Engaged in Sin (19 page)

“No, the other book.”

“You mean
Sense and Sensibility
.”

“Yes, angel. You see, that book wasn’t mine. It belonged to Lady Rosalind Marchant.”

“The woman your mother mentioned in the letter. You were … engaged to her?”

“Not quite. I fell in love with Rosalind, I stole her away from a very good friend, and I intended to marry her. But she died of a fever before I made my proposal of marriage. I fell in love, I betrayed a good man to get her because I couldn’t live without her, then I waited too long. And I lost her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“
Sense and Sensibility
was her favorite book. I used to watch her read it when we went on picnics. I read it myself—it was one more weapon with which to seduce her and win her away from my friend. When she fell ill and couldn’t leave her bed, I bought her that copy. Her mother gave it to her, since I wasn’t allowed to see her while she was ill. They would not even let me go into her room when she passed away. I barged in after she died, and that was when I got down on one knee and told her how much I loved her. I held her limp hand and poured out everything I felt, in the desperate hope she would somehow hear. Maybe I believed I could bring her back if I made her know how much I loved her. But I was too damned late. All the while, her mother was shrieking about the impropriety of it. Her father finally summoned servants to drag me out of the bedroom.”

“He did? Even though you were—”

“A duke’s son?”

“—so very much in love.”

“I understood. They were racked with grief. They blamed me—I’d created a huge scandal by coaxing Rosalind to break her engagement to my friend. Within a month, I’d met her, tempted her away, and convinced her to jilt him. She had never been strong, and her parents
believed the scandal had made her ill again. Perhaps they were right. I used to be a wild rake, but once I saw Rosalind, I didn’t desire any other woman. I thought only about what I wanted. Even when she died, that was what I did—I took what
I
wanted.” He breathed deeply. “The book was in her hand and I grabbed it just before they hauled me out. I wanted to keep the last thing she’d touched.”

Anne’s heart stuttered as his lashes lowered and a regretful smile touched his mouth.

“She used to become so absorbed in a book,” he murmured, “she didn’t even notice the rest of the world around her.”

There was no doubt he had been deeply in love. She could see it in the way his eyes shut and he lowered his head, as though grief was weighing on him all over again. “I’m so sorry. When I read from the book, it must have reminded you of all that—oh, goodness! When you asked me to read from a horse-breeding book, it was to stop the pain of remembering, wasn’t it?” She had been so determined to do what
she
thought was best. “How stupid I was not to ask you what you wanted.” She had brought back all his sorrow over the woman he loved, then she’d taken away his brandy so he couldn’t find any solace. “You must be furious with me.”

“I’m not. It hurt at first when you started reading. I went to war right after Rosalind died. I did it so I could escape the pain. I thought with all the action and risk, I’d have no place for grief. That was a stupid mistake. When I made you stop reading
Sense and Sensibility
, I realized I’d made another mistake. I didn’t want to hide anymore—I wanted to remember her.”

Anne twisted in the saddle and cupped his face. His horse shifted beneath them, but the duke’s arm tightened around her waist. “Perhaps I shouldn’t do this,”
she murmured. “Push me away if you want. But I need to kiss you, Your Grace.”

He pulled her to him until their lips almost touched and they shared the same swift breaths. “I loved Rosalind deeply, but no woman has ever treated me as you do, angel.” He moved that one last hairbreadth and kissed her.

The kiss in the rain had been dazzling, but this one …

His mouth touched hers gently, so tenderly that she had to close her eyes, had to grip his shoulders to keep from melting into a puddle and sliding off the horse. She had never been kissed like this. She’d never known what it was like to want to cry over the caress of a man’s mouth. Now she did. It was so wonderfully sweet she wanted to weep.

Slowly he drew back. “Read to me again tonight, love? Would you promise?”

“Of course,” she whispered.

No wonder the duke wanted to hide away here. No wonder he had nightmares and drank too much brandy. Anne paced in her bedchamber—the room that should be
his
bedchamber. She ached to help him, but she didn’t know what to do.

How terrible it must have been for him. He went to war to escape grief, only to end up surrounded by pain, violence, and death. He had not given himself time to mourn the woman he loved. It must haunt him now. Grief for Lady Rosalind must be in his heart, along with sorrow over his memories of war and the loss of his sight.

How could she help him overcome it? She didn’t know how to stop the pain. She still felt it for her parents, for her lost home. She’d refused to even think of Longsworth.

She couldn’t help but think about his mother. In her mind’s eye, Anne could picture her as a silver-haired woman bent over an escritoire, writing a letter to her son, brushing at tears as some dropped to the page. She could picture an untouched tray of food and a woman consuming herself with worry. Was his mother forgoing food, forgetting sleep, as Anne had done?

She didn’t know how to help the duke get over the pain of losing Lady Rosalind, but she did know what she could do for his mother. The duke would never have to know.

Two days later, as Anne finished her breakfast in the dining room, Treadwell approached. He waited respectfully, twisting his hands in front of him. She knew by now that the butler cared deeply for his master. His look of confusion instantly speared her with worry.

“Is something wrong with His Grace?” She was off her seat, ready to run.

“No, miss. Everything is … right with him. I came to tell ye that His Grace has not asked for brandy for the last two nights. Not before he retired for the night. Not after his dreams. I even … well, I was worried about him and thought a little nip couldn’t hurt him. I offered to bring him some, on the quiet, so ye wouldn’t find out, miss. But he turned it down.”

She lifted her brow at the butler’s admission, but she couldn’t help but echo, “He turned it down?”

“Indeed. He told me he believed ye would not approve.”

She blinked. She hadn’t quite believed she could convince him to give up brandy. He’d been so obstinate. Yet somehow she had touched him, she had made him see sense, she had helped.

“His Grace also wishes ye to join him this morning. It
is his plan to make an excursion into the village, and he has asked for ye to accompany him.”

Her teacup hit the saucer with a clatter. “He wishes to go into the village?”

“Aye.” Treadwell grinned, his lips opening wide to reveal missing teeth. He winked. “His Grace has not been into the village once since he came here. This is a grand thing, miss. All of us—the staff—we’re all very pleased.”

She stood up from the table. “I’m very pleased,” she repeated, before she followed the butler to the front foyer, where she found the duke pulling on black gloves. Already he was dressed immaculately in a tailcoat, his beaver hat perfectly placed on his head, his snow-white collar points framing his handsome face.

“Where did you wish to go, Your Grace?” she asked.

He grinned so beautifully, her heart almost fractured. “You will soon see, angel.”

The duke’s carriage stopped in the narrow street in front of the dressmaker’s shop. Anne froze. She had never told him of her disastrous visit. “Why have we come here?”

“Treadwell informed me that no gowns have arrived for you and there have been no bills for clothes and bonnets. I assume you did not come here when I instructed you to?”

Embarrassment turned her cheeks to flame. “I did, but I could not stay. Respectable ladies were in the shop, and they guessed at once I am your mistress. The modiste was terribly nervous, but she made it clear I was making her patrons uncomfortable. So I left.”

“Indeed. Well, it is my duty as your noble protector to buy you gowns, my dear. I intend to see it through.”

She could guess what he wished to do, but she was not certain she had the courage to face it. “Your Grace, we
will thoroughly scandalize this woman if you go in and buy clothes for me.”

He would not be deterred. His footman opened the carriage door, and the duke leapt out, then helped her down the steps. He held open the door to the shop and waited. Meekly, she went in before him. At once, the dressmaker hurried forward, a chubby seamstress trailing behind her. Both women curtsied. There were two other young ladies in the shop, and they dropped their handfuls of ribbons, goggling at the duke.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wimple,” the duke said coldly. He peered over both women’s heads.

As Mrs. Wimple rose, her face was as white as her bolts of muslin. She sputtered a greeting that dripped with deference. The duke quirked his brow, this time displaying aristocratic hauteur. “This dear lady is a close friend of my family.”

The modiste’s shoulders trembled before his measured yet ominous tones. He was rather frightening when he spoke so quietly, like the stillness of the sky before a storm exploded.

“Yet when I sent my dear friend to you,” he continued, in that deep rumble, “I believe she was not treated with the civility and deference I expected.”

The modiste quaked. “Your Grace, I …”

Anne saw the woman flounder. The duke turned to her, knowing where she was because she had placed her hand on his steely forearm. “My dear Miss—Miss Cerise, would you be so good as to fetch me a chair? I know the fitting of a lady’s gown is a long business, and I would like a seat.”

Anne flushed at his stumble over her name. She should have given him a last name. It had blown his lie apart in a moment: He would not search for her name if she was truly a close family friend. However, he appeared utterly unperturbed by the slip.

The dressmaker gasped. “No! No, Cherrywell will fetch a seat.” She waved frantically at the plump seamstress. “Hurry and bring a chair for His Grace. If you will follow me to the dressing rooms, Miss Cerise …” The woman’s gaze swept over her borrowed dress, and in a low voice she said, “You will want something bold, I presume, similar to the gown you are wearing?”

Anne shuddered at the woman’s false smile. She wanted to walk out, but she couldn’t. She had no point to prove. She was a fallen woman and had accepted it. She knew exactly the kind of treatment to expect. Heavens, in the village of Banbury, near Longsworth, respectable ladies would cross the street if they saw a ruined woman walking on their side. As though ruination could be spread through the air.

The duke wore such a look of fierce determination, she didn’t want to disobey. He settled into the seat, close enough that she could whisper in his ear. “This isn’t necessary,” she hissed. “You shouldn’t be so angry.”

“Of course I’m angry. You deserve a hell of a lot better treatment than this.”

His words stunned her. She turned to Mrs. Wimple. If she must do this, she did
not
want to be stuck in the kind of garish gowns she used to wear for Madame. “I would like gowns with simple but elegant lines—” She stopped. There was a way to crack the tension. She turned an ingenuous smile on Mrs. Wimple. “I can see you have a superior sense of style. Why else would His Grace insist on your services?”

The words had an instant effect. The woman thawed, ever so slightly.

“Please use your discretion,” Anne went on. “I am sure your designs will be flattering and fashionable. I have no doubt your gowns will be the talk of London, when I return there.” A bold lie. She had no intention of being seen
anywhere
in London.

“Yes.” The middle-aged woman thoughtfully stroked her chin. “I do believe I can envision exactly what would flatter you best.”

Anne had no idea if it was true, but the woman was animated now instead of resentful. Mrs. Wimple was warming to the chance to impress the Duke of March. Before she disappeared behind the curtain to the fitting room, Anne glanced back at the duke. He waited patiently, sipping tea served to him by Cherrywell, while young seamstresses peeped at him from the workroom door. The sight made her smile. Her heart felt oddly … lighter. “Thank you,” she whispered. He couldn’t hear her, of course. Her thank-you wasn’t for the clothes; it was for insisting she be treated as more than a ruined woman.

The duke looked entirely too relaxed in places that sold women’s apparel.

At least, he had at the beginning. After they saw the dressmaker, they had to visit the milliner’s. It was obvious he’d done this with mistresses before, though perhaps not in this village. But Anne had seen disappointment flash in his eyes when she was trying on bonnets. He’d stood abruptly, told her to buy every one in the shop rather than spend time making a decision, then swept her out the door.

Now, in the carriage, he sprawled on the seat across from her, utterly silent, as they rumbled toward his home.

She knew he was not going to lash out at her, and it hurt her to see him look so grim and tense. Was it the reminder of his blindness? Or was his unhappy expression because he was thinking of the woman he’d loved and lost? “Your Grace—”

“Angel—” He spoke at the exact moment she did. They shared a nervous laugh, then she asked, “Would
you come and sit beside me?” at the same time that he said, “Come sit on my lap.”

“Your lap? Why?” She was perplexed for a few seconds. Then he lifted his hips, the motion making his intent obvious.

“In the
carriage
?” she asked, astonished, for it jiggled and lightly swayed.

“Cerise, you are adorable. Yes, in the carriage.”

“Can it be done?”

“Very carefully,” he teased.

She moved to him, sat on his lap, and discovered he’d already opened the falls of his trousers. He bent so his lips brushed her hair. His voice came as a hoarse rasp. “Make love to me. I’ve discovered how much I need it. Angel, I don’t think I could ever do without you.”