A Sinful Deception

by Isabella Bradford

  The bitter irony, of course, was that her grandfather believed she was too fine a lady for Geoffrey, when the reality was that she was not nearly fine enough. Her secret had given her wealth and security and a life that most would envy, but in return she must live that life without love or intimacy or real trust, and she was just beginning to realize how steep a price that would be.

  A single bruised rosebud, snapped from its stem, lay on the polished marble floor. Before one of the footmen could sweep it away, she picked it up and tucked it into her pocket as a keepsake.

  For what else, truly, did she have left?

  Geoffrey sat in a leather-covered armchair not far from the fire, a glass of Madeira on the table beside him. This was his favorite time of day, when the clocks had chimed for early evening and the curtains had been drawn against the twilight and the rain with it. He was making a show of reading the newspaper he held open before him, but in reality he was so thoroughly enveloped in the comfort and quiet of the club that he was having a difficult time staying awake. He hadn’t slept well all this week on account of thinking too much of Serena, and on this rainy evening it was finally catching up with him. His father was meeting him here to dine; he could close his eyes for a few moments before then, and none of the other members of the club would be so ill-mannered as to notice.

  He let his thoughts drift back to their favorite topic. He imagined Serena receiving the roses, her happy little cry of pleasure. She’d hold them to her nose and breathe deeply of their fragrance, and then she’d ask a servant to bring her a vase to keep them fresh. Some ladies simply plunked bouquets into the water, but he was sure Serena would untie the ribbons and rearrange the flowers into something new to suit her own tastes.

  It was so easy for him to picture her with the flowers, humming to herself as she leaned over the porcelain vase with her breasts plump and high above the front of her bodice. She was turning this simple task into a dance, twisting and swaying with the roses in her hands with the sensuous grace he remembered from the ball. She smiled, and leaned toward him, her lips parted in invitation, and—

  “There’s the rascal, damn him!”

  Geoffrey woke with a jolt, abruptly pulled away from his dream. It wasn’t usual for anyone to raise his voice inside the club, especially not in this room, and he looked toward the doorway to see who the loudmouthed culprit might be.

  He didn’t have far to look, for the culprit himself was standing in the arched doorway to the room: a sturdy older gentleman in an oversized wig and rain-splattered greatcoat, his face flushed and his eyes glowing with fury, and a battered bouquet of white roses in his hand, the white satin ribbons trailing around his wrist. The sight was so incongruous that Geoffrey wondered if he still was dreaming … until the man came charging like a bull directly to his chair, with the flowers raised over his head.

  “Here you are, you damnable rogue!” he roared, and Geoffrey scarcely had time to roll clear before the man whipped the flowers against the back of the now-empty chair. “Are you a coward, too, Fitzroy, that you try to run from me?”

  “I don’t even know who in blazes you are, sir,” said Geoffrey, striving to stay calm in deference to the man’s age, “let alone what your quarrel with me may be.”

  “You should know me, Fitzroy,” the man said furiously, “considering you’ve tried to rob me of my only granddaughter!”

  Of course: the man must be Serena’s grandfather, the Marquis of Allwyn. He felt an instant wave of automatic guilt, and just as instantly put it aside. For once in regard to a lady, he was completely innocent.

  “You’re mistaken, Lord Allwyn,” he said, wishing they’d met under different circumstances. “I’ve only regarded Miss Carew with the most complete respect.”

  “The devil with your respect!” the marquis bellowed. “I won’t have you so much as speak my granddaughter’s name!”

  He raised the flowers again to lash at Geoffrey, but this time Geoffrey reached out and seized the bouquet from the marquis. It was, he realized, the same bouquet about which he’d been fantasizing so pleasantly, now sadly battered and bedraggled, and he wondered if Serena had even had the chance to see it before her grandfather had appropriated it to use as a cudgel.

  “I’ll tell you again, Lord Allwyn: I’ve done nothing to dishonor Miss Carew,” he said, slowly and firmly. As was to be expected, they’d drawn a small crowd of other members, and he wished to make his innocence clear before so many witnesses. “Nothing. Ask her, or ask Lady Morley. They’ll tell you the same.”

  Allwyn’s face flushed a deeper red. “You impudent cur!” he sputtered. “How dare you pretend you’re innocent?”

  He reached for his sword, struggling to shove aside the skirts of his greatcoat. The bystanders exclaimed and drew back. Belatedly the club’s porter and two stout footmen came hurrying into the room and seized him by the arms to restrain him. The marquis fought against them, swearing loudly at Geoffrey, who heartily wished he were anywhere else.

  And then, as they always did, matters grew worse. His father, His Grace the Duke of Breconridge, appeared. Even if he were not a duke, Father had a way of commanding all the attention in the room the moment he entered, and he did it with such easy, elegant confidence that it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Of all the other gentlemen in the room, he was the only one who seemed to have arrived at the club without a single drop of rain falling upon his impeccably tailored, silk-covered shoulders, and the only one who appeared completely unsurprised by the sight of the Marquis of Allwyn whipping his second son with a bouquet of white roses.

  If only Father had arrived ten minutes later; Geoffrey would have resolved everything with Allwyn himself by then. Now, with Father involved, it was bound to become much more complicated.

  “Good day, Geoffrey,” Father said evenly. “Allwyn, good day to you as well. I hope I have not interrupted a private discussion?”

  “Discussion, my foot!” Allwyn exclaimed hotly, still struggling to free himself. “Do you know what your blaggard of a son has done to my granddaughter?”

  Father’s brows rose, but that was all. Geoffrey didn’t know if the raised brows were for the display of Allwyn’s temper, or the allegation he was making toward Geoffrey, or how Allwyn had pointedly made no deference to Father’s higher rank.

  “No, Allwyn, I fear I do not,” Father said mildly. “But I do believe you intend to remedy my ignorance at once.”

  “Oh, you can be certain of that,” Allwyn said. “What this wastrel son—”

  “Allwyn, please,” said Father, adding a pleasant smile to his mildness. Geoffrey wasn’t fooled; he’d seen enough of that pleasant smile over his lifetime to know that Father now was angry himself, very angry, but far too well-bred to let it show to the world at large. “There is no need to abuse my son’s name.”

  Wonderful, thought Geoffrey. How was it Father always knew the exact way to make him feel like a schoolboy on the carpet again? He was twenty-five years old. He did not need his father settling his disputes for him, and he most certainly did not want him meddling in his affair with Serena.

  “Lord Allwyn,” Geoffrey began. “If you would only—”

  “It’s called plain-speaking, Breconridge.” The marquis snorted derisively, ignoring Geoffrey. “I didn’t abuse your son. I was only speaking the truth of his damnable behavior.”

  “Lord Allwyn,” Geoffrey interrupted. “Father. Why don’t we continue this in a more quiet place?”

  To his relief, Father nodded, and Allwyn, too, agreed. The porter showed them to a small room, likely designed for exactly this kind of uncomfortable conversation between gentlemen. At least they were removed from the public audience; no doubt the tale of him being confronted with roses by the Marquis of Allwyn in the middle of White’s had already taken wings through Society without adding any more salacious details.

  The porter brought them more wine and had barely closed the door before Allwyn began again.

  “What I want,
Breconridge, is for this young rake to stop debauching my granddaughter,” he demanded. “That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  Deliberately Father sipped his wine, watching Geoffrey. “Is this true?” he asked finally. “Have you debauched the young lady?”

  “I most certainly have not,” Geoffrey answered tersely. “I’ve already told Lord Allwyn that. I’ve done absolutely nothing to compromise Miss Carew’s honor, let alone debauch her.”

  “Lies,” Allwyn said, striking his fist onto the small table between them. “You’ve danced with my Serena at a ball. You’ve ridden with her in the park and filled her head with pretty lies and fancies. And you’ve sent her that damned posy. Don’t tell me you haven’t compromised her.”

  Geoffrey sighed with exasperation. “That’s hardly a debauch,” he said. “Believe me, if I’d intended to debauch her, then there would be no question of it now.”

  “Geoffrey,” Father said curtly. “Do not boast of things you have not done.”

  “I am not boasting, Father, I am simply—”

  “You enjoy the lady’s company?” Father asked: a foolish and obvious question in Geoffrey’s opinion.

  “Of course I enjoy her company,” he answered, fondly imagining Serena, and wondering how she could have come from the same family as her boorish grandfather. “I wouldn’t keep it if I didn’t. Miss Carew is a charming, beautiful lady.”

  The marquis sputtered. “Don’t you say anything about her, you cur, not a word!”

  “A moment’s patience, Allwyn,” Father said, holding up his hand for silence. “Geoffrey, can you envision continuing to enjoy Miss Carew’s company for one more evening?”

  “I can indeed,” Geoffrey said, “which is why I had the roses—”

  “Geoffrey, I should appreciate patience from you as well,” Father said, the warning in his voice unmistakable. “All I wish is to preserve the lady’s unblemished reputation. Allwyn, would you agree to permitting your granddaughter to be my wife’s guest one evening, at our house?”

  Down came Allwyn’s fist again. “I will not!” he declared. “I do not wish her to be anywhere near your son or the rest of your family.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Father, his expression quizzical. “I find that astonishing. Most people welcome an invitation to Breconridge House.”

  “My granddaughter will not be among them,” Allwyn said curtly. “She’s a Carew, through and through, and I want better for her than any of your baseborn lot, Breconridge.”

  Geoffrey rose, unable to contain himself in the face of such an insult, but Father placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Then let me explain it another way, Allwyn,” Father said, his voice deceptively even. “My son has done nothing to dishonor your granddaughter. You, however, have now made her name common on the lips of every gentleman in this club by your rash actions, and what will be said of her will be far, far worse than the innocent truth. But if she was to attend some gathering as my wife’s guest, the scandalmongers would see our approval in their conversation, and remove the odious taint of impropriety.”

  The marquis scowled, his bushy brows working as he considered the duke’s logic. Geoffrey would grant Father that much: there was no one better at wringing unquestionable truth from a situation, especially if it served his own purpose.

  “One gathering, then,” Allwyn said grudgingly. “She’ll accept one invitation. But that is all, mind you, and my sister must be included to watch over her.”

  “Oh, of course,” Father said, smiling again. “You would be welcome, too, if you could bring yourself to enter my house.”

  “Nothing would induce me to do that, Breconridge.” He rose abruptly. “One invitation, and then your son leaves her alone.”

  “One invitation,” Father said, and Geoffrey wondered why Allwyn didn’t seem to notice that Father hadn’t actually agreed to anything. Even better was the fact that Geoffrey hadn’t had to swear to give up Serena, which, despite her grandfather’s wishes, he’d no intention of doing.

  “The duchess will write to Miss Carew,” Father continued. “She may count upon it.”

  “But nothing from your son, mind?” Allwyn said. “Not a single blasted word. This isn’t a match.”

  Father rose and bowed. “No, it’s not,” he agreed. “Not at all. I expect my son to marry at least the daughter of a duke. Good evening, Allwyn.”

  The marquis muttered a few dark oaths by way of farewell, and left.

  “What a wretched old gentleman,” Geoffrey said, glad to have this little scene past. “I wonder how he forced his way past the porter.”

  “Forcing wasn’t required,” Father said. “The man’s a member, and has been forever. He’s an unpleasant bully, true, but I suspect he acted only from devotion to his granddaughter.”

  “Likely so,” Geoffrey said, eager to move on to a more enjoyable part of the evening. “Shall we dine?”

  “Not quite yet,” Father said, gently closing the open door. “I wish a few words with you first. I took your side, because you are my son. But I suspect that there is more truth to Allwyn’s story than you admitted.”

  Geoffrey sighed, and squared his hands on the back of the chair before him, reminded again of being that long-ago schoolboy.

  “It was exactly as I explained, Father,” he said. “I danced with Miss Carew at the ball last week. For four days this week, I have met her and her aunt in the park. Today I had flowers brought to her to show I regretted the rain. That is all.”

  Father folded his arms over his chest and lowered his chin, never a good sign.

  “What of the wager with your brother at that same ball?” he asked. “A wager that I understand you won, given that you spent a good half hour out-of-doors in the moonlight with Miss Carew. And before you ask, no, Harry didn’t tell me. I heard it from another, which means you are most fortunate that Allwyn didn’t hear it as well.”

  Geoffrey drew in his breath. “At least there is still some honor among thieves and brothers.”

  “Geoffrey, please,” Father said, looking pained. “You know I do not care how you amuse yourself around the town. You’re young. It’s to be expected. But when you begin to make idle wagers about seducing noble-born virgins, then I must object.”

  “It may have begun like that, Father, but the lady—the lady changed that,” Geoffrey said, striving to make clear what he didn’t entirely understand himself. How could he explain being her champion, and flirtations in Hindi, and kismet? “Miss Carew is unlike any other lady.”

  Father frowned. “Do you fancy yourself in love with her?”

  “No,” Geoffrey said quickly, because he wasn’t. Not at all. “No, I am not in love with her. But I won’t deny that there is an attraction, an affection, perhaps even a friendship, between us. She is different.”

  “Miss Carew is different,” Father agreed, the planes of his face sharp and stern in the candlelight. “From what I understand, she has suffered unimaginable loss, and endured tragedies that should never befall a lady. She is the treasured granddaughter of that old gentleman, and all he has left of a favorite son. To toy with her affections would not only be dishonorable, but unconscionably cruel.”

  Geoffrey didn’t answer. It wasn’t that Father had said anything that he hadn’t considered himself. When he’d first spotted Serena at the ball, lovely yet almost disdainfully aloof, the wager with Harry had seemed like fair sport, a challenge and a chance to take a haughty beauty down a peg or two. But he realized now that by the time she’d left him standing alone in the moonlight, his attitude toward her had subtly changed.

  Yes, he still desired her—she’d only grown more bewitching to him with each passing day, and he thought endlessly of how he’d like to bed her—but he’d become equally fascinated by who she was. He wanted to learn everything about her, from her mysterious childhood to what made her laugh. The fact that she spoke so little of herself only made her more intriguing to him. Every graceful gesture, every glance from her held meanin
g, and he’d become almost desperate to discover more.

  When she’d first spoken of him being her champion, he’d thought it some manner of flirtatious jest, but the more time he’d spent in her company, the more he’d realized she’d been perfectly serious—and that he couldn’t imagine a role he’d more willingly accept. From that first night, he’d seen that being a chilly beauty was a defensive disguise she assumed to keep the rest of the world at bay. Behind it, she was achingly vulnerable. Fragile. She needed a champion to defend her. Dishonoring her in any fashion, as Father was now describing, was utterly unthinkable.

  “You’re damned quiet, Geoffrey,” Father said sharply, breaking into his reverie. “This is not the time for more of your habitual stubbornness.”

  Geoffrey drew in his breath, taken off guard. “My intention was not to disappoint you, Father.”

  “Then God only knows what you were intending.” For the first time in this conversation, Father let a note of unmitigated disgust creep into his words—a note that Geoffrey recognized all too well. “There has always been a selfishness about you, Geoffrey, a certain determination to put your own desires above everything and everyone else, and this sorry business with Miss Carew is only the latest example.”

  “ ‘The latest example,’ ” Geoffrey repeated, permitting himself a bit of his own disgust in return; this was a very old song from his father, and one he heartily wished never to hear again. He had never believed himself to be a selfish individual, but then he could never see his actions from the lofty view of being the Duke of Breconridge, either. “I suppose I am next to hear the usual catalog of every misstep I have made from the cradle onward.”

  “If you had chosen to learn from your missteps,” Father rumbled, “then the catalog would not be quite so vast. All I ask is that you behave honorably, with a mind toward your duty to this family.”