by Donna Hatch
Elizabeth nodded as hazy details now became clear. Knowing Father had loved her mother swept away a lifetime of anguish. All those years, she’d thought she was merely a penniless illegitimate waif without anyone to mourn her if she died. To learn her father took her home because he’d loved her mother, because he loved the child they’d created together, changed everything. She wasn’t the by-blow of a village lightskirt, a child that her father raised out of pity; she was the child of two people from different worlds who loved each other. The knowledge raised her value in her own eyes. Thanks to Father’s revelation, she knew she was the product of love. She cradled that truth close to her heart.
Aching to throw her arms around him, she resisted; he’d always discouraged such displays of affection. Instead, she settled for slipping her hand into his and squeezing it. “Thank you for telling me, Father.”
He squeezed it back, then removed his hand as he always did when he got uncomfortable with too much physical demonstrativeness. “I trust you’ll keep my secret, just as you’ve kept the secret of your true birth.”
“Of course, Father. I’d never shame you in such a way.”
Smiling with affection, he turned back toward the house. “I must bring this pleasant interlude to a close. Duty calls. Always duty.”
With her head filled with her father’s revelations, she walked with him back to the house and curtseyed. After Father took his leave of her, a servant approached.
“My lady, are you at home to the Earl of Averston?”
Her heart thudded. She hadn’t seen her betrothed in nearly three weeks. He’d called upon her last week, but she hadn’t yet recovered from Duchess’s punishment enough to arise from her bed, let alone receive visitors, and he’d left no message. Perhaps he had a plan to convince Father to let her marry Tristan instead of him.
If Tristan planned to send for her and carry her off to Gretna Green, surely he would have come for her by now. Or maybe Lord Averston had mentioned her supposed illness and Tristan was waiting for her to recover before he took her away. And yet, recalling her father’s commitment to honor, eloping seemed less palatable than it had at first. Must people always be torn between duty and love?
Shoring up her courage to face the formidable earl, she nodded. “Of course. Please show him into the front parlor.”
He hesitated. “The Duchess is out making calls. Shall I send for—”
“Not necessary. Lord Averston is my betrothed.”
“Of course, my lady.”
With head high in an attempt to appear composed, she entered the parlor. Lord Averston stood at her approach. She paused. In the three weeks since she’d seen him, she’d forgotten his strong resemblance to Tristan. Somehow, in her memory, she’d painted him as a younger version of her father—powerful, dignified, often stern—not at all the handsome, black-haired young man before her.
She gestured to the sitting area. “Pray sit down, Lord Averston.”
He took a seat in a blue and white striped armchair. Elizabeth sat across from him on a settee.
As they exchanged pleasantries, he remained polite and self-possessed but his fingers drummed on his thigh, his one sign of unease. He never smiled. No, he was nowhere near as attractive as Tristan who wore a perpetual grin and whose eyes glimmered with joy, and at times, mischief.
“Shall I ring for tea?” she offered.
“Thank you but no.” He looked her over as if remembering something. “Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You have sufficiently recovered from your illness?”
Oh, that. “I am much better, thank you.”
He nodded absently. “The unhealthy London air, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” she agreed with a hoarse edge to her voice. Unfortunately, her so-called illness struck in any clime whenever the duchess flew into a rage over Elizabeth’s failings. Father thought she had delicate health. Her eldest sister, Mary, suspected the truth, but Elizabeth concealed all traces and learned to evade direct questions. Now that Mary had married Lord Brinton, Elizabeth no longer had to hide from her sister’s questioning gaze. Joanna, of course, remained blissfully ignorant in her own little world of perfection. Only Elizabeth’s ladies’ maid knew the truth, and Elizabeth had sworn her to secrecy. No, her shameful secret would remain forever hidden.
Lord Averston cleared his throat. “Lady Elizabeth, I hope you know as your betrothed, I have your best interest at heart.”
“Of course,” she replied, uncertain of his meaning.
“And as your future husband, I am honor-bound to protect you from harm and scandal.”
“Thank you.” She waited, wondering, but a cloud of doubt chilled her.
He moistened his lips. “Is there any reason why we should marry in haste?”
She blinked. “My lord?”
He drew a breath and appeared to brace himself. “You haven’t engaged in behavior—with anyone—that might have the potential to put you into a…delicate condition?”
She stilled. Indignation welled up. “Delicate condition? Are you asking me if there’s any possibility that I am—” she lowered her voice even though they were alone, “enceinte?”
He nodded, his dark eyes sober.
Her face burned in a mixture of outrage and embarrassment. He thought she’d given her virtue to Tristan. Or someone else. And now he thought she might be carrying a child…because he thought her loose. It took all her will to keep from bolting from the room or giving in to the temptation to rail at him for making such a crass assumption.
Stiffly she replied, “My virtue is intact, Lord Averston, and there is no child. It makes no difference if we marry in three days or three years.”
He let out a breath of clear relief. “Forgive me. I had to make certain—for your own protection and that of our future children.”
She gritted her teeth. “Of course.”
Regardless of his explanation, anger and embarrassment twisted her insides into a series of knots. She clamped her mouth closed and took a bracing breath through her nose lest she throw something at his arrogant, judgmental head. Instead, she forced herself to form the words, “I apologize for giving you reason to believe I might need such…protection, my lord.”
“Shall we marry at the end of the Season in my family seat?”
She stared at the floor so he wouldn’t see her boiling. “If that pleases you.”
She almost blurted out the truth of her parentage just for the pleasure of ruffling his stuffy composure, and in the hope that he’d view her as beneath him and reject her, but that would dishonor Father.
“Excellent.” He arose. “Thank you for seeing me and putting my mind at ease in this matter.”
She stood, still unable to look him in the face. His clothing rustled as he bowed and bade her good day. In reply, she sank into a curtsy, her fists curled at her sides.
After he left, she remained standing. Humiliation brought tears to her eyes. Just because she’d made the mistake of getting caught kissing the one man who loved her, all of society painted her as ‘fast.’
Careful not to slam any doors, though sorely tempted to do so, she stalked to her bedroom and threw herself onto the window seat to stare out of the widow. As she struggled against the whirlwind of thoughts, guilt crept in. After all, she had given Lord Averston good reason to believe the worst of her. Everyone else did. Why should he be any different?
She had to admit that her actions had been rash, and the timing of the guests who had found her with Tristan had been the worst. She might have thought the same of anyone else caught in such circumstances.
As she sat trying to take deep breaths, her cheeks cooled, the knots in her stomach loosened. If Lord Averston were truly as honorable as her father believed, perhaps he merely wished to protect her from wagging tongues. It also said something about his character that he would marry her with the intent to legitimize another man’s by-blow without making her humiliation known—unnecessary, of course, b
ut honorable and kind, nonetheless. It was exactly what Father would have done. Tristan, too, would have been as kind.
Perhaps the Barrett brothers were not so unlike after all. In fact, before she met Tristan, the prospect of marrying a man like Lord Averston wouldn’t have been so bad, even if it were devoid of true love. Nonetheless, loving Tristan changed everything. She could never be happy married to the brother of the man she loved.
Chapter Eight
In the Pemberton family London house, Elizabeth sat at her dressing table while her lady’s maid, Maggie, arranged her hair. Without even the faintest anticipation of tonight’s ball, Elizabeth stared glumly at the mirror, her thoughts drifting.
She touched her lips with her fingers, reliving Tristan’s glorious kiss. She remembered their connection as they’d discussed shared interests. With him, she’d felt valued. Beautiful. Safe. She should have known nothing that wondrous would last.
In the month since the house party, Tristan had made no contact with her. Her hope that he planned to rescue her faded. No doubt he was too much a man of honor to make romantic overtures to a lady about to marry another man. Especially his own brother.
At the moment, she wanted him to love her enough to break the rules, not honorable enough to keep them. How else would they be together?
She let out her breath. If Tristan didn’t marry her, and instead became her brother-in-law, could she successfully conceal the feelings of her heart and be a proper wife? Worse, her intended did not want her. He probably never would. His disapproval had been all too clear.
When Duchess entered, Elizabeth flinched. Hating her own cowardice, she battled to keep her head up, her posture straight. Duchess’s very proximity made Elizabeth break out in cold perspiration.
Duchess stood over her, watching her with a critical eye. “Tonight your behavior must be above reproach.”
“Yes, Mother,” Elizabeth said to Duchess for the maid’s sake.
She almost welcomed marriage—even to Lord Averston—anything to escape constant displeasure, constant ridicule, constant fear of punishment. At least living at the earl’s estate, several days’ journey from her ancestral home, would spare her all that…unless her husband was as stern and displeased as he seemed. Would he beat a wife who disappointed him?
Duchess put her hands on her hips. “If Lord Averston’s brother has the bad form to attend the ball tonight, you must greet him as if nothing has happened between you. Be courteous, but give him no more than a glance. The rumors are quieting. Be sure you do nothing to reawaken them.”
“Yes, Mother.” Elizabeth’s heart quickened at the thought of seeing Tristan again. If only he would climb her balcony and spirit her away!
“Keep your head raised as if you have nothing of which to be ashamed. And for heaven’s sake, smile. Look as if you’re pleased by your upcoming nuptials.”
Elizabeth attempted to obey.
Duchess made a sound of disgust. “You look as if you’ve eaten something that’s soured your stomach.” She shook her head. “If only you didn’t have that crooked tooth.”
Elizabeth turned with resigned disappointment to the mirror that revealed that lower front tooth folded over the tooth next to it. She reminded herself to smile only enough to show her top row of teeth and not the bottom row. At least Tristan hadn’t seemed to mind her less-than-perfect-tooth.
Dear Tristan! He’d been so contrite, so courteous when he’d apologized for placing her in a compromising situation. His smile had been warm and soft, full of longing and of regret. She’d frankly forgiven him. And fallen in love with him all over again.
He wouldn’t have intimidated her with expectations of a wife’s behavior the way his hateful brother had.
“Elizabeth! Attend me!”
Elizabeth snapped her attention back to Duchess as beads of sweat dampened her forehead. “Forgive me. What did you say?”
“Stay in my sight at all times.”
“Of course.”
Maggie finished Elizabeth’s hair and helped her step into her ball gown. While the maid fastened the buttons down the back, Elizabeth glanced down to admire her gown. Seed pearls had been sewn into the center of each silk rosebud adorning the sweetheart neckline and the tops of each capped sleeve. Creamy lace peeped out of the parted skirt. The bodice was low enough to suggest a décolletage without actually revealing her diminutive cleavage. She felt feminine and lovely. When Duchess had been absorbed in a gown for Joanna, Elizabeth had requested a few personal touches making it a little less austere than Duchess’s usual taste.
Duchess continued perusing Elizabeth’s appearance. “In this case, it’s fortunate you don’t have your sisters’ well-endowed figure. At least you don’t appear a hoyden.”
Elizabeth found it ironic her non-voluptuous figure, which had drawn criticism from the beginning of her first Season, now drew the opposite.
Duchess frowned at Elizabeth’s gown, pursed her lips. “I don’t recall asking the modiste to add both rosebuds and seed pearls.”
Elizabeth flushed guiltily and pretended to look at the gown so as to avoid Duchess’s critical gaze. “I think it’s lovely.”
“It borders on ostentatious.” Duchess sighed. “There’s no time to change now.”
Moments later, Elizabeth followed the duke and duchess into the ballroom, walking next to Joanna, who naturally looked glorious with her cheeks flushed and her mahogany hair in an intricate upsweep. Her figure drew admiring stares from every male she passed. Elizabeth wanted to put a bag over her head every time she appeared in public with her perfect sister.
Her oldest sister, Mary, and her husband, Lord Brinton, joined them in the reception line where they would greet their guests. Mary kissed Elizabeth’s cheek in greeting, her eyes shining in anticipation of the ball.
As they waited for Duchess to give the signal to open the ballroom doors and admit the guests, Elizabeth admired the latest chalk drawing on the ballroom floor, the family coat of arms embellished with flowers and cherubim. It was a shame, really, that within the first set of dances, all that art representing days of work would be smudged beyond recognition.
“You look lovely, Lizzie.” Mary squeezed her hand.
Elizabeth squeezed back, warming at the praise. She tried to quiet her fluttering nerves.
With a nod from Duchess, the servants opened the double ballroom doors to admit the guests who eagerly eyed the dazzling white chalk art and lined up to be announced and greet the hosts.
Gentlemen fell all over themselves for the opportunity to speak with Mary and Joanna. With Father’s dark hair and vivid green eyes, Mary still reigned as the ton beauty, a fact not lessened by her marriage, but many others flocked to Joanna.
Mary tightened her grip on Elizabeth’s hand. “There’s your betrothed. Wasn’t it kind of him to arrive ahead of the crush?”
Elizabeth followed her sister’s gaze to the ballroom doors. Lord Averston stopped to speak with a group of gentlemen as he waited to be announced.
“Lord Averston is very handsome, isn’t he?” Joanna watched him dreamily.
He did indeed look exceptional in an immaculate black superfine. He chuckled, a silky rumble filled with true delight that filtered to Elizabeth despite the conversation rippling around them. Everyone in his circle joined his contagious laughter.
Elizabeth stared. This was the stern Lord Averston? Though she’d observed the close family resemblance between Tristan and his brother, tonight he was stunning. With his expression filled with mirth, it revealed his beautifully formed features, his expressive mouth. The lights cast an almost bluish tint to his shining black hair. He stood a few inches taller than the circle of gentlemen who’d gathered around him. The breadth of his chest and the dignified, regal set of his shoulders proclaimed him a powerful man.
He laughed again, affected a brief bow, and made his way toward Elizabeth and her family. Her heart thudded as he neared, and when his gaze landed upon her, her mouth dried. She hadn’t expe
cted this level of nervousness at seeing him again. His chiseled face was composed, but his mouth still curved in merriment. The Lord Averston of the Einsburgh’s house party had seemed incapable of smiling. Yet the Lord Averston of tonight was the picture of conviviality. Was it possible he was more like Tristan than she’d formerly believed?
“I envy you, Lizzie,” whispered Joanna. “Who would’ve imagined one evening of folly would place you in the position of Lord Averston’s wife?”
Elizabeth glanced at Joanna, but there was no reprimand in her sister’s expression. Joanna’s expression reflected no other emotion but admiration as she watched Lord Averston.
“Only his brother can rival him in beauty,” Joanna added. “Pity his brother is so dissipated.”
Heat rushed to Elizabeth’s face. “Tristan is flirtatious, but I don’t believe all the rumors about him. He and I connected at a deeply emotional level.”
Mary spoke with lowered voice as Lord Averston neared. “Well, you’d better disconnect with Tristan and connect with Lord Averston.”
How could she? Tristan had confided in her things he’d never revealed to others. They shared such a love of poetry and views of the world. He was eloquent, intelligent, and caring, and he’d said such lovely words of endearment, the kind of words she’d longed to hear but had never dared hope.
Elizabeth doubted Lord Averston would ever utter the tender words Tristan had. No doubt, he was incapable of it despite his smiling countenance tonight. She’d do well to guard herself against disappointment.
With polite reserve, Lord Averston greeted her parents, and Mary and her husband, Lord Brinton.
At last, he turned to her. “Lady Elizabeth. You look especially lovely this evening.”
No warmth came from his voice. He bent over her hand, and for the brief moment his hand grasped hers, no warmth came from his touch. His eyes drew her in, so dark, she could hardly separate iris from pupil, yet no warmth came from his expression.
