Julie Anne Long (30 page)

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“I am staying here. I certainly cannot go home to my family,
disgraced
as I am. And I am needed here; I am learning to be a healer. No one here pretends to be something other than what they are, you see.”

As intended, she had found her mark.

“Yes, I do see,” he said softly. “What of Edelston?”

“Edelston will be gone from here in a few days.” An admission, of sorts, and yet when Connor turned soft eyes on her, looking for softness in her, he found none.

“Come away with me, Rebecca. You will not regret it,” he tried again.

“No.”

“Rebecca—”

“How, Connor, can I ever trust you again? It’s all very simple. I can only stay here.”

“I will not force you to come.” A warning.

“I know.”

“I can stay with the Gypsies, too.”

“I cannot stop you. I strongly prefer, however, that you do not.”

Connor was silent for a moment.

“What of your parents, Rebecca?”

“What of them? I will be gone with the Gypsies by the time they arrive, if your plan is to tell them.”

Neither of them spoke for another long moment.

“I love you,” Connor said quietly.

She turned her head away from him.

“Shall I leave then, Rebecca?”

She nodded.

“And you’re very certain it’s not just your pride saying that, Rebecca?” Bitterness had crept into his voice.

“You should go,” she said softly. “Just go.”

She would not look at him.

Connor reached for the reins of his horse.

“What . . . what will you do now?” Rebecca asked hesitantly.

“It matters not,” he said.

And as she did not reply, Connor nodded curtly to her, and led the horse away.

Rebecca watched, dully, as Connor approached Raphael, to whom he spoke a few words. And then she could not watch any further. She heard, though, after a space of time, the hoofbeats of a horse cantering away from the camp.

When Rebecca turned, finally, she found Martha watching her, her expression absolutely captivated and ablaze with jealousy, and Leonora, who saw everything, the truth of it, in Rebecca’s face.

“You are welcome to stay with us, little
Gadji
, of course,” Leonora told her gently. “I have need of you. But I will say one thing: sometimes the wisest, bravest thing we can do is follow our hearts and forgive the thing that seems unforgivable.”

Rebecca said nothing. Her eyes were on the place on the horizon where a horse and rider had vanished a few moments before.

Chapter Twenty-three

N
o,” Lady Tremaine said. “No, no, no, no
no
.”

The note of hysteria in her voice escalated in pitch with each “no.” The last “no” was, in fact, delivered with tremolo. A nice touch, Sir Henry had to concede.

Still, he was unmoved. Sir Henry merely eyed his wife with resolve. He had decided that for once he would not be cajoled from his position, not by tears, nor hysteria, or by cold silence. For once, he would simply wait out whatever strategy his wife decided to employ in an attempt to sway him, the way one waited out a spell of inclement weather. It would not be comfortable in his home for some time, he speculated, and yet he rather relished the idea of the challenge it would present. Perhaps his mild rebellion was long overdue.

He could hear the muffled sobs of Lorelei, who was upstairs behind closed doors. Her mother had dealt with her rather harshly for conducting a courtship in secret. A courtship with someone other than a viscount, that is.

“She can be a
countess
, Henry. She can marry an
earl
. She is the greatest success the
ton
has seen in years. What in heaven’s name are you
thinking
? She should not be given your blessing. She should be given a
beating
.”

“All right, Elizabeth,” Sir Henry said, gently but firmly. “That is quite enough. You will sit down and be quiet while I speak.”

Lady Tremaine gaped at her husband for a moment, surprised. They were about at the point in the conversation where he normally capitulated.

“Henry —”

“Sit
down
, Elizabeth.”

She sat, albeit reluctantly.

“I think,” he began slowly, “we have lost sight of something important. I think we agree that it has been our goal as parents to see our children well married. And if we manage to secure a fine match for our child and feel certain they will also be happy in that match, then our joy should be twofold, is that not true?”

“I do not see how this —”

“If Lorelei had decided that her happiness lay with a . . . a . . .
wastrel
of low breeding, Elizabeth, I would certainly interfere. But Lorelei has managed to fall in love with a very wealthy gentleman whom I esteem greatly, a fine man who will treat her well and will be a credit to our family, and who has asked for her hand in a very dignified and proper manner. And because I am certain that she will be happier with him than with any viscount or earl, I have given my consent. And I shall brook no argument from you.”

Speechless, Lady Tremaine merely stared at him, her mouth parted slightly.

“Elizabeth, we are missing one daughter, or have you forgotten? We made a mistake, I think, in insisting upon her marriage to Lord Edelston. Perhaps Rebecca would have been happier living out her days as a spinster with a Reputation, poking about in my library or working as a schoolteacher. I tell you, I prefer that be the case to not knowing where she is now. I think that we have failed Rebecca. And mark my words, I will not force another marriage upon any of my daughters, especially since Lorelei has managed to choose so well for herself.”

Astounded by her husband’s vehemence, tears began to gather in Lady Tremaine’s eyes.

“Elizabeth,” Sir Henry said, his tone softening, “you have done a fine job raising two—and I do mean
two
—wonderful daughters. You should be proud of Lorelei. She is an unusually beautiful girl, and the fact of this has, quite understandably, excited your ambitions, as it would any devoted mama. But she has proved to be a sensible girl, as well, in her choice of husband, and in this we are very fortunate.”

“Oh, Henry,” said a decidedly more subdued Lady Tremaine, in a voice gone quavery with tears. “You are quite right, you know. About Lorelei. And about Rebecca. I see that.”

Sir Henry was more relieved than he could say.

“I am so glad, Elizabeth.”

“But is it not still remarkable that our Lorelei could have married a viscount?”

“I suppose so. But she will marry a colonel instead, and we shall all be happier for it,” he said gently. “Now, I think she will enjoy hearing of your change of heart from you. Go to her.”

Lady Tremaine nodded briefly and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, then turned to bustle up the stairs to Lorelei. There was already more cheer in her gait, Sir Henry noted wryly. There was nothing like the prospect of spending money on a wedding to cheer a mama.

“Elizabeth?” he asked suddenly.

Lady Tremaine paused on the stairs. “Yes, Henry?”

“Perhaps we can ask the Duke of Dunbrooke to assist us in finding Rebecca. He seemed fond enough of her when he was my groom.”

“A
fine
idea, Henry.” She continued merrily up the stairs.

The horse Raphael had loaned him for the trip back to London was a handsome beast, but its gait was so jarring Connor feared it would make him ill. He slowed the animal to a walk, and uncorked a flask of water, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring along whiskey. Whiskey would numb him. Keighley Park, his title, Cordelia, Edelston, Rebecca—they could all go hang. He would forget them all. From London he would sail to America. And from there he cared not. He would finally be able to lose himself in the vast wildness of that country; he would let something greater than himself take the pain out of him.

You will turn into a pillar of salt
. But the temptation was too great, and so he did it: he glanced behind him.

Something was moving in the road. Whatever it was, it was still too far away to tell if it was another horse and rider, or perhaps a dog, or a person on foot. He turned his horse to watch.

When he knew for sure, he didn’t move to meet her. He wanted, needed, her to come all the way to him. He slid from his saddle and waited.

And then she vaulted from her horse and ran, crashing into him, heaving from the run. He closed his arms around her. He lifted her up, kissed her hair, her face, her neck, breathing her in, and she clung to him, too weary to stand upright.

“I love you, Connor.”

“I love you, too.”

“I am so sorry. I wanted to hurt you.”

“Well, and you succeeded. Hush now, wee Becca. I am sorry, too.”

“I meant none of it.”

“Yes you did, but it’s quite all right. I deserved it. I was wrong.”

“You love me?”

“I love you. I am sorry, wee Becca. For everything. You are my life, you know.”

“Shhh . . .” she said, placing a finger against his lips, and then she placed her lips there. He took her face in his hands with a soft groan and kissed her deeply, with gratitude.

“Where shall we go?” she asked, when he lifted his head.

“Anywhere you want. America. India. Brighton.”

“All three, then.”

He placed gentle kisses on her eyebrows, first one, then the other, and she closed her eyes and smiled. And then they stood in the road and held each other quietly, for a long time, their hands moving softly over each other’s bodies, as if to reassure each other they were really there and together.

“We must go back for Edelston, first, I fear,” Rebecca said finally.

“
Why?
” Connor pulled away from her.

“He was beaten and robbed on the road, and that is why he is in the camp. He is recovering.”

“How did he get himself beaten and robbed?”

“By being Edelston, no doubt.”

Connor sighed.

Chapter Twenty-four

D
ear Aunt,
the note read.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and humor. Forgive me for intruding yet again upon your peaceful life in Scotland—

Peaceful? Lady Montgomery thought, amused, as she listened to Miss Honeywell torture another one of the classics with her trumpet.

—but I write to reverse my plans, or rather to extend an invitation to you. I will not be in Scotland as planned initially, but my wife and I would be delighted if you would honor us with a visit to London a week hence. As you can see, much has happened in the weeks since I last wrote to you. All is well, and I assure you, a happier man than I cannot be found in all of England. We shall eagerly await your response, and will tell you our story when we see you.

Yours affectionately,
Roarke Edward Connor Riordan Blackburn
Duke of Dunbrooke

Lady Montgomery stared for a while longer at the bold signature at the bottom of the letter and then touched it gently, once. So young Roarke would claim his birthright; it had not conquered him, after all. She hoped he was indeed happy. There was only one way to find out.

“Miss Honeywell?”

Miss Honeywell pulled her lips away from the trumpet.

“Yes, Lady Montgomery?”

“I apologize, but I find that I am needed in London, and I must make arrangements immediately. Will you excuse me? We can resume our lessons upon my return.”

Miss Honeywell, wide-eyed at the thought of anyone she knew traveling to glamorous London, nodded silently, and obediently took herself and her trumpet from the room.

Who could be knocking at this hour? The day had just lost the blush of sunrise. Janet Gilhooly smoothed her hair, and bustled to the door.

“Package for ye, mum,” a young man said.

A package? From her sister in Ireland, perhaps? It didn’t seem likely. None of her relatives had managed to marry anybody who had enough money to send surprise packages.

“Who sent ye, lad? I’ve no coin t’ give ye fer yer trouble.”

“Dinna fret, mum, I’ve been paid. An’ I’m to give ye a message.” The boy stepped back, cleared his throat, and looked skyward, as though the words he was to speak were written there.

“
Ye’ll know who sent this when ye see wot’s inside.
”

Janet glowered at him. “Ye best tell me who really sent ye, lad. I’ll box yer ears if ye be pullin’ a prank.”

“Open the box, mum.”

With another dark frown in his direction, Janet took the box inside and laid it on the table, then pulled the string from it and lifted the lid. There was a layer of paper; she pawed through it until she saw the fine dark brown coat. Beneath it was a waistcoat striped in gold.

She lifted them out, one by one, with shaking hands. Connor Riordan’s things. Why had Connor sent her these things? The coat was torn at the sleeve. Both garments had seen rough use, clearly. Where was Connor?

She heard a soft thud as she lifted the waistcoat out of the box; something had fallen from it. She peered into the box to investigate. And saw a sheaf of pound notes.

Many many pound notes.

Five hundred pounds, all in all.

More money than she had seen in a lifetime. More than enough money to buy a lifetime of comfort.

The boy was watching her face, interested. The woman had gone white, then pink, then white again, and her mouth had dropped open, and her eyes were blank with astonishment. She looked a bit like a looby, he thought.

He decided it was time to deliver the rest of his message.

“The Duke o’ Dunbrooke, who ye know as Connor Riordan, sends these things t’ remember ’im by, wi’ deepest thanks, and he and his wife Rebecca will pay ye a visit by and by.”

Janet merely gaped at him, holding her new fortune in her hands. A full minute went by. And finally she found her voice.

“I
knew
the man wasn’t Irish!”

The boy shrugged, gave a little bow, and left.

London was shrinking.

Or rather, London was getting farther away.

A cooperative wind snapped cheerfully in the sails of
The Standard
, pushing it inexorably away from the
ton
, away from England itself, away from . . . everything.

He clutched the rail and watched London disappear as the deck pitched subtly beneath his feet, and glanced down so he could watch the ship seam through the cloudy blue-green water. It left great curls of foam in its wake, a trail of sorts that closed again as they moved on from it. He liked the idea of a trail that closed behind them, leaving no trace of their passage. Fine spray was tossed up into his face. Much to his surprise, he found the sensation agreeable.

He transferred his gaze to his palm, where a beautiful woman gazed back at him from a gleaming gold locket. He ran his thumb over her face just once, thoughtfully, and then snapped the locket shut. He closed his hand over it tightly, for a moment, as though committing the feel of it to memory. And then he pulled his arm back and hurled the locket out to sea.

It arced through the air, winked brilliantly for a fleeting moment in the sun, then dropped into the ship’s wake and vanished.

“Dramatic, but hardly necessary, Tony,” Cordelia said. “We could have pawned the gold.”

Truthfully, however, she had enjoyed watching the ocean swallow up the locket more than she could say. She had felt something in her soar along with it when it flew through the air, and now that it was gone, she felt . . . liberated.
I should thank him.

But Edelston seemed to know what she was thinking.

“Now you can be anyone you like, Cordelia,” he said. “Marianne, Cordelia, Queen Elizabeth. We’ve no reminders. How will the Americans know? Ignorant lot, so I’ve heard.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back. Sometimes, Cordelia thought, Edelston’s very simplicity made him sound like a sage.

The Duke of Dunbrooke had given each of them a thousand pounds, the locket, and passage to America, where they were to use whatever resourcefulness they had at their disposal to make a life for themselves. They were not to return to England. Ever. That was the condition of the gift. The duke had also disposed of Edelston’s debt. Then again, when one possessed one of the largest fortunes in all of England, one could afford to be generous in the act of ridding oneself of a pair of nuisances.

The shame of it had been scalding: in Lady Wakefield’s library, Cordelia had watched as the face of the only man she had ever loved, a man she perhaps still loved (though she had forbidden herself to entertain this possibility), reflected in swift succession awareness of her beauty, and then contempt, and then . . . nothing. Roarke Blackburn, as vibrant and beautiful as the day he had left her, considered her a murderess. And it was clear that beyond a certain dispassionate appreciation for her face, and a certain amount of rage and contempt, he felt nothing at all for her. Nothing at all.

Standing on English shores, Cordelia had found it difficult to imagine ever feeling anything other than heartbreak and shame and wounded pride. Standing on the deck of
The Standard
, however, Cordelia began to think it possible to reinvent herself yet again.

Cordelia looked at Edelston, whose eyes were bright and whose face was pointed directly into a sea breeze, and wondered whether fate meant to tie them together. They had made no promises to each other. They had made no plans. But here they stood, side by side, with a shared history and shared secrets, and they had been given an opportunity to leave the past behind. She would try not to think past this moment.

And Edelston actually looked . . . happy. Then again, being relieved of crippling debt was bound to animate anyone.

“And you, Tony,” she said. “Now you can be anyone
you
like.”

He smiled at her and lifted her hand to his lips.

“I’d like to be someone who is not inclined to be seasick,” he said.

She laughed. Edelston hesitated an almost undetectable moment, and then companionably put his arm around her waist. And Cordelia allowed him to do it, a little surprised that she actually found the gesture comforting. Together, they silently said good-bye to London.

He had been working in the office upstairs, going over his father’s papers and books and wondering whether they should remove to Keighley Park immediately, when the restless feeling had struck. It seemed he couldn’t go an hour or more, these past few days, without seeing or touching his wife.

He found her exactly where he’d suspected he might: curled up in the great chair next to the fire in the library. With the instinct of the terminally curious, she had discovered his father’s library almost instantly, and had found a book on God knows what to immerse herself in. Very likely there were gory pictures. Her hair gleamed softly in the firelight, copper and gold and bronze and chestnut and a dozen shades in between. She had made a half-hearted attempt to tie it back with a ribbon, but a good deal of it had escaped and was spiraling cheerfully about her cheeks and forehead.

She hadn’t noticed him standing in the doorway of the library yet, and he contemplated indulging in the shocking extravagance of just walking away from her, perhaps even wandering outside to the club, just to prove to himself that she would be there when he returned, that she would always be there.

He was beside her before he even finished the thought. She glanced up startled, and then her eyes lit, the way they always did when they landed on him after he’d been away from her for a moment or two. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest. He hoped he would always put that light in her eyes.

He dropped to his knees next to her.

“Good book?”

“Excellent. Wonderful diagrams of the best way to treat a head wound. Would you like to see?”

“Thank you all the same, but no.”

Rebecca laughed. “How is your arm?”

“Almost healed.” He extended it and waved it about, by way of proof.

Smiling, she reached down to stroke his wavy forelock away from his eyes. “I rather like it,” she pronounced.

“What’s that, wee Becca?”

“Your forelock.”

“Mmmm. Bit of a nuisance, it is.”

“Makes you look like Byron.”

“Oh, yes, and that’s exactly how I want to look, just like Byron.”

She laughed again. “Perhaps you should give poetry a go. You might wish to start with an ode to my nose or something along those lines. Give Edelston a little competition.”

“The world has more than its share of poets and those that fancy themselves poets, as far as I’m concerned. I have my hands full, being a duke and being your husband. And furthermore, I would choose another of your body parts as the subject of my ode.”

Rebecca laughed, and he captured her stroking hand and kissed the palm of it gently, so he could watch her eyes kindle.

“Connor?”

“Mmm?”

“Will it be all right? Being a duke?”

“Well, I must admit it’s been amusing to shock the
ton
over and over. First my resurrection, and then my sudden marriage by special license. They can hardly wait to see what I’ll do next. I’ve begun to feel a certain social responsibility, you see, to keep the
ton
supplied with gossip.”

He was joking, but not entirely.

“Connor. Will it
really
be all right?”

He sighed. So she was not going to allow him to laugh it away.

“The tenants at Keighley Park, they need me,” he said slowly. “And perhaps I can do some good in Parliament.”

“You long to see America.”

“And you long to take musket balls out of people and sew them up, neither of which is among the usual duties of a duchess. Will you be happy, wee Becca?”

“Now that I’ve delighted my mother beyond all reason by marrying a duke, and now that Lorelei will marry a colonel and be happy, I suppose I shall be.”

Connor smiled.

“Perhaps we can find a way to do all we wish to do,” she added softly.

“Perhaps,” he replied, just as softly. “Perhaps we should hire Chester Sharp as our coachman and have him drive us to Keighley Park. Doubtless someone in the village there will need stitching up or a poultice or what have you. Something grisly enough to satisfy your habit of healing.”

She smiled mischievously, and his heart squeezed again.

“I love you, Rebecca.”

She slid down from her chair to kneel next to him and hooked her arms around his neck. “I love you, Connor. You needn’t wonder about anything. We will be very happy, you know.”

“I know.”

He kissed her gently, but the kiss quickly turned fierce, as most of their kisses did these days, and the past and the future and everything but the feel of each other ceased to matter.