Ravished

by Virginia Henley

  Nick undressed and threw the casement wide. He braced his arms upon the windowsill, filled his lungs with air, and took one last look at the stars. As he sat down naked on the bed, he became aware that he was not alone. “Alex,” he murmured huskily, “I knew you would come.” His hands cupped her shoulders tenderly as she came up from the bed.

  “I—I must have fallen asleep while I was waiting for you.”

  “You know you shouldn’t be here, sweetheart. You should be thinking of your reputation, not of me.”

  “Nick, you are more important to me than anything in my life.”

  He felt her touch his cheek and covered her hand with his to keep it there, hungry for the physical contact between them.

  “Nick, I know you didn’t do it. You took the blame, as you take the blame for everything at Hatton Hall. In my heart I know that you didn’t shoot your father.”

  “Hush, Alex, no one must know.” He opened her hand and dropped a kiss into her palm. “It will be so much better this way. I have no crushing burden of guilt to bear. Christopher will get through this if there is no one to point the finger at him or whisper behind his back.”

  “No matter how strong you are, I couldn’t bear for you to be alone tonight. Let me stay, Nick; let me comfort you.”

  He gathered her in his arms, so that her cheek pressed against his heart. He could not deny how much he needed her warmth, how much he wanted her love. His possessive hand stroked her silken curls, and the scent of her hair filled his head, almost stealing his senses. He knew that Alexandra was still sexually innocent, and a wave of protectiveness swept over him. He removed his arms and reached for his bedrobe to cover his nakedness. When she came back into his arms, he imagined the black velvet that covered his bare flesh would be barrier enough to keep her safe from his rampant desire, but Nicholas had not reckoned with Alexandra’s irresistible allure. She lifted her lips in sweet invitation, and his mouth touched hers softly, gently at first. The sensations she aroused were so heady a temptation that he deepened the kiss. When her lips parted, he entered the hot cave of her mouth and lingered there, reveling in the taste of her and the warm, sensual scent of her skin.

  “Nicholas, please let me love you.”

  Her whispered plea was too hard to resist. He pulled her down beside him, opened the velvet robe, and drew her inside. They touched, and caressed, and whispered for hours. At last he undressed her slowly, exploring, savoring, stroking, and tasting her until she cried out in her need. Finally, in desperation, he knew he must bring her release the only way he could without taking her virginity. He opened her slender thighs and trailed his lips across her warm, satin flesh.

  Nick awoke with a start. His erection throbbed painfully and his body was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. The dream was still with him in vivid detail, even her jasmine scent lingered on his sheets. Christ, he had actually been making love to Alexandra with his mouth! He threw back the covers and quit the bed, as disgust for his lust engulfed him. What the hell was the matter with him? His father lay dead, yet all he could think of was making love to the woman who would become his brother’s bride. He went to the window and filled his lungs with the cold, fresh air of the night. When his blood cooled and a semblance of sanity returned, a rueful smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Thank God it was only a dream, you randy swine,” he whispered mockingly.

  The week that followed confirmed all of Nick Hatton’s suspicions. Condolences poured in for Christopher, the new Lord Hatton, while Nicholas received nary a card. Nick was relieved that the solicitous attention Kit received buoyed his brother’s spirits and helped him pull himself together to play the role of bereaved but dutiful son. Though Nick knew his brother cringed inwardly, Kit agreed to act as pallbearer, along with his twin, his father’s cousin, John Eaton, and Eaton’s son, Jeremy.

  The funeral, which was well attended by the wealthy families of the surrounding counties, gave polite society the opportunity to pay their respects to Henry Hatton and to curry favor with the new baron. At the same time, it allowed them to slake their curiosity about the younger twin, who, on the day before his twenty-first birthday, had shot his father to death. Accidentally, of course.

  July turned into August before the late Lord Hatton’s solicitor made the journey from London to Hatton Hall for the reading of the will. Mr. Burke showed Tobias Jacobs into the library, where shortly he was joined by the Hatton twins.

  The solicitor introduced himself, trying to hide his amazement that the two men were physically identical. As he wondered which twin was the heir, he indicated his heavy leather portfolio and asked, “May I take the liberty of using your father’s desk?”

  “My desk,” Christopher corrected. He waved a negligent hand toward the mahogany desk. “Please, feel free.”

  Jacobs cleared his throat. “Thank you, Lord Hatton.”

  The twins seated themselves and waited politely as the silence in the room stretched out until it became awkward. They watched Jacobs shuffle his papers and heard him clear his throat two or three times before he found his voice.

  “Lord Hatton’s will differs from the norm in many respects. Please bear with me while I explain. It is usual under the circumstances for a man of wealth and position to acknowledge those who have given lifelong service and make provision for them. When I brought the oversight to his attention, your father informed me that it was not an oversight. He insisted that the servants received adequate wages for their services, and I could not persuade him to bequeath them even a token stipend.” Jacobs cleared his throat again and glanced over his wire-rimmed glasses at Christopher Hatton. “You may rectify this, of course.”

  The solicitor picked up another piece of parchment and read:

  “To my beloved son and heir, Christopher Flynn Hatton, I hand down my baronial title. To Christopher I also bequeath Hatton Hall and Hatton Great Park, with all its property and acres.” Jacobs drew in a deep breath before he continued, “To Christopher I also bequeath all monies deposited in Barclays Bank and all investments held in my name by John Eaton, my financial advisor and sole trustee of this my last will and testament.”

  Jacobs cleared his throat once more as he selected another sheet of parchment. His hand shook slightly, making the paper rustle.

  “To Christopher I also bequeath Hatton Grange horse farm, its stock, and all the attached property and acres.”

  “You mistake, Jacobs,” Christopher pointed out. “I believe my father left Hatton Grange to my brother.”

  Nick sat like stone as a cold finger of premonition touched his heart. Before Jacobs spoke, he knew what the solicitor would say.

  “No, Lord Hatton, there is no mistake. Your father bequeathed Hatton Grange to you, his heir.” Tobias Jacobs dropped the parchment and spread his hands apologetically. “It is usual that when the elder son inherits the entire estate from his father, the younger son inherits any maternal property brought to the marriage by the mother. I am speaking, of course, of the Curzon Street town house in London, which was part and parcel of Kathleen Flynn’s dowry. Once again, the late Lord Hatton has deviated from the conventional path. He has bequeathed the Curzon Street town house to his heir, Christopher.”

  Again, Jacobs looked over the rim of his glasses, then his glance dropped to the will. “These are your father’s own words: ‘I give, devise, and bequeath my entire estate, both real and personal, to my first-born son, Christopher Flynn Hatton.’ ” He stood up from the desk and looked from one twin to the other. “I will give you some privacy. When I return there are certain legal papers, documents, and deeds that will require your signature, Lord Hatton.”

  When the twins were alone, Christopher burst out laughing. “Well, I’ll be damned. The old swine didn’t hate me after all!”

  “No, Kit, he loved you.” In his own twisted way.

  “Christ, the old pisspot sure as hell held a grudge against you, though. Right up to the end he blamed you for killing our mother. I can’t get over it … he left
me everything, and you nothing!”

  “My name appears nowhere in the will. He avoided it as if I didn’t exist.” Nick was stunned, though he suddenly realized that he should not have been surprised in the least that their father was reaching back from the grave with his all-controlling hand to wreak havoc. What he had done was deliberately designed to destroy the bond between his twin sons. He had never been able to affect their closeness while he lived, so his will was his last desperate attempt to cause a breach between them. Nick clenched his jaw and vowed that his father’s devious methods would never succeed in alienating them.

  “If Hatton Hall, Hatton Grange, and the Curzon Street town house now belong to me, where the devil will you live?” Kit asked.

  “Champagne Charlie’s, perhaps,” Nick replied lightly.

  Kit laughed uproariously. “I’m jesting! Hatton Hall may be in my name, but it will always be your home too, Nick.”

  “Thank you, I accept your generous offer.”

  “And I shall give you an allowance too, of course.”

  Nicholas, a master at masking his emotions, inwardly recoiled at his brother’s words. Give me an allowance? Surely, you are not serious, Christopher? The insult was horrendous! The lion raised his proud head and stared at his brother with disdain. “I am a grown man, Kit. Don’t cast me in the role of beggar, while you play magnanimous lord of the manor, offering me your charity.”

  “Damn you, Nick! Can’t you even pretend to feed my vanity? I simply thought you might need me for once, instead of it always being the other way about.”

  I have too much pride, and you, too little. God help us both, Nick thought grimly. He was no saint. Indeed, he felt a great deal of resentment that though he had worked like a demon to make Hatton Grange horse farm a financial success, he would reap none of the benefits. It was most ironic that last month he had sold a dozen sleek geldings to the Horse Guards, helping to fill Hatton’s coffers. It was even more ironic that though Kit had never lifted a finger to help with the work of the Grange, he would now receive every penny of the profits. The only animals left at the Grange were the breeding mares and the colts they had foaled in the spring. Nick had bred them all himself, so he knew the proprietary feelings that rose up within him were only natural. He realized that he had always thought of the Hatton Grange land as his. It was where he had planned to build his own house when he married. A mocking smile curved his mouth at the thought of matrimony. Who the hell would wed a penniless second son?

  Nicholas realized he was dangerously close to self-pity, and he was saved by a low knock upon the library door. Tobias Jacobs entered and cleared his throat. “Am I intruding, Lord Hatton?”

  “Of course not,” Christopher replied, moving toward the desk. “Let’s get the legalities out of the way.” He read the papers that Jacobs spread before him and signed the documents.

  “I shall file copies of the title deeds so that they may be registered in your name, and herewith present to you the original property deeds for safekeeping.” The deeds he handed Kit bore official red seals. “As soon as it is convenient, you should present yourself at Barclays Bank, my lord. They too will require your signature. It would also be prudent to see John Eaton, your late father’s financier, who will advise you about Hatton investments. As sole trustee of the will, he’ll no doubt be anticipating your visit.”

  “You know, Jacobs, I take offense that I wasn’t named as a trustee along with John Eaton,” Kit complained petulantly.

  “I am sure that your father meant no offense to you, my lord. When the late Lord Hatton made his will, you were not yet twenty-one, and he trusted Eaton’s advice implicitly regarding the family’s finances.”

  Nick frowned. “As trustee, I presume that John Eaton is already in possession of a copy of our father’s last will and testament?”

  “You presume correctly, sir,” Jacobs replied.

  Nicholas wondered fleetingly who else knew that he had been cut out of his father’s will without a penny. His reputation as black sheep would assuredly be complete once word got around.

  When their business was finished, Christopher took up the whiskey decanter and offered Jacobs a drink for the road. The solicitor declined quickly. “I never indulge in strong liquor, Lord Hatton. I am sure you will appreciate that men in my position need be in control of their wits at all times.”

  Amused, Kit raised an eyebrow, along with his glass. “I certainly appreciate that men in my position need not.”

  Jacobs was not amused. He gathered up his papers, secured the straps on his leather portfolio, and walked directly to the library door. “I bid you good evening, Lord Hatton.” He exited with a slight bow.

  “Humorless old stick! His mind’s as dry as a bloody desert.”

  Rather like your throat these days. But Nick knew if he voiced his disapproval, Kit would imbibe twice as much.

  Kit winked at his twin and hoisted his glass in an irreverent toast: “Here’s to being first!”

  Nick’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile. He appreciated the irony, if not the humor. He said on a more sober note, “It was shameless of Father not to mention Mr. Burke or Meg Riley in the will. You must rectify that immediately.”

  “Must I?” Christopher drained his glass and grinned. “Thirsty work, coming into an inheritance. Since my presence is required at Barclays Bank, let’s go up to London tomorrow and celebrate. I’ll invite Rupert to join us. I definitely feel the need to shake off the gloom of Hatton Hall.”

  “Not tomorrow. You should call on John Eaton before you go.”

  “What the devil for?” Kit brushed back the hair from his brow.

  “You have business matters to discuss.” Nick schooled himself to patience. “You need to know how he has invested Hatton money. You need to know how much there is and what return he is getting on your money. I don’t believe Father ever discussed these matters with you … You are completely in the dark, Kit.”

  “I don’t give a fiddler’s fart about business. If you’re so interested, you go and talk with him, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Don’t be so obtuse. It would be highly unethical for Eaton to discuss your investments with me. I’ve been cut off without a farthing. What the hellfire would it look like if I went to him with questions about your inheritance?”

  “You are the one who is being obtuse, old man. Simply visit Eaton and present yourself as the very charming and wealthy Lord Hatton. You take care of business and I’ll take care of pleasure!”

  Nicholas kept a tight rein on his thoughts and emotions until he retired to the privacy of his own chamber. There, however, he gave vent to his anger and to his sense of loss. It felt as if a great, gaping hole filled his insides and was rapidly expanding toward his heart. Once more he was in mourning. This time it was over the loss of his dreams—and his future. A scratching at the door distracted him, and he moved across the room to admit Leo.

  He walked slowly to the mirror and looked at the face reflected there. The gray eyes that stared back at him were filled with self-righteous indignation, and suddenly he began to laugh at himself. He was still Nicholas Hatton, unchanged in any way by the events of the last fortnight. Just as he was still the younger twin, he was also still the stronger one. He had thumbed his nose at fate all his life; he sure as hell wasn’t about to stop now. He was a man who was comfortable in his own skin. Neither his father’s death, nor the will, could affect who he was at his core. He, and he alone, was in control of his life; no one could take his future from him, least of all a dead man.

  Nicholas poured water into the bowl and stripped off his shirt. He eyed his naked torso and acknowledged with male pride that his shoulders were certainly broad enough to withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. He took up his razor, knowing it was male pride that made him shave twice a day. Born under the sign of the lion, he had an abundance of regal pride, and he had always ruled his own domain. He looked down at the wolfhound and spoke aloud. “Remember, there are no timid
Leos. They are courageous, fierce, and wild, and they can bear anything with stoic dignity. The lion holds center stage and never lowers his proud head.”

  Leo gave a sharp bark of agreement that made Nick throw back his head in laughter. When he finally lay in bed with his arms folded behind his head, Nicholas felt as if a great burden had been lifted from him. He vowed to put boyhood dreams aside and plan for the future. Suddenly, a vision of Alexandra came to him full-blown, and he examined his feelings honestly. For the first time he admitted that he wanted her and acknowledged that he had been toying with the notion that if his brother truly didn’t desire her for his wife, perhaps he could woo and win her for himself. With a bittersweet pang of regret, Nick realized this was the first dream that must be set aside. Alex could never be his now. More than anything in the world she feared becoming the wife of a penniless fortune hunter. Her future lay with Kit. She was destined to become Baroness Hatton. So be it.

  Chapter Seven

  Alexandra Sheffield sat engrossed, reading a novel by none other than Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, which Dottie had provided when Alex had plied her with questions about Hart Cavendish’s notorious mother.

  “Read this if you wish to satisfy your curiosity about the infamous Georgiana. The Sylph is a thinly disguised autobiography in which she pours out her heart on the unspeakable twaddle that obsessed her, namely husband, marriage, friends, and herself. It was written as revenge when she learned her husband had a mistress,” her grandmother informed her.

  The book was written in a series of letters by her sweet, young heroine, Julia, an innocent from the country who came to London to marry a wealthy man of fashion.

  All my hopes are that I may acquit myself so as to gain the approbation of my husband. Husband! What a sound has that when pronounced by a girl barely seventeen … and one whose knowledge of the world is purely speculative.

  It was obvious to Alex that Georgiana/Julia longed for her husband’s adoration when she described attending a ball: I saw his eyes were on me the whole time; but I cannot flatter myself so far as to say that they were the looks of love; they seemed to be rather the eyes of scrutiny, which were on the watch, yet afraid they should see something unpleasing. Alexandra knew exactly how Georgiana had felt. Nicholas Hatton looked at her this way!