A Matter of Temptation (12 page)

“Oh, my goodness. Is that you and John with your mother?” she asked.

“Yes”.

“You look exactly the same.”

“Of course. We’re twins.”

She shook her head, the tiny dimple appearing as she lifted a corner of her mouth. “I’ve always known you were twins, but I’ve never seen a portrait of the two of you. I thought something would distinguish you from each other. A blemish perhaps, a slightly different chin.”

“There’s nothing—which makes it impossible for anyone to tell us apart.”

“How old are you in the portrait?” she asked.

“I believe we were nearly eight.”

“Was it strange?”

“Strange?”

“Having a twin. I can’t imagine how odd it would seem to look at someone who looks exactly as you do.”

“I didn’t consider it strange. When I looked at
John, I saw John. That he looked as I did was simply…the way he looked.”

Her dimple deepened as her smile grew. “Did you ever try to trick people, pretend to be each other?”

How was he to answer that question? With the truth? It was the perfect opportunity to explain the situation, to tell her of John’s deception. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. To lose her completely. So he simply said, “On occasion.”

“Were you ever found out?”

“No,” he answered quietly. “No one ever knew what we did.”

She moved toward the desk, interest reflected in her eyes. “Tell me about one of the times. Tell me what you did, how you managed to pull it off.”

“It wasn’t that difficult. As you say, we looked exactly alike, our mannerisms were very similar. I daresay the only one who could truly tell us apart was our mother. We could never fool her.”

“But you tried”

“On occasion.”

“So reveal to me a time when you successfully pretended to be John.”

He shook his head as a memory came upon him, one from years ago, one he’d locked away and not thought of in a good long while. “It’s not a moment I’m proud of.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“You will think less of me.”

“Impossible.”.

He ran his finger along the edge of the desk, studying the fine grain of the wood. He’d never told a soul. Even John had held his secret when he’d had no reason to. “You owe me, brother,” he’d said afterward.

Surely that incident hadn’t led to John hiding him away in Pentonville.

“Robert?”

He glanced up, having almost forgotten that she was there.

She shook her head. “Where do you go?”

“Pardon?”

“You get a faraway look in your eyes. I’ve seen it happen countless times, and I’m left alone even though you are beside me.”

“I stole an apple,” he said hastily, deciding it was better to reveal the story than to explain where his mind drifted off to. “From a grocer in the village. John very much liked the grocer’s daughter, and I’d been flirting with her, pretending to be him, because she favored him with kisses.”

“So you stole her kisses.”

“Yes, and an apple. The grocer saw me take the apple, not the kisses, and he reported the theft to my father. Only since I’d told his daughter I was John, he told my father it was John who took the apple. So John was punished.”

“Punished? For stealing an apple?”

“My father had a strict moral code. You did not take that which did not belong to you. We were fourteen, John and I. But my father made
him hold out a hand—the hand that supposedly took the apple—and struck it three times with a cane. Then he made John pay for the apple.”

He realized that he’d tightened his hand into a fist. The blows had been delivered to John, but Robert had felt the sting of each one of them, because he’d been made to watch his brother being made an example of.

“I should have confessed, spared John the punishment, but I didn’t wish to disappoint my father. Or perhaps I was simply weak. A coward. John had no proof other than his word that it was me and not him.”

And now Robert found himself in the same predicament.

Reaching across the desk, she took his balled hand in hers and slowly unfurled his fingers.

She kissed the center of his palm as though it was he who had been struck. He curled his fingers slightly so they would touch her cheek. “It was a harmless prank. I’m sure there were times when John pretended to be you,” she said.

“I’m sure you’re right. In retrospect, however, perhaps my father did know the truth of it. Punishing me by forcing me to witness his punishing John. If that was his thinking, it was very clever on his part. I never pretended to be John again.”

He worked his hand free of her hold before he did something dangerous like wrap his hand around the nape of her neck and draw her near for a kiss.

“I’ve asked the groomsman to saddle a horse for me so that I might go riding,” he announced, for no other reason than to change the subject and to alert her to the fact that she’d best be on her way because he was soon to be on his.

“May I go with you?” she asked.

“I have the pox.” The words came out, barely audible even to his own ears.

She tilted her head. “Pardon?”

“I said…I have a fox.”

“Are you going hunting then?”

“No, just looking.”

She gave him a smile that almost brought him to his knees, and in that moment he thought he might truly hate his brother for having a claim to this woman.

“I would like to take a look as well.”

She was tempting him beyond all reason, and his resistance was weakening.

“Actually another time might be better. I plan to visit the family mausoleum. Not exactly a jolly place.”

“I’d like to pay my respects to your family.”

What could he say to that heartfelt declaration?

“I’ll have another horse readied then.”

“Thank you. I’ll change into my riding dress and meet you at the stables.”

She unsettled him, confused him, threatened his plans. But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than nod and say, “I look forward to your company.”

I
n the end they walked, leading their horses behind them, because the family mausoleum was not that far from the manor. They reached it by strolling through elaborate, well-maintained gardens. Torie was left with the impression that the gardens had been designed to bring tranquility to anyone traveling through them so that when they reached their final destination, they would arrive with a sense of peace.

Like everything else Torie had seen at Hawthorne House, the mausoleum was magnificent. It sat in a clearing, its stone spires competing with the surrounding trees for height. Stained-glass windows adorned and brought muted and colored sunlight into the cold building.

Torie thought it was probably the marble tombs inside that held the warmth at bay. Several lined the walls, each providing a place where an intricate carving of a man lay next to that of a woman—both exhibited in their prime even if death had not arrived until long past that moment. A kindness to those housed within and to those who would visit their ancestors—who were always displayed at their best.

In the center of the building were the resting places of the fifth Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth, who’d been taken from this earth much too soon. Robert’s parents.

He stood there now, his hands resting on his mother’s marble form, his head bent, his eyes closed in solemn reflection. Although eight years had passed since he’d lost them, it was evident he still mourned their passing. It was another side to him that she’d never before witnessed: a man who cared so deeply.

Her heart tightened at the grief he so clearly still felt. Quietly she moved up and placed her hand on his firm back, to provide him with a small measure of solace.

“I wasn’t with them when they died,” he rasped.

She placed her other hand on his arm, squeezing gently, offering what comfort she could, although she knew nothing would be enough. “Few children are.”

“I should have been.”

His voice contained a tinge of anger. Not that she could blame him. His parents weren’t so very old when they’d died.

“I’ve never known anyone who has mourned so deeply for so long. You must have loved them a great deal.” And she couldn’t help but hope that a day would come when he’d love her as much.

“Indeed I have held on to my grief. This is the first time—” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never visited them here before today. I…couldn’t…bring myself to come, but seeing their peaceful images carved in white marble serves to make their deaths all too real.”

“They wouldn’t want you to continue to mourn.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t. Would you mind allowing me a few moments alone?”

Although she wished he would welcome her nearness, she understood the process of grief, having been close to her grandparents and losing them when she was young. She squeezed his arm again before walking quietly from the building into the sunshine, grateful for its warmth chasing away the chill.

It was several moments before Robert joined her, his eyes reddened slightly, and she thought perhaps he’d wept. She’d never before considered that he was a man of sentiment, of deep emotion. His courtship of her had only allowed the surface of the man to be seen, and she thought it unfair that society didn’t allow unmarried couples to
spend moments alone so they might come to know each other better before they were expected to know each other intimately.

Glancing around, he took a deep breath, tugging on his gloves. He finally brought his gaze to rest on hers. Yes, she was certain now that he had wept.

“I believe we should attempt to find something a bit more pleasant to do.”

“Search for your fox perhaps?”

He appeared momentarily flummoxed, then grinned. “Yes, let’s see if we can find my fox.”

The last thing Torie had ever expected was to be intrigued by her husband. He was a contradiction, a mystery, a complete…stranger.

That was the best way to describe him. As though she was only just being introduced to him.

Perhaps that was the way of marriage. Certainly courtship provided little opportunity to get to know the object of one’s affection intimately, which begged the question: what prompted fondness?

She was only now beginning to realize that until she’d actually married Killingsworth, her feelings toward him had all been based on superficial circumstances: the way he danced, the way he carried on a conversation, the color of his hair, the shape of his brow, the knife-edged cut of his nose, his firm chin, his dazzling eyes.

Her assessment of him had been based on
nothing of substance, nothing of import. Was it any wonder that so many couples seemed to be unhappy with their choices?

But now at long last, she was coming to know him a bit better, and she realized that he was a man composed of fascinating layers. The way he’d held her in the coach. The way he’d sought to welcome her last night—with warm cocoa. The way he teased the cook. The way he mourned his parents still.

Somewhere she’d once heard that still waters ran deep, and only now was she beginning to understand the complexities of the expression and the complexities of her husband. His public persona was quite different from his private one, and she was discovering that the man riding beside her touched a place deep within her heart that she’d doubted he’d ever be able to reach.

She adored the way he looked at everything as though it was all wondrous, as though he appreciated the simple beauty of the countryside that surrounded them as they rode their horses across a field toward a forest. It was as though he was grateful to be out and about, with the sun warming his face and the song of birds filling the air.

He’d not spoken a single word since they’d left the mausoleum. Occasionally he’d glance over at her, give her an almost shy smile, then look away. She wondered if he was embarrassed because he’d been unable to hide from her the depth of his love for his parents. She thought of explaining
that she cared for him that much more because of what she’d witnessed, but she feared it would only serve to distance him, to make him feel more self-conscious. So she sought instead to bring him back to her with a reminder of their present business.

“What will you do with the fox when you find it?” she asked.

His eyes widening, he released a short laugh. “Oh, no, I…no, I’m not searching for a fox. I’ve not ridden in a while—”

“You rode last night when you came in search of me.”

“Well, yes, but that hardly counts. My mind was centered on you, not enjoying the feel of a beast beneath me.”

“We rode together last week,” she reminded him.

He creased his brow. “Yes, but that was in London.”

His statement sounded almost like a question, as though he were guessing.

“In Hyde Park,” she affirmed.

“It’s much different to ride in the country.” He brought his horse to a halt near a stand of trees. “I believe I’d like to walk now.”

He swung his leg back and dismounted before glancing up at her. “The brush grows thick in there, you might find it easier to walk.”

“All right.”

He looked up at her, not moving.

She waited. He waited.

Finally she said, “I’ll need assistance dismounting.”

He jerked slightly as though suddenly awakened from a long nap. “Yes, of course.”

He came around and wiped his hands on his trousers before placing them on her waist with such care, as though he thought she was made of glass and easily broken. He’d never touched her with such gentleness, such awareness. Not even when they’d danced.

She unwound her leg from the horn of the sidesaddle and placed her hands on his shoulders, surprised to find them so firm, so sturdy. He seemed slightly broader than she remembered. Perhaps it was simply that she’d only ever placed one hand on one of his shoulders—while dancing.

He lifted her up, held her aloft for a heartbeat, before slowly lowering her to the ground, his eyes locked on hers. For a moment she felt as though she was gazing into those eyes for the first time, as though she’d never before seen them.

They held warmth, wonder; they looked as if he was seeing her as differently as she was seeing him. Perhaps their not rushing into lovemaking was a good thing, because it gave them an opportunity to build the emotional bond between them before they created the physical one.

When her feet touched the ground, she swayed toward him slightly, while his hands remained on
her waist. She felt his fingers flex, jerk, while his smoldering eyes dipped down to her lips. She was certain he was going to kiss her, so she couldn’t have been more surprised when he suddenly released his hold on her and stepped quickly away.

“I’ll just tether the horses so we don’t find them gone when we’re finished with our exploration of the woods,” he said.

She watched as he immersed himself in tying both horses to a low-lying bush. How remarkable that his nature contained a shyness that revealed itself at the oddest of moments.

He turned to her and smiled uncertainly. She didn’t know why she found it so endearing, and yet she did.

“Shall we go then?” he asked, nodding his head toward the forest.

“You changed your side whiskers,” she said, wondering why she’d not noticed sooner, wondering if they were the reason that he seemed so different.

Before they had covered a good portion of his cheek, coming down to leave only the strong square of his chin visible. Now he rubbed that chin, those cheeks, his fingers grazing along the thinner side whiskers that went no farther down than his earlobe.

“Yes, this morning. I decided they were a bit bothersome. A tad showy.”

She pulled her hands into tight fists to stop her
self from doing what she suddenly had an irrational urge to do: brush her fingers over them. “I like the way they look.”

He released his self-conscious laugh, dipped his gaze to the ground, then looked back up at her. “Do you?”

“Yes, they’re more friendly.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not explaining it well. But they suit you better.”

“I shall give your compliments to my valet.”

“Please do.”

They stood there as though this were an awkward first meeting, unsure what to say, yet feeling the need to say something.

“Follow me,” he announced, breaking the spell before heading for the trees.

She hurried to catch up with him, intrigued by this man who was so completely different from the man she’d known in London. If she didn’t realize that it was absolutely impossible, she’d think he was someone else entirely.

Robert had only trekked a few feet when the forest thickened, and he decided he’d best stop to wait for his wife. She moved carefully, cautiously, elegantly. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen any one as graceful as she was as she picked her way over the forest floor.

As she neared him, she lifted her gaze, smiled, and with her attention no longer on the ground, she tripped, squeaked—

He quickly reached out, caught her hand, her waist, and it was as though the world receded and time stood still. Although they both wore leather riding gloves, in the coolness of the forest he could feel the heat of her skin mingling with his. He wanted to draw her nearer, press the length of her body against his, until her warmth completely saturated him. At the same time, he wanted to hold her away so he could gaze into her wondrous brown eyes. He’d never seen eyes so large, so lovely, and when she smiled or laughed, they danced like a thousand stars in the night sky.

He could clearly see why his brother had chosen her.

His brother.

And she had chosen John.

The reality of that choice hit him hard in the gut.

“Steady now?” he asked, hoping she didn’t detect that he sounded as though he was strangling.

She nodded.

“Good.” He let go of her and stepped back. “We should go a bit more slowly, to prevent any mishaps.”

“Did you play in this forest when you were a boy?”

He began the journey again, going at a leisurely rate until she fell into step beside him, then increasing his pace only a bit. Her strides weren’t as long as his, so he adjusted his to accommodate hers.

He thought for her that he could make many such adjustments. Perhaps his brother had felt the same. Not to the extent that he might have released Robert from his hell, though. To do so would reveal John for the fraud that he was, and a woman who had thought she’d become a duchess would have discovered that she wasn’t. Her disappointment might well have made for a miserable marriage.

“Yes,” he finally answered, remembering a time when he’d thought he was happy, when he’d loved his brother and thought his brother loved him. He wondered if Abel had possessed the same misconceptions regarding his brother Cain’s feelings toward him. At least John hadn’t killed Robert. Although there were many moments when Robert had wished he had. Only now he was grateful that he hadn’t, grateful for the woman walking beside him, her sweet fragrance wafting over him from time to time to mingle with the pungent earthy smells of the forest that surrounded them.

“What did you play?” she asked.

“The Napoleonic Wars. John liked to be Napoleon.”

“And you were Wellington?”

“Of course.”

“I always thought it would be great fun to have a twin. Tell me about one of the times when John pretended to be you.”

She’d given him the perfect opportunity to re
veal the truth of the situation.
While he was courting you. When he asked for your hand in marriage
.

But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He convinced himself that the forest wasn’t the proper place for such a revelation, but he suspected his real reason for delaying was the knowledge that with the truth he would lose her completely. And he wasn’t quite ready not to have her near.

She’d provided comfort at the mausoleum, and her smiles brought sunshine into his soul. So he would borrow her for a time. John had borrowed a good deal more.

“There were far too many to recall.” When they were lads, he’d only found it mildly irritating when he’d discovered that John had been masquerading as him, stealing the first kiss from a girl Robert had favored, convincing Mrs. Cuddleworthy that Robert’s favorite dishes were those he abhorred, challenging their father—in the guise of Robert—as Robert never would have, but when the punishment fell, John was suddenly John again, and Robert took the brunt of his father’s lectures and firm hand. Even as a lad he’d been unable to prove that John was playing the pranks, that John was pretending to be Robert.