A Matter of Temptation (7 page)

She guided him down a hallway, into the library. A table laden with food and adorned with flowers occupied the center of the room, and smaller tables were set along the far wall. Sunlight streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows. He thought he would forever appreciate the sight of glass in place of stone or wood.

“I have to confess that my stomach is still too knotted to eat.”

He peered at her. “You promised the worst was over.”

“A true gentleman wouldn’t toss a lady’s words back at her.”

She had a mischievous expression, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was flirting with him, if he’d perhaps inadvertently started it. He’d once been skilled at charming the ladies, but then he’d been skilled at a good many things. Lack of practice left him floundering, unable to render a suitable reply until finally…

“Perhaps I am no gentleman.” The words spoken aloud didn’t come across nearly as witty as they had while rambling through his mind. He wished he’d left them there and not released them to dangle between them like dirty laundry.

It took her a moment to react, but when she did, her words were hardly what he expected.

“You are the truest gentleman I’ve ever known. I think it was that aspect about you that caught and held my attention. Your gentlemanly mannerisms. I was besotted the first moment we met.”

Lovely. So John had become quite the charmer, had he? Not surprising. Before his captivity, Robert had exhibited an abundance of charm himself. Unfortunately, it appeared it hadn’t escaped from Pentonville with him, but had been left behind to languish.

“I was equally besotted the instant I saw you,” he finally dared to reveal. Her gaiety was intoxicating, and he thought moments spent with her would ease a man’s worries far better than indulging in liquor.

People were milling about the room, stopping briefly at the central table. Gentlemen placed food on platters, then handed the platters to their respective ladies. It all seemed incredibly civilized. As well as intimidating. It had been a long while since he’d engaged in the social graces. He spotted the decanters on the table. “Shall we have some champagne then?”

She nodded, and he signaled to a servant, who brought over two glasses.

“I suppose it would be improper to begin before a toast is made,” he said. “Let’s move to the side a bit.”

To the side a bit when he would have preferred to wedge himself in a corner or slip out through the French doors at the other end of the room. More people filtered in, and Robert observed them, trying to learn what he’d forgotten. All the manners, customs, etiquette. “Your mother seems quite pleased,” he murmured.

“Of course. Today she acquired what she’s always wanted.”

“Which is?”

“Prestige.”

“And what have you always wanted?”

She stared at him as though he’d asked her to remove her clothing, and he realized it was a question he should have known the answer to. He’d no doubt asked her before, and she’d responded. He was supposed to have courted her, for goodness’ sakes. He should know a good many details of her life.

She touched his arm, her surprise shifting into worry. “Not prestige. I’m not my mother. Your being a duke isn’t the reason I married you. I married you because—”

“You hold affection for me.”

She nodded. “I know you must find the feelings I hold toward you odd when we’ve spent so little time together—”

How little?

“—and we know so little about each other—”

How little!

“—but we seemed so well suited. You must feel the same or you wouldn’t have asked me to marry you. Surely it was more than my dowry that attracted you to me.”

He had no idea what her dowry entailed. Was it substantial? Property? Money? Whatever it was, he knew one truth that he could speak with absolute certainty.

“I assure you that even if you had no dowry, I would find myself attracted to you.”

Her pleasure at his words was instantaneous, causing her cheeks to flush, and he wished he had kept his thoughts to himself. The conversation was only serving to worsen the situation.

A tapping on glass drew their attention. An older, robust man was standing with wineglass lifted. Robert was rather sure it was the Duke of Kimburton. If he was making the toast, then he was the gentleman of highest rank.

“A toast to the health and happiness of the Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth,” he said.

As glasses were raised, Robert wondered if this nightmare would ever end. He took a sip of the champagne, savoring the taste. Today, tonight he’d wanted to experience all the things he’d been denied. Liquor was but one of many indulgences, but what he wanted most…

He couldn’t have, because he had a wife, a wife he couldn’t touch. And in the not touching he was once again being denied.

How could one brother take everything away from another for eight long years? Would John have ever given it back?

Robert knew the answer before he’d finished asking the question. His brother had taken his place, and he’d intended it to be for eternity. John had no doubt covered his tracks well, but Robert would find the weakness; he would find a way to reclaim all that was his without keeping his brother locked away.

Perhaps the woman was the key. Perhaps his brother would be grateful enough that Robert returned her to him untouched that he would accept that he was not the true duke. Perhaps Robert could send them to America, with a bit of money, so that they might find their happiness there. To Virginia, a plantation in Virginia. It seemed only fitting.

Whatever he planned, he couldn’t allow an innocent to suffer. This battle was between him and his brother. They alone had to fight it.

He realized with startling clarity that she was waiting for something from him, then it dawned on him what he needed to do. He tapped his glass against hers. “To your happiness, Victoria.”

She smiled with such fondness that he wanted to charge out of the room, leave the charade behind, only he wasn’t the charade. His brother had been.

He watched as she sipped the champagne, so delicately, her tongue darting out to capture the
sparkling drops that lingered on her lips. He thought of gathering those drops himself, his lips pressed to hers, his tongue…

Clearing his throat, he took a healthy swallow of his own champagne. He couldn’t afford to get lost in her beauty, her innocence, her femininity.

“Now that we’re married, you’re not going to be formal with me, are you?” she asked.

“Formal?”

She laughed lightly and rolled her eyes. “Victoria?”

Ah, dear Lord. His brother didn’t call her Victoria. What pet name would John have had for her?

Victoria
…Vickie? No, she didn’t look at all like a Vickie, however he thought a Vickie might look. Vic? Brown eyes? Sweetheart? My love? Beautiful?

It could be any number of things. How could he work the question into a conversation without seeming like a dunce? He couldn’t, so he simply forced himself to smile. “Of course not, but I thought a toast to your happiness required a bit of formality.”

Worry lines appeared between her brows. “You seem different today.”

“As I explained earlier, it’s only the unfamiliarity with being a husband.”

“Simply be yourself.”

“I’m trying…desperately.”

She smiled. “Don’t try so hard.”

Aware of movement off to the side, he turned to watch as a young lady approached. He remembered her as one of the ladies who’d stood beside Victoria at the altar. He was more aware of a resemblance between them now and deduced that she must be a relation, a sister possibly. Another fact that he should know.

She stopped before them and smiled a smile very similar to his wife’s. A sister. He was sure of it. But how many did she have? And did she have any brothers? Surely they would have approached by now.

“Do I have to call Torie ‘Your Grace’ now, Your Grace?” she asked, a bit of mischief in her expression, as though she were daring him.

But deciphering her game was of no interest to him. Rather a mystery had been solved.

Torie? Victoria. His wife’s preferred name. It suited her, and he wondered why he hadn’t realized it sooner, hadn’t figured it out on his own.

“A bit more informality exists among family members,” he assured her sister, finally returning his attention to her inquiry.

“May I call you Robert, then?”

“I think you’re being a bit too informal here, Diana,” Victoria—Torie—said.

“Only if the duke thinks so.” Diana looked at him, challenging him.

“What was John’s relationship with the sister; what would she expect of the duke standing before her now? “Perhaps when we return from our
wedding trip we can discuss informalities,” he offered, delaying the decision.

“Oh, all right. I say, I do wish John had been able to come. I would so like to meet him. His stories fascinate me. Being captured by Indians, then becoming best friends with the tribal chief. Most younger brothers would be content with an allowance and laziness, but yours has made something of himself. He’s quite remarkable.”

“Indeed he is,” Robert murmured. What fanciful tales John had woven to cover the truth of what he’d done.

“Actually, Mama sent me over to see if you’re ready to change into your traveling clothes,” Diana said to Torie.

Torie darted a glance at him before looking at her sister. “Yes, I’m most anxious to leave.”

“That’s the beauty of a stand-up breakfast. Only one toast and you need not wait until all the courses have been served—since they’re served all at once,” Diana said.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Torie said, touching his arm lightly, gazing into his eyes. “I won’t be long.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

He watched the sisters walk away, wondering what Torie saw when she looked at him as intensely as she did. An impostor? No, the true impostor was the man to whom she’d been betrothed. He wondered how she’d react to the news, if he could confess to her…

Just as suddenly he acknowledged that he could confess to no one, not until he discerned whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t. He was now in the world, surrounded by people—yet still as alone as he’d been in prison.

“I
see what you mean.”

“What are you talking about?” Torie asked as she stood before the mirror, waiting patiently while her maid buttoned the last of the buttons on her traveling suit.

“Your duke. The way that he stares. I’d never noticed before. But he begins to get this look on his face as though he’s popped over to France or somewhere equally boring.”

“I thought you liked France.”

“I like the way Frenchmen kiss.”

“When did you ever kiss a Frenchman?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Torie captured her sister’s challenging gaze reflected in the mirror.

“If you’ve kissed a Frenchman then I’m not a virgin.”

“Won’t your husband be surprised when he discovers that?”

Her maid, Charity, cleared her throat.

“You’re teasing me,” Torie stated.

“Am I?”

“If you’ve truly kissed a Frenchman then tell me what I don’t know about kisses.”

“Why must you always call my bluff?”

“Because you always bluff,” Torie said, again looking in the mirror, watching as Charity worked to arrange her hair so her hat would sit perfectly at an angle. “I think he’s missing his brother.”

“Who?”

Torie rolled her eyes. “The duke. That’s who we were talking about. Honestly, sometimes I think there’s something amiss with you, the way you speed through conversations.”

“I’m just always so frightfully bored. I want to get onto the next thing. So you think he misses his brother?”

Diana also had a habit of jumping back and forth between conversations. Torie had to stay on her toes sometimes to keep up with her.

“Yes, I think that’s the reason he seems not quite himself today. We were discussing his brother on the drive over. A special bond exists between twins. I think that makes it all the
harder when they’re separated. Don’t you think?”

“I think I shall miss you desperately when you’re no longer here. And we’re not twins.”

“Thank God. You have a funny nose,” Torie said, striving to keep the mood light when she knew it was in danger of becoming filled with the sadness of parting. She’d never been away from home without her family before.

“Better a funny nose than a hole in my cheek,” Diana retorted.

“It’s called a dimple.”

“The duke stares at it as though he’s never seen one.”

“You spent an awful lot of time watching my duke.”

“Oh, so now he’s
your
duke.” Diana crossed her arms over her chest. “The doubts seemed to have left you.”

No, they were still there, but it was far too late for them. As Charity moved aside, Torie turned and spread her arms wide. “I shall miss you desperately as well.”

Diana moved into her embrace and hugged her tightly. “Send for me when you can.”

“As soon as we’ve settled into marriage.” Torie stepped back, took her sister’s hands, and squeezed. “Be kind to Mother while I’m gone.”

“You want to take away all my fun.”

Leaning forward, she kissed her sister’s cheek.
“And watch out for Frenchmen. I hear they use their tongues when they kiss.”

Diana gave her an impish smile. “Indeed, they do.”

“I’m so looking forward to going to your ancestral home,” Torie said as the coach traveled through London. “You’ve spoken of Hawthorne House so often that I feel as though I know every hallway, every chamber.”

“I look forward to sharing it with you,” Robert said, his response paltry, hardly significant. Knowing that she knew little about him didn’t help his situation at all, because in some ways it increased his likelihood of making a misstep. The fewer details she knew, the more likely she was to have a clearer memory of them.

She seemed disappointed in his answer, and he could hardly blame her. She was so vibrant, so alive that he felt very much like a corpse sitting on the seat opposite hers.

Her traveling clothes were dark green. Perched jauntily on her head was a little hat with a feather slanting off to the side. Her hair was piled up beneath it. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, touch her cheek, touch her. But he feared one touch wouldn’t be enough, would never be enough.

“I would like to invite Diana to join us, once we’ve settled into marriage.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think she and John would get along?”

“I hardly think so.”

“Really? Why?”

Because he would have chosen her from the start if he had an interest in her
.

“Living in America, he no doubt has come to appreciate a lady with a more uncivilized nature.”

“Trust me. Diana can be most uncivilized when she sets her mind to it. Just this morning she was goading Mother with nonsense about never marrying.”

“Why do you consider her never wanting to marry as nonsense?”

“Because it is a woman’s purpose in life—to seek out a favorable marriage.”

“So by marrying me, you’ve achieved your purpose.”

She looked up at the coach’s ceiling. “I don’t believe I’ve ever poked my foot into my mouth as much as I have today.” She lowered her gaze to him. “No, marrying you wasn’t my
purpose
in life. My purpose”—She furrowed her brow. “I’m not really sure exactly what my purpose is. Perhaps to be a good wife, an exemplary mother, a charming duchess.’

“Then I have no doubt you shall achieve your goals with tremendous success.”

“I never realized you had such faith in me.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you to wife otherwise.”

He was beginning to lose sight of which
thoughts were his and which were attempts to utter sentiments he thought his brother might. He didn’t want to be a reflection of John.

“After we sit for our official portrait, we shall have to have a smaller copy made for John,” she said.

“Our official portrait?”

She smiled indulgently at him. “Yes. You’d told me that shortly after their marriage every duke and duchess has a portrait painted to hang in the family gallery.”

“Ah, yes.”

“And you want us to have ours done very soon, since we’re now the Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth.”

“Very soon,” he murmured, “but not immediately. I’ve never enjoyed standing for portraits.”

Besides, no sense in having her portrait done when it would not long hang in the gallery. He couldn’t promise that she would remain the duchess. As a matter of fact, she probably wouldn’t. The vows she’d spoken today had been for another man, and Robert wouldn’t hold her to them.

“It is a rather boring endeavor, isn’t it?” she asked. “And I know you detest being bored.”

A trait he and his brother shared. And there was nothing except boredom within Pentonville.

“I fear even Witherspoon finds it a challenge to assist me with my morning routine, as I’m not
one to stand idle for long,” he said, rather pleased with himself because he’d managed to learn the name of his valet.

He’d had a stroke of brilliance after they’d arrived at his London home so they could transfer from the carriage to the coach. He’d called out all the servants and insisted that each be introduced to the duchess, while he simply walked along beside her, making note of the names as the butler introduced each one. His valet was Witherspoon—a good thing to know since Witherspoon was accompanying him to the estate, traveling in the coach behind this one, and Robert couldn’t very well
never
call him by name.

Torie had also brought along her lady’s maid, a woman named Charity who seemed rather young, but capable, and very fond of her mistress.

“As I understand it, it’s quite a long journey,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Shall we play one of our word games to pass the time?”

Dash it all! They had little games that they played
.

“It’ll make the time pass more quickly,” she continued. “We’ll play Alphabetical Geography. Give me a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Of the alphabet. You remember. You say, ‘W,’
and I say, ‘I’m going to Windsor for water and waltzing.’ Then I’ll give you a letter. I know you enjoy it more when several people are around to play, but we can make it work with only the two of us.”

“I don’t mean to disappoint you, but it’s been a long morning and I’m weary,” he said, rather than confess that he didn’t know anything about the word games she’d played with his brother, and while this one seemed fairly easy, it wasn’t of interest to him. The games he longed to play involved her mouth, pressed up against his. The games played by men and women, not those favored by children.

“Of course. How silly of me. It’s been a long morning for us both. Will you try to sleep, then?”

“Possibly.”

She gazed out the window, her smile withering, and he feared he might have hurt her tender feelings. She was so incredibly lovely and smelled so enticingly sweet, like a flower that kept all its petals tucked neatly away only to blossom at dawn and release the fragrance that made it special, like no other.

Her rose and lily scent filled the coach and wafted around him. He took one deep breath after another, holding each and savoring the sweetness, allowing it to wash away years of stench filling his nostrils. Sitting with her in the coach was achieving what his bath that morning had
failed to accomplish: granting him the feeling of normalcy.

In retrospect, he probably should have sought an excuse to leave her in London, but what would the gossips say about a man who abandoned his wife as soon as vows were spoken? They would no doubt question his virility. While he himself would question his sanity, for no sane man would willingly distance himself from her, not for a day, certainly not for a night.

Yet there he was: inches from her instead of nestled up against her, whispering sweet love words into her ear while plying her neck with his kisses. To get to that neck, he’d have to release a few buttons, because she was done up as tightly as a drum. Although they were married, he was no doubt expected to follow tradition and be the pursuer.

Did women even know precisely what happened during the wedding night? It wasn’t as if they could visit a brothel and learn all the particulars. Although he had visited one the night he’d turned eighteen, his enjoyment of the offerings had been cut short when he was drugged and carted away. Over the years he’d had many a lonely night of imagining exactly what he might do with a woman. He might lack experience, but he damned well didn’t lack imagination, and he was having a difficult time reining it in now. It was taking liberties that he couldn’t, and even as he cursed it, he welcomed it.

She was a temptation in which he couldn’t indulge. Yet he found himself blessedly content to simply be within the coach with her. To not be alone. Even if the silence stretched between them, he was not alone.

Then a horrible thought occurred to him. Was he giving himself away by
not
speaking to her?

She’d begun every conversation, if the few sentences passing between them could be considered conversation. He realized she didn’t appear to be enjoying the view beyond the window. Rather she seemed sad, as lonely as he.

He was going to have to do something, come up with some safe topic of conversation, perhaps even agree to play a silly game. He looked out his own window, hoping inspiration would strike, when something caught his eye.

“Stop!” he yelled. “Stop the coach!”

“What is it, Robert? What’s wrong?” she asked, suddenly straightening, ever alert.

He couldn’t explain it. He merely shook his head. The coach rocked to a stop.

“I’ll be only a moment,” he said, not waiting for a footman, but flinging the door open and stepping out. He walked only a few feet away from the coach so he’d have an unobstructed view.

The building was as ominous from the outside as it was from the inside. Foreboding as well as forbidding. He broke out in a light sweat. He
swore he heard the clanging of doors, the shuffling of feet as prisoners were escorted to the exercise yard or the chapel, the absence of voices—

“What is it about Pentonville that fascinates you so?”

Robert nearly leaped out of his skin at the unexpected question, her unanticipated nearness. He’d not heard her clamber out of the coach, not heard her approach, and yet she was beside him, studying him. He wasn’t certain what she might see, what his face might reveal, so he tore his gaze from her, striving to keep any sort of emotion out of his voice.

“What makes you think it fascinates me?”

She released what she probably hoped would be a laugh, but sounded more like she was choking. “Because twice before when we’ve been out on a drive, you’ve done this very thing: had the driver stop so you could stand in that exact spot and stare at that horrid prison.”

So twice before when his brother was with her he’d stared at the prison. Fancy that. Robert wondered how many times John might have come to look at it when he wasn’t with her. If he ever stood nearby with guilt raining down on him, guilt for all he’d acquired and all it had cost his brother, the true heir.

Had John considered confessing his sins to her, or had he simply been taking a moment to revel
in his unbridled success at replacing his brother? What had he thought when he’d stood there? And what could Robert now say to his wife to explain his actions?

“I’m not certain why it fascinates me. It’s a morbid sort of fascination, to be sure.” Like gazing at one’s home in hopes of remembering pleasant memories where none existed.

“I’ve seen a drawing of the prisoners taking their exercise. They’re tied together—”

“They’re not tied together,” he interrupted. “They’re merely forced to hold a rope, knotted at five-yard intervals, to keep them from getting too close to each other. The distance prevents them from carrying on a conversation with another man.”

“In the drawing I saw, they wore hoods—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear any more of the details with which he was so horrifyingly familiar. “It’s a bit of frippery called a scotch cap.”

“Why do you call it frippery? It saves the prisoners the embarrassment of having their faces seen.”

“By whom?” he asked, unable to keep the anger from surfacing. “By other prisoners? Other guilty men? Imagine living your life day in and day out at a masked costume ball…only everyone wore the same mask. You could easily go insane when everyone looks exactly alike. Watching the men come out is like bees swarming from the
hive. You can’t tell them apart. The sameness of it. Everything always the same. The same thirteen-by-seven-foot cell. The same clothing, the same hood, the same—” He broke off. He’d not meant to go on so, but the misery of that existence was buried deeply inside him, struggling to escape with tenacity equal to his own.