If Love Were Enough

by Quill, Suzanne

  Cilla’s face turned to hers. She felt the heat rise from her breast, to her neck, to her face. What could she say? This person, this woman, this friend, had always been there for her. She had been a rock through Robert’s illness. She had questioned the need for such drastic actions but had agreed there was no other way to save the fortunes and security of those who relied upon the estate. Damon’s actions, both past and present, had reaffirmed the disaster that would befall them if he were left in charge.

  “Yes, Ethel,” she said in a hushed undertone. “I did achieve my goal.”

  “Then, Lady Priscilla, it is not an illness you have. You are with child. You have met your goal and possibly saved us all.”

  Chapter 23

  Eight weeks passed before Cilla felt she would have to divulge her condition to Damon. During that time the staff was even more vigilant in their efforts to chaperone her. Even at night she was protected. Abigail continued to sleep in the trundle by her bed to guard her from any intrusion by the new marquess and the door and windows now had new bolts in place.

  So it was over dinner one night in August Cilla gathered her courage to confront Damon with her news.

  “Damon, we have not discussed the dower house in some time. Is it possible it will be in a fit state soon?” Cilla’s fingers played with the pendant at her throat sliding it back and forth along its chain. Her other hand held the stem of her water glass in a vice grip as she watched her nemesis from under lowered lashes.

  “I don’t see why that should matter, Cilla. The manor is so much more comfortable than that old ramshackle cottage will ever be.” He leered at her, his beady black eyes running over her face then down her neck and over her décolletage. Thank goodness she continued to wear high-necked gowns. “You know I prefer you near to me.”

  She went on, not letting her fear of his retribution get the better of her.

  “Well, it is time I inform you I carry Robert’s child and expect you would prefer your serenity in the manor house to be uninterrupted by the needs of a new baby.” She tried not to swallow. Instead, she looked up, into his eyes to face the anger she expected head on.

  She was not to be disappointed. Damon snapped the stem of the wine glass he was holding, the blood from the incurred cuts seeping through his fingers onto the pure white linen of the tablecloth. His face blushed hot and his voice became tight with anger.

  “The bloody hell you say! Everyone in the household knew Robert couldn’t get it up to save his life in these last few years. His dick was as limp as a cooked noodle.”

  “I carry his child, his son, his heir,” Cilla stated defiantly. “Every member of this staff will bear witness to the fact. I feel it best to start my confinement as soon as possible and the dower house would be perfect.”

  Damon rose as he wiped his bloody fingers on his napkin and shoved back the heavy mahogany chair so hard it slammed backward to the carpeted floor with a loud thud. He threw the stained linen down on his half-eaten plate of food. “Like hell you will,” he growled as he prowled around the table toward her. “Whose bastard is it? I’ll find out before you birth it. If it’s a girl it won’t matter anyway. But if it’s a boy, I won’t let him take my properties away from me just because you want to pass the bastard off as Robert’s. I’ll prove he’s not the rightful heir or I’ll get rid of the spawn if I have to. Better yet, why should I have to wait that long?”

  Now a few steps from her, Cilla saw the look of hate and vengeance on his soft, puffy features that turned his face to a mask of terror.

  The door from the kitchens swung open and Furston strode in with Mrs. Seeman hurrying behind him.

  The footman must have gone to fetch the two of them. She had been so focused on Damon she hadn’t noticed.

  Cilla released her breath in a whoosh as Damon stopped dead in his tracks then sneered at her. “Don’t think these old codgers can protect you and that bastard you carry. Sooner or later I’ll get you alone. I’ll not let some unknown man’s progeny steal what I’ve waited for years to gain.”

  Damon stormed out of the room as Mrs. Seeman came to her side to comfort her.

  How was she to hide from Damon for the next six months?

  Chapter 24

  Not many days after the Christmas holidays, Cilla stood looking out at the ominous, dark gray clouds hanging low over the estate. Snow would start falling any minute and her daily walks in the garden would have to stop until the weather improved.

  Despite having two months left before the birth of her son—she was certain it would be a boy—she felt as large as the stables she could see out the window standing at the bottom of the hill beneath the shadow of the gloomy portentous clouds.

  She sighed in resignation.

  The library door slammed shut behind her. Startled, she jumped assuming a draft had closed it then tensed as she smelled then felt Damon as he slithered up behind her.

  She stood still as a stone.

  In moments, his hands were at her throat as he gruffly threatened in her ear, “At last, my patience and vigilance has paid off. We can take care of that little unfinished matter right now.”

  A cheery voice came from behind the settee in front of the book shelves. “How do these books get so dusty when no one ever uses them?” Molly asked innocently, as Cilla saw her stand in the window’s reflection. The maid wiped a cloth over the brown leather spine of a recently acquired volume of Byron then bent over to replace it and take another.

  “Bloody hell,” Damon spat. His hands dropped to her waist and he drew her to him. “Don’t breathe easy yet, my sweet. I still have time to rid myself of you and the bastard.”

  A quick knock fell on the library doors before Furston swung both wide and announced a guest.

  Cilla felt her knees give out as Damon instinctively pulled her tighter still to keep her from falling.

  As she gasped for a breath, she was sure Damon regretted the intuitive action down to his cold black heart.

  Large white fluffy flakes of snow were falling as Brandon cantered into the courtyard. He ignored the cold, wet precipitation as it fell in his hair, on his jacket, in his face and eyes.

  Cilla was here.

  Finally he had come to her.

  His father had taken nearly four months to die after he had arrived home. It had been a painful drawn out death. His father’s agony had been a torment to Brandon and his sister as well. Then, when the worst had happened and his father had gone to meet his maker, Brandon found out, in the midst of his grief, that the estate and its responsibilities were not in as fine a state as his father and overseer had led him to believe.

  Maybe Silas had been too ill to properly look after it. But why had Brandon been sent off instead of taking the time to review the books, ask questions and take appropriate actions while his father was still functioning? And why had the overseer not known or been able to give more information during all the months they were meeting while his father was dying?

  He would never have the answers to those questions now.

  Three more months to put things in some semblance of order before he could leave to find Cilla.

  Find out why she had not responded to his many letters.

  Estella had moved into the manor house in a room adjoining Marie’s. Good Lord, he had been blind-sided by that revelation. It showed how self-consumed he had been for so many months, maybe years.

  A groom, cloaked in heavy woolens and a scarf wound tightly about his neck and face, hurried up to him interrupting his confounding ruminations.

  Brandon dismounted as he tossed the reins to the young lad who could not have been more than twelve judging by his size. Brandon could tell the boy had not been expecting company. His coat was thrown on, buttons and buttonholes mismatched in the process.

  “Is Lady Rutherford at home, boy?”
<
br />   “Yes, m’lord. She’ll not be goin’ anywhere with this storm comin’ up. Youse got here just in time, I’m betting. John, our ostler, says it’s goin’ to be a bad one.”

  Brandon surveyed the dark gray sky. “John is more than likely correct on that score.” Looking back at the boy, he patted his horse’s neck, “Mercury has been ridden long and hard. I would appreciate your taking good care of him. Brush him down. Feed him and let him have a good rest.” Brandon reached into a pocket, pulled out a coin, then flipped it to the groom. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Tad,” the boy answered as he caught the coin in a fingerless gloved hand without letting go of the horse’s reins in the other. When he looked down at the shining gold sovereign, the boy’s face lit up like the absent sun showing a number of missing teeth in the process.

  “Yes, sir, m’lord. I’ll take the best care of your horse. You can be sure of it.”

  Brandon almost reached out to tousle the boy’s hair which should have been covered by a cap, but wasn’t. Then, remembering how his aunts had done so to him and how he had hated every minute of it, he just nodded.

  As Mercury was led away, he turned to the house and headed toward the stairs and the front door. Brushing the accumulation of snowflakes off his shoulders, girding his loins, taking a deep breath to renew his courage, Brandon strode up the marble steps.

  Cilla had answered none of his many letters.

  A wild goose might have nothing on him.

  And then what would he do for an heir?

  Brandon followed the stoop-shouldered, balding butler down the hall of marble tile and through double walnut doors, anxious to see Cilla for the first time in over seven months.

  Why had she not answered his letters?

  No sooner had he stepped on the plush Persian carpet and heard his name announced than his mind reeled when the butler moved aside to leave, clearing his view.

  She was in another man’s arms.

  Who was this man, dressed as a ton fop, who held his woman?

  As her face turned and her eyes lifted to meet his widening in shock, he heard her stifled a gasp as her knees seemed to buckle beneath her skirts. The man holding her made a half-hearted attempt to grab her as if to save her from falling but she saved herself and regained her footing.

  Realizing not one of the scenarios he had imagined over the last seven months had included this turn of events, Brandon re-gathered his wits as he bowed low. “Lady Rutherford.”

  She broke from her companion’s embrace, her right hand going to the pendant at her throat. As she turned to face him, her swollen belly knocked his expectations back even further.

  He could feel the heat surging up the back of his neck. Could feel the anger tighten the knot already taking hold of his stomach.

  Well, this did answer one of his father’s concerns. . . . Lady Rutherford could certainly bear children.

  Was this foppish, supercilious bastard the one who had given it to her?

  “Br—Lord Brookfield . . .” Cilla raised her hand.

  Brandon stepped forward to place a chaste kiss upon its back, his gaze never leaving hers, trying to ignore the surge of heated memories as his lips touched the smooth warmth of her skin and her unmistakable scent filled his head.

  “Lady Rutherford,” he repeated, “I come at the behest of your brother, Asher.” Brandon released her hand. As he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, he watched as she moved her hand protectively to the mound of her belly. His eyes shifted to the companion at her side.

  “I’m afraid we have not met. I am Damon Brunell, The Marquess of Rutherford.”

  Brandon shook the extended hand, repugnance now layering the anger and, yes, the jealousy, he was fighting to master.

  How could Cilla find comfort in this wastrel’s arms? Brunell looked like the most dissipated, self-absorbed, fop he had seen in years. Though his clothes were perfectly tailored, they were slovenly maintained, his eyes were beady and bloodshot, his skin clammy and pasty, his muscles slack under the fitted padding in his garments and his hand, though well-manicured, soft and weak. And, if he were not mistaken, there was the smell of alcohol permeating the air around him.

  Had Cilla somehow become insatiable, desperate for sexual attention after he had left her? Had she not believed his notes and letters over the past months?

  Her movement distracted his ruminations.

  “I’m tired,” she said in a wary whisper. “I believe I’ll go lie down. Please excuse me.” She turned to give Brunell the obligatory curtsy, then followed in like manner to him. “I will see you both at dinner.”

  She gave him a wide berth as she went to the door and opened it.

  “Have Furston send in a tea tray, Pris,” ordered Brunell in a clipped tone that commanded Cilla as if she were nothing more than a maid.

  “As you wish, my lord,” she answered flatly, then closed the door behind her.

  Cilla almost walked straight into Mrs. Seeman when she closed the door.

  “I hear we have a visitor, my lady,” the housekeeper said, then looked at Cilla. “Lady Rutherford, you look pale. Are you quite all right?”

  Cilla had to get to her rooms. Her knees were weak with shock and her heart was pounding in her chest. Where had he come from? Why had he come here? Thomas could have just posted the letter she was holding. There was no need for him, Brandon, to deliver it.

  “They want tea, Mrs. Seeman. I’m going to my rooms. I need to lie down. The baby . . . he’s so very heavy right now.” She turned toward the stairs.

  “Let me help you, my lady.” The housekeeper reached for her.

  “No,” she said curtly, losing her patience in her distress. “I can manage. Just get Damon tea before he takes his wrath out on you and the staff. You know how malicious he can be. I’ll be fine. I just need to lie down. Now.”

  Mrs. Seeman lifted her hands as if to comfort Cilla but seemed to have second thoughts. “I’ll have Furston take care of it. Then I’ll be up to your rooms with some tea for you as well.”

  Cilla made her way up the stairs leaving Mrs. Seeman to handle the matter. She already had tears streaming down her cheeks when she closed her chamber door behind her and lay down gingerly across the bed, holding her belly to ease its change of position. Rubbing it gently, she murmured, “It will be all right, my darling. He thought the worst. I could see it in his eyes. And, that is what we must let him think. We must let him think you are Damon’s. And Damon must continue to think you are Robert’s.” She continued to soothe herself and the child as the tears trickled down her cheeks.

  A short while later, when the knock came on the door and Mrs. Seeman entered with a tray prepared for tea, Cilla was still rubbing her belly as she cried, but her words had turned into a lullaby she was humming.

  Mrs. Seeman set the tray down, prepared a cup of tea then placed it on the table beside her mistress’s bed.

  “There, there, my lady,” the housekeeper said in comforting tones. “Let me help you sit up. A nice cup of hot, sweet tea will be a help.” She assisted Cilla to sit up then plumped a pillow behind her before handing her the tea cup.

  Once her mistress was settled, Mrs. Seeman pulled the chair from before the secretary over beside the bed. With gentleness she said, “So he’s the father, is he?”

  “How could you know?”

  “Why else would you be in such a sad state?”

  Cilla wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “You must not tell anyone. No one, not even the staff can know. I know a good deal of the house staff are suspicious of my confinement. But you cannot confirm their suspicions, no less indicate who might be the father.”

  “Lady Priscilla, I would never do such a thing. How could you even think I would? As for the staff, what they suspect they wou
ld never voice. They all know their livelihoods are dependent on the child you are carrying. They want no more of Damon than you do. But I will not tell them anything further. You can rely upon that. They have no need to know.”

  Cilla took a few sips of the hot, sweet tea before she handed it back. Mrs. Seeman put the cup on the bedside table then took her mistress’s hand in hers.

  “You fell in love with him. It happens. After all you have been through, you deserve to love and be loved. I expect he must have some feelings for you to travel all this way. And, in this weather.”

  “It makes no matter. He cannot know, cannot suspect. I saw the look in his eyes. He believes the child is Damon’s and I must let him think so. We need to get him to leave as soon as possible. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can come of him learning the truth. He needs an heir of his own although he is probably married already. And, if he is not, he cannot, will not, claim this child.”

  Her tears had stopped. Her head had cleared. She had to stay focused on her purpose. She was never supposed to fall in love with him. All she had wanted was his seed. His child. So she could retain control of Robert’s holdings. Could protect their people. Protect herself.

  Mrs. Seeman squeezed her hand as she stood. “He will not hear a word from my lips, my lady. But I doubt he will have difficulty figuring it out if he were to stay here long. And, I’m afraid, we have a blizzard upon us. It looks as if none of us will be going anywhere any time soon.”

  Chapter 25

  Cilla stepped out the back door into a chill winter’s day. She could see her breath as she exhaled, feel the cold burn in her lungs as she inhaled. Winter was not her favorite season, but having been in the manor for more than four solid days, even this short reprieve was a boon.