Chapter Eleven

 

The bone-melting heat of bliss slowly receded from Lucinda’s limbs. Steady breaths against her cheek. Another body’s warmth. Hugo. Wonderful, strong, gentle, compassionate Hugo. The man had given her a gift as precious as life, her womanhood.

She opened her eyes. Surrounded by royal blue bed hangings and secure in his arms, she desired nothing more than to snuggle closer and sleep away the day. Safe.

How safe would she be if he knew she was another man’s wife? If he discovered that the man he despised could snatch her back on a word? Lies for her protection felt like a millstone around her neck, dragging her into the depths of deceit against a man who had brought her such joy. A flood of shame chilled her to the bone.

She pushed back the sheet and rose on one elbow.

Hugo raised his head, his hand warm on her back. “Awake already, sweetheart?”

Dark hair tousled, his eyes half open, he looked sensual and handsome and good enough to eat. The urge to stay shocked her. “I must go home.”

A smug smile curved his lips. He looked younger, less careworn, almost boyish in his wickedness. “Move into the Grange. Then you won’t have to dash off.”

“Move in?”

“It would be more convenient.”

By allowing him to make love to her, she must have made him think she’d agreed to be his mistress. The thought of lying beside him night after night, free to kiss him, to bring him pleasure, sharing his bed and his life, was madly tempting. And completely out of the question.

In the throes of passion, she had not thought ahead. “No.”

His smile faded. Eyes wistful, he stroked her arm. “Was it something I did?” His teeth flashed white, and he leaned forward and nibbled her ear. “Or something I didn’t do . . . yet.”

Pure unadulterated lust shot straight to her core. She steeled against the urge to bury her face against his wall of chest, to let him fire those wonderful feelings banked within her all over again, to forget her responsibilities to Sophia, to her family, to herself.

“It has nothing to do with you.” She leaned over and pressed a swift kiss on his mouth. His arm encircled her shoulders. He deepened the kiss, and for one brief, ecstatic moment she melted into him, letting heat and the rising tide of passion claim her very soul.

The power he exerted over her body left her terrified. She shoved his shoulder and his hand fell away, just as he’d promised. “I do not think it is a good idea.”

A pang twisted in her heart at the hurt in his eyes.

He lifted her hand, bent his head, and kissed the inside of her wrist sweetly, gently. It felt like a promise. “Don’t decide now. Give it some time.”

Why could she not have met this man first? How could she deny him out of hand? The knowledge that she would never know this bliss of flesh and heart and mind again tore at her will. “I will give you my answer next Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? That is almost a week.” The words came out a disgruntled growl.

The sullen curve to his mouth brought a smile to her lips and a wicked thought to her mind. “Why not give the servants Wednesday evening off to help prepare for Saturday’s fête? It will give us a chance to talk without interruption.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and cast her a thoughtful glance. “I gather it is not only talking you have in mind.”

The man had a quick wit. She repressed a sudden giggle. In heart-stopping appreciation of his magnificent physique, her gaze drifted down his torso and landed on his thigh. She gasped. A painful-looking red rash spread like a spiderweb around an ugly, oozing scar below his hip. “Dear sweet Lord. What is that?”

He scowled and covered it with the counterpane. “It is nothing.”

“It looks dreadful. You need to see the doctor.” She tugged at the cover.

He held it fast. “A surgeon assured me it would heal in time.”

She opened her mouth to protest. The words died at the darkness in his expression. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so safe. Sheet wrapped around her, she stumbled off the bed and snatched up her chemise.

A hand lashed out and caught her.

In fury, she stared at tanned fingers grasping her wrist as if it was no more than a twig, then raised her gaze to his face.

He dropped her arm as if it was hot. “I’m sorry I snarled at you.”

She blinked. An apology? But hadn’t Denbigh apologized each time he caused her pain. Her gaze fell to her wrist. Not a mark marred the skin, no red fingerprints, no bruising, no pain. Hugo was not Denbigh. He had proved that. “I’m sorry also. I overreacted.” She touched his shoulder. He turned his head and dropped a gentle kiss on her fingers. Desire bloomed. Tension mounted. She laughed, shaky and breathless and full of longing. “I really must go home, or Sophia will feel abandoned.”

His smile returned, more wicked than ever. “What if I were to say you are abandoning me?”

An unruly chuckle bubbled in her chest. She shook her head. “I promise to give you an answer on Wednesday, when we will discuss what you are going to do about that.” She pointed to his leg.

He gave a soft groan but said nothing more, seemingly content to sit back against the pillows, watch her dress, and help find her hairpins among the bedclothes.

 

• • •

 

To Hugo’s horror on the following Sunday, the churchyard looked more like Hyde Park at five in the afternoon than a sleepy parish church. A garden of flower-covered bonnets adorned the church steps and cascaded onto the yew-lined path among the gravestones, Postlethwaite flitting from blossom to blossom. White robes flapping, he had the look of a demented cabbage white butterfly.

Where had the Dawsons dredged up all these people?

The local congregation looked equally bemused. They hovered at the margins of the squire’s party of fashionable guests, regarding them with sidelong glances. Only Lucinda seemed incurious about the influx of visitors. He frowned. While he didn’t expect her to mingle with strangers, he had thought he might manage a few words with her after the service. But there she was, slipping out of the side gate, her plain straw bonnet and muted gray a stark contrast to the fashionable women gathered around Catherine. He preferred her plain bonnet. It let the beauty of her spirit shine through.

He toyed with the idea of running after her and dragging her back for moral support. Excellent idea. A good way to make her decide against moving into the Grange.

The impulse to locate his carriage and flee the chattering mob filtered through his mind. He squashed it. As a leading member of the community, duty required he greet his neighbor’s guests. With the same grinding in his gut that he got before a battle, he took a deep breath, fixed his gaze on Squire Dawson’s checkered waistcoat, and forged into the fray.

In no time at all, he was hemmed in by the nodding blooms and beaver hats above a host of smiling youthful faces. The squire introduced him around. For once his facility with names eluded him. Nothing distinguished one from the other except the colors of their gowns or the heights of their cravats. Five or so pairs of eyes riveted on him as if anticipating some miraculous pronouncement. It might not have been so bad if the squire hadn’t introduced him as a hero.

“Well met, Hu,” murmured a voice at his elbow. “Didn’t expect to see you in this mêlée. I thought you avoided this sort of thing.” The cultured drawl provided a welcome diversion.

Genuinely pleased, he stuck out a hand to the short, fair-haired man who’d appeared at his side. “Dawson. I heard you were coming back for your mother’s ball.”

Arthur grimaced. “More of a repairing lease.”

“Run off your legs?”

Arthur glanced around and lowered his voice. “Hush, man. D’you want m’father to hear? I’ll drop by and see you later.” The anxiety in the younger man’s ice blue eyes belied the cynical cast to his mouth. It reminded Hugo of the expression green officers got when they realized that the army on the hill opposite numbered three times the one at their backs. If Hugo wasn’t mistaken, the poor sod was well and truly under the hatches.

If Arthur hoped Hugo had blunt to bail him out of a sticky situation, he was going to be disappointed. By leasing a field to a neighboring farmer, Hugo had barely scraped enough cash together to buy next year’s seed. He might, though, be able to offer a bit of advice to the young rakehell. “Come by tonight, after dinner.” Company might keep his mind off Lucinda and her answer.

“It will be late,” Arthur warned. “I have to do the pretty with that lot or Mother will throw a fit.” Arthur gestured to the party now moving down the path to their vehicles.

“I’ll wait up,” Hugo said. His empty bed held no allure.

 

• • •

 

The tremble in Lucinda’s hands wouldn’t stop no matter how many deep breaths she took. She smoothed the sheet over Sophia and dropped a kiss on her sleeping daughter’s cheek.

Arthur Dawson was Miss Dawson’s brother. Why hadn’t she recognized the last name before this? It wasn’t until she saw the blond young man beside his sister at the church that she’d remembered. She pressed her fingers against her lip to muffle her cry.

She lifted the candle and headed downstairs. Dawson was a recent addition to the Duke of Vale’s sycophants, the dissolute young men who hung about him with besotted expressions. Unlike Denbigh, Dawson wasn’t one of Vane’s inner circle. He existed on the fringes, a puppy awaiting a pat on the head from the great man. And that made him dangerous. He would surely leap on any opportunity to gain Vale’s notice, including her betrayal.

If he recognized her. Hope battered at the door of her mind. They had never been formally introduced, though she had seen him once or twice from a distance. But if she knew his name and his face, he might well know hers.

She stumbled down the stairs to the parlor. Hot wax dripped on her hand. She winced and placed the candlestick on the table. Blendon was her home, her life. Oh, God, she’d even found a man who honestly seemed enamored. What to do? She sank onto the sofa.

Her discreet enquiries at the churchyard this morning had led her to believe Dawson would soon tire of a sojourn in the country. “A wild youn’un,” Mrs. Peddle had said. “Breaking his mother’s heart,” Miss Crotchet reported sadly, “when he used to be such a nice little boy.” “Balks at his mother’s bridle,” another opined.

Please, God, don’t let him stay. The silent prayer echoed in her aching skull. Could she possibly hide from Dawson until after the fête?

A fashionable fribble like Arthur Dawson was unlikely to pay attention to a matronly widow with little beauty to draw a wandering eye. Unless something or someone brought her to his notice. The mistress of the local earl might well stand out from the crowd.

She squeezed her temples with trembling fingers. Think. One step at a time. She took a deep breath. The time to panic was when he showed signs of recognition. If she took care not to attract his notice, kept her distance from the Dawsons and their party . . . and Hugo, she might bring it off. Hugo would guess she’d made up her mind to refuse his offer. It couldn’t be helped.

The fates had decided to force her hand regarding Hugo. A cold and empty future stretched ahead. Better that than returning to a life of misery. It would have come to this in the end. After all, few men kept a mistress forever.

She clung to that belief.

 

• • •

 

Arthur slumped in the chair opposite Hugo. He nursed his third brandy of the night, glaring morosely into the golden liquid.

His tale of woe hadn’t been much different than that of the younger officers in Hugo’s regiment—losses at the gaming table, tailor’s expenses he couldn’t afford from his allowance, along with the underlying anxiety about letting his family down. In the army, young men had less time to get into the kind of trouble available in London. On the other hand, young officers distracted by such foolishness died.

Hugo sipped his wine with reverence, letting the numbing heat trickle down his gullet and pool in his stomach. It numbed the throb in his thigh along with the urgent ache for Lucinda. So she intended to take him to task about his leg. She really was going to be the death of him. The thought made him want to smile.

Arthur leaned forward, his eyes intent. “Explain it, Hu. One moment you were returning from university and my mother was bragging what a nice couple you and Catherine would make, and the next you’d joined the army. What the hell happened?”

“Happened?”

“Why did you run for the hills? Our family not good enough for the Wansteads?”

“Christ. Was that what she thought? There was never an understanding between Catherine and me. I never thought of her as anything but your little sister. Lord, she was barely out of the schoolroom when I left.” Having finished school, all he could think of was getting away from the Grange, from his father’s black looks and his mother’s tears. He’d thought only of escape and had run right into the truth, at the cost of another’s life. After that, he’d thrown himself into the thick of the battle.

Arthur cocked his head on one side. “I must say I did think it was a bit of a hum, but the way my mother talked, you’d have thought you were engaged.”

Hugo sat up straight. “Now listen to me—”

“No need to fly up in the boughs, old boy.” Arthur waved his goblet in Hugo’s direction. “Come to think of it, she had the poor girl tangled up with a duke this past Season, and the duke only danced with her once.” He shook his head. “I really wish Catherine would stand up to her more.”

“Like you do?”

Arthur shot him a glower. “My mother does not order my life the way she does Catherine’s, I assure you.”

“I have never seen your sister look as beautiful as she does right now,” Hugo said. “I am sure the right man will come along.”

“Well, you could be right.” Arthur swirled his brandy glass, staring at the resultant whirlpool ruminatively. He drained it in one gulp. “She is as happy as a grig since she got back from town.” His gaze dropped pointedly to his empty glass.

Hugo leaned forward, filled Arthur’s outstretched goblet from the decanter, and topped up his own.

Arthur settled back in his chair. “I say though, Hu, did you have to ruin my life?”

“What in hell’s name are you talking about?” Hugo pushed up from the chair. Pain shot up his thigh. His head swam. He froze halfway to his feet.

Arthur put up a placating hand. “Good God, man, sit down. I jest.”

“You never could hold your wine.” Hugo flopped back, his skin hot and sticky from the sudden burst of agony. “I thought you planned on joining the navy, following in the footsteps of that uncle of yours?”

Arthur’s mouth turned down. “That’s what I mean. It was all set.”

“So . . . what happened?”

The dandy leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, booted foot swinging. His top lip curled. “The navy is too much like hard work, old boy.” He raised his glass in a silent toast and swallowed deeply.

This was not the Arthur he knew. “I quite see your point.” He inhaled the rich aroma of brandy. “There’s also the problem of getting shot at.”

The cynical man about town gone in a blink, Arthur shot bolt upright. The golden eyebrows lowered over a sullen glower. “Do you think I’m afraid?”

A twinge of unexpected pain in the region of his chest snatched at Hugo’s breath. He’d lost any number of men he called friends and seen lives broken beyond repair, all observed as if from a great distance. None of it meant anything after what he’d done to his wife. Until now. Shocked, he clutched the stem of his glass. Aware of the skin tightening, white across his knuckles, he unclenched his fist. “If you are not afraid, then you are a fool.”

“I wanted to go. Me. You never gave it a thought, to my knowledge. Do you want to know what happened? The day m’mother heard you were wounded that first time and everyone was saying how the earl’s property would go to some distant cousin if you died, she vetoed my joining.”

“So that’s what this going off at half cock is all about. Resentment.”

“Dammit, Hu. You have no idea what it’s like. Escort your sister here; sweeten up some old lady there. I’m nothing but a puppet on a string. I begged for a commission, but Father refused to allow my uncle to put up the ready. He told me to enjoy myself on the town. And that’s what I’m damned well doing.” He drained his glass.

“It sounds more enjoyable than marching for three days and three nights, wet from arse to tit, with no food in your belly and your men ready to shoot you. The last time that happened, some idiot drew the map wrong, and we had to march all the way back.”

Arthur stiffened. “I can handle a bit of discomfort.”

“Then there’s the task of scraping your best friend’s brains off your sleeve,” Hugo said mildly and watched Arthur turn a pale shade of green. “Not to mention using the bodies of your men as ladders to breach a wall.”

Arthur swallowed then rallied. “Vale says you heroes are all alike. You want all the glory for yourselves.”

“If you think that any of that resembles glory, you are a fool. It’s nothing but a cesspit. This Vale chap sounds like an idiot.”

“He is not. He’s a great go, a pink of the ton and a Nonesuch to boot. You must have heard of him.”

“Well, I haven’t.” Hugo eyed the brandy bottle wondering if another glass would make it easier to put up with Arthur’s nonsense.

“I’ll introduce you to him the next time you are in town.”

“Who?”

“The Duke of Vale.”

The hero worship that Arthur had once directed at Hugo now shone for this other man. Against his will, he felt the loss. “I suppose he is the reason you are driving your parents to distraction.”

He knew he’d gone too far the moment the words left his mouth. Arthur wasn’t ready to face realities. Three sheets to the wind, he needed a gentle hand on the ribbons, needed to get the bitterness off his chest to a friendly ear, not practical advice. God knew Hugo had suffered enough of his father’s criticisms to understand.

Slowly Arthur lurched to his feet. “God. You are just like them. You make me sick.”

Damn. A couple of months out of the army and already he was losing his ability to handle men, or in this case, high-strung boys. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I should not have said that.”

Arthur straightened and looked him in the eye. He executed an unsteady bow. “G’night, Captain Lord Wanstead. Don’t bother to see me out. I know the way.”

He shambled to the door and closed it behind him with a bang.

Damnation. He’d made a mess of that. Now he’d have to spend a whole lot more time with Arthur undoing the damage.

Perhaps taking a more active part in the arrangements for the fête and drawing Arthur in with him might get the rebellious young man out from under the cat’s paw. The plan had the added advantage of putting Hugo in Lucinda’s vicinity. He preferred the hell of watching and not touching to not seeing her at all.

 

• • •

 

Wednesday. By dint of will, Hugo stopped from rubbing his hands together and glanced around the library. Everything was in readiness. The chessboard in front of the fireplace. Big soft cushions scattered along the sofa. Sandwiches nestled beneath a cloth on the table, and a bottle of cold champagne and two glasses discreetly rested in a bucket of ice beside the hearth.

For that last, he’d engaged Trent’s aid. Apparently, Jevens hadn’t raised a brow at the request for the champagne, but Trent had smuggled in the extra glass.

Hopefully tonight Hugo would make Lucinda realize the foolishness of meeting in secret. Goddamn it, there had to be some advantages to being an earl. He didn’t give a tinker’s cuss what people thought of his domestic arrangements, and it wasn’t as if he had a wife to worry about.

He glanced at the clock. Almost six. She should be here any minute. A pulse of anticipation thrummed in his blood and stirred things lower down.

He frowned, a little unsure of her reaction. All week she’d avoided his gaze when he met her by chance. He’d seen her at the post office in the village on Monday when riding out with Arthur to view the field. She’d looked so pale at his approach that he’d asked if she was well. To his annoyance, she’d barely looked at him, and after a quick good morning had scurried off. Damn, but he wanted her and the child with him where he could care for them.

In a wild moment of pride he’d almost introduced her to Arthur. As what? The question had halted him, what with Lucinda’s notions of propriety and Arthur’s rakehell demeanor, he could imagine the awkwardness. He cursed. He certainly didn’t want to give Lucinda a reason to balk.

Tonight he would follow his battle plan. He would woo Lucinda into his home. She had to agree. He couldn’t live in a permanent state of arousal knowing she was flittering around in a nearby house where he couldn’t get to her. He paced the carpet in front of the chessboard. He felt like he had at Eton when expecting sustenance from home, hunger building to unimaginable proportions.

He’d starved on the small portions they fed him at school. Only the arrival of cook’s cakes and biscuits once a month had stopped him from stealing food from the kitchen. Or at least it had after the humiliation of his first public beating.

This was a very different kind of hunger, sharper and more primal. It awoke a beast he wasn’t so sure he could control. No. He had to remain in control. He could not risk making her fear him, even if she should. God. Courageous as he knew her to be, if she knew the truth, she would run away screaming.

He should tell her why he would never marry, why he could only offer a carte blanche. God, that sounded so crass. Ugly. The truth was uglier. It might be better for her if she did stay away. He glared at the bishop and centered it on its square. He should not have sent Trent to fetch her. He should have gone himself. Then if she’d refused his invitation, her rejection wouldn’t become public knowledge. On the other hand, if he went, then the neighbors might see her in his carriage and talk.

Damn. What a cesspit.

The crunch of wheels on gravel alerted him to the carriage’s arrival. He parted the curtains a fraction and watched Trent hand her down with a respectful demeanor and escort her to the front door. Good man, Trent. A good soldier, too. He could be trusted with any mission. The only servant on duty in the house tonight, Trent wouldn’t interrupt unless Hugo rang.

He forced himself to sit in the chair opposite the door. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager, like some untried boy. Faint heart did not win fair lady.

The front door banged shut. Decisive footsteps tapped on the flagstones in the hall.

Hugo leaped to his feet and swung the door open.

Eyes wide, she stared up at him. He divested her of her shawl and tossed it on the nearest chair. “You are late.”

“Sophia—”

“It doesn’t matter.” He hauled her close, inhaled the faint scent of lavender, and captured her parted lips in a kiss.

The stiffness melted from her body. She leaned into him and clung to his lapels, her eyes closed, her breath warm on his cheek. He kicked the door closed with his heel and drank her sweetness. He felt his restlessness dissipate and the emptiness fill to overflowing. It wasn’t enough.

He cupped her lush, rounded bottom, pulled her close, and tormented his body with her swells, the hills and valleys of her full soft figure. Lost all track of time, all thought, except of the female in his arms, the scent of her in every breath.

When she pressed a hand against his shoulder, he released her with reluctance.

Stepping back a fraction, she put her fingertips against her reddened lips. Her eyes swirled with emotions he didn’t recognize.

He should not have rushed her. He got a grip on the powerful urge to swing her up in his arms and carry her upstairs. Don’t rush your fences. His father’s admonition to an impatient boy. Hell, he knew better. “Come,” he said. “Sit down.” He took her hand and led her to the sofa.

Straight-backed, she lowered herself to the seat and perched on its edge. Her hands twisted in her lap. She stared down at them.

A lump of something cold sank to the pit of his stomach. He’d felt it before, in the heat of battle. Dread.

She raised her gaze. “My lord. Hugo. I have a confession to make.”