Defiant Angel (15 page)

Alan sat behind the desk his father once occupied. With quill in hand, hovering over the legal document, he paused in thought, remembering his father's words. "I tell you, son, if what I have done is not to your liking and you want the lady, she is still yours legally. The choice is yours. Her dowry will cover the debts, and the manor will produce enough monies to pay the mortgage and support you sufficiently. I am not long for this world. You are my only heir, and what I did was to see you safe, no more than that. But if you would choose to have done differently, then with my blessing, do so. The duke knows the choice be yours and awaits only to receive the paper. I ask only this. Think on it, and to your own self be true."

His hand holding the quill shook slightly and he laid it down on the desk, rereading the legally drawn document that, if he signed, would give him financial security during all of his life and that of his heirs. If he did not, it gave him nothing momentarily, only offered him the rights to a woman. He stood, moving to the hearth.

If only I had not been the fool trying to beat odds. If only what I know now, I knew when I foolishly placed the mortgage to Thurston Manor down to cover a bet I was so sure would come in! Damn! Damn all the ifs! He reasoned the predicament he found himself in was no other's fault but his own, and no matter how beautiful she was, or alluring, he owed it to his father, to his station in life, to his principles, to see the thing through.

Walking back to the desk, he thought, as he picked up the discarded quill, that he would ride with her one last time. Dipping the quill in the inkpot, he scrawled his name across the dotted line, ensuring his future and shattering another's dream.

"I
f you'll excuse me, Father," Tiffany asked, rising
from
her seat at the breakfast table.

William looked up at his daughter, a question written on his face. Tiffany explained easily. "Earl Thurston is coming. We are riding today, so I must go upstairs to change." She turned to leave the room, lost in thought over which riding habit to wear. Her blue or red? She failed to hear his first summons. The second one was loud enough to rattle the teacups, and his tone reminiscent of one used when she was a child.

"Tiffany!"

She turned to find her father standing, clutching his napkin in hand. His face red and in a clipped voice that forbade any argument, he said, "You will not!"

Angry at the tone used on her, as if she were a child, she retorted, "And why not? I have been closeted in this house for days. Surely you can't deny me a riding date?"

The only word William heard was "date." He meant to keep her safe for the duke and not jeopardize the contract in any way.

Whether she knew of the betrothal or not was of no consequence. He was going to see to it she behaved as a promised woman should. An engaged woman did not go galavanting across the countryside with another man. "You will do as I say, and when Earl Thurston arrives, you will inform him you are indisposed."

"I most certainly will not." She stood her ground. For three years she had been able to make her own choices, at least regarding riding dates, and she was not about to let her father tell her when, where, and with whom she could ride.

William strode angrily across the room, grabbing her arm sharply.

"Don't ever refute my orders. You will now go to your room, and Godfrey will inform the earl."

"The hell I will!" She yanked her arm from him, then stumbled backward with the force of the blow that struck her face. She brought her hand quickly to her injured cheek, tears spilling down the stinging redness.

William stood there appalled at both her disobedience and his action. As if to atone for his action, he blurted out at the top of his lungs, "I'll not have you jeopardize your betrothal to the duke of Wentworth to appease your desire to ride about the countryside with another man. Engaged persons do not conduct themselves in that manner, especially when they are betrothed to a duke."

The blow had stunned her, but his words numbed her so she did not feel him lift her abruptly and drag her to the door, handing her over to Clarissa with instructions to lock her in. All her mind cried out was, NO! Alan was her betrothed.

Tears running down her face, shock settling in, she allowed herself to be led to her room. She failed to see the redheaded man who stood at the front door.

Tiffany paced the length of her room for the umpteenth time, feeling the walls close in each minute she remained locked within their confines. She looked futilely at the oaken door, giving in to the impulse to run over again and trying the knob. She sank to the floor sobbing, tears of frustration coursing down her cheeks. With renewed spirit, she stood banging the door with her fists. Hands sore, she leaned against the door, an anguished sob escaping her lips as she slid to the floor and gave in to the deep, wrenching sorrow she felt. Cradling her head in her arms, she cried.

She picked herself up and walked slowly to the window, leaning her hot head against the cool pane. Lifting her eyes to the sky, she noted the heavy cloud layer moving in. A large raindrop splattered against the glass pane, trailing down.

Her tears spent, her rage under control, she mentally went over the scene with her father. Her cheek still smarted from the blow, but not half as much as the verbal blow he hit her with--betrothal! To a duke! The duke of Wentworth! God, the more she went over what she knew, the more she wished she hadn't. It was too astounding to believe. How could her father have done that? Who was this duke who had shown up and destroyed her life, and dreams? Damn his royal soul to hell!

TUrning from the window, tears beginning anew, she wearily walked to the bed, flinging herself down onto its softness, burying her head in the pillows. She drifted off to a weary sleep, hoping she'd awake to find it was only a nightmare.

Waking to the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning, Tiffany sat straight up. The room was lit in the unnatural light of the flash. Her head hurt, and she squeezed her eyes closed hoping to ward off the pain. Slowly she rose to light a candle. The cast of the light revealed the whiteness of a folded piece of paper near her door. She ran to the door, finding the handle unmovable, as she expected. Retrieving the note, she read it.

Dear Tiffany,

Sorry to hear you are indisposed. Hope you will be

fit soon.

I intended to tell you this morning--I will be heading

this eve to London, where I am to leave on the
Falcon
for France to attend to some business matters which require my attention.

I shall be returning in two months, perhaps we can ride then.

Alan

Tiffany's heart plummeted. She lifted her tear-filled eyes to the darkening shadows of early evening. The rain fell, thunder boomed, and the lightning flashed. In that moment she saw her hopes and dreams crumble. She saw there was no one to help her. Alan had no idea what had transpired, and Aunt Winnie was visiting the Devonshires. Determined to change what the hands of fate somehow had altered, she sprang into action with conviction, but no real plan.

Opening the window, she climbed out onto the balcony and down the rose trellis. So singular was her purpose that she was unmindful of the rain, which had begun to fall harder. She did not care that the wind whipped sheets of rain against her or that when she jumped from the trellis, she fell to the wet ground. No! She was going to London to the docks to find Alan and leave with him.

She led Touche from the stable quietly so as not to awaken Nathan. She leaped on the mare's bare back and kicked her flanks, galloping from Courtland Manor and down the road to London.

Tiffany scraped back wet strands of hair which blocked her vision. Her fingers were numb and cold and her head hurt. The rain was relentless, drenching her clothes so they clung to her like a second skin, no longer offering her protection from the wind. She never remembered feeling so cold, and thought she would never feel warm again.

Squeezing the sides of Touche, pushing the mare into a canter, she withdrew into herself, escaping the effects of the elements. She would soon be wrapped in Alan's strong warm arms. She figured she had covered the distance to

London more than halfway in the last three hours. She had chosen the main road, although she was aware it was dangerous. Robberies and thievery were common, but the inclement weather, while a curse, proved to be a blessing, for any villain or robber would be sheltered by a warm fire this night.

Her head began to throb, and by sheer will she ignored it, concentrating on thoughts of joining Alan. He will protect me. He will give me refuge.

As she put miles between herself and Courtland Manor, she began to feel more secure knowing no one would miss her until Clarissa and Germane came to fetch her in the morning. Dear Clarissa, she thought, she'll be so upset. And Aunt Winnie. Oh, if Aunt Winnie hadn't decided to visit Carolyn, none of this would have happened.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Her father's actions were cruel blows to both body and spirit. She unconsciously touched her tender, swollen cheek where his hand had so cruelly struck her. She realized with anguish that she had always been only a piece of chattel, to be used or sold to gain position and wealth. Her tears fell, mingling with the rain. "Oh, God," she cried out into the night. All those years striving to please him, hoping to thus earn his love. How different the reasons, hers for his love and acceptance, his to be rid of her in a marriage that suited him. It was a bitter pill for her to swallow, but she knew now no matter who or what she was or did, nothing would change William Courtland. He had taken everything from her--her home, her horse, her love for him, and now any chance for happiness. She gulped hard; hot tears slipped down her windblown cheeks. She bitterly thought her father deserved what he had given her--nothing. She bit back the tears, for he deserved no more of her tears, and she turned her heart from him evermore.

Touche stumbled, nearly unseating Tiffany and bringing her from her thoughts. She saw the marker for London, pulling Touche to a halt. The wind picked up, blowing rain unmercifully against her soaked body. She looked at the sky and was unable to discern whether dawn was approaching or night still covered the land.

Nudging Touche forward into a gallop, she clung to the mare, ignoring the pounding in her head, and rode to meet her destiny.

"What is the meaning of this, Your Grace? Have you no common courtesy, barging into my home, demanding to see my daughter at this unholy hour?" Pulling his robe about his form, William continued, "I demand an explanation."

With long, purposeful strides, Clinton closed the distance between himself and William in seconds. "I demand to see Tiffany now, William."

William did not miss the narrowing of the gray eyes or the taut set of Clinton's jaw, nor his tone, which, though quiet, held an ominous quality to it.

"Are you mad, Your Grace? At this ungodly hour?"

A cold smile appeared on Clinton's face as he replied, "Mad? You have not yet seen how mad I can get. Now, you either summon her or I'll get her myself. Do I make myself clear?"

William sputtered in outrage but finally summoned Clarissa, asking her to bring Tiffany down.

While waiting for Clarissa, William ordered brandy. Godfrey poured, handing glasses to the men.

William, nervously sipping his, wondered if the duke had been informed of Tiffany's abortive attempts to meet the earl. Clinton downed the drink in one gulp, slamming the glass on a nearby table. He strode impatiently to the mantel, leaning his arm against it, gazing into the fire. The pervading silence was broken by a cry of dismay. Looking up, Clinton watched Clarissa enter the room, wringing her hands, instantly knowing something was amiss.

"My ... my lamb, she's gone!" Tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked helplessly toward Clinton.

In turn, he leveled his gaze at William, who looked astonished by the news. In a velvet tone, edged with sarcasm, he said, "Did I hear you say you thought my arrival late? Why, William, it appears I'm just in time."

Belying the rage and anger he felt, Clinton calmly withdrew and lit a cheroot. With the slim cigar clamped between his teeth, he inhaled deeply, slowly exhaling.

William felt Clinton's stare and met cold, steely eyes with a dangerous glimmer in their depth.

"Well, William, it appears you owe me an explanation . . . now."

William's explanation was quickly ignored when a lightly accented voice inteijected, "Your Grace." Heads turned toward the petite maid Germane. "I found this in Mademoiselle's room." She handed the note to Clinton, who quickly scanned its brief message.

"Come along, Keegan, we've a long ride ahead."

Keegan shoved his hat on his head and walked behind Clinton toward the front door. Clinton opened the door but turned before leaving. His gray eyes narrowed and hardened when he spoke; his voice held a threat. "Be warned, William, there is still much you have to answer for." The slamming of the door ominously sounded like the last stone sealing a tomb.