by Lavinia Kent
An Enigmatic Duke . . .
Arthur Alexander DeWolf, the eighth Duke of Westlake, lacks for nothing in life . . . except a woman who will stir his blood for longer than one night. Until fate steps in on his morning ride and he stumbles across Lily St. Aubin, Countess of Worthington.
A Desperate Young Woman . . .
It is on the worst day of her life that Lily meets the imperious duke. Helpless and unable to resist, she has no choice but to trust that this dangerously handsome man will protect her and newborn son. But, as trust begins to grow between them, danger lurks ever closer . . . danger that could destroy Lily. And their newfound love.
Hint of Desire
By
Lavinia Kent
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Lavinia Klein
Cover design © Victoria Sheer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
To Elaine, Marsha, Mary, Sandy, and Yvonne, who all helped make this possible.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter One
Cornwall, 1814
Stars sparkled over quiet lawns. Waves lapped at the feet of steep cliffs. Lily St. Aubin, Countess of Worthington, stood still and silent. The rocks bit at her bare feet, but she did not gaze down. Her aching eyes locked across the billowing surface of the dark ocean. A single tear slipped down her reddened cheek and over her swollen lips, the salt stinging their cracked surface. She brushed at it with a limp hand before pulling her wrapper tight about her.
Lily shivered. She’d never been outside in her nightclothes before. The thin cotton offered little defense against the sudden evening chill, even on a mild September evening. Becoming aware of the rough pebbles beneath her bare feet, she shifted back and forth. She knew she had to look, if only she could find the courage. Letting her arms fall to her sides, she took one step nearer to the cliffs. The ground grew rougher, and she stumbled.
Bending awkwardly, she settled onto her knees, the sharp stones biting into her tender skin. The ground was damp; it soaked through her wrapper and shift. She balanced forward on her hands and peered down through the darkness toward the bottom of the cliffs. The barest glint of the white lawn shirt shone in the pale moonlight.
Ignoring the pain in her back and the ungainliness of her position, she leaned further, attempting to get a clearer view. Her neck and shoulders strained and her lower back settled into its accustomed ache as she tried to make out the beach below.
Suddenly, as if in answer to an unspoken command, the patchy clouds cleared and the moon beamed forth unhindered.
“My God.” Lily wasn’t sure whether a prayer or a curse had sprung from her lips.
Sprawled on the rocks below lay Geoffrey Robert St. Aubin, third Earl of Worthington, Lord of Marclyffe, Lily’s husband of one year. His head had split like a melon, and what remained of it twisted from his neck at an awkward angle. Even in the moonlight, Lily could not mistake the sheen of blood that pooled about his head. Worthington was dead. As the moon retreated again behind the clouds, the image of her husband remained frozen in Lily’s mind.
She inched back from the cliffs and pushed back to her knees. Her lower back screamed from the uncomfortable shift in position, and nagging pains shot down her left leg. She forced herself to stand up, her body stiff and clumsy. She stumbled with the effort but managed to right herself. Her dull gaze moved back to the dark horizon as she tugged a thin gold circlet from her trembling finger. A shudder of relief passed through her as she let the ring slip through icy fingers to bounce along the rocks below.
One hand moved to rub her aching back, while the other rested protectively on her swollen abdomen. The sharp ripple across her belly awoke her from her daze.
The ripple came again and she pushed back against it. The baby kicked restlessly, especially late at night. It had been months since she’d slept decently. Her hands traced the limbs of the small body caught within her flesh, the small body of her child, her husband’s child. The child of the man she had just sent tumbling over the edge of the steep outcropping to his death.
It was Lily’s eighteenth birthday.
Arthur Alexander DeWolf, the eighth Duke of Westlake, stretched languorously and rolled onto his belly. Despite the immensity of the bed, he was alone, not an unusual circumstance of late. It had been months since he’d retired his last mistress, and he had not managed to rouse interest in finding another. Pushing up on an elbow, he glared at the sun breaking over the trees. Even as shots of vibrant orange and crimson pierced the clouds, he buried his head beneath the pile of thick down pillows.
It was useless. Tossing a pillow aside, he rose to dress. Riding wouldn’t cure him of his ennui, but it would be better than lying abed, ruminating on the emptiness of life. He wanted for nothing; therefore, he lacked only what had power to stir his blood.
Arthur yanked one tall riding boot onto his leg. He cursed under his breath as his foot stuck, then laughed ruefully. He was unused to making do without his valet. Arthur had awakened at least an hour earlier than usual, and Mathers had not yet made his appearance. Calling for him would simply be too much bother.
Dressed and ready, he strode down the corridor to the wide flight of stairs that cascaded down to the entrance hall. While Blythemoor, which he hadn’t visited in a decade, was smaller than the ducal seat, its grand entry had always been his favorite. Stopping at the middle of the wide flight, he shot one ironic glance at the glowering portrait of his father. The seventh duke gazed from the canvas as if he were still Lord of all he surveyed. Even here, in what had been his mother’s home and sanctuary, his father had ruled with a glance. Now Arthur ran the estates just as his father had drummed into him to do; so, perhaps, the seventh duke really did still reign.
Arthur escaped into the early morning sunshine and made for the stables. Stopping at the wood fencing, he considered how his life had changed in the eight years he’d been Westlake. His every need was gratified before he had time even to form the thought. Only a glimpse of his presence was required to set people hopping to his will. Before he’d succeeded to the title, he might have had to ask for Ganesh to be saddled. Now, a glance sufficed.
No wonder life bored him. In his younger days, he’d run through London with his friends, Tris and Wulf, pursuing pleasure and vice with a single-minded determination, until he’d had his fill. Conquest had become too easy. For nearly a decade since, he’d concentrated his energies on managing his estates, but now they almost ran themselves.
Marriage remained, but the thought of some young chit, barely out of the schoolroom, made his stomach churn. Respectable women all seemed cast fro
m the same mold – one he wished they’d break. He sighed and flexed his shoulders, loosening the tight muscles that knotted his neck.
His aunt, Lady Smythe-Burke, kept making broad comments about heirs and familial duty, and he knew that the next time he saw her she’d have several neighbors’ daughters picked out for his approval. His shoulders tensed again. Only caution, and force of will, would prevent his being married before the introductions were complete. He’d do his duty soon, but he’d do the choosing himself. Somewhere, surely there must be a lady of good family, respectable and staid, who could speak of something besides bonnets and love poems.
Swearing, he swung up onto the coal black stallion and let Ganesh pick up a dangerous pace. He gave Ganesh his head, and the horse galloped down the lane towards field and forest. He set himself low over the steed’s massive back as they cleared hedges and gullies. Wind whipped Arthur’s hair flat against his head, and sweat had no time to build before it was wicked away by the speed with which horse and rider flew. For a moment he was free. The weight of responsibility could not follow him here.
Finally, sensing the weariness of the beast beneath him, Arthur drew up. He sat still in the saddle, the stallion’s huge ribs expanding and contracting with each breath. After a moment, he turned the horse toward the wood that ran from his estate to the neighboring property.
The sun had risen fully now, and perspiration trickled down his brow, tickling at his collar. He loosened the damp cotton from around his throat. Ganesh had also worked up a heavy lather and stepped fast, eager for the run he knew lay a few paces ahead.
Something pricked at the edge of his awareness. He turned back to survey the broad meadow behind them. Only the sway of the golden grass and a gull gliding the high winds met his gaze. The bird gave a shrill cry. Nothing was amiss. He turned back towards the forest.
Sunlight dappled through leaves that were starting to gather the faintest tinge of color. Water bubbled in the background. He was sure he’d seen something – but what? His gaze swept the landscape again. Nothing. His imagination must be overactive. Perhaps the sleeplessness of the night before had come home to roost.
He swung to the ground to avoid the lower-hanging branches and led Ganesh deeper into the woods, towards the creek. He played with the idea of splashing his own face, but here, away from the sun, his damp flesh cooled rapidly. Just as he sat on the bank, he heard a cry, indistinguishable at first from the shrill calling of the gulls. The second call was louder – definitely human.
Turning, he caught a movement in the trees across the glade. A woman stumbled forward, dark curls swirling loose about her head and arms. She lurched on, her eyes locked on some distant point. His eyes narrowed in observation. Her clothing was ripped, the white gown hanging low about her shoulders.
He stepped forward, ready to offer assistance, but years of training slowed him. No proper woman would wander about the countryside in such deshabille. Still, he had a duty.
He strode forward, intent on getting her to the village before she could cause damage, or come to harm. As that thought crossed his mind, he became aware of the delicate pink toes peeking out beneath the hem.
The woman was barefoot.
“Madam, who are you? Why are you here?” The questions came out rather more abruptly than he had intended. The thought struck him again; she was barefoot.
Her wide blue eyes turned and flashed, but the woman did not respond.
“Answer me.”
His tone was peremptory. This time her eyes didn’t even turn in his direction as she continued to hobble forward.
Arthur didn’t care if she was daft. He expected some respect, an answer at the very least. Striding towards her, he pushed the undergrowth aside. He grabbed her arm, drawing her towards him. Good God, she was small! Lifting her proved no more difficult than moving a child.
As he pulled the woman toward him, twigs caught at the lace that edged her gown, drawing it tight across her body. It outlined a hugely distended belly that moved of its own accord. He dropped her arm and stepped back, shocked, as her legs collapsed beneath her. And before he could move, she fell to the ground, her clear blue eyes rising to meet his.
He stood frozen. She doubled over, her arms wrapping about her knees as another shrill cry left her cracked lips. Pain consumed her dirty and distorted face. He fell to his knees beside her as she arched forward in agony. Thin fingers reached out and gripped his wrists.
He searched his mind, in vain. He, who was prepared for everything, was unprepared to help this peculiar woman deliver her child into his lap. Pushing her hands away, he regained his feet. As he watched, another ripple moved across the woman’s body, causing her to writhe again in anguish. Her unfocused eyes stared up at him, unseeing, but still beseeching.
Assume command — be calm — remain wholly detached. His father’s maxim flashed through Arthur’s mind as he edged back toward his mount.
“Stay here. I’ll fetch a midwife.”
He would get help, find a more suitable person to aid her. He backed towards his horse, but his eyes remained fixed on the slight, swollen figure.
Her gaze lowered to the ground again, breaking the bond between them. Arthur turned away to swing onto the saddle. Risking one last glance at the woman, he saw her push herself to her elbows and place her knees beneath her. The pain passed, and she lurched to her feet. Step by step she started to stumble onward, further into the trees.
Swearing to himself, Arthur swung off the saddle and went after her. “Stop. You need to stay here so I can get help.”
Blindly, she continued onward.
Grasping her arm, he swung her towards him. “You must be still. I have to fetch help.”
The edge of desperation that had crept into his voice displeased Arthur as much as the uncontrolled situation itself.
Dropping beside her, Arthur tried to shelter her fall. “Be still. Let me get help.” His own helplessness brought anger in its wake. “Bloody hell, don’t you talk?”
For the first time her eyes locked onto his face and held. From deep within their clear blue depths Arthur saw sanity fight its way forward. She seemed to focus on the long deep scar that marked his left cheek, from the bridge of his nose almost to the corner of his jaw. Her fine-boned hand, marked with dirt and broken nails, lifted to trail along the puckered flesh in a soft, seeking caress entirely inappropriate to the circumstance.
Finally, her eyes met his in a moment of complete awareness. A slow, surprising smile softened her face as she whispered in a low, ladylike accent, “I’d always wondered what happened to you.”
No. She had to run. Hide. Blackness and pain swirled together in Lily’s mind. Childhood dreams merged with the horror of the previous night. She knew she had to get away. She couldn’t stay. She had to find sanctuary.
Her body twisted violently as she sought a path that would lead away from the pain and misery that engulfed her. Spinning before her, like a deck of cards caught up in the wind, she saw Worthington smiling, laughing, cruelty emanating from every pore of his being. She saw that other face, saw the crop rise, the arm caught upraised, the momentary expectation of agony, before it fell, slicing through the air. She witnessed the speed with which it broke though flesh, cutting, scarring – as painful as a blade, but not as fast.
Her eyes blurred, then refocused on the deep blue eyes above. She reached out a hand to trace the familiar face, when another pain ripped through her body, drawing her into a tight ball. She heard the concerned words, felt the firm but gentle hands laying her on the ground. She tried to rise again. She had to get away. She was not safe here.
Strong hands held her down, and the slow easy rhythm of the low voice washed over her. “Shh . . . shh. Try to calm yourself. Please.”
As the pain passed, Lily allowed herself to relax for a moment. The moss-covered ground felt soft beneath her back. Her head sagged back and she let her eyelids close and her mind drift far back to gentler, kinder times.
Her mothe
r’s smile curled over well-loved features as she felt the gentle touch run over her face, brushing the loosened curls from her brow. Lily turned her face towards the caress and relaxed. She could smell roses and see the sun shining through her mother’s burnished locks. She settled into the softness of her mother’s great bed. She was safe.
The next pain caught her by surprise — tearing through her moment of sanctuary. A cry left her lips as anguish seared her nerves. She twisted and turned, trying to escape the agony that surged within.
Again the calm voice called to her, restoring her to the present. “Try to be calm. Just wait and it will pass.”
Her mind could find no coherent thought. “No, you don’t understand. It can’t happen now. It’s too soon. Have to get away. Can’t . . . be found. Please let me go.”
Staring up into those clear, cool eyes, she fought to find the words that would release her, that would let her continue her flight. “Please, I can’t stay.”
For a moment she thought she saw a flash of anger and frustration before a stiff calm swept again across the gentleman’s familiar face. He didn’t want this any more than she did.
Then the next spasm swept through her, and coherent thought escaped her. She heard him call to her, direct her, but found no meaning in his words as she fought the agony that sundered her in two, and the panic that held her frozen.
Lily barely noticed the tentative hands sliding up her legs beneath her gown. Even as the rippling pain passed and she felt her legs pressed apart and cool morning air touching regions never before exposed to the light of day, she felt no shame.
But she had to get away. She couldn’t stay here. She had no conception how far from Marclyffe she had traveled during the night, but she wasn’t far enough. She couldn’t risk being found, couldn’t risk her baby being found.
