The Wicked One (28 page)

Lucien felt his heart constricting.  Now it all made sense.  From childhood on, his wife had been molded to resent men — and her father's betrayal had crystallized the seeds of her distrust.  He wanted to strangle this sire of hers who had so betrayed her; felt a desperate desire to prove that
he
was different, that he would never, ever betray her with another woman, even under pain of death.

"And this . . . father, of yours," he murmured.  "Is he still alive?"

"No.  He died at sea, somewhere off the coast of Madagascar, and good riddance to him."

"Eva."

She buried her face in her hands, the white fingers splaying up through thick, curling ropes of vibrant red hair.  "I am sorry, Blackheath.  I am sorry that it is nearly impossible for me to trust you, to trust any of you, that I am so . . . damaged.  I am doomed to the same unhappiness as my mother; doomed to repeat her own dire and vicious warnings, doomed to relive her own miserable existence —"

"Eva."

"All those years she warned me, but I had not listened . . . I wanted what I would never find, I hated her for murdering my fairy-tale dream of love happily ever after with a handsome, loving husband.  I hated her for being right about my father, for making me resent men, for making me distrust them as thoroughly as she did.  We became allies, of sorts.  Enemies, as she always envied my strength.  I grew up.  Grew breasts and hips and a caustic tongue.  And wherever I went, I was surrounded by men.  My head swelled.  I enjoyed the attention, the power I had over their pathetic hearts and ungoverned lusts . . . the power I had to break their hearts, as my father had broken mine so many years before.

"Flattery was my undoing.  I grew weak.  Soft.  Stupid.  I began to think that maybe, just maybe, my father was one in a million.  That what happened to my mother would never happen to me, because I . . ." — she gave a bitter laugh  — I was
strong
.  And so, when I met Jacques and he joined my circle of admirers, I accepted his hand and married him.  He was dashing, just like Papa.  Aristocratic, like my mama had been.  And attentive — at first.  But he soon grew cool.  Distant.  One day, Blackheath, I caught him in bed with my maid.  I never let him near me again.  And from that day on, I vowed that I would never again allow a man to control my destiny.  That I would never again tie myself to a man, set myself up for heartbreak."

Lucien shook his head.  "And yet you married me," he said softly, overwhelmed by what she had sacrificed — or what she thought she had sacrificed — for her unborn child.

"You have promised me my freedom.  If there is nothing else I trust about you, it is that you are a man of your word."

"I want you to be happy, Eva.  Not only for your own sake, but for that of the child."

"As long as you keep your word about my independence, Blackheath, I will be happy."

"And if fate should separate us?"

"Do you refer to your nightmares?"

"I do."

"Then I shall take the child back to America.  There is nothing to keep me here in England."

Lucien felt the blood drain from his face.  A chill settled in his spine, spreading out into his limbs, numbing, even, his fingers and toes. 
Oh, no.  Oh dear God, no.

The will.

She looked up, frowning in concern.  "Lucien, what is it?"

He got to his feet, raking a hand through his hair before bending to pull on his breeches.  "I am afraid that is impossible."

She laughed.  "Of course it's possible.  I simply take the child, get on a ship, and go."

"No," he said, shaking his head and buttoning the breeches, "you cannot."

She stilled.  Gamely, she tried to muster that flippant, amused laugh she'd mastered so well, the one that was designed to mask the hurt that lived perpetually in her heart.  "Really, now, Blackheath, what are you trying to tell me?"

He straightened and faced her, already regretting the visit to his solicitor, already fearing the impact of what he was about to tell her. 
Oh, hell.  Oh, bloody, thundering, hell.
  Taking a deep, bracing breath, he murmured, "I am trying to tell you that I made an adjustment to my will.  That you cannot leave England with the child, Eva, whether or not I am dead."

She just stared at him, unmoving.

"The child, should it be a male, is heir to the dukedom of Blackheath," he explained.  "And if it's a girl, she is still my flesh and blood.  My responsibility.  I cannot allow the child to be brought out of England until it reaches its majority and makes that decision for itself."  Her face was growing pale.  Almost opaque.  "Please, Eva, I beg you to understand; I did not do this to curtail your freedom — I did it to protect my son or daughter."

She climbed down from the bed, her nostrils flaring, her eyes cold, hard jewels of fury.  "You did it because you wanted full control over both me and the child, even from beyond the grave!"

"No.  That is not true.  I acted only out of concern for both the child's welfare and its responsibilities toward its birthright."

"You
deceived
me!" she cried, shaking her head in denial, as though unable to fathom what he had done.  "I trusted you, Blackheath!"

"Eva —"

"You deceived me, created the illusion that I would have my freedom, but you had it all planned, didn't you?  You wanted me to think I had my independence, but no, it's all meaningless, isn't it, meaningless by virtue of a simple clause in your damned will!"

Lucien set his jaw.  "Eva, you must listen to me, try to understand —"

"Oh, no, Blackheath, there is nothing to understand.  I see you now for what you are — the diabolical monster your siblings claim you to be, an arrogant, manipulative bastard who isn't happy unless he's in control of everyone and everything around him!"  She yanked on her clothes, abandoning the corset and hoops, jerking the tapes and ties with vicious fury, her eyes on fire beneath angry red brows.  "Well, this time you've gone too far, Blackheath.  You can have your precious pile of stones, your precious title, your precious birthright, but I'm telling you right now, you've just lost your precious
wife
!"

He slammed his fist into the wall in a rare display of temper.  "Damnation, Eva,
listen to me
!"

"No, Blackheath, you listen to
me
."  She hauled on her bodice, stabbing her arms through the sleeves, jerking the garment down over her hips.  "You listen to me, because I'm leaving."

And with that, she spun on her heel and did just that.

Chapter 23

He came after her, just as she knew he would, authoritative, autocratic, demanding.

"
Eva
."

She kept walking, head high, fists clenched, her fury blazing behind eyes squeezed shut.  Oh, this is just what she deserved for trusting a man, just what she had expected all along, wasn't it?  Wasn't it?  What a damned
fool
she'd been!

"Eva!"

His terse command echoed from just behind her as she swept into the hall.  She stopped only long enough to grab her cloak and face him, her eyes narrowed.  "Get away from me, Blackheath," she snarled, her voice quivering with wrath, self-loathing, and the pain of betrayal.  Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with her buttons, cinched her hood around her hair.  "I need time to think.  The least you can grant me is a few moments to do just that, unless you plan to deprive me of my freedom to think as well as to leave."

He moved to block the door from which she planned to make her escape, arms crossed, eyes blacker than Hades, his body an impenetrable wall of solid male flesh.  "You are not going anywhere until we have a talk, madam."

She yanked on her gloves, bristling at his autocratic tone, his domineering manner.  "No, Blackheath,
you
need to have a talk, preferably with yourself.  You need to consider the consequences of governing other people's lives, making their choices for them, imposing yourself upon their free will.  You may have succeeded in ordering the lives of your siblings, but I swear you will never order mine, not now, not tomorrow, and certainly not from beyond the grave."  She walked up to him, skirts dragging, feeling as though she were made of crystal and needed only the slightest tap to shatter; only strength of will enabled her to maintain her composure.  "Now, I am asking you, Blackheath, to stand aside and allow me a few moments to myself."

"I will gladly allow you a few moments to yourself, madam, a few hours, even —"  his face was set, his eyes glacial, his mouth hard — "but not if you plan to spend them outside."

"Ah, so you're my gaoler now, are you?"

"I am your husband."

"You are the bane of my existence, and I am
asking
you to stand aside."

"No."  He remained where he was, arms crossed, barring the door.  "You are not going outside in this sort of weather."

"Damn you to hell, Blackheath, I am not a child, and if you have any shred of respect for my feelings, you will
let — me — pass
."

"At the moment, I have far more respect for your health and well-being than I do for your feelings, madam.  You will turn around, find a bedroom, a parlor, a sitting room in which to nurse your bruised temper, and when you have reached a state of calm, we will discuss this matter further."

They faced each other, neither willing to give an inch, neither willing to back down.  Eva's face was white with fury, her hand curled into a fist and buried within a fold of her cloak.  Lucien didn't move.

"So — is that your verdict then?" she asked, her voice dripping acid.

"It is."

She turned her back, as though she could not bear to look at him.  Lucien set his jaw, keeping his own temper under a tight rein.  How the devil had things come to such a state?  All he'd done was try to protect his child by keeping it in England where it would be safe.  He had not wanted to make Eva feel like a prisoner within her own marriage, had not wanted to make her miserable, had fully intended to spend his life with her, proving that he was different from all the other men she had ever known.

And now he'd done just the opposite.

Inadvertently, of course, but he'd done it just the same.

Bloody
hell
.

Guilt assailed him.  And self-loathing.  He should have known that a simple thing like protecting his child from beyond the grave would lead to such an impasse.  Why hadn't he foreseen the consequences of what he'd thought was a completely natural and appropriate act?  Ah, but of course.  She was American.  A rebel.  An advocate of
freedom
, and a woman who — despite all — did not understand the critical importance of preserving an aristocratic line, a powerful family.  He had misjudged her; he had thought she would understand, even support his actions.  He had thought she'd be happy to stay in England, rich, pampered, powerful, after his death . . .  but he had been wrong.

Wrong
.

Deliberately, he softened his voice, trying to find a way to compromise, to reason with her, as he addressed her back.  "Is it so very important that you leave, Eva?"

"Important?  Ha!  It is imperative.  You see, Blackheath, I cannot stand the sight of you another moment.  You make me ill.  You disgust me.  And I can assure you that unless you intend to confine me under lock and key, I
will
find a way to leave you and this wretched marriage I was foolish enough to enter."

Her words cut to the marrow.  Punched a hole in his heart.  Wordlessly, he stepped aside, his jaw clenched with fury, his lips a thin, severe line of suppressed pain.  For once, he was at a loss what to do.

She turned then, and just as silently jerked up her chin, walked past him, and out into the night.

Lucien kicked the door shut behind her.

And stood there all alone in the room, his temples throbbing, his hands balled into fists as, outside, the wind whistled around the house, and sleet hissed against the windows.

Rage boiled up inside him.  He could feel it leaching out of every pore, burning through his veins, making his heart pound and pulse and throb until his whole chest felt as though it were on fire.  If he didn't leave, he feared he would lose control of his temper, do something vulgar and totally animalistic such as . . . break something.  Hurt someone.  The idea of losing control was something he dared not even contemplate.

She left me.

His body began to quiver, to shake.

She bloody left me.

Cursing, he stalked back to the study and threw himself into a chair, willing his mind, his body, to calmness — and failing miserably.  Desperate for control, he reached for a glass and a bottle of brandy, his hand shaking so badly that he could barely bring the spirits to his lips.  He downed the liquor, felt it burning a path down his throat.  He got to his feet and began to prowl.  To pace.  His caught a glimpse of his face as he passed a looking glass on the wall; it was a thundercloud of fury.

She must be in the stables by now.  Probably choosing the fastest horse upon which to make her escape.

I'll never see her again.

He raked a hand over his face and refilled his glass. 
I'll never see her again.

And look at him, sitting here like a fool, just allowing her to leave and making no move to stop her.  The depths to which he'd sunk!  What the blazing devil had she done to his brain, to his self-control, to everything he prided himself on being?  How had she managed to reduce him to this impotent fury, this raging self-doubt that was consuming him from within?

He slammed the glass down, shattering it.  Damn her.  She wasn't going anywhere, not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.  They were going to resolve this matter, and they were going to do it whether she wanted to or not.  His jaw like steel, Lucien stormed back out into the corridor, through the hall, and, without even pausing to grab a coat, outside into the night.

Sleet stung his face, wind lashed his cheeks, and the cold was a thousand needles driving through his thin shirt as he stalked across the courtyard and headed for the stables.  He could see lantern light glowing at the windows, and shapes moving behind them.  Savage satisfaction filled him.  She was still here, then.  He had caught her.  He would not let her leave.