“I did not come for myself. That is what I wrote in the note to your mother. I had to make sure my daughter would be cared for. She will need a home. Do you understand me, Vincent? Do you?”
She leaned back on the pillows again and stared at him intently with grim, sober resolve.
Good God, he did.
For a long moment he studied his onetime lover, then felt the remnants of an old familiar pain he thought he would never have to feel again—a vulnerability that he had banished completely. Or so he had thought.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I will summon the palace physician.” He moved around the bed and tugged on the velvet bellpull, then went to the door and waited in the corridor until a maid appeared. “Go and tell Mrs. Callahan to send for Dr. Thomas,” he instructed the girl. “Tell her he is needed for our guest, not the duke. Be quick about it.”
“Yes, milord.” She turned and ran in the other direction toward the back stairs.
Vincent returned to the guest chamber, where Cassandra was resting quietly, her arms folded on top of the covers, her eyes turned toward the window. He moved around the room, watching her, comparing how she looked today to the way she had looked when he first met her in that fateful ballroom. She had charmed and beguiled him with her expressive blue eyes. She had been all smiles and confidence, flirting and laughing with him as they danced.
There was no laughter in her eyes now. There appeared to be very little of anything but defeat, mixed with a single-minded resolve.
He could not accept what she was trying to tell him.
“There is no point in sending for your physician,” she said. “I already know my fate.”
“I want a second opinion.”
She inhaled slowly and deeply, and he could see this was exhausting for her. “Fine,” she said. “Get a second opinion if you must.”
He felt a surge of anger swirl inside his gut again, the same anger he had felt before. “You should have told me about this. Why did you keep it secret?”
She shot an exasperated look at him. “I did tell you! I sent you a letter explaining everything, including how to contact me, but you ignored it.”
Oh, God, the letter. He remembered receiving it. He had not opened it because he did not wish to see Cassandra again. He had not wanted a repeat of that night. He had not wanted that kind of passion. As a result, the letter had sat on his desk unopened for days.
And then he burned it, as he burned all of the letters his lovers sent to him.
“I never read it,” he confessed.
“But you did receive it,” she said with deliberate accusation.
He raised both hands in surrender.
“I hate you,” she said.
“That’s rather harsh, don’t you think?” Vincent replied. “You cannot crucify me for not opening one letter.”
“I also tried to see you. Your butler was unpardonably rude to me. It was more than clear that he was under strict orders to turn all your female callers away. He would hear nothing of what I had to say. He shut the door in my face.”
Vincent could only shrug, for he could not deny the truth. His butler had learned the importance of preventing false hopes where ladies were concerned, and for that he had no regrets. It was quicker that way. Some would say kinder.
“And not long after that,” Cassandra continued, “I saw you in the park with a woman. She slapped your face and ran off in tears. I watched you turn and walk away without a single glance over your shoulder. Without compassion or remorse. That was when I decided to manage my future on my own. I wanted nothing to do with you.” She paused. “Let us not even mention the money you left on the table that morning.”
The money. He had forgotten about that. Though in his defense, he had not meant to degrade her. He had only wished to leave something behind to see her safely home.
“I did not mislead you that night,” he said. “You knew what kind of man I was. I made it clear that I was not to be depended upon, that I was not looking for anything permanent.”
“I am not claiming otherwise,” she replied. “I learned my lesson, and I have accepted the consequences of my actions. I am not here to discuss the night we spent together or plead with you for your affections or anything of that nature. You already know that is not why I came.”
“Yet you seem very angry about all of it.”
She was clearly struggling to curtail the emotion in her voice. “I suppose I am, in some ways. I am angry how it has turned out.” She gestured toward him with a hand. “I did not ever wish to need help from a rake such as yourself, who feels nothing for the women he makes love to. I hate that I had no choice but to come here. I hate that I cannot be a mother for my daughter. I hate that I am ill.” She was quiet for a moment. “Would you open the drapes, please? It is dreary in this room.”
He crossed to the window and threw the curtains open. “How is it that I am the one on trial for amoral behavior today,” he asked, “when you were the one who claimed that you were barren? Do you remember that? It has been a year, Cassandra. How do I even know the child is mine? You were not a virgin. You leaped into bed with a stranger.”
“You were the only one,” she assured him.
He frowned. “How do I know you are telling me the truth now? You lied once before.”
He was no stranger to the lies and deceits that women were capable of.
“I did not lie,” she said. “I was merely mistaken. I was just as surprised to learn of the baby as you are now.” She shook her head. “Not that I care what you think of me. I only care what your mother, the duchess, will think, for it is my hope that she will accept your daughter and raise her here. Or at the very least, find her a good home. I have no illusions. I don’t expect you to be around much. Everyone knows you prefer London to the country, and that you are completely unreliable. So, in that regard, at least I will know my daughter will have very little influence from you. She will at least have some hope for a decent future, with your kind and gracious mother as her guardian.”
For the first time since he had entered the room, Vincent was at a loss for words.
Cassandra turned onto her side, facing away from him. “Maybe you will find all of this easier to believe,” she said, “after you have seen your daughter.”
His daughter. He had not yet truly conceived of it.
“Why don’t you go and do that now,” Cassandra said, “because I am tired. I do not wish to continue this conversation, and I must know if your mother will accept and raise our daughter. Promise me you will at least try to consider the truth—that she is yours.”
He stood motionless, deliberating over everything Cassandra had said, shaken by the tone of pleading that had just entered her voice.
Balancing the sudden weight of an unimagined future and all the responsibilities he had not asked for, he said simply, “I will consider it.”
He turned and headed for the nursery.
Chapter 3
I fear that when I say goodbye to her and kiss her for the last time, my heart will turn to dust and my soul will disappear from both heaven and earth forever.
—from the journal of
Cassandra Montrose,
Lady Colchester,
May 12,1874
Vincent entered the children’s wing and stopped in his tracks when he heard the sounds of muffled female laughter on the other side of the nursery door. His sister-in-law Rebecca had brought the infant here, but by the sound of things, she was not alone.
Tipping his head forward, he listened at the door, but then heard only silence in the room, along with the heavy beating of his heart inside his chest. Everything about him felt heavy, here in the corridor, outside the nursery. He paused a moment to steady himself.
So much had happened in the past half hour. Cassandra was back in his life when he had honestly never expec
ted to see her again, not since leaving her that morning without a word, without even saying goodbye.
He still remembered her sleeping soundly in the dawn light when he paused at the door at six in the morning, doubtful and disconcerted, shoes in his hands, his jacket draped over an arm. They’d had an extraordinary night together, talking freely and making love. By the end of it, he had felt joyful and alive, out of control, stunned by the power of an explosive infatuation. He had known he was in danger of falling head over heels in love but had not wanted that. He still did not want it. He would never want it.
Yet on that morning a year ago, he had hesitated at the door of the hotel, grappling with the possibility of staying. He could have returned to the bed where she was stretched out on her belly, nude and vivacious, tangled delightfully in the rumpled sheets. He had no idea how long he stood there with his hand on the doorknob. His desire for her had not waned, though he struggled to repress it then and in the following weeks.
Now, a year later, he was standing with his head resting against a very different door, and on the other side of it there was a child—a tiny infant Cassandra had given birth to nine months after that incredible night.
He could not go on denying the truth. The child she had brought to Pembroke Palace was his own. Somehow, he knew it, as he’d imagined he would. He had a daughter, and he had been deemed unfit to be a part of her life.
Because he was a degenerate rake.
He felt suddenly sick to his stomach, which was unusual and surprising, for his reckless manner of living had never bothered him before. After what happened with MaryAnn, after that excruciating betrayal and the horrible grief that followed her death, he had promised himself no regrets where women were concerned. No genuine feelings or affections. No vulnerability. He had simply not been capable of any of those things. His bitterness had turned his heart to stone, and he preferred it that way.
A part of him did not want to open this door. He did not want what was on the other side. He liked his life the way it was. He did not want it to change. He would do his best not to let it.
Opening his eyes, he steeled himself and knocked.
Rebecca called out from inside. “Come in!”
Vincent took hold of the cool brass knob, pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. The room was bathed in the bright cheerful light of day, despite the fact that it was still raining outside. In the far corner, a nursemaid was folding baby clothes.
In the center of the room, Rebecca sat on a colorful red blanket on the floor with his sister Charlotte. Between them, arms outstretched toward the ceiling and little legs kicking wildly, was the baby in a tiny white gown.
Vincent’s blood began to rush through his veins. His thoughts dashed around suddenly, untouchable.
No one said a word. The only sounds in the room were the raindrops striking the window like hard pebbles, and the soft rustling of a small white skirt, flapping and fluttering around those tiny little legs.
Though his eyes were fixed only on the child, he was aware of both women staring up at him with wide eyes. He sensed their trepidation.
“Vincent,” Rebecca said uncertainly, rising to her feet.
For the first time since entering the room, he took his eyes off the baby and looked into those of his sister-in-law.
She spoke carefully. “Come closer and see her.”
It all felt like some kind of strange dream—his brother’s wife leading him across the room toward the blanket.
He stood tall, looking straight down at the babe, who had black hair to match his own, beautiful brown eyes, and pudgy, soft-looking cheeks.
“I suppose this is quite a surprise to come home to,” Rebecca said in a rather light conversational tone, considering the awkward circumstances. He understood she was making an effort to ease the tension in the room.
He squatted down on his haunches.
The infant was still kicking, then he heard her baby voice for the first time—a string of happy gurgles and giggles. Instinctively he offered his forefinger, and she gripped it in her chubby little hand and squeezed.
“Would you like to hold her?” Rebecca asked.
He glanced up briefly, and without a word he slid his arms under the babe, cradled her head in his big hand, and scooped her up as he rose to his feet. She weighed next to nothing.
“She’s a Sinclair,” he said with authority, his voice deep and low.
“Yes, she definitely is,” Charlotte replied, as if to encourage his acceptance of the child. And there was a profound depth of meaning in her accord, for she—his half sister—was only half Sinclair herself. She was golden-haired like their mother and carried none of the duke’s traits.
Holding the baby in his arms, Vincent turned his back on Rebecca and Charlotte, who remained seated on the blanket. He walked to the window so that the light could shine in on his daughter’s face.
She was alert and intelligent looking, very aware of him, and curious. She reached her little hand up toward his nose.
“Hello there,” he said.
But what should he call her? He did want to know.
“Her name?” he asked, almost in a panic, turning quickly to Rebecca and Charlotte.
“Her name is June Marie Montrose,” Rebecca replied.
He turned his back on them again and faced the window. All at once it felt as if they were the only two people in the universe—he and little June, who was reaching out again with her pudgy little hand and taking hold of his chin.
Good God, how could he even comprehend this? There was a tiny person in his arms. She was so very small. Her movements were astounding. He threw his head back and laughed.
“Do you see that?” he asked, turning and seeing the shock on his sisters’ faces. “See how she kicks? She wants to go places. She’ll be crawling before we know it.”
Charlotte and Rebecca both laughed and agreed, their relief obvious. Clearly, they had been worried that Vincent would shun the child. With good reason, he supposed, as he turned toward the window again. He had expected to do just that less than five minutes ago.
But how everything could change in the blink of an eye, he realized with a powerful burst of emotion.
Who would have thought? It was staggering. Earth shattering. He could not stop looking into those deep brown Sinclair eyes, which seemed to reflect his own.
He could not believe it. He, Vincent Sinclair, was a father.
At half past four, the Duke of Pembroke entered the drawing room where Lady Letitia was seated with her mother, the Duchess of Swinburne. The ladies were sipping tea while they awaited the overdue arrival of Letitia’s fiancé—and more importantly, her engagement gift, the Pembroke Sapphire.
The duke was dressed with impeccable style in a black velvet jacket and trousers, a clean white linen shirt, and a green and gold paisley tie made of the finest Italian silk money could buy. From the ankles up, he was the very picture of elegance and grace.
If one were to look down, however, one would discover that his feet were bare. And if one had the advantage of seeing through the fine fabric of his jacket and trousers, one would know that beneath it, he was dressed in a bright blue sea bathing costume, in preparation for the advancing floods.
The ladies stood up as the duke came to stand in front of the fireplace. He bowed slightly at the waist. “Greetings, Duchess,” he said to Letitia’s mother. “And my compliments to you, Lady Letitia. Welcome back to the palace, this time as a future bride of Pembroke.”
Letitia smiled and curtsied. “How wonderful to see you again, Your Grace. It is a pleasure to return so soon.”
“Ah yes, pleasures, pleasures.” Eyes never leaving Letitia’s tall, exquisite form, he walked around the tea table to stand before her, almost in a dazed stupor. “My word, it is remarkable. Why had I not noticed before?”
“Noticed w
hat, Your Grace?” Letitia’s mother asked.
His eyes lit up. “You are the very image of the first Duchess of Pembroke—a famous, dark beauty who gave the first duke eleven children. And you are just as comely as you were the last time I saw you. What was it, a week ago?”
“Nearly a month,” she replied.
“A month. You don’t say.” He gazed with fascination at her long-lashed brown eyes and creamy white skin, then took hold of her hand and raised it to his lips. “I dare say, my son is a lucky man. If I were younger, he would have his work cut out for him.”
She laughed. “You are too kind, Your Grace.”
He laid a kiss above her knuckles, then stared, transfixed, at the back of her hand.
Letitia glanced uneasily at her mother, tried to pull her hand away, but the duke yanked it back.
“What is this?” he asked, rubbing a thumb roughly over the discoloration on her skin, as if it were a smudge of dirt.
“It is nothing, Your Grace.” She tried again to pull her hand free of his, but he would not have it. He yanked it back a second time, as if they were playing some childish game of tug of war.
The duke’s cheeks took on a bright red hue, his eyes locked upon hers, spellbound, as he awaited her reply.
“It is a birthmark,” she finally explained. “I’ve had it forever.”
Without letting go of her hand, the duke sank onto the sofa cushions, looking as if he had just been informed of a death in the family. “A birthmark...” He rubbed a hand over his face.
Letitia looked frantically at her mother.
“It is really nothing,” the duchess said, stammering slightly. “Most of the time the mark is hidden, as Letitia is always wearing gloves when she is out—at balls, driving in the park, what have you...”
“No!” the duke shouted. “You shall not wear gloves, Lady Letitia. Never in this house. Do you understand me?”
Mother and daughter looked uncertainly at each other and nodded.
The duke inspected the birthmark again. He stretched her arm and almost pulled her off her feet so he could see the mark with the window as a backdrop.
The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2) Page 4
