by Cheryl Holt
“I can’t read this . . . this scribbling.” Archie tossed the letter on the floor. “Tell me again what it says.”
“Westmoreland has departed.”
“But not before deeding the estate to Helen!”
“Apparently so.”
“Why would he?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
“I should have killed her years ago.”
“You still could,” Adrian goaded, loving to push the younger man.
“That property is mine!” Archie seethed. “The house, the stables, the fields, the woods. All of it—every blade of grass, every pebble in the dirt—is mine!”
“Then you must wrest it from her. How will you go about it? She can be terribly stubborn.”
“I’ll bend her to my will! I’ll force her to obey me!”
Archie started pacing and, not yet bored by the tantrum, Adrian went to the bed and reclined. Occasionally, it was entertaining to have Archie strut and fret. With his brown hair and puppy-dog hazel eyes he was so desperately attractive, which was why Adrian had tolerated him for so long. Luckily, Adrian’s days—and nights!—of putting up with Archie were about to conclude, which was a vast relief. Adrian was so tired of feigning desire for the little prig.
“Do you want the details, Archie?”
Archie stopped and whipped around. “What details?”
“The dashing Captain and your plain elder sister were lovers.”
“So you’ve claimed before. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. Their antics were often quite wild, and she enjoyed their sexual romping very much.”
“Helen? Helen enjoyed it?”
“Yes.”
“She couldn’t have. She’s too much of a prude.”
“Westmoreland had her screaming in ecstasy.”
Archie shuddered with distaste. “My Lord, when I think of all the times I could have had her but didn’t! I never realized she was such a slut at heart. I’d give anything to have her now.” He gestured crudely over his cock. “I’d show her the penalty for deceiving me.”
“How were you deceived?”
“She was supposed to fuck him for a month. That’s all she had to do. She wasn’t supposed to carve out her own arrangement. I’ll murder her for this. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll make her pay.”
Adrian chuckled, curious as to whether Archie had any genuine courage regarding his sister. It was amusing to consider, titillating to envision. If Archie ever dared to ravage her, Adrian would definitely assist. Adrian already knew how to control Archie, but it would be so satisfying to break Helen to his will. She had no reference point that would carry her through the ordeal with any level of sanity.
After he finished, Helen would be totally at his mercy. What an appealing picture to ponder!
“Archie, you rant and rave, but you never act.”
“Honestly, Adrian, if you can’t discern how angry I am, or how determined to avenge this treachery, there’s no explaining it to you.”
“Well then, I should see about you getting your big chance.”
“As if you could orchestrate it!”
“Archie, darling, as opposed to you, I have a plan.”
“What? What is it?”
“The Captain was imprudent in his copulations, and according to my spy, your sister may need a husband. Very, very soon.”
“A husband!” Archie groaned. “I can’t marry her. The church would never allow it!”
“No, you can’t.” Adrian smirked. “But I can.”
“You? Marry Helen?” Archie threw up his hands in disgust. “What good would that do me?”
“Once I’m her husband, her property will be my property. I’ll own everything that’s hers, and I can manage it however I wish.”
“Gad, yes!” Archie breathed. “It’s the perfect solution.”
“You know how much I love you, Archie.”
“Yes.”
“I’d do anything for you,” Adrian lied.
“As you rightly should.”
“What’s mine will be yours.”
“You’ll give the estate to me?”
“I will,” he lied again.
“Swear it!”
“I swear.”
Archie grinned, looking like the spoiled child he’d always been, and Adrian grinned, too, content to have him laboring under such an idiotic misconception.
Adrian’s gambit was working out much better than he’d expected. He’d have Helen to manipulate and command. He’d have a fine, though small, estate that would propel him into a new tier of affluence in society. What he wouldn’t have was Archie Mansfield, who was no longer worth the bother.
Poor Archie! When he tried, he could be such a dear boy. Unfortunately for him, he could also be such a stupid ass. Could he actually believe that Adrian would share? Helen, yes. Money and property? No.
What a fool Archie was!
Adrian stifled his glee and stood. Archie had just bathed, the tub of water was still warm in the adjoining dressing room, and Adrian was eager to wallow in sensorial exhilaration.
“Come,” he said to Archie. Lust and power had Adrian’s cock swelling, and he began unbuttoning his trousers.
“To where?”
“All this talk has left me aching with desire. You’ll wash me, then tend to my carnal needs.”
“I can’t dabble with you now,” Archie protested. “I’m absolutely aflutter over your scheme. I must spend some time in quiet contemplation.”
Adrian’s irritation sparked. “You will not refuse me.”
“I will,” Archie insisted.
Adrian rippled with malice. He liked it when Archie was petulant, when he was rebellious and defiant. Adrian went to the wardrobe and fetched a belt he kept for this very purpose.
“You will not refuse me,” he repeated.
He pointed to his waiting bath, excited to learn what Archie would do and hoping he would disobey.
19
He was taller than his father.
It was a bizarre detail upon which to dwell, but Luke couldn’t get it out of his head. They stared at each other across an ornate desk, the cumbersome interlude stretching to infinity.
They were both blond and blue-eyed, though age had faded the Duke’s hair to silver. With the same strong nose and brow, cheekbones and mouth, broad shoulders and long legs, they were similar enough to be . . . well . . . father and son.
Luke was gaping like an imbecile, but he was stunned to realize that the grand and imposing Duke of Roswell wasn’t old and decrepit but an extremely handsome and charming man who was probably in his late forties. For some reason, Luke had always envisioned Roswell as an elderly pervert who’d enjoyed a salacious life of seducing young girls against their will.
He’d pictured his mother as a sweet, chaste maiden, who’d been lured to her doom by a crafty roué, but now, Luke was forced to admit that his father had been only sixteen or seventeen when he’d had his brief affair with Luke’s mother. At the discovery Luke was greatly unsettled, feeling as though his past had come unraveled and he had no history that was true.
The Duke was silent, examining Luke as if he were an odd insect, and Luke couldn’t decide if he was checking for signs of paternity, if he was shocked at meeting a thirty-year-old son, or if he was simply too overwhelmed to speak.
Luke hoped it was a combination of trepidation and amazement and not a repudiation of his mother. If the Duke contested Mary Lucas’s assertion that the Duke was Luke’s father, Luke would beat him to a pulp. Duke or no, Luke wouldn’t have his mother slandered.
“My son, eh?” the exalted swine finally muttered, one brow raised in question.
Mimicking stance and expression, Luke raised an identical brow. “They say it’s a wise man who recognizes his own children.”
Roswell scrutinized Luke’s clothes, a suit Mr. Haversham had sewn. “At least you know how to dress yourself.”
At the Duke’s insulting to
ne Luke bristled. “I’m not such a dunce that I can’t figure out how to hire a competent tailor.”
Roswell barked out a laugh. “I was told you have a smart mouth. Don’t use it around me. I won’t brook any insolence.”
The caustic opening volley shook Luke out of his stupor. He’d been loitering like a fool, pacing for over three hours, with Roswell rudely late for their scheduled appointment. Had it been any other person in the land, Luke would have left after fifteen minutes or so. Instead, he’d waited and waited, anxiety gnawing at him till he’d nearly gone mad from the suspense.
He turned and walked to a sideboard, grabbed a bottle of liquor, and gestured with it.
“I’m dying for a brandy, and you’re rich enough to afford the best, so this ought to be pretty good.”
“I haven’t granted you permission to proceed.”
“Like I give a shit.” Luke filled a glass to the rim and took a hefty swig. The crudity and disrespect had the Duke so aghast that Luke wondered if he might faint.
“What . . . what did you say to me?”
“You can drop the bluster. I’m a master at it, myself, so it doesn’t work on me.” He picked up a second glass and held it out. “Would you like one?”
“I only drink with peers.” If the Duke’s nose had been stuck up any higher in the air, he’d have floated away.
“Your loss, then.”
Luke gulped the remaining contents as he acknowledged that Helen had been correct: Roswell was a certifiable ass. If Luke had listened to her, he’d have saved himself a load of grief. Why had he raced to London? He was as crazy as Roswell, but then, they were direct kin. What had he expected?
Merely to aggravate the lofty man, Luke poured a bit more liquor, and he swilled it down, then he started toward the door.
“This has been . . . interesting and enlightening,” he said, “but I’ve heard all I need to. The brandy’s excellent, by the way. Thanks.”
He’d reached the threshold when the Duke demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”
Luke looked over his shoulder. “It’s clear that this was a mistake, and we’ll chalk it up to experience. No hard feelings.”
He spun away, and the Duke snapped, “Captain, get in here—at once!—lest I shout for the footmen and have them drag you back.”
“I’ve seen your servants, Roswell. You don’t have any who are big enough to drag me anywhere.”
“All right . . . all right. . . .” The Duke was flustered, his polished exterior slipping for a moment. “Let’s try this again. Close the door and . . . and . . . sit.”
There was a chair by the desk, and—against his better judgment—Luke marched over to it.
Roswell was rattled. He plopped down in his own chair and confessed, “I guess maybe I could use a brandy. Would you . . . ?”
“Are you sure you can lower yourself?”
“Just fetch the damned liquor!”
Luke went over and poured them both a glass. As the Duke downed his serving, Luke chided, “All better?”
Roswell glared. “Have you any notion of how disturbing this encounter is for me?”
“No. How disturbing?”
“Have you any children, Captain?”
“Why? Are you worried you’re a grandfather?”
Roswell blushed. “No, I was making a point.”
“That being . . . ?”
“This is a strange circumstance.”
“No stranger than many others I’ve endured.”
“It’s awkward.”
“Since I haven’t any progeny,” Luke replied, “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m more cautious in my philandering than some of my male relatives.”
Roswell didn’t take the sarcasm very well. “You’re obnoxious, Captain.”
“So are you, Roswell. Like father, like son, I suppose.”
“Call me Your Grace.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Luke stood and started out again. He was angry and disillusioned and speculating as to why he’d invested the situation with so much importance.
An image flashed of that terrible day when he’d been a tiny boy and the grave diggers had pitched his mother’s corpse into their wagon. Even after all these years, the vision had the power to sadden, to wound, and the Duke had been responsible for it.
Why had Luke presumed he could change the memory? Why had he persuaded himself that he could erase the past? The old sensations of loss and heartache could never be wiped away.
“You can’t leave yet,” Roswell huffed. “We’ve barely begun our conversation.”
“I have other engagements,” Luke lied.
“Cancel them.”
“I don’t wish to.”
“But . . . but . . .” Obviously, no one had ever walked out on the Duke before, and he couldn’t conceive of how to force Luke to stay. “We have details to discuss, matters to attend to.”
“Write to my secretary, Mr. Smith, in care of my ship. He’ll handle whatever you need.”
“There are parties planned in your honor. Festivities and balls have been arranged.”
“So apprise Mr. Smith of when and where, and I’ll be there when required.”
Roswell scowled, pulling himself up to his full height, and with his expensive clothes and bejeweled fingers he was an intimidating sight. No doubt, his minions trembled at viewing his disdain. Unfortunately for Roswell, he didn’t understand that Luke was skilled at the art of intimidation, too, that he could bully and coerce better than anyone, so the Duke’s arrogant sneer had no effect.
“I command you to remain until our business is concluded,” Roswell ordered.
“And I don’t choose to obey.”
“You will do as I say. I am your father.”
Luke scoffed. “No, you’re not. You’re simply a deceitful dog who had sex with my mother, but that doesn’t make you anything to me, at all.”
He stomped out.
“Captain!” Luke kept on, and the Duke cried, “William! Lucas!”
Luke halted and frowned at him. “The next time we’re scheduled to meet and you’re late, I won’t wait for you.”
He departed, hoping Mr. Smith was out in the mews with their horses and that he wouldn’t have to search for him before they could head out.
Robert strolled down the busy street, and he passed by a narrow alley when he was once again yanked into the shadows. Wouldn’t you just know it? He was by himself, with no one to watch his back. The Captain had been right: The first moment he could be cornered, he had been.
As he wiggled free and whipped around, he wasn’t surprised to confront one of the brigands who’d previously assaulted him, and the man snickered.
“It seems your precious Captain Westmoreland has left you all alone.”
“I don’t need a champion to defend me anymore.”
Robert rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, glad that he’d discarded his suit for the flowing shirt and loose trousers favored by the crew on the ship. He was still small and trim, but after his sparring with Westmoreland he wasn’t skinny but whipcord lean, his arms and legs lined with muscle.
The man lunged, but before he could attack, Robert delivered several nasty blows to his face. There was a loud crack, blood squirted everywhere, and the criminal fell to his knees in a stunned heap.
“My nothe! My nothe!” he wailed. “You broke my nothe!”
Robert punched him in the stomach, then clasped him by his jacket and shoved him against the wall. A knife magically appeared from Robert’s boot, and he dangled it before the man’s terrified eyes. “If you ever come near me again,” he threatened, “I’ll cut your balls off.”
He let go, and the knave wet himself and slid to the cobbles to wallow in the muck and stench, but he managed to hurl, “Bastard!”
“Aren’t I though?”
Robert grinned and strutted off, quite sure he’d never fear anyone ever again.
“Might I ask you a question?”
Patricia glanced up from her stitching, relieved to have Helen interrupt the quiet. Since the morning that Robert and the Captain had ridden away, the place had been as glum as a mortician’s on funeral day. It was enough to have her wishing she’d put on a pair of trousers, strapped on a pistol, and gone with them.
No! As swiftly as the absurd notion took root, she pushed it away. This serene rural existence had been her dream, and she’d made it her reality. She wouldn’t be sorry.
Robert had chosen duty and money over her, so the hell with him! He could fritter away to eternity searching for his perfect situation. In the meantime, she’d be living hers.
Helen mumbled, “Oh, this is so embarrassing.”
“What is?”
Helen was very distressed, and she tried to hide it by going to the window and staring out into the yard. “My mother died when I was very young, so I never had a confidante who could enlighten me on various topics.”
“Such as?”
“Well . . . female issues.”
“Aah . . .”
“I hate to bother you, but I have no one else with whom I can discuss it.”
Having grown up on ships and in port towns, Patricia wasn’t much of an expert, herself, but she probably knew more than Helen ever would. Plus, she’d had her stint in the Sultan’s harem, where feminine complaints were daily fare.
Delicately, she probed, “What is it that has you upset?”
When Helen cleared her throat and turned, there were tears in her eyes, and Patricia braced for the worst.
“Have you any idea,” Helen inquired, “of how a woman could tell if she’s . . . she’s . . . if she’s pregnant?”
“Are you worried that the Captain left a little bundle behind?”
“I believe he might have.”
As her suspicions about Helen and the Captain were confirmed, Patricia’s spirits plummeted. The Captain was no different from any other man. Once his cock was involved, there was no dissuading him. He’d take what he wanted, though he was always so cautious about not siring any children.
How had this occurred? Why had he done it? To Helen, of all people!
“Damn him,” Patricia muttered. “Damn him straight to hell.”
