by Juliana Gray
She and Roland had taken Philip out for a picnic, three weeks after Somerton had returned to England and the day after the telegram arrived, confirming the issuance of the decree absolute of her divorce from the earl. Together, they’d told the boy that he and his mother and Roland and the new baby were going to be a family, and that even his father thought this was a good idea, and would see him during the holidays when he was home from school.
She hadn’t known quite how he would react. He loved Roland, of course. Loved spending time with him, insisted on holding his hand during walks, looked up to him as a kind of god among men. But how would he feel about Roland marrying his mother? How would he feel about his father—unpleasant, unaffectionate, but still his father—being supplanted in his world? She’d held her breath as he looked between the two of them, eyes wide and mouth open with disbelief, not quite able to speak at first.
And then: “Uncle Roland’s going to be my father? And the baby’s father?”
Roland had knelt next to him in the crisp summer grass. “Your father will always be your father, Philip, old boy. But I’d like very much to live with you and your mother, and help her with the baby, and do all the things that a papa would do. If that’s quite all right with you, of course.”
“Oh.” Philip had looked at him uncertainly, brow creased with thought, evidently turning over something of great weight in his head. “But . . . if Father’s still my father, but you’re marrying Mama . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, what will I call you?”
Roland had looked at Lilibet. Lilibet had looked at Philip. Philip had looked between the two of them in deep perplexity.
“You can call me anything you like,” Roland had said at last.
“Hmm.” A pause. “Will the baby call you Papa?”
Roland’s voice had roughened. “Yes, I expect it shall.”
“Then I’ll call you Papa, too,” Philip had said, with an air of settled decision, and he’d flung his arms around Roland’s neck. That night, as Lilibet had tucked him into bed, he’d said, in a small voice, “I’m afraid to go to sleep, Mama. I’m afraid it was a dream, and I’ll wake up and it won’t be true.”
She’d kissed him and reassured him that it was true, every bit of it, and a week later he’d held Lilibet’s hand in the small chapel as she said her marriage vows, with Beadle and the Duke of Olympia sitting behind them in a pew, and Roland had lifted him into the carriage afterward for the long ride back to the Palazzo Angelini, where his new pony awaited him in the stables.
That had more or less won him for life.
Now, as they watched him trot ahead, into the clear, warm Tuscan air, Lilibet saw the familiar turrets of castle appear from behind the trees and wanted to sing with joy.
“What is it?” Roland asked.
“I was just thinking how miserable and apprehensive I was, riding up this same road in March, with you by my side. How empty and forbidding it all was, how mysterious. And Morini, appearing like a ghost in the hallway, frightening us to death.” She laughed.
“Ah yes. The fabled Morini. Everyone goes on and on about that dashed housekeeper, and I’ve never even met her. Only poor old Francesca.”
“That dreadful first night! Cold and rainy and lonely. And now it will be full of love and laughter. They’ll be so happy to see us. I expect Mr. Burke and Alexandra will be engaged by now, and . . . do you think your brother . . . ?”
He laughed. “What, with Abigail? I hope not. She’s far too good for him.”
“The grapes will be ripening, I think. They’ll be picking them by the end of the month. And the apples and peaches. Oh, Roland, how I love it here! Let’s go swimming in the lake tonight. Let’s never leave. Let’s see if we can find the owner—what was his name?—Rosseti. Let’s see if we can renew the lease. Do you think we could?”
Roland shifted in his saddle and lifted one gloved hand to rub his upper lip. “Well,” he said, “I believe that could be arranged, without much difficulty.”
Something in the tone of his voice caught her attention. She tilted her head and peered at him, at the evasive look in his eye. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Didn’t I tell you? I thought I must have said something. Rather busy few weeks, I suppose. Perhaps I said something about it to Beadle, and assumed . . .”
“Roland.” She invested the word with as much doom as its two brief syllables would allow.
“Hmm. Yes. Well, it’s a funny old story. Odd, really. A sort of coincidence, you might say. The day before we left, Midsummer’s Eve, as you no doubt recall, that marvelous party with all the masks and whatnot, and then of course . . . well, afterward was lovely, too, the loveliest night of my life really, except perhaps our wedding night, which will live forever in my memory as . . .”
“Roland!”
“Yes. All right. So there I was, going through the estate documents with Philip, as a sort of research project, and it turns out . . . quite funny, really, how you’ll laugh . . . you’ll never guess who . . . well, at any rate, he seems to be the actual owner, according to the deed . . .”
“The actual owner? You mean it’s not Rosseti?”
He looked down at his hands, fingering the reins. “Yes, rather funny, that. Rosseti’s name was never on the deed. The castle was built by the Marquis di Monteverdi. But it was transferred, quite some time ago, to another man entirely.”
“Who, Roland?”
“Oh, look! Is that Giacomo up there? Ha-ha. He doesn’t look at all pleased about the pony.”
“I don’t see anyone. Who, Roland?”
“What, you don’t see Giacomo? He’s right there, darling! Got his hand on the bridle, scolding Philip . . .”
“Enough of your jokes, Roland. Who owns the castle?”
He cleared his throat and stopped his horse. His voice lost all hint of laughter. “The property was transferred in 1591 to the Earl of Copperbridge.”
“Are you certain? An Englishman? The Earl of Copperbridge?” She stopped her horse beside his and knit her brow, trying to remember where she’d heard that name. “But that’s . . . isn’t that the courtesy title of . . . ?”
“It was my uncle’s title, before he died. It’s the family title used by the heirs of the Dukes of Olympia.”
She knew she was staring like a wide-eyed idiot, but she couldn’t seem to adjust her face from its shocked expression. “Then your grandfather . . .”
“. . . owns the castle. Apparently.”
She sat still in her saddle, absorbing this. A breeze went by, warm and fragrant with the scents of summer, rustling in the nearby cypress. “The old bastard,” she whispered. “I knew he was playing deep, but this!”
“Yes, the old . . . What did you just call him?”
“Never mind.” She nudged her horse forward. “Let’s find the others. I’ve an idea Abigail might find this information even more interesting than I do.”
She pushed the horse into a trot, raising puffs of dust at every hoofbeat, despite Roland’s pleas—escalating into orders, which she ignored—that she take care, for heaven’s sake, and think of the baby. She dismounted in the courtyard, handed the reins to an emerging stable hand, and waited only just long enough for Roland to swing himself to the ground before she hurried on to the door.
“Philip!” she called.
“I expect he’s gone in through the kitchen entrance,” Roland said. He tugged open the door and followed her along the short passage into the inner courtyard, with its dry fountain, and through the entrance to the main hall.
“Philip!” she called again. “Abigail! Alexandra!”
Her voice echoed about the room, loud and clear in the vast stone-lined emptiness. She turned to Roland and put her hand on his arm. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t kn
ow,” he said. “Didn’t you send a telegram?”
“Yes, a few days ago. I told them we were returning. I didn’t say anything else; I wanted to surprise them.”
His hand slipped into hers, solid and reassuring. “Perhaps they’re finishing luncheon. Or perhaps they’re out.”
“Let’s try the kitchen. Morini will be there, I’m sure.” She started off in that direction, leading Roland by the hand, but before she’d gone more than a few steps, Philip ran into the room, hatless, his jacket unbuttoned and covered with crumbs.
“Mama!” he said, jumping in her arms to spread his crumbs all over her new black riding habit from the Florentine tailor. “Morini gave me a slice of panettone, and you’ll never guess!”
“Guess what, darling?”
“Nobody’s here!”
She set him down on the floor. “What’s this? What do you mean?”
“They’ve all gone away! Our cousins and the duke and Mr. Burke. She doesn’t know when they’ll be back, either. Would you like a bite of my panettone?” He held the remainder out to her.
“I . . . No, thank you, dear.” She wiped absently at the crumbs and glanced uneasily about the room. Despite the warmth of the day, a chill seemed to have invaded the air.
“Well, that’s odd,” said Roland. “Jolly odd indeed. But at least we’ll have the old pile to ourselves for a bit, eh what? Like a honeymoon, really, except for Norbert the grasshopper.”
“Will you be sleeping in our room?” Philip stuffed the remaining panettone in his mouth with a notable lack of elegance.
Roland scratched his forehead. “Well, as to that, old boy, there may be some adjustments in order, in the matter of sleeping arrangements. You did have your own room in the palazzo, didn’t you? Because you’re such an awfully big boy now?”
“Roland,” Lilibet said, in a low voice, “may I have a word with you?”
“Oh no,” said Philip. “You’d better watch out, Papa. That’s what she says to me when I’m in trouble.” He turned and trotted back in the direction of Morini’s panettone.
“Now look here, Philip. Leaving the field of battle, are you? There’s a word for that sort of thing in the army, and it isn’t a nice one . . .” He turned from Philip’s disappearing figure and smiled at her. His warm smile, laden with the Penhallow charm, which never failed to settle her world on its proper axis. “What’s wrong, darling?” he asked, taking her hands. “Aren’t you happy to be here?”
All at once her fears slid away. Curses, really! Mere superstition. The others were probably off sightseeing, bored of the summer routine in the remote castle. Didn’t Mr. Burke have some sort of automobile exposition in Rome? Likely they were enjoying themselves too much to leave. Or perhaps they’d gone on to see Pompeii, or Capri.
As for the involvement of the Earl of Copperbridge, it could only be a coincidence, surely. The duke had said nothing about the Castel sant’Agata, in all the time she’d spent with him during the past month.
She brought Roland’s hands to her lips and kissed them. She leaned forward and kissed his lips, warm and dry after the long morning’s ride from the inn, where they’d spent the previous night in the landlord’s best bedroom and taken a midnight stroll through the stables. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Nothing at all. We’re home, that’s all.”
He grinned. “Are we? In that case . . .”
Before she could do more than gasp, he’d bent down and swung her up into his arms and carried her back through the courtyard and out into the brilliant Italian afternoon, where the sun caught his eyes in a hazel glow. “What are you doing?” she demanded, clutching at his shoulders.
He set her on the ground, straightened his cuffs, adjusted his lapels, and picked her up again. “I’m doing this properly, by God,” he said, and carried her over the threshold and into the courtyard, where he placed her on the lichen-crusted edge of the fountain and tossed his hat on the ground.
“Welcome home, Lady Roland,” he said, and kissed her senseless.
* * *
Turn the page to read an excerpt from the next book in the trilogy
A Duke Never Yields
Coming from Berkley Sensation in February 2013!
* * *
London
February 1890
The Duke of Wallingford, as a rule, did not enjoy the sound of the human voice upon waking. Not that of his valet, nor his mistress—he never, ever spent the night with a woman—and certainly not the one that assailed his ears just now.
“Well, well,” said the Duke of Olympia, to the prostrate form of his eldest grandson. “For an instrument that has cut such a wide swathe of consternation, it appears remarkably harmless at present.”
Wallingford did not trouble to open his eyes. For one thing, he had a crashing headache, and the morning light already pierced his brain with sufficient strength, without his giving up the additional protection of his eyelids.
For another thing, he’d be damned if he gave the old man the satisfaction.
“Who the devil let you in?” Wallingford demanded instead.
“Your valet was kind enough to perform the office.”
“I shall sack him at once.”
Olympia’s footsteps clattered in reply along the wooden floor to the opposite end of the room, where he flung back the curtains on the last window. “There we are! A lovely day. Do examine the brilliant white of the winter sun this morning, Wallingford. Too extraordinary to be missed.”
Wallingford dropped an arm over his face. “Rot in hell, Grandfather.”
A sigh. “My dear boy, may I trouble you to consider a dressing robe? I am not accustomed to addressing the unadorned male member at such an early hour of the day. Or any hour of the day, as a matter of habit.”
Arthur Penhallow, Duke of Wallingford, twenty-nine years old and assuredly not a boy, flung his unoccupied arm in the direction of his dressing-room door. “If the sight offends, Grandfather, I recommend you to the wardrobe. The dressing gowns, I believe, are hanging along the right-hand side. I prefer the India cashmere, in wintertime.”
“I must decline your gracious invitation,” said Olympia, “and ring for your valet instead. Have you never considered a nightshirt?”
“When I am sixty-five, and without hope of tender feminine attention upon my withered person, I shall remember the hint.” This was not quite fair. Wallingford knew for a fact that his grandfather’s person, withered or not, currently enjoyed the tender feminine attention of Henrietta, Lady Pembroke herself, who did not choose her lovers for mere whimsy.
On the other hand, the opportunity was too tempting to pass up.
“And yet, Wallingford, your own person exhibits no evidence of feminine attention of any kind.” A delicate pause. “Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Bugger off.”
“What a crude generation my children have spawned. Ah! Shelmerstone. You perceive His Grace stands in need of a dressing gown. In a manner of speaking, I hasten to add.”
Wallingford heard the door close behind his valet and the soft tread of the man’s feet across the thick Oriental rug toward the dressing room. “Shelmerstone,” he said, “once you have dressed and shaved me, you may collect your things and vacate your position. I am not to be disturbed before nine in the morning, and certainly not by so intolerable a character as His Grace, my grandfather.”
“Yes, sir,” said Shelmerstone, who was accustomed to being sacked several times a day, as a matter of course. “I have taken the liberty of putting out the gray superfine, sir, and your best beaver hat.”
“Why the devil? I ain’t contemplating church this morning.”
“I chose it, sir, as being more suitable for calling upon a lady, on a matter of such unprecedented delicacy.”
This caused Wallingford to sit up at last.
“What lady?” he demanded, shading his eyes against the merciless abundance of light. Was it his imagination, or did everything smell of stale champagne this morning? “What . . . delicacy?” He said the word with a shudder of distaste.
“Madame de la Fontaine, of course.” Shelmerstone emerged from the wardrobe’s depths with a dressing gown of fawn brown cashmere and an air of irresistible moral authority, laced with cedar.
“See here.” Wallingford rose from his bed by the sheer force of habit and allowed Shelmerstone to fit his arms into the robe.
Olympia, impeccable as ever in sleek morning tweeds and riding boots, squared his arms behind his back and cast his grandson his most withering smile. Wallingford had loathed that look since childhood: Like an ill wind, it blew no good. “My dear boy, there’s no use pretending ignorance. The entire town knows of last night’s charming little farce. I don’t suppose you’d consider belting that robe? At my age, one’s digestion is so easily upset.”
Wallingford lashed his robe into modesty with vigorous jerks of his arms. “There was no farce, Grandfather. The Duke of Wallingford does not condescend to farces.”
“Shelmerstone,” said the Duke of Olympia, his bright blue eyes not leaving Wallingford’s face for an instant, “may I beg your indulgence for a moment of private conversation with my grandson?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Shelmerstone set down the shaving soap and departed the room without a sound.
Wallingford attempted a smile. “I’m to be scolded, am I?”
His grandfather turned back to the window, fingered aside the curtain, and gazed out into the forest of white pediments that was Belgrave Square. The light fell across his features, softening the lines, until he might have been taken for a man twenty years younger were it not for the shining silver of his hair. “I don’t object to your taking the woman to bed,” he said, in the preternaturally calm voice he reserved for his most predatory moments. “French husbands are tolerant of such things, and as a diplomat, Monsieur de la Fontaine must be aware of the advantages of the liaison. It is why such a man marries an alluring woman.”
