More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (34 page)

There, she had given in to the urge to explain after all. She was still watching her hands.

“He kept coming after you,” Jocelyn said quietly. “Why was he coming after you in the first place? Because he had caught you stealing?”

“Oh, that nonsense,” she said contemptuously. “He was going to ravish me.”

“At
Candleford
?” His voice was sharp. “At his father’s home? His father’s ward?”

“They were gone,” she told him, “the earl and countess. They had left for a few days.”

“Leaving you alone with Jardine?”

“And with an elderly relative as chaperone.” She laughed. “She likes her port, does Cousin Emily. And she likes Sidney too—
liked
Sidney, that is.” There was an uncomfortable churning in her stomach. “He got her drunk and sent her off early to bed. There were only a few of his friends there that evening and his own servants.”

“The friends did not defend you?” he asked. “And were not to be depended upon to tell the truth in an investigation into the death of Jardine?”

“They were all inebriated,” she said. “They were urging him on.”

“Was he not afraid,” Jocelyn asked, “of the consequences of ravishing you after his father had returned?”

“I suppose,” she said, “he counted upon my being too ashamed to say anything. He counted upon my meekly agreeing to marry him. And it would have been the earl’s solution even if I had told. It is what they both wanted and had urged upon me ceaselessly until I almost
was
ready to go at them both with an ax.”

“A reluctant bride,” he said. “Yes, that would appeal to Jardine. Especially when she is as lovely as a golden goddess. I am not well acquainted with Durbury, though I did not find myself warming to him this morning. Why did you steal and run away and go into hiding under an alias and make yourself look as guilty as sin? It
seems uncharacteristic of Jane Ingleby. But then she does not exist, does she?”

“I took fifteen pounds,” she said. “In the year and a half since my father’s death, the earl had given me no allowance. There was nothing on which to spend money at Candleford, he told me. I believe he owed me far more than fifteen pounds. The bracelet was my father’s wedding gift to my mother. Mama gave it to me on her deathbed, but I asked Papa to keep it in the safe with all the other family jewelry. The earl had always refused to give it to me or to acknowledge it as mine. I knew the combination of the safe.”

“Foolish of him,” Jocelyn said, “not to have thought of that.”

“I was not running away,” she said. “I had had enough of them all. I came to London to stay with Lady Webb, my mama’s dearest friend and my godmother. Lord Webb was to have been my guardian jointly with my father’s cousin, the new earl, but he died and I suppose Papa did not think of having someone else appointed. Lady Webb was not at home and not expected back soon. That was when I panicked. I started to realize that Sidney might have been badly hurt, that he might even have died. I realized how the taking of the money and the bracelet would be construed. I realized that none of the witnesses was likely to tell the truth. I realized I might be in deep trouble.”

“All the deeper,” he said, “for your decision to become a fugitive.”

“Yes.”

“Was there no one at Candleford or in its neighborhood to stand your friend?” he asked.

“My father’s cousin is the earl,” she explained. “Sidney
is—was—his heir. There was no one powerful enough to shield me, and my dearest friend was from home in Somersetshire on an extended visit with his sister.”

“He?”
The question was asked with soft emphasis.

“Charles,” she said. “Sir Charles Fortescue.”

“Your friend?” he said. “And beau?”

She looked up at him for the first time in several minutes. Shock was beginning to recede. He had no business interrogating her. She was under no obligation to answer him. She was merely his ex-mistress. And she had no intention of accepting any pay for the past week and a half or of taking with her any of the clothes he had bought her.

“And beau,” she replied steadily. “We were to marry, but not for a long time. I am not permitted to marry without the earl’s consent until I am five and twenty. We would have married on my twenty-fifth birthday.”

“But will not now do so?” He had his glass to his eye again, but Jane would not be cowed by it. She continued to look steadily at him. “He will not fancy marrying a murderess, Lady Sara? How unsporting of him. And he will not marry a fallen woman? How unchivalrous.”

“
I
will not marry him,” she said firmly.

“Quite right too,” he said briskly. “The laws of our land prohibit bigamy, Lady Sara.”

She
wished
he would not keep calling her that.

“Bigamy?” Had Charles met and married someone else? she thought foolishly without even stopping to wonder how she expected the Duke of Tresham to know that fact even if it were true.

“Sir Charles Fortescue,” he said coldly, “would not be permitted by law to marry my wife. One hopes, I suppose,
that his heart will not be broken, though I have not noticed him rushing about London, moving heaven and earth to find you and clasp you to his bosom. One hopes, perhaps, that
your
heart will not be broken, though frankly I cannot say that I much care.”

Jane was on her feet.

“Your wife?” she said, her eyes wide with astonishment. “
Your wife?
How utterly preposterous. You think you owe me marriage just because you have suddenly discovered that I am Lady Sara Illingsworth of Candleford rather than Jane Ingleby from some orphanage?”

“I could not have phrased it better myself,” he said.

“I do not know what you have planned for the rest of the afternoon, your grace,” she told him, looking into his cold, cynical face and feeling the full chill of his total indifference to her as a person, “but I have something of importance to do. I have a visit to the Pulteney Hotel to make. If you will excuse me.” She turned resolutely to the door.

“Sit down,” he said as quietly as before.

She swung to face him. “I am not one of your servants, your grace,” she said. “I am not—”

“Sit
down
!” His voice, if anything, was even quieter.

Jane stood staring at him for a few moments before striding across the room until she stood almost toe-to-toe with him.

“I repeat,” she said, “I am not one of your servants. If you have something more to say to me, say it without this ridiculous posturing. My ears function quite well enough when I am on my feet.”

“You try my patience to the limit, ma’am,” he said, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“And mine is already tried
beyond
the limit, your grace,” she retorted, turning toward the door again.

“Lady Sara.” His icy voice stopped her in her tracks. “We will have one thing straight between us. Soon—within the next few days—you will be the Duchess of Tresham. Your personal wishes on this matter are not to be consulted. I am quite indifferent to them. You will be my wife. And you will spend the rest of your life ruing the day you were born.”

If she had not been so white with fury, she might well have laughed. As it was she took her time about seating herself in the nearest chair, arranging her skirts neatly about her before looking up into his eyes, her own carefully cool.

“How utterly ridiculous you make yourself when you decide to play the part of toplofty aristocrat,” she told him, folding her hands in her lap and pressing her lips tightly together. She girded herself for the inevitable battle.

E
WAS SURPRISED BY THE FORCE OF HIS HATRED
for her. He had never hated anyone—except perhaps his father. Not even his mother. It was unnecessary to hate when one did not feel strongly about anyone. He wished he could feel nothing but indifference for Lady Sara Illingsworth.

He could almost succeed when he thought of her by that name. But his eyes saw Jane Ingleby.

“You will not be forced to behold your ridiculous husband very often, you will be relieved to know,” he told her. “You will live at Acton, and you know how fond I am of my main country seat. You will see me only once a year or so when it becomes necessary to breed you. If you are very efficient you will have two sons within the first two years of our marriage and I may consider them enough to secure the succession. If you are extraordinarily clever, of course, you may already be increasing.” He lifted his quizzing glass and regarded her abdomen through it.

Her lips had already done their familiar disappearing act. He was glad she had pulled herself together. For a while she had looked pale and shaken and abject. He had found himself almost pitying her. She was glaring at him with her very blue eyes.

“You are forgetting one thing, your grace,” she said. “Women are not quite slaves in our society, though they
come dangerously close. I have to say ‘I do’ or ‘I will’ or whatever it is brides say to consent to a marriage. You may drag me to the altar—I will concede your superior physical strength—but you will be considerably embarrassed when I refuse my consent.”

He knew he should be delighted by her obvious reluctance. But she had duped him, humiliated him, made a fool of him once. Her will would not prove stronger than his on this particular matter.

“Besides,” she added, “I am not yet of age. And according to my father’s will I cannot marry below the age of five and twenty without the consent of my guardian. If I do, I lose my inheritance.”

“Inheritance?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Everything my father owned except Candleford itself was unentailed,” she explained, “and his title, of course. His other estates, his fortune—everything, in fact—will be mine at the age of five and twenty, or my husband’s if I marry with consent before then.”

Which explained a great deal, of course. Durbury had the title and Candleford and control of everything else at the moment. He would have permanent control if he could persuade Lady Sara to marry into his family—or if he could make her life so uncomfortable that she would rashly elope with someone else before her twenty-fifth birthday.

“I suppose,” he said, “if you break the rules Durbury himself inherits everything?”

“Yes.”

“He may inherit everything, then,” he said curtly. “I am enormously wealthy. I do not need my wife to bring me a fortune.”

“I suppose,” she said, “if I am convicted of murder I
will be disinherited. Perhaps I will even d-die. But I will fight to whatever end is in store for me. And I will marry no one, whatever the outcome. Not Charles. Not you. At least not until I am five and twenty. Then I will marry or not marry as I choose. I will be free. I will be dead or imprisoned or transported, or I will be free. Those are the alternatives. I will be no man’s slave in the guise of wife. Certainly not yours.”

He gazed at her in silence. She did not look away, of course. She was one of the few people, man or woman, who could hold his scrutiny. She held her chin high. Her eyes were steely, her lips still in their thin, stubborn line.

“I should have seen it sooner,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “The essentially cold emptiness at the core of you. You are sexually passionate, but then sex is an essentially carnal thing. It does not touch the heart. You have the strange ability of opening yourself to other people’s confidences. You convey an image of sympathy and empathy. You can take in and take in, can you not, like some cold-hearted creature warming itself with its victim’s blood. One does not notice that in effect you give nothing back. Jane Ingleby, bastard of some unknown gentleman, reared in a superior orphanage. That was all you gave me—lies. And your Siren’s body. I am weary of arguing with you. I have other calls to make, but I will return. You will stay here until I do.”

“I have hurt you,” she said, getting to her feet. “You will be pleased to know that you have had your revenge. If my heart was not cold before, it is now. I have given and given of my very self because your need has been so great. I was not given a chance to reach out for myself, for the comfort of your understanding and sympathy and friendship. There was not enough time—just one
week and it ended so abruptly yesterday. Go. I am weary too. I want to be alone. You feel betrayed, your grace? Well, I do too.”

He did not stop her this time when she turned to leave the room. He watched her go. He stood where he was for a long time.

His heart ached.

The heart he had not known he possessed.

He could not trust her. He would not trust her. Not again.

Had
he betrayed her?
Had
it been sympathy and friendship and love she had given after all?
Had
she intended sharing herself with him as he had shared himself with her?

Jane.

Lady Sara Illingsworth.

Ah, Jane
.

He strode from the room and from the house. It was only when he was some distance away that he remembered ordering her to remain until he returned. But she was not one to take orders meekly. He should have made her promise. Devil take it, he should have thought of that.