The Sweetest Sin

by Kelly Boyce

  Ruth’s death, regardless of how it had come about, had left Alex saddled with the responsibility of raising another man’s child as if she were his own and living the lie that Ruth had taken her own life. A lie he’d believed initially when her body had been found in the lake, weighted down with rocks in her pocket. It wasn’t until later when he was blackmailed by a mutual acquaintance that he learned the truth. A truth he’d paid dearly to keep quiet, to avoid the scandal which would have damaged his family name, dragged Ruth’s memory through the mud and ruined Lady Margaret’s future prospects before she was even old enough to enter Society.

  Not that the belief Ruth had committed suicide was a much better story, but the tale was far less sordid than the truth and it kept Lady Margaret’s parentage free from being scrutinized and questioned. Alex claimed Ruth had suffered melancholy after the birth of the child, never having truly recovered from the death of Edward. Then he buried her next to their son, and with her the secret of her death.

  Bit by bit, over the years that followed, Alex had dragged himself out of the depression he’d fallen into, but the part of him that felt strongly, or loved passionately, the part that engaged his heart in any way, that part remained out of reach. He walked through life the way a blindfolded man walked through the forest, sensing things were all around him, but never quite grasping their full potency. The colors of his world remained muted. Stifled. Inaccessible.

  Until he’d come up against Lady Henrietta.

  Another swallow emptied the glass. He didn’t hesitate to pour another.

  Alex stared at the brandy then pushed it away with a frustrated sigh, caring little when the amber liquid sloshed over the edge of the snifter and landed on the mahogany bar. He turned away and walked to the window, staring sightlessly out to the street below.

  Perhaps he should have let Ruth’s parents take the child. God only knew he had no idea what to do with her, as evidenced by her increasingly worrisome behavior. A part of him feared she had inherited the late Lord Hawksmoor’s madness. What would he do if such were true? Would he have her committed to Bedlam?

  Yet, here was Lady Henrietta, claiming all Lady Margaret wanted was his attention. Well, he was not in the business of doling out affection. What did he know about little girls and what they needed or why? Besides, he was not the one who had made this mess. It had been dropped at his doorstep much in the same way Lady Henrietta’s blame for the girl’s behavior had been.

  Was he to blame?

  The truth of the matter was, he did not know what to do with the girl. She was not his. She was born out of lies and betrayal and sired by a lunatic. At least she was born a girl. Had she been a boy, the matter would have been far more disturbing. He could not have allowed an imposter to inherit the duchy. And he sure as hell would not have allowed the son of a murdering bastard to do so.

  His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand deep enough for the pain to register. Alex took in a deep breath. There was no point in dwelling on might-have-beens. He had done enough of that upon Edward’s death and it changed nothing. His son was still dead. His wife had still betrayed him and Lady Margaret had still been thrust into a world not of her making.

  “Well, well. I see the prodigal son has returned. Shall we ring the bells in your honor? Fly a banner perhaps?”

  Alex’s shoulders stiffened at the stringent sound of his half sister’s voice. He had hoped to avoid her as much as possible during his stay in London, save for insisting she alter her behavior where Lady Henrietta was concerned. Susan may be family, but he could not abide her presence and saw no reason to spend time within it. She filled every room she entered with a poisonous air.

  “You may ring or fly whatever you choose to, Susan,” Alex said, turning to face her. Her appearance had not improved since their last meeting a year previous. If anything, the pinched expression around her mouth and her nose wrinkled in constant derision were even more pronounced. The bright marigold shade of her dress did little to enhance the sallowness of her skin, as if the venom she so often spewed had begun to poison its host.

  Was it any wonder no man had offered for her yet? Not even being affiliated with the St. John family and a dowry large enough to buy a king could entice a man to make her his wife. It was a sad state of affairs.

  “I understand you wished a word with me, though I can’t imagine we have anything to say to each other.” Her gaze drifted to the drink he had left sitting on the bar and one dark eyebrow lifted in disdain.

  “Then I shall keep this conversation short to lessen the unpleasantness of us having to associate with each other.” He stepped away from the window and approached her. “I understand you have set your mind to making Lady Henrietta Harrow’s Season most…uncomfortable.”

  Susan’s gaze met his and in it he noted no sense of repentance. “I believe it is her hideous scars that make her uncomfortable, not me.”

  Alex’s anger shot up a notch. How had his father, a man of kindness and integrity, sired such a monster as this? “You are the one going out of your way to draw attention to her scars.”

  “Oh la!” Susan waved an arm and walked around him to the window. “One does not have to draw attention to them. They are plastered all along her neck. And wearing that ridiculous hairstyle in an effort to cover them is the height of stupidity. It does nothing more than draw attention to the fact she wishes to hide them. I can hardly be blamed if others see this as clearly as I do.”

  Fury boiled in Alex’s chest and he took a deep breath to keep it at a simmer. “But you can be blamed for speaking it aloud and humiliating her in the process. This behavior will stop immediately. Going forward, you will be nothing but the soul of kindness toward Lady Henrietta and if you cannot do that then you will avoid her completely. Do I make myself clear?”

  Susan barked out a laugh and turned to face him. “Do you think to order me about? Obviously you have me mistaken with one of your servants. I owe you no obedience.”

  “I am the future Duke of Franklyn and Father will not be around forever.” Given the change in his father over the past year, just saying the words made his stomach roil, but he swallowed the sick feeling down and continued on. “If you hope to have any affiliation with this family, to reap any reward from it, you will do as I say or so help me God I will have you cut off and sent to a nunnery in some remote area where no one has ever heard of you or cares about your family or who you once were.”

  Susan paled briefly then red flared in her cheeks and her expression turned malicious. “Do you think to threaten me?”

  “It is not a threat, I assure you. I will make it so.”

  “You can do nothing to me after I marry.”

  “One word from me and no one will even consider you. You will remain firmly on the shelf until I inherit the duchy and then your fate will be sealed.”

  Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I would and I will.”

  “What do you care about Lady Henrietta anyway? She is nothing. She should have stayed at their country estate. That she ventured back into Society makes her fodder for the gristmill like everyone else. Not even your protection can prevent that.”

  “But I can prevent you from fanning the flames.” He winced slightly at his choice of words. He did not care to think about fire in relation to Lady Henrietta. Doing so only brought back the image of her clinging to life in the months following the fire that left her orphaned and changed the trajectory of her life forever.

  Susan took a step toward him. “Can you, brother dear? How confident you are in this regard, but I wonder if you have stopped to consider how vulnerable you make yourself by issuing such threats to me?”

  Ice pooled at the base of Alex’s spine and slowly crept upward, freezing everything in its path. “Explain yourself.”

  Susan shrugged and walked around him toward the hearth, her hand slowly dragging along the top of one of the wingback chairs that faced the low-burning fire. “Forgive me, Alexander, but I
find it amusing that you think yourself above the gossip. I mean, especially after how your wife died.” Susan glanced over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised.

  Alex fisted his hands at his side to prevent him from wrapping them around Susan’s narrow neck cutting off her cruel speculation. “Ruth’s death was a tragic affair and I see nothing in it worth gossiping about seven years after the fact.”

  Susan laughed, a sound that held no mirth. She spun on her heel to face him one again, keeping the chair between them. “Funny you should mention affair, don’t you think?”

  Bile burned up his throat. What did Susan know? And how the hell did she know it? He had taken great pains to keep what Ruth had done a private matter. Surely neither Father nor Laura would have shared the information with her. They loved Lady Margaret and were determined to protect her.

  “I do not respond to innuendo if that is your intention.”

  Susan smiled and Alex could not help but think of a venomous snake about to strike. “Oh, it is not innuendo, dear brother. I am well aware your lovely wife was having an affair. And I am also quite adept at my numbers. Given the amount of time you stayed holed up in Breckenridge while Ruth was in London, well, it does not take a mathematical genius to determine the girl you pass off as your daughter is nothing of the sort.”

  Alex’s nails cut into his palm deep enough to draw blood. He walked a fine edge and at any moment he would slip off, though which side of the blade he landed on was anyone’s guess.

  “So you see, Lord Rothbury,” Susan said, throwing his courtesy title at him like an insult. “Unless you wish everyone to know the truth of Lady Margaret’s parentage, I would suggest you treat me with a little more kindness.”

  He would kill her. Truly, he was surprised anyone hadn’t up to this point. How could so much vileness live in someone so thin and insignificant? What had made her such a hateful individual? Was it something she was born to? Even Laura, at her worst, had never been this awful. This evil.

  “Lady Margaret is your niece.”

  Susan scoffed. “She is nothing to me. Certainly not blood. And should you continue on with your threats, I will ensure every last member of the ton knows it. She will be ruined forever.”

  “If you do anything to harm Lady Margaret, I will end you.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort. And honestly, Alexander, I cannot imagine Lady Henrietta is of such importance to you that you would sacrifice a child to hold my tongue. After all, I am not saying anything about Lady Henrietta that everyone else isn’t thinking. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Lindwells are throwing yet another one of their ridiculous balls and Mother insists I attend.”

  Alex watched Susan’s back as she left the room enveloped in the safety of her threats. How he detested her. How he loathed how powerless her threats left him. No, not threats. He knew his sister well enough to know she would not hesitate to follow through, then stand back and bask in the destruction she created. The only ace he held up his sleeve was that eventually, he would be the head of the family and her future would be in his hands. Given what she knew, it allowed him no power, but it did create a truce. So long as she kept her mouth shut, her future would be secure. And as long as he did not force her into doing what she did not want to do, Margaret’s future would not be destroyed.

  It was like gambling with the Devil.

  If Alex wished to protect Lady Henrietta from Susan’s taunts and humiliations and still keep Lady Margaret from ruin, he was left with only one option. He must be the one to create a barrier between her and his sister and hope it would not set Susan off by his doing so.

  He strode from the room and took the steps two at a time, not stopping until he reached his bedchamber. He rang for his valet then paced the room until the man arrived a few moments later.

  “Yes, my lord? Will you be going out this evening?”

  “Indeed, Brantford. I will be attending the Lindwells’ ball.”

  * * *

  Another ball. How many was this? She’d lost count, but whatever the number, it was too many in Hen’s estimation. Unfortunately, Lord Walkerton insisted on a courtship to make things appear proper, and so she had little choice but to give him what he wanted.

  “A small price to pay, I suppose,” she muttered, staring at her reflection in the mirror above her vanity. Lydia had outdone herself this evening, pulling Hen’s thick blonde tresses into a knot at the back of her head and letting the remaining length tumble down her back and over her shoulder in loose waves. The fichu tucked into the bodice of her pale blue gown helped cover the scars at the base of her neck and the few that threaded out over her chest. The pale blue silk gown she’d chosen had cap sleeves, but the gauzy over-sleeve that went to her elbow disguised the scars on her upper arm while the ones on her forearm were easily hidden beneath her silk glove.

  She sighed. How happy she would be when she no longer had to choose her wardrobe to hide her scars. What freedom to walk about beyond the gaze of Society and wear whatever she pleased.

  Unless Lord Walkerton did not wish to see them. The thought shot through her without warning and a sense of trepidation filled her. Would her scars repulse him? He seemed a kind man, and he had taken Lady Susan to task for her cruel words, but did his benevolence toward such matters extend so far that he would not mind if she did not take such pains to cover the hideousness that marred her skin when they were within the privacy of their own home? And what about when he… —A blush colored her cheeks before the thought even fully formed in her mind. When Lord Walkerton exercised his husbandly rights, would he expect her to cover herself so he would not have to gaze down upon her disfigurement?

  Hen pressed a hand against her stomach. As much as she’d tried to imagine such intimacies between herself and Lord Walkerton, she couldn’t. Not that he wasn’t a handsome man—he was. Quite handsome, in truth, and considered a worthy catch amongst the ladies of the ton. And he had been most benevolent to her, especially considering the rather scandalous approach she had taken in proposing to him. But for him to have such access to her body, to be so vulnerable in front of him, all of her scars held beneath his scrutiny—her stomach churned and she closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could shield herself from the image.

  The truth of the matter was, she had always dreamed that one day she would meet a man who would see beyond the scars and make her feel beautiful. Oh, she wasn’t so foolish as to think such a man existed. Unless, of course, he was blind and she did not know of any blind lords save for Lord Terell, but as he was eighty and currently married to his third wife, she could hardly consider him a prospect.

  She sighed and opened her eyes. Dreams of such a man were not to be relied upon. Hen saw her scars every day and while she had, over time, become accustomed to them, she had never looked upon them and thought them ordinary. No man would look at them and think them beautiful. To expect such was the height of foolishness and she would only set herself up for disappointment if she relied on this hope.

  A short knock on her door pulled Hen’s attention from herself to her aunt’s reflection over her shoulder. Auntie stood in the doorway and smiled, the sides of her face wrinkling.

  “My dear, you look a vision. The over-sleeves were a strike of brilliance. I shall be certain to send Lady Hawksmoor a most heartfelt thank you for the suggestion.”

  Hen picked at the gauzy material. It itched slightly, but it created enough of an illusion that no one was likely to notice the scars beneath unless they held their face a few inches above the sleeve and she doubted anyone would be so rude as to do such a thing.

  Provided Lady Susan wasn’t in attendance.

  The thought soured her stomach further. Oh, how she wished Lord Walkerton had agreed to marry her without the benefit of a proper courtship. It seemed like such a waste of time if the outcome was to be the same. But, unfortunately, his lordship wanted to ensure they suited, which meant Hen must be on her best behavior and make every effort to be sweet and gentle in her nature
and embody what Lord Walkerton wished to see in his bride. Whatever that was.

  “Are you ready, my dear? James and Lord Rothbury await us below.”

  “Lord Rothbury?” Hen turned on her heel, forgetting her reflection at the surprising news. Lord Rothbury never attended Society events and despite the fact the Lindwells held a tenuous familial relation to Lord Franklyn, she doubted that would be enough to entice the marquess to attend.

  “Yes,” her aunt’s silver eyebrows lifted in amusement. “It appears the future duke is determined to find a wife this Season. I’m sure his unexpected appearance at tonight’s ball will cause a complete uproar amongst the marriage-minded mamas and I for one, cannot wait to witness it. Shall we go?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Though the idea of Lord Rothbury being harangued by the wedding hungry mothers of the ton did not amuse her half as much as it did her aunt.

  She plucked at her sleeves one last time, fluffing them up and away from her skin, then turned to follow her aunt.

  Chapter Seven

  “Saints preserve us,” Lady Dalridge muttered, holding up her lorgnette and giving the ballroom a wide, sweeping gaze.

  Hen pursed her lips and dipped her head to hide her smile at the look of abject horror on her great-aunt’s face. As usual, the Lindwells’ event was an odd mixture of ostentatious décor punctuated with an underlying thread of someone trying much too hard to please. Still, any event where one’s host had thrown caution to the wind in such a blatant and reckless way as displayed in the Lindwell’s ballroom could not help but be speckled with at least a small hint of possibility. Excitement trilled through Hen, but she quickly tamped it down. The Lindwells were distant relations to the Duke of Franklyn and therefore Lady Susan would be present and, if history was any indication, determined to make her evening as miserable as possible.