She Tempts the Duke (18 page)

“I’m counting on that. So shall we put this behind us?”

Not quite yet. “Lady Hermione told me that she overheard you encouraging her father to convince others not to allow Keswick into proper homes.”

“He asked for my opinion and I gave it to him. They’ve caused nothing but trouble since they arrived. I told him they will not be welcomed in mine. What he chooses to do is his business.”

“It’s so unfair.”

“Perhaps in time when they’ve learned to behave with a bit more decorum, when they realize the value of conformity, people will be more at ease with them.”

They would never conform. Of that she was certain. Perhaps she’d been hasty in trying to lure them into Society. Fitzwilliam was correct: they needed to make their own way in their own time.

Reaching out, he touched her damp hair. “You were very naughty to come here without a chaperone.”

She wondered if he might take advantage, might in fact use the opportunity to kiss her. She couldn’t imagine that Sebastian would let such a moment pass if he found himself alone in the presence of a woman he intended to marry. She didn’t like thinking of him as being barbaric. He was simply blatantly sensual, even if he didn’t see himself as such.

Fitzwilliam skimmed his knuckles along her cheek, gave her a look of fondness. “We have a dinner tonight at Lord and Lady Moreland’s. Allow me to escort you to your carriage so that you may return home and begin preparing for it. I shall bring my carriage around at half past seven.”

The moment shouldn’t have ended with her being disappointed that he’d not sought to take advantage. Her reputation was on perilous enough ground as it was. She had no need to have him further doubt her ability to act as a lady.

He extended his arm and she slipped hers through the crook of his elbow. She walked so close that her skirt brushed against his trousers but the nearness didn’t seem at all scandalous. Shouldn’t she want to lean into him, press her entire side against his?

Why was she questioning so much of late? He was good for her. They were well suited.

A footman with an umbrella followed them out to the carriage and Fitzwilliam handed her up. “I shall see you soon. Remember your promise to me. No Keswick. Men’s reputations are hardly as important as ladies’. It’s the reason so many of us excel at being rakes: no one really cares what we do. This nasty business about the kiss will die soon, especially after we are wed.”

She nodded. “Again, I’m sorry that I thought you sought to do him harm.”

He tucked her beneath her chin as though she were a child. “I would not be marrying you if you were any different.”

Slamming the door closed, he instructed the driver to return her home. The carriage bolted up the drive. Glancing back out the window, she saw Fitzwilliam still standing there, watching her. He worried over her.

But who worried over Sebastian? If he heard the rumors, if he thought she were responsible for spreading them—

She could barely tolerate the possibility.

As soon as the carriage turned onto the street and she was certain she was no longer visible to Fitzwilliam, she leaned her head out of the window and ignored the rain pelting her. “Chambers, take me to Easton House.”

“Yes, m’lady!”

Settling back against the bench, she removed a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her face. She knew that Fitzwilliam wouldn’t approve. She simply had to ensure that he never found out.

She could do that easily enough with discretion. She stuck her head back out the window. “Chambers, use the mews not the front entrance.”

If he answered, she didn’t hear it because thunder rumbled. She slipped back inside and hoped it had not been a sign of disapproval from on high. No one would look for her at the servants’ entrance. She would meet quickly with Sebastian, explain that she was not responsible for the ugly rumors and if they all just ignored them they would fade away. She needed no more than five minutes. Then she would return home.

Simple enough. While she was there she would explain in person about the return of the necklace and how they must avoid each other. Surely he understood her betrothed’s jealousy for he would no doubt feel the same toward the woman he intended to marry. He’d not tolerate her seeking solitary moments with another man. Nor should he.

Then an awful thought occurred to her. What if he wouldn’t see her? What if her letter and the awful rumors circulating had torn asunder the last threads of their fragile friendship? By the time the carriage drew to a halt, she’d worked herself up into a worrisome lather. If he weren’t angry with her, if he understood, he’d have at least sent her a missive indicating such.

Instead, she’d had only silence from him since having her own message delivered. The footman opened the door and handed her down. Just as he had at Fitzwilliam’s so he had a devil of a time keeping pace with her as she raced up the path. It suddenly seemed imperative that she see Sebastian, that she make things right between them. Yes, her loyalty was to Fitzwilliam but she couldn’t ignore Sebastian.

The rain slashed at her sideways, each frigid drop as painful as she suspected Sebastian’s icy words to her might be. The puddles splashed, soaking her hems. She reached the back door and pounded on it. A footman opened it, and she burst through as though she’d been invited.

The servants’ eyes widened but no one stopped her progress until the butler caught up to her in the foyer. She was a soggy mess and her hair was falling, but she didn’t care. “Please let His Grace know that Lady Mary Wynne-Jones has come to call.”

“I’m sorry, m’lady, but he is not receiving.”

She thrust up her chin and spoke with the full weight of her father’s rank. “He will receive me.”

He gave a slight bow of acquiescence. “I shall let him know you’re here.”

She expected him to go down a hallway. Instead, he started up the stairs. She wondered if Sebastian were readying himself for the Moreland dinner. It seemed rather early and she’d not considered that he would attend. It would be quite awkward unless he understood everything. Her coming here had been a wise decision on her part, essential in fact, to ensuring that she did not anger Fitzwilliam unduly tonight.

She glanced around, caught sight of a mirror, and moved toward it. As soon as her reflection greeted her, she gasped. She was a fright. Her hat was wilted, her hair drooping from the weight of the wet strands. She looked like a cat that someone had attempted to drown.

Sebastian would no doubt laugh just as he had when they were children and she’d tumbled into the river. He’d rescued her then. How fortunate she’d been that he was near, because she hadn’t a clue how to swim. But he’d taught her. While she’d worn nothing except her undergarments. It hadn’t seemed wrong at all. She’d forgotten about that. Now of course it was unconscionable.

At the sound of heavy footsteps, she gazed upward, surprised to discover that it wasn’t Sebastian making his way down. “Lord Tristan.”

He smiled slightly. “Lady Mary.”

“Forgive the formality. It seems pretentious after everything we shared. I was simply caught unawares by your presence. I’m here to speak with Sebastian.”

“Yes, so Thomas informed me. Unfortunately Sebastian is not up to receiving callers.”

“Callers? Or me?” Without waiting for his reply, she started up the stairs.

He caught up with her easily enough, grabbed her arm, and halted her progress. “Mary, wait.”

“I know he’s upset about the gossip, but I must explain.” Wrenching free, she carried on. This time he didn’t try to stop her, but she was aware of the echo of his footsteps following in the wake of hers.

At the top of the stairs, she took the familiar path that had added to her downfall once before, but this time there were no witnesses other than Tristan, who would certainly hold his tongue. She would have her say and leave. No one would be the wiser. The door was open so she simply swept into the room and stumbled to an ungainly stop.

Sebastian was in the bed, breathing heavily, bathed in dampness as though he had been the one running through the rain instead of her. He was wearing a nightshirt, but it was unbuttoned and soaked, plastered to his skin. She took tentative steps forward until she was near enough to press a hand to his brow. Fevered. Worse than fevered. She’d never felt skin so hot. “He’s burning up.”

“His wound is festering. I’ve sent for the physician.”

She caught scent of the rancid odor now. Then she noticed something clasped in his hand, the gold filigree chain dangling onto the bed. Her necklace. Cautiously she touched his fist.

“I’ve not been able to get him to release it,” Tristan said.

It was silly to think that her returning it had caused the decline. “How could this have happened? He visited with us.”

“I think he got out of bed too soon, exerted himself too much.”

Because of her. Because of suspicions. Because of his uncle.

“You can’t stay, Mary.”

She nodded absently. She knew that.

“I’ll send word once the physician has seen him. Let you know how he fares.”

Once again she nodded, just before sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching into the bowl of water and lifting out the cloth nestled in it. She wrung it out.

“Mary, you can’t stay,” he repeated.

“Yes, I know.” She pressed the cloth to Sebastian’s brow. She had a dinner party to attend. Fitzwilliam was going to arrive at her residence at half past seven. She needed to be ready. She patted the cloth along Sebastian’s neck over the scars. She’d promised Fitzwilliam that she wouldn’t approach Sebastian, that she would never again be alone with him.

Only she wasn’t alone. Tristan was here.

“Mary—”

“If I remain wet, I’ll catch my death. Will you please see if a servant has a dress I might borrow and find one willing to assist me as I change?”

“You don’t always have to save us, Mary.”

But this time, she wondered if she might be saving herself as well.

Chapter 18

H
e’d abandoned Pembrook. He’d left Rafe at the workhouse. An orphan. They would put him to work but they’d feed and clothe him. He’d sold Tristan to a ship’s captain. He could excuse his actions then because he’d been a boy. Now he was a man and he would not abandon a fellow soldier on the field of battle. He would never again abandon anyone.

The battle raged. The heat consumed. It shouldn’t have been so hot. The Crimea was cold, ghastly cold and miserable. But in the thick of battle he sweated. He had to get to his fallen comrade. He ducked low. Shells landed, exploded. Cannons boomed. Men cried out. Horses screamed. Blood splurged over him, burned. Something sharp pierced his side—

His torturous yell brought him from the depths of hell.

“Shh. Shh.”

Breathing heavily he found himself gazing into familiar green eyes. He wanted to touch the softness of her cheek. Surely it would be cool. Would cool his fever. But when he reached for her, his arms wouldn’t obey the command. He realized he was bound. He tugged. “No!”

“Shh,” she urged again. “Your wound. It needs to be treated. It won’t be pleasant, Sebastian.”

“Release me.” His voice sounded as though it had been scraped raw.

“We can’t have you thrashing about, Brother.”

Tristan. Dammit. He’d expect this of Rafe, but not Tristan. Rafe would no doubt relish the agony his helplessness brought.

“The doctor’s going to give you ether,” Mary said quietly. “You should sleep through the worst of it.”

He rolled his head from side to side. “No, don’t send me back there.” Not to the nightmares, not to the regrets.

“I’ll hold your hand. I won’t let go.”

“No.” Something obstructed his vision of her, clamped down over his face.

“Breathe, Your Grace,” someone ordered. “Breathe deeply.”

He didn’t want to sleep. He hated to sleep. When he slept he dreamed. All his regrets, all the nightmares welled up—

He fought to keep his eye open, to remain with her, to not succumb . . .

M
ary feared that the physician had given Sebastian too much ether. After he’d cleaned the wound, removed the putrid flesh—a ghastly endeavor—he’d aroused Sebastian only enough to ensure he was still alive and then plied him with laudanum before leaving.

“Best to let him sleep through the worst of it.”

From time to time he would moan or groan. He often said no. Sometimes he cried out with the word.

“What do you suppose he’s fighting?” she asked, gently patting a cool cloth over his neck and chest.

Tristan leaned back in a chair on the other side of the bed, his stockinged feet crossed on its edge. “What we all fight. Demons.”

She supposed she’d have hers to battle in the days to come. Honor had forced her to write a letter to Fitzwilliam. Preservation had forced her to lie. She’d told him that a migraine had sent her to bed and that she’d be unable to attend the dinner. She doubted that her father would check on her. He would no doubt spend the evening at a gentleman’s club.

If her true whereabouts were discovered she would be in a great deal of trouble. But she couldn’t regret being here. She thought she could confess to Tristan what she’d never be able to tell Sebastian. “I always resented that I was left behind.”

“Rafe resented being left at the workhouse. You two should talk sometime.”

She glanced over at him. “Did you regret boarding a ship?”

“Thought it would be a fun adventure.”

“Was it?”

“Sometimes.”

She returned her attention to Sebastian’s chest. It was broad and powerful. She imagined him wielding a fine-edged glistening sword in battle. Or perhaps he’d held a rifle and bayonet.

“Have you heard the rumors that he forced himself on me in the garden?” she asked, feeling the heat warm her face.

“I pay little heed to rumors.”

She offered him a soft smile. “But you did hear them.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I wanted Sebastian to know that I was not the source. And neither was Fitzwilliam. I think perhaps it was your uncle, although I’m not certain what he hopes to accomplish.”

“He just wants to make things difficult for us, I suspect. Sebastian cut off all his access to funds and has alerted everyone to whom Uncle owes money that he will only pay off what Uncle owes if he has their word they’ll not extend credit to Lord David any longer. Makes it rather difficult for him to get along with life.”

“Do you think whoever attacked Sebastian will try again?”

“I think Sebastian will be better prepared. He’ll expect it now.”

“It wasn’t Fitzwilliam. I think you thought it was. But I saw no bruising when our paths recently crossed.”

“Then I suppose we’ll never know who it was. If you want that letter you sent him to be more than a delaying tactic for his learning the truth, you should let me take you home now.”

She shook her head. “Not until his fever breaks.” She peered over at Tristan. “But you may go on.”

“And leave you without a chaperone? What sort of cad do you take me for?”

He made her smile when she thought she might never smile again. “He’s hardly in a state to ravish me.”

Tristan grinned, the familiar boyish grin. She was so glad he’d not lost it, wished Sebastian would reclaim his. “What do you know of ravishment, my lady?”

She giggled lightly. “Nary a thing. Only what I have read in novels.”

He dropped his feet to the floor, bent down, and picked up his boots. “I’ll be down the hallway if you need me.” He grew incredibly somber. “I’m glad you’re here, Mary. While my brother will probably not admit it, I suspect he will be as well when he awakens.”

As long as he awakened.
“Sleep well.”

“If only I could.”

She heard in his tone what he had not admitted. In sleep, like his brother, he too battled demons.

The room grew incredibly quiet after he left until all she heard was the ticking of the clock and Sebastian’s labored breathing. She doused all the lamps until only the one beside her remained lit. It cast a pale glow over the unscarred portion of Sebastian’s face. She was not repulsed by his scars, but she suspected upon waking that he would be grateful to know that she’d not sat there studying them.

“Pembrook.”

She started at his unexpected outburst, fought not to panic at his sudden agitation. Again, he repeated the name of his estate, with a bit more force.

He gasped, opened his eye. “Pembrook.”

Surely he was delirious. “No, you’re in London,” she told him, touching his brow.

He grabbed her wrist, jerked her near. Once the physician was finished with his task, they’d unbound Sebastian. Fire burned in his gaze. “Pembrook. All that matters. Must reclaim it.”

“You have reclaimed it. It’s yours again. No one will take it from you a second time.”

He calmed, but continued to study her. “Mine.”

“Yours.”

He drifted back to sleep. Once again, she began to blot the dew from his throat. Until that moment she wasn’t certain that she’d truly understood his obsession with Pembrook. It meant everything. Fevered, near death, he didn’t call out for a woman or his brothers or even her as a friend. He called out for an estate, for land, for an ancient castle that had withstood the test of time.

It couldn’t wrap its arms around him or comfort him or talk quietly with him during a long winter night. Yet it didn’t seem to matter. He loved it. It was everything to him.

What was it about Pembrook that possessed men? To be owner of it, his uncle had done horrible things. To reclaim it, Sebastian had become a man obsessed so that he thought of nothing else. She’d set free a boy only to have him return with a heart that belonged solely to his heritage, to Pembrook.