by Royal, Emily
How London was considered the center of the world when they couldn’t stomach a little cold was beyond him. At Glendarron, blizzards clutched the landscape with icy hands for weeks at this time of year, but they never conquered the spirit of the people.
The butler opened the door, and Fraser stepped inside. Clayton House was unrecognizable from when he’d first seen it so many months ago. The garden, once overrun with weeds, was neatly trimmed, the ornate plants replaced with simple shrubs. The interior replicated Glendarron—soft oak paneling had replaced the cold marble of his predecessor, and antlers adorned the walls, together with tapestries depicting the highlands.
“Mind how you go!”
The butler barked orders as two footmen lifted Fraser’s trunk from the carriage, then he bowed to Fraser.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“Thank you—Baldwin, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir,” the butler replied. “Will you require tea?”
“No, thank you, Baldwin. After being cooped up in that carriage, I’m in need of a walk.”
“In this weather?”
“There’s nothing better than a crisp, cold afternoon for a constitutional.”
“Very good, sir.” Baldwin issued a stiff bow and shuffled off, his body vibrating with the stiff disapproval thinly disguised beneath the stoic exterior of an upper servant.
Fraser could almost hear the man’s joints creaking as he crossed the floor. From where had his agent excavated that old fossil?
Miss Hart would have said something about him having blocks of ice in his breeches.
His mouth creased into an involuntary smile at the thought of her laughter and delightful wickedness, before the memories of their last encounter doused his pleasure.
She was no longer Miss Hart. She was Lady Tipton and had been for two months. Was she, even now, residing in some dreary little mansion somewhere, servicing the needs of that little fop, and looking forward to the prospect of having ten of his brats tugging at her skirts?
He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode along the drive. The servants continued to unload his belongings. By the time he returned, a fire would be crackling in the drawing room, and he could indulge in his whisky without the need to pander to society.
Without anyone to contradict his every word and fight him at every turn.
Without the passion and release his body had been craving these past months.
Damn it—would he never be free of her? A piece of her even resided in Clayton House. Mo Chridhe, a volume of poems, had already taken permanent residence in the library.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” a voice cried out.
He jumped back as a hackney carriage thundered past with the crack of a whip and rattled into the distance. He lifted his hand in a gesture of appeasement, then set off in the opposite direction.
By the time he reached the familiar street, the light had already begun to fade. The low winter sun cast its rays over the buildings, giving them the soft purple hue, which often signaled the onset of snow.
Most of the houses on the terrace were occupied. Lights flickered in the windows, and silhouettes moved about. The occasional pale face looked out from the top floors—servants taking a glimpse of the world outside before being summoned to service the shivering creatures who employed them.
None of the houses held any interest for him, save one. Three houses from the end of the street, its dark windows gave it the forlorn appearance of an abandoned orphan. The last time he’d seen the building, it vibrated with life and passion—the anger of a matriarch, the despair of a young woman, and the triumph of a rival.
He looked up, searching for evidence of life. But other than the reflection of the sunset winking in the top windows, the house showed no sign of it.
Perhaps it was for the best that the house was empty. What would he have said to her if she’d been there?
Was she happy? Or had that freedom of spirit, that fire, been doused by the cold waters of reality?
Would there ever be a woman to measure up to her?
Light footsteps approached, and he hunched his shoulders and stared straight ahead as if to render himself invisible.
A hand touched his arm, and a female voice spoke. “It is you! I thought as much.”
Clad in a scarlet, fur-trimmed jacket, her blonde hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet, Anne Pelham stood out among the harsh winter landscape.
He issued a bow. “Mrs. Pelham.”
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “London is frightfully dull this time of year, but there’s nothing to compare to excellent company.”
“You’re too kind,” he said. “But if you dislike London, why do you stay? Don’t you have a house in the country?”
“Harold is here,” she said, “and I’d rather be by his side.” She blushed and smiled, the epitome of the well-satisfied and well-loved wife. Harold Pelham was, indeed, a lucky bastard.
“Tomorrow, I stake my claim on him,” she continued, “and we leave for Hertfordshire.”
“Then I count myself fortunate, having seen you today,” he said. “It seems as if all houses in London are empty.”
“All, or just one?” she asked, her gaze lingering on the townhouse before them. “Most houses on this street are occupied.”
“I suppose they are.”
“But the one in which you have a particular interest is not.”
She nodded toward the Hart residence.
“It’s been unoccupied for a month,” she said. “Mr. Hart is in the country with his new wife.”
“He’s married?”
“Just last month. A rather hasty affair, so I heard, and a most unsuitable woman.”
“And…the rest of the family?”
“Miss Hart’s in Bath,” she said. “She’s taking the waters for her health.”
“I didn’t know Miss Dorothea was unwell.”
“No, I meant Delilah.”
“Oh,” he said. “Lady Tipton.”
“Oh, good lord!” She cried. “You’ve not heard?” She shook her head. “I suppose being half a world away, the news didn’t reach you. The marriage never took place.”
Glendarron was hardly half a world away.
“What happened?” he asked. “Did she break off their engagement?”
“No, he did. The night before the wedding.” She lowered her voice, “Her dowry never materialized. Apparently, she invested the money—rather unwisely, it seems.”
“Invested it?”
“I don’t know the particulars, but Harold overheard mention of it in Whites. I’ll never understand why gentlemen accuse ladies of idle tattle when they’re equally at fault. But if men believe that gossip over brandy in a smoke-filled clubroom is akin to an intellectual conversation, then who am I to shatter their illusions?”
“And Mr. Pelham?”
“My husband knows better than to discuss his business openly. His ability to keep an open ear among so many loose tongues, serves him well.”
“And he trusts you with the secrets revealed in Whites?” Fraser asked.
She smiled. “There was little to relate other than the disappearance of twenty thousand pounds.”
He froze. “How much did you say?”
“Twenty thousand,” she said. “If you ask me, Delilah was at liberty to do what she wanted with her fortune, and if Sir Thomas spurned her as a result, then she’s well rid of him.”
Twenty thousand! It couldn’t be a coincidence.
She curled her lip into a sneer. “Sir Thomas is making a speedy recovery from his ordeal.”
“How so?”
“He’s been seen paying compliments to Lady Atalanta Grey, who’s still in town,” she said. “I wish him well in his endeavors. If he prefers a soulless debutante, then he never deserved my friend.”
“The cad!” Fraser cried. “Why didn’t Hart challenge him?”
“Other than soundly ejecting Sir Thomas from his home
, he did very little.”
Fraser shook his head. “If I were her, I…”
“You’d what?” she asked. “Run after him through the streets of London, beg his hand, and further your humiliation?”
“He deserves a bloody good thrashing!”
“And you’re the one to do it?”
“If I must,” he said. “If there is none other to fight for her.”
She raised her eyebrows at his vehemence.
“Tipton must be brought to justice,” he said.
“I agree,” she replied, “but society would argue that he acted within his rights. A marriage is like a business agreement, with obligations and expectations on both sides, and the marriage settlement he was expecting never materialized.”
“Surely, you don’t see Miss Hart as a commodity, who should come with payment to compensate for the obligation of keeping her?”
“Of course not,” she said, “but I don’t make the rules of our world. Besides, I believe she only wishes for peace, given her condition.”
“Is something wrong with Miss Delilah’s health?”
She blushed and shook her head. “I’ve said too much. She’s in perfect health but needs a little rest after a trying few weeks. Would you be so good as to escort me home?”
He held out his arm. She took it, and they set off. Before they reached the end of the street, he turned and took a final look at the Hart townhouse.
“I should visit her,” he said.
“Please, you mustn’t. I doubt you’d be welcome, and she’s not accepting visitors.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. “Dorothea is very particular about guests.”
“That doesn’t sound very accommodating.”
She turned her head away, but not before he caught the blush on her cheeks.
“Something’s the matter,” he said. “Isn’t it? If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”
She let out a sigh. “Harold wouldn’t want me to say anything, but neither do I wish to hear you’ve been tattling in Whites and arousing suspicion. If I tell you, will you swear never to breathe a word?”
“I swear.”
She cast her gaze about the street, as if expecting to see eavesdroppers hanging out of every window, then she lowered her voice.
“Delilah is with child.”
“She’s what?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “She’s to remain in Bath with Dorothea until her confinement is over.”
Dear Lord! Had Sir Thomas taken advantage of her before abandoning her?
Hypocrite…
Hadn’t Fraser done exactly that?
“And—the father?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?
“Perhaps she loved him,” he said, wincing at the bitterness in his voice. “Perhaps he planted his seed to secure her dowry. How disappointed he must be to find his efforts were in vain!”
She withdrew her hand and gave him a resounding slap on the face.
“How dare you make light of my friend’s circumstances!” she cried. “She’ll be shunned by society, and her brother is furious with her. What hope does she have now of securing a living or a home of her own?”
Fraser’s cheeks warmed with shame at the part he’d played in her downfall. He closed his eyes but could not dispel the image of her supple little body laid out for him to feast on.
Oh, Delilah—my Lilah!
“Your Grace?”
He opened his eyes. Mrs. Pelham stared at him, understanding in her eyes.
“Is there something you should tell me?” she asked.
“I love her,” he said, his chest tightening. “I always have.”
She reached up and caressed his cheek where she’d struck it. “Forgive me,” she said. “I had no wish to hurt you. I did wonder whether there was an understanding between the two of you, but when you left for Scotland, it was as if you’d never existed. She never spoke of you, just grew silent, and threw herself into helping Mrs. Forbes.”
“It’s I who should beg forgiveness,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left. I’m the cause of her ruination.”
They rounded a corner, and she pointed ahead.
“There! We’re almost home. Won’t you join us for supper? Harold would be glad to see you, I’m sure.”
Her affability was too much to resist, and he was in sore need of congenial company after the revelation.
But as soon as dinner was concluded, nothing would prevent him from traveling to Bath. If Baldwin thought his master eccentric, then an unexpected journey at first light tomorrow would confirm his suspicions.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Children’s voices penetrated Lilah’s dreams, and she opened her eyes. Though the air was cold, the furs kept her warm, like a cocoon. Thea’s voice carried across the wind, punctuated by squeals of merriment as she played with the housekeeper’s children.
Free from the confines of London society, Thea’s personality came to the fore. She loved children, and though she was deemed too old for the society marriages Dexter wanted for them all, she was looking forward to becoming an aunt.
Dexter had rented them a house on the outskirts of Bath, close enough to enable Lilah to take the waters if she wished. And it came with a sizeable garden, which enabled her to enjoy the fresh air away from the judgmental eyes of the world.
The lawn stretched toward a line of trees leading to a pond, where the occasional ripple of a fish disturbed the surface. In the center of the lawn, an armillary sphere stood atop a stone pillar surrounded by rose bushes. Frost covered their leaves as if they’d been dusted with sugar.
But despite the cold, spring filled the air. Bright green shoots poked through the frost and would soon burst into vivid colors.
The season of rebirth and new beginnings.
Dexter had offered to find Lilah a husband. Despite having warned her he’d not give her another dowry, he promised he’d ensure she was provided for. She had expected her brother to be angry with her, but his anger and disgust were directed at Sir Thomas. Dexter had begun to suspect that he had been involved in producing the leaflets inciting the riot at Clayton House. But, where Lilah may originally have wanted to see the man brought to justice, she now only wanted to forget he’d ever existed.
As to finding a husband, she was done with placing herself at the mercy of a man. All that mattered was her child. Where she’d planned to battle the world, she now had a new challenge—that of nurturer and protector. The world would have to wait.
She shifted position to ease the ache in her back and placed a hand on her belly, whispering a greeting as she felt the child move.
Ruined she may have been, but out of that ruination, had come a life. Whatever he thought of Lilah now, the child had been conceived out of love.
Her love.
“I cannot wait to meet you, little one,” she whispered. “And you will be loved. By so many people. Your aunt and uncle…”
Laughter erupted behind her, the uninhibited squeals of young souls who knew nothing of the world.
A tear formed in her eye, and she wiped it away. But she had no right to wallow in self-pity. Her child would want for nothing. What was a little scorn from society compared to the hardships many other women endured?
And what did it matter if she surveyed the landscape before her and found it wanting, compared to the rugged mountains and hillsides of the Highlands?
No—she had no desire to see the mountain again.
None at all.
Not the wild, wide-open spaces, nor the fresh air, the cries of the eagles, or the majestic peaks which stretched toward the heavens…
Moisture stung her eyes, and she blinked.
She heard raised voices—a man’s voice, pleading, and Thea’s sharp tones. Lilah closed her eyes.
Thea must be admonishing the butler again, Lilah smiled. Her sister always took the housekeeping too seriously. She’d never forget the years of poverty they’d endured
before Dexter made his fortune.
A familiar, rich voice invaded her mind. She bit her lip, but it persisted, as unyielding as the Highland rocks against which he’d almost claimed her.
The voice grew louder. Angry, indignant—as it was on the day he’d cast her out.
The voices stopped. Footsteps approached, but she kept her eyes closed and tipped her face toward the sun, relishing the warmth on her face and the soft pink glow through her eyelids.
A shadow passed over her.
“Delilah.”
The soft whisper, filled with love, resonated through her bones. She smiled, and the touch solidified as strong fingers interlocked with hers. Warm, soft lips caressed her skin.
She opened her eyes and looked into a clear blue ocean.
Unable to forget the anger which had darkened those eyes the last time she saw them, she withdrew her hand and pulled the furs up to her chin as if to protect herself. But he grasped her hand again, and she surrendered. Her body responded to his touch, and shivers of need tightened her skin as he caressed her hand with his thumb.
“Did I hurt you so badly that you shrink from my touch?”
How she’d longed to hear his voice again!
“I never meant for any of it to happen,” she said.
“I know, lass. I curse the day I let my anger rule my heart—and I doubly curse the day my pride drove me to Scotland—away from you. But now I’ve found you, I have no wish to let you go again.”
“How did you know where I was?” she asked.
“Mrs. Pelham told me where to find you,” he said. “I happened across her not long after I returned to London.”
“You’re in town?”
“I was,” he said, smiling, “but I’m now here, in the presence of a goddess. I also find myself in a much-improved position financially, thanks to an anonymous investment.”
She tried to withdraw her hand, but his grip, though gentle, was not to be denied.
“I hope one day to meet my investor,” he said, “to admonish them for their lack of sense.”
His eyes crinkled into a smile. “Fifteen percent is a poor yield given the risk the investment posed. Perhaps I should sell Clayton House and pay the capital early to preserve the investor’s reputation. They must be the laughingstock of London.”
