Lord Deverill's Heir

by Catherine Coulter

  In a swift military motion the earl clapped his hand to his side where his deadly sword had hung for so many years. His hand balled into a fist at finding nothing more deadly than his pocket. He drew a deep breath and remained standing stiffly, his eyes never leaving the barn door. Arabella was in the barn. The comte had gone into the barn.

  No, he wouldn’t believe what he had seen. There was an explanation. One that would make him laugh at himself. But even as he sought for any explanation at all, he felt a black, numbing misery building in his belly. He felt he was losing a part of himself, a precious part, one not yet fully understood or explored. But no, that didn’t have to be true.

  Time passed, but he had no sense of it. From the meadow just beyond the farmyard came the insistent mooing of cows. The sun was fast fading, bathing the barn in gentle golden rays of dusk. The day was coming to a close much the same as any other day, yet he felt no part of it.

  Even as his eyes probed the barn door, it opened and the comte quickly emerged. Again he looked about him with the air of one who does not wish to be discovered. In a gesture that left the earl shuddering with black rage, the comte swiftly adjusted the buttons of his breeches, brushed lingering straws from his legs and cloak, and strode with a swaggering gait back to Evesham Abbey.

  Still the earl did not move, his eyes fastened to the closed barn door.

  He had not long to wait, for just as the last light of day flickered into darkness, the door opened, and Arabella, her hair disheveled and tumbling wildly about her shoulders, ventured out, stood for a moment executing a languorous stretch, then turned toward the abbey, humming softly to herself. Every few steps she leaned over and picked bits of straw from her gown.

  He saw her wave gaily to the half-dozen farm boys who were busily herding the cows toward the barn for their evening milking.

  A gruesome kaleidoscope of images whirled through the earl’s mind. He saw clearly the first man he had killed in battle—a young French soldier, a bullet from the earl’s gun spreading deadly crimson across his bright coat. He saw the leathery, grimacing face of an old sergeant, run through with his sword, the astonishment of imminent death written in his eyes.

  He wanted to retch now, as he had then.

  The earl had no romantic illusions about killing; he had learned that life was too precious, too fragile a thing to be dispatched in the heat of passion.

  He turned and walked back to his new home. His shoulders remained squared. His stride was steady, his expression controlled. But his eyes were empty.

  “It is a joyous and sacred ceremony that brings us together today. In the presence of our Lord, we come to join two of his children, his lordship, Justin Morley Deverill, tenth Baron Lathe, ninth Viscount Silverbridge, seventh Earl of Strafford and Lady Arabella Elaine Deverill, daughter of the late esteemed Earl of Strafford, in the holiest of earthly bonds.” He saw the comte straightening his trousers when he’d come out of the barn.

  But the day before she’d kissed him, spoken so boldly to him, pressing herself against him. Spoken so boldly, as if she knew exactly what a man did with a woman. Jesus, he couldn’t bear it.

  Arabella gazed up at the earl’s finely chiseled profile. She silently willed him to look at her, but he did not, his gray eyes remaining fastened intently upon the vicar’s face. He had seemed rather withdrawn, even cold toward her the previous evening, and now she suppressed a grin, deciding that either he was nervous about this whole marriage business, or he had been afraid to get close to her because he would want to seduce her. She wouldn’t have minded another kiss or two. She wouldn’t have minded him telling her again how he wanted to feel her breasts against him. She shivered at that memory. She knew that tonight she would get much more. Exactly what that much more was, she wasn’t exactly certain, but she was eager to find out.

  “If there is any man present in this chamber who can state objection to the joining of this man and woman, let him rise now and speak.” She’d met the comte in the barn and let him take her. She had coldly and freely betrayed him. He had wanted to kill both of them, but he hadn’t.

  He knew what was at stake.

  She’d had straw in her hair, her gown was askew, and she was whistling.

  She had obviously enjoyed herself thoroughly. He’d wanted to kill both of them. But just that day she had been so free with him, so giving. She’d wanted him, hadn’t she?

  Lady Ann felt a brief catch in her throat and swallowed quickly. She had always turned up her nose at mothers who wept with abandon at their daughters’ weddings, usually after they had done everything in their power to bring the wedding about, including many times buying the bridegroom. But a tear or two was certainly all right. Besides, she couldn’t help it. Arabella looked so very beautiful, so much like her father, so much like Justin. Ah, but she wasn’t at all like her father.

  No, she was good and kind and strong-willed and obstinate as a mule. She was everything a mother could ask for in a daughter. Another tear fell.

  The vicar said quietly, “Naturally there would be no one to come between the two of you. Now we will proceed. My lord, will you repeat after me: I, Justin Morley Deverill, take thee Arabella Elaine . . .” He wanted to choke. No, he wanted to choke her. It was odd though. She hadn’t looked even once in the comte’s direction since she had come into the drawing room, looking so utterly beautiful in the soft gray silk wedding gown. Her hair was braided atop her head, several small diamond combs flashing in and out of the thick braids, several long ropes of hair lying gently on her white shoulder.

  Why hadn’t she looked at her lover? How quickly had she taken him as her lover? The first day he had arrived? No, that didn’t seem right. Surely she had waited at least three days until she had let him have her in the barn. So she had given herself to him nearly a week now. A week.

  Beginning after she had said she would become his wife. Her betrayal was bile in his throat. He should denounce her right here, tell everyone present that she was a slut with no more loyalty than a snake. He opened his mouth. No, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t and wouldn’t beggar Evesham Abbey, he wouldn’t beggar the Deverill line.

  “I, Justin Morely Deverill, take three Arabella Elaine to be my lawfully wedded wife . . .”

  His voice was low, yet sounding strangely harsh to Arabella’s sharp ear.

  She looked up at him as he spoke the words, wishing he would say them to her, but he didn’t. He looked just beyond her, never directly at her. How odd. She thought she heard Elsbeth sigh. She smiled at him, but still, he didn’t look down at her. He was taller than her father had been. It pleased her. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  Lady Ann felt those tears swimming in her eyes. She didn’t want them, but they had gotten there nonetheless. Her only daughter was getting married.

  She would be her own woman now. She looked beyond beautiful. She looked so much like her father, so much like her soon-to-be husband. Those gray eyes, that thick lustrous black hair. She didn’t think she would ever be a grandmother to a blond-haired blue-eyed little boy or girl that looked more like her.

  Justin was a man to admire, a strong man, a handsome well-formed man, surely a man Arabella could come easily to love. He was standing so straight, so controlled, repeating his vows. He had known he would marry Arabella for the past five years. He had never swerved, never backed away at least as far as Lady Ann knew. Her husband had never said anything about it if Justin had questioned his decision. She wondered if Justin had any doubts now that the day had come. No, she couldn’t believe that he had. There was simply too much at stake. Besides, she had seen the two of them looking at each other. They were luckier than most couples. No, it was more than that. Lady Ann smiled behind her gloved hand. There had been stark desire in Justin’s eyes that first night when she and Elsbeth had arrived unexpectedly early from Talgarth Hall. It would be all right.

  “In the presence of God, and by his laws and commandments, I now ask you, Arabella Elaine Deverill, to repeat these wor
ds after me.” Elsbeth had strained to hear the earl repeat his vows, his voice deep, yet somehow sounding strangely hard to her ears. She saw Arabella gaze up at him while he spoke, a bemused smile on her lips. An eager smile.

  Elsbeth added her own smile.

  She had betrayed him. Knowingly, she had deceived him with that miserable little French bastard. She had spoken to him so boldly, and he had believed it from her innocence, her candor, her guilelessness. But it hadn’t been any of that. He wanted to howl his pain. It was near to unbearable.

  Arabella spoke her vows in a loud, clear voice, “I, Arabella Elaine, take you, Justin Morley Deverill, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to love, honor and obey . . .”

  Obey—Lady Ann’s mind clutched at the simple word. That is quite a concession from my headstrong independent daughter, she thought. She heard herself repeating the same vow to another Earl of Strafford, as if it were only a moment of time ago, her voice unsteady and barely audible in the large cathedral. She had known that her powerful father, the Marquess of Otherton, would kill her if she didn’t marry the man he had handpicked for her.

  Obey.

  He had hurled the word at her on their wedding night, when she had cringed away from his mauling hands. She had obeyed, had submitted, her fear and pain heightened by his harsh demands. She had always submitted, knowing she had no other choice, and when he did not curse her for lying passively beneath him, he avenged himself on her body in other ways, cruelly demanding ways that made her nights a conscious nightmare. It was a pity that her father hadn’t died before the wedding he had forced upon her rather than being thrown from his hunter only two weeks after she had become the Countess of Strafford.

  Life had seemed to be a series of pities. She had hated her husband more than she’d believed it possible to hate another human being. At least he had given her Arabella. If he’d hated Arabella—another girl child—as he’d hated Elsbeth, she imagined that she would have brought herself to the breaking point and killed him. But he’d adored Arabella, adored her more than life itself. How odd of him, this despot who had wanted a son more than anything.

  Lady Ann brought her mind back to see Justin, after a peculiar brief hesitation, slip a gold band upon Arabella’s third finger.

  She had been humming. He could clearly hear her voice, soft and pleased with herself, humming as she’d come out of the barn. Humming even as she had pulled straw from her hair. Humming even as she had straightened her clothing. He saw her clearly leaning down and pulling a straw out of her slipper. The betraying bitch.

  “By the authority vested in me by the Church of England, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  The curate beamed at the young couple and whispered to the earl, “You are a very lucky man, my lord. Lady Arabella is beyond lovely. You may now kiss your bride.”

  The earl’s jaw tightened. He had to look at her. She was his wife, forever. He forced himself to lean down and brush his lips against her mouth. God, she was soft, moist, eager, the slut. The radiant glow on her face sickened him. She tried to keep his mouth just a moment longer on hers, and just grinned wickedly up at him when he jerked away from her.

  He turned quickly away and gazed with hopeless intensity at the golden cross behind the curate’s left shoulder.

  Lady Ann found herself praying silently that Justin would be gentle with Arabella. But that wish brought a wry smile to her lips. Only that afternoon, as she had bustled about Arabella, showing her each new article of clothing that she had paid little or no attention to, scolding her for her inattention as her maid toweled her damp hair, she had thought it time to do her duty as a mother. Nervously she had dismissed the maid and faced her daughter. “My love,” she began slowly, “tonight you will be a married lady. I think you ought to know that there will be certain changes. That is, Justin will be your husband, and that means many things. For example—”

  Arabella interrupted her with a shout of delighted laughter. “Mama, are you by any chance referring to the imminent loss of my virginity?” Oh goodness. “Arabella!”

  “Now, Mama, I am sorry to shock you, but you must know that Father most superbly detailed the entire, well, let’s call it a process, though, to be honest, Papa called it mating. I am not afraid, Mama, indeed, I can think of nothing more pleasurable than making love with Justin. I think he will be very good at it. Don’t you think so? A gentleman should gain experience and, well, skill, before he weds. You don’t doubt that I will disappoint him, do you? Oh dear, I know little of nothing when it comes to the actual doing of things. Perhaps there are a few things you could tell me to make him, well, know that I believe him to be beautiful and not at all terrifying?”

  Lady Ann didn’t know a single thing. A man, beautiful? Perhaps he had been beautiful, but she’d been so afraid, hated him so very much, that she’d kept her eyes closed as much as possible. A man, beautiful? She had never even considered such a thing. Perhaps . . . She just stared at her grown daughter, helpless, totally beyond her ken. Her father had told her everything? Had he told her that men were savage and brutal and cared nothing for the woman’s pain? No, evidently not. He’d only told her the process. The bastard. That was disgusting enough in itself. No, perhaps she should think about this more. She pictured Dr. Branyon in her mind and blushed a red as a stormy sunset.

  “Mama, are you all right? Oh, I see, you think I shouldn’t know all that I happen to know. I promise I’m not a fallen woman, but I do think it utterly ridiculous that ladies should not enjoy lovemaking. And when I think that many girls are taught to regard it as a most disagreeable duty—well, I think they deserve whatever boring toad they get in their bed. I know you and Papa must have been different. Justin and I will be different as well. We will be good together. Now, don’t worry. I love you. Don’t worry about me, Mama.”

  “You’re certain there’s nothing I can tell you?” Lady Ann wanted to faint. But instead she had to act normally, she had to continue the deception. God, she had hated him, hated him to her bones, to her very soul. Arabella truly believed that her father had loved her mother? Had given her pleasure in bed? Dear God, what a travesty their marriage had been. She’d hated being a victim.

  “No, Mama. You’re looking quite white. At least you’re not blushing anymore. Don’t worry yourself any more about it. You know, I do love you dearly for your concern.” Again, as Arabella scooped her mother into her arms and gave her a fond, reassuring hug, Lady Ann had the inescapable feeling that she should have been the daughter.

  Later that evening, as Lady Ann tied the ribbons on Arabella’s lovely white satin nightgown, she felt nearly overwhelmed by her daughter’s excitement, her anticipation, the lust she knew she saw in her daughter’s eyes. Her eyes sparkled. There was no fear in them. It was lust, there was no other way to describe it.

  She forced Arabella to sit down and began to brush her hair. “No more, please, Mama,” Arabella said, jumping up. “Will he come soon? Oh, Mama, I don’t want you to be here when he comes to me.”

  “Very well.” Lady Ann stepped back and placed the hairbrush on the dresser.

  “Justin will be delighted. You look beautiful. I don’t believe he has ever seen you with your hair loose down your back. Oh yes, he has, I remember. That night the both of you agreed to marry. Ah, Arabella, do leave the buttons on your nightgown alone.”

  “I know,” Arabella said, doing a small dance around her bedchamber. “I must keep the silly thing on for just a while longer.” Lady Ann gulped. “Justin will be here soon. I will leave you now.” She turned, then whipped about to hug her daughter. “Be happy, Arabella. Be happy. If something goes wrong, well, I don’t know that it will, but . . . no, don’t worry.” Oh God, what could she say? How could she warn her? What if Justin was like her husband had been?

  Arabella said very quietly, gently, “In matters regarding me, Mama, Father never erred in his judgment. Never.” At her daughter’s words, Lady Ann looked up quickly. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she
detected a fleeting sad awareness in her daughter’s voice. No, that wasn’t possible. She gave her head a tiny shake and turned abruptly away. “I hope you are right, Arabella. Good night, my love. I hope to see a smile on your face tomorrow.”

  “A very big smile, Mama.”

  After her mother had left her, Arabella paced the bedroom with the eagerness of pleasurable anticipation. She delighted in discoveries, and tonight, well, tonight—She hugged herself with excited impatience. She chanced to look at The Dance of Death panel, stuck out her tongue at it, for she hated uncertainty, fear of the unknown, and let her eyes rove to the large bed. She was beginning to wonder, an impish smile on her mouth, if her mother hadn’t trapped Justin and was telling him out to go along, when the door opened suddenly and her husband appeared. How magnificent he looked in the dark blue brocade dressing gown. Her heart quickened at the sight of him. His feet were bare. She doubted very much that he was wearing anything beneath that dressing gown. She hoped not. She couldn’t wait to set that dressing gown off him. She wanted, finally, to see him naked. He was hers.

  The earl closed the door, fastened his fingers over the key, and clicked it into place.

  “I’m glad you did not leave me waiting too long, Justin. Do you know that I have never before spent the night in this bedchamber? I would not like to if I were alone. But since you’re here, I doubt I will even notice that miserable Dance of Death panel. Do you like my hair? My nightgown?

  Mama made me keep it on.” She was babbling, she knew it, but certainly it was all right. She was a new bride, and she was a bit nervous after all.

  She was so nervous she even gave him a curtsy.

  He stood by the door, unmoving, just looking at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Your hair is beautiful. The nightgown is beautiful. You look very virginal. I’m pleased, but a bit surprised.”

  “Indeed, I hope you are pleased. Why should you be surprised?” She was so filled with excitement she didn’t hear anything strange in his voice.