by Hatch, Donna
He rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited for his horse to be brought around front. As his horse arrived, Christian paid the lad a vail, and mounted his horse. Whistling as he rode, Christian nodded and tipped his hat to passers by along the cobbled street.
What a wonderful time to be alive! When he brought Father to Bath in the hopes that his health would improve by the healing waters, Christian hadn’t dreamed he’d find his future bride here. True, he didn’t expect to find a woman he planned to marry for several years yet. He was still considered young to be marrying, but his heart would burst if he had to wait any longer. By the end of the summer, they’d be blissfully wedded. Then he could take her to Italy, where he’d always wanted to go and paint. Cole would be home soon and he and his wife could take over Father’s care. Christian would finally be free to pursue his own happiness.
Still whistling, he arrived at the home he’d let for the summer, handed his horse to the care of a footman, and took the front steps two at a time. Inside the house, he glanced at a silver tray containing today’s mail, probably more invitations to local soirees and balls. But as he passed, one on top addressed in graceful feminine handwriting to The Honorable Christian Amesbury caught his attention.
He paused. That appeared to be Genevieve’s handwriting. Grinning, he tore open the seal and read a letter from his beloved.
Mr. Amesbury,
He blinked. When did they revert back to such formality?
It grieves me to inform you … the rest of words swam before his eyes in disjointed confusion, don’t suit ... fickle heart ... another man ... friend of my father ... viscount ... As Christian read, his joy evaporated. This couldn’t be real.
Carefully, he re-read the letter in abject disbelief. Somehow, a letter from another woman meant for different man had arrived in his hands by mistake. A terrible, horrible, tragic mistake. His lungs froze and his hands shook. She couldn’t do this. She wouldn’t do this. And by letter?
No. He would not believe that the woman who’d been so tender and passionate in his arms mere hours ago was now marrying another.
Christian flew out the front door, down the steps and through the streets of Bath. Dodging pedestrians, carriages and horses, benches and streetlamps that leaped in his path, Christian raced to the Marshall’s home, determined to discover the truth. He arrived breathless at the front door.
Captain Marshall’s butler, familiar to Christian after so many calls to the family over the summer, greeted him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Amesbury, but the family is away.”
Christian hesitated at the door. “Is it true? She’s marrying another man?”
His posture stiff, he gave a curt nod. “It appears so, sir.”
No. It can’t be. Something had gone horribly wrong. She wouldn’t do this.
Through his disbelief, he managed, “Who?’
“Lord Wickburgh.”
“Wickburgh?” The man was a reptile, cold and calculating, not to mention old enough to be Genevieve’s father. And Christian didn’t like the way the man watched her, like he was about to pounce and devour her. She would never marry a man like that. What the devil was happening?
The butler lost his proper reserve and let his misgivings show. “It is taking place now.”
“Now?” Christian repeated, aghast. She’d thrown him over mere minutes before wedding another man? Everything about this was wrong. “Where?”
As the butler gave the house number, Christian scanned the street for a hackney. Finding none, he sprinted down the steps toward his new destination. Everything around him faded into a shapeless blur. Urgency pushed him onward when his lungs burned. Still, he ran.
As he rounded a corner, a stately home came into view. Odd, but he half expected such a villain as Wickburgh to live in some dark and ominous-looking dwelling filled with evidence of the man’s depravity.
After racing up the front steps, Christian hammered on the door. Without waiting to be admitted, he threw open the door and pushed his way past the startled butler heading toward him.
“Genevieve!” His voice echoed in the foyer.
“Stop!” exclaimed the indignant servant hurrying toward him. “You can’t come in here. There’s a wedding taking place.”
“Not if I can stop it. Genevieve!” He followed voices to a nearby drawing room and burst in.
Lord Wickburgh stood next to a bishop, his sharp features twisted in anger. “Amesbury? How dare you? Get out!”
“Where is she? What have you done to her?”
“Nothing, yet.” A smile carved his mouth and a malicious glint glimmered in his eyes.
Christian took a menacing step toward the man. “Touch her and I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Christian.” Genevieve’s sweet voice washed over him like cool water.
Her lovely face filled his vision as she stepped away from her parents and moved next to Wickburgh, her auburn head barely reaching the man’s shoulder. Sadness and regret seeped into her chocolate-brown eyes. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
Christian looked from her sorrowful face to Wickburgh’s triumphant one. “What is the meaning of this?”
Wickburgh let out a sharp laugh. “I should think it’s obvious, Mr. Amesbury. She’s marrying me. Clearly, I’m the better man.”
Christian focused on Genevieve. “Jen?”
She glanced down and twisted her fingers together. She seemed to gather herself before meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry, but I choose to marry Lord Wickburgh. I apologize if I gave you cause to believe I had feelings for you.”
“ ‘… cause to ...’?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Why are you doing this?”
She drew a breath and raised her chin. “I could not resist a man who can offer me a title.” She slid her hand into the crook of Wickburgh’s arm. “I’ll be a lady—a viscountess.”
Wickburgh’s mouth twisted into a triumphant sneer. “So sorry, dear boy.”
Rage exploded inside Christian. He swung a fist and landed a solid punch on Wickburgh’s chin. Wickburgh went sprawling and slid a few inches on the smooth floor.
“Get up,” Christian snarled, “unless you’d rather meet me with swords or pistols.”
“No!” Genevieve cried out.
Wickburgh wiped at the blood trickling from his lip and looked up with a calculated smile. “No need. You’ve unlawfully entered my house and assaulted a peer of the realm.” He pulled out a pistol and leveled it at Christian. He cocked it, the snap filling the silence.
Christian’s rage left no room for fear. He tensed, ready to spring at the bounder.
“Christian, no!” Genevieve grabbed his arm. “Stop this madness.”
He looked down at her. “What aren’t you telling me? What does he hold over you that you’d so suddenly agree to this farce of a wedding?”
Releasing him, she looked down and picked at the lace edging her sleeves. “No, that’s not it at all. You don’t understand. I have been secretly engaged to Lord Wickburgh for months. We merely decided to move up the wedding and have it here instead of at his county seat.”
Was this true? Could she really…? He couldn’t finish the thought.
Genevieve’s mouth pulled into a pained smile. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but … you were a mere diversion. A flirtation.”
Aghast, he stared, his mouth dropping open. He shook his head slowly. He’d heard wrong. This wasn’t happening. He drove his hands through his hair, held it back, then released it. “No. I don’t believe you. I know you. You wouldn’t do this.”
She offered a weak, apologetic shrug before driving in the final blow. “I’m sorry, but my parents agree that a viscount has more to offer me than a youngest son.”
Betrayal rose up and choked Christian. He staggered backward. His worst fear had finally raised its ugly head, reared back, and bitten him. She’d been toying with him. The woman he loved more than he’d ever imagined he could love had been pretending all along. She’d been engaged
all this time, and merely enjoying his attention. He shook his head slowly, not troubling to hide his dismay. How could he have been so easily duped? How could he have allowed himself to believe he’d finally found his own corner of joy?
Without another word, Genevieve crouched next to Lord Wickburgh and helped him to his feet, murmuring softly to him, touching him the way she’d touched Christian. Wickburgh put an arm around her, all the while keeping the gun trained on Christian.
Simmering anger boiled until his insides melted. The little flirt! The liar!
Captain Marshall cleared his throat and put an arm around Genevieve’s mother. “Mr. Amesbury, it would be best if you left now.”
Mrs. Marshall pressed a handkerchief over her mouth and closed her eyes.
Christian clawed at what little was left of his shattered dignity and wrapped it around him like a cloak. “Very well. May you both have all the happiness you deserve.”
After squaring his shoulders, Christian strode to the front door with his head high and descended the stairs in measured steps. Clenching his teeth and fisting his hands, he continued in even strides away from the house.
Treacherous witch! He should have known it was too good to be true. His love for her had been too easy, too much like a dream. No lady of quality would settle for a youngest son when a viscount offered her a title. Everyone else left him, why not Genevieve? He clearly didn’t deserve something as magical as love.
A group of thugs leaped out from an alley and surrounded him. He stopped short and blinked. They stepped nearer, some holding clubs or knives, others with raised fists. Christian pushed back his consuming grief enough to fall into a defensive stance. If only he were armed.
One man with no teeth growled, “Ye keep away from Lord Wickburgh, ye hear?”
Ah, the payback. Of course.
They attacked him as one. Christian avoided the weapons for a time, landing several solid punches, but there were too many coming at him from every direction. A blade lashed out. Christian deflected it but it left a sting above his eye. Hot moisture ran down the side of his face. He took a several blows to the stomach and more to his face. As he staggered back, another blade found its mark. Fiery-hot pain lanced his side. Genevieve’s treacherous face taunted him as his head exploded into fragments.
CHAPTER 4
Northern England, late summer 1819, one year later
For a woman determined to commit murder, Genevieve walked sedately, eerily tranquil, her heart beating slowly, her hands steady, her mind calm. Perhaps her serenity arose from a state of insanity, for only a lunatic would risk her immortal soul to an eternity of hellfire and brimstone.
Birdsong serenaded her as she walked along the woodland path, and the morning sun shone despite dark clouds growing at the horizon. All of it mocked her, the perfect foil against the dark hole where her heart had once resided. A breeze carried the scent of the last few summer flowers but the cloying sweetness made her stomach lurch. Soon, it would all end, all the misery, all the fear, all the consuming loneliness. Her blank existence, broken up only with moments of pain and fear when Lord Wickburgh played another cruel game, would finally, blessedly cease. The emptiness of her life and womb and heart would fade away as if she never existed.
In trance-like calm, Genevieve followed the dappled pathway. The river’s roar deafened her as she padded on the planks of the bridge. Stopping in the middle, she gazed impassively down at the churning, muddy water. Due to recent rains, the normally placid river had swollen to a rushing torrent. Perfect. Even if she could swim, she’d never survive such a swift current. The dark river no doubt hid all manner of danger and violence, similar in so many ways to her marriage.
As she removed her shawl and let it fall, the crisp morning air raised bumps on her skin. The river, she knew, would be even colder. Undaunted, she unbuttoned her gown. She had dressed in a morning gown with buttons down the front so she could remove it without help. The weight of her clothing would hold her down better, but she wanted Lord Wickburgh, and anyone else who might discover her trail, to know she had deliberately ended her life by finding her clothing. The scandal of a wife who had committed suicide would be her one revenge upon the ice monster masquerading as a husband.
She slid the sleeves of her gown off her shoulders and watched the fabric billow at her feet. Her petticoats, silk stockings and shoes followed. After twisting her wedding band off her finger, she laid it down on top of her clothing, carefully placing everything near the edge of the bridge. Wearing only her shift and stays, she swung her legs over the railing one at a time, and sat upon the narrow wooden slat.
The water beckoned, each muddy wave topped with a whitecap. A tree branch rolled over and over as the current swept it along. It surfaced, only to sink again. It reappeared again further downriver. She wondered vaguely if anyone would look for her body, or if her clothes and ring would be enough evidence of her death. Knowing Lord Wickburgh, a body would be required as proof. Otherwise, he’d never stop searching for her, like a miser who had to account for every penny.
She lifted her face one last time toward the sun but the clouds had closed in, threatening another day of rain. After bidding farewell to the stark ugliness of her life, she closed her eyes. Hell would probably be ugly, colorless, without music or light or scent. It would also be sans Lord Wickburgh … at least for a while, until he joined her in perdition. Perhaps she’d have her own fiery poker to keep him at bay.
Her only regret was never seeing Christian again. A man of such high integrity would go straight to heaven after he left the earth. Christian. A faint stirring arose in the vacuum where her heart once rested. How clearly she remembered him, the tenderness in his blue eyes, the softness of his smile, the gentleness of his touch. And how clearly, too, she recalled his disbelief and hurt when she’d told him she chose to marry Wickburgh.
It wasn’t his fault that he believed her capable of such treachery. After all, she’d worked hard to lie to him. But deep inside, she’d hoped he would never believe she could be so vicious. Sorrow gnawed through her chest, consuming her last spark of life. She blew out her breath to prevent buoyancy, and jumped.
The water’s icy blast hit and a current dragged her into a silent world of brownish-green, yet still no alarm arose. Instead, unnatural calm wrapped more securely around her. In a moment, it would all be over. As she grew numb from cold, the river carried her along gently, like a mother rocking her child. For the first time in years, peace enfolded her in its soft embrace.
She floated toward the safety of death.
CHAPTER 5
Profoundly alone, Christian stood in front of the family crypt, the white stone building glowing against the darkness. Only a faint hint of gray at the far eastern sky hinted at the coming dawn. He carefully laid his bunch of flowers at the entrance where the remains of a ten-year-old boy lay, a boy whose life was snuffed out long before his time.
Eighteen years ago today, he’d held Jason in his arms while his brother, his advocate, his friend, took one last breath. Christian squeezed his eyes shut, but the images played out in his mind, as clear as the day they happened. Every detail, every sound, every sharp, accusing pain trampled him like a stampede, leaving only ruin in its wake.
“I’m sorry, Jason.”
He’d never atone for causing his brother’s death. Perhaps he should stop trying.
A bird fluttered over his head and perched on the roof of the crypt, twittering and singing a cheerful tune at odds with Christian’s mood. He watched the bird sing, flutter a few steps forward, and fluff out its feathers. He smiled in spite of himself at the bird’s simple joy. Now that his parents were gone—his mother had been gone for almost three years and his father had died only two months ago—and Cole had inherited the title, Christian no longer had the responsibility of caring for his parents and managing the many Amesbury estate. Would it be so bad to indulge in a few dreams of his own?
He’d dare hope his years of penance were through when he�
��d found such happiness with Genevieve. But that had been fleeting and false. He shoved away those memories for the lies that they were. Yes, it was time to leave.
Italy sang to him like a song of hope. Maybe he could convince his sister Rachel to go with him. It might entice her to leave her self-imposed exile and rekindle her zeal for living. Perhaps it would rekindle his own.
The grating of the gate swinging open broke the silence. He looked up at the sky shot through with streaks of pink as dawn crept closer. The family crypt loomed overhead, casting a shadow over him, just as Jason’s death cast a shadow over Christian’s life.
The gate slammed shut, his cue to leave. Christian took a circular route back to the gate to avoid seeing anyone. A shadow leaped in front of him. Startled, Christian dropped into a defensive crouch, reaching for his gun, until he recognized the form.
“Grant.” Christian bit out the name, no less relieved than if a bandit had attacked him.
Dressed entirely in black, Grant stared, his cold gray eyes raking over Christian. Grant had always been dark, but he’d come home from the war truly terrifying in his controlled, intense energy. As Grant opened his mouth to spew a stinging insult, Christian took a step closer and stared him in the eye.
“Don’t,” Christian snarled through clenched teeth.
He bumped his shoulder against Grant’s as he passed and stalked to the main gate. No sound came from behind. With his head high, Christian strode to his grazing Friesian, took up the reins and leaped into the saddle. He resisted the urge to look back. The thought of returning home to Cole and Alicia’s love nest, complete with cooing and kissing in corners, left Christian faintly ill. And envious of their happiness.
As dawn broke, sending golden rays through the clouds, Chrisitan turned his horse to follow the river. The heavy overgrowth would provide a protective cover where he could continue his solitude. The roar of the rain-swollen, muddy river drowned out all sound. He rode along the river, his artistic mind nudging aside his grief enough to mentally mix colors he’d need if he were to paint the scenery. Silver and charcoal clouds billowed at the horizon of a rare, cobalt blue sky soaring above verdant green foliage. The first traces of autumn reds and gold tipped some of the leaves as if a great artist had begun gilding them with master strokes. Whitecaps topped the muddy rushing waves as the river leaped along its course and ducked underneath a weathered bridge.
