An Heir of Deception
Beverley Kendall
Copyright © Beverley Kendall 2012
Published by Season Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
All’s Fair in Love and Seduction copyright © 2011 by Beverley Kendall
Sinful Surrender copyright © 2011 by Beverley Kendall
A Taste of Desire copyright © 2011 by Beverley Kendall
www.theseasonforromance.com
www.beverleykendall.com
Cover Design © Hot Damn Designs
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.
License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
To the love of my life, Ryan.
Mommy loves you always.
Acknowledgments
Grace, your edits are spot on. Thanks for your invaluable input. Anastasia, what can I say except thank you. A blind lady’s maid was not what I intended. LOL!! Dawn thank you for holding everything else together while I wrote. You’re the best sister a girl can have.
A man devastated by love
After three years of carousing and debauchery, Alex Cartwright, heir to the Duke of Hastings, has put his life back in order. Having embraced sobriety for two years, he has no intention of revisiting the past or risking his heart again. But the return of the very woman who introduced him to the darkest side of hell brings not only the painful, haunting memories of bittersweet love and abandonment, but the son he never knew he had....
A woman silenced by secrets
Threatened by the revelation of a secret that could destroy her family’s place in society and forever tarnish a dukedom, Charlotte fled England on her wedding day five years ago. Now, although it appears that secret is safe, when Alex discovers her other secret—their son—Charlotte has an altogether different battle ahead. She must now fight one love to hold onto the other—the man whose touch still makes her burn, for the child who is her very world.
Table of Contents
Also by Beverley Kendall
Prologue
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 Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Sinful Surrender
A Taste of Desire
All's Fair in Love and Seduction
Also by Beverley Kendall
The Elusive Lords Series
SINFUL SURRENDER
A TASTE OF DESIRE
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE & SEDUCTION (Free Novella)
Note to readers
To everyone who has already read the sample chapters of An Heir of Deception, I urge you to read the book from the beginning. I made changes in the first three chapters during the edit process that impact other areas of the book. Unless you know what those changes are, parts of the book may not make sense.
An Heir of Deception
~~~
BEVERLEY KENDALL
Prologue
London, 4 May 1859
A hushed silence greeted Alex Cartwright, the Marquess of Avondale, as he arrived in the large antechamber in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Attired in navy frock coats, precisely knotted neckties, and light-blue trousers, the Viscounts Creswell and Armstrong, and Rutherford, the Earl of Windmere, were certainly suited up well enough for the occasion. At least in dress if not demeanor, for their faces held the grayish cast of men bound for the gallows. And Rutherford’s hair appeared as if it had been plowed more times than a seasoned whore.
Paused just inside the threshold, Alex let out a dry laugh. “Come now, gentlemen, it can’t be as bad as that,” he teased. “The occasion does not call for black dress or armbands. This isn’t a funeral you’re attending, but my wedding.”
Such a comment would have customarily elicited a wry smile—at the very least—but received not so much as a blink. Another silence the weight of a ship’s anchor descended upon the room, blanketing him in air as cold as London’s fog was thick.
Determined that whatever their affliction, it would not spoil the most important day thus far in his twenty-nine years, Alex quelled the sense of unease beginning to unfurl in his gut.
Under a domed celestial frieze of cherubs and angels, Alex advanced toward the trio standing motionless in front of a large marble-topped table, his footfalls muffled by the carpeted floor. He would have welcomed more noise, some sort of distraction from the somberness surrounding him, be it in human form or décor.
Located in the south transept of the church, the chamber boasted dark-burgundy drapes of some thick, expensive fabric, and surrounding the black marble fireplace were three chairs crafted with enough gild, scrollwork, and velvet to satisfy royalty. But then, with the sudden death of his brother the year before—the much beloved son and heir to the Hastings dukedom—wasn’t Alex now regarded as such? Despite his mother’s vehement opposition to the marriage, when Alex had made it clear he’d marry Charlotte with or without her approval, she thrown her considerable ducal weight into ensuring his wedding would be the most celebrated event in Society for at least the next decade to come.
Halting in front of his friends, he quirked a brow. “Surely you’re not commiserating over my nuptials?” Alex found light sarcasm served as a wonderful vehicle to lift a dour mood. “I would think not, as you all have walked,” he executed a mock bow, “I stand corrected gentlemen—vanquished this course years ago.”
And most assuredly they had, the three men happily married with nary a complaint regarding the oft-bemoaned rigors of the institution. Indeed, each had been passionate in its recommendation.
Armstrong shot Rutherford a look, one Alex instantly recognized. He’d seen it often enough over the course of an acquaintance numbering twenty-six years. In that instant, he knew something was terribly, perhaps tragically, wrong.
Panic bloomed and anxiety burned like acid in his throat. Alex’s gaze flew to Rutherford. “It’s Charlotte, isn’t it? Something has happened to Charlotte.”
The earl averted his gaze.
Alex grabbed Rutherford forcibly by the arms, bringing the two men practically nose to nose. Even if his friend’s delay had been infinitesimal, it measured what felt like an eternity too long.
Alex held his friend in a vise grip and gave him a teeth-jarring shake. “Tell me, damn it. What’s happened to Charlott
e? Is she hurt? Where is she?”
Rutherford bent his imprisoned arm at the elbow. With obvious reluctance, he offered up the envelope. “She sent this for you,” Rutherford said, his voice strained and hoarse.
With a cautious step back, Alex dropped his hands to his sides. At first, he could only stare at the innocuous rectangular paper, uncomprehending. Slowly, the fog released its hold on his senses.
His gaze darted to the sheet of paper crushed in his friend’s other hand. She’d also written a letter to Rutherford and it was obvious he’d read his. Alex then recalled the footman hurrying down the hall. In that instant, he knew the man he’d passed with so little regard, so consumed with his own happiness, had been the bearer of the news that had sent his friends into such morbid melancholy. News that would assuredly send him someplace far worse.
Charlotte wasn’t hurt. The evidence stood before him in the form of her brother. Had she been injured or taken ill, a stable full of horses wouldn’t have been able to drag Rutherford from her side. But too swiftly on the heels of staggering relief nipped a growing fear, for penned in her signature slopes and curls was his name emblazoned across the front of the envelope. A letter from her on the day of their wedding could signify only one thing.
“She’s not coming, is she?” His cravat—silk mulberry that his valet had fussed into an elaborate knot—felt as if it had a stranglehold on his words.
“Cartwright—”
Alex’s head jerked violently in the direction of his friend, the set of his countenance effectively cutting Creswell off at the utterance of his name.
Armstrong sighed and ran his hand through a thatch of golden hair, regarding him with eyes filled with the kind of compassion no man should have to countenance on his wedding day. Sympathy was bad enough, but pity? Intolerable.
Directing his attention back to Rutherford, Alex stared at the envelope unclaimed in his friend’s hand, knowing its contents promised to deliver him the felling blow.
“What does she say?” he asked, his voice a hollow imitation of his former self.
“I did not read it,” Rutherford muttered gruffly, extending his arm so the tan paper touched the flesh exposed at Alex’s wrist.
The fires of perdition could not have singed his skin more at the contact and Alex retreated several steps as he surveyed it with abhorrence.
“What did she tell you?” he asked quietly, dragging his gaze up to Rutherford’s.
Three years ago when his friend had paced the halls outside his wife’s bedchamber awaiting the birth of their twins, he’d worn the same expression he did at present, a helpless sort of fright.
“What does she say!” Alex’s voice exploded like a cannon blast in graveyard silence. “Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you?”
Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you?
The echo transcended the room to storm the corridors of the prestigious church.
Rutherford appeared to be rallying his courage, swallowing and then drawing in a ragged breath before he said, “The footman brought the letters only moments before your arrival. I was coming—”
“God dammit, man, quit all your blasted blathering. Just tell me what she wrote!”
Rutherford made an uncomfortable sound in his throat before replying in graveled tones, “She wrote to beg my forgiveness for any scandal or shame her actions may bring upon the family but…says she can’t marry you.”
A roar sounded in Alex’s ears as he grasped the back of a nearby chair, the coolness of the metal frame muted by his silk white gloves. He blinked rapidly in an effort to halt the stinging in his eyes and swallowed to douse the burning in his throat. And a numbness such as he’d never known assailed him, turning his limbs into leaden weights.
“Where is she?”
Stark pain and fear flashed in Rutherford’s pale blue eyes. “I do not know. She’s quit the Manor but gave no indication as to where she’s gone. She merely states she is safe and that we must not concern ourselves unduly over her.”
The weight on Alex’s chest threatened to crush every organ beneath it. But such destruction would do little to his heart, for it had already broken into a multitude of pieces.
Like that, with the flourish of a pen, she was gone.
Alex turned to the open door. Around him, he felt rather than saw his friends move in chorus toward him. He stopped abruptly, angled his head over his shoulder and met their gazes. “Let me be. I shall be fine.” But he wouldn’t lie to himself; he would never be fine.
The three men did not advance any farther.
Alex blindly put one foot in front of the other. With every step, he discarded a piece of the life he’d foolishly dreamt to have with her…until there were none.
He took his leave of the room, his leave of the church, to start his way back to a life obliterated to a pile of nothingness.
Chapter One
Berkshire, 1 March 1864
Her sister was gravely ill.
The knowledge plagued Charlotte Rutherford, consuming her with such fear that a proper night’s sleep had been impossible since her dear friend, Lucas Beaumont, had informed her upon his return from England.
The news had catapulted her into a frenzy of activity for two days thereafter. In that time, she’d arranged passage to England and closed up her small townhouse in Manhattan. What came next required all of her endurance: an eleven-day voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.
With too much time to her solitary thoughts, she’d been wracked with inconsolable grief and the bitterest regret...and heart stopping fear that her presence there would open a Pandora’s Box of a different sort.
Now two weeks to the day after she had learned of her twin’s illness, Charlotte was here. The place she’d once called home. And after an absence of nearly five years, the reality of once again being on English soil—standing at the doors of Rutherford Manor—brought with it the heartbreak of old.
All of that, however, paled in the light of her sister’s illness. For Katie, Charlotte would endure anything, even if it meant risking exposure and opening a wound that had never healed. One she feared might never truly heal.
With her heart in her throat and anxiety now a familiar—albeit unwelcome—companion, Charlotte lifted the knocker of the oak door and brought it down three times in rapid succession.
The ensuing seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly. Were they home? She hadn’t even considered that possibility when she’d arrived in Town and had proceeded directly to Paddington Station to catch the train to Reading. She shot a glance over her shoulder and regarded the carriage parked in front of her hired coach. Someone must be in residence, as it appeared they had company. Something else she hadn’t considered.
Upon the opening of the door, she gave a nervous start and spun back around. Reeves, the Rutherford butler of thirty odd years, stood in the doorway, his tall, spare frame and lined visage reminiscent of happier times in days long past. But the advance of age had left its mark. Once possessed of a head of hair with equal amounts of gray and brown, his hair now rivaled the unadulterated white of Father Christmas. And his stature, which formerly would have been the envy of any uniformed man, now gently rounded at the shoulders, proving once again how time spared no one.
Given he was a man disposed to typical English butler demeanor, she’d never imagined he had it in his personal repertoire to blanch, but that is precisely what he did upon viewing her. He said nothing for several seconds, simply stared, his eyes wide and unblinking. Charlotte stifled a laugh—one of the nervous sort—fearing any attempt at speech would cause her to dissolve into a heap of polka dot skirts at his feet.
Behind her, a horse whinnied and stomped its hooves and birds continued their cheerful chirping while Reeves appeared to be struggling to find his tongue.
At length, he exclaimed softly, “Miss Charlotte.” He spoke as if he believed she was but a vision and any undue noise would send her off into obscurity.
Charlotte managed a tremulous smile, te
ars pricking the corners of her eyes. “Hullo, Reeves. I-I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” The greeting seemed hardly adequate, but she was at a loss to find something fitting to say after so long an absence. So sudden a departure.
Her voice appeared to galvanize him into action. Throwing open the door, he ushered her through an entrance hall as large as the ground floor of her townhouse and into the vestibule. She’d quite forgotten just how large an estate her brother owned.
“I fear we were not apprised of your arrival. Such a shame as, just this morning his lordship and her ladyship went into London with the children. However, Miss Catherine is in residence. She will be happy that you’ve returned.”
In all the years Charlotte had known him, she could scarcely remember a time when she’d seen him looking anything less than unwaveringly stoic. At present his mouth curved into something close to a smile.
“I hadn’t time to send word of my coming.” She’d naturally assumed everyone would be home with her sister doing so poorly. She was more than a little surprised James had gone off to London and left Katie in the care of the servants—and no doubt the attending physician. Actually, it was inconceivable he would do so.
Charlotte pivoted sharply to face the elderly butler. She laid a restraining hand on his black-clad arm as he made a move to relieve her of her pelisse. “Reeves, can you tell me anything of my sister’s condition?”
Reeves stilled at her touch. He lowered his hands to his sides, staring down at her with white furrowed brows. After a pause, the deep creases in his forehead eased. “If you’re speaking of that rather nasty cold she fell ill with the month past, then I can assure you she has since fully recovered.”
An Heir of Deception (The Elusive Lords) Page 1
