She stared at him, refusing to make a promise she couldn’t keep, unlike him. Leaving him was exactly what she must do for her own sake. “Please vacate my chamber. I don’t want you here.”
“Very well.” He offered her an abbreviated bow. “I won’t linger where I’m not wanted. But listen to what I’ve said. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him, watching as he walked away, leaving her well and truly alone.
Early the next morning, it came to Pembroke’s attention that there was a vast assemblage of trunks being loaded onto his carriage. Still shaken from his confrontation with Victoria the night before, he stalked out into the grayish dawn light to determine what was in the works.
Footmen tramped in and out of the house bearing wieldy valises. His wife was overseeing the packing along with Mrs. Morton. Victoria was dressed to perfection, as usual, wearing a plum-and-black silk dress buttoned up to the neck, adorned with dyed lace and jet beads. His little American had blossomed into a true beauty to rival any English lady, and he didn’t deserve her. He’d never deserved her, just as petite souris had never been a fitting description of her. She was fierce and kind and giving and trusting. All of the bloody things he wasn’t.
Her gaze caught his. She didn’t bother to offer any deference. Instead, she excused herself from the housekeeper and crunched to him across the stone drive. Her dashing hat made her seem taller. He affixed his stare to the plume of ostrich feathers pointing to the heavens. Christ. This couldn’t be what he thought it was.
“I’m leaving you, Pembroke.”
Or perhaps it could be after all. Bloody hell.
The wind blew ever so gently. Orris root. Her mere scent affected him. His jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to hers. Her expression was tight, her lips drawn into the imperious frown he knew so well. She was leaving him. Forever. His gut clenched, as if he’d just woken from a bout of all-night whisky drinking and he needed to cast up his accounts.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m returning to New York.”
New York was an ocean away. He couldn’t speak as the implications of her announcement became clear to him. She didn’t plan on coming back to England. She no longer wanted to be his wife. Jesus, the thought left him cold.
“Then you shall be free to live life without the encumbrance of a wife,” she said, interrupting his troubled musings. “Your family will, of course, keep everything. I’m only taking my trousseau. You may inspect the trunks if you like.”
He didn’t want to inspect the bloody trunks. He wanted to have them hauled back into his home, damn it. “What are you on about, Victoria? You cannot simply run off to New York.”
“Of course I can.” Her voice was quiet, tinged with an emotion he couldn’t define. “You don’t want me anyway, and you never have.”
“Damn you, that’s not true.” He realized that in his agitation, he was nearly hollering at her, and lowered his tone. “Not precisely. Initially, it was different between us. I’ll own I resented you and treated you worse than a dockside doxy. But I’ve come to admire you. I cannot change what’s happened in the past, but I can make the future what it ought to be. I want to be a true husband to you, Victoria.”
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I’ve realized that you are nothing but a liar, ready to spin whatever tale gets you what you want in the moment. Even your own father says as much. But I’m no longer your fool. You wouldn’t even begin to know how to be a true husband.”
He knew he’d lost the right to her respect. The man he’d been wouldn’t have noticed the loss. In truth, the man he’d become was rather disgusted with the man he’d been, so embittered by his past that he’d been willing to use and hurt anyone to exact revenge. He didn’t blame his wife for her poor opinion of him. He’d earned it.
“I’ve never claimed to be a good man. But I do love you.”
She stilled. He held his breath, hoping his feelings would mean something to her. “Do not speak of love to me ever again,” she all but spat, dashing his optimism. “You know nothing of it.”
“You don’t belong in New York.” He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling utterly impotent as he never had before. “You belong at my side, as my wife.”
“I don’t want to be your wife any longer, Pembroke.” She tilted her chin, her expression taking on the stubbornness he’d come to expect from her. “I want to go back to my true home, and this time I won’t be dissuaded.”
Deuce it, why wouldn’t she listen to reason? They shared a deep passion together. He loved her. She’d said she loved him too. That had to mean something to her. Christ, but he’d bollixed this up.
“I know I should have told you the truth,” he admitted. “I’m every manner of bastard the duke told you I am. Indeed, I daresay worse. But never doubt that I love you, damn you.”
“Stop. Don’t say another word.” She shook her head as if she were trying to dispel his words from her mind. “I won’t be your pawn. You may as well cry defeat.”
He took her hands in his, determined not to allow her to run away from him. Their gazes clashed. He was as drawn to her as ever. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”
A lengthy silence settled between them.
“I don’t love you,” she said at last, but she looked beyond him at the façade of Carrington House. “There, now unhand me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She tore away from his grasp as if his touch disgusted her. “I don’t care if you do or if you don’t. It no longer matters. I wish you a happy life, Pembroke. Truly, I do.”
She turned and gave him her back, clipping back across the drive to Mrs. Morton’s side. Another crashing wave of nausea smacked him in the gut. He was going to be sick, and Victoria was stolid, unwilling to be persuaded. He’d imagined that somehow he could convince her to see reason, for she couldn’t leave him. Not now when they’d merely begun.
He turned on his heel and stalked away before he embarrassed himself by losing last night’s supper in front of the wife who was leaving him and the servants who assisted in her flight. He only made it to the front entry before he lost the fragile grip he’d had on his control.
He’d simply allowed her to go. Victoria turned back for one last glimpse of Carrington House before the carriage ambled around the bend in the drive that would render it impossible to see. The imposing edifice stood stark against a graying sky, as arrogant as its owner. She’d come to think of its every tower, leaky roof and smudged window as hers to watch over. Over her months there, Carrington House had truly begun to feel like home.
Of course, if she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge that it hadn’t felt like a home until Will’s return. But his return had been cloaked in lies, made only for his own gain and not out of any wish to be at her side. She turned to face forward, knowing there was no use in dwelling upon his betrayal. If she did, it would only devastate her.
Foolishly, she’d been hoping he would do something dramatic, perhaps chase after her, keep her from leaving. Instead, he’d merely stalked back into his sprawling country house without a backward look. A fitting end, she supposed, for a marriage that had begun and ended in deception. He didn’t care. He never had.
Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away as best she could. Her lady’s maid Keats sat opposite her as the carriage swayed, an awkward silence stretching between them. She knew it wasn’t done to speak openly of private matters with one’s servants, but Victoria had also come to realize that belowstairs knew far more of the comings and goings of its masters than the lords and ladies ever supposed.
“I’m leaving his lordship,” she told Keats. What did decorum matter anyway? She’d had enough of the odd world of the English aristocracy. She longed for New York, for familiar faces, her younger sisters, her parents. She didn’t belong here, and she knew that now more than ever.
“Oh
dear, my lady.” The kindly Keats appeared genuinely concerned. “I’d heard whispers that something was amiss between you and his lordship, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Nor did I.” She swallowed a sob rather than allow it to escape and further humiliate her. “However, I’m afraid he’s left me with no choice.”
They were off to London. Staying one more day beneath the same roof as him and the duke had been insupportable. She’d sent word ahead to her friend Maggie of her impromptu arrival. After all, she hardly wanted to take up residence in the Belgravia house where he’d kept his paramour. Even if she only intended to linger a few days while she planned her passage back to America, she wanted no reminders of her husband’s indiscretions and intolerable behavior.
“Everyone belowstairs said he’d changed so much because of you, my lady,” Keats offered. “He even took an interest in the running of the estate and gave raises to the servants who’d been at Carrington House for five years or more. My dear mother always said love is like a stocking that always needs darning. Are you very certain that whatever’s happened can’t be repaired?”
Victoria hadn’t known he’d begun making changes of his own. That he’d cared enough to reward loyal retainers came as a shock to her. When she’d suggested it, he hadn’t seemed to take the notion under much consideration. She knew too that he’d been poring over the ledgers and looking into repairs that were required in the east wing.
But learning a sense of responsibility for his land and people did not mean that he was a faithful, trustworthy husband. Though it was hard indeed, she had to keep that first in her mind. She thought of her maid’s assertion that love was like a stocking and summoned up a sad smile. “You know, Keats, I do believe your mother was right. Love is like a stocking, but eventually it becomes too worn and you simply can’t mend it any longer. Once it reaches that point, all you can do is toss it away.”
If only tossing her love for Will away was as easy as that. She turned her attention to the slowly passing scenery, a muddle of pastoral beauty and lush green that was lost upon her. As the carriage swayed on, the clouds finally opened and unleashed a torrent of thunder and rain.
Will was devoting himself to the business of getting completely and thoroughly foxed. After he’d embarrassed himself by casting up his accounts all over the front hall, his pride hadn’t allowed him to chase after her. No, instead, he’d found a bottle of fine whisky and had drained it to the last drop. He woke the next morning on the floor of the music room with an aching head and stiff back, still wearing his clothing from the previous day. Wallowing in self-disgust, he’d discovered a bottle of brandy in his study and begun all over again.
He tossed back the contents of his glass and stared with grim intent at the cuts in the crystal. She didn’t want him. She’d finally had enough, and she’d gone. He couldn’t blame her either. Damn it, he should have told her the truth when he’d first begun to have feelings for her. Telling her and making amends would have been so much easier before he’d allowed it to go too far. Maria’s unexpected arrival had not helped matters, but he didn’t fool himself on that score. The duke had been behind Victoria’s departure. Damn the old meddling bastard to hell.
As he poured his third glass of brandy and soda water, the duke abruptly burst into his study. His blue gaze, so like Will’s own, was cold as always, his face a mask of disdain.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re getting inebriated again,” his father drawled, his voice laced with condemnation.
It was a tone he’d become accustomed to from the duke, but he wasn’t in the mood to be harassed. He was a powder keg. One more spark, and he’d explode. He stiffened, trying to calm himself before he responded. Allowing the duke to see how deeply he affected him would not do. It was precisely why he’d been avoiding his father.
“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head but refusing to stand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your illustrious company?”
“You have disappointed me your entire life, but this goes beyond the pale.” The duke stalked across the carpet, stopping at the escritoire to slam his fist upon its polished surface. “You have had one duty in your miserable existence, and somehow you’ve managed to fail at it. I have it on good authority that you’ve bedded half the tarts of London and yet you won’t bed your own countess.”
“For once we’re in complete agreement,” he acknowledged tightly. “My wife wants to return to America. You can keep her gold in your blasted coffers, but you’ll not be getting your heir.”
“Nonsense. There won’t be a divorce. I won’t allow it.” The duke slammed his fist again. “How was I to have known you’d lied to the chit? By God, you’ve never done anything properly. I should have simply married that American lightskirt myself.”
The urge to land a solid punch to his father’s haughty face had never been stronger. He stood, pinning the duke with a deadly glare. “Never insult my wife. If you even so much as speak her name ever again, I’ll thrash you as I should have a long time ago.”
The duke had a large stature as well, but his muscled form had withered with age. There was no doubt that in a physical match, Will would be the victor. His father knew it. He stilled, surprise evident in his expression. It was the first time Pembroke had ever stood up to his father. The weight he’d carried with him his entire life lifted. He felt light. Liberated.
“You dare to threaten me?” The duke raised an imperious brow.
“I dare much where you’re concerned,” he assured him, a new sense of confidence soaring within him. “You’ve done enough damage here. I’ll right the wrongs I’ve done, and if I have anything to say about it, you’ll have your blessed heir. But that’s only because I want to start a family with Victoria. I’ll not countenance any more meddling or disrespect, not from you or anyone else.”
“Who do you think you are to speak to me thus?” the duke demanded, sputtering.
“I’m your bloody son.” Something that had bothered him for years returned to him then in that moment of rebellion, and he had to know. “Whilst we’re throwing all the wood onto the fire, tell me one thing, Your Grace. Who killed my puppy? I was a stripling and my only comfort in the world was that damn dog.”
His father’s expression clouded with uncontrived confusion. “Puppy? I haven’t the time to worry about your mongrels, Pembroke.”
It had been his mother, then. After all these years, he had the truth. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, but the revelation made his mouth go dry. He thought of the six-year-old boy he’d been, longing for affection from a broken, angry woman. That boy was now a man who’d treated his wife every bit as poorly as he’d once been treated. How could he have willingly visited that pain upon another? Shame was a breathtaking thing.
A new resolve overcame him. He’d spent his time enraging the duke with one scandal after the next. He’d wasted years on hollow retribution. But revenge didn’t matter. He’d never change his father, never undo the damage of the past. But he could move forward. He could choose love instead of hate. The time had come for him to be a man. He had to win back Victoria. Without her, his life was an empty husk.
His mind made up, he strode past his startled father.
“Where the devil are you going?” the duke called after him, clearly consternated.
“To get my wife,” he returned over his shoulder, not bothering to glance back at his father. The past was where it belonged, and the only future he wanted had Victoria in it. He had to earn her trust again. There was no other course.
h dear.”
Victoria glanced up from the book she’d been unenthusiastically reading in Maggie’s cheery London drawing room. Her friend had just burst into the room in a riot of pinned red curls and violet silks, wringing her hands, her countenance quite vexed. Nothing could detract from Maggie’s vibrant loveliness, Victoria thought with not a bit of envy.
She snapped the volume in her lap closed, not bothering to mark the page. As dis
tractions went, it had served to be an exceedingly poor one. She frowned as her friend began pacing across the polished floor as if she’d just had word of a death in the family. “What is it, Maggie?”
“Forgive me, my dearest.” Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth, looking ill. “I don’t know how this has happened.”
Victoria stood at once, a growing knot of worry in her stomach. “Whatever can be the matter? Surely you’ve done nothing that requires my forgiveness.”
“I have not,” Maggie hastened to assure her, stopping in her frantic motions. “But someone has.”
“I can take no more suspense, Maggie.” She braced herself for the news. “What can it be?”
“Pembroke,” Maggie finally revealed. Even her carefully wrought coiffure was coming undone in her fervor. “I’m afraid he’s come here and he’s demanding to see you.”
Welled-up emotion gave a sudden pang in her chest. For the past three days, she’d vacillated between anger and longing for him. She’d halfheartedly waited for him to turn up with his charming grin and melting kisses. She’d even had a dream her first night in London that he’d come for her and begged her forgiveness. It had been so real that she’d woken and looked for him in bed beside her. But reality had intruded with the glaring light of dawn, and she’d been alone in a strange bed, still betrayed and broken.
Now he had come, just when she’d abandoned the last shred of hope she still clung to that their love could be darned after all. She pressed a hand to her recklessly galloping heart. What to do?
“Has the butler told him I’m not at home?” she asked, trying to sort through the hodgepodge of her confused feelings. She didn’t think she could see him now without crumbling. He had hurt her so very deeply.
“He has.” Maggie grimaced. “The earl refuses to leave. He has said he will remain until you return. I’m sure I’ve never heard of anything so forward. Our poor butler hasn’t an inkling what to do, and I’m afraid the footmen aren’t burly enough to successfully remove him.”
Her Errant Earl Page 14
