The Earl Takes All

by Lorraine Heath

  “No,” she rasped. “No. He can’t be gone. He can’t.”

  But he was. Forever and always.

  Edward settled his coat over her. “You can’t stay out here. You’re soaked to the bone; you’ll catch your death. You must think of Allie.” Gently, he slid his arms beneath her, hefted her against his chest and struggled to his feet.

  “I hate you,” she said, her scratchy voice filled with the pain of loss and betrayal.

  “I know.” But no more than he hated himself.

  The rain pelted him as he fought to shield her from the frigid wind and rain, knowing his coat could only offer so much protection. She was shivering from the cold, the damp, the grief. Why hadn’t he told her sooner? Why had he thought he could live a lie for the next fifty years?

  In her bedchamber, he came up short at the sight of Torrie standing by the bed, rubbing her hands together. “I saw her ladyship running out of the manor, you after her. I thought I might be needed when you returned.”

  One did not explain oneself to servants. Therefore, after giving Torrie little more than a nod of acknowledgment, he set Julia on the sofa, crouched before the fireplace, stirred the embers, added a log. As the fire took hold, he shoved himself to his feet, looked at her. She was shivering, pale, her gaze focused on the fire.

  “I need a hot bath,” Julia stated flatly.

  “Yes, m’lady,” Torrie said.

  “And change the bedding. It reeks of the earl.”

  The maid’s gaze jumped to him. He knew she was wondering how best to respond to her ladyship’s request without insulting his lordship and losing her position in the household. She settled for a quick bob of her head, a curtsy, and a dash from the room.

  He knelt on one knee. He wanted to hold her, offer comfort as she had for him, but he knew she wouldn’t welcome his touch, his words, his solace. “Julia, I beg of you to say nothing to the servants until we determine how best to handle this situation.”

  Her sorrow-­filled eyes remained focused on the fire. “Get out.”

  For the servants, it mattered only that they served the earl. It didn’t matter who the earl was: Albert or Edward. For them there would be no transition. Everything would remain the same. The earl is dead. Long live the earl.

  “Julia—­”

  Slowly, she shifted her gaze to him. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen so much hatred. “Lady Greyling. Get. Out.”

  She was filled with too much grief to fully understand all the ramifications, but he had to trust that she wouldn’t say anything. And if she did, then he would have to deal with it. He pushed to his feet. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  He walked out, knowing that things between them would never again be the same.

  She waited until she heard the door close in his wake, then curled into a ball on the sofa and let the tears flow. Albert was dead. Dear, sweet, wonderful Albert was dead. Gone. And she hadn’t known.

  Her chest ached, her throat knotted. How could he be gone? How could she have not known?

  Albert was dead.

  Absent from her life for more than six months in total, two during which she had laughed and teased and desired the man who had pretended to be her husband. A forgery. An imitation. A counterfeit.

  But my word he had been a good and clever one.

  That more than anything she could not forgive. These past weeks her love had grown deeper, she had been happier than she’d ever been. And it had all been false.

  What made it so truly awful was that she wanted him here now, holding her, consoling her, promising her that everything would be all right. She’d believed him when the labor pains had begun too soon. She’d trusted him.

  Edward. How could she have been such a fool? So blind. How could she have not seen?

  He drank scotch but not to excess. She hadn’t actually seen him drunk, although she suspected he had been the night Allie—­

  Alberta. Named for her father. He had insisted. What had he said?

  We’ll not name the Greyling heir after such a selfish bastard. He’s to be named after his father, as he should be.

  Selfish bastard. He’d been talking about himself.

  It made so much sense now. How deeply he’d mourned, the guilt he must have felt because he was the one who insisted Albert travel with him. All the times he had referred to himself as her husband or the earl when she asked him a question.

  We can’t have you doubting your husband’s devotion to you.

  I promise you, Julia, your husband could not be more pleased. She looks just like you. What father would find fault with that?

  She had thought it odd but had only once questioned it.

  She buried her face in her hands. All the times she had made the advances, all the naughty things she’d whispered, thinking that he couldn’t hear them. Oh, the bastard. How would she ever look him in the eye again?

  Lowering her hands, she knew she would do it with all the hatred and indignant fury that coursed through her at his betrayal. She would never forgive him for this. For making sport of her, for taking advantage of the situation.

  She would find a way to make him pay, to make him suffer. He was worried about her telling the servants?

  She intended to tell the whole of London.

  Don’t let her lose the babe.

  Be me. Be me. Take care of her.

  Take her to Switzerland.

  His brother’s dying words. Odd at the end. As though taking his wife on holiday was of prime importance. Maybe he regretted never taking her. It was a beautiful country.

  On bended knee, Edward knelt before Albert’s vault. It had been three days since Julia learned the truth, and he had yet to speak with her. She took her meals in her bedchamber. He wasn’t certain she ever left the room. Twice he had gone into it, only to have her turn her back on him and demand that he leave.

  The servants knew something was amiss, as he’d moved into the other wing. He couldn’t be certain she wouldn’t run a poker through him in the dead of night. Although he couldn’t deny that he deserved it, and worse.

  “I mucked things up, Albert. Stupendously. And stupidly.”

  He should have told her right after Christmas. No, right after Allie was born. Better yet, when he arrived at Evermore. She was stronger than Albert gave her credit for. Yes, she had lost three babes, but he believed that was nature’s folly. Nothing Julia could have done, nothing any of them could have done, to change that. She would have grieved over Albert’s death, yes, but not in a way that would have endangered her child. She would have seen to it. She was smart and wise and . . . blistering mad at him.

  Hearing the groan of the door opening, he looked over to see her standing in the doorway, dressed the part of a grieving widow. Black gown, black gloves, black hat, black veil, black cloak.

  But even through the black gossamer, he could feel her hard-­edged glare. He was surprised he didn’t ignite into a ball of flames. Slowly, he came to his feet, walked quietly toward the door. She stepped aside when he neared, as though he were a leper.

  He stopped. Considered. “When you return to the residence, come to the library. We need to talk.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “That may be, but we must consider how best to move forward, how to protect your reputation and do what is best for Allie.”

  “Lady Alberta.”

  Dear God, she wasn’t going to make this easy, was she? Not that he blamed her. “Lady Greyling, you and I have been living as husband and wife for well over two months. We must coordinate our story. I’ll be awaiting your arrival in the library.”

  He could feel her hatred burning a hole in his back as he strode out. He had to make her understand—­at least what had prompted his ruse in the beginning. Why he hadn’t ended it before the situation went too far was another matter. He didn�
�t expect forgiveness there. He wasn’t even going to ask for it.

  Julia waited until the door slammed in Edward’s wake to kneel before the vault, press her forehead to the cool marble. The closest she could get to her husband. God, it hurt.

  Her heart, her soul, her body. The pain was nearly unbearable.

  “Why did you have to die?” she whispered. “Why? Oh, Albert, I miss you something terrible. When I think about how long you’ve actually been gone, I feel cheated. There’s this chasm that I can’t seem to cross. This looming abyss. Why do I think it would have been easier to deal with if I’d known sooner?

  “I’ve been a widow for more than four months. I wasn’t even wearing black any longer.”

  She understood so much now. Understood why the man she’d believed was her husband had come here the night Alberta was born.

  “I know he told you about your daughter, but it should have been me who told you. I hate him for that. I hate him for everything. I know I tell you this every time I come here, but it’s eating at me. You cannot possibly imagine how much I miss you.”

  Shaking her head, she flattened her hand against the marble. “I just want to hold you one more time. Want you to hold me. Want you to tell me what to do, how to go on.”

  The grief was devastating, but Edward’s betrayal made it all the worse. She didn’t know how she would survive it all, but survive it she would.

  Because only survival ensured the possibility of retribution.

  Sitting at his desk, Edward began to scribble out a strategy for how best to handle explaining this unconscionable situation to the nobility. That was the key, the core problem. It required a delicate balance. He would express his contrition for the deception, but he could not be too contrite. After all, his actions had come about at the behest of his brother. He would reassure them that nothing untoward had transpired, that because of her delicate condition, their relationship has been chaste. He didn’t think it would be difficult to convince anyone of that possibility. He’d never made a secret of the fact that he could barely tolerate his sister-­by-­marriage. She’d never pretended to find him anything other than obnoxious. That common knowledge could now be used for the good, to save her reputation, her standing within Society.

  Leaning back in his chair, he realized that he might very well come out of this a hero. Ladies would fawn over a gent who had been so considerate as to spend his time in the company of a woman he couldn’t tolerate. He would be applauded for his unselfishness, for his caring, for his devotion to his brother and his sister-­by-­marriage. Ladies would find him gallant, sing his praises, arrange trysts in dark gardens to sample the flavor of his kiss. He would gain more attention that he had ever dreamed.

  Yet he wanted none of it.

  As Julia marched through the doorway, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her face set in unforgiving lines, he knew that she would never view him as a hero. She would never see him as anything other than a sly weasel who played unkind tricks.

  Straightening, he got up from his chair, prepared to face the tigress. “Would you mind closing the door?”

  She stood unmoving.

  Right. She wasn’t of a mind to make any allowances or do him any favors. Already this discussion did not bode well for a favorable ending. He strode toward the threshold, walked past her and shut the door. What they had to say to each other needed to be said without servants overhearing anything. Earlier he’d sent the footman who usually saw to the opening and closing of doors on his way. Edward swung around.

  “Why?” she demanded, firing the first volley of what was bound to be a combative exchange. “Why did you do it?”

  “Albert asked me to.”

  “He asked you to deceive me?”

  “He asked me to ensure that you did not lose the babe. ‘Be me,’ he said. ‘Take care of her.’ He feared, as did I, that the grief over his death would cause you to miscarry. So I pretended to be him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  And he had no way to convince her except with words. “Why would I do this if not for his asking? Why would I pretend all these weeks to be Albert?”

  “Because you feared I was carrying a son. You wanted the title, the estates, the power, the prestige. That’s the reason you weren’t disappointed I gave birth to a girl.”

  “I did not want the title.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “And then to carry on with the farce. There can be only one reason for that: to humiliate me, to make sport of me, to gain what you’d been denied in the garden, to make me pay for that slap.”

  “You think me that petty? To take advantage of my brother’s death in such a vile manner?”

  “What else am I to think when you had ample opportunity to tell me, and yet you carried on with the pretense. The things I said to you, the things I did to you. Oh, you must have had a jolly good laugh.”

  She wasn’t listening, wasn’t hearing what he was saying. “I swear to you, Julia, I laughed during none of this.”

  She placed her hand over her mouth. “The things you did to me. How could you?”

  “I was trying to mimic your husband. I could see no good coming from turning you away. I feared you becoming melancholy, causing the very outcome I was trying to prevent.”

  She pounded her fist into his shoulder, nearly causing him to stumble back. In righteous anger, she possessed quite the wallop.

  “What rot! You enjoyed it. You enjoyed deceiving me.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve always been jealous of Albert. You wanted the title. If I gave birth to a boy, you would never have it, so you took preemptive measures to ensure your position.”

  “No. It’s as I said. Albert asked—­”

  “Liar. It was your plan all along to take everything. His title, his estates, even his wife, his child—­”

  “No! I never planned to take any of it. It was my intent to tell you everything as soon as the babe was born.”

  “As soon as the babe was born? It’s been six weeks! What the devil were you waiting for?”

  “To fall out of love with you.”

  Chapter 15

  Reeling from his declaration, Julia took a staggering step back and gawked in disbelief at Edward. She expected him to burst out laughing any minute now, but he remained solemn, stoic. He had to be striving to trick her, to gain sympathy or forgiveness or something nefarious that she couldn’t identify. “But you’ve never even liked me.”

  “Dear God, if only that were true.”

  Striving to make sense of him, she continued to stare as he walked past her to the sideboard, poured scotch into a glass, brandy into another, and held the one containing brandy toward her. Another way in which the brothers were so vastly different. Albert never would have offered her spirits. Why had she thought a journey to Africa would change his basic philosophies?

  But she couldn’t take it, couldn’t seem to force her feet to move. Nothing was making any sense.

  Setting her glass aside, he carried his to the window and gazed out. “It’s very important that Allie—­Lady Alberta—­grow up here,” he said quietly.

  She blinked, trying to focus on the words he’d uttered. She’d expected him to elaborate on his earlier comment, needed him to explain himself. He’d made her feel a fool that night in the garden. Was he striving to do the same now?

  “That experience was denied to Albert and myself. He would never forgive me if it were denied to her. I’ve moved into the other wing. God knows the residence is spacious enough that we could go years without catching sight of each other. I will, of course, spend as much time as possible at the other estates or in London so you are not burdened by my presence.”

  An hour ago, five minutes ago, she would have expected him to say, So I am not burdened by your presence. But he claimed to love her.

  Reluctantly, s
he moved closer, stood far enough away that she couldn’t inhale his familiar bergamot scent but near enough that she could see every tiny line that had been carved by the weight of his burdens into his face. “You hardly ever spoke to me.”

  He closed his eyes. “Julia—­”

  “If I walked into the room, you walked out.”

  He bowed his head, clenched his jaw.

  “You never had a kind word for me. Although to be fair, neither did you have an unkind one. It’s just that they were all rather . . . dutiful-­sounding, as though dragged out of you because they were expected.”

  “It was easier that way.” Turning, he pushed back against the edge of the window as though he needed something sharp biting into him. He pressed the flat of one foot to the wall, his knee bent slightly. He was a picture of raw masculinity, and she hated herself for noticing. “It was easier if you looked at me with loathing, because what manner of man would desire a woman whose eyes flashed with disgust whenever she saw him? And when that wasn’t enough, I drank and drank and drank to dull the yearning, to make myself obnoxious so my brother’s wife would not welcome me into their residence, because God forbid Albert ever realized the hunger I felt for the woman he loved, the one he had married.”

  That long? He’d carried feelings toward her for that long? How had she not known? How had Albert not guessed? She pressed her back to the casement, needing the support as her knees threatened to give out at the unexpectedness of his revelation. It hardly seemed real. “When did you begin to feel this way?”

  He lifted his glass, downed what remained of his scotch, and shifted his gaze back out the window. He squinted. “Oh, it was lurking about for a while. That night in the garden sealed it. I thought, ‘You’re only interested because she’s forbidden. Kiss her, have your taste, and be done with her.’ Instead that blasted kiss only made me want you all the more.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and rasped, “That night in the garden I thought you were Albert.”