The Wicked One (16 page)

"She is thinner than when I last saw her," he said abruptly.  "I thought pregnancy makes women increase, not decrease."

Andrew shrugged.  "Not in the early stages."

"How would you know?"  Lucien impaled Andrew with his blackest look.  "You're not a father."

"Not yet.  But I will be by summer's end."

Lucien stared at him, momentarily taken aback.  He had thought Andrew far too immersed in his science, and Celsie far too involved with her efforts to improve the lots of dogs and cats, to ever hope for a niece or nephew where they were concerned.  Despite his anger with his three brothers, he rose to shake Andrew's hand.  "Congratulations.  When is the big day?"

"Late summer," Andrew said, beaming.

Lucien stood back as Gareth and Charles also rose and congratulated Andrew, slapping him on the back and proposing toasts to the unborn child.  Andrew's face glowed with pride.  Lucien smiled and looked away, fighting envy.  He thought of Eva, carrying his own child in her womb.  The fact that she cared more for her precious freedom than his heir's welfare burned at his insides.  It was all he could do to adopt his normal mask of indifference as talk centered around the newest generation of de Montfortes, all he could do to pretend a certain aloofness from this conversation he so desperately wished he could partake in.

Presently, though, the tall case clock in the corner struck midnight.  One by one, his brothers, yawning, took their leave and sought their beds — and their loving wives.

Lucien was left alone.

He pulled his chair up to the fire and sat there in the vast, drafty room, feet thrust out before him as he stared sullenly into the dying flames.  He sipped his sherry.  Watched a shower of sparks tumble from the coal-red embers in a little hiss, sending up a puff of smoke that quickly dispersed into the chilly air.  He set the sherry down, listening to the howl and whine of the wind outside.  Thinking . . .

All this talk about babies brought back memories.  Of Nerissa as an infant, so tiny, deprived of her mother — and her father — at birth.  He thought of Andrew, so small at the time, of Charles and Gareth, brave little lads trying to accept the loss of their mother and father and failing miserably.  Lucien had stepped into the role of parent as naturally as he had stepped into that of new duke.  He had taken responsibility for them all — just as he would take responsibility for this new little one that Eva was determined to keep from him.

He leaned his head back against the chair.  Eva.  Nerissa.  The nightmares.  The world had spun out of his control.  Never had he felt more powerless; never had he felt so adrift.  There was nothing more he could do for Nerissa, save for continue his quest to find out Perry's true fate.

As for Eva . . .  And marriage . . .

He dragged a hand down his face.  He wanted her in his bed, yes, but he didn't want her in his house, and he certainly didn't want her in his life.  Pride had been the catalyst for his demand that they marry.  Pride — and responsibility.  She was carrying his child — and by God, no child of a duke of Blackheath would be born a bastard, no matter what its mother had in mind!

Damn her!

She would marry him, no matter how vehemently she might refuse, because that was his will, and he would have his way.  She was going to be the next Duchess of Blackheath whether she wanted the title or not.  He had no illusions that his would be the sort of marriage his brothers had.  Oh, far be it from that.  His duchess would be nothing more than a vessel meant to bear the next Duke of Blackheath.  Not a wife.  Not a lover.  A vessel.  He would be civil to her, resist the lust she aroused in him, and ensure that she and the child would lack for nothing after he was gone.  Once that happened, she would be restored to the independent lifestyle she so treasured — this time, with all the power and resources of the duchy of Blackheath at her disposal.

After he was gone.

Lucien took another sip of sherry, set the glass down, and stared unblinkingly into the dying flames.  He must see his solicitor about adding a clause in his will.  A clause that would ensure she never took his heir out of England.  That much, at least, was within his control.

Even from beyond the grave.

He stretched his feet toward the fire, leaned his head back, and let the dimming flames play against his closed eyelids. His anger had exhausted itself.  He felt back in control now.  Set upon a course of action.  Relaxed.  In the corner, the clock ticked softly.  At his feet, the fire crackled and hissed as it retreated farther into the glowing embers.  His chin fell to his chest, and from out of the flickering orange glow against his eyelids came the cloaked figure he had come to dread.

The dream was the same as it had been last night, and the night before that, and every night before that for the last two months.  There was his opponent, all in black, his equal in skill, strength and cunning.  Ten paces, the drop of a handkerchief, and then steel ringing against steel as Lucien battled the one, the only opponent he knew he could never best.  It was a duel to the end . . . and then Death came, riding the blade of his opponent's sword, riding it straight through the wall of his chest and impaling his heart in one agonizing burst of fire.  Lucien went down.  He was on his back, staring up at his opponent's form, dimming now, as it stood triumphantly over him.  He could feel the blood bubbling from his chest, his life ebbing away with the dying flow from his mortally injured heart —

He jerked awake with a start.

His heart was thundering in his ears, his skin damp with sweat.  He blinked and straightened up.  Nothing but the glowing embers, the creaking of the house as it settled for the night, the steady ticking of the clock.

But
she
was here.

He knew it as surely as he drew breath.

Slowly, he turned his head to the right . . . and there she was, sitting quietly in a chair not five feet away, the firelight glowing upon her beautiful, treacherous face.

"Bad dream?"  She leaned forward to retrieve what remained of his sherry and pressed it into his hand.

He said nothing, only taking the glass and downing its contents before his still-shaky hand could spill it.

"I gathered as much."  She leaned back as he set the glass aside and dragged a hand down his face, trying to banish the terrifying images.  "Shall I light some candles?  Stoke up the fire, to chase away your demons?"

"No.  There is no need."

Stay with me, though.  I would like that very much indeed.

She refilled his glass, poured one for herself, and sat beside him, saying nothing, as though she understood his need for companionship, for the time to steady his nerves.  He was surprised, and strangely touched, by her compassion.  He hadn't thought her to be in possession of such tender emotions.

"I have bad dreams, too," she murmured at length, "but I suppose they're more the product of memory than unconscious imagination."

"Do they keep you awake at night?"

"No."  She gazed into the fire, smiling ruefully.  "They torment me so much during the day that I suppose they need their own rest come darkness."  She leaned her head back against her chair.  Her hair was loose around her shoulders, thick, sensual, luxurious, a dark contrast to the stark paleness of her face, her delicately arched throat, the creamy swells of her breasts.  Lucien felt desire swell his loins, ignite his blood.  Oh, how he ached to pull her into his arms and banish the nightmarish specter his life had become, to bury himself in her womanly warmth and let her heal him.  A foolish thought, that.  He knew she had her own share of demons.  Perhaps too many, to ever completely exorcise.

"I have been observing your family," she said at length.  "Your brothers seem to cherish their wives."

"They worship the ground they walk on."

"So it appears.  I do not quite know what to make of it."

"What is there to make of it?"

She lifted one shoulder in a negligent gesture.  "I'm not accustomed to seeing husbands treat their wives with such respect and affection."  As he raised his brows, she flushed and looked away, unable to meet his penetrating gaze.  "Oh, I know men do, of course, during the courtship stage, but once that ring is on the finger, their interest wanes, and off they go toward other pursuits.  Neglect replaces what was once fascinated attention.  Cruelty replaces kindness.  But your brothers" —  she shook her head — "they perplex me.  Did you know that Andrew only allowed me to stay here because Celsie wished it?  Because
she
wished it."  She gave an incredulous little laugh.  "Why, any other man would have stomped her wishes beneath his feet and asserted his will over hers.  I must confess, such unusual behavior on the part of Lord Andrew quite astonishes me."

"Then I must assume you are equally astonished by that same behavior as exhibited by his brothers."

"Yes."  Her mysterious little smile faded, to be replaced by something hopeless.  Something tragic.  "One can only hope that when they revert to true type, they don't shatter their wives' hearts."

"What makes you think that what you have witnessed is not their true type?"

She snorted and gave a dismissive wave of her hand, then looked at him as though he lacked the sense of a grasshopper.  "Oh, Blackheath, really.  Don't be so idealistic.  I know they're your brothers, but they're still men, and as I told you earlier, I know men.  Trust me, once the newness of their marriages wears off, they'll be as vile as the rest of their gender.  It's only a matter of time."

He smiled, intrigued by her odd notions.  "And if they prove you wrong?"

"They won't."

He looked at her contemplatively.  "I suspect you were not the recipient of such devotion during your own marriage, then."

"My husband was a wretched excuse for a human.  A weak and disgustingly pathetic worm who, I can assure you, did indeed run true to type."

"Why did you marry him, then?"

She took a sip of her sherry.  "I was young.  Naive.  Foolishly enamored of the idea of leaving constrictive, Puritan-minded Salem and living in France with a dashing
comte
.  I looked forward to having adventures, to becoming a woman of power and importance, to enjoying the love and devotion of my husband.  But he did not love me.  He only married me because he knew he could depend on me to perform the majority of his political duties . . . leaving him free to chase every skirt that swished across his path."  She set the sherry down, her eyes distant.  Hard.  "One day I caught him rutting with my maid.  I had long since stopped allowing him into my own bed, you see, because I had discerned his true nature shortly after we exchanged vows.  It was just as well, really.  She had my husband's babe and died of syphilis shortly thereafter.  The baby perished with her."  Her face was white and still.  "It" — she swallowed and briefly closed her eyes, remembering — "was born a monster."

Lucien was appalled.  He eyed her narrowly, certain mysteries about her behavior, her beliefs, beginning to make sense.  No wonder she had such a cynical view of marriage.  No wonder she despised and distrusted men.  He ached to reach out to her, but pride was evident in the set of her chin, the glitter in her eyes, the way she held her mouth — firm, flat, unforgiving.  Instead, he topped up her glass and said gently, "My dear Eva, not all men are like your husband."

"All the men of my experience have been."

"Even your father?"

She stiffened, and a shadow came over her face like a cloud shutting out the sun.  "
Especially
my father," she said in a low, tremulous voice.  She raised her eyes to his, those mysterious, slanting eyes that so fascinated him, and he saw that she was no longer contemplative, no longer amenable to conversation, but savage and angry once more.  "Why am I telling you this, Blackheath?  There is nothing you or anyone else can do to change my mind about your gender.  Nothing you or anyone else can do to make me respect them, trust them, like them."  She rose to her feet.  "I was wrong to come in here, wrong to confide in you.  Good night."

"Eva."

She paused, her back to him, a proud figure in glittering amber silk.

"What did your father do to you?"

"It is in my past, Blackheath.  Leave it there."

"Then consider your future.  You cannot deny the child that is in your belly," he said softly.

She remained where she was, unmoving.

"You cannot deny the attraction that lies between us."

He saw her shoulders stiffen, heard the measured intake of her breath.

"And you cannot deny that the only sensible course of action is to accept my proposal and become the next Duchess of Blackheath."

She turned then, her eyes flashing green fire.  "And that is
exactly
the sort of arrogance that I so detest about your gender, Your Grace."

She dropped in a stiff, mocking curtsy, and was gone.

Chapter 14

Once Eva was safely away, she found herself running from Blackheath.  Not just running.

Fleeing.

Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the safety of her apartments.  Shutting the door, she collapsed back against it, breathing hard, her eyes wild and frightened as she stared across the dimly lit chamber.

She raked her hands down her face, trembling.  It was happening all over again, this time with a man so dangerous he made her dead husband seem positively benign.  "Oh, damn you, Blackheath," she whispered as she stood there shaking and trying to ground herself in the strength of her own fortitude, the safety of her own cynicism.  It was no use.  She let herself slide down the door until she was sitting on the rug, legs bent to her chest, her hair spilling over her arms and shutting out the world.  She felt cold all over, as though ice ran in veins that had once held blood as warm as any other woman's, pumped from a heart that had once been as capable of love, of dreams, as any other starry-eyed female.  It was a long time before her breathing steadied, and she could think once more.

What had happened, tonight?