Charlie was stunned almost speechless. “I never saw her,” he replied, just as harshly. “Yes, I wanted to marry her once, years ago. But she refused me. From the time she refused to elope with me in spite of my father’s wishes, I never saw her. She went to Bath and married you, and I never spoke to her again until . . .” He stopped.
When Worley looked at him again, his face no longer held any fury, but a sort of stony acceptance. “Until that night? I can almost believe it.”
That night. That one cursed night three years ago, when he’d encountered Maria at a ball in London. When he’d fallen, half drunk and feeling reckless, back into his old burning passion for her. He’d only meant to flirt outrageously with her, both as a sop to the echoes of his wounded youthful pride and to torment her with what might have been. By then he fully appreciated what it meant to be the handsome heir to a wealthy dukedom; at least a half-dozen ladies in the ballroom that night would have eloped with him on a moment’s notice, if he’d asked them. But Maria, the one girl who’d refused him, was all he could see, as he crossed the ballroom. She was still beautiful, still tapping her toe in time with the music as she watched, but when he swept a bow in front of her, she gasped in astonishment.
“Is it really you?” she’d asked, sounding almost fearful before a joyous smile blazed across her face. “It is—oh, thank the heavens above, it is!”
The rest of the night had passed in a blur. She was miserable in her marriage. After four daughters and three miscarriages, Worley was displeased with her as a wife. He kept her virtually a prisoner at Uppercombe, only bringing her to London for brief trips every other year. He was abrupt with her and made shocking, even cruel demands of her in his quest for a son. She confessed to Charlie, in a voice choking with sobs, that she bitterly regretted refusing him; that she hadn’t known a moment of happiness since that day; and that she had never stopped loving him, even as she was forced to give herself to her cold and abusive husband. It was a tale of loneliness and despair, and Charlie, still under the influence of that remembered adoration as well as a large quantity of drink, believed every word.
As the hours passed and the wine flowed, Maria poured out all her troubles and laments into his too-sympathetic ear. When she exclaimed at the lateness of the hour, he took her hand and pulled her into a dark corner to kiss her. He declared he wanted to protect her, to save her from her tragic lot. And when she clasped his hand and told him to come home with her, that Worley was away for the night and her heart might break forever if Charlie didn’t make love to her just once, he went without a second thought.
It was the next morning when he realized the stupidity of his actions. From the moment he opened his eyes and saw that he was in another man’s bed, with a wife not his own, he repented of the reckless decision to come home with her. He didn’t know Lord Worley personally, but the man’s reputation was not the forgiving and forgetting sort. Charlie’s scandals to that point had been mere trifles compared to carrying on an affair with a jealous man’s wife. When Maria awoke and began murmuring about seeing him again, even hinting that Charlie might help her divorce her husband, he knew he’d made a horrifying mistake.
By the time he extricated himself from her tears and arms, he felt he’d made the narrowest escape of his life. He had gone to bed with her because he’d spent too much of his life dreaming of doing it, but it hadn’t changed anything. She was still married to someone else, and he was surprised to find he didn’t want her as badly as he had once thought. In the clear light of morning he realized he no longer loved her. And the thought of being drawn into a criminal conversation suit for adultery with Lady Worley was simply unthinkable. It was enough to make him swear off ever bedding another married woman again, let alone Maria Worley, and breathe a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been worse.
But now it was clear he hadn’t completely escaped. Somehow Lord Worley had discovered his wife’s infidelity and focused his vengeance on him, even though it happened almost three years ago and Charlie hadn’t seen Maria since. It seemed an extreme reaction to one night’s sin. Blackmailers went to prison, and if Durham had discovered him in time, Worley would have suffered a great deal worse. If Worley truly wanted to punish Charlie, a suit for criminal damages would have done it very well, socially and financially. He understood the source of Worley’s anger, but not its methods.
“It was only one night,” he said, “undertaken in a rash moment and swiftly regretted. I’ve not seen her since.”
Worley’s grim expression faded, and suddenly he looked old. “I hated you for years,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Everything I did she compared to you, and I was always found wanting.” He turned and moved slowly across the room. “I lived with that; I lived with the knowledge she would have left me for you at any moment. Every time I denied her anything, she flung it in my face that I was her second choice, that fate had stolen her true love from her. And because I was a fool, I accepted it and told myself she was mine and always would be, no matter what she said in anger.” He pulled the bell for the servant. “But this went too far.”
A servant tapped at the door almost at once. “Bring Lord Cranston,” Worley told the maid, who curtsied and disappeared.
“What did you hope to gain?” Charlie demanded, struggling to hold his temper in check. He had sinned with the man’s wife—he admitted it—but he had done what he could to mitigate it. He would have understood if Worley had called him out, or demanded some other form of direct retribution, but this cowardly blackmail scheme had upset his brothers’ lives and ruined his father’s final months on earth and, perversely, left his own life relatively unscathed. The intentional cruelty to his family left him furious. “There was no scandal of that night. She left London and I never saw her again. If your honor required satisfaction, why not challenge me to a duel? Why torment my father on his deathbed? If you’d done any investigation you would have realized there was no basis for your threats. Dorothy Cope died decades ago. My mother’s marriage was valid. What did you gain?”
The earl’s eyes flashed. “Gain?” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “As much as I longed to put a bullet into you, it wasn’t worth the trouble. Why should I subject myself to any danger? It wasn’t my intent to roil Durham’s last days, but his secret marriage was the perfect opportunity. What could hurt Charles de Lacey, reprobate rake and useless fop, more than losing his inheritance and being declared a bastard? I don’t care if it’s true or not. I don’t care if it upset your brothers’ pampered lives a little, or sent Durham to his grave thinking his lies had caught up to him at last. You had to be punished, no matter what the cost.”
Charlie drew breath in fury, but before he could respond the door opened. The maid had returned, and with her was a dark-haired toddler, who pulled loose of the maid’s hand and ran across the room to Worley. “Papa!” cried the little boy. “Papa!”
All trace of anger and venom left the earl’s face in an instant, and his expression transformed. He now wore a fond smile, his eyes bright with affection. He caught the child up in his arms and embraced him for a moment. “Here I am, Albert! What have you got today?”
“Rocks, Papa.” The boy opened his chubby fist and displayed some pebbles. “From th’ garden.”
“I see.” Worley shot Charlie a defiant look, then bent to set his son down. The little boy wobbled, then sat down hard, his skirts puffing up around him. Worley helped the child back to his feet. “Albert, make your bow to His Grace the Duke of Durham.”
The boy turned round blue eyes to him, then gave a careful bow. He clutched Worley’s hand the whole while.
“Your Grace,” said Worley, with a hard edge to his voice, “this is my son, Albert.”
Charlie gave a slight bow. “How do you do, Albert.”
The boy hid his face. Barely keeping his own expression impassive, Charlie looked to Worley. Now he knew why. “A very handsome child.”
Worley’s jaw twitched. “He is. Go back to the nursery now, son.”
The boy ran to his waiting nurse with only a nervous glance at Charlie, who watched him go. He was glad for the respite. Holy God. The boy was the right age—and Maria’s other children were all daughters. He turned back to Worley when the child had gone, feeling sick to his stomach.
“He is my heir,” said the earl. He put back his shoulders and glared at Charlie. “My only son.”
His mouth was dry. “Is he?” Charlie managed to ask. He wanted to run after the child and inspect his face, to look for any sign of de Lacey features in him. The boy looked like Maria, with her coloring and eyes, not like Worley at all—but nor did Charlie see himself in the child. Was that his child, the product of his night with Maria? Did he have a son he could never claim? “Or is he mine?”
Worley was breathing so hard he shuddered with each exhalation. “He is mine,” he said violently. “Whether I sired him or not.”
“Don’t you know?” exclaimed Charlie, suffering some strong emotion of his own. “Did you blackmail my father because of a bloody possibility?”
“She told me,” bit out Worley. “She told me he was probably yours. My son—my beloved, only son—not mine but yours.” It was the furious wail of a lamed animal. “I didn’t know she’d been with you until she threw the truth in my face during an argument a year ago. And now—to know my son and heir might be a cuckoo in my nest—”
Charlie’s fists were shaking. “Do you mean to cast the boy aside?” he managed to ask. “Or his mother?”
“Never,” Worley snarled. “I will never surrender my son. Under the law he is mine. I pray every night he is mine in truth.” He took a breath and calmed a bit. “As for his mother, she is also mine—my Delilah, my Judith, but mine. I don’t give up what is mine.”
After a moment Charlie jerked his head once; he understood. Worley knew his wife had betrayed him, but there was no way to know beyond a doubt who had fathered her child. Worley loved his son, but was consumed by the doubt. Maria was probably suffering under that doubt, but Worley appeared to want her as well, in some tragic way. They had each trapped themselves; Maria had deceived her husband in hopes of escaping her marriage, but he wanted her too much to set her free. Charlie had been the only one not suffering, and that, Worley could not bear. Gerard had been right, nearly: the only purpose behind the blackmail had been to torment, not all three Durham sons, but Charlie alone. He had been the cause of all of it, because of his reckless infatuation with Maria.
Good God, his father had been utterly right to try to save him from his own foolishness. Without a word he turned to go.
“If I ever hear word of you so much as making a bow to my wife again, or setting foot within a hundred yards of my son, I’ll kill you myself,” Worley added as he reached the door.
Charlie turned his head to look at the earl. Worley’s eyes glittered with hatred, and his voice was ice cold. He meant every word, and Charlie believed him. “I never meant to see your wife again,” he said quietly. “And I never knew your son existed until today.”
“I know I cannot touch you, legally,” said Worley. “But I won’t hesitate to kill you if you cross me again.”
Slowly, Charlie shook his head. “No, I won’t.” He hesitated a moment longer. “Be good to the boy. He bears no blame, either way.”
The earl glared at him. “Get off my property. And don’t speak of my son again.”
Charlie nodded once, and let himself out.
Chapter 20
Thankfully the butler was waiting nearby when Charlie stepped into the corridor. He wasn’t sure he could have found his way out of the house unassisted. He followed the servant almost blindly, grappling with the new knowledge Worley had flung at him. Could it be his son?
No. Even if the child had Charlie’s blood in his veins, he would never be his son; the law gave that to Worley. He had rarely thought of being a father, and he’d never gotten a woman with child, for just this reason. He hadn’t been as careful with Tessa, but then . . . he didn’t recoil in alarm from the thought of Tessa bearing his child. He could almost see and hear her, in fact, cuddling a green-eyed child in her arms, patiently explaining how to keep neat and accurate account books. He would have the cleverest, most capable heir of any duke in England, with Tessa as the child’s mother. The thought made him smile.
“Gresham . . .”
The faint sound of his name made Charlie stop. Maria stood at the foot of the stairs, still as beautiful as ever, her face alight with dawning hope and joy. She pressed one hand to her bosom and wet her lips. The butler tactfully faded away, to Charlie’s consternation. The last thing he wanted was to see Maria in any semblance of privacy.
“You came for me,” she whispered. “Finally. Oh, Gresham . . .”
He held up his hands unsteadily as she rushed toward him. “No. Maria, no.”
She reached for his hands, clasping them despite his effort to avoid it. “I knew you would come, I knew it—oh, darling, you’ve no idea how desperately I’ve longed for you these last interminable years . . .”
“I’ve just seen Worley.”
“Oh—but of course you must!” She stepped closer, her smile blinding. “He’ll have to file a suit, naturally—it will be dreadful, but in the end we can be together—oh, Gresham, you are the best of men to endure it for me!”
He couldn’t bear to let her go on deceiving herself. He couldn’t stand to hear any more of her wild hopes and plans, so he moved to end them now, once and for all. “He told me about Albert. I saw the boy.”
She paused, then laughed lightly, but not before he caught the flicker of unease in her eyes. “Of course he would. A son and heir! Nothing else matters to him. Albert is paraded around like a prize-winning colt.”
“He told me you claimed the boy was mine.”
Her chin quivered at his tone. “I was angry—Worley knows I don’t mean a word I say in anger. We were quarreling—these things happen between husbands and wives . . .”
“Maria, is he my child?” His question stopped her nervous chatter. She regarded him with disappointment, her expressive eyes shadowed. “Because if you’re not certain beyond all doubt that he is,” Charlie went on, finally losing some grip on his temper, “how dare you say such a thing to your husband? How dare you impugn your son’s lineage?”
She shrugged one shoulder. Her mouth twisted. “Impugn! Nothing can keep Albert from inheriting Worley’s title.”
“That hardly matters to your husband!” He inhaled deeply to master his anger. “Is it true? Is he my child?”
She hesitated, her expression wary. “I don’t know. Truly, I don’t.”
Charlie swallowed a string of curses. “How could you?”
“How could I?” She shook her head, tears glimmering in those magnificent eyes. “How could I want one moment of happiness, with the man I had loved for years? How could I crave one night of bliss out of the years of misery? Can you even ask?”
“How could you risk this? You had to know your husband wouldn’t look the other way. He says he loves the child now, but who knows if his feelings will change as the boy grows? And I—” He had to pause for a moment. “If he is my son, you’ve forever deprived me of him. How could you do that to all of us?”
Her lip trembled but she put up her chin. “I wasn’t thinking of that. I was only thinking of how unhappy I was, and how desperately I longed for you.”
Charlie longed to shake her even as he pitied her. It was a risk he’d run by going to her bed at all, and he did believe she was unhappy. But he couldn’t forgive her actions since. Even if he was as
much to blame, even if Worley had earned her scorn, she had forever poisoned her son’s future. Worley would be eternally on guard for any sign of him in the boy. Charlie prayed Albert was not his child, for the boy’s own sake. Worley might be a kind father now, but as the lad grew and became rebellious or independent or anything other than Worley wanted him to be . . .
“And Albert most likely is Worley’s own child,” Maria went on as he said nothing. “Worley never spent more than a week away from my bed before he was born; he was there the very night after you left me. The more I think of it, the more I think he must be Worley’s. He’s such a strange child, nothing at all like you. A handful of rocks amuses him for hours.”
“I was wrong to spend that night with you,” he said quietly. “I wish I hadn’t done it.” Shock flashed over her face, but he felt no urge to soften his words. For too long he had let his youthful infatuation with her color his life. “We were both wrong, in fact. You knew Worley wouldn’t look the other way, and I . . .” He sighed. “I didn’t speak to my father for more than ten years because of you.”
“You didn’t?” She looked at him, lips parted in amazement, and he had the feeling she was somehow pleased that she’d had this much power over him.
“Because I was a dashed fool,” he said bluntly. “A young idiot, too stupid to see how right my father was to keep us apart.”
“Oh, no!” she burst out hysterically, reaching for him. “Don’t say that! It was my fault, my mistake—when you said we should run away, I was a fool to say no! I was too young, too silly, too afraid! But I love you; all these years, it’s only been you!”
He looked at her gravely. She was still beautiful, still as vibrant and alluring as she’d been years ago. Standing before him now, her hands clasped in supplication, her large eyes pleading, she was just as he had dreamed . . . and he felt nothing. Pity, perhaps, for her bitter unhappiness, and regret for all the little ways he might have encouraged her hopes, unwittingly or not. But the wild desperation to have her was gone. For the first time in his life, Charlie fully appreciated what his father had feared. His love for Maria—perhaps like Durham’s for Dorothy—was the wild passion of youth, the giddy defiance of authority, the obsession of first love. If he had eloped with her a decade ago, he doubted they would have been happy for a year, even had they had Durham’s blessing.
The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke Page 24
