The Prize (57 page)

"You are not my
friend," she whispered, still stunned by his treachery.

He bowed and left.

Devlin walked after
him, but only to close the door and then face
Virginia
again. "What madness is this? Do you
think to commit suicide?"

"No/' she
gritted, "I only think to avoid marriage to you!"

"By catching
pneumonia and dying?" he demanded.

"You do not want
this, either! Send me home, Devlin, and we will both be free!"

"I am afraid I
have agreed to this union."

She swatted at her
tears. "I can hardly comprehend why."

His face was taut,
indicating some tension, but he did not hesitate. "They are right."

"They are right?
The earl and countess are right? You now accept blame—and guilt—for your
actions?"

"I do."

"You lie!"
She advanced. "You have no guilt, no regrets!"

He was motionless. It
was a long moment before he spoke and when he did, it was slowly, with the
utmost care. "Actually, you are very wrong,
Virginia
. I do have guilt, and I have

had so for some time.
The other night at Lord Carew's made it impossible for me to deny it. I regret
using you as I have."

She could no longer
breathe. Was this the truth?

"I am sorry I
brought you into this," he added grimly. "And now I will pay the
price of having used you so callously. It is what an honorable man would
do."

She was afraid to
believe him—and she reminded herself that this change of heart had nothing to
do with love. But it was a change of
heart.
It was evidence of a
conscience, of a soul.

"I see I have
dumbfounded you," he said with some self-derision. He walked past her
toward the liquor bottles placed on a nearby table. "I am rather
dumbfounded myself. A brandy should warm you far better than a cup of
tea."

"The tea is
laced with whiskey." She stared at him as he poured. She was stunned and
she did not know what to think or what to feel.
He was sorry. He was
genuinely sorry.
But what did it change? He had hurt her too many times.
She knew if she married him, he would hurt her again and again. A conscience
was not love. Behaving honorably was only that.

He faced her, a
snifter in hand. "My mother is planning a wedding for the twelfth of
December—two days before I set sail."

Her pulse began a
heavy, rapid beat. "I saw your orders," she said stiffly.

He stared, his
expression a mask devoid of emotion.

"You go to war
against my country, my countrymen. What kind of marriage is that?"

"Yes, I do, and
we shall make the best of it. We will hardly be the only couple with divided
loyalties in this conflict."

She trembled, cold
all over again. She knew she was losing—she had lost every single battle she
had ever waged against this man. "I cannot marry you, Devlin. Not now, not
ever."

He straightened.

"I mean
it," she said nervously.

A terrible silence
ensued. He looked at her for a long time with such a severe mask in place that
it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling—if, indeed, he felt
anything. He set his glass carefully down. "But my regret is sincere. I am
sorry for everything and I wish to make amends. I wish to save your
reputation."

She felt like
weeping. "Your regret comes too late!"

He looked at her, his
gaze searching. "You did not always hate me."

She stiffened.
"This is not about hatred. My letter was sincere. I do not hate you,
Devlin, in spite of all that you have done."

"Then accept
this marriage, for Tyrell is right—it is in your best interest."

"I want to go
home," she heard herself say, almost pathetically.

He started.

How she wanted to
weep. Her tone quavering, she took a deep breath and said, "I admit what
we both now know— once I loved you, and I wanted you to love me in return. But
you cannot offer me love, can you?"

His nostrils flared,
and he shook his head. "No."

"No," she
echoed, and it was impossible not to be bitter. "You offer me marriage
now. I simply cannot accept. You see, you have hurt me for the last time,"
she said tersely. "If you wish to appease this new conscience of yours, then
send me home, a free woman, at long last."

"I cannot."

"Of course you
can. You are the most powerful and independent man I have ever met. Of course
you can." She realized that she was crying.

He suddenly
approached.

460                           

Virginia
stiffened as he paused before
her, his expression very severe.

"I will not sell
Sweet Briar."

She froze.
"What?"
Had he just said what she thought he had?

"I will not sell
Sweet Briar."

She felt faint. She
must have reeled because he caught her. "You won't sell Sweet Briar?
But...I do not understand."

"Sit down,"
he commanded, guiding her to a chair.

She was too stunned
to refuse.

"I have
purchased the plantation," he said. "I bought it to give to you in an
effort to make amends for what I have done." "

Virginia
felt faint. She could hardly
comprehend his words. He now owned her home?

"It will be your
wedding present," he said softly. "A gift from me to you."

The
wedding was but days away.

Virginia
had never felt more like a
powerless pawn. With her wedding looming so near, it was impossible not to
admit that if Devlin O'Neill loved her, just a little, she would be more than
thrilled to be marrying him. But he didn't love her, not at all; until
recently, his intention had been to send her home, done with her at last. It
hurt still. And as for his grand gesture of buying Sweet Briar with the
intention of giving it to her, that had become tainted by the suggestion of
blackmail in his offer. It was to be a wedding gift—and
Virginia
did not have to ask him to know
that if she refused to marry him there would be no gift at all. She could not
be unhappy with his "gift," but she wished it had been offered with
no consequent threats. And she would not refuse. Devlin was paying off the
plantation's debts and in a few days, her home would belong to her, at last.
She was marrying a man who frightened her, a man still bent on revenge, a man
she continued to hopelessly love; the future was uncertain and shad-

owed with doubt. At
least she would have a refuge if she ever needed one.

She took the safest
possible course; she retreated into herself. She slept late and went to bed
early. She immersed herself in books. She tried hard not to think, and when
she did, she thought of Sweet Briar and how one day her children would inherit
it. She kept her distance from Devlin, knowing it would hurt to be near him,
and that was an easy task. He spent most of his waking hours either at the
Defiance
,
as she was in the final stages of being
outfitted for her tour, or at the Admiralty, being briefed upon the war. She
suspected that he might be avoiding her, as well, and she could only surmise
that he found the impending marriage more than distasteful. Most evenings he
took his supper out, leaving her to dine alone in the huge, empty dining room.
Upon crossing each other's paths, they both became polite, formal strangers,
which relieved
Virginia
to no end, no matter how odd it
was.

Mary de Warenne was
another problem entirely.
Virginia
liked his mother and suspected
that, had circumstances been different, they might have become deep and abiding
friends. Now, however, his mother was busily and happily planning their small
wedding.
Virginia
was constantly called on for
Mary wished her to approve every detail, every decision. The wedding would be
held at their
Mayfair
home in the old chapel
there—fine. The wedding would be restricted to the immediate family—fine. The
reception afterward would also be at Harmon House—fine. There would be salmon,
pheasant, venison, and would French champagne be inappropriate? No, that was
fine. And finally there was the matter of
Virginia
's gown.

Mary de Warenne's
couturier was beside herself with enthusiasm.
Virginia
nodded at lace, at beads, at silk, at
satin— she had no idea what the dress would be like and she did not

                             
465

care. Why couldn't
they just plan the event, have her appear at the appointed hour and leave her
entirely alone?

But
Virginia
could not be rude to Mary. The
effort cost her dearly, but she was polite, friendly and, in general, quite amiable.
The moment Mary left her though,
Virginia
would lock herself in her room, take huge calming breaths and, somehow, avoid
the terrible need to cry.

It was
noon
.
Virginia
knew what day it was—she kept track of the days with the morbid fascination of
a prisoner on his way to the guillotine. It was December 9—in three more days
she would be walking down the aisle. Her stomach tightened at the thought, and
it was a painful stabbing in her gut.

"
Virginia
?" Mary knocked on her door.
"I have your gown! You must see it—may I come in?"

Virginia
was seated by the window,
staring out at the back lawns and the river. Her heart lurched and she stood.
"Come in," she said.

Mary entered, a
bulky, wrapped garment in her arms. "It is beautiful beyond words, and you
must try it on!" She rushed over to
Virginia
and kissed her cheek. Her face was alight,
her eyes sparkling, and she was a very beautiful woman, indeed.

"I don't really
think I should try it on,"
Virginia
said slowly, her heart beating uncomfortably now. She sensed it would be hard
to maintain her composure if she tried on her wedding dress, but how to avoid
doing so? What logic could she use?

"But what if it
needs an alteration?" Mary exclaimed, already placing the garment on the
bed and removing the brown wrapper. "Look! Just look!" she cried.

Virginia
hugged herself, ill. Mary held
up a white silk dress and
Virginia
had to look. Almost hypnotized,
she saw a gown with a square neckline and long sleeves, covered

with a layer of lace
that was heavily beaded, the skirts impossibly full, the train elegant and
long. She forced a smile; it felt sickly. "How beautiful," she
whispered. How could this be happening? How?

She was on the verge
of marrying Devlin—and he did not love her, not at all.

"You will be the
most beautiful bride ever seen at Harmon House," Mary gushed. "Let
me help you out of your clothes."

Virginia
turned, giving Mary her back,
facing the window. An elegant yacht had berthed at their dock and a number of
sailors were tying the lines. She blinked back a tear, vaguely wondering who
had arrived, as she did not recognize the vessel. A man leapt from the stern to
the dock and the sight he made was terribly familiar.

Virginia
froze.

He leapt over the
stone path, ignoring it, and started swiftly up the lawn.

"Sean!" she
cried. And thrilled, she threw open the window, waving. "Sean!
Sean!"

He heard her, looked
up, and he waved back.

Virginia
left Mary behind, racing
downstairs at breakneck speed. As she skidded through the house and into the
family salon, she vaguely realized that Devlin was in the library, speaking to
someone. She had not realized he was home; it hardly made a difference. She
flung open the terrace doors and raced outside.

Sean was bounding up
the stone steps to the patio. He grinned at her.

"I am so glad to
see you," she cried, and she rushed to him, throwing her arms around him
and holding him hard.

She felt him tense in
surprise, but
Virginia
felt so safe, so secure, so
beloved that she did not care and she clung. Finally he patted her back, almost
as if he felt awkward. "This is not the greeting I imagined," he
murmured.

Virginia
realized he did not hug her in
return and she let him go, smiling up at him. "I am so happy you are
here!"

His gray gaze
wandered over her face.

She smiled again and
touched his cheek. This time she did not speak.

He pulled away,
clasping her hand gently. "You are going to make the groom jealous,"
he said tightly.

She glanced behind
her and saw a curtain fall at the window. She faced him and shrugged. "I
know that is not possible," she said.

He stared closely at
her. "Are you all right?" he asked, clearly concerned.

That was her final
undoing; she could not speak, and she shook her head.

"Come." He
released her hand and pressed her back. "Let's take a turn about the
gardens."

It was about to rain,
but she nodded in assent.

Sean slipped his
cloak off and placed it about her shoulders. "You are not a happy
bride," he remarked as they went down the steps to the lawns.

"Oh, no one has
told you?" How hysterical and bitter she sounded, she thought.
"Devlin has decided to be honorable and save my sordid reputation, at long
last."

He faced her,
pausing. "You sound very angry."

"Sean!"
Tears threatened. "I am more than angry—I am being forced into a loveless
marriage with a man I cannot stand!"

He started and
cursed. "I thought you were in love with him, Virginia. At Askeaton you
had stars in your eyes."

"Do you see
stars now?" she flung.

His mouth was tight.
"No, I do not."

She tucked her arm in
his and they started to walk again.

"I tried to ran
away. But Tyrell betrayed me and called Devlin. He bought Sweet Briar and he
has made it clear that if I marry him, the plantation will be my wedding
gift."

Sean halted. "He
has blackmailed you into this?" He was incredulous.

Virginia
hesitated. "Not exactly.
But the suggestion was clear—Sweet Briar is to be a wedding gift. If he wanted
me to freely have it, he could simply sign the deed over now."

Sean stared and
finally said, "
Virginia
, I heard you were living openly
with him. I heard you were his mistress, and so it seemed to me that his
finally marrying you was the right thing for him to do."

She hesitated.
Because she had willingly enjoyed his bed after the terrible Carew ball, she
could not tell Sean that they had played a deadly charade. Did Sean still love
her? She knew he remained fond of her. Now she worried that he was more than
fond of her and that she should not have involved him in her crisis. She
finally said, "I don't want to marry him—but I also have no choice."

He tilted up her
chin. "You loved him once. Can you genuinely claim that you do not love him
now?"

She opened her mouth
to deny it. No words came out.

And his reaction, a
terrible darkening of his eyes, followed by the shadow of anguish, told her
everything that she had to know.
His feelings had not changed.

"My feelings do
not matter," she finally said, hoarsely. "What matters is that he has
hurt me time and again, and if we marry, he will somehow find a way to hurt me
another time. I can no longer bear it, Sean, I can no longer bear his terrible
indifference!"