“Told you. He lost her.” Sanderson sounded ready to argue.
Denbigh shot him a sour look.
Good God. Hugo stared at the handsome young man. “Why would you want her back, if she didn’t want to stay?”
Vale cast Hugo a swift look. “Therein lies the rub, my friend.”
“Her bloody father cut off the allowance.” Denbigh’s whine grew more pronounced. “Won’t pay a penny ’til he knows where she is. I think he suspects me of doing away with her.” He picked up his glass and waved it toward the door as if in a toast. “My missing countess. The fat, barren cow. Money was the only thing she brought to our marriage.”
Pity for the poor maligned countess stirred in Hugo’s breast.
“That’s her,” Denbigh said. “Thought the club should have her picture.”
Hugo turned to raise his gaze to a painting suspended over the door behind him.
Time seemed to stand still. The portrait showed a buxom, aristocratic young woman with strong features, wearing a pale blue gown cut low over a magnificent rise of creamy flesh. Her unmistakable midnight-blue eyes observed him calmly, the sweet smile on her lips untroubled. A tumble of light brown curls fell from her crown to one plump bare shoulder. Someone had pierced the picture below the left collarbone with a sharp implement, an ugly slash. The same shape as the scar on Lucinda’s shoulder.
The room swung around his head until he thought he would throw up. Lucinda.
Words hammered against his skull. Missing countess. Fat barren cow. Goddamn it. This puling miserable idiot was her husband. The bastard who had hurt her. Alive.
It was as if a fourteen-pounder of solid ice had ploughed dead center into his chest, knocking the breath from his body and chilling him to the bone.
Vale stared at him. His eyes flicked to the picture and back to Hugo’s face. Dear God. If the duke suspected . . . The desire to kill surged through his blood. His fists clenched. He’d kill every man in the room. Enveloped in rage and bitterness, somehow he kept his face blank. He had to get out of here fast, before Vale’s rapier brain sliced through Hugo’s smokescreen of disinterest. If it hadn’t already.
The blood rushing in his ears battled the sound of Arthur’s voice. He was also staring at the picture. “Hugo, is—”
Hugo brought his foot down, hard. “Are we playing cards or not?”
“Bloody hell, Wanstead,” Arthur said. “Be careful where you are putting those great hoofs of yours.” He raised his gaze to the picture again.
Denbigh lunged across the table and clutched Arthur’s sleeve, slopping wine on the green baize in glittering droplets like spilled blood. “Fuck. You’ve seen her.”
Every eye in the disgusting place fixed on Arthur’s ashen face. Arthur sucked in a breath. He glanced at Hugo.
Shut up, Hugo willed with his eyes.
Arthur must have read the message because he shook his head. “No. For a second I thought she looked familiar, but she looks like any other wife I’ve ever met.”
Sanderson giggled and then covered his mouth. “No one has had so much as a whiff of her perfume since she left.”
Hugo had. More than that. He closed his mouth on the bitter bile in the back of his throat, swallowed it down hard.
Denbigh subsided into his chair. “Curse you, Sanderson. I’m not worried. Vale said he would find her. And he will. Won’t you, Vale?”
Sickening puppy. Couldn’t even look for his own wife. Hugo crushed his cards in his hand to stop himself from wringing Denbigh’s scrawny neck.
The sneer on Vale’s thin lips deepened as he gazed at his friend. “You can guarantee, Denbigh, that I will make sure that your wife ends up back where she belongs, if it is the last thing I do.” His voice held more passion than it had all evening.
The deuce. What game did Vale play in that particular hand? Suddenly, the brandy decanter at the duke’s elbow looked exceedingly inviting. It filled Hugo’s vision. He tasted the smoky liquor on his tongue. Numbness beckoned.
No. Not here. Not yet. A pain throbbed in his head in time to his heartbeat. He had to get out of here. He needed air, and he needed to think. “Are we playing or not?”
Vale drummed long white fingers on the table, staring at Hugo as if he could see right into his mind and lay his thoughts bare. “I agree with you, Wanstead. If Denbigh wants to sit around crying in his wine, I for one have better ways to spend an evening.”
Blindly, Hugo pushed a pile of guineas into the pot. “I’ll raise you.”
“You are a man after my own heart,” Vale said. “Risk all or take all.” He pushed forward a mountain of gold. “I’m in.”
What the hell did he mean? Hugo squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to clear his head.
Denbigh scrawled his name on a vowel. Sanderson and Longfield placed their cards facedown.
Arthur hesitated, then folded. “My hand is abysmal.”
At least the twit still had an iota of sense left.
Vale raised a brow at Hugo.
Damn them to hell. It would kill him to give one penny to these bastards, but he had to get this game finished. He pushed ten more guineas into the center.
Vale stared at his cards and then back at Hugo. He placed his cards facedown. “I’m out. Denbigh?”
The color drained from Denbigh’s complexion. His Adonis face crumpled. “I was sure you’d win, Vale. I can’t let some stranger off the street hold my vowels. I can’t bloody well pay.”
Vicious in victory, Hugo pushed to his feet. “Then do not show your face in society, because I promise you that by day’s end everyone will know that you reneged on a debt of honor.”
“You can’t do that,” Denbigh croaked.
Arthur tugged at his sleeve. “Wanstead, give him a chance to win it back.”
Fury threatened his grip on reason as his sight grew red around the edges. “If you continue to play with these . . . reprobates who pass for men, you are a bigger fool than ever I thought, Arthur Dawson. If your father disowns you, you’ll deserve it.”
Arthur’s jaw dropped.
Hugo scooped up his winnings, including Denbigh’s vowel, and raced for the exit. From above the door, Lucinda gazed down, a vision branded into his brain.
Hard on his heels, Arthur grabbed Hugo’s arm at the bottom of the stairs. “Hugo, old man—”
“Outside,” Hugo muttered in what sounded like a growl.
Perkins handed them their hats, and Hugo stomped out into the alley.
“What the hell is going on?” Arthur glanced over his shoulder and kept his voice low. “That was Mrs. Graham. I thought there was something familiar about her when I saw her at the fête, but it wasn’t until I saw that picture that I twigged. I must have seen her somewhere with Denbigh.”
Hugo grabbed Arthur by the throat and squeezed until his eyes protruded and he started to choke. Hugo released him just enough for him to draw breath. “Swear you won’t say one word to any of those bastards up there.”
Arthur clawed at his wrists. “I swear it.”
“Break your word and I will kill you.” Cold to the bone, he watched Arthur gasp for air. “Understand?” He let go.
Panting, Arthur clutched at his throat. “I gave you my word. What the hell do you take me for, Wanstead?”
“A pathetic fool. Just like me.” And apparently just like Denbigh. Oh, Lucinda certainly had some questions to answer.
She wasn’t a widow. She had left her legal wedded husband, run away from her vows and her responsibilities, carelessly sowing lies and deceit. He couldn’t reconcile the woman he knew with the picture forming in his mind. Anger ran hot, like a fire out of control, and beneath it the familiar ache of despair.
If he stayed angry enough, he wouldn’t feel the pain of the weight crushing his chest.
• • •
A carriage drew up in the lane outside the Briars’ front gate. Kneeling on her bedroom floor, Lucinda looked up from packing the last of her trunks while Sophia napped. She pressed a
hand to the small of her back. No doubt the vicar had decided to call. He often dropped by after church to discuss what they could do for the parishioners in the coming week. Today was as good a day as any to tell him she would be leaving at the end of the month.
She got up off her knees. Her head swam. A sour taste hit the back of her throat. Good Lord. Was she going to be sick again? She stood utterly still until the wave of nausea passed. She must have risen too quickly, or she needed something to eat. The babe in her belly seemed determined to make itself known in the most unpleasant of ways. A hand went instinctively her belly. It felt no larger than before, though her breasts were tender to the touch. Joy swept the nausea away. She and Hugo had made a baby. She couldn’t get over the wonder of it, despite the accompanying desolation that she would never see him again. She’d be gone before he returned from London.
The child would be a permanent reminder, but she would not inflict her desires on him. He had never spoken of more than a physical attraction. He’d been adamant he didn’t want children. It was better that she left before he knew and felt it his duty to support her child. And besides, once the child became obvious, her position in the village would be untenable.
The sound of boot steps on the front path brought her to her senses. Whoever it was, she did not want them to wake Sophia. She ran downstairs and pulled open the door.
Her jaw dropped at the sight of the soldierly figure marching up her path two weeks earlier than expected. Hugo. Oh, God. Why had he returned so early? If he came in, he would see she was leaving. And do what? He couldn’t stop her.
Deep lines bracketed his mouth and furrowed his brow. He had the look of a man in agony. Her heart faltered. Something must have gone wrong with the surgery. She longed to rush into his arms and offer him comfort. Aware of Trent’s curious gaze from the carriage box, she calmed her expression, hiding her panic. “Lord Wanstead. You were not expected back until next week.”
“Trent,” he called back to the servant. “Take the carriage back to the Grange. I’ll walk home.”
Trent slid over and set the vehicle in motion.
“My lord,” she said. “Do you think it is wise to walk all that way so soon?”
“Oh, it is more than wise, Lady Denbigh.” The words were said in a voice so low and so bitter that at first she did not comprehend.
Then the import of her name glittered with the dreadful clarity of a bayonet about to strike.
He knew. The ground beneath her feet heaved. She clung to the doorpost. She would not faint.
Hugo closed the gap between them. His jaw flexed, as if it took all his strength to speak in quiet tones. “Nothing to say for yourself, Lady Denbigh?”
“I . . .” Words could not dispel the shattered hurt in his eyes, but she said them anyway. “I’m sorry.” It came out a broken whisper.
“Sorry.” His eyebrows shot up. “Really? Do you know the position you put me in?”
Numb, she shook her head.
His fists opened and closed at his sides. “I was forced to lie to a man about his wife. Honor demanded I tell him the truth and I lied, just the way you lied to me. What does that make me?”
He hadn’t betrayed her. She sagged against the jamb. Cool reserve shuttered his expression. A bitter smile curled his lips. She folded her arms at her waist. “I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean what?” The sarcasm cut into her like a whip. “You didn’t mean to fool us all? Do you know what I did in London?”
She eyed him warily. “Saw a doctor.”
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a ring in a flash of blue fire. “I bought this.”
Heartsick, she stared at it and then raised her gaze to his face.
“A bloody wedding ring.” He enunciated the words slowly as if they tasted of poison. Then gave a short laugh. “You certainly played me very cleverly.”
She recoiled a step. “Please, Hugo. My lord. You don’t understand. I wanted to tell you.”
“What do I not understand?” The chill in his tone froze her rigid. “That you have lived in this house as an impostor? That you have lied to my neighbors and friends for months? I made a few enquiries about the missing Lady Denbigh before I left London. You don’t have a child.” Bleak remoteness filled his eyes, as if he had no idea who she was and didn’t care. The cold stare hurt far more than his scornful words.
She backed up a step.
The next words were delivered as if ripped from his throat. “The wine-soaked dolt you married is seeking you the length and breadth of England. How long do you think it will be before he finds you here, living openly?”
He took a slow, deep breath as if hauling on some inner reserve of control. “Arthur Dawson knows who you are. At any moment, he might tell his hero, Vale, and you will be found. You must leave here at first light.”
She swallowed, unable to speak for shock. “I . . .” She had nowhere to go. The new house wouldn’t be vacant until the first of the month.
“Goddamn it. Don’t you understand? As a peer of the realm, it is my sworn duty to uphold the law. You are found.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew forth an envelope. “In here is a bank draft on Coutts. Use the money to get as far from here as possible, Ireland, Scotland. If your family won’t help you, it is the best chance you have.”
He scrubbed a hand across his face and went on in a thick voice. “Mr. Brown will come first thing in the morning and drive you to London.”
He held out the envelope.
Numb from his brute force tirade and scourged by guilt, she stared at the paper trembling in his gloved hand. When she made no move to take it, he tossed it onto the floor at her feet. She raised her gaze to his face.
“Run, Lucinda,” he said wearily. “Wherever you go, don’t look back.” He straightened his shoulders. “The only good thing about this whole debacle is that I understand you are barren. For that I thank God . . . If there was the slightest chance of a child of mine belonging to that disgusting piece of rubbish you married, I’d have to kill him. And hanging over a faithless jade is not an end I wish to contemplate.”
The agony of soul in his every bitter words cut Lucinda to the quick. She never imagined causing anyone such pain, least of all this man. But had she not done her best to discourage his advances? He’d pressed forward when she’d tried to deny him. He’d battered down her defenses. And now, like Denbigh, he placed all the fault at her door.
Fury ignited in a flash. Flames danced at the edges of her vision as words poured forth like molten lava. “Damn you, Wanstead. What I gave you, I gave freely because I desired you. Had you asked me if I wanted to marry you, I would have said no. But you didn’t ask. Typical arrogant male that you are, you decided my fate. Well, it was never yours to decide. I gave you my body, and God help me I gave you my love, but I did not give you control over my life.”
She was yelling. She didn’t care. “Even if I were free to marry you, I would not do it. I will never give a man that kind of power over me again.”
A thin wail from above her head pierced the red fog in her brain.
“You’ve woken Sophia,” she said, all but collapsing in a heap at his feet in tears as her rage evaporated like steam and condensed into loss. “I’ll thank you to take yourself off.”
“Likewise,” he said. He raised his arm. She flinched and he laughed, a cruel harsh sound. He tossed the ring into the rose bed beside the door and strode down the path. At the gate he looked back. “Run far and run fast, Lucinda.” He executed a stiff bow and strode into the forest.
For a long time Lucinda stared at the place where he’d disappeared among the trees. She felt completely empty inside, as if her blood had drained into the ground. She half expected to see a pool of red at her feet.
“Mummy,” Sophia called.
“I’m coming, darling,” Lucinda whispered. Hot tears cooled on her cheeks, and she tasted their salt with the tip of her tongue. The burden of his pain lay heavy on her shoulders. Until
today, she hadn’t realized how fragile he was beneath all that male pride. An unbearable ache filled her chest. She doubled over, arms clutched to her waist, sobs shaking her until she could not breathe.
This was what she had planned. To leave. To go her own way. To never see him again. But to part on a note of such hatred . . .
“Mummy.”
Sophia. She had to think of Sophia. And the babe. She was having a child. Hers and Hugo’s. It would be all she would have of him. She’d known that from the moment she knew she’d conceived. She pushed the door shut on foolish dreams of love.
• • •
The next morning, Mr. Brown arrived grim-faced and, to Lucinda’s surprise, not alone. The Reverend Postlethwaite drove up behind him in his gig. Both men looked thoroughly uncomfortable.
Weary from lack of sleep and too many tears, Lucinda invited them in. Numb, she gazed at them side by side on the sofa as Mr. Brown explained that he had met the vicar on his way over and told him of the sudden high-handed termination of her lease.
So Hugo had decided to play the autocrat. Determined not to reveal the depth of her misery, she straightened her shoulders and spoke in brisk tones. “I hope his lordship did not blame you for agreeing to the lease in the first place, Mr. Brown?”
The young man swallowed. “No. His lordship was not of a mind to discuss anything.”
Slack-jawed, the vicar looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand why Lord Wanstead broke the lease. You have the right to stay, you know.”
Both men fixed their eyes on her, awaiting her answer. She could not let Hugo appear to be the villain in her melodrama. “I had planned to depart at the end of the month, anyway, to be closer to my family.” She winced inside at the lie.
“I thought you liked living in Blendon,” the vicar said.
Brown nodded his head.
“I did,” she said. “I do. I—to be frank, there is someone looking for me. I do not wish to be found. His lordship learned of my situation in London.”
Postlethwaite’s eyes glazed, and he licked his lips. “Are you in some sort of legal difficulty?”
The Lady Flees Her Lord Page 26
