by Jaimey Grant
After Verena had finally shared the story of her rape, Connor enlisted Adam’s help ferreting the weasel out. He knew the chances of finding the culprit after so many years was slim, but he needed to try. He had hoped he would be lucky.
Adam had found his man, exactly what he had tried to tell them before Beverley had approached.
Damn.
Everything clicked fully into place and he walked blindly behind his father and brother, Adam at his side. They soon arrived at their destination. Dashwood left and the door clicked shut.
Connor put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, wrenched him around, and landed Beverley a facer that had his head spinning and Connor’s hand throbbing. Before the black heir had even fully stood up, Connor hit him again, an uppercut that knocked Beverley flat on his back. The younger man stepped back, nursing his sore hand and hoping with an violent intensity foreign to his nature that the marquess would stand up again just so he could be laid out again.
The other occupants seemed to be frozen with shock. Nobody moved or uttered a sound. Beverley sat on the floor, fingering his rapidly swelling jaw. Connor stared at him, rage emanating from every pore, hoping his brother would try to attack him just so he could have the pleasure of knocking him down again. Adam stood idly by, his look indicating he might like the opportunity as well.
“If you gentlemen are done,” the duke said repressively, “perhaps we can talk like civilized adults.”
“Not until he is dead,” Connor replied in a voice of deceptive calm, his hard eyes never leaving his brother.
“Are you angry because you realize you are married to a servant masquerading as a lady?” Beverley snapped maliciously.
“No, I’m angry because you violated a lady, you misbegotten bastard!”
“I demand an explanation.”
Everyone stared at Denbigh. He never raised his voice. Not even when Connor was a child and had shaved his mother’s prize pet just to see what the hairy little dog looked like bald. Not even when Adam had released that family of rats into Jenny’s room. Not even when Beverley had broken Garrett Steele’s leg quite intentionally.
“Beverley raped my wife.”
“How,” Beverley asked nastily, “did she manage to get you, my darling little brother, to marry a strumpet like her? Is she pregnant?”
Connor took a step toward him, intent on rearranging his face, but the duke stopped him.
He settled for words. “She was innocent when you forced yourself on her. She was never a strumpet, just a child enjoying the peace of the woods. You are worse than the lowest devil. You assaulted a child!”
“How did you come to marry her?”
There was something so eerily calm about the way Beverley asked the question. Almost as if he asked how the weather had become so chill.
“I rescued her from an unwanted marriage arranged by her father.”
“I thought servants couldn’t marry? Was her master a Whig?” Beverley replied with a slightly puzzled frown.
It was as Connor had supposed. All these years, his brother had not shed a single thought of remorse over the girl he’d raped simply because he had thought she was beneath him. He now believed she was a servant who had tricked her way into the Denbigh family.
“My wife,” Connor bit out, “is Lady Verena Westbridge. She is the only daughter of the Earl of Carstairs. You should hang for what you did!”
“But I won’t,” the heir retorted mildly. “The scandal would be too great. And once it came out that I was tricked into thinking she was a servant, I will be set free.”
Connor lunged at him, but Adam leapt up and grabbed him from behind. “No more! This will solve nothing.”
Connor reluctantly obeyed, stepping back and taking a deep breath. He noticed in a dazed sort of way that his knuckles were bleeding but he didn’t care. He would hit Beverley again if he felt the need.
With nothing more than a cursory glance at his sire, Connor proceeded to tell his brother exactly what would happen next.
“You will leave the country. Adam will make sure that you do.” Sending Adam a meaningful glance and receiving a nod in return, Connor turned to leave. He needed to see his wife.
“I will see my son and heir safely on his journey,” Denbigh replied in a colorless voice that nevertheless rang with disappointment and disgust.
Connor shook his head. “No, Father. Adam will see to it that Beverley leaves.”
“Why should I leave?” Beverley asked, the insolence in his face and voice almost enough to make Connor lash out at him again.
Instead, Connor once again resorted to words. “If you don’t leave, I will kill you,” he told him in quite the most deadly tone any of the room’s occupants had ever heard him use. He left them there, needing to see Verena again, to reassure her that Beverley would never threaten her again.
It took only moments to ascertain that Connor’s mother and sisters had taken Verena home. As he left the ball, he ignored the whispers and stares, too caught up in the ramifications of all that had come to pass.
Connor stepped down from his carriage outside his parents’ home in Park Lane. After careful thought, he’d decided it was the logical place she’d go. He’d stopped at his own home to collect Aunt Amelia and had been completely unsurprised to find his bride had not returned.
Turning slightly, he offered a hand to his aunt, helping her down. She squeezed his hand, drawing his eyes to her own.
“Try not to worry so, boy. You were always the favorite.”
He shook his head. How she knew anything about the situation, he didn’t know. Nor did he particularly care.
Sniffing, the old woman predicted bad weather in the air. Connor remained silent and led her into his parents’ home.
Moments after entering the spacious mansion, Connor was ushered into Verena’s presence. He felt for all the world like a man facing execution. The pitying glances he received from his mother and sisters were no help. As they moved by him to leave the room, they whispered how sorry they were.
The door clicked shut behind him. Gazing at his wife, Connor saw a look of such pure sadness and a return of all her recently dissipated fright that he felt his heart stop. She had been raped by his own brother. It might as well have been himself. She felt betrayed. His family, the family that had taken her in and treated her as their own, had betrayed her.
“I know how difficult this is,” he began.
It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.
“How can you possibly know, my lord?” Her knuckles turned white where she had a death-grip on the back of a chair. “How can you possibly understand any of this? I barely understand.”
She took a deep breath and Connor found himself holding his breath against whatever it was she was going to say.
“I can’t stay with you.”
Connor shoved a hand through his blond hair. He had had a feeling, but dear God, the softly spoken words felt like a knife in his heart. How would he survive without her? And what if she decided to spend the rest of her life without him?
He knew the answer already but he had to ask anyway. Carefully avoiding her eye, he asked, “Why?”
“I just discovered that the man who attacked me five years ago is now my brother-in-law. I think you will understand when I tell you I just need to be away from your family for a time. Please understand, Connor.”
He did. That was the devil of it. He understood and couldn’t blame her in the least. But the thought of not seeing her each day, not making love to her each night, not holding her children in his arms—his children—made him feel sick.
“Will you consider taking Aunt Amelia with you? I realize she is a member of my family, but…”
“Yes, I will consider it.”
There was a certain amount of relief at her capitulation that eased the stiffness from his shoulders. He nodded once, unable to meet her eyes, unwilling to let her see his own had become suspiciously wet.
“So be it.”
&nbs
p; *
Twenty-Eight
Nearly five months had passed since the Dashwood ball. Five months in which Lady Connor Northwicke had little else to do but spoil her puppy and ponder her situation.
With a woman as outspoken as Lady Amelia to attend Verena, it was perhaps predictable that that estimable lady plead her nephew’s case. And maybe that possibility had something to do with Verena’s decision to allow the older woman’s presence. Speaking of the events that led her to Thornwood Cottage went against Verena’s upbringing but Lady Amelia was gently insistent. She pointed out all the ways Connor differed from his brother; all things Verena knew in her heart of hearts.
In the beginning, when thinking of Connor, Beverley’s face would rise up to taunt her. In speaking of it and how she felt, that mocking face gradually receded, replaced with the loving gaze of her husband.
In talking, Verena found herself able to let go of so much of the heartache and blame. And in the moments of silence, when Amelia allowed her time with her own thoughts, she was able to put everything into some kind of perspective.
So, five months had passed and Verena found herself missing her husband and feeling none of the resentment that had plagued her. She missed Connor. She missed his smile and his humor, his lovemaking and the feeling of safety she felt in his presence.
For the first time in five months, she regretted her decision to leave.
“Verena, I believe you should read this,” said Lady Barnstable from her perch on the very edge of a dainty little Chippendale chair.
Verena, seated in the matching chair opposite, didn’t look up from her knitting. Orion savaged a pretty little slipper on the floor at her feet, caring not one whit for the ladies’ conversation or the fact that his mistress kept nudging him with her foot in an effort to forestall the destruction of her favorite shoe. “What is it, Amelia?”
They sat in a pretty little front parlor of Thornwood Cottage. The name was deceiving and fitting at the same time. While Thornwood brings to mind dark, twisting vines full of sharp thorns, the ornate little building was actually surrounded by roses of all colors and breeds.
The front parlor contained dainty furniture upholstered in light airy colors and serviceable fabrics. The ladies vastly preferred this setting since it afforded a good view of the lane and any traffic that passed through the little village.
“Listen, Verena,” Amelia urged, her little body radiating excitement. “‘The Marquess of Beverley, heir to the Duchy of Denbigh, fell overboard while traveling to the Americas. He is believed to have perished in the sea.’ What do you think of that? You’re now the Marchioness of Beverley.”
Verena sat very still, not particularly moved by her new status in Society. It was something else that caused the sudden welling of excitement in her breast. Actually, panic was probably a better term to describe what she was feeling at that moment. “Amelia, you don’t think Connor had anything to do with this, do you?”
“Of course not, you ninny,” that lady snorted—which, of course, she did not do since ladies never did anything so inelegant as snorting. “He would have to be the veriest lackwit to do something so Machiavellian .”
Verena nodded, assured. Then she stopped again. “Would Adam?” She had become very fond, in a way, of her husband’s best friend and she hated to think that he might do something so dangerous for her.
“Have you wits gone begging, girl? Adam is less likely to do such a thing than Connor is.”
“You’re quite right, Amelia.” Verena smiled and returned to her knitting, feeling relieved of her worries.
They heard the clatter of carriage wheels and both ladies looked out the window. It was Adam’s carriage. They’d received a visit or two from the gentleman in the time they’d been away, but most of their news of the family had come from the steady correspondence Lady Amelia maintained with the Duchess of Denbigh.
Verena smiled, looking forward to hearing how her husband was doing. She hoped he was well.
A few minutes later, a breathless maid opened the door with a beatific smile on her lovely face. “Oh, my lady, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” And she scurried out without announcing the gentleman.
Verena threw an amused look at Amelia—which disappeared as soon as her visitor entered the room.
“Connor,” she whispered.
Amelia stood up and excused herself, stating some completely ridiculous reason for doing so. Neither occupant noticed as their gazes and, indeed, their entire beings were completely caught up with each other.
Verena drank in the sight of her husband. He hadn’t changed much in the months of their separation. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth that she attributed more to worry than laughter. His eyes contained a new cynical light that had never been there before; she had a feeling that she was the cause. He had allowed his hair to grow longer and it curled rakishly over his forehead. She thought he looked very dashing and endearing. He held the inevitable hat in one hand; his gloves and swordstick in the other.
His coat strained across his shoulders without a wrinkle; his cravat was tied intricately; his waistcoat was pale blue, bringing out his eyes; buckskins covered his muscular thighs to the point of indecency and were tucked into shining topboots. Her mouth went dry as she experienced a wave of pure, unadulterated lust. How on earth had she ever survived without this man in her life?
“Verena,” her husband said with a catch in his voice.
Connor watched his wife rise from her seat, tears pricking his eyes at the sight of her. Cursing his brother a hundred times over did nothing to ease the misery he felt at losing her so soon. Now she stood before him in all the glory of high waisted apple green muslin, her shining black tresses spilling over her shoulders. He wanted to take her in his arms and never let her out of his sight ever again. The last five months without her had been hell.
She took a step toward him and her dress floated around her body, straining across fuller breasts and…her larger belly? Astonished, his eyes rose to meet hers and he saw the answer there in the purple depths.
“When?” he managed to ask finally.
“The end of October,” his wife replied in her soft tones.
“Oh, my dear,” Connor breathed as he dropped to his knees. His stick, gloves, and hat fell to the floor with little thought from their owner.
Verena rushed forward and dropped before him. “Oh, my love, are you pleased?” She frowned. “Are you well?” she asked in sudden concern.
Lord Connor Northwicke stared at his beloved wife as tears ran down his face. He pulled her to him and placed a reverent kiss on her lips that she returned with her whole heart.
After kissing his wife with single-minded thoroughness, Connor sat back and dropped his hand to his wife’s gently rounded belly. Verena smiled and placed her hand over his. They said nothing.
Neither noticed the little old woman who peeked in and just as quickly ducked out with a wide smile on her face as she went about the task of seeing to their removal back to Denbigh.
The End
*
About the Author
Jaimey Grant, a pseudonym for Laura Miller, was born in Michigan in 1979. After a fun-filled childhood interlaced with moments of emotional trauma and an insatiable curiosity about the reasons people act the way they do, she became a writer.
As well as writing, she enjoys designing book covers, for her own stories and those of other authors. Her gallery of work can be found at www.anauthorsart.com.
Already published works include Betrayal (the story of Adam and Bri), Deception, Spellbound, Heartless, and Redemption (the story of Connor’s sisters), as well as two short stories in a young adult anthology called Unlocked (www.unlockedproject.com).
She currently lives in Michigan with her husband and two children. There are more Regency romances in the works as well as some fantasy novels.
To read more about Jaimey and her work, visit any of the links below.
Website: http://www.jaim
eygrant.com
Blog: http://jaimeygrant.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jaimeygrantauthor
Email: [email protected]
Purchase in Paperback at: http://treasurelinebooks.com/default.aspx
