Seven Years to Sin

by Sylvia Day

  “Damnation,” he muttered, lifting the tumbler to his lips. He felt the multitude of eyes on him, but couldn’t fathom the interest. He even checked his attire, looking for anything out of place that might attract undue attention.

  Finding no discernible reason for the curiosity he’d roused, Alistair raked the room with a challenging glance, daring someone to approach him instead of furtively assessing him. To his surprise, some of the gentlemen smiled and waved, as if they were old friends. His sharp-edged wariness fled, replaced by mounting confusion. When a familiar tall, dark figure entered the room, Alistair stood with relief.

  Michael’s gaze found him. With eyes widened by surprise, he crossed the distance between them with long strides and caught Alistair in a fierce embrace.

  “Has the world gone mad?” Alistair barked, holding his arm out to prevent spilling scotch down his friend’s back.

  “How are you?” Michael searched Alistair’s face, then shot a telling glance at the fellow tending the bar.

  “Alive and kicking.”

  “Yes, well, there is something to be said for that, is there not?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They sat. A moment later a tumbler was set before Michael. “I wasn’t expecting you for another few months, at the earliest,” he said.

  “That would have been ideal. However, once Lady Tarley learned her sister was in the family way, she desired to come home at once.”

  Michael inhaled sharply, but said nothing.

  Alistair took another drink, knowing how it felt to covet another man’s wife. “Lady Regmont sends her regards. In fact, she seemed most concerned that I find you in order to do so.”

  “Most likely she was thinking that you and I have a great deal in common at this point.”

  “Because we both love Sheffield women? What are we to do, exchange notes?”

  Michael stilled. “What did you say?”

  “Come now. I’ve known how you feel about Jessica’s sibling for many years. Like Jess, your face reveals everything.”

  “ ‘Jess’ you say? What in bloody hell?” Michael’s glass hit the wood tabletop with a decisive thud. “I pray you haven’t been wool headed enough to play your games with my brother’s widow.”

  “Never.”

  Michael exhaled his relief.

  “However,” Alistair went on, “the games I play with my betrothed are no one’s concern but my own.”

  “By God, Alistair …” Michael stared for a long moment, then tossed back the contents of his glass in one swallow. He signaled for another. “What do you think you’re doing? Jessica is not the type of woman a man takes lightly. Your station and means, even with marriage, won’t be enough to keep her happy. You will have to be cautious and discreet—”

  “Or simply steadfast.”

  “Don’t jest!”

  “This is no joke to me, Tarley.” Twisting his tumbler back and forth, Alistair surveyed the room again, aware that others would think as Michael did—that Jessica would be better served by another man. “I have loved her since you and I were boys. At the time, I thought she was flawless; the one finely wrought thing in this world that might have a hope of saving my blackened soul.”

  “Spare me the poetry. Byron, you’re not.”

  Alistair smiled, his mood softened by thoughts of Jessica. He was about to marry a diamond of the first water, a woman so heartbreakingly perfect for him that he ached just thinking about her. There wasn’t a man in this room who didn’t know her worth, and she was his. “But I’ve since learned it is our defects that make us perfect for one another. I expect to live in monogamous marital bliss for the rest of my days.”

  “And what does Masterson say about this?”

  “As if I care what he thinks.”

  “What of your mother, then?” Michael challenged. “She might view this as an opportunity for you and His Grace to find common ground. Jessica is barren, Alistair. For a certainty.”

  “I know. I care not.”

  “You cannot be so vindictive. I know you and your father have never gotten along well, but this is a matter far greater than either of you.”

  A fresh beverage was set before Michael. Alistair grabbed it for his own and drained it. “Your brain has been addled by overwork,” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “You must be accountable now for decisions that will impact generations—”

  “Bloody hell. Let us be clear … Your objection to my marrying Jessica comes not from unsuitability or incompatibility, but from your belief that I have an obligation to spawn?”

  “Responsibility is a nuisance, is it not?” Michael said with surprising bitterness.

  “Obviously the stress of your brother’s passing has driven you mad. Damned if I’ll give up the one thing in this world I cannot live without simply to whelp offspring in a pitiful attempt to gain acceptance.”

  “Whether or not you mend the rift with your father is secondary to honoring your duty to the title.”

  Alistair was of the mind that walking away might be wise. Otherwise, he was certain he was only seconds away from strangling his oldest friend. While Michael had no knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Alistair’s parentage, he was spouting nonsense nonetheless. “Ensuring the longevity of Masterson’s lineage has never been, nor will it ever be, my duty.”

  Michael’s head tilted, his gaze narrowing. Suddenly, something akin to horror swept over his features. “My God … You don’t know, do you?”

  “Alistair Caulfield,” Hester repeated, shaking her head. “I would never have guessed. You two were always so cool and reserved toward one another. I always believed you didn’t much care for him.”

  Jessica lifted one shoulder in an offhand, slightly sheepish shrug. “He’s changed, but more than that, there are depths to him one cannot see unless he reveals them. And I confess, I always found him physically attractive.”

  “What woman doesn’t?” Hester leaned forward, as if imparting a great secret. “There is something deliciously wicked about him. Something sinful and decadent. And dear God, he is a man now, so large and strong. More handsome than ever, and he was stunning in his youth! It is difficult not to stare at him.”

  “I know. I’m horribly besotted. Truly, I have to wed him or I will embarrass myself by making calf-eyes at him.”

  Her sister straightened and poured more tea. “The way he looks at you is indecent. Have you shagged him yet?”

  “Hester!”

  “You have!” Hester threw her head back and laughed, reminding Jess of the energetic girl of long ago. “Well? I must know if he is as good in bed as he looks.”

  Just thinking about Alistair made her toes curl. “How can you leap to the conclusion that we’ve been intimate? Perhaps he was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Alistair Caulfield? On a ship for endless days?” Hester laughed her sweet, tinkling laugh. “Any other man, perhaps. But not a scoundrel like he. So … ?”

  “So … He is as delectable as he looks.”

  “I knew it!” Hester smiled over the rim of her cup. “I am so happy for you, Jess.”

  Jess wanted to feel equally happy for her sister, but the circumstances didn’t warrant it. Hester was far too frail, especially for a woman who was midway through a pregnancy. “How are things between you and Regmont?”

  “He’s equally consummate in bed,” Hester said with the faintest note of bitterness in her tone. “Far too skilled, actually. No man should be so knowledgeable about a woman’s body.”

  “Is he unfaithful?”

  Hester’s cup lowered and she looked contemplative. “I have no notion. If so, his appetite for me hasn’t decreased at all.”

  A long stretch of silence ensued as Jess tried to understand what was causing her sister so much pain. “Hester …” she said finally. “Please tell me what’s wrong. You’ve lost far too much weight. What of the baby and the nourishment required for it to grow plump and healthy?”

  “I’ll eat more now tha
t you’re here.”

  “And when I’m not?” Jess pushed to her feet. Restless, she paced, a bad habit her father had beaten out of her in her youth.

  “You have changed,” Hester noted.

  “So have you.” Pointing to the lemon cream scones sitting untouched on the tea service tray, she said, “You adore those scones. They are your favorite. You always eat too many of them, with heaping scoops of clotted cream that fall off your fingers when you take a bite. Yet you haven’t touched a one. You won’t even look at them.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I am certain your child is.”

  Hester winced and Jess felt horrid, but something had to be done.

  Returning to her sister, Jess sank to her knees and caught up Hester’s hands, noting the skeletal thinness with growing despair. “Tell me. Are you ill? Have you seen a doctor? Or is it something else? Is it Regmont? Are you afraid to tell me because I suggested the pairing? Tell me, Hester. Please. ”

  Hester’s pent-up breath left her in a rush. “My marriage is no longer a happy one.”

  “Oh, Hester.” Jess’s heart broke. “What happened? Did you fight? Can it be salvaged?”

  “I once hoped so. Maybe it would be possible if I was stronger, like you. My weakness angers him.”

  “You are not weak.”

  “Yes, I am. When Father turned his wrath to me and you interceded, I let you. I was grateful you were taking the switch and not me.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “So damned grateful.”

  “You were a c-child.” Jess’s voice cracked with unshed tears. “You were wise to allow me to intercede. It would have been foolish to do otherwise.”

  “Perhaps, but courageous, too.” Hester’s eyes were giant verdant pools in her pale face. The rouge she wore to feign a healthy glow was incongruous against her bloodless skin, making her appear like a caricature of a bewigged and powdered peeress from times gone by. “I need that courage now, and I don’t know where to find it.”

  “I will help,” Jess vowed, squeezing her sister’s fingers gently. “We shall find it together. As for Regmont, I’m certain he must be worried sick about you, as I am. Once he sees you regaining your strength, your relationship will improve. It’s natural for a woman to experience moodiness and melancholia while increasing, but that might be difficult for a man to grasp. We will just have to educate him.”

  Hester smiled and cupped Jess’s cheek. “I’m so sorry you cannot have children, Jess. You would be so good with them. Far better than I.”

  “Nonsense. You will be a doting mother, and I shall be a very proud aunt.”

  “Your betrothed loves you very much.”

  “I think he does,” Jess agreed, laying her cheek against Hester’s knee. “He cannot seem to bring himself to say it aloud, but I feel it when he touches me. I hear it in his voice when he speaks to me.”

  “Of course he adores you, and his desire is unquestionable.” Hester’s cool fingers stroked Jess’s brow. “You will be the envy of every woman in England. Alistair Caulfield is rich, breathtakingly handsome, and mad for you. Toss in the dukedom and there isn’t a woman alive who would not kill to trade places with you.”

  Jess lifted her head, laughing. “Your dreams are too lofty. He’ll never inherit the title.”

  Hester blinked. Then, her eyes widened with something akin to horror. “Dear God … You don’t know, do you?”

  Chapter 21

  Alistair paced before the grate in the family parlor of the Masterson residence in Town, his sleekly polished Hessians treading silently across the oriental rug. His fingers were laced at the small of his back, his hands tingling from the strain of his white-knuckled clasp. “Smallpox.”

  “Yes.” His mother’s voice was soft with anguish. Louisa, the Duchess of Masterson, sat on a carved wooden chair with her back painfully straight. Her hair remained as dark as Alistair’s, the glossy tresses unmarred by any gray, but her lovely face betrayed both her age and the agony of outliving three of her four sons. The portrait of her above the mantel was taller and wider than Alistair’s height, and it served as the focal point of the room. Her younger self smiled down at anyone occupying the expansive space, her blue eyes naively clear of the many tragedies yet to come.

  Alistair had no notion of what to say. All three of his brothers were dead, and grief weighted his heart like a heavy, oppressive stone. Of equal burden was the title he now bore, a distinction he’d never coveted. “I don’t want this,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me how to get out.”

  “There is no way out.”

  He looked at her. Masterson was at home, but she dealt with this impossible situation alone because her beloved husband couldn’t face the bastard who would now bear his exalted title.

  “He could denounce me,” Alistair suggested, “which would open an avenue for a relative to inherit.”

  “Alistair …” She lifted a handkerchief to her mouth and sobbed, the wretched sound tearing through his innards like claws.

  “He cannot even face me. He must want a way out as well.”

  “If there was an alternative he could live with, yes. But he will not be a cuckold or shame me, and the next in line to inherit is a distant cousin whose worth is questionable.”

  “I do not want this,” he said again, stomach churning. Alistair wanted a life of travel and adventure with Jessica. He wanted to bring her joy and challenges, and the freedom to erase the oppression of her youth with an adulthood that was boundless.

  “You will be one of the wealthiest men in England now—”

  “By God, I won’t touch a shilling of Masterson’s precious coin,” he bit out, his blood boiling at the mere suggestion. “You have no notion of the things I’ve done to be solvent. He gave me scant assistance when I most needed it. I damned well won’t take anything from him now!”

  Louisa rose, her hands twisting in her kerchief. Tears coursed unchecked down her hollowed cheeks. “What would you have me do? I cannot regret your birth. I would not go back and give you up. To have you in my life I had to risk this, and Masterson took that risk for me. With me. We made the decision together, and we will abide by it.”

  “Yet here you stand, alone.”

  Her chin lifted. “My choice. My consequence.”

  Abandoning the fireplace, he approached her. The ceiling hung thirty feet above them; the nearest wall was a score of feet away. Every Masterson holding boasted similar cavernous spaces containing furnishings and artwork accumulated over centuries.

  The distant walls closed in, squeezing Alistair’s chest like a vise.

  He’d never felt connected to any of it, had never felt a sense of familial pride or a sense of belonging. Bearing the title would be akin to wearing a mask. He’d donned a role once before to survive, but now he was comfortable with who he was. Comfortable being the man Jessica loved unconditionally.

  “Your choice,” he said softly, feeling very much like the impostor he was being told to be. “But I must pay the price.”

  Staying as a guest in Regmont’s house, Jess slept not a wink all night. Her thoughts sped too swiftly through her mind, her heart breaking at every turn.

  Alistair was now the Marquess of Baybury. Someday in the future, he would become the Duke of Masterson. Immense power and prestige came with those stations, but so, too, did grave responsibilities.

  He could not take a barren woman to wife.

  On both the Acheron and the island, they’d slept until noon. On their second morning in London, however, Alistair came calling at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock. She was dressed and ready for him, knowing he would come to her as soon as it was acceptable to do so. Knowing she had to be strong enough for both of them.

  She descended the stairs with as much decorum as she could manage while feeling as if she was headed toward the gallows. When she rounded the bend in the stairs leading to the foyer, she found Alistair waiting with one hand atop the newel post and one foot propped on the bottom stair. He retaine
d his hat and wore black from head to toe. His features appeared as stark as she felt.

  He opened his arms to her, and she raced to fill them, dashing down the remaining stairs and launching herself against him. He caught her easily, squeezing tight.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” she breathed, her fingers kneading restlessly into his tense nape.

  “I am sorry for my gain.” His voice was flat and cold, but his embrace was not. He pressed his temple to hers and held her as if he would never let go.

  After a long moment, he allowed her to lead him into the parlor. They both remained standing, facing each other. He looked tired and older than his years.

  Running a hand through his hair, he groaned his frustration. “It seems we are to be trapped.”

  She nodded, then stumbled toward the nearest chair. Her heartbeat was too quick and erratic, making her dizzy. We, he said, as she had known he would. She sank into a yellow damask-covered wingback and sucked in a deep breath. “You’ll be busy.”

  “Yes, damn it all. It has already started. The moment Masterson learned I’d returned, he began filling a schedule for me. I haven’t a free quarter hour to myself over the next three days. God knows if I’ll even be allowed to relieve myself.”

  Her heart ached for him. He resented the road set before him, but he was more than competent. He had a brilliant head for business matters and an air of command that earned the respect of great men. “In no time at all, you will have everything running so smoothly others will stand back in awe.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”

  “I wasn’t referring to Masterson, but regardless, you care what your mother thinks and she cares about what he thinks. She loves you and fought for you—”