The Earl Takes All (15 page)

“Because you feared I was carrying a son. You wanted the title, the estates, the power, the prestige. That's the reason you weren't disappointed I gave birth to a girl.”

“I did not want the title.”

She shook her head vigorously. “And then to carry on with the farce. There can be only one reason for that: to humiliate me, to make sport of me, to gain what you'd been denied in the garden, to make me pay for that slap.”

“You think me that petty? To take advantage of my brother's death in such a vile manner?”

“What else am I to think when you had ample opportunity to tell me, and yet you carried on with the pretense. The things I said to you, the
things
I did to you. Oh, you must have had a jolly good laugh.”

She wasn't listening, wasn't hearing what he was saying. “I swear to you, Julia, I laughed during none of this.”

She placed her hand over her mouth. “The things you did to me. How could you?”

“I was trying to mimic your husband. I could see no good coming from turning you away. I feared you becoming melancholy, causing the very outcome I was trying to prevent.”

She pounded her fist into his shoulder, nearly causing him to stumble back. In righteous anger, she possessed quite the wallop.

“What rot! You enjoyed it. You enjoyed deceiving me.”

“No.”

“You've always been jealous of Albert. You wanted the title. If I gave birth to a boy, you would never have it, so you took preemptive measures to ensure your position.”

“No. It's as I said. Albert asked—­”

“Liar. It was your plan all along to take everything. His title, his estates, even his wife, his child—­”

“No! I never planned to take any of it. It was my intent to tell you everything as soon as the babe was born.”

“As soon as the babe was born? It's been six weeks! What the devil were you waiting for?”

“To fall out of love with you.”

Chapter 15

R
eeling
from his declaration, Julia took a staggering step back and gawked in disbelief at Edward. She expected him to burst out laughing any minute now, but he remained solemn, stoic. He had to be striving to trick her, to gain sympathy or forgiveness or something nefarious that she couldn't identify. “But you've never even liked me.”

“Dear God, if only that were true.”

Striving to make sense of him, she continued to stare as he walked past her to the sideboard, poured scotch into a glass, brandy into another, and held the one containing brandy toward her. Another way in which the brothers were so vastly different. Albert never would have offered her spirits. Why had she thought a journey to Africa would change his basic philosophies?

But she couldn't take it, couldn't seem to force her feet to move. Nothing was making any sense.

Setting her glass aside, he carried his to the window and gazed out. “It's very important that Allie—­Lady Alberta—­grow up here,” he said quietly.

She blinked, trying to focus on the words he'd uttered. She'd expected him to elaborate on his earlier comment, needed him to explain himself. He'd made her feel a fool that night in the garden. Was he striving to do the same now?

“That experience was denied to Albert and myself. He would never forgive me if it were denied to her. I've moved into the other wing. God knows the residence is spacious enough that we could go years without catching sight of each other. I will, of course, spend as much time as possible at the other estates or in London so you are not burdened by my presence.”

An hour ago, five minutes ago, she would have expected him to say,
So I am not burdened by
your
presence.
But he claimed to love her.

Reluctantly, she moved closer, stood far enough away that she couldn't inhale his familiar bergamot scent but near enough that she could see every tiny line that had been carved by the weight of his burdens into his face. “You hardly ever spoke to me.”

He closed his eyes. “Julia—­”

“If I walked into the room, you walked out.”

He bowed his head, clenched his jaw.

“You never had a kind word for me. Although to be fair, neither did you have an unkind one. It's just that they were all rather . . . dutiful-­sounding, as though dragged out of you because they were expected.”

“It was easier that way.” Turning, he pushed back against the edge of the window as though he needed something sharp biting into him. He pressed the flat of one foot to the wall, his knee bent slightly. He was a picture of raw masculinity, and she hated herself for noticing. “It was easier if you looked at me with loathing, because what manner of man would desire a woman whose eyes flashed with disgust whenever she saw him? And when that wasn't enough, I drank and drank and drank to dull the yearning, to make myself obnoxious so my brother's wife would not welcome me into their residence, because God forbid Albert ever realized the hunger I felt for the woman he loved, the one he had married.”

That long? He'd carried feelings toward her for that long? How had she not known? How had Albert not guessed? She pressed her back to the casement, needing the support as her knees threatened to give out at the unexpectedness of his revelation. It hardly seemed real. “When did you begin to feel this way?”

He lifted his glass, downed what remained of his scotch, and shifted his gaze back out the window. He squinted. “Oh, it was lurking about for a while. That night in the garden sealed it. I thought, ‘You're only interested because she's forbidden. Kiss her, have your taste, and be done with her.' Instead that blasted kiss only made me want you all the more.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and rasped, “That night in the garden I thought you were Albert.”

“I know. I didn't realize it until after the kiss, actually convinced myself that you'd been waiting for me. More the fool was I. When you called me Albert, it was like a kick to the gut, but it didn't lessen the tumult that you created within me.”

Opening her eyes, she discovered him studying her once more, his expression an impassive mask, and yet within the brown depths of his eyes was the want, the need. How had she been so blind before? Because he'd been so incredibly unpleasant that she'd never bothered to look beyond the surface.

“Since you mistook me in the garden, I thought there was a chance that after a four-­month separation from Albert you might mistake me again and I could pull off what he asked of me.”

From the moment she had walked into the library, she would have sworn he had been more honest with her than he'd ever been, but part of his story made no sense. Was he merely striving to weasel his way out of what he'd done? Was everything he'd said merely a lie to gain her favor, her forgiveness? How could she trust his words when he'd done something so untrustworthy? She furrowed her brow. “When did Albert ask you to do what you must to ensure I didn't lose the child?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“I assume the story about the manner in which Edward was killed was truly Albert's, that he died instantly. Is that correct?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Then how did he have a chance to ask anything of you? How can any of this that you've done”—­she flung her arm out to encompass weeks of deception—­“have been at his request?”

He raised his glass, scowled at its lack of content. “One night as we were sitting by the fire, he said that if anything happened to him I was not to let you know until after the babe was born. He feared the news would cause you to miscarry. He had a premonition, I suppose.”

“Once again, I don't believe you.” It was too farfetched. He was either lying about Albert's request or lying about how he'd been killed. She thought she might be ill. “He didn't die straightaway, did he?”

Lowering the glass, his hold on it so tight that his knuckles were turning white, he met and held her gaze. “It's as I said. He died with the first blow.”

He didn't flinch, didn't look away. She wanted to believe that Albert's death had been quick, that he'd been spared any pain, but it seemed unlikely. “So some night, during a random conversation, he just happened to ask you to pretend to be him if he should die?”

“Two nights before we spotted the baby gorilla.”

The tale of a premonition was preposterous. Yet she wanted it to be true, wanted to believe Albert didn't suffer. But Edward would know that, wouldn't he? If he truly cared for her as he claimed, he would want to ease her pain.

She didn't know what to make of his declaration, his confession. It confused her, made her feel as much the betrayer as the betrayed. She didn't like all the tumult he was creating within her. “I loved Albert. I love him still.”

“I know. I'm not asking you to love me, Julia. I'm not even asking you to think kindly of me or forgive me for the duplicity. I understand that you're angry, furious. You have every right to be. I'm merely asking that you not do anything rash that might have an adverse effect on Alberta's future.”

Damn him, damn his deception. Originally she had wanted to hurt him in some manner, publicly humiliate him, but she did have to take care not to ruin her daughter's future chances for a good match. “I don't know that I can stay here,” she admitted, not certain she could trust her feelings, trust him. The wounds of his betrayal still festered. Her grief, her loss of Albert, seemed to suck the very life from her.

“Where will you go? To your cousin's? Can he provide for you any better than I can?”

She despised that he understood the truth of her situation, used it to his advantage to keep her and Alberta near. Her parents were gone. She had no siblings. The cousin who had inherited her father's titles and estates had been pleased beyond measure that she'd married at nineteen. “Albert must have made some provisions for me.”

“Ironically, I believe I'm it. I've been unable to locate a will.”

Apparently, all the hours he'd spent in the library had not been solely about managing the affairs of the estate. “Surely his solicitor has a copy.”

“I wrote him asking if Edward had left a will and to advise me regarding mine. I worded it in such a way that it wasn't obvious the earl was completely unaware as to whether he even possessed one. His response was that Edward had left no will—­which, of course, I knew, being Edward, after all—­and his advice regarding the earl's will remained what it had been for some time now: One needed to be prepared with all due haste and diligence.”

She sank against the wall, then straightened, to avoid showing any disappointment or weakness. “It seems I'm dependent upon your kindness.”

“I will be more than generous with an allowance, and I shall ensure that Lady Alberta never wants for anything.” He seemed to hesitate, sighed. “There is a cottage in the Cotswolds. Based upon notes I've uncovered, I believe our father intended it to be the dower house for our mother. Apparently she liked the countryside there. It's not part of the entailment. I could gift it to you, but as I mentioned, I truly believe with all my heart that Albert would want his daughter raised here.”

Unfortunately, she was of the same opinion. He had often spoken of how he longed to have his children grow up within the shadow of Evermore, how much he'd regretted that he'd been denied the same. “As I have a good deal to consider, presently I can't commit to any decisions or a course of action, but I do agree that we must take care in how this situation is managed—­for Alberta's sake. What are you going to tell the servants?”

“They serve the Earl of Greyling. I am Greyling. I'm not going to tell them a damned thing.”

“They'll be suspicious with your move into the other wing.”

His smile was self-­deprecating. “They'll think we're having a bit of marital discord, and if they value their position here, they'll keep their suspicions to themselves.”

“And Society?”

“I think it will be best if we wait to make any sort of admission until all the lords and ladies are in London for the Season. I shall be there as well and can personally handle any repercussions that might arise with the revelation of my duplicity. That gives us time to determine exactly what we wish to say.”

With a nod, she turned her attention to the winter gardens beyond the window. “Your wife won't be too pleased if Alberta and I stay on here.”

“My wife?”

“As you said, you are the Earl of Greyling. You require an heir.”

“That won't happen for years yet, decades, if ever. Not until Lady Alberta is well situated. She matters above all else.”

She touched the pane. It felt as cold as her soul. She wondered if she'd ever know warmth again. “We shall remain here for now. I shall not take meals with you, nor spend time in your company in the evenings. If you must communicate with me, please do it through a servant.”

“If you need to speak with me—­”

She quickly faced him. “I shan't.”

With that, she spun on her heel and marched from the library, wondering how it was that two brothers could each break her heart in vastly different ways, and wondering why it was that her heart ached painfully in equal measure for the loss of each brother.

S
tanding
at the window, savoring his scotch, Edward watched as darkness fell. One glass was all he was going to allow himself. He didn't want to dull the sting of her parting words that he so justly deserved or the ache in his chest because he had opened his heart to her. A tiny part of him had hoped, prayed, wished that she would claim her love for him when he had professed his for her, even as the greater part of him had known it was a fool's errand to travel that path.

He wasn't even certain he'd completely understood the depth of his feelings until the words had burst forth. He didn't know exactly when he'd fallen in love with her. He knew only that he had. Unequivocally. And he feared she would forever hold that place in his heart. While to her, he would remain little more than a rodent, striving to make off with the scraps to which he wasn't entitled.

“Dinner is served, my lord,” Rigdon announced.

He had bathed, shaved, and dressed in his finest evening attire, just in case her anger with him lessened a bit and she took enough pity on him to dine in his company. He didn't care if she didn't speak with him. It would be enough just to have her near. They could eat in the formal dining room. Dressed in her widow's weeds, she could sit at the far end of the table, yards away from him. He suspected she would join him if she understood the extent of the agony that sight would cause him.

“The countess . . .” If he waited a bit longer, perhaps she'd show.

“Informed Torrie she would be dining in her rooms. I believe she's feeling a bit under the weather.”

He had to give his butler credit for at least striving to pretend that all was right with the lord and lady of the house.

“I'll be there in a moment.” Dear God but he was a sorry excuse for a lord, sniveling about. He'd had a little over two months with her. He was going to have to make due with that for a lifetime. With a sigh, Edward finished off his drink and headed to the small dining room.

He didn't know why he expected to see her there, why he felt like he'd taken a punch to the gut when the only ones waiting for him were the butler and a footman. The heart was a cruel mistress, always giving one hope.

Taking his seat, he stared at the flames burning in the candelabra in the center of the table while his wine was poured and soup was served. The room was so blasted quiet, the only sound his silver spoon periodically clinking against china. He'd never thought to miss the screeching winds of Havisham Hall, but at that moment anything was better than being surrounded by the silence of Julia's absence.