Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Harrington House?” He raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware of any such plans. It’s the midst of winter, Tia. You know as well as I that the roads can become impassible quite easily.”

  She had already foreseen such an argument. “Snow has yet to fall. The journey will be a short one, and I’m expected. I’ve sent word ahead of my impending arrival.”

  “You arranged all this without my knowledge.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I thought that you wouldn’t mind to see me gone after our last words.”

  “I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” he surprised her by saying.

  “Thank you,” she said simply. But it didn’t change what had happened. It didn’t change the disparity between what he felt for her and for Bess. It didn’t change what she must do. “And I’m sorry for going against your wishes. My leaving for a time is best, I should think.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  She hadn’t expected that either. “You don’t want me. You made that clear.”

  “I desire you,” he told her.

  Ah, so they were back to that old story once more.

  Desire was not love. Tia knew well enough to understand the vast ocean of difference between the two. Sadness swept through her, for she knew for certain that she couldn’t continue in this manner, with the ghost of Bess between them. She loved Heath, but his heart belonged to a dead woman, a woman with the face of an angel, and a woman with whom Tia could not dare compete. She couldn’t bear to love him while he loved another.

  “Desire is a fleeting thing,” she said slowly, numbed by the direction of her thoughts. She was going to have to leave him, to leave Heath and the life they’d been building together at Chatsworth House. It was the only way. “You love another.”

  His expression was pained, his jaw clenched. “I’ve made no secret of my past. I cannot change it now, nor would I wish to.”

  Of course he wouldn’t wish to change his past with Bess, she thought with more than just a trace of bitterness. His time with her had made him happy. His time with Tia had merely been duty combined with desire. Not love. Never love.

  “I wish to leave this morning,” she announced.

  “Why now?” he demanded.

  Because her poor heart was breaking, but she couldn’t tell him so. “I daresay some time apart would be a boon for us both,” she lied. “I find that I miss my family, and I’m sure you would like to attend to the estate without my interference.”

  “How long?” he asked, clearly not liking the idea.

  “A fortnight,” she said. “Perhaps more.”

  “A fortnight,” he agreed grimly. “No more. I won’t have us living apart, Tia. You are my wife.”

  She longed to rail at him, ask him why he didn’t treat her as his wife anywhere other than in the bedchamber. How could he expect her to carry on while he carried the flame for his lost love? “I’m aware of my duties,” she told him coolly. After all, he had made it abundantly clear to her that she was just that to him. A duty. His heart would forever belong to another. “I will return whenever you wish it of me.”

  In truth, she didn’t even know if he would miss her. Beyond the bedchamber, that was. But as much as she reveled in the undeniable passion they shared, it simply wasn’t enough. She wanted more from him. All he had to give. And that included his love, even if she knew she’d never receive it.

  “You will come back to me in a fortnight’s time,” he repeated.

  If she’d longed for tender words, none were forthcoming.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Darling, you look horrid.”

  Tia grimaced at her older sister Helen. She’d arrived at the familiar, imposing façade of her childhood home and was immediately bombarded by her boisterous family, brothers, sisters and all. Helen, ever the perceptive one of the Harrington clan, sensed something was amiss and hadn’t waited long to take her aside. She’d marched into Tia’s chamber at the first possible opportunity, not bothered in the least by Tia’s assertion that she required a rest after the hardship of travel that day.

  “How sweet of you to say so,” she told her sister wryly. “I’m sure I’m quite flattered by your kind words.”

  “Oh pish.” Her sister, who was just as blonde as she and possessed their mother’s fair beauty and stubborn temperament, waved a dismissive hand. “You needn’t feign injury on my account. I’m your sister. I can read you like a book, and you’ve got to be Friday-faced for a reason.”

  “I don’t know what you’re prattling on about,” she lied, not wishing to delve into the depressing tale of her marriage. Not now. Perhaps not ever. She preferred to wallow in her private misery, thank you very much. She had come to Harrington House to be distracted, not dissected. “I’m merely worn out from pitching about in the carriage.”

  “It’s the duke,” Helen guessed, not about to allow Tia her privacy. “What has he done? I’ll box his ears if he’s done you ill.”

  “He’s done nothing wrong,” Tia was quick to say, mindful of the ears of the unpacking maid. She raised a brow at her sister, communicating silently.

  “You may go, Dobbs,” Helen dismissed the girl, taking Tia’s cue. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  The maid dropped into a curtsy and disappeared. Her sister scarcely waited for the door to click closed before returning to her quest for information. “Now, you must tell me all at once. I’ve scarcely had the opportunity to speak with you since your wedding, aside from letters, that is.”

  “Oh, Helen.” Now that they were alone, Tia’s every intention to keep her misery to herself seemed to vanish. Her sisters had always been her best friends and trusted confidantes. Faced with Helen’s sisterly concern, her resolve crumbled. So did she, tearing up and turning into a water pot. “He’s in love with his betrothed.”

  “Don’t cry, my dear.” Helen wrapped a supportive arm about her waist and led her to a settee. “How can he have a betrothed? You’re his wife.”

  Tia longed for a handkerchief, but she hadn’t any so she sniffled instead. “He doesn’t have a betrothed. Not any longer. She died years ago.”

  “Ah, I begin to see.” Helen patted her consolingly. “It can be difficult indeed when one’s rival is a ghost.”

  “She was a paragon of beauty and kindness and all other manners of perfection,” Tia said, feeling hideous for even saying the words aloud. Her jealousy of Bess was a constant source of shame for her.

  “I’m sure she was, but she couldn’t hold a candle to you, my dear.” Her sister paused, searching her gaze. “You’ve grown to care for him, haven’t you?”

  “I love him,” Tia confirmed on an awful wail. She didn’t know what had come over her. She couldn’t seem to gather herself now that the dam had burst within her. The tears were slipping fast down her cheeks. She was an utter mess. “I didn’t want to love him, but I do now, and it’s ruined everything.”

  “Oh dear.” Helen pressed a handkerchief into her palm. “If love is as bad as all that, I consider myself fortunate never to have fallen prey to it.”

  Like her namesake Helen of Troy, Helen was exquisitely beautiful. But she was also formidable as a dragon. She didn’t tolerate romance or lovelorn suitors. She was far too elegant for something so lowering. Tia wished she were made of the same stern stuff as her sister. But alas, she had been cursed with a weakness for a sinfully handsome duke who wanted her in his bed but not his heart.

  “You are fortunate indeed.” Tia wept before burying her nose in Helen’s handkerchief and blowing away.

  “Gads.” Her sister eyed her distastefully. “Do keep that, dearest. I shan’t be needing it back.”

  Tia tried to formulate a response, truly she did, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to make the great racking sobs stop. What had become of her?

  “I know of something that may brighten your spirits,” Helen said suddenly and rather loudly over the din of Tia’s wailing.

  “You…you do?” Tia sniffed, trying to calm h
erself.

  “Why yes.” Her sister beamed, the effect making her look positively radiant. Tia was sure she looked no better than a bedraggled street urchin in comparison. “The Earl of Denbigh is visiting us. I can’t think of why I didn’t tell you sooner. He’ll be here in just a few days.”

  Denbigh.

  The shock of the name, the shock that she would see him again for the first time in years, halted her tears. But still, she had no desire to revisit that portion of her life. “I don’t wish to see him.”

  “But I have a feeling he would dearly love to see you.” Helen patted her shoulder again. “He’s written so fondly of you in the letters he’s been sending me.”

  Denbigh had been writing to Helen? Tia frowned at her sister. “Since when are you friends with the earl?”

  Helen actually flushed. “We ran across each other at a garden party a few months ago.”

  “I see.” Tia wasn’t sure she liked her sister befriending the man who had once jilted her, but she supposed it wasn’t any of her affair. “Well then, you can visit with him if you like him so much. I haven’t come here to observe social niceties.”

  “No indeed,” Helen agreed sagely. “You’ve come here to escape the husband you’ve fallen in love with, who also happens to be in love with his deceased betrothed.”

  The urge to cry again was strong. “Thank you for the reminder.”

  “Come now, buck up.” Her sister gave her a gentle shake. “You always used to be the bravest amongst us when we were growing up, remember? What was it you used to say when Cleo and I would run to your chamber in the midst of the night?”

  Tia thought of what she’d told Miss Whitney what seemed like so long ago now. “I’m brave enough to chase the ghosts away.”

  “That’s right, and don’t you forget it. For I have no doubt that in time you shall chase this ghost away as well.”

  If only she had as much faith in her abilities as her sister did.

  Heath wandered through Tia’s chamber, feeling like an interloper for even entering without her being present. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to remind himself that she hadn’t been a flight of fancy, that she was a living, breathing woman. He needed to smell her, feel her, touch her. He needed, quite simply, her.

  He missed his wife. By God, he was a fool. He’d been so determined not to suffer the pain of losing her, and he’d pushed her away. When he’d discovered she’d sent his paintings away without his permission, it had been the ammunition he’d needed against her. He’d seized it like the desperate man he was, using it as a weapon to guard his heart. Yes, he’d been so damn determined not to suffer the pain of losing her that he’d forced her away.

  He’d lost her.

  And losing her, he’d discovered in the days since she’d departed for her father’s country seat, was not something he was prepared to do. He loved her. He didn’t know the precise moment his feelings had shifted and strengthened. He didn’t know the whys or hows of it. But he did know that his minx of a wife had turned his life upside down in the very best way. She’d made him whole again, brought him back from a cold and lonely existence.

  He loved her so much that he couldn’t bear to keep her at a distance any longer. He was ready to face whatever fate befell them. If she took sick, he would be at her side. If she lived to ninety and a day, he would be there too if God and fortune willed it.

  Realizing he loved her had meant reevaluating his feelings for Bess. Initially, he’d been beset by guilt. He’d almost been afraid that loving Tia would somehow besmirch Bess’s memory. But Tia’s words had come back to him, chiding him. She was right. He had attempted to avoid what had happened five years ago, sealing it away in his mind as surely as he’d sealed away the room containing his paintings. Lingering in guilt would not bring Bess back. Denying the love he felt for Tia would not bring Bess back.

  Nothing would.

  But he did have the power to bring his wife back.

  She didn’t belong at her father’s estate. She belonged with Heath. By his side. In his arms. And it was entirely up to him to find a way to win her back. He picked up a bottle of her scent and inhaled deeply. Violets. Somehow, it smelled sweeter on her soft skin. Just thinking of it made him harder than a hunk of coal.

  Perhaps groveling would be in order.

  He replaced her scent bottle, thinking that he would gladly swallow his damnable pride and win her back in any manner necessary. He’d been an ass, plain and simple. He had been cruel to her, had hurt her. Hell yes, he would grovel.

  He cut a path past the writing desk where she so often spent her mornings. Her cream-colored, monogrammed paper was stacked neatly alongside a pen and a sheaf of envelopes. The entire vignette looked as if she might return, bustling through the door with a beaming smile on her lovely face at any moment. The only item that was out of place was a tome perched precariously on the edge of the desk’s glossy surface.

  Perhaps it was his painter’s eye that drew him to the book, righting it so that it was parallel to her stationery. As he did so, the corner of a letter slid from beneath its cover. His interest was piqued. He knew very well that his wife was not a reader. The book had likely been a gift from one of her sisters. Before he could think twice, he flipped through to the frontispiece where the letter had been left.

  The dark scrawl visible through the paper did not appear feminine. A gnawing pang of worry in his gut, he went against his conscience and unfolded the letter. Hastily, he scanned its contents, hands shaking with rage by the time he’d finished. By God, he was the worst sort of fool. Not only had he driven his wife away, but he’d driven her straight into the arms of another man. Unless he was mistaken, it was none other than the man she’d spoken about loving. The Earl of Denbigh.

  Heath knew that Denbigh had lands bordering the Earl of Northcote’s estate. Tia had gone to her sister at Harrington House, her father’s country seat.

  Damn and blast.

  “Burnes,” he bellowed, before realizing he was in his wife’s chamber and the butler wasn’t likely to hear him. “Devil take it,” he muttered, going to the bell pull.

  He was going to have his carriage readied. He had a wife to collect and an earl to beat to a pulp. He just prayed that he wouldn’t be too late.

  Against her better judgment, Tia had agreed to share tea with Denbigh the afternoon of his arrival. Helen had persuaded her that she needed the distraction and that the earl wished to impart something important to her. And so she’d relented. Her misery at having left Heath hadn’t abated. She missed him dreadfully.

  With a sigh, she pressed her forehead to the cool pane of glass in the drawing room as she awaited her guest. From here, she had an excellent view of the east gardens and trees beyond. The day was as gray and cold as her mood. She had resigned herself to her fate, but it wasn’t without more than her fair share of misery. Heath would never love her as he’d loved Bess.

  But she was beginning to fear it didn’t matter. She loved him regardless of the way he felt for her. A fortnight apart suddenly seemed far too much.

  “Tia.”

  The voice was familiar. She turned from the window, bracing herself for the first sight of him. He was just as she remembered, tall and handsome with midnight hair and a rake’s practiced air. But he appeared a bit older now, a handful of silver threaded through his thick mane at the temples. His green eyes met hers, and part of her expected the same tingling sensation to travel through her at the indirect contact.

  But instead, she felt only sadness. “Denbigh,” she greeted him, holding out her hand for him to take.

  He raised it to his lips for a lingering kiss. “You’re every bit as lovely as you were when I first saw you at the Granville soiree.”

  The Granville soiree. She’d been sixteen, hadn’t yet been presented to the queen, and had been testing her mettle at a gathering in the country on a neighboring estate. He’d been two-and-twenty, handsome and hopelessly debonair. It was hard to believe it had been nine y
ears ago when she’d been a naïve miss with stars in her eyes and diamonds in her hair, believing in love and forever.

  “You look very well,” she forced herself to say, for aside from the silver in his hair and the slight grooves bracketing his mouth, he was the same perfect earl he’d always been. “I’m sorry that we don’t meet under happier circumstances.”

  He inclined his head, releasing her hand. “As am I. But I won’t pretend that it isn’t lovely to see you after so long.”

  She felt the same way, but she found that it was only in a nostalgic sense. He was a part of her past. A part that had been dear to her. A part that had shaped the lady she’d become. But a part that was where it belonged. In the past. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the Louis Quinze settee, “do sit and let’s chat. I’d dearly love to hear all about your daughter.”

  He sat while she rang for a tea tray to be brought around. They settled in with their steaming teacups before them, happily talking about the balls where they had danced all night long, about their old friends—who had married, who had not—about the past that had seemed so very far away and now suddenly seemed once more within each.

  Truly, it was as if no time had passed, as if she’d blinked and the nine years between them had fallen away.

  “Do you recall Lady Chesterfield falling asleep at the Nightingale soiree and snoring over her soup?” Tia asked, chuckling as she recalled the sight of the august matron nodding off.

  “How could I have forgotten?” Denbigh laughed. “She snored as loudly as my dog. Old Lord Chesterfield was quite put out with her when her wig nearly fell off.” He took a sip of his tea before grinning at her. “Truly, I’ve missed you, Tia. You never failed to make me smile when I most needed it.”

  “I was not the one who went away,” she pointed out, for she found that the anger she’d carried toward him for years had dissipated but the need for answers had not.

  He lowered his teacup to its saucer with a rattle. “I can explain.”