Evidently, Charlotte’s very own ancestor, the first Duke of Pembroke, was the illegitimate child of a murdered monk, and according to the duke, that monk’s ghost was still roaming the corridors at night.
It was a good thing she didn’t believe in ghosts, Chelsea thought now, or she might not have the courage to sleep alone while she was here.
Entering her room through the secret door, she straightened and pushed the tapestry aside. There, standing over her bed with her pillow to his nose, was Blake.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, discreetly dropping the pillow onto the bed and striding around the foot of it. “I was just looking for you.”
Chelsea moved to the center of the room. “I was exploring the passageways. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes. There is something I must discuss with you.” He hesitated, then strode to the window, clasped his hands behind his back and looked out at the lush green countryside. “There are visitors downstairs—one in particular, whose name you might recognize.” He turned and faced her.
“Please do not keep me in suspense, Blake, for I am already stuck in a constant state of waiting.”
He continued to hesitate, while his eyes never left hers. “Elizabeth is here.”
Chelsea took a few seconds to recover from her astonishment, then walked to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. “Did you know her? I mean...that is to say...did you recognize her at all?”
“No. Not in the least.”
She let out the tight breath she had been holding, but quickly discovered that her relief was premature, for it was instantly squashed by his next words.
“Which is unfortunate, considering the fact that she is my wife.”
Chelsea closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh dear.”
Blake wandered listlessly into the center of the room. “It’s not as if we hadn’t known this could happen. We knew it was a possibility, yet we both went ahead and did what we wanted to do. So, we have no one to blame but ourselves.”
She looked up. “I am relieved at least to hear that you are willing to share the blame with me.”
He acknowledged her comment with a nod, then paced around the room, looking down at the floor, shaking his head and thinking about everything.
“I just didn’t feel like a married man,” he explained. “There was not one single emotion or suspicion inside of me that suggested I might love someone or aspire to be faithful. All I felt was complete freedom, and I wanted to celebrate it. It was a hunger I cannot even describe.”
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
“Does she know about me?” Chelsea asked. “And that I am here?”
“She knows you saved my life and that you returned with us, but she does not know the whole story. I could hardly tell her that we were lovers.”
“No, of course not.” Chelsea regarded Blake with subdued curiosity. “What is she like?” Though in all honesty, Chelsea was not sure she wanted to know. She did not want to hear that his Elizabeth was beautiful and accomplished, charming and witty. Or that he had just fallen in love with her all over again, the moment he laid eyes on her, and that he regretted what he had done.
Chelsea remembered the moment he spoke his wife’s name—when he was aroused in his sleep by her touch. How many times had Elizabeth touched him that way?
He stopped and looked at her. “I don’t really know what she is like.”
“But you must have spoken with her.”
“I did. She showed me the marriage certificate.” He stared at Chelsea impatiently, as if frustrated and annoyed by what he was about to tell her. “She asked me what sorts of things I like to draw.”
He sounded baffled, incredulous, aggravated.
“Did you tell her?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said she thought drawing was for children.” He paused. “She seems very young.”
“How so?”
“She looks young. Acts young. She doesn’t understand...”
“Understand what?”
“Why a person might want to draw or write.”
Chelsea wet her lips and swallowed. “Perhaps she is simply not a creative person. They say that opposites attract...”
Why was she doing this? Trying to convince him of why he might have loved this woman in the first place?
Then Chelsea remembered what Lady Charlotte had told her earlier that morning—that Blake had left his artistic soul behind years ago when he took on more mature responsibilities on the estate.
He shook his head, turned away and walked back to the window. But there were still so many questions she wanted to ask.
“Your family knew nothing of your marriage?” she asked. “Or how long you and Elizabeth have been...?”
“It’s quite a story,” he replied. “Evidently, we were married by special license the very day I went missing, which made it our wedding night. We were bound for France on our honeymoon when the ship went down.”
His wedding night? Chelsea lay back on the covers and stared up at the ceiling. “That is why you had no clothes on when I found you.”
If only she had known. Instead, she’d thought it was some magical story, like something out of an ancient folk tale, or one of her own romantic stories of adventure and love.
“I have been such a fool.” She dropped her wrist over her eyes. “I have been living in the world of my imagination. I’ve been exiled for too long and have lost touch with reality.”
“There is nothing wrong with imagination.”
She lowered her arm to the bed and looked up at him. She had not heard him cross the room to stand over her.
He was so handsome—so tall and dark and mesmerizing—and she desired him, still. She could not forget all those moments in his bed at her family’s mansion by the sea, when she had listened to the waves pounding up onto the rugged coastline while he made love to her in the afternoons. It had been magical, every last second of it—even when he burst into her room to confront her after the scene with her mother. Even then she had been filled with passion and fascination, and so had he.
She was filled with passion now. She could have wept from the intensity of her desires and the heartache over the fact that he was no longer hers. He belonged to another woman. He was married. There was no more hope for forgiveness and a happy ending. Everything they had shared had been sordid and wrong. Chelsea would never forgive herself. She should have been more cautious.
“What will you do?” she asked, rising up on her elbows and feeling as if she should cover her eyes, because she was looking into the brightness of the sun.
“Clearly, I cannot marry you,” he said, “even if you are carrying my child.”
“And what if I am?” she asked. “What will we do then? Will you let me go home to my family? Will you let me keep the child?”
But dear Lord—she did not want him to release her. There was a bond between them now. She loved him.
But he was married.
What was she to do, then? Give the baby over to Sebastian and Melissa, as they had originally planned? She would never be able to do it, not now, when everything was different, when she had discovered the real world again and the undeniable forces inside her heart.
It would be her baby. Hers. No one else’s. No matter what anyone thought.
“Or would you try to take the child away from me?” she asked suddenly, with challenge, as she sat up.
“I don’t have those answers,” Blake replied, “but I do know this—I would not allow you to pass the child off as your brother’s.”
She frowned at him. “I would not want to. I could not do that now. The child would be mine.”
“And mine.”
She was strangely out of breath. “But that would not be possible
.” Then she remembered what Charlotte had told her about his brother, Vincent, who had just married his mistress—a woman who had born him an illegitimate child. He had jilted his fiancée to do so.
But that was different. A fiancée was not a wife.
“If you tried to take the child away from me, I wouldn’t let you,” she said, feeling defensive all of a sudden. “I would scream at the top of my lungs and cause the worst scandal your family could ever imagine.”
“And I would put my hand over your mouth,” he said in a shockingly blasé tone.
She stood up, horrified. “You wouldn’t.”
“I dragged you back here, didn’t I?”
Was he joking? “You were able to do that only because I wanted to come.”
He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you sure about that? You wanted to leave the safety of your home to follow a man who despised you and promised you nothing? I am not proud of it, but that’s the way it was, Chelsea. You can’t deny it.”
“I had nothing before I met you.”
“You had your freedom.”
“And that is a valuable commodity, is it?” she asked, her temper reaching dangerous heights. “I am afraid I must disagree, because I had it for seven years, yet I was completely unfulfilled.”
“That is not what you told me. You said you were happy there. You were able to write.”
“I was happy until you came. Damn you, Blake!”
“And damn you!” he shouted in return, glaring down at her with rage and passion that blazed so hot it was beyond her comprehension.
Suddenly his mouth was on hers, crushing her lips as he scooped her up into his arms. He moaned in despair as he kissed her, as if the world were coming to an end.
He was strong—too strong for her—and she could not push him away. Not that she wanted to. She clung to him and kissed him passionately in return, until reality came crashing down and she pushed him away. She pushed him so hard, he had to grab onto the bedpost to keep from falling onto the floor.
“We cannot do this,” she said. “You’re married! Your wife is downstairs! You cannot touch me. You cannot ever touch me again, Blake.”
He raked a hand through his hair and snarled. “Damn my life! I don’t know who the hell I am!” He started for the door. “Do not leave this room,” he commanded in a deep and threatening voice. “Unless your courses arrive in the next five minutes, you still belong to me.”
With that, he stormed out of the room like a tempest, and Chelsea sank back onto the bed in disbelief.
No, Blake. I do not belong to you. I am my own person. I do not belong to anyone.
Chapter 24
A shiny black coach behind four black horses thundered out of the mist, crossed the stone bridge, and traveled up the drive to Pembroke Palace. Hooves clattered noisily as it passed under the entrance archway into the cobbled courtyard and finally pulled to a halt in front of the wide steps.
Liveried footman hurried to open the door. Out stepped Lord Vincent Sinclair dressed in a long black overcoat with fur trim. He climbed the steps with brooding impatience, removing his gloves as he went.
Once inside the great entrance hall, he tossed his coat and hat to the butler. “Tell Lord Hawthorne I have returned. I will be waiting for him in the study.”
The butler hurried to do his bidding. “Yes, my lord.”
A short time later Devon entered the room where Vincent was lounging back in a chair with a brandy cupped in one hand, his long, booted legs stretched out on the desktop, crossed at the ankles. He was staring up at the ceiling.
Upon Devon’s arrival, he sat forward and dropped his feet to the floor. “Your letter said you found Blake, but my driver has informed me that he remembers nothing about anything.”
“That’s right.” Devon walked in and poured a glass of brandy for himself, then turned and explained the full situation to Vincent, including the recent arrival of John Fenton and his sister, Elizabeth—who was, to everyone’s amazement, Blake’s new wife.
But Vincent had already learned of Blake’s marriage when he was in France. On the day he received the letter from Devon notifying him of Blake’s location, Vincent had found and met the girl’s father, Lord Ridgeley.
At the time, Vincent was surprised to learn of Blake’s hasty wedding, despite the fact that they had all been spurred into action by their mad father. Although Blake was dutiful to a fault, Vincent had expected him to be the last to comply, for it was not in his nature to act on impulse. He was highly prudent, and always thought things through very carefully.
“At least he is alive,” Vincent said with relief, sitting back in the chair. “Everything else can be dealt with now that he has returned. That is all we wanted, after all—to know that he is safe. And here he is, home with a wife. That is one less thing to worry about, I suppose. Now we must only convince Garrett to return and do the same.”
“By ‘everything else,’” Devon replied, “do you mean his memory loss, or his new wife, who is a stranger to him because he does not remember her?” Devon strode to the sofa and sat down.
“All of the above, I suppose,” Vincent uneasily replied.
Devon took a drink. “I regret to inform you that there is more.”
“More?” Vincent lounged back in his chair again and waited for his brother to elaborate.
“A great deal more, because there is another woman here—the woman who found our brother on the island of Jersey and saved his life.”
“A woman saved him? Then we are indebted to her.”
“One would think so, but Blake has dragged her back here like a dog on a chain, believing she used him for stud.”
“For stud?” Vincent let out a laugh. “Surely not. Is he going mad as well? You said he possesses no memories. First Father, now Blake?”
Devon shook his head. “It’s not madness. The young lady has confessed to the scheme and seems more than willing to be brought to some kind of moral justice. She came with us willingly and seems to regret her actions. And Blake is slowly coming around to forgiving her, I believe.”
Vincent frowned in disbelief. “What are you telling me? There is a woman here who might be carrying Blake’s child? Did she not know he was married?”
“Neither of them did. Incidentally, the lady is Chelsea Campion. Does the name ring a bell?”
“Campion...” Vincent tapped a finger on the desk while he toyed with the name in his mind. “Her father was an outspoken member in the House a number of years ago, if I recall correctly. Some thought he might rise to become Prime Minister.”
“Until his daughter ran away with a fortune hunter and caused the scandal of the century,” Devon finished for him.
Vincent’s eyebrows lifted. He chuckled. “Blake has been sharing a bed with her? The willful runaway who disobeyed her influential father and ruined his political career?” He laughed again. “My God, what a lark. I cannot believe our younger brother—who does no wrong and is the perfect model for duty and decency—has been misbehaving.” He continued to grin. “The cheeky bastard. I knew there was more to him than he always let on.” Vincent shook his head and downed the rest of his brandy. “Poor bloke—he’s in a pickle now, isn’t he?” Then he frowned. “What has Father said about it?”
“He doesn’t know yet, and we are going to shield him from this just as we did with you and Cassandra, until we can decide how best to proceed.”
“What a circus I came home to.”
“Indeed.”
Vincent stood. “Where is Blake? I must see him and congratulate him for staying afloat in the Channel, not to mention for stealing a little pleasure for himself when he had the chance.”
Vincent started for the door, but Devon stopped him. “Be careful how you encourage him, Vin. Things may have worked out for you when you were juggling both a fiancée and a mistress, but it has
gone beyond that for Blake. He is a married man now, and he doesn’t possess your reckless nature.”
Vincent scoffed. “You don’t think so?”
“Vin...” His brother’s dark tone held a warning.
“All right, all right,” Vincent reluctantly replied. “I will be as prudent as I know how to be. But remember, Devon, that I was in his shoes not long ago and I know where his head is. He is going to need some help sorting this out.”
Devon simply nodded and watched his brother go.
Blood still boiling in his veins, Blake stormed into his room, slammed the door behind him, and went straight to the window. He planted his clenched fists on the sill and shut his eyes to try and bring his body back under control, while he cursed this convoluted state of affairs which had his life in a stranglehold.
Why couldn’t he remember anything? Would he ever recover those lost memories? More importantly, how could he have fallen in love with one woman while he was married to another? Why did the damn boat sink in the first place? Had the captain been a bloody imbecile? Had he not known how to handle a boat in a storm?
Blake turned around and looked at the sketches he had drawn the night before when sleep eluded him. They were splayed out on the table, arousing his senses even now, for they were drawn from the most powerful and potent memories in his mind. They were sketches of Chelsea’s nude form.
He wanted her still. He could not deny it. He had lost complete control in her room just now, kissing her with wild desperation and wanting to do so much more—mere minutes after he’d told her he was a married man. And after he’d just been reunited with his wife, who had recently thought herself a widow and was barely over her grief. She had wept on his shoulder, and he had stood there, feeling nothing.
When a Stranger Loves Me (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 3) Page 20
