Scandalous Love (39 page)

She existed, but that
was all. She took each day moment by moment, keeping her mind blessedly blank
or thoroughly occupied with mundane chores. She dared not think of him, she
dared not feel. The heartbreak lurked within her, threatening to erupt. She had
dared to hope, she had dared to dream. For the briefest of times, it had seemed
as if her dreams would come true. And that made his betrayal impossible to
bear. The grief that lay buried deeply and solidly within her was so immense
she knew she must not ever uncap it.

And he had not even
tried to stop her. He had let her go without the slightest hesitation. She was
so unimportant to him that he had not even fought for her.

Nicole dared not allow
such knowledge to slip into her conscious thoughts.

At the end of the week
Regina appeared. Nicole had known it would only be a matter of time before her
family learned of her whereabouts. Nicole was glad to see her, but she was also
afraid to see her.

"What have you
done!" Regina cried, never one to beat around the bush. "Nicole, you
had better think about what you are doing!"

Nicole had a flashing
remembrance. She recalled how Regina had last seen her when she had come to
visit her at Clayborough with Jane and Martha. Nicole recalled exactly how she
was dressed, right down to the last detail of the tiny pearl studs she wore in
her ears, just as she recalled exactly how she had been feeling. She had been
on a sky-high cloud, in an impossible state of ecstasy, she had been in love.

She closed her eyes,
hugging herself, fighting for control. She found it.

"Please, Regina, do
not even bring the topic of my marriage up. It is over. I am never going
back."

"You fool! You
fool! What could he have possibly done to make you behave so stupidly! A few
weeks ago you were ecstatically happy and madly in love!"

Nicole managed to smile
at her sister. "Are you returning to London soon? Are you still seeing
Lord Hortense?"

Regina blinked.
"Don't change the subject!"

Nicole was instantly
angry. "Don't badger me! It is my life! If he cared at all he would come
after me—goddamn him to hell!"

Regina was shocked.

And Nicole had almost
allowed herself to feel the immensity of the grief which she did not want to
feel. She buried her face in her hands. Regina suddenly moved to her and
embraced her.

"I am sorry,"
her sister whispered. "You are right, it is your life. It is only that I
love you so and I want you to be happy." She released her.

Nicole wiped away a tear
and managed to nod. "What would I do without you? And without Martha?
Please, please, be my ally. Please don't take his side."

Regina bit her lip. Her
expression very serious and very concerned, she finally nodded in agreement.
"Do you want to tell me what has happened?"

"No." Nicole
took a deep breath, then managed a smile. "There, I feel much better. And
as soon as I put this marriage completely behind me, I will be a new person. I
will return to Dragmore. My life will be exactly as it used to be—and I will be
as happy as I used to be." Her smile was too bright.

Regina looked at her
sadly. "And how are you ever going to put
him
behind you?"

Nicole did not dare
answer the question honestly, much less consider it. "I imagine a man as
powerful as he shall be able to obtain a divorce posthaste."

"A divorce!"

Nicole nodded.
"This marriage was a mistake from the start. I have sent him a letter,
asking him for a divorce."

He reread the letter.
Not for the second time or the third or the fourth. He had read it so many
times that he knew its contents by heart. Again, the words blurred. The tears
were of both joy and sorrow.
Dear God, he had a son.

Dear Sir,

I am the son of Isobel
de Warenne Braxton-Lowell. I can only hope that, despite the passage of so many
years, you do remember my mother and what once transpired between you. Recently
she confided in me. I was as shocked as I am sure you shall be, for she not
only revealed to me that she had known you so long ago, but that you are my
natural father. I hope to find you alive and well and to make your
acquaintance, at your convenience of course. Such a meeting can take place upon
the soil of your homeland, or mine. Until then, Sincerely,

Hadrian de Warenne
Braxton-Lowell, the ninth Duke of Clayborough

He folded the worn
letter carefully for it was already beginning to tear, and tucked it in the
inside breast pocket of his suit.

He had a son.

Although it was weeks
now since Hadrian Stone had first received the miraculous news that he had a
son, he could not recover from the discovery. He was still overwhelmed by the
knowledge of his son's existence.

His son—who was hoping
to meet him.

Hadrian Stone could
barely wait for that day himself.

As always, his thoughts
were preoccupied with that one topic, his son. Stone's speculation ran rampant.
The letter's tone was so formal and so proper that he could not put a face to
the words it contained, or emotions. Was his son being proper in addressing him
as a stranger— which indeed he was—or was he being cautious? Was he enthused to
meet him, or just curious, even dismayed? Perhaps he was even angry. His son
was the ninth Duke of Clayborough. It was apparent that, until recently, he had
thought the eighth duke to be his father. Would he not be angry? Perhaps he
even felt threatened. Hadrian Stone only knew a few British lords, but he knew
how they set a great store on their blue blood and titles, and it was quite
obvious that his son's title could now be easily challenged by brothers,
cousins, uncles or any sort of distant male kin.

But for whatever reason,
his son had requested a meeting, either in America or in London. Stone had not
even bothered with a reply. He had jumped aboard the first ship setting sail
for England the very day he had received the missive at his home in Boston.

He stared at the jumbled
London skyline as it came into view, the iron-clad ship moving with little
grace up the Thames under steam. It was a chill gray day and it was drizzling,
but Hadrian Stone was used to inclement weather and he was barely aware of the
cold or the dampness. He tugged at his tie, feeling uncomfortably restricted by
it and the suit he was wearing. He had probably not worn a suit more than a
dozen times in all of his sixty years.

The joy almost choked
him. It came over him in a hot tide, abruptly and completely, as it did so
often.
He had a son. His son was the Duke of Clayborough.
It was a dream
that had come true.

He had no children. He
had never married. Only once in his life had he ever wanted to marry, had he
ever loved a woman enough to want to many. But that was long ago, far in the
past. His regrets were few, for he was not an introspective man, being a man of
action, but he had always regretted not having children, and recently the
yearning had become more intense.

And now he had a son. A
son who had, like himself, just learned of his existence. Again, Stone wondered
what he would be like. Was he too proud or too proper to reveal any of his
feelings in a letter to the stranger who was his real father? Hadrian Stone was
a very proud man also, but he knew when to eat his pride and he always had. On
the other hand, he wasn't the least bit interested in decorum. Stone did not
have a formal bone in his body, but from the tone of the letter, he was
starting to suspect that his son had more than one.

He could not imagine his
son being proper, or worse, a straight-laced blue-blooded Brit. Yet there would
be many more vast differences between them. Stone was a man who had built up a
shipping empire from nothing but sheer determination, with nothing but an iron
will and his own two strong calloused hands. Those who met him would never
guess he was a successful business magnate. When he was at his offices he worked
in his shirtsleeves like any common clerk, his manner open and familiar—
although he was quick to temper should those working for him fail to do their
best. Whenever he could, he abandoned his offices to captain one of his ships
to a distant port. His love for the sea had begun when he was a small boy—at
thirteen he had first shipped out. He had never been a man to be chained for
very long to a desk. He had always been a man of the outdoors, of the sea. The
sea was his life, his love.

Stone tried to prepare
himself for the inevitable. His son was not just aristocracy, but a duke. Stone
did not have to know anything about him to know that he had probably never
lifted a finger in his life in labor or for himself. It was very hard for Stone
to come to terms with this. Not only had he reached the top but he had done so
by coming from the bottom, by not being afraid of any form of hard labor. He
must honestly face the distinct probability that his son had never raised an
honest sweat in his life. Stone was resolved not to judge him for it, even if
his son openly disdained the work ethic.

But would his son judge
him?

He prayed that it was
only polite formality he had discerned in his son's letter—not cool
indifference or haughty snobbery. But the question was there, one that had
haunted him from the moment he had learned of his son's title.
Would his son
be able to accept him, a simple hardworking man who saw himself as a sea
captain?

His stomach lurched at
the thought. He had been afraid of very little in his life, but he was afraid
of his son's rejection of him. He was afraid his son would look down his nose
at him. He had met enough nobly born men, whether British or European, to know
that they saw themselves as superior to the common man—that they were snobs.

As much as he anxiously
awaited their meeting, he dreaded it, too.

And he was quick to
blame the circumstances on Isobel. Had he known he had a son, he would have
claimed him, and rightly so. The boy would not have grown up in the salons of
the rich British upper classes, he would have grown up on the decks of
seafaring ships. He would have learned the value of hard work, and to be proud
of himself for himself, not because of some damned title.

But it wasn't to be.
Because of Isobel,
who had denied him his son.
Isobel, who had deceived
him for all of these years.

Rage engulfed him.

For all of these years,
she had denied him his son. Isobel was the only woman he had ever loved. He had
not understood her notion of duty and loyalty, he had not understood how she
could really love him and leave him to go back to her husband, although, God
knew, he had tried his best to comprehend her. Yet his love for her had never
wavered. Not in nearly thirty years, despite the anguish, despite the
heartbreak. Until now.

She had denied him his
son.
She
was not the woman he had thought her to be for all these years. She was
self-serving and dishonest. She had deceived him. Purposefully, she had kept
the fact of his son's existence from him.
She had denied him his son.
It
was the bottom line. He could not get past it. Rage burned in his heart where
once there had been love. He would never forget, and he would never forgive.

The moment the Duke read
his wife's short, blunt letter— the moment he comprehended her request for a
divorce— all of his carefully exerted control vanished. With a roar he tore the
note to shreds and shouted for his horse.

He was well aware of the
fury consuming him, well aware that this was not how he should be reacting, but
it was too late. All the control which he had exercised since she had left him
was gone. Anger pumped through his veins until he felt nothing else, and he
welcomed it.

He chose to ride
Ruffian, the fastest mount in his stables. He rode with one burning ambition,
and that was to reach Cobley House before the next dawn. Yet after the first
crazed moments as he galloped away from Clayborough he slowed, regaining his
sanity. Although adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he was astute
enough to know that to kill his mount in a madcap ride would not only be an
action he would later regret, it would not get him to Sussex any faster.

To hell with his pride,
he thought savagely. She was his wife, and he would never, ever give her a
divorce. Nor would he allow her to continue this nonsensical game. If he had to
drag her back to Clayborough unwillingly, so be it. If she wanted to sulk and
resort to feminine vapors, so be it. But she could sulk and pout at
Clayborough— where she belonged.

Because he was not
giving her up.

He had had enough.

When Hadrian arrived at
Cobley House, it was several hours past first light. Both he and his stallion
were covered in mud and soaked to the bone from sweat and rain. He was
traveling alone, with no fanfare, and when the butler opened the Serles' front
door he was not recognized. The man did not invite him in, but barred his path.

Hadrian wiped his face
again with a muddy handkerchief. Ignoring the butler, he stepped around him and
into the foyer, dripping mud and rain upon the gleaming parquet floor.

"See here, now,"
the butler protested. "You cannot be barging in—"

"Where is my
wife?" Hadrian ground out.

The butler froze.

The sanity which had
returned to him the day before in the course of the long, exhausting ride was
gone. Cold, hard anger was in its place, and with it, glittering resolve.
"My wife," Hadrian repeated. "The Duchess of Clayborough."

The butler paled.
"Your Grace, forgive me! I did not know—I mean ..." He grew even
whiter under Hadrian's unrelenting, increasingly hostile stare. "She is in
the guest room upstairs on the second floor. Her door is the first one on the
right!"

Hadrian whirled, his
greatcoat floating around him like a big black winged creature, and he bounded
up the stairs. He did not pause before her door. Without missing a stride, he
kicked it in off of its hinges and entered the room.

Nicole screamed. She was
dressed only in a silvery blue nightgown and wrapper, and she had been sipping
hot chocolate in bed. The chocolate spilled across the pristine white sheets,
the cup tumbling to the floor. She sat up in sheer fright, then grew very white
as comprehension of the very real presence of her husband filled her.

"I have come to
take you home."

Nicole gripped the
bedcovers. She was momentarily speechless.

Hadrian smiled, not
nicely. He flung open a door to the armoire, revealing her neatly hung clothes.
He tore a dress off of one hanger and threw it at her. It fell across her legs.
"Get dressed."

Nicole came to her
senses. "How dare you! Get out! Get out now!"

"I did not come
here to argue with you, Madam Wife," he gritted. "You do not have to
dress at all. The choice is yours."

Nicole kicked the dress
to the floor, kicking aside the bedcovers in the process. "I am not going
with you. Get out now. You cannot force me."

Hadrian laughed.
"You underestimate me, Madam." An instant later he was reaching for
her.

Nicole screamed again
when he grabbed her. Her screams became even louder—enough to wake the dead—
when she realized what he was doing. She writhed like a banshee as Hadrian
slung her upside down over his shoulder with no more care than he would have
given a sack of feed.

"Let me go! Let me
down! This instant!" She howled furiously.

"I have had
enough," he warned, and he smacked her hard across her thinly clad
buttocks.

Nicole went silent in shock.
Hadrian strode into the hall. He came face to face with his wife's hosts.
Martha was white, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide. However, the
Viscount was trying not to smile.