Scandalous Love (42 page)

Stone smiled. He
realized he was no longer anxious or afraid, not at all. To the contrary, his
heart was ripe to bursting with love for his only child. His feelings were so
consuming they left him breathless. He had never dreamed one could feel like
this. "As long as I am welcome."

"You will always be
welcome here."

Stone's heart soared. He
looked at his son and saw the faint blush on his cheek and instinctively
understood how hard it was for him to be so frank, so soon. "Thank
you."

"There is no reason
to thank me. You are my father. You will always be welcome here," Hadrian
repeated firmly.

A new thought which
Stone had not really considered made him grow somber. "Does not my
relationship with you endanger your position?"

Hadrian looked amused,
he lifted a brow. "Ahh, I see. My position as the Duke? No, it does
not."

"But how is that
possible?"

"Isobel was made a
legitimate heir to Clayborough when she married Francis. Her father, the Earl
of Northumberland, is a very shrewd man. I do have many cousins who would love
to see me dethroned, so to speak, who would love to challenge Jonathan
Braxton-Lowell's will. But it will not come to that. Not because I covet power
or position—which I do not. Not because I love Clayborough and would be loathe
to give it up—which I would be. But because, no matter how important it is to
me that you are my father, it is more important to me that Mother's reputation
remain intact. The truth about our relationship can never be revealed. For if
it were to be revealed, I would deny it to protect her. And should I deny it,
no one would dare to pursue the matter."

"I see." Stone
was not disappointed, although a part of him would have dearly loved to claim
Hadrian Braxton-Lowell as his son. Instead he was proud almost to the point of
tears of his son's fierce, unwavering loyalty and sense of honor. Yet he thought
that there had been a warning in Hadrian's tone. "I admire you,
Hadrian," he said quietly. "And I am proud of the man you are. I did
not come here to claim you publicly or to disrupt your life. You need not worry
on that score."

"I know,"
Hadrian said, equally serious. "I know without your having to tell me. You
are not vengeful, you are not a fortune hunter, you are not petty. I do not
need to know you better to know all of that." And with rare humor, the
Duke of Clayborough smiled. "You may be an American, but you are a man of
honor."

And Hadrian Stone
laughed.

Isobel wondered what
could be so urgent. It had been several hours past suppertime the night before
that she had received an urgent summons from her son, requesting her to meet
with him the following morning at Clayborough. Isobel was worried; she assumed
the summons had something to do with his wife. What else could it be? What else
could possibly be so important?

Of course she would
never ignore such a request. She had risen with the sun and set out for
Clayborough an hour later. When she arrived at the ducal estate, it was still
early morning. She nearly flew into the house.

"His Grace is still
dining, Your Grace," Woodward informed her.

Isobel blinked. Hadrian
never took such a late breakfast—it was half past nine—and she could not
imagine why he was doing so now. Her worry increased. "Is the Duchess with
him?" She was almost afraid to ask, but hoping beyond hope that she was.

"No, Your Grace,
the Duchess is still abed."

Isobel almost swooned
with relief. "So then she has returned!" she cried happily.

For a rare moment,
Woodward also smiled. "Indeed she has. We are all most pleased, Your
Grace. Although she did not exactly return."

Isobel had known
Woodward for too long to be surprised that he would volunteer information she
did not ask for; obviously he wished to tell her something. "What do you
mean?"

"His Grace brought
her back."

From Woodward's barely
suggestive intonation, Isobel surmised the worst. Hadrian had undoubtedly
fetched his wife back; she could imagine the fight they must have had. She
sighed and hurried on down the hall to the dining room.

"He is not there,
Your Grace," Woodward hurried after her. "He is dining in the music
room—Her Grace prefers it so."

Isobel lifted a brow,
knowing in that moment that all would be well. Nicole Shelton Braxton-Lowell
was taming her son, inch by scanty inch. It was about time that someone
softened him up. She let Woodward open the doors to the music room and entered
with a cheery smile. A second later she froze.

It was Hadrian—
her
Hadrian
—Hadrian Stone. He was sitting at the table with her son, the two of
them engrossed in earnest conversation, taking breakfast as if they did this
every single day of their lives—father and son together. Her world spun
crazily. She was sure that she would faint.

"Mother!"
Hadrian cried.

Isobel had a will of
iron—she always had. She willed her heart to beat, she willed herself to stand
still and strong and tall. But she could not will the blood to her face, which was
deathly pale. Nor could she drag her gaze from Hadrian Stone.

He, too, stared.

Hadrian, their son, was
standing. He looked from the one to the other, from his mother, frozen and
ghostly white, to his father, sitting in shock at the table. It was Stone who
recovered first. "Is this a joke?" he asked coldly.

"I have sudden,
urgent business to attend to," Hadrian said, and then he was gone,
slamming the doors behind him.

Stone stood. "Is
this some kind of rotten joke?"

Isobel blinked. This was
no dream. The man she had once loved with all of her heart and soul—the man she
still loved—stood before her in the flesh. He was older, his hair was no longer
a lustrous chestnut but threaded with gray, and there were many new wrinkles
about his eyes and mouth, but he was still tall, still muscular in build, and
he still enthralled her instantly with his male magnetism. He was still the
most handsome man she had ever seen, and he always would be. Her entire body
quivered in response to him, just as her heart pounded frantically and
erratically.

He kicked back his
chair. "I had no intention of ever laying eyes upon you again," he
said in hard tones. "But apparently our son decided otherwise."

Isobel jerked. It was
suddenly apparent—and it struck her like a cold, steel-edged slashing
knife—that he hated her. His eyes burned with hatred. He stood there looking at
her as if she were the lowest sort of vermin. Pain ripped through her, nearly
knocking her from her feet. Dear God, how could such love have changed to such
hate?

And how, oh how, how
could she face him when he felt like this?

She found more strength
than she knew she had. She straightened her shoulders, she lifted her chin.
When she spoke, her voice barely trembled. "Apparently."

She glided towards the
table. She did not look at him, although she could feel his burning eyes upon
her. She had never been vain, but now she felt her fifty years, and she felt
sick to know that, while she had taken one look at him and melted with hot,
turbulent desire, he stared at her with nothing but hatred, seeing nothing but
an old woman. She reached for the teapot, and began refilling his cup before
filling her own.

He grabbed her wrist
from across the table. She cried out as he hauled her forward so that their
faces almost touched. "Good God!" he shouted. "After all you've
done—
after all you've done
—you see me and you pour me tea?!"

Tears filled her eyes as
she gazed back into his furiously angry gaze. "Unhand me."

He did so, instantly.

"It is not like you
to behave like a brute." She was amazed at how calm her voice was, when
inside she felt like she was dying.

"If I am behaving
like a brute, it is because you have made me into one."

"Francis always
blamed me for his weakness, too."

He froze. His face went
white. Then, his jaw so tight that hollows formed beneath his cheeks, he said,
"I am sorry."

He was nothing like
Francis, he could never be like Francis, and Isobel knew it. "So am
I," she said softly.

His head whipped up. His
eyes blazed. "Being sorry now is a little bit late!"

Isobel stepped
backwards.

He hurled himself around
the table and she thought that he would grab her again. But he did not, he just
stood there before her, shaking in rage. "Just what the hell are you sorry
about, Isobel?"

The tears came then,
filling up her eyes. "I am sorry for everything."

"For
everything?" He was sarcastic. "For lying, for being deceitful, for
being nothing more than a self-serving bitch?"

She reeled away from
him. "Oh, God!"

He grabbed her. There
was immense power in his hands, but he did not hurt her. He shook her once.
"I loved a woman who did not exist! Who never existed! I loved a lie! I
loved a lovely lie!"

She wept. "Why are
you doing this? Why are you hurting me like this? Why do you hate me so?"

"You denied me my
son and you dare to ask me why I hate you?"

She tried to focus on
him through the flood of tears. "I did it because I was afraid. I was so
afraid!"

"Afraid?" He
became still. "Afraid of what? Of Francis?"

"No! I mean, of
course I was afraid of Francis. He hated me for running the estates so well,
and then he hated Hadrian for not being his son, and for reminding him of his
impotency. He needed only the slightest excuse to hurt me. Hadrian was like
you, though, even as a little boy. He was brave. He tried to protect me so many
times!" She sobbed.

"I would have
protected you!" Now he shook her hard. "God damn it, I would have
protected you both! I would have taken you both away from here!"

"That is what I was
afraid of," she wept. "I knew you would come if I told you of
Hadrian. I knew you would come to claim your son. Just as I knew it was wrong
to deny you the truth. But, Hadrian! Dear God, try and understand! Leaving you
and returning to Clayborough was the hardest thing I have ever done. It was a
miracle that I did so. A tenuous miracle. Somehow I survived each day without
you. When I learned I was pregnant with your child, it gave me the will to live
and to fight again. I didn't tell you the truth because if you came, you would
destroy the existence I had just barely managed to attain. I knew if I ever
laid eyes on you again I would willingly leave Clayborough and my husband, I
would willingly violate my honor and my own integrity, to run away with my
child and you. And if I did that, I would hate myself for the rest of my life."

He released her. He ran
a shaking hand through his hair, staring at her wide-eyed. "Jesus. So much
damn nobility. Self-sacrificing nobility!"

"If I had taken
Hadrian and gone to you, I would have not just hated myself. In time, I would
have hated you, too," she whispered.

He froze. Then he walked
away from her. She watched him, the tears streaming freely down her face now,
her shoulders shaking. But she did not make a sound.

When he turned to look
at her, his own eyes were wet with unshed tears. But the anger was gone.
"Life is never black or white, is it?" he asked sadly. "So many
damned shades of grey. Why did you have to be the woman you are, Isobel? But
then," his laugh was bitter, "it is that woman that I fell in love
with."

"I chose to be
apart from you, loving you, rather than be with you, hating you."

He absorbed that with
great gravity. "I would not have been able to endure your hatred,
either."

"Do you understand,
then?" she cried.

"Yes, I understand
self-respect," he said very heavily.

She collapsed on the
nearest chair with overwhelming relief. "And," she whispered, daring
to look at him, "and can you forgive me?"

"I don't
know."

She was crushed.

"How bad was it for
Hadrian?" He had to know. "Did you sacrifice him to your damned
nobility, too?"

"No!" She
cried. "Francis never loved him, but I more than made up for it. Francis
hit him a few times, but I soon made him stop with blackmail—the same blackmail
that made Francis accept him as his son. I threatened to reveal to the world
the entire truth about Francis— his nature, his drunkenness, his preference for
boys, and how he had to be rescued by his wife from his debts. It was that last
that assured his silence about Hadrian not being his son—Francis could not bear
for the world to know how inept he was. Hadrian did not have a father's love,
but I tried to make up for that. You have met him, you have seen the fine man
he has turned into. Look at how strong he is. You can be proud of him, Hadrian,
you should be proud of him. He is like you in every way."

"But he grew up
suffering."

Briefly, Isobel closed
her eyes. "He suffered. He suffered a vast hurt that has haunted him to
this day. The hurt of being unloved. The hurt of being despised by one parent.
I protected him as best I could. Perhaps I was selfish. Perhaps you are right,
I am self-serving. Perhaps I chose wrongly. I have wondered so many times if I
did make the right choice. You would have given him love. But our relationship
would not have survived if I had turned my back on my marriage and my life.
Would that have made Hadrian a happier child?"

It was impossible to
speculate upon the myriad possibilities, Hadrian realized. He watched Isobel
cry silently into a handkerchief. It was a relief to no longer be angry. In its
place, he felt curiously numb. He watched the outline of her small, shaking
shoulders and her delicate hands as she held the linen to her face. A
fabulously large sapphire glinted from her fourth finger. He noted that she no
longer wore her wedding rings.

She raised her face, lifting
her gaze to his.

His breath caught. There
was no numbness now. Isobel was no longer a girl of twenty, but she had aged
magnificently. Her face had not changed. Oh, there were deeper lines around her
mouth, and a few crow's feet about her eyes, her hair was much paler now than
it had been, almost platinum, but her features were as exquisite as ever. He
was stunned to find himself staring at her, filled with the kind of raw desire
he hadn't felt for any other woman in thirty years, that he had only felt when
with her.

Her eyes widened.

He clenched his fists
hard as the surge of lust swept him. Their gazes met cautiously. He saw that
she knew. And he saw something else—the bright wild hope in her gaze.