Secrets of a Scandalous Bride Page 12

“Have you forgotten that I’m intimately aware of your character, Manning? There was the little matter of your forcing your half brother into hiding for over a decade, and then there was the matter of bribing the countess, not to mention your former desire to relieve me and the others of this thing we call life.”

  “Yes, well, you were all in my study at three o’clock in the morning, stealing the countess’s fortune back, now, weren’t you?” He sighed heavily. “Look, if you’re so bloody interested in what I have to say to Elizabeth, then you can stay.”

  “As if I need an invitation to stay in my own house,” Luc said dryly, seating himself in the ridiculously feminine slipper chair nearby. “Go on then.”

  Elizabeth held her breath and noticed that Rowland appeared discomfited. It was the first time she’d seen him like this.

  He studied his fingernails. “I require your nut bread recipe.”

  She started.

  “Look, Ascot is looming,” he said. “I need incentive for my men.”

  Luc’s brows rose to his hairline.

  “Of course.” Elizabeth jumped to the escritoire in the chamber and quickly used a quill to scratch out the recipe. “Is the new cook not competent?” She took care to keep her voice low.

  “No,” he said, his tone glacial.

  “Would you like for me to return to help you today, or to look for another cook?”

  The two men spoke at the same moment, Luc’s bark overshadowing the other man’s assent. “Absolutely not!” Luc insisted. “Are you out of your minds? Elizabeth, the whole of London’s eyes are upon your every movement.”

  “I know, but I owe Mr. Manning,” she replied.

  “She absolutely is at fault,” Rowland said with a hint of a smile. “She relieved my cook, who was perfectly adequate until Miss Ashburton invaded my kitchen.”

  “I did not fire the cook. Lefroy sacked her.”

  “Enough!” Luc said with irritation. “Elizabeth, you are to do whatever females do in order to depart for Windsor tomorrow. And you, sir, are to find your own damn cook. Oh, and one other thing, Manning.” It was Luc’s turn to look embarrassed.

  “Yes?”

  “I would be in your debt if you could possibly see fit to actually win the Gold Cup.” Luc appeared as if he’d rather be boiled in oil than be beholden to the man opposite him.

  Rowland smiled like a fox inches from his next meal. “What’s in it for you, then?”

  Ill at ease, Luc ran his hand through his black hair. “Elizabeth, perhaps you should leave us to—”

  “Pardon me, but…not on my life.” Elizabeth laughed for she had uttered something no guest of a duke should ever dare to say. Living on the edge of disaster appeared to dissolve almost every last shred of her natural decorum.

  “Well?” Rowland purred.

  “A fiver,” Luc muttered.

  “That much, eh?” Rowland Manning rubbed his temples as if they ached.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth breathed. “You did not wager five hundred pounds on a race.”

  When Luc did not respond, Rowland did. “I would wager the fool did not.”

  Her lungs relaxed and she could breathe again. “Oh, simply five pounds. All in fun, then.”

  Luc’s eyes darkened, while Rowland’s pale green eyes showed a glimmer of their former spark as he replied. “Wrong again.”

  “Five thousand? Not…possible,” Elizabeth said, nearly mute with disbelief.

  “Such surprise,” Rowland murmured. “And here I thought you knew the ways of men. No? Well, I shall be happy to educate you. This gentlemanly wager probably has everything to do with precious honor, and a little betting book at White’s if I were to hazard a guess. Mind if I ask who got your back up?”

  Luc appeared ready to pounce on his opponent. “Delighted,” he gritted out. “Pymm. The man anticipates the duchy a touch early. Forced a wager on every last duke in London that your mare would lose to Tatt’s gelding.”

  Elizabeth watched Rowland’s face, and could not see a twitch of surprise.

  “The price of ducal pride is indeed high, Your Grace,” Rowland drawled.

  What Rowland Manning had neglected to inform the Helston House circle after he failed in his attempt to entrap that bloody canary would become obvious enough a day later.

  He was to be at Windsor. Not in the ballroom, of course, but in the gilded stables. Everyone knew Prinny loved Ascot, almost as much as he loved the idea of housing the winner. And the prince was adept at hedging his bets, inviting both Rowland and Tattersall to house their horses in the royal mews.

  Rowland wasn’t certain how events would play out, but if life had taught him anything, it was that to have a chance at capturing the wily monkey of success, one had to throw all the fruits of disaster out on a limb, and then watch the possibilities ripen.

  Money was the thing that occupied his mind every waking moment of every cursed day. His chest ached as alone he staggered in the dead of night from his vast stables to the old desk in the echoing study in the main building. Every last thing he had built to rule was falling apart.

  For the first time ever, the stable hands showed hints of doubt, even if they didn’t dare voice them.

  The hay and straw man in London had warned this would be the last load delivered. His credit was no longer good. Unless he won the Gold Cup, the man had hinted.

  The construction of the last stable had halted. Unless his circumstances changed, the foreman had informed.

  None of them had believed him when he argued that he would soon have more funds, whether he won or lost. He ran his hands down his face. He just had to walk the tightrope in Pymm’s circus.

  Not that he had a shred of conscience over winning or losing. They were all so bloody stupid, supposing him to have scruples. He would precisely measure which road would bring him the greatest advantage, and do whatever was necessary to win or lose. It was just…he was so bloody tired. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have the energy, the desire that had usually burned so brightly.

  He focused on the ever-rising stacks of bills in front of him. Unleashing his tightly furled fury, he swept all of it off the desk. The ledgers clattered to the floor, while the sheaves of paper floated in arcs like the leaves of autumn. And under it all, he stared at the words that were carved onto the simple wooden desk—until they blurred. A flood of advice from his childhood washed over him…

  “You are the strongest. The one who will overcome. The one who has learned how to go without…” Rowland tried to stop the memories. “You must stand alone—neither servant nor noble. Never forget…trust no one, love no one—except your own blood. Never give anyone that power over you. It is the means to your destruction…as it was to mine.”

  He sprawled his arms and head across the desk. His temples pounded in agony with each beat of his heart. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the hair prickled on the back of his cold, exposed neck. He jerked upright.

  And was certain he was in a dream. No. He never dreamt of anything good. Night was for the darkness of the past—of naught but emptiness.

  She stood before him. He could not have described what she was wearing for all he could see was the warmth of her perfectly formed face, her emerald eyes, the casual disarray of her loose curls every color from pale blonde to dark honey. The curve of her cheek became more defined as she tilted her head slightly.

  Her eyes held questions yet she did not speak. Slowly, she dipped to place some things on his desk she had brought with her. He heard the sound of crockery and silverware, yet he refused to look at it. A bouquet of scents nearly knocked him from his chair.

  “You must eat,” she said quietly.

  “Not hungry,” he replied without emotion.

  “You’ve forgotten what hunger is,” she whispered. Her expression held no pity, no censure. It was a mere statement of fact.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know.”

  “How…”

  “Never mind th
at,” she said softly as she came around the desk, unfolding a napkin. She draped it in his lap and as she leaned down, he closed his eyes against the warm, simple soap scent of her. A lock of her hair was loose and it brushed his shoulder. He held onto the edge of his desk to stop from touching it.

  She pulled the chair across from the desk to sit beside him—just as she had done the last time she had prepared a meal for him. Only now, he couldn’t find the strength to fight her. He closed his eyes and listened to something being poured into a glass. Slowly, all the noises died away.

  He reopened his eyes and saw that she had arranged the first bite on a fork. “What is it?” he asked slowly.

  “Venison with stewed cherries and bread pudding,” she replied quietly.

  “My men…”

  “Will have the same tomorrow. Sarah’s here too and she’s helping Cook finish the last of it now.” She urged him by handing him the full fork. “No more talk.”

  He grappled with temptation. She appeared to be holding her breath. He gave in without another word, proof positive he was losing on all fronts.

  His vision tunneled to the food before him, and he forced himself to go slowly this time. She said not a word as he tentatively ate every blasted morsel of heaven in front of him. As he sopped up the last of the fragrant savory sauce using a chunk of the nut bread she had provided, she handed him a glass of wine.

  “No,” he said, waving it away.

  “Water?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  As he drank, she placed a square of gingerbread in front of him.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” she said even softer.

  He swallowed against the knot in his throat. He’d had too much. He’d had enough. He picked up the smaller fork and swiftly plowed through the forbidden sweet. The taste made his mind whirl, all his senses engaged in something so divine, it should be served only in paradise.

  She broke the silence. “You should have told me.”

  He stared into her lovely, unguarded eyes.

  “Your cook is perfectly adequate. Excellent in fact.”

  “Really?” He couldn’t keep the irony from his voice.

  “It’s your face. She is scared of you.”

  “Smart woman.”

  “She was too afraid to tell you that you’ve exhausted your credit with every last butcher, shopkeep, even the fishmonger’s daughter.”

  The blood ran cold in his veins.

  “The only good I can find in this,” she continued, “is that you’ve told me time and again you’ve no pride—so what I’m saying shouldn’t bother you. You see I do have pride and my debt to you has been weighing heavily on my conscience.”

  “Your debt?”

  “For helping me the day I met you. For hiding me. For allowing me to draw you into scandal in the middle of St. George’s soon after. Cook told me the men have been grumbling that there’s been a drop-off of customers since that awful day.”

  “What have you done?” He wanted the truth, not her reasons.

  “Nothing very much.” She glanced away. “General Pymm returned my father’s articles as well as his back pay. I’ve settled your accounts with the fishmonger, the butcher, and the two shopkeeps. You—”

  “Why did you do it?” His voice was nearly gone.

  She refused to meet his eyes. Instead she collected the plates and silverware to replace them on the tray. “Because you showed me a kindness when you did not have to.”

  “A kindness?” He stood up, his chair grating against the floor. He grasped her arms, forcing her to be still and to look at him. “I’ve never shown a bloody kindness to anyone in my entire godforsaken life, Elizabeth.” Christ, she was so damned beautiful, and so damned untainted by everything ugly.

  She breached the small space between them with her hand, which she placed over his heart. “You did not hurt me, did not take advantage, when you could have.”

  “Give it time, my dear.”

  “No. You would never force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. You are not killing me with guilt, and with soft hints, and sad looks like the others.”

  He felt the flicker of a smile cross the edge of his lips. “Ah, but you’ve already forgotten the forfeit you must pay for insisting I endure one of your meals.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “One secret I would have. Now.” He rushed on before she could stop him. “What hold does Pymm have over you, Elizabeth?”

  Chapter 9

  “I wish you would stop asking me such things. No one else assumes Pymm is holding something over me.” Elizabeth stalled, unsure what course to take.

  In the halo cast by the candlelight, his unusual pale eyes glowed as they bore into hers; his arms still gripped her inches from his stark face. “People usually refuse to ask the question when they fear the response. I don’t. Now, I will hear your answer.”

  She had thought she had memorized every line, every inch of the harsh planes of his face. She was wrong. His face was infinitely more beautiful to her than she remembered. And while every person she knew would tell her she was a fool to place her faith in a man such as he, she could not stop herself from entrusting him with her awful secret. “He would ruin my character, and my father’s.”

  “How?”

  “By suggesting my father was dishonorable.”

  “Bloody hell, Elizabeth,” he said with irritation. “When did you decide to place such importance on pride? You’ve been spending too much time with Helston and his family. Why should you care even if Pymm suggests your father ran all the way back to London with a herd of Frenchies on his tail?”

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s worse. He would…”

  “Yes?” he encouraged softly, and reached out to stroke a lock of her hair that had come loose. The whorls of his thumbs reached her cheek and she pressed her face into his large palm and closed her eyes.

  “It is my fault entirely. Pymm never would have searched my father’s affairs if I hadn’t danced and laughed with him to begin with.” She exhaled. “He has letters he would make public. Letters from my mother’s relatives in France, which my father received during the war.”

  He sighed heavily. “Do not tell me you and your father really and truly are spies.”

  She did not reply.

  “Bloody hell. You could at least deny it.”

  “And what good would that do? Of course I’m not a spy. I’m just a silly, stupid, impetuous girl—a girl who loved to dance, and laugh, and flirt with handsome officers.”

  “And what has that to do with these letters Pymm holds?”

  “Nothing. But that’s not the point.”

  “Well, what in bloody hell is the point? What does dancing a reel in Portugal have to do with anything?”

  “Everything.”

  “I’m waiting for you to explain it then,” he ground out.

  “I—well, when I first met the general…”

  “Yes?”

  “I enjoyed the favor he showed me. I looked forward to dancing with him. I—I preened before him. He said…”

  “What?”

  “He insisted later that I was a flirt. That I encouraged his affections. That I accepted his addresses by every look, every word.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “Over the years, I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. I don’t know. My father and Sarah insisted I did not. I think I treated him much as I treated every other officer. It’s just, I enjoyed the entertainments, the dancing…”

  He blinked and loosened his hold on her. “Now you will listen to me, Elizabeth,” he commanded, his eyes darker than ever before. “Females have the prerogative to dance, to flirt, to find whatever enjoyment they can in this bloody thing we call a life. And these things you are ashamed of are some of the only things a woman is allowed in her enslavement.”

  “Enslavement?” She backed away from him, not really knowing where she was going. He followed her step for st
ep until she felt a wall at her back.

  He placed his hands against the wall on either side of her face. “From cradle to grave you are but man’s possession,” he insisted. “First your fathers own you, and then they sell you to the highest bidder. Then your husbands control you, and impregnate you, until they tire of you—unless they toss you in the grave first.” He added with pursed lips, “If you are lucky, the bloody nob dies first.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t be a fool. You should not doubt yourself. If Pymm possessed an inch of sanity, which he obviously does not, he would have taken your refusal and been honorable about it by slinking off to lick his bloody wounds in private. Am I the only sod who sees it? You should not show an inch of compassion for any man who torments you—blackmails you—even if it is with silken promises of becoming a duchess.”

  Staring into the most mesmerizing eyes she had ever seen, she regained a foot in the mountain of confidence she had once possessed two years ago.

  “What do those letters say?” Rowland leaned closer.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” His eyes flashed. “You’ve gone along with this blackmail and you don’t even know if they contain evidence of treason?”

  “It’s not so much what they say as much as whom they are from.” She lowered her voice, “My uncle wrote them—General Philippe du Quesne.”

  “Of course, you would choose to be related to the bloody commander of the frog hussars,” he said dryly. And yet not a hint of uncertainty crossed his hawkish features. “So what are you”—he pointed at her chest—“going to do to extricate yourself from this bloody mess?”

  She smiled. At least she could count on one man in her life to behave in an utterly predictable fashion. And, of course, she would prefer this forthright, unchivalrous man instead of a decorated war hero with an unfortunate tendency toward blackmail.

  Naturally.

  With her luck, the day a true prince stepped into her path, she would mistake him for a toad.

  “You know, Elizabeth,” he said, his eyes intent yet his tone impossibly casual, “I like you.”

  “You like me because I never ask you to do anything to help me.”