For a moment, Vivien could not absorb the significance of what he said. “It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
Michael vehemently shook his head. “That birthmark is peculiar to the Faversham line. Sometimes it skips a generation. Brand’s father didn’t have it, though his grandfather’s brother did.” He grimaced. “His name was Brand, too. It’s a family jest going back for generations. The first son to have the birthmark inherited the name, as well.”
Her mouth went dry, and her heart thumped against her rib cage. “Then you’re saying...” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.
“I’m saying that Brand’s father is also your father. The old earl must have had an affair with Harriet Althorpe.”
“No,” Vivien whispered. Her mind shied away from taking that momentous leap. But she had to consider it. “That would mean...Brand is my half-brother. And...Amy is my niece.”
“Yes.” He slapped his palm onto the bed. “God! I should have realized it before. The old earl had mistresses by the dozen. Just like his son, he could charm any woman into his bed.”
Vivien clutched the coverlet to her chin. She had a brother and a niece. They were her blood relations. Harriet Althorpe seemed no more real than a ghost, but Vivien knew Brand and Amy. No wonder she’d been fascinated by Brand. No wonder she’d loved Amy from the moment of their first meeting. Her heart had known them.
Michael shot to his feet and pulled on his breeches, his movements stiff and jerky.
Vivien stood up, as well, holding the covers around her nakedness. “Where are you going?”
“To the Abbey. The Rosebuds have some questions to answer.”
His purpose blotted out the magic of the night. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts. “Do you think...they knew Brand’s father sired me?”
“Hell, yes, they knew. They probably forged that damned letter.”
Her mind balked at his accusation. The Rosebuds wouldn’t lie to her. Especially not Lady Stokeford with her honest blue eyes and sweet smile. “No. You must be mistaken.”
“I doubt it. This is just the sort of scheme they excel at.”
Dazedly, she shook her head. “We can’t go now. Your grandmother will be sleeping. Besides, the other Rosebuds will be at their homes.”
“No, they spent the night at the Abbey. They were planning our wedding, remember?”
His harsh tone dismayed her. Was he angry at her? Because Brand was her brother? Of course, she thought with piercing awareness. Her half-brother had cuckolded Michael.
Then she realized another truth. She felt a pain so sharp in her breast that she had to take a deep breath before she could speak. “You lied to me, Michael. You’re still lying to me.”
Buttoning his shirt, he regarded her warily. “Explain yourself.”
“You swore there was no proof that Brand sired Amy. But there is. Amy has the birthmark, too, doesn’t she?” His face hardened to stone, and she knew with sinking despair that she’d guessed right. Firmly she repeated, “Doesn’t she?”
Glancing away into the forest, he compressed his lips. Then he gave a curt nod. “Yes.”
“That must be why it took you months to realize Amy wasn’t yours. It had little to do with the color of her hair and eyes.”
He looked at her, savage torment on his face. “Grace discouraged me from visiting the nursery. But one day when Amy was ill with a fever, I went to see her. The nurse happened to be dressing her, and I saw the dark spot on Amy’s lower back. I knew then that she wasn’t mine, that Grace had lied to me. Her lover wasn’t dead. He was Brand Villiers.”
The sting of his mistrust wiped out any sympathy Vivien might have felt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t need to know.” With angry movements, he pushed his shirt into his breeches. “You will not repeat a word of this to the Rosebuds, either. They don’t know Brand fathered Amy. No one knows but us.”
His insult stabbed Vivien. “Do you really think I’d betray you or Amy?”
He looked up, his irritated expression easing somewhat. “No, of course not. But you can’t take me to task for protecting my daughter.”
“I can and I will.” Still shaken, she caught hold of his forearms and shoved him against the vardo. “You should have trusted me with the truth. Develesa! I might have realized sooner who I am.”
He made no attempt at escape. The eiderdown slipped, and his fingers glided over the smooth blemish on her back. In a silken voice, he said, “You should have let me make love to you that day in the gallery. If I’d seen you in the light, I would have known then.”
“Would you have forsaken me?” she asked, her voice raw. “Would you have refused to wed me if you’d known your sworn enemy is my brother?”
Michael hesitated a moment—a moment too long for her.
In the throes of a wild pain, she whirled around and reached for her white gown. Before she could slip it over her head, he caught hold of her waist and pulled her backward. He locked his arms around her bare middle, and his warm lips nuzzled the nape of her neck. “Vivien,” he said in a low, gravelly tone. “Of course I would have married you. I was burning for you. Nothing in the world could have stopped me from taking you as my wife. Surely you know that.”
She resisted the softening inside her. She wanted more from him than bodily pleasure. She wanted his devotion, his esteem, his love. But now that hope seemed farther away than ever. “What if I wished to invite Brand into our home? What would you say to that?”
His muscles tensed. “I’d say you were being quarrelsome and unreasonable. You know the sort of man he is.”
“He’s the father of your daughter and the brother of your wife. Perhaps it’s time you forgave him.”
Michael turned her around in his arms. His hard blue eyes drilled into her. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, I am.” She swallowed, struggling to understand the tumult inside herself. “When I was a child, I longed to have an older brother. And now that I do, I can’t ignore him.”
His scowl deepened, erasing all signs of the passionate bridegroom. “He’s a worthless devil. Forget him.” Picking up his cravat, he crammed it into his pocket. “I’m going to the Abbey.”
“We’re both going.” Donning the beautiful white gown, Vivien no longer felt like a bride. She wished they could bury themselves beneath the quilt and find happiness again. But it was time to confront the Rosebuds.
To find out if they, too, had lied to her.
“I can’t imagine why you would awaken us at the crack of dawn, Michael.” Yawning, Lady Enid adjusted her nightcap, ginger tufts of hair sticking out from under it. “Why, it’s not even eight o’clock.”
“Indeed.” His grandmother aimed a suspicious look at Michael. “I’m wondering why you aren’t with Vivien. Did something go amiss at the Gypsy wedding? Surely the two of you haven’t quarreled already.”
“No,” he said tersely. “She went to fetch Lady Faversham.”
He’d knocked on Lady Enid’s door and brought her here without explanation. He wanted all three Rosebuds present before he said anything else. If he gave them an inch, they’d start plotting another one of their tricks.
Going to the window, he yanked open the draperies. Sunshine poured over the pale greens of his grandmother’s bedchamber. He wanted to be able to read the expressions on their faces. He’d grown weary of falsehoods and half-truths, secret motives and selfish betrayals. He was as blameworthy as they for lying to Vivien.
Recalling how she’d looked at him, with fury and pain, he felt the sharp bite of panic. After experiencing the most incredible night of his life—two nights, if he included their first time together—he had again managed to shake her faith in him. What if she left him?
His blood ran cold at the prospect. Dammit, she couldn’t; she belonged to him now. He’d never been so obsessive in his affairs with the beauties of society. But with Vivien, eroticism took on a new meaning. She made him feel a wild tenderness and an unslakable desire. He’d had to have her, again and again, his passion boundless and satisfying, yet never quite sated. He needed her as he needed air to breathe.
No. This weakness for her had to be a momentary madness. He would never let a woman rule his life and lead him around like a lapdog. He would never let her dictate to him. Plead though she might, he would never invite Brand Villiers into his house.
The door opened. Swathed to the throat in a green robe, Lady Faversham preceded Vivien into the bedchamber. She looked as baffled as the other Rosebuds as she hobbled to a chair and sat down. “I wish to know what this is all about,” she said, bracing her hands on her cane. “Vivien refuses to answer my questions.”
“I didn’t refuse,” Vivien clarified. “I merely said they would be answered here, with all three of you present.”
Tall and slender, she glided toward the Rosebuds. She had danced for him in that white satin gown, his vibrant, sensual bride. Now she looked infinitely weary with dark smudges beneath her eyes. Without regret, Michael knew he had exhausted her. He wanted to take her to bed again, this time to hold her in his arms while she slept. The tender thought shook him, for he’d always been a man who had his pleasure of women and then went his own way.
Twisting a handkerchief in her plump fingers, Lady Enid scurried to Vivien. “I must speak to you, dear. I’m so ashamed of my granddaughter’s betrayal. I know ’twill be of little comfort, but Charlotte bitterly regrets her actions. She’s been banished to her uncle’s estate.” The old lady enveloped Vivien in a hug.
Vivien drew back. “I’m sorry, too, my lady,” she said, her voice low and throaty. “I’d hoped she and I could be friends.”
Rising from the chaise, Lady Stokeford joined them. “We reproached Charlotte, though it wasn’t really necessary. Brandon spoke enough harsh words to set the girl to tears.”
“Brand?” Vivien repeated.
Seeing her eyes light with interest, Michael stiffened. Before the Rosebuds could sing the praises of that louse, he said flatly, “Brand saw Charlotte coming out of your bedchamber on the night of the masquerade, and later realized why she’d been there. Of course, he should never have been in my house in the first place, but that’s another matter entirely.”
Lady Faversham pursed her lips. “I don’t understand this hostility between you and my grandson. You two were once like brothers.”
“He went after one too many of my women,” Michael said glibly. “Now sit down, Grandmama. We’ve much to discuss.”
Ignoring him, Lady Stokeford took hold of Vivien’s hand and led her toward a chair. “Come and sit with me. You must tell me what’s the matter. Has my grandson done something to upset you?”
Vivien extricated her hands. “I’d prefer to stand, my lady.”
She hadn’t denied his wrongdoing, Michael noted with chagrin. But surely once she’d thought about it, she’d see sense. “It’s you and the Rosebuds who have done wrong this time, Grandmama.” He took a breath, then launched his arrow. “You hid the truth about Vivien’s father.”
Lady Stokeford sank onto the chaise. Lady Enid gasped, fanning herself with her handkerchief. Lady Faversham went rigid as a board. “Here now, young man! What do you mean by such words? Harriet didn’t identify her lover in the letter.”
“Because she didn’t write the letter. One of you did.”
The Rosebuds exchanged a swift, secretive glance. His grandmother rallied to say, “Bah, first it was Vivien you accused of forging the letter. Now us? You’re being ridiculous.” She shook her head, her snowy hair soft around her delicate face. “I told you before, you can’t remember Harriet’s penmanship so well.”
Michael walked to the middle of the bedchamber and gazed at the three women seated near the hearth, their faces self-righteous. “There’s one thing you didn’t count on when you devised your scheme,” he said. “Vivien bears the Faversham mark.”
The Rosebuds stared at him, then at Vivien. For once, they looked utterly flummoxed. The starch went out of his grandmother’s spine. A frown pulled at Lady Enid’s pudgy features. Lady Faversham clung to the knob of her cane as if she might wilt at any moment.
Standing by the window, Vivien watched the old ladies with a sort of desperation on her exquisite features. Her hands visibly shaking, she lifted them to her cheeks. She wanted the Rosebuds to be innocent, Michael knew, and he wished to hell he could have shielded her from this latest betrayal. But she had a right to know.
With a tinkling chime, the clock on the mantelpiece rang the quarter hour. The sound shattered the unnatural silence.
Lady Faversham heaved a tired sigh. Her gaze wavered and fell to her lap. “Yes, it’s true. My son Jeffrey—Brandon’s father—also fathered Vivien. But you mustn’t blame Enid or Lucy. It was my idea to write the letter and bring Vivien here.”
“We all did our part,” Lady Stokeford insisted, reaching over to pat Lady Faversham’s hand. “I won’t allow you to take the blame, Olivia.”
“Nor I,” Lady Enid added.
Vivien made a little sound of distress. Alarmed by the paleness of her face, Michael went to her, placing his hand at the small of her back while addressing the Rosebuds. “Why the devil did you wait eighteen years to claim Vivien?”
“We didn’t know she existed until last year,” his grandmother said. “Oh, if I’d guessed Harriet was pregnant when she left here, I would have been happy to provide for both of them.”
“No, I would have done so,” Lady Faversham said. Straightening her shoulders, she glanced from Vivien to Michael. “When Jeffrey died some ten years ago, his effects were either given away or sent to the attic for storage. But last year, when I decided to have his old desk in the study refinished, the workmen found a packet of letters secreted in a compartment behind one of the drawers.” She paused, the sunlight revealing every line in her gaunt features. “They were love letters. Written by Harriet Althorpe to my son. While his wife was still alive.”
“I presume these letters mentioned Vivien,” Michael said.
“Yes. When Harriet became pregnant, Jeffrey purchased a house for her, far enough away that no scandal could touch her.”
“Lil-engreskey gav, ” Vivien murmured. “Oxford.”
Lady Faversham arched her thin gray eyebrows. “How did you know?”
“Her mother told her,” Michael said ironically. “Her Gypsy mother.”
“Do relate the rest, Olivia,” Lady Enid urged. “Vivien mustn’t think we’ve betrayed her as Charlotte did.”
“Quite so.” Her gaze earnest, Lady Stokeford clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward. “We acted in your best interests, my dear.”
“We wanted to make up for what my son had done,” Lady Faversham said, her gray eyes misty. “I couldn’t rest knowing Jeffrey had given away his own daughter, my granddaughter. So I told Lucy and Enid, and we conceived the idea of finding you and bringing you here to wed a gentleman.”
“I wrote the letter,” Lady Enid confessed. “I’ve a knack for copying penmanship.”
“We all contributed,” Lady Faversham said. “To make it sound authentic, we put clues in the letter as to your whereabouts. Then, since we knew you’d been given to a Gypsy named Thorne, we hired a man to find you.”
“A Bow Street Runner,” Vivien murmured.
The Rosebuds looked at each other. They seemed to be questioning each other in silent communication.
Prodded by an unpleasant hunch, Michael said, “No, you needed someone who knew the comings and goings of the Gypsies. So you hired a man named Janus.”
A visible shock rippled through Vivien. “Janus!”
“Why, yes, you know him, of course,” Lady Stokeford said apologetically. “A rather rough fellow, but he swore he’d convince your band of Gypsies to travel to this district.”
“For a sizable sum in gold,” Lady Faversham said sourly. “I still say, the man is little better than a thief.”
“But he did do as he promised,” Lady Enid added. “So all’s well that ends well.”
Michael rubbed his aching brow. “You should know, Janus tried to claim Vivien for himself. I was forced to correct his mistake with my fists.”
“Oh, no!” Lady Stokeford moaned. Jumping up, she rushed to Vivien, taking her hands. “That ruffian didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No. But he thought I would steal for him.”
“My dear girl, I’m so sorry. We never meant to cause trouble for you. You believe me, don’t you?”
Vivien didn’t speak for a moment. Her breasts rose and fell as if she were trying to control some great emotion. Then she asked a question of her own. “What happened to her?”
Lady Stokeford blinked her watery blue eyes. “Harriet?”
“Did she die last year as the letter stated?”
His grandmother shifted her gaze away for a moment. “No,” she admitted gently. “Harriet died shortly after your birth.”
Vivien bowed her head, and Michael wondered if she was outraged by their audacity. He certainly was. His hand at her back, he could feel the tension in her. Yet she seemed unaware of his presence, even when he slid his arm around her slender waist.
Intending to chastise his grandmother, he hissed out a breath.
But before he could speak, Vivien stepped away from him, going to the middle of the rug, her gaze fixed on the Rosebuds. “So you lied about that, too? You said my father tore me from Harriet’s arms, left her sick and alone, without the means to find me. You let me think she lived for many years in poverty and hardship, pining for me.”
Lady Faversham sighed again. “That embellishment was mine, I fear. I was furious at Jeffrey for his philandering and, most of all, for giving you away. Scandal or not, I would have accepted you as my granddaughter.”
“But when you brought me here, I came to live with Lady Stokeford.”
“We thought it would put you off the scent in case you were suspicious,” Lady Enid said. “We didn’t mean for things to turn out like this.”
Vivien kept her eyes on Lady Faversham. “Do you still have my mother’s letters?”
The stately woman shook her head. “I burned them all, I’m afraid. We never thought you would find out and ask to see them.”
“We wanted you to be happy,” Lady Stokeford said, wringing her hands. “That’s all we ever wanted for you. That, and marriage to Michael.” Pausing, she added tremulously, “You will wed my grandson in a proper English ceremony, won’t you?”
For the first time since she’d entered the bedchamber, Vivien turned to look at him. Anguish flooded her brown eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Leaving him struck speechless, she pivoted on her heel and walked out the door of the bedchamber. The Rosebuds converged on him, all talking at once.
“What does she mean, ‘I don’t know’?” Lady Stokeford fretted. “Michael, what did you do to her to make her say that?”
“Did the wedding night go badly?” Lady Enid asked.
“No, it’s us,” Lady Faversham said, her shoulders slumped. “She’ll never forgive us for hiding the truth from her. She’ll return to the Gypsies, and I’ll never see my granddaughter again.”
No.
In a frenzy, Michael dashed out of the bedchamber and into the corridor. It was empty save for a housemaid on her knees polishing the baseboards. Then he spied a flick of white skirt at the end of the passage.
He sprinted after Vivien, startling the servant into spilling her box of brushes and rags. Heedless, he plunged down the corridor and nearly toppled over a side table as he rounded the corner. He saw her ahead of him, at the top of the grand staircase, her hand on the railing. His wife. Her dark head bent, she descended the stairs, the virginal white of her gown reminding him of all his mistakes.
“Wait!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the foyer.
Vivien didn’t wait. She continued down the steps as if she didn’t hear him. Perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she had so shut him out of her heart that he no longer existed for her.
Damn foolish sentiment. She was wounded, hurting. He would hold her close, try to ease the ache of the Rosebuds’ deception. Although he despised female tears, he would let Vivien weep all over him.
Recklessly bounding down the slick marble steps two at a time, his shoes thudding, he reached her at the base of the stairs and stepped around in front of her. “Don’t go, Vivien. Please. We need to talk.”
She wasn’t sobbing, thank God. But the desolate expression on her face arrowed into him. “There’s little left to say,” she murmured. “Except that...perhaps I’ve been deceiving myself to think I could fit in here. I was happier with my own people.”
She kept walking, so he walked backward in front of her. “Don’t say that,” he said roughly. “I need you with me. We’ll marry and go to London, get away from the Rosebuds. I can’t keep Amy here any longer, anyway.”
Vivien stopped, staring at him with something like distaste. “You would take Amy away from your grandmother? Don’t you realize how close they’ve become?”
He did, and that worried him. The two of them ate breakfast together in his grandmother’s bedchamber. They went on walks to visit Nibbles. They sat together at picnics and luncheons. Grandmama delighted in Amy, and he didn’t like hurting either of them.
But it was only a matter of time before his grandmother happened upon Amy at her bath or while dressing.
“It has to be this way,” Michael said, glancing around the corridor to make sure no one was within hearing. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Don’t you see? If Grandmama finds out the truth about Amy, she’ll tell the Rosebuds, and they’ll tell Brand.”
Vivien shook her head, her long black hair shimmering in the morning light. “I don’t believe her ladyship would do anything to hurt Amy. She would know it’s in Amy’s best interests to keep this one particular secret. I know that, too.”
“I can’t take that risk,” he said forcefully. “You know I can’t. We’re moving back to London, and that’s that.”
“You’ll go without me,” she said, her voice quivering. “My eyes are finally opened, Michael. I can no longer tolerate dishonesty in those I love.”
Love. She still loved him. Grasping at the seed of hope, he slid his arms around her and pulled her close. He stroked her cheek, her hair, her throat. “I hold no secrets from you now, Vivien. I vow I never will. I’ll be honest with you in all things.”
Her gaze didn’t soften. One dark brow lifted in questioning disbelief. “Then answer me this. Do you love me?”
He opened his mouth to give her what she wanted, but the words stuck in his throat. Vivien didn’t want pap from him, or pretty praise, or false declarations or any of the other sweet nothings he might use to placate a woman. She wanted candor, and he couldn’t begin to define the confusing welter of emotions she stirred in him. He desired her, craved her, dreamed of her ... but love? Love made a man weak and spineless. After Grace, he had sworn never again to open himself to such pain and humiliation.
Her eyes swam with tears, and she pulled out of his arms. “Our Gypsy marriage isn’t recognized by English law. You’re free to go as you please.”
Frozen by her words, he gawked as she stepped around him and continued down the broad corridor, her womanly form framed by the tall stone pillars. Her bare feet made no sound on the marble floor.
She was leaving him. Forever.
Panicked, he surged after her, caught her arm, and swung her around to face him. His breath came fast and furious. “I don’t want to be free,” he choked out. “I intend to honor our marriage. You should be glad of that.”
“I need more than honor, Michael. I need your love—your honest love.” Her face stark with painful determination, she pulled away from him. “If ever you can give me that, I’ll be waiting.”