Enlightened

by Joanna Chambers

  Murdo followed Robertson out of the room, and David trailed behind them, horribly conscious of the silent scrutiny of the crowd.

  Robertson led them into the vestibule where they’d waited when they first arrived, closing the door with exaggerated care. He turned round, a composed fellow in his clerkish way.

  “I am afraid I must apologise, Lord Murdo,” he began. “I understand that earlier this evening my employee, Mr. Hill, informed you that your membership of this club remained valid.”

  David’s stomach churned as he realised what was coming.

  “He did,” Murdo said.

  Robertson shrugged, all embarrassed apology. He was good at this.

  “Mr. Hill was mistaken. It has been so long since you visited that your membership has...lapsed.”

  “Ah, lapsed, is it?” Amusement teased at one corner of Murdo’s generous mouth. He seemed perfectly unconcerned by this development, though David knew how good he was at concealing his true feelings.

  “I’m afraid so, my lord. You are welcome, of course, to apply for membership again...” He trailed off, his carefully schooled expression implying, without words, that such an effort would be a waste of time.

  “Tempting as that is,” Murdo replied dryly, “there would be little point. I am moving my household permanently to Scotland in the near future.”

  Robertson was too good to let his relief show.

  “Of course, my lord. I understand.” And with that, the little man gave a deep bow and stepped back.

  An instant later, the front door that led onto the street opened, held in place by the same impassive footman who’d stood entry when they first arrived.

  And Murdo left Culzeans, never to return.

  MURDO WAS QUIET ON the way back to Curzon Street, and David was too. The events of the last hour weighed heavily upon them both. David had believed they were going to Culzeans to talk to Kinnell, perhaps to begin a negotiation. He hadn’t expected an irrevocable confrontation. Now he sat in the carriage, sharp anxiety for Murdo churning in his gut, his too-vivid imagination conjuring images of Murdo with a bullet hole in his head, falling to the ground, again and again.

  “Why did you do it?” David said at last, puncturing the silence. “What were you thinking?”

  Murdo turned his head. He was strangely calm, though his jaw had an obstinate thrust to it.

  “It wasn’t planned,” he said. “Not that it hadn’t occurred to me—it had—but not as something I would actually do.”

  “What did you plan, then?”

  Murdo shrugged. “A more subtle threat. Kinnell’s estate, Marloch, is burdened by sizeable debts. I thought I’d let it be known I was minded to acquire some of them and take Marloch for myself.”

  “Then why the change?”

  “Two reasons. It would take months to implement that sort of plan. Once I laid eyes on Kinnell tonight and thought about what he’d likely done to his wife today, I wanted to do something to stop him now.”

  David could understand that. He’d wanted to lay into the bastard with his bare fists and show him what it felt like to be beaten. “What was the other reason?”

  “Seeing my father and Hartley. I felt the noose tightening, and I realised that I needed to do something drastic if I were to free myself.”

  “You’ve put your life in danger just to free yourself from your engagement?” David exclaimed.

  “I count it a good result,” Murdo said, with a distinct edge to his voice. “My engagement has been brought to an end and in a way that paints me as the villain and the lady as entirely blameless. What more could you want, David? Surely that’s enough, even for you?”

  “That you live to see it?” David hated that his voice trembled with emotion. He felt rather than saw the glance that Murdo shot him, his big body suddenly very still and watchful.

  “I’ll live to see it,” Murdo said after a pause. “Kinnell won’t go through with the duel.”

  “You can’t be certain of that.”

  Another shrug. “Even if he does go through with it, I’ll win, and he knows it. I’m an excellent shot—I’m well known for it. It’s one of the reasons everyone was so aggrieved on his behalf tonight. They thought it unsportsmanlike of me to put a man with so little ability in the position of having to challenge me.”

  “And if you win, you’ll be a murderer,” David said bitterly, though in truth, he did feel better to at least know that everyone expected Murdo to prevail.

  “If that happens, I’ll flee to the continent,” Murdo said. He leaned closer, putting one long, gloved finger beneath David’s chin and tipping it up, forcing David to meet his ink-black gaze. Murdo smiled crookedly, though there was still a hard look about his eyes that puzzled David. “And if my lover—my male lover—accompanies me, it’ll be the biggest scandal in twenty years.”

  Even if that was nonsense talk, it made David’s heart beat a little faster. A wave of mingled excitement and anxiety washed over his heart, and on impulse he reached for Murdo, pulling him close enough to bring their mouths together in a desperate kiss, needing to feel Murdo warm and alive against him.

  For an instant, Murdo hesitated, as though surprised, then he sighed against David’s mouth and wound his brawny arms tightly round David’s leaner body, deepening the kiss.

  When he finally pulled back, breathing hard, it was to say something that David wasn’t expecting.

  “So—when were you going to mention that Sir William Lennox is your Will?”

  David stared at him in astonishment. It was dark in the carriage, but he’d had time to get used to it, and he could make out the glitter in Murdo’s eyes and the faintly belligerent set of his jaw. Was this the cause of the suppressed anger David had detected since they’d left Culzeans?

  “You know about him?”

  “I’ve known for ages. You told me months ago about Will, the boy who broke your heart, the boy from the big house in Midlauder. It didn’t take much effort to discover who owned the big house in Midlauder.”

  “You were checking up on me?”

  “I wondered about my competition, yes.”

  “Competition?” David repeated. “How could Will possibly be competition? He broke with me years ago. Tonight’s the first time I’ve seen him in nearly ten years.”

  “I saw the way he looked at you,” Murdo retorted, suddenly intense.

  “What? Are you mad?”

  Murdo laughed, though he sounded far from amused. “No, but you’re blind. I’ll wager he’ll try to get you into his bed when you see him tomorrow.”

  David just stared at him. It was ridiculous. So far from any remote possibility that it would’ve been funny were it not for the fact that Murdo seemed to be deadly serious.

  “I can assure you that won’t happen. Will has no interest in me.” Even as he said it, an insidious memory intruded—of Will’s hand on his forearm and the murmur of David’s old name on the other man’s lips.

  “Davy—”

  But that really was ridiculous. He shook his head to dislodge the thought.

  Murdo stayed silent, his mouth set in a mutinous line, unconvinced. A bolt of tenderness struck at David to see Murdo’s obvious unhappiness, and his next words were gentle.

  “Murdo, Will’s not like us. He chose to marry, chose to be with a woman—” When Murdo gave a harsh laugh, David broke off. “What?”

  “You. You’re so naïve.” Murdo smiled thinly, leaning closer. “Over the years, I’ve seen your Will at a number of, well, let’s call them evening entertainments, and I can tell you that he’s as much like you and I as it’s possible to be. I’ve seen him with my own eyes. He likes to be watched, you know. The last time, as I recall, he had his cock buried in a grenadier guard and—”

  “Jesus, Murdo, stop!”

  David recoiled, sickened. Horror swamped him—that Murdo had known all about Will, and about his indiscretions, and never said. That he had hugged the knowledge to himself and let David demonstrate his foolis
h naïveté before he said even one word.

  Murdo leaned in even closer.

  “Why should I stop?” he hissed, his mouth twisted in a savage snarl. “Prefer the fantasy, do you? The pure boy who wouldn’t let you so much as touch him? The love of your fucking life?”

  “He’s not the love of my life, you idiot!” David snapped, incensed by Murdo’s obtuseness. “You are!”

  For a long moment, neither of them said anything. David’s breath was coming hard with unfamiliar anger, and Murdo was staring at him, eyes wide with almost comical astonishment.

  “Did you—” Murdo began. “That is... What did you say?”

  David glanced away, heart thudding now. “You heard me.”

  There was another long pause, then Murdo said, “You know, you really shouldn’t say something like that if you don’t mean it.” His voice shook slightly.

  David looked up at that, to encounter an expression he rarely saw on Murdo’s face: uncertainty.

  “Of course I mean it,” he replied. “Have you ever known me to say something I don’t mean?”

  Murdo thought about that. “No. No, I haven’t.” He closed his eyes, then swallowed. “It’s just, I’ve loved you for so long, David. I really didn’t think you felt the same way.”

  “Wh-what?” David stuttered. “How could you think that? And wait... You love me?”

  “Yes, of course. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No! Though how you can say that you didn’t think I loved you—” He broke off, his voice cracking with disbelief.

  “You’ve never seemed to want what I want. You’re always telling me that what we have can’t last, that we have to be careful. Always reminding me that you’ll be leaving me soon.” Murdo swallowed. “To be frank, I feared that if I told you how I felt, it would only make you leave all the sooner.”

  Even in the shadowy carriage, David could see the private grief written in Murdo’s dark, liquid gaze. It made David’s heart hurt. He raised his hand to touch Murdo’s face, tracing the strong, determined line of the other man’s jaw, running the pad of his thumb over those wide, generous lips. This man, whose face was now as familiar to David as his own, had harboured these secrets from him, and he hated that. Hated especially that everything Murdo had just mentioned—David’s constant reminders that they could not stay together, that he had to leave—came from David putting the world first and Murdo second.

  “Love should not be denied.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” he whispered, appalled. “I’m so very sorry. You deserve more.”

  David felt like he was breaking open, like the truth was tearing its way out of him. Somehow, Murdo had become more important to him than anything else. Everything he’d worked for—respectability, a shining career, wealth—all of it would be ashes in his mouth if he lost Murdo.

  “To hell with what I deserve,” Murdo whispered. “All I want is you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When they got back to Curzon Street, Liddle opened the door. David wondered if the man ever rested.

  “My lord, your father arrived a short while ago. He is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

  Murdo absorbed that news. “And Mr. MacLennan?”

  “In his bedchamber, sir. I made sure the marquess did not see him.”

  Murdo nodded. “Good man.” He turned to look at David. “Would you come with me?”

  “To see your father?” David asked uncertainly.

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “All right, if you’re sure that’s wise.” David’s uncertain tone betrayed his scepticism.

  Murdo managed a weak smile. “I’m not sure at all, but I’d like you to be there.”

  David followed Murdo down the candlelit corridor and into the drawing room where the marquess was waiting. The older man sat in the same winged armchair he’d selected the last time he’d come. It was the obviously dominant chair in the room, the master’s chair. A goblet of some spirit—brandy perhaps, or whisky—rested on the occasional table beside him, untouched.

  He looked up, his eyes going first to Murdo and then to David.

  “Send your catamite away,” he said. “I wish to speak to you alone.”

  “If you want to speak to me at all, you will do so in Mr. Lauriston’s presence.” Murdo turned to David and smiled. “Please excuse my father’s manners, Mr. Lauriston, and do take a seat.”

  “Mister Lauriston, is it?” the marquess mocked as David lowered himself onto a straight-backed chair, glad to rest his leg. “A nice title for a whore.”

  Murdo’s expression didn’t alter, but he said coolly, “You know he’s not a whore. You know exactly who and what he is, don’t you?”

  The marquess laughed, an ugly sound. “Of course. He’s a lawyer, but his family are peasant stock. As low as they come.”

  Did the man think such words would insult him, David wondered? He felt no shame over his origins. Quite the contrary, in fact. He stared at the marquess, saying nothing, waiting for Murdo to reply.

  Murdo didn’t seem inclined to speak either. He simply stood, watching his father until, eventually, the marquess was forced to break the silence.

  “You are a fool, Murdo,” he said. His words dripped with bitterness and with something else—bewilderment.

  Murdo smiled and shrugged. “Maybe so. Is that all you came to tell me, or is there more to come? If so, I’ll help myself to a drink before we go further.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he went to the sideboard where a decanter and glasses sat. Removing the crystal stopper, he poured two generous measures into a pair of goblets.

  “Just tell me this: why did you do it?” the marquess bit out.

  Murdo crossed the floor, halting in front of David to offer one of the goblets to him. David took it, his fingers brushing Murdo’s as they transferred the glass between them. He found the tiny touch oddly comforting and hoped it was comforting to Murdo too.

  Murdo didn’t take a seat. Instead, he stood at the fireplace, resting his elbow on the mantel. He was able to look down at his father from there, giving himself the advantage of height, since his father had commandeered the master’s chair in his son’s own house.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Murdo said. “It was...a rescue mission.”

  The marquess shook his head in disbelief. “To what end? So, Sir Alasdair Kinnell thrashes his wife every now and again? She made her bed when she married him, and it’s not as though you’re bedding her. Whatever you said tonight, I know that’s not the case!”

  David found himself on his feet without having made the conscious decision to stand. A jolt of pain travelled down his leg from hip to knee, but he managed to suppress a gasp.

  “You will not speak of that lady again,” he said in a deadly voice. “You are not fit to lick her boots.”

  The marquess smiled, eyeing David’s reaction with undisguised interest.

  “Do not react to my father’s jibes,” Murdo said to David. “He’ll only do it more. He enjoys riling people.”

  The marquess laughed then, a soft, appreciative sound. “You know me so well, Murdo,” he said. There was a pause—a few heartbeats—and then his faintly amused expression faded into something undeniably sorrowful.

  “You were the only one, out of the three of you. The only one I had real hopes of.”

  “What rot,” Murdo said mildly. “There are no two sons more obedient than Harris and Iain. I am the only who ever defied you.”

  “And you are the only one with wit, with ability. You are the only one who sees the world as it is. Oh, Harris will get the title and the lands. What of it? You could have had so much more than that. You could have been a kingmaker, Murdo. You could have risen to the highest reaches of power. That is what I wanted for you! That is what this marriage was about—and you know that! When I brokered it for you, you were in agreement—”

  “You mean, I did not protest,” Murdo put in.

  “Do not play the puppet with me. You i
ntended to come back to London and follow the path we’d always talked about.”

  “Become like you,” Murdo said, expressionless. “Rise through the ranks, the real influence behind the public face of government.”

  “Yes, and you could’ve done it. But, instead, you went running off to Scotland—to him”—he gestured at David—“and ignored all the summonses I sent you. Why?”

  “I came to my senses.”

  “Came to your senses? You will never be received in polite society again! You think any of those men who like to invest in those schemes that make you so much money will send you a brass farthing once they hear of this scandal? You will be a pariah, Murdo.”

  Murdo shrugged. “True, but there is nothing to be done about it now.” He paused. “It’s amusing, actually. For all these years, you’ve held the possibility of ruin over my head, and here I go and do it by myself. All that power you had over me, and until tonight, I never realised how flimsy it really was. All I needed to do was renounce everything you ever gave me. Which wasn’t so very difficult once I realised how little I wanted it.”

  “You’ll be well satisfied, then, now that you have nothing,” the marquess snapped.

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  The marquess glanced at David, understanding dawning. “I see,” he said, adding after a moment, “Well, I wish you’d told me rather than falling on your sword like this. I’m sure we could have come to some sort of accommodation. There aren’t many beds of married love in this city. It’s not so difficult to arrange a house, privacy—”

  Murdo laughed with what sounded like genuine amusement this time. “You don’t expect me to believe you’d have come to an accommodation with me? You, who always said a man keeps secrets at his peril.”

  The marquess’s lips thinned. “If you had told me—”

  Murdo didn’t let him go further. “If I’d told you, you would have done everything you could to sabotage it,” he snapped. “And anyone who stood in your way would have been destroyed.”

  The marquess fell silent. He didn’t protest or indeed say anything.

  Murdo turned to David. “Here’s a story for you: when I was boy, I lived for the summers. We spent them at Kilbeigh, in Argyllshire—my mother and my siblings and me. Not my father. He was always too busy in London.” He turned to his father. “It must be years since you were in Scotland.”