Gifts of Love

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Toni. You’re looking lovely, as always.”

  To say that Antonia was taken aback would have been a considerable understatement. Expecting the distant courtesy he had shown her since their engagement had ended, she had no idea how to react to his voice, the compliment, or the unsettling warmth in his gray eyes. She had a small feeling that her mouth was open, but accepted his arm automatically.

  As they began walking down the long, silent corridor, she tried to collect herself, and was unable to keep from stealing glances up at him. Gifted with an old and honorable title as well as a considerable fortune, Richard Allerton had also been blessed with a tall, powerful frame set off admirably by his usual sportsman’s style of dress, and a handsome face that had broken any number of thudding female hearts.

  He had been called a nonesuch, his skill with horses and his athletic prowess unequaled—and uncommon in one of his rank. He was not held to be a rake, since he neither toyed with the affections of innocent young ladies nor scandalized society by openly indulging in indiscretions. He was not above being pleased in company, and could be counted on by any hostess to dance with the plainest damsel or spend half an hour charmingly entertaining even the rudest or most outspoken of matrons.

  He was a paragon.

  So, at any rate, Antonia had believed when she had tumbled into love with him during their first dance together. He had no need of her fortune, and had seemed interested in her views and opinions, encouraging her to share her thoughts rather than accept the usual platitudes so common among persons of their social order.

  It had been a magical, dizzying experience for Antonia, being loved by him. He had treated her as a person in her own right, a woman whose mind mattered to him. Antonia had long been appalled by the “civilized” arrangements that passed for marriage; she had desired a partner, an equal with whom to share her life—and she had believed, with all her heart and soul, that Richard was that man. Until she found out otherwise.

  Now, walking beside her former betrothed, her thoughts tangled and confused, she fought to raise her defenses again in the face of his changed attitude.

  “This is quite a place,” he said, looking around. His voice still held that drawling, caressing note, though the words were casual. “Lady Ware has done an excellent job with the renovations.”

  Conscious of the strength of his arm under her hand, Antonia blurted, “I hardly expected to see you here, Your Grace.”

  “You know very well what my name is, Toni—don’t use my title,” he said calmly.

  Antonia caught the gleam in his gray eyes and looked hastily away. “That wouldn’t be proper,” she said stiffly.

  “Would it not?” His free hand covered hers, the long fingers curling under her own in a strangely intimate touch. “You have called me Richard many times. You have even whispered it, as I recall. Remember that early spring ride at Lyonshall? We were caught unexpectedly in a storm, and had to take shelter in an old stable while the groom rode back for a carriage. You whispered my name then, didn’t you, Toni?”

  She wanted to display a dignified offense at the reminder of a scene any gentleman would have wiped from his memory, but she found herself unable to utter a word. He was stroking the sensitive hollow of her palm in a secret caress, and an achingly familiar warmth was stealing through her body.

  “How delighted I was that day,” he mused, a husky note entering his deep voice. “I had believed you were everything I wanted in a woman, with your excellent mind and strong spirit; that day I discovered the wonderful passion in you. You responded to me so sweetly, with none of the missish alarm or dismay our society mistakenly insists must be the response of a lady of quality to passion. I held a loving, giving woman in my arms, and thanked God I had found her.”

  “Stop,” she managed finally, her cheeks burning as she made a useless attempt to pull her hand from his grasp. “To remind me of such a—a shameful episode—”

  “If I thought you really believed that, I’d box your ears,” he said, and his eyes then were a little fierce. “There is nothing shameful about the desire two people feel for one another. We were to be married—”

  “But we were not married, not then and not afterward,” Antonia said unsteadily, grateful to see the first flight of stairs just ahead, but painfully aware that it was still some distance to the ground floor of the castle where the presence of other people would certainly curb her companion’s shocking conversation. She didn’t know how much more of this she could bear.

  “I am aware of that,” he said evenly. “What I don’t know is why we were not married afterward. You never gave me a reason, Toni. You talked a great deal of nonsense, saying that you had realized we wouldn’t suit—”

  “It was true!”

  “Balderdash. We were together nearly every day for months, and found one another splendid company. Parties, the theater, riding, driving in the park, spending quiet evenings in your home and mine—we suited admirably, Toni.”

  She remained silent, staring straight ahead.

  “I intend to discover your reason for jilting me. I know there was a reason; you are far from being so flighty as to do such a thing on a whim.”

  “It has been nearly two years,” she said at last, refusing to look at him. “Past. Do me the—the courtesy of allowing the entire incident to remain undisturbed.”

  “Incident? Is that how you recall our engagement, as a meaningless incident in your past? Is that how you remember our lovemaking?”

  It required an enormous effort, but Antonia managed to make her voice cold. “Is that not how any mistake should be termed?”

  Lyonshall did not take offense at what was, in essence, an insult, but he did frown. “So cold. So implacable. What did I do to earn that, Toni? I have wracked my brains, yet I cannot recall a single moment when we were not in harmony—except for that last morning. We had been to the theater the night before, along with a party of friends, and you seemed in excellent spirits. Then, when I came to see you the following morning as usual, you informed me that our engagement was at an end, and that you would be…obliged if I would send a notice to the Gazette. You refused to explain, beyond the obvious fiction that we didn’t suit.”

  They were descending toward the entrance hall now, and Antonia caught a glimpse of one of the footmen, splendid and stalwart in his livery, stationed near the foot of the stairs. She had never been so relieved to see another person in her life, and a tinge of that emotion was in her voice when she replied to Lyonshall.

  “You acceded to my wishes and sent the notice—why must you question me now? There is no reason to do so. It is past, Richard. Past, and best forgotten by everyone.”

  He lowered his voice, apparently because of the footman, but the quieter tone did not at all lessen the relentlessness of his words. “If only my pride had been bruised, I would agree with you; such shallow hurts are best put aside and forgotten. But the blow you dealt me went far deeper than pride, my sweet, and in all the months since, I have not forgotten it. This time, there will be an end to things between us. One way or another.”

  The endearment surprised her; it was one he had used only in passion—and it triggered a scalding rush of memories that tore at her hard-won composure. But that shock was small compared to what she felt at the clear threat of his words. Dear heaven, had he waited two years to punish her for jilting him? Or had Lady Ware’s invitation presented him with an opportunity he intended to take advantage of, merely to enliven a boring holiday?

  She had never believed him to be a cruel man, at least not intentionally so, and found it difficult to believe now. Had she indeed hurt him so badly? And what did he intend now? An end to things…

  It was only years of practice that enabled Antonia to school her features into an expression of calm as she walked beside Lyonshall into the huge drawing room. He released her hand in order to greet her mother and grandmother, but that was no more than a brief respite since he fetched her a glass of sherry and stood near her chair
as he talked with his usual charm to the two older ladies.

  Any other time, Antonia would have been hard put not to laugh. Her mother, a still-pretty woman with large, startled blue eyes and fading red hair, was clearly baffled and unnerved by Lyonshall’s presence, and hardly knew what to say to him. Lady Sophia had been delighted by the engagement, both for the worldly reason of her daughter’s assured position in society and because she knew Antonia had loved her betrothed. But she was, by nature, a timid woman, and a situation such as this one was bound to be a strain on her nerves.

  Lady Ware, on the other hand, was utterly calm and obviously pleased with herself. She was not one to charm, but she was more courteous to Lyonshall than Antonia had ever known her to be to anyone else. She seemed to have an excellent understanding with him.

  “I believe we may make your holiday here a memorable one, Duke,” she said at one point, her tone one of certainty rather than hope, and her use of his title a bland indication that she considered them equals despite the difference in their ranks. “Here at the castle, we observe most of the usual Christmas traditions, as well as some which are uniquely our own. Time enough to discuss those tomorrow, of course, when you have completely settled in—but I do trust you mean to be a participant rather than merely an observer?”

  He inclined his head politely. “I try always to be a participant, ma’am. What is the point of a holiday if one cannot enjoy oneself, after all? I am looking forward to a very special memory of Christmas at Wingate Castle.”

  Antonia sipped her sherry, feeling peculiarly detached. Christmas? That was the reason they were all here. It was difficult to think about the usual trappings of Christmas when her mind was so filled with him. This was supposed to be an interlude of peace and good cheer, of high spirits and joy and contentment.

  But all Antonia could think of were the memories Lyonshall had dragged from the locked rooms of her mind. Secret memories. To some, they might even be shameful memories.

  As they seated themselves in the dining room, she looked at her mother and grandmother, wondering. What would they think if they knew about that rainy spring day? They would undoubtedly condemn her for what she had done. It was shocking enough that she had given herself to a man—even her betrothed—without the sanctity of marriage, but then to end her engagement within a week, seemingly without reason…

  Lyonshall could have ruined her completely had he chosen, with only a few words spoken to the right people. Antonia knew he had remained silent. For his own sake, perhaps; the tale would not have ruined him, but it would have marred his excellent reputation as a gentleman. Oddly enough, it had never occurred to her then that he might do so. It occurred to her now only because of his implied threat to “end things” between them.

  But surely he wouldn’t…

  “You’re very quiet, my sweet.”

  She looked up hastily from her plate, cheeks burning; he had not troubled to lower his voice, and everyone from Tuffet and the footman serving them to her mother and grandmother had heard the endearment.

  Lady Sophia all but dropped her fork, but Lady Ware, undisturbed, met her granddaughter’s eyes with a faint, bland smile.

  Grimly holding on to her composure, Antonia said, “I have nothing to say, Your Grace.”

  He was seated on her grandmother’s right, with Antonia on his right, and her mother across the table. Antonia’s chair was near the duke’s, so near in fact that he was easily able to reach the hand lying over her napkin in her lap. Once again, his long fingers curled around hers in a familiar, secret touch.

  “That, surely, is a rare event,” he said with a smile so private it was like a touch.

  Antonia couldn’t reclaim her hand without an undignified—and obvious—struggle, so she was forced to remain still. But her cheeks burned even hotter when Tuffet came around to serve them. Naturally, the butler did not betray by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he saw the clasped hands, but there was no doubt he did see.

  “I have learned to rein my tongue,” Antonia said with a meaning of her own. “I no longer blurt every thought aloud.”

  “But your thoughts are part of your charm,” Lyonshall said smoothly. “I always found your plain speaking quite refreshing on the whole. Pray say whatever you wish; no one here, surely, would censure you.”

  Antonia gritted her teeth. Very slowly, she said, “If I were to say what I wished to say, Your Grace, I am very much afraid that both my mother and grandmother would find me sadly lacking in manners.”

  “I am persuaded you are wrong.”

  Antonia did not know what to think, and her earlier brief detachment had flown. How dared he do this to her! What did he mean by it? She could feel the warmth and weight of his hand even through her clothing, feel one of his fingers stroking her palm in a slow caress, and a tingling heat spread slowly outward from the very core of her body in a helpless response.

  She wanted to be angry. She wanted that so desperately. But what she felt most was a longing too powerful to deny and almost beyond her ability to fight.

  Lady Sophia, looking anxiously at her daughter’s flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, and unsettled by the oddly intimate conversation going on between Antonia and the duke, rushed hastily into speech. “I do trust, Your Grace, that this wretched weather won’t keep you tied by the heels here and cause you to miss very many of—of your usual pleasures! You were promised to Lady Ambersleigh’s cotillion in a fortnight, were you not?”

  It was such a transparent hope that the duke’s unnerving presence would not be unnecessarily prolonged, it was actually rather comical. Antonia caught herself glancing at Lyonshall, and felt a spurt of reluctant amusement when she met the laughter shining in his eyes. His voice, however, was perfectly grave.

  “I was, ma’am, but I sent my regrets.” His gaze flickered to Lady Ware’s impassive face. “Having been warned I was likely to find myself snowbound here.”

  Her amusement vanishing, Antonia looked at her grandmother as well. “I was not warned,” she said.

  “You did not ask, Antonia. Lyonshall, being a man of good sense, did ask.” Placing her napkin beside her plate, the countess regarded her noble guest with a questioning lift of her brows. “Shall we ladies withdraw and leave you to enjoy your port in lonely splendor?”

  He inclined his head politely. “I would prefer to forgo that custom, ma’am, with your permission.”

  If Antonia had cherished hopes that Lyonshall would release her when they rose from the table, those hopes were swiftly dashed. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and held it there as they returned to the drawing room.

  He was, in short, behaving as though he and Antonia were still engaged! She did not understand what was in his mind…

  “Play for us, Antonia,” her grandmother commanded with a nod toward the pianoforte. “I am sure Lyonshall would be delighted to turn the music for you.”

  Antonia considered rebelling, but at least he would be forced to release her since both her hands would be required for the task. She seated herself on the bench, and was further disturbed by the swift pang of loss she felt when he let go of her hand. Automatically, she began playing the piece already set before her, realizing too late that it was a soft, gentle love song.

  Lyonshall leaned against the pianoforte, ready to turn the pages. His voice was low. “I have missed your playing, Toni.”

  She kept her eyes resolutely on the music, grateful only that her mother and grandmother could not overhear whatever shocking things he said while she was playing. “I am merely adequate, Your Grace, and you well know it,” she said repressively.

  He turned the first page for her. “If you use my title one more time, my sweet, I shall take my revenge in a manner calculated to shock your mother very much.”

  Antonia hit a wrong note, and felt her cheeks flaming yet again. Her practiced mask was in splinters, and her voice was much more natural—and, to her fury, helpless—when she said, “What are you trying to do to me,
Richard?”

  “Have you not guessed, love? I am doing my poor best to court you. Again. In fact, I have a special license, and fully intend to marry you before the new year.”

  Two

  It was truly remarkable, Antonia thought much later that evening as she paced her bedchamber, how the social manners drummed into one from childhood had the power to hide even the most intense emotions. The moment Lyonshall had stated his astonishing intentions, her mask had almost magically rebuilt itself, and she had actually been able to behave as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  She knew she had remained calm, that she had continued to play the pianoforte; she could even recall responding to several of his more casual remarks. But the wild emotions churning beneath her mask had enabled her to ignore—almost to the point of literally not hearing—the shockingly intimate things he had murmured to her under cover of the music.

  Perhaps his intentions, if he had meant what he said about wishing to marry her, should have made his behavior more bearable, but for Antonia that was not so. The bitter hurt that had caused her to end their engagement was still strong in her despite the months that had passed, but even though her mind fiercely refused the very idea of marrying him, both the painful longing of her heart and the powerful desire he had rekindled whispered seductively.

  It had been nearly two years. Perhaps she was no longer a part of his life now. Perhaps he had decided—this time—that he could be content with a wife, and feel no need for a mistress as well. Or perhaps Mrs. Dalton had grown too demanding for his taste, and he had not yet found a replacement for her. And perhaps Antonia could forgive, even forget, the terrible hurt…

  Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

  Antonia flung herself into a comfortable chair by the fire, absently drawing her dressing gown tighter. The afternoon storm had continued into the night, adding its threatening chill to the cold stone walls and floors. Outside, the wind moaned fretfully, and sleet pelted the windows in a whispery cadence. The mournful sounds were a perfect accompaniment to her miserable mood. Her thoughts chased their own tails, and her feelings remained in a painful tangle.