bears a child out of wedlock. And her family shares the scandal. I have my tenants' moral welfare to consider.”

The foul mongrel. He'd tried the velvet gloves, now it was the iron fist.

Helplessly, she cast around for something to counter what he said. There was nothing. He was cruel, but he spoke the truth.

Even if Burnley meant to keep her father on, how could she bear growing round with Ashcroft's offspring under the judgmental gaze of the villagers? The thought was too crushing to bear. She was such a hypocrite, but being publicly labeled a slut was more than she could countenance.

“You're blackmailing me.”

“I'm merely pointing out the realities.”

“And the realities fall right into your lap,” she responded acidly.

“I offer the protection of my name. I offer my fortune and home. I offer your unborn child a secure future. You'll have a generous allowance and more freedom than most married women dream of. Soon you'll be a rich widow. It's clear to both of us I'm not going to last much longer.” He spoke carelessly, although the hand tightened on his stick, indicative of the private battles he'd fought with his mortality.

“It's wrong to marry you.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Even as his ruthless logic lashed at her like a whip.

She had a child to worry about. She was responsible for her father and Laura. Reconciliation with Ashcroft was impossible. For herself, she'd send Burnley to the devil. She was young and healthy and could surely make her way. But this decision wasn't for her alone.

Burnley continued in that same adamant, utterly certain voice. “Will your child agree when he learns he could have been a master of the kingdom, rich, respected, powerful, and instead he's a nameless guttersnipe without two pennies to rub together?”

It was unquestionably true.

The awful tragedy was Lord Burnley offered her everything she'd once thought she wanted. Now she didn't want any of it.

My son may.

The voice came from deep inside. She couldn't deny its brutal veracity.

Her child deserved a future. Undoubtedly a future as Burnley's heir was a better bet than anything she'd supply in the harsh, unforgiving world. She waited for Burnley to harangue, to persuade, to overplay his hand so she could summon her temper and refuse him.

Canny weasel he was, he remained silent.

His green eyes studied her. As if he tracked each thought trudging through her mind and lodging, unwelcome, in her grieving heart.

Still, she resisted inevitable surrender. It was wrong to give herself into this man's keeping when another man possessed her soul.

That other man could never be hers.

Only now did she acknowledge that despite the dictates of reason, a tiny, stubborn trace of hope had lingered that Ashcroft would forgive her. That he'd return to Marsham and beg her once more to marry him. Gallop up on a white charger like a knight of old and sweep her into his arms and tell her everything would be well.

She almost smiled at the fatuous image, even while her heart split finally in two. Drawing in a deep breath, she glanced toward the empty horizon as if checking one last time whether her knight rode to her rescue.

She stared straight at Lord Burnley. “I'll marry you, my lord.”

 

Shaking, Ashcroft collapsed into the chair behind his desk. He gasped like a landed trout and sweat covered his skin.

“Hell…” he breathed as dizzying pain racked his body.

It was late. Around midnight. Autumn chill tinged the air
and a fire burned in the grate. His butler, bloody old woman, had looked askance when Ashcroft had ordered the library set up for work tonight.

Perhaps his butler had a point. Just getting downstairs had tested Ashcroft to the limits of endurance. He battled the craven impulse to ring for someone to carry him straight back to his bed. He'd been trapped in this house for two months now. Unless he took his convalescence into his own hands, he feared he'd be trapped here forever.

He'd thought his fitness returned. He'd thought he was ready to tackle the stairs. And after the stairs, perhaps tomorrow a stroll in the square.

He was wrong.

With an unsteady hand, he poured a glass of brandy, spilling a few drops on the desk and clinking the decanter against the crystal glass. He swallowed the spirits in one gulp, feeling it sear a path to his belly.

His cracked ribs had healed, as had his broken arm. But his leg had been badly smashed in the savage beating at Marsham and clearly still wasn't strong enough to carry him far. Disappointment dug deep. He couldn't bear much more lying around on his back, with nothing to do but stew about Diana Carrick and how she'd played him for a complete clodpate.

His doctors were astonished that he'd survived at all. But then his doctors didn't know what a tonic incendiary rage offered. Some days, he swore if he as much as saw the traitorous witch, he'd wring her neck.

Other days, his yearning for her was so strong, he'd take her to bed. Then he'd wring her neck.

He preferred the anger. The anger was powerful, energizing, righteous. The yearning left him feeling like a dog starving in a gutter.

Tonight, before he'd come downstairs, he'd dreamed of her. That was nothing new. She'd haunted his delirium from the moment Burnley's bullies had tossed him across his
own doorstep like a handful of rubbish. Through his slow recovery, her mocking, deceitful shade had been a constant presence.

He'd give up his hope of becoming a whole man if only he could banish her beautiful, lying ghost forever.

The desk was piled high with bundles of post. More were stacked on the tables against the walls. On doctors' orders, his correspondence and newspapers had been kept from him. But it was more than time he took charge of his responsibilities. Surely once he occupied his mind, Diana's memory would fade. He'd no longer spend every waking hour, and most of his sleeping ones, hating her almost as much as he hungered for her.