Lady of Desire

by Gaelen Foley

  Alerted of their arrival by a footman, she joined them in the hallway outside his father’s sickroom.

  “Mother.” Checking his habitual irritation with the woman, he bent and gave her a dutiful kiss on the cheek. “How are you faring?”

  “I am tired,” she admitted with a sigh full of martyrdom, “but, oh, it is just so good of you to come, William. I was not sure if you would.”

  “You have my wife to thank for it,” he said meaningfully.

  Lady Truro turned warily to Jacinda.

  Jacinda curtseyed, lowering her head. “Madam.”

  “How do you do,” his mother said coolly.

  “I am so sorry for the sufferings that have been visited upon Lord Truro. It must be a very difficult time for you.”

  Her compassionate words took both Rackford and Lady Truro off guard. Why, the girl could be as diplomatic as Lucien when she wanted to, he thought.

  “Thank you, my dear,” the marchioness answered cautiously, nodding to her. “I hope you will enjoy your stay. The gardens are in bloom if you care to walk in them, and the beach is very pleasant this time of year—only mind you bring a parasol. The sun is very strong. ’Twill ruin your lovely complexion.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I shall be mindful.”

  Rackford was impressed. Lady Truro eyed the eighteen-year-old Jacinda’s milky skin in envy, but said nothing.

  It was not lost on Rackford that his mother had still not congratulated them on their marriage nor extended toward Jacinda even a token “welcome to the family.” He pushed the vexing thought aside. “How is he?”

  “Weak,” Lady Truro replied, then paused. “And frightened, as well. The paralysis has affected his speech. You mustn’t anger him, William—”

  “I never try to anger him, Mother.”

  “The surgeon, Mr. Plimpton, is with him now. He says His Lordship must be kept calm. Another bout of anger is all that is needed to trigger a second fit of the apoplexy. If that happens, your father will die.”

  Rackford considered for a long moment. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go in. He could fly into a rage merely seeing me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he will be glad you’ve come. You must go in. You’ve traveled all this way.”

  “Aye, on my honeymoon,” he reminded her, resting his hands on his waist.

  “Indeed.” The marchioness looked away.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Rackford exchanged a bolstering look with Jacinda. She gave him a subtle nod.

  “Right,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with. You don’t have to go in there with me. It is bound to be unpleasant.”

  “I am going with you,” she said firmly, slipping her hand in his.

  She followed a step behind him as he opened the door, but Rackford released her hand as he ventured into his father’s chamber. The sight of the man stopped him in his tracks. My God.

  The surgeon was wrapping the marquess’s arm from the incision where he had just treated his patient with another bloodletting. His father was ghastly pale. The once mighty and terrifying Lord Truro appeared dwarfed in the vast state bed, a ruined god. He seemed to have aged twenty years instead of a mere few weeks since the last time Rackford had seen him. The ruddy tone of his skin had faded to a waxen pallor. The rest of his dark hair had turned gray at his ordeal. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes were sunken, and the left side of his mouth sagged in a permanent snarl. When his gaze swung to them, however, his eyes blazed with a wild emerald brightness, as hell-bent as ever.

  “So, the vultures have begun circling already,” he drawled, slurring only a little more pronouncedly than when he was foxed.

  Jacinda’s eyes widened at his taunting remark, but Rackford’s nostrils flared as he inhaled slowly, determined to keep his cool.

  “Try to contain your delight, my lord. I am here for Mother’s sake, not yours.” He sauntered into the chamber with a careless air of insolence.

  Mr. Plimpton glanced at him in alarm. “With all due respect, sir, His Lordship is not to be agitated.”

  Truro snorted. “Little bastard’s been agitating me since the day he was born.”

  “Am I a bastard, Father? Is that why you hate me so?” Rackford asked in a pleasant tone, leaning against the satinwood highboy.

  “What do you think?” Truro grumbled.

  Jacinda looked from father to son, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry, wife. I am quite legitimate. Can’t you see the resemblance?” he asked bitterly.

  “Rackford,” she warned him softly.

  He scowled at her, then folded his arms across his chest and lowered his gaze, stewing. Why had he come here? Simply to give his father one last chance to hurt and humiliate him, this time in front of his bride? He knew that Truro’s hackles were up because his almighty pride could not bear for anyone to see him this way, enfeebled and struck down seemingly by the hand of God as a punishment for his brutality. But Rackford, too, felt himself moving into an equally harsh mood. He could not countenance his father’s insults when he had come all this way just to take the enormous risk of showing one more time that some daft, small part of him…cared.

  Jacinda glanced worriedly at him, then broke the stormy silence. “We are very sorry for your suffering, my lord. We have come to do whatever we can to help you recover as speedily as possible.”

  “Prettily spoken, child. But I am not a fool.” He dragged his piercing stare away from Rackford and inspected her.

  Instantly, Rackford felt his protective instincts rising.

  “You’ve merely come to butter me up to make sure I leave you my fortune as well as the properties.”

  Perhaps it was so many weeks of managing the famous curmudgeon Lord Drummond that enabled her to smile at Truro’s baiting rudeness. “Don’t be absurd, my lord. I’ve a dowry of a hundred thousand pounds and an estate of my own in Hertfordshire. It was left in trust to me as a wedding gift from my papa, the eighth duke of Hawkscliffe,” she said, her tone sharpening ever so slightly as she reminded him of her rank, “who—if we are speaking vulgarly—was as rich as Croesus. Rackford and I shan’t starve.”

  “Well, you are a cheeky thing, ain’t you?”

  “I give as good as I get, my lord. That is all.”

  “Damn your impudence, girl—”

  “Father,” Rackford warned between gritted teeth,

  “you are speaking to my wife.”

  “Perhaps Lord and Lady Rackford should withdraw,” Mr. Plimpton said anxiously.

  “Ach, let them stay,” Truro grumbled. “They’re not upsetting me.”

  “No, Father. You must listen to your doctor,” Rackford said coldly. “Come along, Jacinda.”

  But she did not follow. Standing by Truro’s bedside, she folded her arms across her chest and studied him.

  “What’s this, you want to climb into bed with me?”

  “Father!” Rackford said, aghast, but Jacinda merely rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t frighten me, you know, nor do I shock easily.”

  “No wonder, considering who your mother was.”

  “That will do, sir!” Rackford feared he would have a fit of apoplexy himself if his father said one more indecent word to his bride.

  “It’s all right, Rackford,” Jacinda said drily, noting his appalled expression. “His comments don’t bother me. At least he says them to my face. To be sure, he is an ogre, but I actually think…this may be his way of being friendly.”

  The fixed snarl on Truro’s lips widened in what might have been a piratelike, lopsided sort of grin. “Bugger off, ye cheeky wench!”

  “Humph,” she answered skeptically. “Get your rest, you ogre. With any luck, it may improve your disposition.”

  Rackford put his arm around her and escorted her bodily out of the sickroom. In the corridor, she waved off his flurry of mortified apologies with a little laugh.

  “We’ll leave immediately—”

  “Nonsense. Do you want to give him
the satisfaction of knowing he successfully chased us off within ten minutes? Come, show me to the kitchens! I want to try this fabled Cornish cream.”

  He gazed thoughtfully at her for a second, then shrugged, sighed, and shook his head. She smiled and tucked her dainty hand through the crook of his arm; he escorted her to Cook’s domain in the back of the house.

  Soon, they were sitting at the scuffed wooden worktable in the kitchens. The windows were open, admitting the evening breeze. Cook bustled about, humming and laughing and telling them stories of the local people, who had married whom during his absence. Pleasant as it was, Rackford could feel the memories swirling around him like unseen sharks beneath the surface of the present. He could feel them circling closer; he kept his smile pasted on by sheer dint of will.

  Proud and beaming, Mrs. Landry placed two bowls of cream in front of them, then poured on the warm, dark treacle. “There you are, Master Billy. Just the way you like it, only fifteen years late in coming,” she added softly. “You never did get to eat it.”

  He turned to her with a fractured look. Fifteen years.

  “Oh, it’s heavenly, Mrs. Landry!” Tasting it, Jacinda raved in ecstasy, but Rackford, suddenly, could only sit there, rigidly immobile, stricken, staring down into his bowl with tears blurring his vision.

  Every detail of that horrible night filled his mind with vivid, excruciating clarity. He did not realize he was shaking until he saw his hand trembling; he held his spoon in a white-knuckled grip, as though it were a weapon.

  He was staring at the melting mush of treacle and cream, but his mind was a million miles away.

  “Billy?” Jacinda’s tone had instantly sobered. She touched his arm gently. “Darling?”

  “Excuse me. I’m sorry. I can’t—excuse me.” He pushed up abruptly from the table and walked out, blinded by tears and gritting his teeth against the sheer anguish of the sob he felt building in the back of his throat. He refused to give in to it.

  “Billy!”

  He heard the door creak as Jacinda ran out after him, but he pulled his arm away when she came and touched him. He refused to meet her gaze, pushing his hand roughly through his hair.

  “Leave me for a while. I need to walk.”

  “I’ll come with you—”

  “No. Just—I’ll be fine, all right?”

  She searched his face. “Are you sure?”

  He stole a brief, sideward glance at her and gave a curt nod. Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, he trudged off through the fading twilight toward the beach.

  Jacinda gazed in distress at his broad, retreating back as Rackford walked away.

  Oh, what a mess this family was, she thought. She had seen the fractured look in his eyes; she had no intention of leaving him alone for more than a few minutes. Taking note of which direction he had walked, she turned around and went back inside.

  She exchanged a worried look with Mrs. Landry, thanked the woman for her kindness, then ventured back up to Truro’s sickroom. When she knocked quietly, the surgeon answered. The marquess was still awake. Promising Mr. Plimpton that she would be brief, she was admitted to see him.

  “Back for more, are you? What do you want this time?” he demanded hoarsely in his slurred voice as she sat down on the chair beside his bed.

  “You and your son,” she said, “remind me of the old saying about a rock and a hard place.”

  “Humph. Demmed bullheaded, that one. Always was.”

  She smiled wryly at him for a moment before her expression sobered. “My lord, you must know you hurt William very deeply. He is a good man, and I suspect you are secretly proud of him.” She ignored his snort of denial. “I am begging you to tell him so. Mr. Plimpton has surely explained the seriousness of your condition. There may not be another chance. It was not easy for Rackford to come here, but I insisted he give you the chance to apologize.”

  “Apologize!” he demanded in a shaky tone. “Why, you impertinent little baggage!” He started to sit up from the bed, but lay back again with a wince of pain. He glared banefully at her. “Do you know what my father taught me, Lady Rackford? Never apologize to anyone! What good does it do, when it is too late and the damage is already done?”

  “You still have time to undo some of that damage, my lord. I don’t know if you deserve to be forgiven, but what I do know is that your son is here. All he wants from you is one kind word.”

  “I saved his life, didn’t I? I got him out of Newgate.”

  “In William’s view, that was merely for your own interests, not because you care about him.”

  “Care about him?” he retorted. “Didn’t you see the curricle I bought him? The horses? Did he tell you I gave him an allowance of a hundred-fifty pounds a week?”

  “Is it honestly beyond your power to admit that you love him? To say you are glad to have found him alive? He cannot see it, but you don’t fool me. I see how you look at him. I know you are proud of him and that in your own flawed way, you do love him. But how is he to know if you don’t say it? Surely you have the courage to speak a few simple words that could change everything for him. Is that too much to give to save your soul?”

  “You are cruel.” He looked away, pressing his head against his pillow. “Leave me,” he whispered after a moment. “Mr. Plimpton, show my daughter out.”

  Jacinda was so taken aback by his acknowledgment of her as his kin that she paused and squeezed his hand—his right hand, for the left he kept curled lamely against him since the apoplexy. It was the same hand that had bloodied Billy’s face so often as a boy. She let go of it quickly, tears shining in her eyes before she quickly blinked them away.

  “May God have mercy on you, Lord Truro. I will keep you in my prayers.” She left the sickroom, her skirts whispering over the hardwood floors. Returning downstairs, she went outside in search of Rackford.

  At once, the sea breeze ran riot through her hair and rippled gracefully through her skirts. She exited past the clouds of moths that fluttered about the brass lamps fixed on either side of the back door. Beneath the dark sky full of stars, bats swooped overhead. She followed the path through the moonlit rose garden out to the rickety wooden steps leading down to the beach.

  Far off the shore, there was an islet with a lighthouse whose search-beam swept the black waves in a slow, continual rhythm, but its solitary ray was not strong enough to penetrate the darkness of the sandy cove below.

  She felt her way carefully down the stairs, steadying herself on the rough handrail. She heard—indeed, felt in her chest—the vigorous power of wave after lulling wave beating the rocks. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the deeper darkness away from the illumination of the house, she made out the white plumes of sea spray where the waves broke.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the precarious wooden stairs, the dim glow of the stars showed her the dark wonderland of bizarre rock formations that rose up amid the sand—stone arches and somber, gnarled pillars roughly coated in green velvet lichen. Around them, the bed of sand was soft and pale. It muffled all sound like a blanket, so she did not bother calling out to him when she spied her husband standing upon a cluster of large, black rocks over the crashing waves.

  The lighthouse beam revealed him in its fleeting glow. He was staring out to sea, his profile bleak and wistful. The wind riffled through the longer front section of his dark gold hair and billowed through his loose white shirtsleeves.

  Jacinda paused to take off her shoes and stockings, then walked toward him through the cool, deep sand. She noticed he had taken off his cravat. He was barefooted, as well, his black trousers rolled up around his shins. Having left his coat draped over his chair in Mrs. Landry’s kitchen, he had unbuttoned his waistcoat, as well. He was throwing rocks into the ocean, but he stopped when he saw her approaching.

  He was tall, lean, magnetically handsome—a man in his prime. But when he turned to her, his face looked haunted, and his eyes were those of a lonely little boy.

  She wasn’t
sure what to say. He leaned down, stretching out his hand toward her. She lifted her skirts around her ankles, ventured through the little moat of seawater that ringed the boulders, and accepted his warm grasp. He pulled her up onto the rocks. At once, she gasped, feeling the sea foam fleck her face.

  Rackford leaned down and kissed her cheek, tasting the salt on her skin. Instead of pulling back, however, he leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She captured his face between her hands and held him like that, gently.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.” Starlight limned the hard planes and angles of his face as he drew back, staring into her eyes. “Perhaps you can explain one thing to me.”

  “What’s that, darling? I will try.” Gazing earnestly into his eyes, she stroked his hair. “I so want to help.”

  “Why do you love me?” he asked barely audibly.

  His question took her aback, but her heart welled with devotion. She caressed his face slowly. “So many reasons. You’re intelligent, brave, loyal, strong, caring, gentle, honorable, chivalrous, charming, kind, forgiving, patient, wise.” He turned to her with a look of surprise, but she wasn’t through. “You always keep your word; you make me laugh; you listen to what I have to say; you have interesting views on things; you’re incredibly handsome; a magnificent lover—I could go on.”

  His lips twisting in a rueful smile, he looked away, slightly abashed.

  “I consider you not merely a wonderful husband and a beloved friend, but a great man, destined to make the world a better place—especially for those who have no voice. That’s why I married you—aside from your tattoos, of course.”

  “Do you really mean all that?” he asked, staring at the sea.

  “With all my heart,” she whispered slowly, emphatically, sliding her arms around him. “You are one of the most genuinely good people I’ve ever met.”

  “You think I’m a good person?” he asked, turning to her in surprise.

  “Of course. Don’t you think so?”

  He shrugged, then leaned his head on her shoulder without answering.