Verity got up, slipped on her shoes and again regarded her innocent child, the living memory of her passionate night with a man she barely knew. As always, she felt shame and remorse at the thought of her lustful selfishness. If disaster fell upon her and her child, she would only have herself to blame.
Yet every time she cursed herself for her selfishness, she thought of Jocelyn, too, whom she would not have but for the duke. Because of Jocelyn, she could not be completely sorry for what she had done.
She gently lifted her daughter and tried to carry her to the other room without waking her. That wasn’t easy, given Jocelyn’s size, but she managed it, and got her into bed without waking Nancy, either.
Pleased with her success, she returned to her bedroom, closed the connecting door, turned—and collided with Galen Bromney.
He grabbed hold of her shoulders as she stumbled backward.
How well she remembered the strength of his
fingers, the feel of his hands on her body, the desire to be held in his powerful arms—memories that she
must
conquer.
Panting slightly, she twisted away from him and struggled to regain her composure.
“Go away!” she ordered quietly, mindful that Nancy and Jocelyn were only a few feet away.
The hard angles of his face shone in the moonlight as if he were some kind of demonic specter come to haunt her. “That’s not a very polite greeting, considering what we’ve been to each other.”
She sidled away from the door and away from the duke. “We were very little to each other, I think.”
“Ah, you sadly underestimate yourself, Verity,” he replied, his voice low and seductive as his intense gaze followed her. “I remember nearly everything about that night, especially the way you left me. Then you departed Lord Langley’s before I came down for breakfast.”
As tempting as it was to make him understand why she had left as she had, what good would it do?
“Please leave, Your Grace. You mustn’t be discovered here,” she said, suddenly very aware that she was wearing only her nightdress.
“Because you don’t want anybody to know I am Jocelyn’s father.”
The color draining from her face, Verity stared at him.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Galen continued inexorably as he came closer to her. “Her age would be right, and she resembles me.”
Verity sidestepped him and crossed the room. “Please leave, Your Grace.”
“I have a right to know if the child is mine, Verity.”
“Go,” she pleaded in a whisper, “and I will tell you all in the morning.”
“Tell me now.”
“It is late—”
“It is indeed late for me to know if she is mine.”
He moved toward her. “She is, isn’t she?” he asked in a whisper as he reached out and took her again by the shoulders. “You don’t have to tell me. I know she is.”
He pulled her into his embrace, and she tried to remember why this was wrong. “A stronger, finer man would have sent you from his bedroom that night. Unfortunately, I was weak.” His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “You make me weak. Even now.”
Then he kissed her.
Despite his words, there was nothing weak about his kiss. Just as before, on that long-ago night, his lips took hers with passionate possession, demand
ing that she surrender to his power and give in to her desire.
How tempting he was! How dangerously, sinfully tempting…
But she had learned the consequences of giving in to such dangerous temptation.
She broke the kiss and pushed him away. “Please, Your Grace, go. I will explain tomorrow.”
That was another lie. She would sooner march into a den of starving lions than meet the Duke of Deighton alone.
His expression hardened. “I perceive that whatever attraction I held for you in the past is quite finished.”
“I was young and foolish then.”
“Gad, madam, so was I.” He bowed with stiff formality. “It will be as you wish. We will speak again in the morning. Meet me in the library at, say, nine o’clock? I daresay it will be deserted. Eloise’s guests are not generally the sort to read.”
Nine o’clock. After they had gone.
Desperate to be away from him, she nodded eagerly, then hurried to the door and peered into the corridor. “It is safe to go now.”
She felt him come behind her and quickly stepped aside to let him pass. As he did, he briefly touched her hand.
Her breath caught in her throat even as she
steeled herself to order him to go. She would not look into his fascinating eyes.
She would charge him not to kiss her again.
But in the next instant, he was gone.
Galen dressed in the faint light of dawn without his valet’s assistance. Not wanting to disturb anyone and not hungry in the least, he immediately went to wait in the library, which was as silent as his villa on a Sunday afternoon.
He would read, which was how he usually spent his silent Sundays. He scanned the shelves and finally decided on a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. However, when he opened the book, he discovered that damp and more than one insect had been at work, more proof if he required it that the books in Eloise’s library were more for decoration than literary enjoyment.
He closed the book, returned it to its place and paced, with frequent glances at the gold clock on the mantel, which was so ornate it was not easy to tell the time the first few times he looked. However, it got easier.
What was he going to say to Verity? he pondered. He must be firm, for he was determined to hear the truth from her own lips. Yet he must not be too harsh, not if he wanted to know more about his daughter, and to see her again. He would ruin
any chance of that if he frightened Verity, and he knew he could be very frightening when angry.
He decided just how he would begin, and the tone he would use, and at last nine o’clock came.
And went.
He gave her fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes during which he tried to believe she had not deserted him again, and that he had not been a fool to trust her.
Fifteen minutes to anticipate her arrival. To be annoyed and then hopeful, then annoyed again. To try to command his emotions so that he wouldn’t upset her or give her any cause to flee.
After that long fifteen minutes, Galen strode into the hall and commandeered the first liveried footman he spied. “I’d like you to take a message to Mrs. Davis-Jones.”
“Mrs. Davis-Jones?” the young man repeated stupidly.
“Yes, Mrs. Davis-Jones.”
“But Your Grace, um,” the fellow stammered, looking down as if feeling a sudden need to count the buttons of his purple jacket. “She’s gone, Your Grace.”
“Gone?” Galen growled.
“Aye, Your Grace, left this morning at six o’clock, Mrs. Davis-Jones, her little girl and that minx of a servant, too.”
“Thank you,” Galen said evenly as he returned to the library and shut the door behind him.
He strode to the window and stared out unseeing at Eloise’s garden and the shrubbery beyond.
Verity had done it again, damn her. She had run away like a thief in the night, without explanation or any concern for him at all.
He had not gone after her ten years ago. This time, though, things were different.
This time, he had a most excellent reason to go after Verity.
And her name was Jocelyn.
T
he hired carriage rolled to a stop outside Verity’s house.
They had disembarked the post chaise at Jefford, a village of five hundred souls in Warwickshire, and hired the innkeeper’s lad and carriage to take them to their house, located a short way beyond the village and down a secluded lane.
“Well, here we are, safe and sound, although my back may never be the same,” Nancy declared. “I swear them chaises get smaller all the time.”
“Or you’re getting bigger,” Jocelyn proposed.
Nancy glanced at her sharply, but a sudden lurch of the vehicle turned her attention to the innkeeper’s son, a tall fellow who seemed all arms and legs and slouching posture, as if he were a sleepy spider.
“Watch it, there, you nit!” Nancy snapped, her command making Jocelyn giggle and Verity give
her friend a mildly chastising look. They had discussed Nancy’s language before, with mixed results. At least this time, her choice of chastisement was relatively minor.
With a rueful shrug, Nancy gathered up her skirts and proceeded to climb out, while Verity ran a fond gaze over her comfortable, half-timbered house. Daniel had been a prosperous wool merchant who used local weavers working in their own cottages to manufacture very fine quality goods. He had purchased this home for her before they were married.
Daniel had possessed a more gregarious nature than she at that time in her life, yet he had kindly accepted her desire to live outside the village, away from prying, if well-meaning, neighbors.
She had always loved this house’s extra privacy, for it was well hidden from the road and surrounded by a stone wall, as well as tall oak and chestnut trees. A small wood complete with babbling stream ran across the back of the property.
The leaves of the chestnut trees were turning golden, and the beeches were reddening. Jocelyn would be able to pick elderberries soon, and mushrooms, too. Verity could hear finches singing in the trees, and the harsh caw of a rook in the distance.
Adjoining her land was the large estate of Sir Myron Thorpe, a man of about thirty whose primary interest in life seemed to be hunting and fish
ing. They were nodding acquaintances only, for Verity did not much care to go about in company, and his company seemed primarily composed of men anyway.
As much as Verity loved the house, so did Jocelyn. Shortly after Daniel’s death, Verity had tentatively suggested moving into the town, only to see her daughter dissolve into sobs at the very notion. Truth be told, Verity had been relieved, for she did not want to leave her secure seclusion, either.
“Visiting is all very well,” Verity said with a sigh as she reached up to help Jocelyn down, “but there’s nothing like home, when all is said and done.”
“I’m hungry,” her daughter announced as she set foot on the drive.
“I’ll get you something while Nancy deals with the baggage,” Verity replied as she took Jocelyn’s hand to lead her into the house.
From outside, all seemed exactly as they had left it.
But when she put her hand on the latch of the heavy carved door, she realized it was already open.
Trying to remain calm, she let go of Jocelyn’s hand and stepped back warily. “Will you please ask Nancy if she needs any assistance?” she said, smiling at her daughter.
“But —”
“Please, Jocelyn.”
Frowning, Jocelyn did as her mother asked.
When she had turned and gone back down the steps, Verity slowly pushed open the door and peered cautiously into the front entryway.
“Why, my dear Verity, here you are!” Clive Blackstone cried as he appeared at the entrance to her parlor, his lips drawn back in a smile over his crooked front teeth.
Verity would have been happier to encounter a housebreaker, or even the Duke of Deighton, than her obsequious brother-in-law.
“Yes, here you are,” Daniel’s sister, Fanny, quietly echoed from behind him.
Her thin body shrouded in a dark gray cloak, and with her pale face and large, cowlike eyes, she looked like a wraith in the shadows, a distinct contrast to her gaudily attired husband. Clive wore a mustard-colored jacket, burgundy waistcoat with a gold pattern upon it and striped brown trousers. A bulging valise was at his feet.
“We came to visit and were shocked to realize you were not at home,” the towheaded, middle-aged Clive said as he waited for Verity to approach.
As if this were his house, not hers.
Despite her annoyance, she forced a smile onto
her face. “I’m sorry we were not here when you arrived,” she said evenly.
She always forced herself to speak calmly when she was with the Blackstones, especially since Daniel’s death. She would give them no cause to quarrel with her. “However did you manage to get inside?”
“Oh, did you not know we had a key? Dear Daniel was good enough to give Fanny one before he passed away. We never had occasion to use it before, but fortunately, we brought it with us.”
Verity continued to smile. “I trust you have not been waiting long,” she said, glancing at the cloaked Fanny.
“Not at all. We walked up from the inn and arrived only a few moments ago. Had we known the situation, we would have waited for you there.”
And come in their carriage, for which
she
paid, Verity thought grimly. Still, she wouldn’t have minded so much, for Fanny’s sake. She looked exhausted.
There had been no need for them to walk, in any event. Clive could afford the hire of a carriage as well as she, no matter how much money he claimed to have invested in his cotton mills. He was just too much of a miser to spare his wife the walk.
“If you had written to apprise me of your intentions beforehand—”
“Nancy doesn’t want any help,” Jocelyn declared from the front door.
Glad of the interruption, for otherwise she might have said something regrettable, Verity turned to see her obviously dismayed daughter in the doorway. She gave her a pointed look and smiled all the more, a definite hint to her daughter to be polite to their guests.
Any
guests, no matter how unwelcome. “Say hello to Uncle Clive and Aunt Fanny, Jocelyn.”
“Hello, Uncle Clive,” Jocelyn said obediently, and without enthusiasm. “Hello, Aunt Fanny.”
“Please go to your room and take off your cloak and bonnet. Then you may help Nancy unpack your things when she comes.”
Jocelyn nodded, all the joy of their return ruined for her, as it was for her mother.
“This is indeed most fortuitous,” Clive continued as Jocelyn slowly walked up the stairs on the right of the entry. “I was just saying we would have to go to the Jefford Arms for accommodation, wasn’t I, Fanny?”
His wife nodded.
A loud and distinctly disdainful sniff from the front door drew their attention.
Nancy stood on the threshold, one small trunk
under each arm, and a bandbox in her hand, glaring at Clive and his wife malevolently.
Verity hurried toward her. Her back was to Clive and Fanny, so they couldn’t see her expression, which was both determined and pleading. “Look who has come!”
“I see. Them.”
“Nancy, please!” Verity whispered.
With a resigned glance at her mistress, Nancy put an expression on her face that was supposed to be a smile, although it was far more like a grimace than anything else.
“How do you do, Mr. Blackstone, Mrs. Blackstone?” she inquired with cold civility.
Before they could answer, she briskly continued, going up the stairs after Jocelyn. “Well, enough chitchat. I’ve got to get to work. Mustn’t malinger. Mustn’t stand about like I’m the emperor of China with all the time in the world to chat and run about visiting folks.”
“If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’d like to take off my traveling clothes,” Verity said hastily as she hurried after Nancy without waiting for a response from her in-laws.
“Those crows always come any old time it suits them,” Nancy muttered as she reached the landing and turned toward the upper floor. “Think this is an hotel, they do, with all their coming and going,
and him supposed to be in business. My eye! If he is, he’ll soon be bankrupt!”
Verity let Nancy mutter until they entered Verity’s bedchamber at the front of the house. She closed the door as Nancy put down the trunks. “Nancy, I must ask you again to please
try
to speak to the Blackstones with some respect.”
“I do try. I just ain’t very good at it,” Nancy confessed as she faced her mistress.
Verity began to untie the ribbons of her plain black bonnet. “Please, you
must
try harder. They are my relations, after all, and I must ask you to respect my wishes.”
Nancy sighed with the sorrow of the ages. “For you, I’ll do me best—but I can’t promise to do more. They make my flesh crawl!”
“You know I do not like them either, yet we must be nice to them, for Daniel’s sake, and Jocelyn’s, too,” Verity continued as she removed her pelisse. “They are the only relations we have, after all.”
“And blood is thicker than water,” Nancy said, and sighed as if they had had this conversation many times before as, in fact, they had.
“Yes. Jocelyn can hear how you speak to them, you know, and you influence her a great deal. Unfortunately, if anything were to happen to me, they would be her guardians, so we must take care to ensure that she does not upset them.”
“Aye, I know,” Nancy admitted remorsefully, “and I’ll try harder, really I will.”
Verity smiled. “I know. Now will you please go and see what Jocelyn is up to? She need not come downstairs at once, if she doesn’t want to.”
“I daresay she won’t,” Nancy said, “but I’ll do my best to persuade her.”
“Thank you, Nancy.”
“How long do you think they’ve come for this time?”
“I saw only a small valise, so perhaps this will be a short sojourn.”
“I hope to heaven you’re right!” Nancy declared with a brusque nod as she headed for the door. “Or I’ll probably bust a stay trying to keep me thoughts to meself.”
When she had gone, Verity rotated her neck, already feeling the tension Clive always engendered.
It seemed she had left one anxiety-inducing scene for another—but at least this one she was familiar with and she knew how to conduct herself.
Nevertheless, Verity would have preferred to hide upstairs, too, until Clive and Fanny got annoyed and left, but as that would be altogether too rude, she could only linger for a few moments to tidy her hair.
“Oh, shut that mouth of yours and stop whining!” Clive commanded his wife in a harsh whis
per. He ran his finger along the marbled mantelpiece, stopping when he touched the heavy silver candlestick. “We’re here and we’re not leaving until I say so.”
“But, my love—” Fanny began as she hovered near the door.
Clive’s mouth twisted with anger and disgust. “Are you such an idiot you can’t remember one thing I say? I’m sure there’s more to her visit to that woman than a change of scene.”
“What else—?”
“Something,” Clive said darkly. “And I want to know what.”
Fanny wanted to weep, but Clive hated it when she wept, so she turned away and surreptitiously wiped her tears before they fell.
As she did, she wished again that Verity’s father had never met her brother, Daniel. Then, when Verity’s wastrel father had died penniless, her kindhearted brother would not have taken it upon himself to look after Verity. He would not have married her and spent all that money on this lovely house, so much finer than the one she shared with Clive.
Her gaze roved over the walls painted a pale sea green, the fine floral brocade of the sofa and drapes, Daniel’s portrait over the mantel, the silver candlesticks that she knew Clive coveted as if they
were solid gold, and finally the thick, luxurious carpet upon which she stood.
In her wildest dreams Fanny had never supposed her placid brother would marry Verity Escombe, whose family’s lost wealth came from a source that filled him with repugnance, or that there would be a child who would take away her inheritance.
She knew Clive had not expected it, either.
“What are you doing hunched over like that?” Clive demanded querulously. “Stand up straight, can’t you?”
She did as he commanded.
“Here she comes. Now for heaven’s sake, smile. And try to find out why she really went to Lady Bodenham’s.”
“Yes, Clive.”
Unfortunately for Fanny, Verity had gone to Eloise’s solely for a friendly visit and no other reason. As for any other subject, such as the unexpected arrival of the Duke of Deighton, Jocelyn never spoke of him, and Verity had ten long years of practice when it came to keeping secrets.
A fortnight later, sitting in a leather-covered wing chair, surrounded by books he had never read and pictures he never noticed, his favorite dogs at his feet, Sir Myron Thorpe nodded off over a brandy. It had been a long, boring day, and he
would be a happy man once he had some company for the hunting season.
Yawning prodigiously, he moved to pick up another piece of pineapple from the plate at his elbow when he happened to look out his study window.
He abruptly straightened, as alert as a hound—something he rather resembled—catching the scent of a hare. His awakened dogs lifted their heads and sniffed the air.
“Charles, my telescope,” he cried to an elderly servant who was making a halfhearted attempt to clean the hearth.
While Charles got up as quickly as his creaking knees would let him and tottered toward the tall secretary desk to find the instrument, Myron commanded his now alert dogs to sit, tossed the piece of pineapple into his mouth and went to the window.
He didn’t wait to swallow before addressing Charles again. “Maybe it isn’t him, after all. I’ve invited him here every year since we left Harrow. I’ve just about given up hope.”
Charles found the telescope and brought it to Sir Myron, who held it to his eye. Then he nearly dropped it. “Good God, it
is
the Duke of Deighton, as I live and breathe. And just look at that horse. Where the devil does he find ’em? I’d give six of mine for that one.”
“Might the gentleman be staying to tea?”
Charles asked, quite used to his master’s mode of communication, which was inevitably loud and enthusiastic.