“Why do you want this match, Kyle? There are other heiresses, most of whom would provide you with a more acceptable relationship. Surely you can’t have fallen in love with a mute madwoman.”
His brother’s face hardened. “Lady Meriel is my preference. We will both benefit by the marriage, I believe.”
It still sounded like a devilish bad bargain to Dominic, but he and his brother saw things very differently. Their own parents had lived largely separate lives, and apparently Kyle wished to do the same. “I still don’t see how a substitution could be done successfully. Oh, I could certainly play a convincing Lord Maxwell for people who don’t know you, but I can’t live at this estate for weeks, then have you step in without the difference being noticed.”
“Lady Meriel lives with a pair of vague old cousins and a household of servants. No one who matters. Simply keep to yourself, avoid becoming intimate with anyone, and spend enough time with the girl so that she is comfortable in your presence.”
“She most of all is likely to notice a substitution,” Dominic said, exasperated. “Even our dogs and horses could tell us apart instantly.”
“She…doesn’t notice people. I made a brief visit to Warfield.” Kyle fell silent for a moment. “At dinner, she glanced at me once and returned to her soup. I doubt she’ll see the difference between you and me.”
Dominic tried to imagine a wedding night with a girl who behaved like a wax doll. “This sounds more like rape than marriage.”
“Damn you, Dom, I didn’t come to listen to your objections!” Kyle exploded. “Will you help me, or not?”
The whip-crack words made Dominic recognize what he should have known the minute his brother walked into the room: Kyle was suffering. Under his arrogance something was terribly wrong. A love affair so unhappy that he literally didn’t care who he married? Once Dominic could have asked, but his brother would not answer, not the way things stood between them now.
Equally clear was how desperate Kyle was to get Dominic’s cooperation. Granted, someday his brother would be an earl and Bradshaw Manor merely a minor holding, but the estate was still a huge payment for a few weeks of work.
Despite the friction between them, Dominic didn’t like seeing his twin so upset. As much because of that as for the potent lure of acquiring his own property, he said, “Very well. I’ll do as you ask.”
Kyle sighed with relief. “Good. I’m expected at Warfield on Monday, so there isn’t much time to prepare you.”
“So soon?”
“Do you have business so urgent that you can’t leave town right away?”
No, blast it, he didn’t. He’d have to cry off a couple of dinner engagements, and his friends would miss him in a casual way, but there was nothing and no one to whom his presence was vital.
As a younger son, Dominic had gone into the army just in time to be bloodied at Waterloo. Though he hadn’t disgraced himself, the experience had taught him he wasn’t cut out to be a soldier. Worse, the peacetime army had proved damned boring.
So he’d sold his commission and lived the carefree life of a young gentleman ever since. The heady delights of London during the Season, and long lazy visits to the country homes of friends the rest of the year. He was just reckless enough to be considered dashing, and innately prudent enough not to get himself into serious trouble. But he was twenty-eight now, and beginning to tire of having no purpose beyond pleasure. Of never doing anything that mattered.
If he owned Bradshaw Manor, his life would have meaning. The broad, fertile fields, the spacious stables and gracious house—the yearning was so sharp he could taste it. “I’ll be ready. What needs doing?”
“First, a haircut,” his brother said dryly. “Plus you’ll have to take some of my clothing. Your tailor leaves much to be desired.”
Dominic made a mental note to “accidentally” wreck at least one of his brother’s overpriced coats before this escapade was over. “Anything else?”
“Morrison will go with you. He’ll be the only one who knows of the substitution.”
Dominic almost groaned aloud. Morrison was as stuffy a valet as Kyle was a master. “Can Morrison get in touch with you if necessary?”
Kyle hesitated. “He’ll know where I am, but it will be almost impossible to reach me. I will probably be gone three to five weeks. I expect you to cover for my absence in whatever way is necessary. When you’ve built an adequate relationship with Lady Meriel, leave. The less time you spend at Warfield, the less likely anyone is to notice the differences between us.”
That Dominic agreed with heartily. “Clothing, haircut, valet. I’ll also need to know about your meetings with Amworth and your visit to Warfield.”
“A good point. I’ll make notes.” Kyle frowned. “You can’t come to Wrexham House—the servants would be shocked to see us on visiting terms. Morrison and I will return tonight with clothing and the information you need. He’ll cut your hair then.”
Dominic repressed a sigh. It took so little for his brother’s natural high-handedness to bloom. “One thing. I want a signed letter from you saying that Bradshaw Manor is mine if I accomplish the goal we have discussed.”
Kyle had been about to leave, but at that he swung around, his eyes dangerous. “You doubt my word, Dominic?”
Oddly enough, he did not. “No, but if you get thrown by a horse and killed on this mysterious mission, I’d like to get my payment.”
Kyle’s brows rose sardonically. “If that happens, brother dear, you’re the next Earl of Wrexham, and I wish you much joy of your inheritance.”
Then he stalked out the door, closing it hard behind him.
Chapter 2
She entered her workroom from the garden, a bucketful of wildflowers in her left hand. After setting the bucket on the pine table, she contemplated the shelf above, which contained an odd assortment of containers. The cylindrical pottery jar? No, the tall silver coffee pot that she’d taken from the cabinet in the dining room.
Begin with branches of honeysuckle, spiky and heavy with scent.
The door to the conservatory opened behind her and a small, pleasantly plump woman with pure white hair entered. “There’s news, dear,” Mrs. Rector said in her gentle voice. “Remember that nice young man who came to dinner and spent the night about a fortnight ago? Dark hair, and such a distinguished air? Lord Maxwell.”
What to go with the honeysuckle? Masses of speedwell with tiny, vivid blue blossoms. She pulled a handful from the bucket and trimmed the stems with her shears. The curving silver surface of the coffee pot reflected the colors in rich, strange distortions.
Mrs. Rector continued, “Long ago, Lord Maxwell’s father and your father planned for the two of you to marry, and your uncle Amworth thinks it a good idea. Remember how your uncle mentioned that to you after Maxwell left?” She sighed. “No, of course you don’t remember.”
Yellow and blue always looked their best together, so she’d picked dandelions. They contrasted strongly with the speedwell, sparking both to vibrant life.
“Lord Maxwell is coming to stay for several weeks, to further his acquaintance with you.” Mrs. Rector studied the worktable. “Oh, dear, the Germain coffee pot. Of course, you own it, so I suppose if you want to stick in weeds, you can.”
Something lacy was needed to moderate between the honeysuckle branches and the flowers. Fennel would be best, but it was too early for fennel, so she would have to make do with stitchwort. She slid the gangly stems carefully into the pot, rearranging them until they pleased her.
“As I was saying, Lord Maxwell will arrive on Monday. Your uncle has promised me that the marriage will not take place unless you are comfortable with his lordship.”
She turned the pot on the bench, careful to avoid smudging the bright silver with her fingers. Move this bit of honeysuckle so. A slight rearrangement of the dandelions, more speedwell there.
“I don’t see how any good can come of this!” Mrs. Rector burst out. “An innocent like you to wed a wo
rldly man like Lord Maxwell. I swear, I’ve seen icicles warmer than that man’s eyes.”
Meriel picked up the arrangement, regarded the effect for a moment, then turned on her stool and placed the coffee pot in Mrs. Rector’s hands. The older woman blinked, startled, then smiled. “Why, thank you, my dear. That’s so kind of you. It really is rather pretty, isn’t it? I shall put it on the dinner table.”
She brushed a light kiss on top of Meriel’s head. “I shan’t let that man hurt you, Meriel, I swear it!” she said in a voice suddenly intense. “I will send a message to Lord Grahame if necessary.”
Meriel stood and reached up for the cylindrical pottery jar. The surface was rough, in shades of brown and bronze. It needed lots of dandelions, and yarrow.
Her momentary fierceness gone, Mrs. Rector said uncertainly, “But perhaps Lord Amworth is right. A husband might be just the thing for you. And perhaps a baby.” Longing sounded in her voice.
More dandelions were needed. Without a backward glance at her companion, she slid from the stool and went outside to pick them.
Kyle let himself into the small, elegant town house with his own key. The physician, gray haired and tired eyed, was just leaving. He inclined his head. “My lord.”
“Sir George.” Kyle set his hat on a side table, which allowed him to hide his expression. “How is she?”
The older man shrugged. “Resting. The laudanum helps with the pain.”
In other words, nothing had changed. Not that Kyle expected any miracles. “How long does she have?”
The physician hesitated. “That’s always hard to say, but if I had to guess, I’d say perhaps a fortnight.”
God willing, that would be long enough. He hoped so with every fiber of his being. “May I see her now?”
“She’s awake, though weak. Try not to tire her.” The doctor sighed. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Good day, my lord.”
After the physician left, Kyle went upstairs, the carpeted steps quiet beneath his feet. How many times had he climbed this staircase? Beyond counting. The moment he first stepped into the little jewel box of a house, he’d known it was perfect for her. She had pronounced herself enchanted, saying that she never wanted to leave. And she hadn’t, until these last painful months, when her thoughts had turned elsewhere.
He tapped on the door to warn her before entering. Constancia reclined in a nest of pillows on the sofa, sunshine pouring over her. The harsh light cruelly revealed her ravaged face and the white streaks in her black hair, yet her smile held all the world’s sweetness. “Milord. It is good to see you,” she said in her seductively accented voice.
He kissed her forehead, then sat in the chair by the sofa and took her hand. It felt unbearably fragile, scarcely more than skin and bones. “I’ve a surprise for you, Constancia. I’ve hired a fast private yacht. On Monday, we will sail for Spain on the tide. You’ll stay in the captain’s own cabin.”
She gasped. “How is this possible? You have so many responsibilities. The trip to Shropshire that cannot be delayed…”
“That will be taken care of by my brother.”
“Your brother?” Her eyes rounded. “I did not know you had a brother.”
For years Kyle had deliberately refrained from mentioning his brother, but that was no longer possible. “Dominic. My twin.”
“Un hermano gemelo? A twin brother?” she repeated, amazed and intrigued, as people too often were by twins. “Does he look like you?”
“We were considered identical.”
She laughed a little. “Two such handsome men! The mind cannot grasp it.”
Perhaps that was why he had never mentioned Dominic, his easy-tempered twin, the one who was well liked, especially by women. “Only our faces are alike. In other ways, we are very dissimilar.”
Her levity faded, and she gazed at him with the dark eyes that could see right into his soul. “You have told me of your father, your small sister, your mother of blessed memory, but never of your twin. Why not?”
“He’s not part of my life. We never see each other.” Discomfited by her unswerving gaze, he added, “Dominic was always rebellious. Irresponsible.”
“And yet now, he helps you.”
“I’m making it worth his while,” Kyle said dryly.
She caught her breath. “Is he pretending to be you? Surely not, querido!”
He swore to himself. He hadn’t meant her to know this much, but it was hard to keep anything from her quick, intuitive mind. Not wanting to discuss his brother any more, he said, “I’ll tell Teresa to start packing your things. There isn’t much time.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “No,” she whispered. “Hardly any time left at all.”
It wasn’t easy to keep his voice steady. “Time enough to take you home, as I promised I would.”
“Yes, but I did not think you were serious. For a young lord to lower himself to escorting his old mistress…unthinkable!” With her free hand, she wiped away tears. “Diablo! I cry too easily now. How can I take so much from you, mi corazón, my heart?”
She had never understood how much he owed her. Constancia de las Torres had been only a girl when she was driven from her home by war, and ravished into the bargain. She had survived in the only way open to a lovely young woman who was destitute and alone. Later, during the Peninsular War, she had accompanied a British officer back to England as his mistress. When the affair ended, she’d become a London courtesan, known publicly as La Paloma. The dove.
She’d been more than twice Kyle’s age when he went to her as an eighteen-year-old virgin. He was captivated the first time he saw her in a box at the opera, and not only because of her dark, exotic beauty. Demanding an introduction from a mutual friend, he’d immediately invited her to join him for a late supper after the performance.
Though he tried to act worldly, he couldn’t have fooled her for a minute. But Constancia had kept any amusement to herself, welcoming him into her arms with a generosity that made him feel like a man among men.
Even that first time, he’d known that what he had discovered with La Paloma went far beyond the intoxicating pleasures of passion. In a profession that turned most women hard and cold, she had a rare and precious warmth. With her he found peace, and a filling of the emptiness that had been part of him since he and Dominic became estranged. Only much later did he realize that he gave much to her as well. Even so, she’d resisted when he asked her to become his mistress, saying that she was past her prime and a beautiful man like him deserved an equally beautiful young girl.
It was true that she was no longer young, and that she faced a future of increasing bleakness in a trade where youth and beauty were the only coin that mattered. But his desire to keep her safe had been only a small part of his decision; far more important was his fierce need to keep her close, for he could not imagine life without her.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Spain. You’ve given me a reason,” he said in a light voice that showed none of his thoughts. “We shall lie beneath an orange tree and smell the flowers on the warm Spanish wind.”
“Yes.” Despite the fatigue in her dark eyes, she gave him her wonderful Madonna smile again. “Surely God will grant me that much.”
He smiled back, and wondered with despair what he would ever do without her.
The small boy emerged from his father’s study, so stunned that he knew only that control was essential. Shoulders rigid, he walked through the grand hall, steps echoing, then down the wide stone steps after a footman silently swung the door open.
Kyle raced around the corner, face alive with excitement. “Did you fool him?”
Dominic licked his dry lips. “Oh, yes, he thought I was you.”
His brother grinned mischievously. “I told you Wrexham couldn’t tell us apart, even though he is our father.”
Dominic could no longer remember why the idea of trying to deceive the earl had seemed amusing. “Of course he can’t. H
e hardly ever sees us, and he’s shortsighted as an owl.”
Catching his mood, Kyle frowned. “What’s wrong? Was I summoned for punishment and you got beaten in my place? Honest, Dom, I wouldn’t have suggested tricking him if I thought that’s what he was going to do!”
“Not a beating. Worse.” Dominic glanced at the broad, grimly impressive facade of Dornleigh, chilled to the heart. “Race you to the gazebo. I’ll tell you there.”
He took off running, his twin a half step behind. By the time they reached the circular Greek temple that presided over the gardens, both were panting with effort. Fiercely competitive, Kyle dived the last few feet, his hand slapping the bottom stone step just as Dominic reached it. “I’m first!”
“No, you’re not!” Chest heaving, Dominic glared at his brother, but his protest was halfhearted. He turned and dropped onto the top step, his blind gaze not seeing the lush greenery. “He…he’s going to send us to different schools.”
“What!” Kyle sank onto the step beside him. “He can’t do that!”
“He can, and has.” Dominic swallowed, afraid tears might start. “Come Michaelmas, you’re going to Eton, while I’m being packed off to Rugby.”
He felt the silent wave of pain from his brother, an echo of his own horror when Wrexham had made the announcement. His earliest memories were of Kyle. He could sooner imagine cutting off his right arm than living apart from his twin. “Maybe Mama can change his mind.”
“He never listens to her,” Kyle retorted. “He never listens to anybody.”
Too true to be argued. “I’ll get myself sent down from Rugby. Then maybe he’ll let me go to Eton, too.”
“He’ll beat you, but he won’t send you to Eton.” Kyle frowned. “In a way, it makes sense. After all, I’m going to be the earl, and the Earls of Wrexham have always gone to Eton.” His assessing gaze scanned the Northamptonshire hills, Wrexham land as far as the eye could see. “You’re only a younger son.”
The Wild Child Page 2
