A moment later, and he couldn’t believe how relieved he felt at having told someone else about Isabella’s circumstance. Constance wouldn’t tell anyone—not even her maid. He knew this because she had never told anyone what she had witnessed that one awful night at Norwick Park. What he had done to the despicable man who dared to enter the stables intending to steal a horse. Who dared to take a young woman’s virtue on the night of her come-out ball.
“She’s never said a word,” Constance whispered as she struggled to breathe. She furrowed her brows. “Who are you hiding her from?”
“Her father.”
Constance’s eyes widened with fright. “Jesus, Davy! We could have been seen by someone who knew her—”
“Rather unlikely,” David interrupted. “Basingstoke is far enough away. Craythorne kept Arabella and Isabella sequestered in his castle for most of her life. Only let her ride horses and spend time in his stables.”
Constance felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she suddenly straightened in the settee. “Arabella?” she whispered. “Not ‘Lady Craythorne’?” One of her eyebrows arched up in either query or accusation.
David dipped his head. “I knew her a long time ago, Connie. Loved her, even.”
“Loved her enough... to get a child on her?” Constance whispered, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. She took a quick breath and let it out, as if she were struggling to get air. “Oh, my God! No wonder she seems so familiar, Davy,” she wailed, her voice kept low lest a servant overhear their conversation. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you have to send the vicar—?”
“Because I haven’t told Clare,” he stated in a hushed voice.
She blinked, just then realizing how awkward it would be for him when he finally did. Arabella had been Clarinda’s aunt. “Does... does the duke know?”
David nodded. “I told him the morning Isabella first arrived in London. The morning after she paid witness to the murder. I wanted him to marry her, you see. Provide protection for her. His wife had died and, like me, he needs an heir. As a duke, he could have thwarted any efforts Craythorne might have made to get her back. Or to see to it she was declared incompetent, or sent to Bedlam so she couldn’t implicate him in Arabella’s death. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Constance sniffled, one of her hands searching her pocket for a handkerchief. David offered one before she could pull it out, and she took it with a nod. “She’s a relation to me, and yet she’s never said a word,” she repeated, almost as if she were upset with Isabella.
“That’s because she doesn’t know,” David whispered.
Blinking in disbelief, Constance stared at David for a very long time before she gave her head a shake. “You’re going to tell her,” she stated emphatically. “Aren’t you?”
A flash of annoyance crossed his features, her edict sounding ever so much like Huntington’s. “I plan to, of course. On the occasion of her twenty-first birthday.”
Constance finally nodded, although it was apparent she didn’t agree with his plan. “If I were her, I think I would want to know my father was someone other than the man who murdered my mother,” she whispered.
David stared at her for a very long time, rather wishing it was that simple. If he wasn’t married to Clarinda, he would tell Isabella. Would have told her the day she appeared at The Elegant Courtesan holding the dog-eared calling card with his name on it.
“You’re more worried about what your wife will think of you, though, aren’t you?” Constance suddenly accused. “Which means...” She straightened on the settee and allowed a slight gasp. “You’re worried you’ll lose her. That she’ll leave you.”
“Of course, I am,” David retorted, his annoyance still evident.
“You love her.”
“I do.”
This seemed to surprise Constance enough that she was left without an immediate response. After a moment, though, she said, “If she loves you, Davy, then you’ve nothing to fear.”
David regarded his cousin with an expression that reminded her of a rather sad hound dog. “I don’t yet know if she does or she doesn’t,” he whispered.
Nodding her understanding, Constance refilled his teacup and sat back in the settee. “Will you spend the night? There’s plenty of room for you and your grooms.”
Apparently surprised by the invitation, David finally nodded. “I will. But I must be off for Southampton in the morning.”
“You’ll stop at Huntinghurst on the way?”
David considered the question for a moment but finally shook his head. “No. I only would if Hunt is there,” he replied. “It wouldn’t be seemly.”
“Coward,” Constance accused with a grin.
“There’s that, too,” he agreed with a roll of his eyes, wondering if Huntington had used the term to describe him whilst she was in his company. He drank the rest of his tea as he considered what he would be doing the following day. Paying a visit to the man who had murdered his first love. Who had murdered the mother of his daughter. He knew where to find him, thanks to Huntington’s mention of a cottage near Southampton.
The man will not be long for this earth, he vowed to himself.
“Do let me know how it goes,” Constance whispered. “And should you need to do something... awful, know that I will keep it in confidence. You shouldn’t have to bear it alone, Davy. Makes you old, you know.” Makes me old, she didn’t add.
David nodded and gave a sigh of relief. “One day, you’re going to make a very good wife for a man who needs one,” he murmured.
Constance gave a most unladylike snort. “I can’t imagine who that might be,” she replied with a watery grin.
“Oh, I can. An earl or... a marquess. Yes. That’s it. A marquess in search of a woman who will put up with his love of horses,” he went on, his amusement growing by the minute. “A man who will appreciate your affection for horses.” He suddenly sobered, almost as if he had one in mind.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Constance could only smile at his ridiculous claim. After all, there wasn’t a marquess within thirty miles of Boxgrove.
Unless he was a monk.
Chapter 29
An Earl Pays Another Call on a Duke
Early May 1815
Instead of heading directly to Norwick House when his coach returned to London, David Fitzwilliam, Earl of Norwick, paid a call at Huntington’s Westminster townhouse and requested an audience with the duke. Octavius had him brought to his study, sure the man simply wanted to know how Isabella was fairing at Huntinghurst. Even before the scotch was offered, though, Octavius realized this visit was different from all the others when David said he had just come from Southampton.
“Please tell me I’m not complicit in an earl’s death,” Octavius said in hushed tones. He had just returned from having spent three days at Huntinghurst. The visit had given him a new perspective on life, a reminder that life in the country was far different from life in the capital.
He already missed it.
Or perhaps he was missing Isabella.
David frowned, realizing word of Craythorne’s death hadn’t yet reached the capital. “You are not,” he stated. “But he did die. While I was there. The physician said it was consumption, but I know now he died of a broken heart,” David said quietly.
Octavius finished pouring the scotch into two crystal cups before he nodded his understanding. “I was beginning to wonder why we hadn’t seen him in Parliament these last few years.” Although he hadn’t paid a call at Craythorne Castle himself, other aristocrats had claimed to have made the attempt and been told by the butler that the earl wasn’t even in residence and wouldn’t be accepting callers due to a ‘protracted illness’.
Did guilt count as such? he wondered.
“He said it was an accident—that Arabella really did fall and hit her head—but he did admit he was... he was a bit angry with her at the time. He said he caused the fall. She slipped on some buttons, he said.” Dav
id shook his head, still trying to make sense of what the dying earl meant with his confession.
Octavius winced. “What ever did she do to make him angry?”
David swallowed and cleared this throat, as if speaking of Arabella still brought tears to his eyes. “Me, I suppose. He was sure she had cuckolded him at some point—said he always thought she was thinking of someone else whilst he bedded her—but he loved her anyway.” He paused a moment. “He never knew it was me,” he added with a shake of his head.
“Did he know the truth about Isabella?” Octavius wondered. Christ! How had Isabella so misjudged what she had seen that day? She had been so frightened of Craythorne, she had risked life and limb to get herself to London and then agreed to stay hidden from everyone until she was either old enough to marry or Craythorne died. Surely what she saw had to be brutal.
Shaking his head, David sighed. “He only said he missed her terribly. Missed her... enthusiasm, he called it. Missed her help with the horses.” He paused a moment, as if he had to take a breath in order to continue. “I told him she wasn’t dead. I told him she was safe. And then... then he died.”
The duke stared at David for a long time before he gave his head a quick shake. He certainly understood the dying man’s words about Isabella. If she wasn’t at Huntinghurst, he would miss her. Miss her enthusiasm. Miss her kiss on his cheek when she greeted him.
“Will you tell her now? Octavius asked suddenly. “Tell Isabella the truth? Because if you don’t, I will,” he warned with an arched brow.
“Clare still doesn’t know.”
“Don’t you think it’s past time you told her?”
“Tell her... what? That her younger cousin is also her step-daughter?” David countered with a sigh. It was bad enough Clarinda still believed she had been courted by him those few months before they finally married. When—or if—she figured out Daniel was the one who had escorted her in Kensington Gardens, she might refuse his overtures. Other than her expression of disbelief, she hadn’t responded to his claim that he loved her that night before he left for Sussex.
Did he dare risk losing her? He had already waited too long to start his nursery. Clarinda’s miscarriage only made the situation more worrisome. His need more immediate.
Even when he should have been courting Clarinda, he had instead allowed his brother, Daniel, to squire her about on short excursions, not realizing at the time that Clarinda had fallen in love with his brother. That Daniel never seemed convinced David would marry Clarinda had been short-sighted of the spare heir, for when Clarinda did marry David, the broken-hearted Daniel left London for Norwick Park. Determined to forget his lost love, he rarely paid a visit to London. When he did, he was all business and avoided the social scene.
Heartbreak and bitterness did that to a man.
David gave his head a shake, realizing he was as guilty as Huntington when it came to getting lost in his thoughts. “What do I say? ‘Oh, I thought you should know you have a stepdaughter’...”
“Yes. Or something like that,” Octavius replied, offering the earl one of the crystal cups.
David took it and downed the contents in a single gulp. “Do you think Isabella can keep it a secret?”
Octavius downed the scotch and frowned. “I don’t think she should have to. Jesus, Norwick, she deserves to know the truth. They’re cousins. And what are you so damned afraid of?” He turned to stare at the earl, stunned to find David looking far more haggard—old, even—than he had ever seen him. Even though he hadn’t killed Craythorne, he looked like a guilty man whose conscience was getting the better of him.
“I love her, Hunt.” He shook his head as if in warning, as if he thought the duke was about to say something pithy. “I never expected to feel anything more than affection for Clare. After Arabella... I was so sure she would be my only love.” He paused a moment, lifting his gaze to meet the duke’s. “But the heart wants what the heart wants, it seems, and this heart has decided on Clare.”
Inhaling slowly, the duke considered David’s words. That’s how it was sometimes. A man’s hardened heart sometimes developed soft spots that allowed a woman to worm her way in there and work her magic. Bewitch him. Make a man feel younger. Valued.
Desired.
“Do you love her more than you loved Arabella?”
The question had David’s face contorting in anger before he suddenly took a seat in the nearest chair. He might have fallen down otherwise. “Damn you,” he whispered. He drew the back of a hand across his mouth before fisting it. “If I had loved Arabella as much as I love Clarinda, I suppose I would have defied my father and Craythorne and seen to it I made her my wife,” he admitted at the same time the duke took the chair across from his. “But I did not.”
“Despite my accusations to the contrary, I truly do not believe you a coward, so... perhaps you only felt lust for Arabella,” Octavius offered, the words cautious. “Many did. You were much younger back then.”
The problem with men who had just experienced epiphanies was how they dealt with the aftermath of their sudden insight. Sometimes messy, sometimes not, but always life-changing, the realization of something important seemed to leave the male of the species reeling.
“The Brotherton women are all gorgeous,” David hedged, his eyes lifting to find Octavius staring into his scotch. “I suppose you’ve noticed that about Isabella.”
The duke blinked. Jesus, he’d have to be blind not to find Norwick’s daughter beautiful! “Even when she was bedraggled and covered with mud, she was comely,” Octavius replied. “She’s two years older now.” Two years more beautiful. Two years more stubborn. Two years more desirable.
Lifting himself from his chair, David stepped over to where the decanter of scotch stood on a silver salver and stared out the study’s only window. After a moment, he allowed a sigh. “Let’s make an arrangement then,” he said as he lifted the decanter and poured a finger’s worth into his cup. He turned to add the same amount to the duke’s. “I’ll tell Isabella everything if you make her your wife.”
“You have a deal,” Octavius announced, downing the scotch much like David had done only a moment ago.
Blinking, the Earl of Norwick took a step back and stared at the Duke of Huntington for several seconds before asking, “Have you... have you ruined her?”
Offended by the question, Octavius recoiled. “Of course not.” He didn’t add that he had wanted to on several occasions. That he had imagined all manner of ways he could bed Isabella. Imagined how he might strip her bare and cover her body with his. How he might use his tongue and teeth to bring her to ecstasy before finally—finally—seeing to his own by taking her virtue.
He had already kissed her far more than he should have, but her real father didn’t need to know that.
“When?”
“When?” Octavius repeated, his brows furrowing.
“When will you marry her?”
The duke allowed a shrug. “I suppose after I court her for a time...”
“You needn’t. She’ll accept your proposal.”
Octavius angled his head to one side before one of his brows furrowed in suspicion. He was quite sure the earl hadn’t paid a call at Huntinghurst, and if he had been writing letters to Isabella, the chit was keeping them hidden and their contents to herself. Not something he would expect of Isabella. She craved friendship. Craved news. Craved companionship, although probably not as much now that she had Nelson following her about. “Have you already spoken with her?” he asked in a whisper.
“No,” Norwick replied with a shake of his head. He inhaled before turning to regard the duke. “But my cousin, Constance, continues to pay calls on her. The two share a love of horses, you see. I know Connie is rather lonely down at my property in Boxgrove.” She had little hope of landing a husband given the lack of eligible bachelors in the area. And he certainly didn’t want her to marry the vicar, Elijah Cruthers. The man was old enough to be her father.
Octavius straig
htened at the mention of Constance Fitzwilliam. “Lady Isabella is rather taken with Miss Fitzwilliam,” he said quietly. “She’s been a good friend. A steady friend.”
“And Connie is an expert horsewoman.”
“As is your daughter,” Octavius countered, tamping down the sudden arousal he felt at remembering Isabella riding astride on Ares.
This news seemed to surprise the earl. “In what way?” he asked as his brow furrowed.
“In every way. She knows how to breed them, break them, ride them, and race them. I expect a winner in at least two horse races this year.”
Norwick stared at the duke. “I knew she loved horses, but...”
“Perhaps you could pay a call on her with that as your excuse. Have her give you a tour of the stables at Huntinghurst, and then tell her the truth. You would be proud of what she’s accomplished in only two short years. I know I am.”
Frowning at the duke’s assessment of his daughter, Norwick finally allowed a nod. “I shall write a letter and pay a call next week,” he promised, suppressing a wince when he remembered this was the week he hoped to spend more time with Clare. He needed to get another child on her, and he hoped she wouldn’t miscarry this time. “Will you propose in the mean time?”
“Possibly.” At the earl’s intense stare, he added, “I should think a ring is required for such a proposal, but I cannot be assured of finding an appropriate one on display in a goldsmith’s shop,” he explained in a huff. “I may have to have one crafted for her.” The thought had him wondering if Stedman and Vardon could create something with horses in mind.
Norwick was about to claim that the man’s ducal ring would suffice, but he rather doubted the duke would part with the symbol of his station in the peerage. “I believe a bauble is in order for my own wife. To soften the... blow, so to speak.”
The duke shook his head as he stood up. “Your wife will not be the least bit surprised you have a daughter,” he claimed. “In fact, she will be relieved to learn Isabella is not Craythorne’s daughter.” With that, he turned and refilled his cup with more scotch.
The Dream of a Duchess Page 21
