Heartless (7 page)

William looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Henrietta is well,” he said abruptly, answering an earlier question.

Luke sat down and crossed one leg over the other. It had seemed incredible to him even as a boy that William and Henrietta could be brother and sister. Henrietta was exquisitely small and slender. He wondered if she was still as slender.

“She was never happy,” William said. “She lost the child, as you doubtless heard. They never appeared close and he changed—became more morose.” He paused to cough. “You do not want to hear this, do you?”

Luke's hand was opening and closing on the arm of his chair. “'Tis old news, Will,” he said. “Very old news.”

His friend was mopping at his forehead with a large handkerchief. “She has been restless since we heard you were back in England,” he said. “She thinks perhaps it is she who is keeping you from coming home.”

“Ah,” Luke said quietly. “No, Will. I have as great an aversion to the country as you do to the city. I belong in Paris, or at the very least in London. No, she is wrong.”

They sat in silence while a footman carried in a tray and poured them each a drink—wine for William, water for Luke.

“I do not know what she has written in the letter,” William said, nodding his head in the direction of the pocket into which Luke had put it. “Though it looked to be long enough. Pox upon it, but women can ramble on when they have a pen in their hands, Luke. I point the quill at the air when I try to write a letter while my mind draws a total blank, and I end up squeezing out two stiff sentences in an hour if I am lucky.”

“I shall read the letter later,” Luke said.

“But she would insist on my bringing it in person,” William said, “and delivering it into your own hand, Luke. She would have me tell you in words, too, that Bowden is yours, that you belong there, that she is pleased you do, and that it would hurt her to feel she is keeping you from what is rightfully yours.”

“She is not,” Luke said. “You may tell her that, Will.”

“It hurts her to know that you are in England but have made no move to go to Bowden,” William said. “She might have come here with me, Luke, but she would not force you to meet her again. She seems to feel that perhaps you blame her . . . Ecod, but this sort of thing is not to my liking. As I live, this will be the last time I carry messages for anyone.”

“If you will give me time to change,” Luke said, “we may proceed to White's together, Will. Are you a member? I have been newly accepted there.”

“Aye.” His friend was visibly relieved at the changing of topic. “There is frequently good conversation to be had there.”

“Land and crops and cattle and such?” Luke asked. “One shudders at the very prospect. Give me half an hour, Will. I will rush for your sake.”

“Half an hour?” William asked, frowning. “What the deuce is to do, beyond throwing on a coat and taking up a hat?”

“We painted maypoles take a little longer about our toilettes,” Luke said as he left the room.

He did not need all of half an hour. But he did need to read Henrietta's letter. Ten years of silence and now he held a part of her in his hands again. The temptation was to tear it up, to keep the distance of ten years between them. But he knew he must read it, that he could not even wait until later in the day.

She had made a mistake, she had written, coming straight to the point. Her handwriting looked startlingly familiar. Even after what had happened, she should have married him, not George. She had been promised to him, after all, and she had loved him. And he had still wanted her to marry him. She had made the wrong choice, believing at the time that it was the only possible one. She had been wrong. She had been very unhappy.

Well, Luke thought, pausing in his reading. Well. But he could not blame her for the decision that had changed the course of several people's lives, including his own. She had been carrying George's child, however unwillingly, and she had married George. She had been little more than a child herself, only seventeen years old. But what she wrote was all pointless now. She was George's widow and was now free again to pursue happiness and to marry whomever she chose—except him. A woman could not marry her dead husband's brother.

But she wanted him to come home. He was needed there, she wrote. The affairs of the estate had not been running smoothly since George's death and neither she nor his mother knew anything about the running of an estate. Laurence Colby appeared to be doing much as he pleased and was glorying in his power as steward of an absentee landlord. And as for the running of the house . . .

Henrietta, it seemed, wished to change almost all the furnishings and draperies of the house. What was there was old-fashioned and dreary. But her mother-in-law held with tradition and opposed all change. Yet she, Henrietta, was merely trying to carry out the renovations that George had approved before his death.

Luke must come home. It was where he belonged. He had always loved Bowden Abbey. Did he not remember? Did he not remember their growing up there together? Did he not wish to see it all again?

She sent him her duty and her love.

Luke folded the letter deliberately into its original folds. He wished Will was not waiting downstairs for him. He wished he had left the letter to read later.

He had killed deep feeling inside himself long years ago. He had killed his love for her, his misery over his loss of her, his agony over the life she must lead through no fault of her own. He had put it all from him. They had loved each other. They had been going to marry, young as they both were, and she was to go with him when he took up his first church living. And then George had come home from the two years of his Grand Tour and had seduced and impregnated Henrietta. She had wailed hysterically in Luke's arms while telling him. George, when confronted, had been tight-lipped about the whole thing, neither denying nor confirming the story Henrietta had told Luke—though he had made haste to offer for her. She had chosen to marry her seducer rather than the man she loved, though Luke would still have married her.

And so there had been the duel, fought with pistols, and George ostentatiously deloped, shooting into the air, then watching unflinching as Luke, who had never before shot a pistol, aimed with shaking hand. He had aimed to miss by six feet—and ended up hitting his brother in the shoulder and almost killing him. They had all thought that he had shot to kill. In those days he had been an even worse marksman than they had given him credit for. They had accused him—and convicted him—of trying to kill for the heirship to the title and the fortune and for Henrietta. They had not known the true story: they thought that Henrietta had preferred George to him and had been indiscreet with him, ignoring her promise to marry Luke. They had assumed that the challenge had been made out of jealous rage. In reality he had issued the challenge for the mere sake of making a point. For the sake of honor.

And because he had been devastated by a sense of betrayal. George, four years older than he, had always been his idol. And he had returned from his Grand Tour looking very grand and dashing. George had always been extremely handsome—as Ashley was now. Luke had spent time with him, drinking in the accounts of his brother's travels, reveling in the pleasure of his company again. And then George had stolen his woman in the cruelest possible manner.

No, it was not a memory to be revived. Luke was not surprised that he had suppressed it so ruthlessly. But Henrietta had been forced to live with it for ten years—or for eight, rather, until George's death. She had found no happiness with him—both William and her letter told him that.

But she was still the Duchess of Harndon. And she had plans for sweeping renovations at Bowden Abbey, plans of which his mother disapproved. He was being invited home so that he could take sides. So that he could take Henrietta's side. He hated the thought of becoming involved in such a dispute.

He did not care what they did with Bowden. They could burn the house down and lay waste the land for all he cared. And yet, unbidden, the memories came back of the home he had loved as a boy. He did not know quite what Henrietta had in mind, but he could not picture Bowden renovated. There was a fine air of antiquity about the old abbey even though architectural changes down the centuries had almost totally obscured the ecclesiastical origins of the house. He feared that if he must take sides, he would take his mother's.

And clearly Colby was not doing a good job and must be replaced. Yet how could he replace the steward unless he observed for himself what the man was doing or not doing? Would it be fair to discharge him on hearsay evidence or on the evidence of the books for which he was planning to send? Or even on a personal visit by his steward to London?

He was going to have to go down there himself, Luke thought with a dull certainty. Devil take it all, he was going to have to go.

If he went home he would be caught in the middle of a petty squabble, the duchess, his sister-in-law, on one side and the dowager duchess, his mother, on the other.

Unless . . .

He held the completion of the thought at bay while his valet helped him into his coat and he picked up his tricorne hat and his cane.

Unless he took home with him a third Duchess of Harndon. A wife.

His mind shifted to the evening before and the ball he had attended. She was fresh and charming and innocent despite the flirtation she had engaged in quite boldly. There was a sparkle about her and an unmistakable enjoyment of life—qualities to which he was unaccustomed in a woman. He had been unexpectedly dazzled by them. He had stopped at a florist's on his way home from his ride this morning and arranged to have a dozen red roses delivered to her. And he was to take her walking in St. James's Park this afternoon. He had thought about it throughout his ride and at breakfast and had looked forward to it more than he could remember looking forward to anything for a long time.

She was of suitably high rank. She was the daughter of an earl. He did not know if she had a fortune, but that point was immaterial to him. He had two vast fortunes, one that he had earned for himself and the one that had come with his title and properties two years before.

She was the bride Theo had picked out for him. Doubtless Theo had chosen her because she was his mistress's goddaughter, but even so his uncle would not have been swayed by that fact alone. And she had a body that he could contemplate with some pleasure having beneath his own on a bed.

If he had sons, preferably more than one, there would be greater stability in the family because the succession would be assured.

Luke sauntered downstairs only a little after his half hour was up and entered the morning room to find a visibly impatient Lord Severidge pacing the floor. Of course, Luke thought as they left the house together, William ramming his hat onto his wig while Luke more fashionably carried his beneath his right arm, he had no wish to marry, now or ever.

But sometimes one's personal wishes seemed to count for little.

“I
DID
enjoy the ball,” Lady Agnes Marlowe protested. “Oh yes, of course I did, Anna.” She gazed down at one of the two nosegays she had been sent this morning from two of last night's dancing partners and twirled it between her fingers.

“But . . . ?” Anna prompted, smiling gently.

“But nothing,” Agnes said. “It is lovely to be in town, Anna. 'Tis something I shall always remember with pleasure. I merely remarked to you that I cannot imagine how some people make a life of such frivolity.”

Anna sighed. “I want you to find a husband here, Agnes,” she said. “Someone of your own rank. Someone with whom you can be happy. There is no one of any interest at home. Charlotte was fortunate, but there is no one for you.”

“No, I know,” Agnes said. “But I am only eighteen. I am not past marriageable age yet.” She flushed and looked anxiously into her sister's face to see if she had hurt her. “When Aunt Marjorie was urging us to come, Anna, and you were so eager to accept her invitation, I agreed because I thought perhaps you would find someone here. I believe you enjoyed the ball. You looked wonderfully happy and ten times prettier than any other lady present. Did you see that French lady? With her great circles of rouge? She looked . . . strange.”

“The Marquise d'Étienne,” Anna said.

“And the Duke of Harndon?” Agnes said. “I thought he must be French, too, until Lord Quinn presented him to us as his nephew. Anna, you had to dance with him and take supper with him. I would have been terrified.”

“Terrified?” Anna looked at her strangely.

“I have never seen a gentleman dressed as he was,” Agnes said. “Actually he was rather splendid, was he not? But there was something about him, Anna. Something about his eyes, I believe. I think he must be different as a person from what his appearance indicated.”

Anna smiled. “He was very charming,” she said. “And very amusing. He is to call on Aunt Marjorie today and take me walking in St. James's Park afterward. Apparently it is the fashionable place to stroll.”

“Oh,” Agnes said. “A duke. And young and very handsome, Anna, despite the powder and rouge. I am glad for you. I am glad that important gentlemen are noticing how lovely you are.”

Anna laughed. “I do not believe he is on the verge of declaring undying love for me, Agnes,” she said. “'Tis just a walk we are taking—if he has not forgotten, that is.”

Agnes set down her own nosegay and touched one of the red roses that had been delivered for her sister. “They are from him?” she asked. “I was so surprised by my own nosegays that I did not even ask about your bouquet. It is from him?”

Anna nodded.

“Well, then,” Agnes said, “I do not believe he will forget to take you walking. I will be so happy for you if you find someone, Anna. You deserve happiness more than anyone else I know. We all thought at one time that Sir Lovatt Blaydon . . .”

That name.
“No!” Anna said hastily, getting to her feet and picking up her bouquet to take upstairs to her own room.

“I know he was old enough to be your father,” Agnes said. “I always thought that rather a pity. But he was very kind to us all, and he was very particular in his attentions to you.”

“He was merely being neighborly,” Anna said. She bent her head to smell one of the blossoms, feeling slightly dizzy. “And he had been acquainted with Mama's family.”

“It was always you he asked for first when he came calling,” Agnes said, smiling, “and he was always disappointed if you were from home. He used to take you for drives and walks and he used to dance only with you at the assemblies. We all thought he had a tendre for you, Anna.”

“No,” Anna said. “These roses need water. I must take them up and have a vase brought.”

“I am sorry,” Agnes said. “I have upset you. Did he offer and you refused, Anna? Is that why he left so soon after Papa's death, when we all thought he might have stayed so that you would have had someone to lean on?”

Anna repressed a shudder. “No,” she said. “There was nothing, Agnes. Nothing at all. As you said, he was an older man. He had no interest in me beyond a neighborly friendliness, or I in him.”

“Well, 'tis as well,” Agnes said. “He was too old for you. The Duke of Harndon is a much younger man. Perhaps he has a tendre for you.” She laughed as her sister effected a hasty retreat.

Anna hurried upstairs as if to outdistance demons at her heels. She lowered her face close to the roses again as she entered her dressing room, and breathed in their scent. A dozen red roses. Roses as red as the coat he had worn last night. And the card. She read it again and noted the boldness of his handwriting: “With the compliments of your obedient servant, Harndon.” Purely formal and conventional words. They made her heart race.

She could not shake off last night's mood. She could not bring herself back to sober good sense. She could not feel the regret she knew she should feel that she had agreed to walk with the duke this afternoon. She wondered how he would look today. Away from the glitter and splendor of the ball, would he look quite ordinary? Would he no longer resemble Prince Charming in her mind? She must hope so. She must hope that after this afternoon the magic would be gone.

Sir Lovatt Blaydon. Anna closed her eyes and bowed her head, the roses clutched against her long after they should have been put into water. Yes, everyone had liked him—everyone in her family and everyone in the neighborhood, except perhaps Emily, but then Emily very often did not react as other people did. He had deceived everyone with his elegant good looks and warm charm.

He had arrived in the neighborhood only days after Mama's death, having leased a house that was going to be empty indefinitely. He had known Mama's family and Mama, too, a long time ago. It was pure coincidence, he had said, that he had come to that particular place to take up his abode and had then discovered that he had once been acquainted with the recently deceased Lady Royce. His concern and sympathy had appeared very genuine. He had been so very kind and so very comforting, especially to her, Anna. She had nursed her mother for years and had scarcely left her bedside for weeks. She had been physically and emotionally drained after the death and funeral.

Sir Lovatt Blaydon had been someone on whom to lean. There had been no one else. Her father had already been a broken man, and Victor had returned to university after the funeral. Besides, Victor had been only nineteen years old.

She had leaned on Sir Lovatt. She had come to look forward to his frequent visits. She had even confided some of her worries to him—worries about her father, worries about the girls and their future. He had been kind and understanding.

Anna opened her eyes and stared blankly at her roses for a few moments. And then she crossed her dressing room with resolute steps and pulled the bell rope. They must have water. They were beautiful. And they were from him, her Prince Charming. She smiled at the thought.

Yes, she would concentrate on today. Today might be all she ever had. Then she smiled again at the rather self-pitying thought.

•   •   •

Luke
had wondered if perhaps he would be less dazzled by Lady Anna Marlowe in the light of day, without the trappings of a grand ball surrounding her. But she was as brightly lovely and as vivacious this afternoon as she had been last evening.

They strolled along the straight, treelined Mall in St. James's Park, acknowledging among the crowds also walking there those people they knew, occasionally stopping to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances, but mostly walking and talking exclusively to each other. One thing experience had taught him was that women liked to feel that they had the whole of a man's attention. He never allowed his attention to stray appreciatively to any other woman when he was with one in particular.

But it was not difficult to focus all his attention on Lady Anna. She sparkled as she had done the night before and her green eyes danced with merriment as she described to him the agony and the absurdity of standing for hours while a mantua maker fitted her out for a whole new wardrobe.

“It seemed that the clothes I brought from the country were fit for nothing but the dustbin,” she said, “though I made very sure that they were not put there. Even the servants, Madame Delacroix hinted, would be insulted to be presented with garments so far out of fashion.” She laughed merrily.

A woman who could laugh at herself, he thought, was one not overly given to conceit.

“I would wager, madam,” he said, “that you looked more lovely in your country clothes than many a lady decked out in the latest Parisian mode.”

She laughed again.

She looked very handsome indeed in her new clothes. His eyes appreciated the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore tilted slightly forward over her frilled lace cap and tied with blue ribbons at the nape of her neck. And he admired the graceful flow of the loosely pleated back of her sack dress, the bodice fitted tightly over her neat figure in front, English fashion, and opened to reveal an embroidered stomacher.

They talked on easily about trivialities while his mind returned unwillingly to the thoughts he had had during the morning. What would it be like, he wondered, to live permanently with this woman? Was she always so brightly cheerful? So amusing and even witty? Would he tire of the brightness, the frivolity? Were there any depths to her character that were not apparent on first acquaintance?

And what would it be like to have her as a bedfellow for the rest of his life? She was lovely. He felt a definite stirring of desire as he unclothed her with knowing and expert eyes and mentally placed her back against the mattress of his bed. Yes, he would certainly enjoy making love to her. But for a lifetime? He had had some of the most lovely and most sexually accomplished beauties of France to bed and yet had tired of every single one of them after a few months. Although he had spent two satisfactory afternoons in Angélique's bed since their arrival in England, in truth he was tired of her. He had neither expected nor wanted her to follow him to London.

Would he not tire of an innocent far sooner? She would know nothing. She would have no idea how to give him pleasure beyond submitting to having her body penetrated. He would have to teach her everything. And teach her how to receive pleasure without guilt or embarrassment.

She smiled brightly across at him in response to a story he had told about his rather stormy crossing of the English Channel and its effect on his fellow passengers. Oh yes, but there was some appeal in the thought of giving instruction to such lovely and sprightly innocence.

But it was a lifetime he was thinking of.

He was the Duke of Harndon, he reminded himself. That fact and the fact of his vast fortune must be common knowledge. And of course so would be the fact that he was thirty years old and unmarried. He was, he supposed, one of the biggest matrimonial prizes in London this spring, if not the biggest. He had never had to consider those facts before in the two years since he had succeeded his brother. He had never before considered matrimony.

And was he seriously considering it now? Part of his mind rushed into an instant denial. But another part of his mind . . .

It was altogether possible that Lady Anna Marlowe, who was somewhat past the age of twenty if his guess was not quite wide of the mark, had set out to net him. She had her godmother and his uncle on her side. And she had gone out of her way last evening to attract his notice and to hold it. She had been quite openly flirtatious. Perhaps the real Lady Anna was quite different from the one who sparkled and laughed up at him now. Perhaps she was a shrew. Perhaps after they were married she would show herself in her true colors.

After they were married?

He needed to be exceedingly careful.

He took his leave of her an hour later in the hall of Lady Sterne's house, bowing over her hand and kissing it as he did so. “I have enjoyed this afternoon's walk more than anything else since my return to England except for one hour of last evening's ball,” he said. “For which I have you to thank, madam.”

“And I you, your grace,” she said. “I had no idea that life in town could be so—so very enjoyable.”

He spoke from impulse. “I plan to escort my mother and my sister to the theater tomorrow evening,” he said, “and to invite a few other guests to join us in my box there. Would you do me the honor of being one of their number, madam? And your sister and godmother, too?” he added hastily as an afterthought.

He was given again the impression that Lady Anna Marlowe was no coquette. She leaned slightly toward him, her lips parting, her eyes coming alight, and answered almost before he had finished speaking.

“Oh yes, your grace,” she said. “That would be lovely. I have never been to the theater and have always longed to watch a play being performed. It is a play?”