Duke of Sin

by Adele Ashworth

  He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, afraid that she would suddenly notice his own revelation. “But you can never remarry,” he mumbled thickly.

  She laughed as she wiped a lone tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Remarry? What on earth would make you think I’d want to?”

  He tried not to let that irk him. “Maybe for love?”

  She faced him directly, hugging herself again with her arms crossed over her breasts, chin lifted and eyes shining with a mixture of determination and outright sorrow. “Just as nobody gets divorced, nobody marries just for love, Will,” she returned softly. “It’s an illusive thing, with or without the legal documents.”

  He felt like crawling out of his skin. Remarkably, on the outside, he remained composed. “Have you never been in love?” he asked quietly.

  She took a staggered step back, then lowered her gaze to the floor and shook her head. “I can’t discuss this now,” she said, lifting a palm to her throat.

  “Can’t discuss it? Why?”

  “Please,” she begged in whisper. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t make this harder, Will.”

  God, she frustrated him! Raking his fingers harshly through his hair, he turned his back on her to stare out the window again, seeing nothing. She couldn’t marry even if she wanted to, wouldn’t divulge her innermost feelings to him. They were at a standstill.

  For several long minutes silence reigned in the pink, flower-filled parlor. Then at last he heard the rustle of her skirts and realized she’d sat on the settee again.

  “Tell me one thing more,” he said without looking at her.

  Seconds later, she replied, “If I can.”

  He considered his words, choosing them with care. “You said he married you for your name and money, and yet he is a French aristocrat, thereby surely possessing his own. What, then, did you mean by that?”

  She took so long to answer, remained so quiet, he finally had to turn to see if she was still in the room, still breathing. But as his eyes fell upon her lovely form, in her teal gown of costly silk and hand-stitched lace, her composed manner even in the midst of heart-rending discord, her regal posture, dignity, and elegant beauty, he very nearly smiled as a shudder of incredulity passed through him.

  “Who are you, really?” he asked, his gentle tone of concern imploring her to reveal what she’d been so long trying to hide from everyone.

  Without moving a muscle, without taking her eyes off the ceramic pot filled to the brim with dried daisies in front of her, she breathed, “I am formerly of Northumberland, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Werrick.”

  And that’s when Will grasped it all. “Lady Vivian,” he stated through a softly spoken sigh.

  She closed her eyes. “Always…”

  It had to be the most appalling thing, Will surmised, to pretend for years to be something you are not, or in Vivian’s case, a member of the nobility and unable to shine as one of them. The cold darkness of Northumberland was far removed from the sun and flowers of Cornwall, yet her entire life had paralleled his in almost every other way. She had been raised as he had, educated by the finest tutors, given every opportunity to advance socially, likely spoiled with riches, and married to the best. Only in her case, the best had turned out to be her worst nightmare. Just as his had.

  “Why are you living here?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, hoping his own confused emotions would remain in check and unobserved.

  After a moment of thought, she lifted her face and opened her eyes heavenward. “You of all people should understand how it feels to be shunned, to be turned away by one’s peers.”

  That cut him deeply, but he stayed silent.

  She swallowed with considerable effort, her forehead creasing from an inner pain.

  “I have two sisters, Will, and no brothers. As the oldest, I was expected to be the one to achieve excellence first, to set a good example, and indeed, my father arranged a magnificent marriage for me to Lord Stanley Maitland, Viscount Shereport. Unfortunately for my father, I didn’t much care for aged, widowed Lord Stanley and all four of his children, even if his property did border Werrick and would eventually become part of our family’s estate.” She lowered her head and stared at her hands as she wrung them tightly in her lap.

  “I met Leopold at a masked ball several months before my wedding and quickly became enamored of him. He was French, true, but he was also exotic, handsome, and charming to a fault.” She snickered bitterly, shaking her head. “You asked me if I’ve ever been in love? Well, I was in love once, Will, with Leopold Rael-Lamont, and he in turn loved my dowry and everything he could buy with it, including trips to Nice with hired ladies, very fine wine, expensive suits, and of course his opium, always that. I was deceived by an expert, and the hardest thing of all was admitting to my father in the end that he had been right. I should have married Lord Stanley. I may not have been loved, but I would have been needed. With Leopold, I wasn’t even needed.”

  Her voice had started to tremble when she finished her divulgence of past mistakes and difficult memories. Will absorbed every word of it, both fascinated and intensely moved, wondering at the strength of the human spirit that above all else must be free and must feel worth. Vivian had found that freedom, that self-worth, by leaving a husband who deserted her on their wedding night. But at what cost?

  “I think you are very brave,” he whispered huskily, wanting to embrace her but holding back because he instinctively knew she’d dismiss it as coddling. She was not, and never would be, a woman to be coddled.

  Recovering herself, she straightened and offered him a faint smile. “You’re kind to think so, but I’m probably just the opposite, your grace.”

  He began to stride in her direction, though he stopped as he reached the chair across from her, placing his palms flat on the high back.

  “I suppose that in the end, your father did not approve of the separation, either.”

  Gracefully, she stood to eye him at his level. “I think you know that he wouldn’t have, Will,” she said softly.

  “And that’s why you chose to live in Penzance, far away from home.”

  She hesitated, then amended, “Far away from disgracing my family. I have two sisters. They’ve made good marriages, but scandal would cost them. I’ve chosen to live out my life here in Cornwall, the relatively wealthy widow of Mr. Rael-Lamont, while my family lives in Northumberland, claiming I’m in good aristocratic company living with my husband’s family on the Continent.”

  “And your husband?” he had to ask, even as the question left a knot of coiled tension in his chest.

  She clasped her hands behind her back. “I paid him handsomely to sign the separation agreement. I haven’t heard from him in more than ten years, though it’s been rumored that he’s enjoying my funding in the sunny south of France.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “Were you the one to come up with this arrangement, or did someone else?”

  “I did.”

  “And you both win.”

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he repeated.

  She raised her chin a bit higher. “I do still communicate with my sisters, but only by post. I enjoy my freedom here, Will, my social position and business, for which I’ve worked so diligently all these years, and I suspect I’d do just about anything to preserve them.”

  Suddenly, with those carefully guarded words, the initial reason they were brought together in the first place came crashing back into the solemn interlude they’d just shared.

  After a brief moment of studying her, Will stepped around the chair and moved toward her. She didn’t back away this time, but remained resolute in bearing, steady in her stance.

  When he stood inches from her, he gazed down to her beautiful face, noting the determination etched into her features. Placing his palms on her cheeks, he held her, watching her, until he felt her shiver.

  “I will forever guard your secret,
Vivian.”

  She lowered her lashes, then once each, he kissed her eyes.

  “Will…”

  He faintly pressed his lips to hers, held them there for several long seconds, then released her.

  Damn.

  “The forgery is in the envelope,” he said softly against her forehead. “What time is the meeting?”

  She raised her hands and placed her palms flat on his chest. “Seven o’clock this evening, at a pub behind the theater on Canal Street.”

  He frowned. “The Jolly Knights.”

  She backed up a bit. “You know of it?”

  “Yes,” he answered without explanation, then added, “He’s chosen wisely in meeting at a public place.”

  She nodded, reassuring him. “There will be others nearby. I shouldn’t have to be alone with him at all, at any time.”

  Will wasn’t altogether certain she could know that, but he would be taking precautions, something he chose not to mention to her.

  He drew in an unsteady breath. “I’ll be watching; my investigator and his men will be watching.” Pulling back, he cupped her chin and jaw in his large hand. “Most importantly, you watch yourself. I don’t want to lose you now. I have no other florists.”

  She looked into his eyes a final time, managing a half-grin, though her gaze conveyed a trepidation that made his heart melt. Always together, forever to be apart. In a husky whisper, he assured her, “I’m not going anywhere, Lady Vivian.”

  Her gaze softened with tenderness. “Thank you— for everything.”

  He smiled reassuringly, gently squeezed her chin. With a parting, soft touch of his lips to hers, he turned and walked out of her parlor.

  Chapter 17

  Will remained standing on her porch for several long moments, hands shoved into his pockets as he stared out at the beginnings of a light rain that tapped the thick stone slabs of her walkway to the street, distorting the beauty of her small front garden like the blur of a watercolor painting. It all seemed so clean and peaceful. Such an illusion, he thought bitterly, feeling his mood darken by the second, his emotions churn in turmoil, an unsuppressed anger at himself rising to the surface.

  Why the hell was he more concerned about her feelings for him, for their unusual and seemingly hopeless relationship, than he was for her overall safety? And yet as he considered it rationally, that wasn’t the case at all. He didn’t think he’d ever been so worried about another human being, and it had been years since he’d felt so helpless to alter a situation. Perhaps the truth existed in the one overlapping the other—her longings to persevere mixed with his longings to have her; his desire to protect her as they both knew he had no legal right to do; their mutual attraction that would likely never go away, even as they continued to live in the same community day by day, year by year.

  Will rubbed his aching eyes, wishing he’d brought an umbrella, then deciding he didn’t care at all if he got wet. He would be drenched anyway if he stuck to his plans, and stick to them he would. Vivian would be meeting Montague in less than two hours. What she didn’t know, what even his investigator didn’t know, was that he refused to be a pawn, to sit at home and wait for news as Hastings had suggested, had even insisted. He would be there for her, protecting her at all costs. Nothing else mattered. He and his friends, Samson Carlisle and Colin Ramsey, would insure both her safety and the arrest of the actor. Ultimately, he trusted no one else.

  Will took a long look at the darkening sky. Then, posture erect with purpose, he ventured out into the steady drizzle at last, unconcerned about the worsening weather. Even as water sprayed his face and clothes, he felt nothing but a cold dampness deep inside, a foreboding unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

  The final act in their sordid play was about to begin.

  She despised doing nothing. How could she do nothing while she waited to become dinner for a fox? In little more than an hour she would need to enter a public pub that no doubt smelted of day-old sweat, spilled ale, and sour meat. She’d only been in such a vile place like that once before, looking for her husband and finding him in an upstairs, closet-sized, windowless room with a half-dressed whore, who was smoking his opium with him. He’d gone in search of a life ‘Vivian couldn’t provide him, and now she was here, nearly full circle, trying to save hers. If it weren’t so absurd, it would likely be entertaining.

  After several minutes of wringing her hands in contemplation of the grossly despicable things she was about to endure, Vivian began to pace the floor of her parlor, listening to the rain patter against the roof, feeling restless as she lingered alone, enclosed in her tiny, suddenly stuffy home. Remembering the envelope with the forgery, she glanced down to the tea table and felt an instant desire to see the craftsmanship inside.

  Quickly, she reached for it, lifted the flap, and with great care, pulled out the aged document just far enough to note the signature near the bottom.

  Marvelous, she thought in awe, gazing down at a remarkable copy. She almost smiled as she pondered the contacts the Duke of Trent must have to know someone with such talent he could create a work like this. True, she’d only seen the original once, but from her recollection, this one was a nearly flawless duplicate.

  “Forgive the intrusion Mrs. Rael-Lamont, but a gentleman is here to see you.”

  Vivian whirled around to face her housekeeper, clutching the envelope and manuscript against her bosom instinctively.

  Harriet stood in the doorway, looking rather sheepish and pink-cheeked. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, but he said it was important that he see you today.”

  Recovering herself, Vivian straightened and gingerly returned the forged document to the envelope. “Who is he?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “A gentleman from Truro,” Harriet answered without hesitation. “He wants to purchase some orchids to give to his wife on their wedding anniversary. Lucky woman. Handsome, too, he is. I invited him in but he was dripping from rain and didn’t want to muddy up the floors. Kind of him, actually.”

  Vivian felt a supreme annoyance set in. Her housekeeper was all business, as if there were nothing else going on in her life worth a moment of worry. She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her palm across her forehead. “Why today…”

  “I know it’s sudden,” Harriet said, her voice lowered a fraction as she became a trifle disconcerted, “but it is orchids he’s after, and he came all the way here just to look at yours.”

  Her prized orchids. She could use the sale and her housekeeper well knew it. If she refused to see him, Harriet would become suspicious, even troubled. She had no choice but to show the man her wares and get rid of him quickly.

  Sighing, she set the envelope back on the tea table and smoothed a few loose strands of hair off her cheeks with her palms. “Of course I’ll see him. Did he leave a card?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Harriet reached out, a small silver tray in her hand.

  Vivian glanced at the fine print: Mr. G. Herman, Esquire.

  She had never heard of him. Then again, he’d said he was from Truro.

  “If anyone else calls, I am not at home, Harriet.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shoulders straight, Vivian lifted her skirts, sidestepped her housekeeper, and left the parlor for the nursery.

  She didn’t see him immediately as she walked out the back door and into her plush work area. The eaves and overgrown ivy protected the tables of greenery in the small enclosure from direct hit by rain, yet a sprinkling remained and the noise from splattering on the roof was nearly deafening.

  “Such an ugly day, isn’t it Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  She froze on the spot, her back to him as he apparently stood behind the archway to her left, unseen from the house.

  “I thought perhaps this would be a more… comfortable place to meet,” he added lightly.

  Garnering strength even as fear gripped and then encased her, she turned to look at Gilbert Montague, her mouth opening in surprise at his gen
tlemanly appearance. Now clean shaven, hair cut short, he wore a suit of deep gray and a stylish great coat to match—clothes of impeccable quality. No wonder Harriet hadn’t recognized him.

  “Wh—What are you doing here?” she managed to mumble, her voice low and trembling.

  He smiled. “I’ve come for you.”

  She instinctively took a step away from him, venturing out into the rain where droplets struck her face and hair.

  “Get out,” she seethed, “before I scream.”

  Slowly, and with an icy coldness, he replied, “You scream and I’ll break your creamy, delicate neck.”

  Bile rose in her throat; her legs began to shake, making her suddenly fear she might fall. “What about the manuscript?” It was all she could think of to say.

  He chuckled, though his eyes remained steely hard as they stayed locked with hers. “Come, Vivian, are you so naive that you have no idea what this scheme is really about?”

  Confused, and feeling more frightened by the second, she backed up even more, her body growing chilled as rainwater started to saturate her gown.

  He began to walk toward her, so slowly she almost didn’t notice his encroachment.

  Trying to feign composure, to react with defiance, she raised her chin a fraction and said, “I have no idea what you think this is about, Mr. Montague, but I have done my best to comply with your wishes. I simply want the copy of my separation agreement that you have in your possession returned to me. After that, I hope never to lay eyes on you again.”