Fool Me Twice

by Meredith Duran

  “Fifteen,” he said. “Fourteen.”

  “Precocious young things!”

  “Yes,” he said. “Brash. Barely out of childhood. And the first time I kissed you . . .” He leaned toward her, and she inclined to meet him. “It would have been like this,” he said against her mouth.

  His lips were warm, indescribably sweet. It felt as though he sought something from her, something precious that must be coaxed rather than taken. And she gave it to him, gladly.

  After a long minute, he turned his face to kiss her temple. “You would have been shocked,” he whispered. “But no more than I, at my own temerity.”

  She put her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Is that so?”

  “Well. A rude country boy. No large experience. I should think he’d be shocked.”

  “But as a farm girl, perhaps I wouldn’t be. Farm girls are saucy, I think. When you pulled away in shock, I would have dragged you back for another kiss.”

  “Would you?”

  She liked the startled pleasure in his voice. She lifted her head to show him her smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Like this.”

  His kiss had been slow and wooing. But country girls had little patience for that. She licked his lower lip, made him groan; then she slid her hand through his hair and pulled his mouth hard into hers.

  In a flash, hunger leapt between them: electrical, overwhelming. His palm pressed flat against her lower back and held her in place as he angled his head, kissing her more deeply yet.

  But then, like a motion in a symphony, there came a moment when they both paused by tacit accord. “I wonder,” she said against his lips, “how saucy I would be? I would know you so well, after all. But until this moment, you would have only been a friend.”

  He loosed a soft breath. “But there was never really an ‘only’ about it. We would always have known, somehow, that it would be more.”

  “Yes.” She caught his hand, kissed his palm and then pressed it to her cheek. “I think I would be very bold. I wouldn’t feel any fear. You would be so safe . . . and not safe, all at once. I would trust you completely, somehow.”

  “And I would never fear disappointing you.” He put his face into her hair, so his voice came out muffled. “Because I would require your trust like I required air. And if you were bold with me, then it wouldn’t feel like boldness. It would feel like wisdom.”

  “Would it?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Because we would both know that you need never plan on kissing anyone else.”

  She felt dizzy, breathless. “And how would I know that?”

  “You would know that I meant to marry you.”

  She could barely speak. “Would I?”

  “Yes. Before the next harvest,” he said roughly, and pulled away from her. His expression now looked black as he gazed out at the pond.

  She loosed an unsteady breath. It was only a fantasy. But didn’t he see how painful such games must be? Did he imagine she would have slept with any man who rescued her from prison? Did he not know what it meant that he could say I know you?

  She had wanted a place. Now she had one. But now she realized that not any place would do.

  She frowned at herself and reached for good sense. “I would refuse to marry you, of course.”

  He cast her a fleeting, one-sided smile. “That would be a mistake. You deserve love. And a family. All those children you once told me you won’t have.”

  She recoiled. “Don’t tell me that.” Why did he taunt her like this? Why did he dare her to dream of love, while he sat across from her? “You, of all people!”

  “I, of all people.” He repeated it softly, then turned to her. “Indeed. Let me tell you, then, the truth you once asked of me. I wanted to love my wife, Olivia. I believed I did. I certainly thought her everything worthy of love, when we married.”

  Oh, God. She sucked in a breath. She had not wanted to know it. Not really. But he was holding her eyes and she could not look away, even though she knew the blood was draining from her face, and she lacked the skill to mask how he wounded her.

  “I loved the idea of her,” he said evenly. “The perfect wife for a man of my station. Well bred. Elegant. Not a woman who would be led astray by passions or tempers, as my mother was.” He paused. “But she had her heart set on another man. Roger Fellowes was his name.”

  She covered her mouth. Fellowes had been one of the duchess’s lovers!

  “Yes, you’ll recognize the name from the letters, of course. He was her first revenge on me—the first man she took to her bed. But they met years beforehand, during her first season. He was not moneyed enough to win her father’s approval, but they were set on each other. I knew it. Everyone knew it. But I wanted her, regardless.”

  She felt suddenly afraid. “Why are you telling me this?” Now, of all times; and so calmly, his voice only darkening when he spoke of his own role in it.

  “Because you need to know.” He watched her, his face impassive. “Had you asked me three days ago, I might have told you that I could trust nobody else. But now I think the problem is that I cannot trust myself—what I feel, what I believe. And you should know why.”

  She had a terrible, sinking feeling. This confession was not a sign that he longed to unveil himself, to grow closer to her. It was, instead, a warning of why he would never do so.

  “I knew she did not want me,” he said. “But I thought I could win her anyway.” He picked up another rock, turning it over in his hand. “She was too good for Fellowes. And I was the heir to a dukedom, after all. President of the Union Society at Cambridge. A double first behind me, predictions of fame abounding. I’d already made a splash in the Commons. I would be prime minister one day; everyone said it.” He gave a pull of his mouth, mocking himself. “In short, I was precisely the kind of man she deserved. And she, ideally designed for me: educated, well connected, mannerly. How could she rebuff me?”

  His smile was a grim slash across his features. He paused for a long moment, seeming to look inward.

  “Her father came to me,” he said at last. “He had noticed my interest in her. I knew if I confirmed his suspicions, he would take some measure to remove Fellowes from the picture. But I told him the truth. I wished to marry her.”

  She guessed where the story was heading now. Finally, she began to understand his wife.

  He blew out a breath. “I can only imagine what picture you drew from those letters. That she was deranged? But she wasn’t. She had cause to loathe me. Her father offered Fellowes a handsome bribe to decamp to the Continent. He told me so the same day that Fellowes booked passage abroad. I could have stopped Fellowes. But I didn’t. He let his love be purchased away, after all. Why should I reason with such a man? And when Margaret collapsed into heartbreak, I stood ready to help her, to offer an antidote for her wounded pride. She had no notion of why Fellowes had abandoned her, and I never breathed a word of it. But a year after we wed, he came back from Italy. And he told her his own version of the truth. That he was forced away, instead of bribed.”

  “She blamed you,” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

  She recoiled. “Never put me in her shoes!”

  He looked at her then, a long, clear look that seemed to see to the heart of her. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”

  She exhaled. And he was silent for a time, long enough for a chorus of birds to begin chirping around them.

  “She accused me of colluding with her father,” he said finally. “Cheating her out of her only chance at happiness, and I was not . . .” He sighed. “Patient with her. Fellowes had abandoned her. And she and I had been happy—had we not? This was love . . . was it not? Mannerly, polite. Never an argument between us.”

  That did not sound like love to Olivia. It sounded like courtesy. But she said nothing.

  “I couldn’t understand,” he said, “how she might prefer such a man to me. And she seemed, finally, to agree . . .” He
trailed off, his mouth twisting. “I thought we had reconciled. Only, as it turns out, we had not.”

  “You blame yourself,” she said. No wonder he had no compassion for himself. No wonder his anger had taken so long to turn outward, toward Bertram and the others. “You blame yourself for what she did to you.”

  “I blame myself for a good many things—delusion being first and foremost. I thought we had made the perfect marriage. That love was bound to come, to develop naturally. That I had become a man utterly unlike my father, and made a marriage that would answer for all the sins and mistakes my parents had made.” He shrugged. “In retrospect, my blindness is extraordinary. I was arrogant, ignorant—”

  “No.” All at once, she understood him completely. He was still blind, entirely. “The problem was not you.” A choked laugh escaped her. “Bertram was not worthy of my mother’s love, either. But she loved him all the same. Don’t you see? Love is not earned. And it’s not born of perfection. It—”

  “You call that love?” he said sharply. “The cause of all her difficulties—and yours. That isn’t love; it’s idiocy. Selfish, thoughtless—”

  She rose. “How dare you judge her?”

  His jaw hardened. “Very easily,” he said as he stood. “You deserved better, Olivia. And she might have fought for you. Instead, she placed the interests of a scoundrel over her own child.”

  She opened her mouth, quivering with rage—and what came out instead was a sob.

  She clapped a hand over her lips, appalled. But oh, God, he had lanced her as expertly as an assassin. For within the space of a minute, he had shown why he would never trust his own feelings for her, and why she should not have trusted her mother’s.

  She heard him curse. And then his arms were around her, and he was forcing her face into his shoulder, though she resisted him. His murmured apologies washed over her. She did not want them. She willed herself to be as hard as iron in his embrace, indifferent to him.

  “You deserve to be put first,” he said into her hair.

  He meant it as a comfort, no doubt. But it was the cruelest thing he’d ever said. “And who will do that?” she choked. “You?”

  His arms tightened. But he did not reply. Of course he didn’t. For all his sins, she could never say he had lied.

  She pulled away from him, roughly wiping her eyes. “I want to go to London. Now, at once.”

  He stared at her, face haunted. “Olivia . . .”

  “I want you to arrange a meeting with a lawyer, a very nasty one.”

  “Let me handle it.” He reached out to touch her, but she stepped backward. His hand fell, curled into a fist. “Stay here,” he said. “This is your family. You ask who will put you first? They will. They are so eager to know you—”

  “They are strangers!” She hugged herself, hating him, though she could not say why. “No. I am going to London.” She took a ragged breath and lifted her chin. “I am putting myself first. And I want to look into his eyes when he finds out he’s ruined.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Beat you to it!”

  Olivia stepped behind the shelter of a broad oak, her heart in her throat. Across the street, the door to a townhouse had just opened, discharging three footmen with luggage, and then a nanny and two boys, neither of them older than nine. The boys raced each other down the stairs into the waiting coach, jostling each other, their faces alight.

  She had not allowed herself to think on them before. But in the law office, when the barrister had pulled down a volume of Debrett’s to contemplate the affected parties, she had stared at those three names printed so small beneath Bertram’s entry and felt something break inside her. In the wake of its shattering, her cold rage had deserted her. She had barely been able to speak.

  She had not known how to explain what ailed her. She had asked Alastair to return her to the bachelor’s flat on Brook Street so she might rest. But instead, she had lain awake through the long slide of the morning, this first morning of the new year, thinking of the names: Peter, James, Charlotte.

  On the doorstep now appeared a nanny, who made her way sedately down the steps. Trailing her was a little girl of four or five, whose hair was as red as Olivia’s. The girl managed the first step, then wobbled around to face the doorway. “Mummy, up,” she cried.

  Olivia dug her fingers into the bark. That little girl was her blood. Her half sister.

  An elegant brunette stepped into the clouded afternoon. She was adjusting her hat, a confection of feathers and lace that perched atop her chestnut curls at a rakish tilt. She wore eighteen years of marriage very lightly. At the right angle, she would look no older than thirty.

  Her hat settled to her satisfaction, she bent down, putting her face on a level with her daughter’s. Some private conference passed between them. The girl nodded, then hooked her arms around her mother’s neck and laughed as she was lifted.

  Lady Bertram carried her daughter down the steps to the coach.

  Olivia loosed a breath. Anger, frustration made a sick, toxic churn in her gut. She should have listened to Alastair; should not have set foot outside the flat without him. Had she listened, they would have paid a call together, this very afternoon, to this handsome brick house. No children would have greeted them. For the luggage being strapped to the roof of the coach suggested a long journey. Olivia would never have seen the faces of the half siblings who must pay now for their father’s crime.

  The footmen, having strapped down the bags, sprang off the coach to the ground, causing the vehicle to rock gently on its springs. She heard a muffled whoop from the interior, the glee of an excited boy ready for adventure.

  Lady Bertram emerged from the coach, following the footmen back into the house.

  Olivia made herself look away. The path she had walked through the trees curved out before her. It was only ten minutes’ walk back to the flat. She could return there, wait for Marwick. Never speak of this outing.

  But how would she forget the little girl? That girl looked so much like her, they might have shared a mother as well as a father. And the boys, their eager innocence . . .

  A frustrated syllable lodged in her throat, sharp and solid, choking. No! But she could neither voice it nor swallow it. She waited, staring again at the darkened doorway, as though an answer might appear there, one that would crush these doubts swarming through her.

  She knew that little girl’s future. It was taking shape right now as the barristers drew up a suit, as they laid plans to expose an old injustice. In an office in Chancery Lane, a little redheaded girl was being turned into a bastard. And nobody knew better than Olivia how Charlotte’s future would look from now on. The sly remarks, the veiled leers, the snickered gossip of the self-righteous—how much worse would these be for a girl whose father was a cabinet member, the PM’s right-hand man? His disgrace would draw the attention of the nation. This little girl would not be able to escape infamy simply by boarding a train. It would follow her everywhere, documented in newspapers from Cornwall to Scotland.

  That would be Bertram’s fault. Not Olivia’s! Her rage insisted that she place the blame where it belonged.

  Yet she would be the instrument of this scandal. She would be the actor who ensured that for the rest of their lives, these children would always see a dim flicker of recognition after introducing themselves to strangers. She would be the cause for the moment that followed, that sinking in their stomachs as they waited to learn whether they would be scorned, or pitied, or generously spared.

  She had borne the indelible mark of bastardy without pain. But would they? Would that little girl know how to lift her chin, square her shoulders, and dismiss the weight of the world?

  By keeping silent, she would care for them better than her father had ever cared for her. But then there would be no justice—and moreover, no safety.

  She put her fist to her mouth, biting hard on her knuckle. How completely she’d forgotten her original aim! Alastair had distracted her. He had, quite
unwittingly, filled her head with empty dreams. He offered her nothing permanent, only the brief, fleeting distractions of pleasure. But somehow she had built castles on air. She was still not safe. He would not be with her forever.

  But it wasn’t necessary, she thought suddenly, to make a public matter of this secret. All she needed to safeguard herself was to ensure that Bertram knew he could never hurt her—not if he wished his marriage to her mother to remain unknown. The truth could remain locked in a lawyer’s vault. The moment something happened to her, it would be exposed—but only then. That was all Bertram needed to know.

  The baroness emerged from the house, wearing the slightly harried air of a woman beset by last-minute errands. She was a woman who loved her children: that much was evident. She would certainly want to know if their happiness depended on her husband’s good behavior. Her confident carriage, the arrogant tilt of her hat, made Olivia feel certain that she had the kind of poise and savvy required to ensure Bertram’s good behavior. As long as it protected her children, she would certainly keep him in line.

  Olivia could put an end to all of this right now, safely, with the aid of the baroness.

  She took a deep breath and started across the grass. “My lady,” she called as the baroness reached the coach. “I must speak with you.”

  The woman startled, and then stared at her as one might a loathsome insect. “Must you?”

  She thought Olivia a beggar, perhaps, for Olivia’s dress was much soiled from recent travel. “You don’t know who I am, but I assure you, I—”

  “Oh, I know who you are.” The baroness rapped smartly on the door to the coach, which swung open. Into the interior, she directed her next words: “Mr. Moore,” she said. “Come handle this, please.”

  * * *

  Alastair threw open the door. “Where is she?”

  Bertram, ensconced in an armchair before the fire, looked up in goggling astonishment. “What in the devil!”