He glanced at her again, looked her up and down with indifference, then returned his detached gaze to the view outside the window. To be honest, he wasn’t even certain she was a virgin. Not that he cared. When it came to his duty to his family, he cared for very little. He certainly cared nothing for the woman beside him. She was shallow and self-absorbed and interested in nothing more than his social position as an heir to the Pembroke dukedom and his fantastically enormous fortune. She certainly did not love him.
But that was hardly a problem, he supposed, because he was a man who lived for pleasure. He was known to be disreputable and depraved, made no apologies for it, and Letitia, thank God, understood all of that. There were no preconceived notions of romance between them. She even seemed rather contemptuous of sentimental affections, which in all honesty made this woman his perfect match.
But that was beside the point. What mattered presently was that his father had already given this particular woman his stamp of approval, which was at the root of all this insanity. Vincent had gone to London to fetch Lady Letitia and propose, with the full intention of marrying her before Christmas, because his father demanded he take a wife. If all four of the duke’s sons were not husbands by then, he had made very clear that they would all be disinherited.
The upside was that they would each be awarded five thousand pounds on their wedding day, simply for saying “I do.” The duke had deemed it so in the will—along with the stipulation that he must approve of each new bride of Pembroke. That was reason enough for Vincent to go through with it, with this woman in particular. The money would secure him a residence far away from the palace so that he would never have to return here again.
And of course, how could he forget? There was also the family curse that needed to be thwarted by four marriages, or heaven forbid, the entire palace would be swept away by a torrential flood.
Bloody madness, all of it. Bloody ridiculous madness, with nothing to be done to change it. The doctors and solicitors had deemed the duke sane at the time the will was drawn up, so there it was. Unalterable.
Exhaling sharply, Vincent leaned closer to the window to look up at the ominous clouds in the sky and the rain that showed no signs of letting up. His father was probably in a panic today if the fields were flooding, which they most certainly were. The coach had driven through half a dozen puddles the size of fishponds on the way to the palace.
Dreading the senseless drama he was sure to come home to, Vincent turned to look at Letitia again, and hoped her arrival and talk of wedding plans would distract the old man from the weather.
As for himself, well, he meant to do his duty and be done with it, then God willing, he would be free to live as he chose. How difficult could one wedding be? Surely no more difficult than accepting the fact that his father was stark raving mad.
“Tell me,” Letitia said, turning her ever so pretty head toward him, as if she had sensed his eyes upon her, “how soon will I get to see the necklace? I must be wearing it when we make the formal announcement.”
He looked at her impatient brown eyes and tiny upturned nose and wondered why he had felt compelled to offer that particular jewel when he proposed. It was the famous Pembroke Sapphire—a sparkling stone the size of the continent. It had been the engagement gift presented to his great-grandmother by the fourth Duke of Pembroke.
Another woman had worn it more recently, of course. Another fiancée three years ago. But she had not lived to see her wedding day.
Vincent reflected upon his own infinite bitterness with a perverse touch of amusement. “I will speak to Mother about it the instant we arrive.” He patted Letitia’s hand. “She has been keeping it safe for you, darling.”
Letitia lifted a delicately arched brow. “Well, I certainly hope so. From what I understand, it is a jewel to be reckoned with.”
“As are you,” he casually replied.
“Yes. As am I.” She turned her eyes proudly toward the window again, leaving him to stare at all those ridiculous ribbons and flowers.
They pulled up in front of the palace, and two footmen came dashing down the stairs with umbrellas. Letitia’s mother, seated across from them, stirred from her slumber and murmured, “Have we arrived?”
“Indeed we have, Your Grace.” Vincent stepped out first, undaunted by the wind and violent downpour and the sharp, stinging raindrops on his cheeks, for he found it all rather poetic. It was the perfect backdrop for his arrival.
He offered his hand to Letitia’s mother, the Duchess of Swinburne. She stepped out of the coach and was quickly ushered up the stairs by a footman, who struggled in the violent, blustery wind to hold an umbrella over her head.
Vincent offered his hand to his betrothed, who emerged from the carriage with a scowl.
“I am so sick of this putrid rain,” she said. “Look what it has done to my shoes. It had better dry up before our wedding day, or I swear to you, Vincent, we will have to postpone. I refuse to walk down the aisle with mud on my gown.”
He took the umbrella from the second footman and sheltered his spoiled future bride from the wind and rain. “We shall postpone if it pleases you.”
He really didn’t care, as long as they were married by Christmas.
Again, she raised an eyebrow at him. “I knew I picked the right brother.”
She was referring of course to his older brother Devon, who had recently considered her in his own search for a bride, but had chosen another. Much to Letitia’s dismay and displeasure.
She was also acknowledging the fact that Vincent was bending to her will, for she was the kind of woman who liked to have her own way.
He really didn’t care about that either. He would bend all the way to China if it would secure his inheritance and get him his five thousand pounds. After that, the bending would, of course, come to an end.
Together they hurried up the steps and found dry cover under the enormous portico and clock tower. Vincent lowered the umbrella, while his fiancée wiped a gloved hand over her skirts.
“I swear, Vincent,” she snapped. “This weather...”
He was growing tired of the subject, and quite frankly, tired of her. It had been a long coach ride from the train station.
“The sun will be shining soon enough.” Turning, he handed the umbrella to the footman and offered her his arm.
Letitia’s mother had already gone inside and was meeting his own mother in the grand entrance hall. The two duchesses were laughing about something, and their voices echoed off the high frescoed ceiling. They both stopped and turned when Vincent and Letitia swept through the door on a tempestuous gale that whipped at her skirts then died away as the doors swung shut behind them.
“Vincent, welcome home,” his mother said, crossing the marble floor with hands outstretched to greet him. She wore an amber silk day dress, and her golden hair was knotted elegantly. She was without question one of the most beautiful women in England, despite the fact that she had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday. Tall and slim and blessed with an inherent warmth and charm, she was adored by everyone who made her acquaintance, and was famous throughout England for her kindness and charity.
“Hello, Mother.” Vincent kissed her cheek, then turned to the dark beauty at his side. “You remember Lady Letitia. It is my pleasure to present her as my betrothed.”
Letitia curtsied.
Vincent’s mother took her future daughter-in-law’s hands in her own and kissed her on the cheek. “My dear, welcome back to Pembroke. We are delighted to see you again, and under such happy circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Letitia glanced at Vincent and inclined her head as if to remind him of something.
He stared at her for a cool moment before he turned his eyes back to his mother. “It was very generous of you, Mother, to offer Great-grandmother’s necklace. We are touched beyond words.”
His
mother’s lips parted slightly as she blinked up at him, and she appeared uncharacteristically flustered, but soon recovered herself. She spoke with poise and graciousness, as always. “And I have been beside myself, waiting to see you wearing it, Lady Letitia. I shall have it sent to Vincent’s rooms immediately.”
His mother looked up at him again with a measure of concern, and he wondered if she had changed her mind about the necklace.
But no...it was something else. Perhaps his father was especially fretful today. This kind of weather always made him anxious.
Before Vincent had a chance to inquire, his brother Devon appeared under the keystone arch at the back of the hall and stared at Vincent as if he had just shot the butler.
Vincent felt all the muscles in his neck and shoulders clench slowly like a fist.
His raven-haired brother, with eyes as blue as an October sky, had returned from America little more than a month ago, after being gone for three very congenial years. Vincent was not yet accustomed to seeing Devon back in the house, striding around as if their personal war had never occurred. And his brother had taken charge of the estate as if their father had already handed over the title.
“Devon,” Vincent said flatly. “How good of you to greet us. You remember Lady Letitia, I presume.”
Of course his brother would remember her. She had thrown a tantrum in the study not long ago, screeching at Devon and slapping his face. It was the day she learned he had proposed to another woman.
It was one of the few decadent pleasures of the day, Vincent supposed, to bring Letitia back here and present her to Devon.
His brother’s gaze shifted to Letitia, as if he had only just then become aware of her presence. She glared at him for an icy instant before he strode forward and spoke with polite reserve. “Welcome back to Pembroke, Lady Letitia.”
She smirked and slipped her arm through Vincent’s. “Thank you, Lord Hawthorne. I am pleased to return, especially now that I am engaged to your very charming and handsome younger brother.”
“My congratulations to you both.” Devon turned his attention to Vincent. “But I must have a word with you. Now, if you please.”
It was not lost on Vincent that their mother was biting her lower lip. “I presume it is a matter of some importance?” he replied.
“Yes, it is an urgent problem.”
Just then their younger brother Blake appeared at the top of the stairs. “Vincent. You’re back...”
An awkward silence ensued. It seemed to Vincent that the scene had become rather theatrical, so he slid his arm free of Letitia’s possessive grip. “If you will excuse me, darling. Obviously, there is some colossal household matter that requires my attention.”
Her cheeks flushed red with what appeared to be annoyance. She was growing tired of waiting for the necklace, no doubt.
“Of course,” she said, with a mask of affability.
His mother moved forward to distract the two ladies. “Allow me to escort you both to your rooms, where I am certain you will enjoy the spectacular views of the lake.” She nodded at a footman to inform the housekeeper.
Wondering what was so important that it could not wait, Vincent broke from the ladies and followed the brother he so deeply despised into the library.
“I beg your pardon?” Vincent said as Devon handed him a glass of brandy. “Did I hear you correctly?”
“Yes.”
“You are telling me that a baby was brought here. To the house. This morning.”
“Yes.”
“And the child is alleged to be mine?” His body went utterly still as he comprehended this most shocking news, which in no way could be true. “This is beyond even you, Devon. You cannot be serious. Is this a joke?”
“Am I laughing?” his brother replied. “Do I appear amused, even in the slightest?”
No, he most certainly did not.
The possible legitimacy of his brother’s pronouncement and all its implications struck Vincent hard, but any immediate anxiety was smothered instantly by denial, for he had always been exceedingly careful. It absolutely could not be true.
He glanced down at the brandy in the glass, stared at it for a moment, swirled it around, then without taking a drink set it on a table. He crossed to the window and looked out over the vast estate to the horizon, blurred by mist and clouds. Everything inside him was churning with shock and unease and a tumultuous mix of emotions he could not even begin to fathom. All the while his intellect was measuring the predicament with heightened precision and clarity.
He thought of all the women he had bedded over the past year. He tried to picture their faces, but most were blurred images, flashes of memory. A laugh here, a kiss there—all insignificant, forgettable encounters. Only one stood out in his mind, like a lone portrait in a fine gallery. Of that night he remembered everything.
But it could not be her.
“How do you know this woman is telling the truth?” he asked, not yet ready to believe it, for there were many reasons a woman would stoop to such tricks. Wealthy and powerful, the men of Pembroke were each in their own right a tempting prize. Setting a trap such as this would be all too easy where Vincent was concerned, for the whole of England knew of his reputation, and certainly the women he slept with were not known for their morals and principles.
Except perhaps for that one particular woman, on that one particular night. She had been different from the rest. But it was not her.
“That is the problem,” Devon said. “We have no way of knowing.”
Vincent walked to the sofa and sat down, then planted his elbows on his knees, bowed his head and squeezed his hair in his hands. “What rotten timing.”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Devon said. “You’re a man who enjoys his pleasures with women of loose morals. You are notorious for it.”
Vincent lifted his head. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Devon, of all people. And I will have you know that I always take precautions.”
“Not very good ones, evidently. It doesn’t take much, you know. Just one moment of weakness or forgetfulness.”
Vincent glared at his brother with unadorned loathing. “I know how it works. And so do you, by God.”
The reminder was enough to silence his brother, for they both knew that Devon had experienced his own moment of weakness three years ago. That precise lack of control over his passions had cut and mutilated their friendship forever, because they’d both loved the same woman—MaryAnn, who was off-limits to Devon because she was engaged to Vincent, and Vincent had loved her with all his young and foolish heart.
But Vincent did not need to think about that. MaryAnn was dead and buried.
Devon picked up Vincent’s brandy, handed it back to him, and sat down in the opposite chair. “You’re going to have to speak with this woman and find out if the child is yours.”
“Speak with her.” Vincent frowned. “She is here?”
“Yes. She is in the green guest chamber in the south wing.”
Vincent stared down at his brandy, then downed it in a single gulp. “What is her name?” he asked, grimacing as the alcohol burned a scorching path down his throat.
“She is guarding her identity quite doggedly I’m afraid,” Devon replied. “In fact, she doesn’t even want to be here. It wasn’t her intention to see you. She only meant to ensure the infant was cared for.”
Vincent felt a sudden pressure inside his head. “She hasn’t asked for money?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He frowned. “What happened, exactly, when she arrived? And who knows about this?”
“She came at dawn on foot and knocked on the servants’ door. She explained herself to Mrs. Callahan, then asked her to deliver a letter to Mother. The letter states the child is yours, but th
at the young woman can no longer care for her because—”
“The child is a girl?”
“Yes.”
Vincent tipped his head onto the back of the sofa. “Go on.”
Devon continued. “Unfortunately, the woman in question was long gone by the time Mother read the note. Mother went immediately to fetch the child, who was with the housekeeper, and brought both the infant and the note to me. I woke Blake, and we went out on horseback searching. The woman wasn’t difficult to find, as she was not well and hadn’t gotten very far.”
Vincent looked up. “Not well, you say?”
Devon answered the question with a grave nod.
For a long moment, Vincent sat and tried to make sense of his emotions, which were beginning to assert themselves with astounding force. He wanted to leap out of his chair, dash out of this room and meet the woman for himself, to discover her identity and see the baby. He did not act so hastily, however, for he knew he must keep his head. He could not permit himself to ignore the possibility that this was in fact a trap. That it was another man’s child, not his.
“Father is not yet aware what has occurred?” Vincent asked.
“We did not believe he could cope with the news just now.”
Vincent rubbed a hand over his thigh and contemplated the situation. “I agree with you on that point at least. It is difficult to predict how Father would react. We should keep this from him, at least until I have a chance to speak with the woman, whoever she is.” He stood. “I will go now and deal with her.”
“I don’t see how you have any choice, Vincent. It appears your recklessness has finally caught up with you.”
Vincent glared heatedly at his brother. “Spare me the self-righteous babble, Devon. You’re no saint yourself, and you know it.”
He turned and left the library.
Mounting the stairs with one steady, sure-footed step at a time, Vincent resolved to keep a vigilant head when he met this woman, for she could easily be a fortune hunter, and if she was, he would have to draw her out.
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 27
