“You make her sound more like a nurse than a wife.”
“I’d settle for a nurse like that, by God!” Myron cried with a throaty chuckle. “There was the child, too. Demme, that man doted on his daughter!”
“How paternal of him.”
Myron gave him a quizzical look, then grinned. “Gad, forgive me! You don’t want to hear about widows and their children!”
“I do not want to spend all my time with the fairer sex, either, not when I could be hunting with such a sportsman as yourself. I truly regret not coming sooner, Myron. I have been in Italy.”
“Demme, I know that!” Myron declared. “Justbury Minor keeps me informed of all the old boys’ doings.”
Galen realized he should have guessed this. The younger Justbury boy—hence, minor—was the worst gossip Galen had ever met, male or female. He made Eloise seem a sphinx. What Justbury knew, he told, too.
“Mind, I’ll have to have a dinner party or two,” Myron mused aloud, “or the ladies will never forgive me.”
Galen smiled with appropriate modesty and inclined his head. Then he frowned. “Not tonight, I hope.”
“No! Not tonight, or tomorrow either, for the weather promises to be fair. Tomorrow I must take you out for the pheasants. Then fishing—perhaps the ladies will have to wait a little, eh?”
“Whatever you think best, Myron.”
“Mind, it’s a wonder any young ladies live long enough to be married these days, what with those flimsy dresses and low bodices and whatnot. Asking for consumption, if you ask me!”
“I rather like the current mode in ladies’ fashions,” Galen noted absently. Even in black, Verity had looked beautiful in her simple gown that revealed the tantalizing tops of her breasts.
“You would, you dog!”
Brought back to the present, Galen raised his glass in a salute. “To your very good health, Myron, and renewed friendships.”
Myron flushed and Galen could almost believe the genial soul had a tear in his eye. “I’m so delighted you have come at last, Your Grace. I’ve missed you.”
Galen realized he had robbed himself of something rather precious for too long. “No more of this title nonsense. We are friends, Myron, and there is no need to stand on rank. And I hope you do not mind if I avail myself of your hospitality for a long time, to make up for all the years I have missed.”
“Of course, your—Galen. Of course.”
Chapter Five
V erity glanced at the letter in her hand. The small, unassuming white sheet of paper with her address written in a plain and simple hand had come in the day’s post. She surmised it was from an acquaintance of her late husband who had not heard of his death. Sighing, she gently pried up the unstamped sealing wax.
She glanced at the signature—then blindly felt for the chair behind her, sitting heavily.
Dear Madam,
I trust you are well and that your sudden departure from our mutual friend’s was not caused by any serious indisposition. If it was, I sincerely hope you are recovered enough to allow me the pleasure of an interview.
Since we have a common interest, I am most desirous of meeting with you. I will come after the noon today.
Yours sincerely,
Deighton.
The blood throbbed in her ears as her heart pounded wildly.
He was coming here, to her home. Today. Without asking if it was convenient, or giving her any opportunity to refuse to see him.
A “common interest” could only mean Jocelyn.
She couldn’t risk the Duke of Deighton coming here. What if somebody saw him? What would they think?
She could always tell a portion of the truth, which was that she had met him at Lady Bodenham’s.
That might work with any other nobleman, but not him. Not with his reputation, even after all this time. She was young, she was widowed—people would surely leap to the basest of conclusions.
Then they might look at Jocelyn and guess…
The sound of Jocelyn’s giggles reached her from the kitchen, accompanied by Nancy’s throaty laughter.
Thank heavens Clive and Fanny had gone home.
The duke must be in Jefford if he was coming this very afternoon. He was either staying with Sir Myron, the only person of rank in the county, or at the Jefford Arms.
Even if she did find out where he was, she could hardly send him a note. That would cause as much gossip as anything else could.
Why did Galen Bromney have to come here? What could he want? What was there to discuss? Jocelyn was her responsibility. She wanted nothing from him, not now and not ever.
Indeed, he could be nothing in their child’s life. No one must ever know that Jocelyn was the Duke of Deighton’s daughter. She did not want her child to live with the shame and humiliation of being a bastard.
And if Clive discovered her secret, she was sure he would use that information to try to take away Jocelyn’s inheritance without a moment of remorse, or a single thought for the pain or hardship he would cause.
Glancing at the clock, Verity tried to calm herself. It was nearly one o’clock. Perhaps the duke had reconsidered.
Then her breath caught in her throat as a horse bearing a very familiar rider appeared in the long drive. She would know that posture anywhere: the proud carriage of his head, the straight back, the air of possessive arrogance.
He must not come into the house! Somehow, she must keep him outside, away from Jocelyn and Nancy.
With that her only thought, she quickly and quietly hurried outside. As she waited for him on the single step, she wrapped her arms around herself. Although the day was chilly and damp, that was not the reason she trembled.
The duke pulled his horse to a stop and looked at her.
Despite her need to make him leave, Verity felt the heated flush of shame and—worse!—shameful desire possessing her. How attractive he was, with his well-tailored riding clothes that emphasized his broad shoulders, narrow waist and muscular thighs! How he seemed to embody masculine virility in every aspect of his form and figure!
How could she be so foolish, after all that had happened? “Your Grace, you should not—”
“Yes, I should,” he said firmly as he dismounted. He looked at her again, and she saw the determined resolution in his hazel eyes. “And I assure you, madam, this time I shall not leave until you have answered my questions.”
“This is my property, Your Grace, and you are trespassing upon it.”
He smiled slowly, knowingly, in a way that made her pulse quicken even more.
She must be strong! She must not let him linger!
“It was my understanding that the property went to your daughter upon your husband’s death. Shall I ask Jocelyn if I may stay?”
“No!” she snapped, inwardly cursing Eloise’s gossiping tongue. She should have guessed that what was already known about her business would go from Eloise’s lips to Galen’s ear. “Bring your horse and come with me.”
He nodded his acquiescence, so with brisk, determined steps, she led him around the side of the house farthest from the kitchen to the small carriage house at the back of the yard. She shoved open the heavy, creaking door, hoping no one in the kitchen could hear.
Inside, light streamed through the dusty windows and motes danced about like so many little bits of fairy dust. Although it had not been used since Daniel’s death, it still smelled of hay and horse.
Despite her annoyance and trepidation, when the duke entered and she closed the door behind him, she felt as if she were shutting out a world full of gossiping busybodies who would never understand what might compel a young woman to forget about duty and honor for a night of passion in the Duke of Deighton’s arms.
As she continued to watch him while he stabled his horse, she thought perhaps some women might.
Indeed, if half the stories Eloise had told her were true, several woman had been similarly tempted.
It did not comfort Verity to think that she had anything in
common with the duke’s many lovers, and she would not allow herself to be tempted by him again, not even here.
Where they were alone.
He glanced at her as he tied his black stallion in the stall. “Not quite the place I would choose for this conversation, but it will have to do, I fear.”
“It must do. Nobody in Jefford knows that I’ve ever met you.”
He regarded her with calm equanimity. “All you need say is that we became acquainted at my cousin’s.”
Verity clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Your Grace, I must again ask you to leave.”
His lips jerked up in a little smile. “What, no bogus offers to meet again at a later date?” His gaze roved over the unused building, hesitating a moment on the closed door. “A perfect place for a clandestine rendezvous, if rather dusty.”
“This is not a clandestine rendezvous!”
“More’s the pity.”
She pursed her lips. “This may be amusing to you, Your Grace, but I assure you a visit from you may have serious repercussions for me if it becomes known.”
His expression unexpectedly softened. “I know all about gossip. That is why I came through your charming wood nearly the whole way.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Verity snapped as she crossed her arms over her chest, commanding herself not to be moved by the change in his manner.
He should not have invited himself here, he should not be alone with her, and he should not look so…so kind.
“However, I was not about to come to the back of the house like a peddler or beggar.”
He moved to block the only exit. “I also will not leave here and I won’t let you run away until you answer my questions,” he reiterated firmly. “The first thing I must know is, is Jocelyn my daughter?”
As the Duke of Deighton stood before her, his whole body braced as if expecting a blow, Verity saw the fierce determination in his hazel eyes. If that had been all she saw, she might have lied to him.
Yet there was more, a pleading, anxious look, a vulnerability she recognized and that touched her soul. If she lied to him now, she would be doing more than hiding the truth from him. She would be stealing something precious and wonderful.
Slowly she nodded her head. “Yes.”
As he let out his breath, Verity straightened her shoulders with renewed determination. “That is why you cannot come here again. There is a resemblance. Anybody seeing the two of you together may guess the truth, and we cannot risk that.”
“I could recite the names of several acquaintances who are bastards, whether most people know it or not,” he said. “Once the heir is assured, such…lapses…are not uncommon.”
“Perhaps among the nobility, but we are not of that class. It is also different for a man. Indeed, illegitimate children are more often considered proof of virility.”
“I know society has several standards of acceptable behavior depending upon wealth and rank and sex.”
“You have been protected all your life by your money and status, Your Grace, so you cannot possibly know how it would be for me, and Jocelyn, too. I will not have my child tainted if I can avoid it.”
“So you married an old man for protection rather than come to me.”
“What if I had?” she demanded. “Would you have offered to marry me, although I had no fortune or family to recommend me? There was no word of love between us.”
His gaze did not falter. “No, there was not, and I daresay you are right. I would not have married you. But I would have looked after you, for the child’s sake.”
“So you say now.”
His brow lowered ominously and his eyes flashed with anger. “I tell you, I would have taken care of you and Jocelyn, even though—”
He fell silent.
“Even though I came to your bed uninvited like the worst sort of woman?” Verity finished for him.
“Yes.”
“I had no way of knowing what you would do if I told you.”
“So you gave me no chance to answer at all. That wasn’t very honorable of you.”
“Honorable? I had already dishonored myself—and the responsibility for what happened is mine, Your Grace. I came to you that night.”
“I remember,” he said quietly.
“Therefore,” she continued after a moment, her voice strained, “I would not burden you with any of the resulting responsibility, either.”
His gaze flicked away. “No doubt you thought that useless anyway.”
“Perhaps. But all this happened ten years ago, and it is over with.”
“It is not over with for me.”
“We have to think of Jocelyn,” she said, as much a reminder to herself as for him. “We have to consider what would be best for her. Surely you do not want everyone to know of her shame?”
“The circumstances of her birth are not her shame. I would have her know that she has a natural father, and that he did not abandon her, once he knew of her.
“She is my child, Verity,” he continued firmly, “and I want to be a part of her life. I have not been part of a family since my mother died. I have relations, but that is not the same thing.”
“I’ve explained—”
“Why did you do it, Verity?” he demanded, his even tones measured and deliberate. “Why did you come to my bed?”
“What does it matter now?”
“It matters to me.”
Need burned in his eyes as he regarded her steadily, need and longing that was not a desire of the flesh, but something more.
In light of that longing, she could not keep this truth from him, either. “I was going to marry a man old enough to be my father in a month’s time, and I wanted to know what it would be like to experience a young man’s passion, just once,” she answered, her whole body hot with humiliation.
“So I was the lucky candidate for assuaging your curiosity. Given that you burst into tears and fled from the room, I must assume I was a disappointment.”
She shook her head. “No, you were not.”
“Then I daresay I should be pleased that the experience was not without some merit.”
“That experience gave me Jocelyn.”
He crossed the distance between them, halting a few feet from her. “Why did you leave me that way?”
She backed away. “Is it not obvious? Because I was ashamed.”
Mercifully, he didn’t come any closer. “So you have been carrying this burden of guilt alone ever since.”
“No, not alone. I told Daniel.”
He stared at her incredulously. “You told your husband?”
“He was not yet my husband when I confessed what I had done, and the consequences. I was not that dishonorable.”
“While I can commend you for your honesty in this instance, I must admit I am surprised he still married you.”
“He loved me. He forgave me,” she replied, “and when Jocelyn was born, he loved her as if she were his own child.”
“He never cast your sin up to you?”
“No.”
“The man sounds like a saint, too good to be true.”
“He was a good man, and I gave him only base coin in return.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have married him, then.”
“Yet I did,” she retorted. “At the time, I would have married him even if I had not been with child.”
“Because you spent an hour or two in my bed?”
“Because I loved him! Daniel saved me. He gave me a home when I had none. My father was a drunkard who had gambled every cent of his fortune, and he left me nothing when he died. If not for Daniel, I would have had to live in the streets, or throw myself on the mercy of the parish.”
“So Daniel Davis-Jones took in the poor orphan child and got a beautiful young wife in return.”
“You make it sound so sordid—but it wasn’t like that. When I first came to live with him, he was kind and fatherly. I grew to love him very much. It was only later…muc
h later…that he confessed his feelings for me had changed.”
“What of your feelings for him? Had they changed, too, from seeing him as a fatherly fellow to a lover? I think not, or I could not have tempted you.”
Her face reddened. “You would know all my shame, Your Grace? You would have me confess that every time he touched me intimately, I thought of you? That when he made love to me, it was your face I saw, your lips I kissed, your body I welcomed?”
“Is that true?”
“Yes!” she hissed, tears starting in her eyes.
“Verity, did you never wonder what I felt that night?”
Taken aback, she stared at him with surprise. “I thought…I thought you would believe me to be an immoral woman,” she stammered, “and you would have been right. I should never have gone to your room.”
“I did not ask your opinion of what I thought. Did you ever give any consideration to how you made me feel?”
Her face flushed and she did not meet his gaze. “No,” she admitted very, very quietly.
“You made me feel like a whore. You made me ashamed as I had never been shamed before.”
She bowed her head as if bearing the weight of the world on her slender shoulders. “I apologized to Daniel, and now I apologize to you. I deeply regret what I did that night. I have regretted it every day since.”
She lifted her face. “But I do not regret having Jocelyn.”
He reached out to take her cold hands in his. “Verity, what you did that night saved me.”
Her gaze anxiously searched his face, the faint light of hope dawning. “Saved you? From what?”
“From myself. From the road to ruin I was merrily marching upon. I needed to see the unthinking, unfeeling cad I was. I needed to have it made so clear, I couldn’t deny it anymore. If you had not come into my bedchamber that night, by now I would be an even worse scoundrel than I was. You rescued me, Verity, and for that I will always be grateful.”
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