by Liana Lefey
“Come,” said Mrs. Small with a brisk nod. She beckoned, moving off toward her tiny kitchen. “I’ve some peppermint tea that ought to help.”
Mary couldn’t move, however. All the blood felt like it had left her head, and her feet seemed to have grown roots. It cannot be. It simply…cannot. The buzzing grew louder and louder, and the floor suddenly seemed much farther away than it ought to be.
A firm but gentle hand gripped her upper arm. “Come, child,” said Mrs. Small, breaking the spell. “Come with me, now.”
Mary’s feet shuffled into motion, and she woodenly let her hostess lead her over to a chair by the kitchen table. She sank down onto it just as numbness took over her body. I’m with child. Dismay gathered in a lump in her throat. His child. Oh, God help me!
“I meant no insult, ye know,” said Mrs. Small with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll share a secret with ye: me own firstborn came almost three months early—a big, healthy babe.” She followed the statement with a wink.
How she managed to sit there in that kitchen, listening to Mrs. Small reminisce about her youthful folly, without bursting into tears over her own was something she’d never understand. Her parents would be so disappointed in her. And rightfully so.
As for her child’s father, reason told her they must marry so that she wouldn’t be labeled a whore and her child a bastard. He might bear no love for her after her cold rejection, but surely he wouldn’t want his own child branded as such?
Something deep in her chest tore at the thought of having to give up her baby should he deny his obligation. Even if it was his illegitimate get, it was still her child. Though her parents would be angry, they would never cast her out—but they’d also never let her keep it. She’d be sent away before it showed, far away, to have the baby in secret. And then they’d insist on her giving it up so she could start over fresh without bringing shame to herself and them.
Another wave of sickness assaulted her, and she swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising. She’d thought to find a convenient groom this spring and somehow feign virginity on her wedding night, but concealing the birth of a child was all but impossible. Bearing a child drastically changed a woman’s body. If the pregnancy left any visible evidence—stretchmarks and the like—she’d never be able to hide it.
In truth, she wasn’t sure she’d even be able to give up the child, should it come down to it. She’d wanted children for so long. The thought of having one and not being able to be a mother to him or her nearly wrenched her heart from its mooring. I would have to take on work as a governess or teacher, and I’d never be able to marry. That prospect seemed much more palatable at the moment than the thought of marrying him. But he was her child’s father. It was only right that she at least make an attempt.
Choices. It all came down to choices.
It had been her choice to chase her desire and ignore all prudence in the pursuit. Her choice to ignore Devlin’s attempt to prevent this disaster, and her choice to reject him. So many times, she’d been offered a choice and had taken the wrong path. Now, another choice lay before her. One she couldn’t avoid. Or afford to get wrong.
By the time she left Mrs. Small’s cottage, she’d decided. She’d go to the vicar, tell him what had happened, and then his family would make Devlin do the honorable thing—whether or not he wanted to. They’d marry, even if only in name, for the sake of her baby.
Our baby.
A memory surfaced of Devlin playing with the village children while disguised as his brother, and a spark of hope rekindled in her breast. He might not love me, but he would certainly love his son or daughter.
First, however, she must confess her error and enlist her parents’ help in persuading the vicar to give up his twin’s address. If he refused, Papa must immediately go to Winterbourne and speak with the duke. He would surely force Devlin to make matters right for the sake of their family name. After all, they had Lady Diana to consider. If word of this got out, the scandal would be incredibly detrimental to her chances of making a good match.
A month ago, she’d have felt sorry for the young woman who’d been so nice to her. It was unlikely she knew what a terrible cad her brother was. But there were innocent casualties in any war, and that’s what this was. A war. And she planned to win it.
For my child’s sake…
Her lips pressed into a line, she marched homeward, determined to feel neither pity nor regret for what she was about to do.
Chapter Sixteen
Devlin had attempted to drown his misery in drink. It hadn’t worked. And yet he still tried. Bleary-eyed, he stared at the glass in his hand and then looked around at his home…and felt nothing.
Home. Harper’s Grove was home, not this place. Everyone he cared about was there.
But the bonds you made there don’t belong to you, mocked his conscience. They belong to Daniel. They don’t know you deceived them. If they ever found out, they’d hate you for making fools of them and despise him for his part in it.
Envy added its poison to the mix. How he coveted his brother’s life! His own was meaningless. He did nothing to help people or make the world a better place. If anything, he made it worse, encouraging men to indulge in selfishness and vice.
He knocked back another finger of brandy and then in disgust flung the empty glass into the hearth. It shattered, sending shards of leaded crystal spraying out across the floor. He didn’t even flinch. I can afford it.
His gut churned as he threw himself into his favorite armchair. Here he was, surrounded by all the trappings of wealth—a fine house, an army of servants to see to his every comfort and whim, everything a man of the world could want—and all he felt was dissatisfaction. Hundreds of pounds had been squandered on liquor and frivolity since his return, all in an effort to distract himself, yet he was more miserable now than ever.
“What’s the point of being rich if it cannot buy one happiness?” he muttered to the empty room. The only reply was the popping of a log in the grate.
Apparently, with the exception of yon decanter, it couldn’t buy him joy in any form. On coming home, he’d wined and dined his so-called friends to the point of newsworthy extravagance in order to get to know them better. In doing so, however, he’d discovered he didn’t much like the people with whom he’d surrounded himself.
They were all of them vain, shallow, grasping individuals who could be depended on to support him only if they could be sure of profiting from it. The only loyalty owed him in London had been bought and paid for, and it was a damned expensive commodity.
No one he knew here could be trusted unless there was something in it for them. Devlin put his head in his hands and squeezed, trying in vain to silence his thoughts, stifle his self-loathing, and chase away his shame. But his conscience wouldn’t give him any peace.
I’d rather die than live like this. Without her.
The thought crystallized, sharp and clear, and for one terrible instant he actually considered it. But Devlin Wayward was too much of a survivor to let melancholy and cowardice make an end of him. Cowardice is what got you here in the first place.
The only remedy for cowardice was courage.
Slowly, Devlin raised his head. He knew what had to be done. He must return to Harper’s Grove and face her, even though he’d been an ass. He’d beg forgiveness. Beg her to give him another chance.
It was time to go home.
Home. A wave of longing so strong it brought tears to his eyes rolled over him. He longed to see friendly faces, to hear people calling out greetings with no expectation save a smile and a wave in return. But it wasn’t the place he yearned for so much as one specific person.
Mary’s sunlit face surfaced in his mind’s eye, and her gentle laughter echoed in the corridors of his memory. How he missed their long rides down quiet, wooded lanes, the only sounds those of the horse’s hooves crunching in the fresh sno
w, the occasional burst of birdsong, and their banter.
The tightness in his chest became so intense that he doubled over. But the pain refused to be eased. Only one thing in this world could cure him of the malady from which he now suffered.
How can she not hate me? I never even said goodbye. I left her no note, nothing.
A great, tearing sob heaved up and out of his constricted throat as the dam broke, releasing the flood he’d been trying so hard to contain. Instinct would have him run away from it as fast as his feet could carry him. But there was no running from the truth.
My life has no meaning without her in it. All the lies he’d told himself about how great his life was, about his own importance, and about how other men envied him, were as weak as paper houses in a deluge. Only those who knew nothing of real love envied him, and the only people here who’d miss him if he died this minute were those expecting to be paid tomorrow.
But when he’d been with her, Mary had given his life purpose. She’d shown him that selfishness didn’t equate to happiness. She’d taught him that relationships were of more worth than money or status. She’d given him her heart without reservation, her only expectation being its return in kind. All she’d wanted was the honest love of a good man.
Danny is a fool. His brother could’ve had Mary’s complete devotion had he but given her a chance. Any advantage in the union would have been entirely his, too. Her family was wealthy enough to anticipate her marriage to a baronet, at the least, yet she’d been willing to marry a humble vicar. And he’d run away.
But Devlin had gotten to know her as Daniel never had. In the short time he’d spent with her, he’d talked with her, asked her questions, and probed her heart. He’d come to understand and care for her. Deeply. And she’d done the same with him, such that she’d put her entire future into his unworthy hands.
All at once, it struck him that Mary had never loved Daniel, because she never really knew him. He’d never allowed her to get close enough.
But she knows me—better than I know myself. It had still been him under those vicar’s robes. And she’d loved him. He knew she had, even if only a little. It was enough, a place to start.
After several weeks of constant inebriation and dulling of his senses, sobriety reinstated itself with a lightning jolt of energy, calling every nerve to a state of instant, almost painful alertness. Levering up from his chair, Devlin strode to the study door and yanked it open, bellowing for his valet as he made for the stairs.
I’ll go back. I’ll explain everything and make her understand. And I’ll make it up to her. I’ll ask for her hand. I’ll—
Reason backhanded him as he tried to mount the steps two at a time and his leg, which had fully recovered from his “sprain,” sent him a sharp reminder of just how freshly healed it was.
The switch.
Doubtless, she’d distanced herself from any and all appearance of interest in his brother by now. Since returning, he’d heard nothing about her from Daniel but a passing comment that she seemed awfully put out with him. But still, his twin couldn’t just show up out of nowhere and ask her to marry him without raising a lot of uncomfortable questions.
She would still be angry. It would take a miracle to persuade her to forgive him, but he didn’t care if it took forever. He’d find a way to win her heart. To be worthy of her.
His valet appeared at the top of the stairs in robe and slippers, blinking dazedly.
“Send for my solicitor at once,” Devlin snapped, still moving. “Tell him I want him here first thing in the morning. And then start packing my things. Everything, all of it. The whole house. I’m leaving London.”
During his last visit with Mr. Messingham, he’d heard that Rosewood House was soon to be put up for sale by Widow Amberley. Situated on the outskirts of Harper’s Grove, it was a lovely old manor house of middling size with a rambling garden and a spectacular view of the hills.
Mary will simply love living there! She’ll be able to ride every day if she desires.
He was brought out of his reverie by his bewildered valet spluttering in protest at being ordered in the middle of the night to pack up his master’s entire household.
Another thought occurred to him. “No, wait! Not everything—the furniture can stay.” He’d have Rosewood decorated with all new furnishings. Nothing from his past would follow him to Harper’s Grove if he could help it.
Looking around at his house, Devlin knew he wouldn’t miss it at all. He’d miss nothing here, because his life wasn’t in London. It was in Harper’s Grove. And he intended to go and claim it.
…
Deep satisfaction filled Mary as Reverend Wayward blanched, his face becoming as pale as tallow, while her father delivered their ultimatum. She admired Papa’s restraint and was glad, after all, that he’d insisted on being her voice for this.
“You will own the consequence of your actions and help us, sir,” said her father gruffly. “I leave you with the choice of giving me the means by which to contact your twin or having me obtain it from your brother His Grace.”
Deep blue eyes, gratifyingly wide with shock, turned to regard her. “But…it’s impossible. He would have told me if he’d—if—” His mouth opened and closed soundlessly as speech temporarily deserted him.
“How dare you?” she hissed, standing. “How dare you accuse me of lying?” Blood whooshed in her ears, but her voice came out strong and clear. “I can describe your bedroom in every detail. I know the paintings hung upon its walls. I know the placement of every stick of furniture. I know what you keep on your bedside table—and, more importantly, I know every mark on his body. The small red crescent on his inner left thigh. The scar that stretches from his ribs to his navel.”
“Oh God,” he whispered. He met her eyes, and she saw they were full of remorse. “I know you speak the truth. The mark you describe on his left leg, I bear on my right. The scar you spoke of he received two years ago in a duel.”
Her mother spoke for the first time since their arrival. “If he was involved in a duel, then he is not a clergyman like you. What, pray, does he do?”
A pained look crossed his face, and he reddened further. “You have every right to know. My brother and I went to the same university and both studied to become clergymen. At the very end, however, he chose not to be ordained. Instead, he took himself to London and opened a…gambling establishment. He now owns several.”
Mary just stared at him, unable to speak, unable to even retrieve the vocabulary to form a response. Gaming hells. The father of her child owned gaming hells.
Avoiding her eyes, the reverend hung his head and continued quietly, “When he broke his leg, we agreed he could take my place here without anyone being the wiser until he was healed enough to travel, while I took his place in London to manage his business affairs.”
“Why?” prompted her mother with unconcealed dismay. “Why in heaven’s name would you agree to such a thing?”
“I was afraid to let anyone here know they’d been fooled by an impostor, lest my parishioners begin to doubt their priest’s integrity,” he answered, grimacing. “And Devlin had a business negotiation that could not be delayed requiring his presence back in London. And…” He looked up not at his inquisitor, but at Mary. “And, though it was only in small part, because he offered to help me put an end to your pursuit, which I could not seem to achieve on my own.”
Mary’s chest felt like a vise had been clamped around it. She’d known, but hearing it confirmed made it hurt no less.
Reverend Wayward continued, his face now fully beet red. “After our sister unwittingly encouraged you, he told me he would gently drive you away by showing you that the life of a vicar’s wife would be one of toil and self-sacrifice. He—we—thought you’d leave off after the first outing.” He closed his eyes and tears seeped from their corners. “I made the terrible mistake of trustin
g him with my God-given flock, including you, and he betrayed that trust. For that I shall never forgive him…or myself.”
That queer feeling of disconnection she’d felt the day she’d discovered she was with child seemed to have returned. “And where is he now?”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” he stammered. “Please believe me when I say I knew nothing of his having…” Pausing, he swallowed and drew a shaky breath. “Of his having taken advantage of you. I knew something was not quite right when we met to trade places again, but in my eagerness to return home I did not press him. I cannot think what possessed him to do this,” he quietly raged. “Not only was it a heinous crime against you, but it puts our entire family at risk.”
Again, Papa spoke, his voice rough with anger. “It certainly does. Devlin Wayward must take Mary to wife. If we can achieve it without a scandal, I would prefer it—for Mary’s sake. I care nothing for you or the rest of your misbegotten family. In fact, I will expect the duke to see to it you are removed from your position here. You obviously cannot be trusted with the responsibility of upholding your sacred vows. As for your swine of a brother, he must be brought here forthwith.”
The vicar’s bent head slowly nodded. “I understand your anger,” he croaked. “And I fully deserve it, as does Devlin.” At last, he raised his head, and Mary saw his eyes were swimming with tears. “But bringing him here may not be a simple matter.”
“What do you mean?” growled Papa with a thunderous frown.
“I’ve written to him several times since we parted,” answered the vicar. “It has long been our custom to correspond regularly, but though my letters were received, I have not heard back from him. And then yesterday my latest letter, which I sent by special courier out of concern over his silence, was returned unopened. I was informed that Devlin is no longer living at that address. My messenger inquired of his neighbors, but none knew his whereabouts. Then I learned that his business has reportedly been sold to his partner. I know not where he has gone or if he will ever return. He has never disappeared like this before. I cannot help wondering if he has fled England.”
