David Lancaster called up more complex feelings. She had married him at random, laughed with him, come to think of him as a trustworthy friend, and in a burst of irresistible yearning she had lured him to her bed. She didn’t know if that was love, but the thought of not having him in her life produced a gut-wrenching sense of loss.
Would he follow her to London or had she already destroyed what was between them? If he didn’t come, would she have the courage to go back to Westholme? She must, because she had spent too much of her life running.
By the time she retired to restless slumber, her mind was numb with wondering.
She awoke the next morning feeling the unnatural calm that followed a tempest. When she joined her aunt and uncle for breakfast, the colonel studied her intently before leaving for the day, but he asked no tactless questions about his former staff officer. Jocelyn was grateful; she would have been quite incapable of discussing David.
Lady Laura invited her niece to join her for a morning at the modiste, but Jocelyn refused, unready to deal with the normal trivia of existence. Instead, she went to her room and started to write an account about her aunt’s revelations, and how she felt about them. Perhaps the process of forming vague emotions into words would clarify her understanding.
Late in the morning she stopped for a cup of tea. If David had decided to follow her to London, he could be here as early as that evening. She yearned to see him, but had no idea what she might say. That perhaps she loved him, but she really didn’t know for sure? He deserved better than that.
She covered page after page as memories and insights poured through her. Strange how clear her mind had become now that Aunt Laura had given her the key to unlock the past.
She was taking a break and flexing cramped fingers when Dudley entered with a card on a silver tray. “A visitor, my lady.”
Lifting the card, she read, “The Duke of Candover.” A shiver ran through her. So the man who had occupied her thoughts for so long, who had been her shield against the solid reality of David Lancaster, was here.
“Until September . . .” In fact, he was back in London a few days early. Coincidence, or might he have been anxious to see her? He’d been thinking of her—the gift of poetry he’d sent was proof of that.
Well, she had wanted answers, and here was an opportunity to get some. “I shall be right down,” she told her butler.
After Dudley left, she splashed cold water on her face to remove traces of the tears she’d shed, then studied herself dispassionately in the mirror Marie had done her job well—Lady Jocelyn Kendal was her usual elegant self. Odd how she still thought of herself by that name when legally she was Lady Presteyne. It was a symbol of her skittish refusal to accept the marriage she had made.
She tried a smile. The image in the mirror was not entirely convincing, but reasonable. Feeling fatalistic, she descended to greet her visitor.
Darkly handsome, the duke was leaning casually against the mantel, but he straightened when she entered the drawing room. His cool gray eyes showed open admiration as Jocelyn approached.
“Good morning, Candover. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“I was called back to London by business and saw that your knocker was up as I drove by. To find you like this was more than I had hoped for.” He regarded her with the warmth that he had shown when they had last seen each other, at the Parkingtons’ ball. “Though it is not yet September, dare I hope you are ready”—he lifted her hand and kissed it lingeringly—“for diversion?”
Despairingly, Jocelyn realized that she was responding to him. She had hoped that she would feel nothing, but he was still deucedly attractive. More than that, beneath his legendarily cool exterior, she had always sensed a genuinely decent man, though it would surely pain him to realize that she thought of him that way.
Knowing she must learn more about what she felt, she smiled with all the charm she could muster. “The subject is open for discussion, your grace.”
“I think you should call me Rafe. I much prefer that to Rafael.” A slow, intimate smile crossed his face. “Naming me after an archangel was singularly inappropriate, don’t you agree?” Then he cupped her chin in his palm, and touched his lips to hers.
Jocelyn experienced the kiss with a curious duality. He was pure male, and her instinctive response made it clear that he had earned his reputation as a splendid lover honestly. This is what she had dreamed of finding with him.
But he was not David. Her reaction to the duke was a frail, rootless thing next to the tempest of love David had kindled in her.
The wonder was that it had taken her so long to recognize an emotion that was now revealed as so powerful, so unmistakable. She had started to fall in love with David the first moment she had looked into his eyes at the hospital. And she had continued falling, always denying her feelings because the thought of being in love was so frightening. All of the time she’d been telling herself that David was just a good friend, the brother she’d always wanted, she’d already been hooked like a brown trout on an angler’s line.
David would laugh when she told him that, but it would be warm amusement, not belittling. Now that she understood, she must go to him and ask that he forgive her erratic behavior.
She was about to disengage from the duke’s embrace when the door to the drawing room swung open.
Chapter 34
David Lancaster and Hugh Morgan traveled hard through most of the moonlit night, reaching London in early afternoon. When they pulled up in front of Cromarty House, David barely took the time to settle his account with the post-chaise driver before he leaped from the carriage and bounded impatiently up the front steps. Not having a key, he was forced to use the knocker and wait for what seemed forever.
Dudley opened the door, saying with surprise, “My lord! How . . . unexpected.”
As Hugh went in search of Marie, David asked, “Where is my wife?” Because, by God, she was still his wife, and she owed him an explanation at the very least.
“Her ladyship is in the drawing room. But . . . but she has company.”
The butler’s voice rose as David brushed past him and went to the drawing room. Opening the door, he started in—then froze when he saw that Jocelyn was in the arms of a man who must be her thrice-damned duke. Candover was the man’s name, according to what Hugh had told him during their journey.
Murderous rage swept over him, surpassing anything he had ever experienced in battle. So the instinct that had guided him with Jocelyn was no more than a treacherous illusion, compounded of his hopes and dreams. The summer over and her unwanted virginity gone, Jocelyn had flown back to London to her preferred lover.
The tableau shattered when she looked up and saw him. He would have thought the situation could not be worse, but he was wrong. Jocelyn cried out, “David!” and pulled away from the other man. Her face glowed, as if she had been longing for her husband’s arrival rather than halfway into another man’s bed. Or had she moved from virgin to ménage à trois in three short days?
She moved toward him, hands lifting with welcome. “How did you get here so soon? I would not have thought you could be in London before tonight.” Then she stopped abruptly as she saw his expression.
As always, she looked honest and innocent. David’s stomach twisted with the sick knowledge that he had never known her at all. She was indeed the fashionable lady, the perfect hostess even under these circumstances.
His hands clenched, but he managed to control his fury well enough to say tightly, “It’s obvious my arrival is both unexpected and unwelcome.” His gaze snapped to the dark man who watched with shuttered eyes. No doubt the bastard had considerable experience of angry husbands. “I presume this is the Duke of Candover? Or is my dear wife spreading her favors more widely?”
As Jocelyn gasped, the duke nodded coolly. “I’m Candover. You have the advantage of me, sir.”
So they were going to be civilized. Bitterly David reminded himself that Jocelyn had never pretended
to want him for a real husband. He had promised she would have her freedom, and their mockery of a marriage carried no license to insult her under her own roof. She had done a great deal for him, and if she was incapable of giving love, that was his loss, not her crime.
Nonetheless, he wanted to take the duke apart, preferably with his bare hands. The fellow looked athletic, but he was no match for a trained soldier. David cursed himself for his damned sense of fairness. Violence would relieve some of his angry pain, but he had no right to murder Candover. The duke was there by Jocelyn’s choice.
In a voice that could cut glass, he said, “I’m Presteyne, husband of this lady here, though not for long.” His icy gaze returned to Jocelyn. “My apologies for interrupting your amusements. I’ll collect my belongings and never trouble you again.” He spun around and left, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the windows.
Shaking, Jocelyn sank onto a chair, her hands pressed to her solar plexus. She had been so happy in the blaze of her new understanding, so indifferent to Candover’s kiss, that she hadn’t even considered how compromising her circumstances were—until she had seen the furious revulsion on David’s face. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget his expression, that combination of anger and raw, betrayed pain.
From that first meeting in the hospital, David had opened himself to her with complete generosity, always giving kindness and comfort. He had even committed near perjury about a humiliatingly intimate matter to give her an annulment.
And how had she repaid him? When he had declared his love and was most vulnerable, she had spurned him and fled without any explanation. When he put aside pride to follow her, he had found her in the arms of a man of greater rank and fortune. Dear God, how he must despise her!
She stared blindly at the door where he had disappeared, knowing that the paralyzed numbness she felt was a tissue-thin barrier against an ocean of pain. He would never believe she loved him now. It was the ultimate irony that in the moment she discovered love, she had destroyed her chance of ever sharing it with her husband.
She forgot Candover’s presence until he said dryly, “Your husband doesn’t seem to share your belief that the marriage is one of convenience.”
Mutely she raised her gaze, deeply ashamed to have involved him in such a scene. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What kind of game are you playing? Your husband doesn’t seem the sort of man to be manipulated by jealousy. He may leave you, or he may wring your neck, but he won’t play that kind of lover’s game.” His eyes were hard as flint.
With an effort, Jocelyn pulled her disordered senses together enough to speak. She owed Candover honesty. “I wasn’t playing a game. I . . . I was trying to discover what was in my heart. Only now do I know how I feel about David, when it is too late.”
His expression softened in the face of her stark misery. “I’m beginning to suspect that under your highly polished surface beats a romantic heart. If that’s true, go after your husband and throw your charming self at his feet with abject apologies. You should be able to bring him around, at least this once. A man will forgive the woman he loves a great deal. Just don’t let him find you in anyone else’s arms. I doubt he would forgive you a second time.”
She stared at him, torn between pain and hysterical laughter. “Your sangfroid is legendary, but even so, the reports do you less than justice. If the devil himself walked in, I think you would ask him if he played whist.”
“Never play whist with the devil, my dear. He cheats.” Candover lifted Jocelyn’s cold hand and lightly kissed it. “Should your husband resist your blandishments, feel free to let me know if you want a pleasant, uncomplicated affair.”
He released her hand. “You would never have more from me, you know. Many years ago I gave my heart away to someone who dropped and broke it, so I have none left.” He put his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated, his gaze lingering on her face. In a voice so low she could barely hear the words, he said, “You remind me of a woman I once knew, but not enough. Never enough.” Then he was gone.
Startled by the bleakness in his eyes, Jocelyn realized that she had never really known him. What scars did he hide behind his polished surface? She had not thought to wonder, because she had been hiding in the shadows and spinning her fantasies. She’d understood nothing.
There would be time to berate herself later. Now, she had more important things to do. She bolted from the drawing room and up the stairs at a speed she hadn’t achieved since she was twelve years old.
Heart pounding, she burst into the blue room without knocking, and found her husband packing his few remaining possessions into a portmanteau. Breathless from two long flights of stairs, she gasped, “Please, David, give me a chance to explain! That was not what it looked like.”
His brows raised sardonically. “Are you trying to say you weren’t wrapped passionately in Candover’s arms? I hadn’t realized my eyesight was so poor.”
Jocelyn winced under the lash of his sarcasm. Before today, she had never seen him angry. There had been kindness, intelligence, humor, and heart-melting tenderness, but never this icy, terrifying rage.
Struggling to control her voice, she replied, “Yes, I let him kiss me. I wanted to understand my feelings for him, and it seemed the quickest way to find out.” She moved a step closer. “What I discovered was that I don’t want an annulment. I want to be your wife.”
“Oh? Have you decided that a nominal husband will give you more freedom to cut a promiscuous swath through the beau monde?” He slammed the portmanteau shut. “I regret to inform you that my values are shockingly conventional, and I have no desire for a wife with fashionable morals. If you want a husband for propriety’s sake, you can buy yourself a more tolerant one after you regain your freedom.”
He lifted the case and looked down at her, his face expressionless but his lean body rigid with tension. “I will not oppose the annulment. If you try to withdraw from it so you can maintain the fiction of being married, I shall file for divorce. Would your duke find you a suitable mistress then?”
Lacerated by his anger and pain, she begged, “David, please don’t go. I kissed the man once, I didn’t join the muslin company. I don’t want him and a fashionable life, I want you! I would count myself blessed to spend the rest of my life with you at Westholme.”
His lips tightened, and she realized with sick despair that she had said the wrong thing. “Hungry for my acres, Lady Jocelyn? You could buy my dying body, but not my living one. Now stand aside.”
Instead of moving out of the way, she planted herself in front of the door, blocking his escape. With devastating empathy, she recognized that the depth of his anger was a measure of his hurt. She who had spent a lifetime nursing her own feelings of rejection had inflicted the same kind of wounds on the man she loved.
Desperate to break through his anger, she asked unsteadily, “What if I am carrying your child?”
There was a spark deep in his eyes, and for a moment she thought she had reached him. Then his face shuttered again. “If you work quickly, you can use it as a lever to convince Candover to marry you. I believe he needs an heir.”
“Stop it!” Jocelyn cried out in agony, twisting sideways to hide her face against the door. “Stop it!”
David drew an anguished breath. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Jocelyn.” His hard hands closed on her shoulders to move her from his path.
A last, frail argument occurred to her. Forcing back her tears, she turned to face him. “You have studied the law and pride yourself on having a fair mind. Will you judge me without hearing all the evidence?”
His mouth twisted harshly. “I found the letter from your aunt. The contents made it seem probable that you decided virginity was no longer an asset, and set out to seduce me for that reason. I arrived here and found you in the arms of the man you claimed to have wanted all along. How much more evidence is there?”
She looked up into his eyes
and ached for what she saw there. “Oh, my love, is that what you believed, that I invited you to my bed from cold-blooded calculation? I have been many kinds of fool, but never a calculating one. My heart and my body knew that I loved you long before my mind did. My fears prevented me from recognizing that you were the man I’ve been searching for my whole life.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Then why did you run away and say we should not see each other again?”
“For complicated reasons I am just beginning to understand, I have only let myself become interested in men who were out of reach,” she said haltingly. “Men who could be trusted not to care for me deeply. When you left that note saying you loved me, I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion, so I ran.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, expression perplexed. But at least he was listening.
“When I returned to London, I spoke with Aunt Laura to learn more about what I had been hiding from all my life. I was only four when my parents divorced in the greatest scandal of their generation. I never saw or heard from my mother again. Ever since, on a level far too deep to recognize, I have believed there was something horribly wrong with me. My mother had abandoned me, and I feared my father would also if I wasn’t the perfect daughter, always bright and pretty and collected. It was a role I learned to play very well, but that’s what it was—a role.”
Her eyes slid away from his, her words wrenched from her. “If my life was a fraud, that meant that no man could love me, because none of them knew me. Anyone who claimed to love me must be either a liar after my fortune, or worse, a sincere fool who would come to despise me if he knew me better. I could not allow a man to come close enough to discover my fatal flaws. Only after Sally said you wanted to marry someone else could I start to acknowledge my feelings for you.”
The Bargain Page 28
