Chapter Fifteen
Cam stared at her, sure he’d hadn’t heard her right. “Your father never knew about Durham’s offer,” he repeated, his voice flat.
Impossible. The late Lord Carlisle had cared for nothing more than his own consequence. He’d have made it his business to know about his daughter’s prospects, and he would never have permitted her to toss away the chance to become a marchioness.
A cold, bitter anger seized him. She was lying. She was her father’s daughter, after all. He’d been a liar, too.
She flinched at his obvious skepticism, but said nothing. Her dark eyes narrowed, moved over his face. Whatever she saw there made her stiffen in the saddle.
Damn her. She looked at him as if . . . as if he’d disappointed her.
Cam clenched his fists until his fingers threatened to snap into pieces. She had no right to look at him like that, to make him feel as if he’d wounded her somehow. He didn’t owe Eleanor Sutherland anything. Quite the opposite.
His voice sliced through the silence between them. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, then she shook her head. “I don’t expect anything of you.”
Another lie. “Ah, but I expect something from you, my lady. The truth. Shall we begin again? How is it you did not become the Marchioness of Durham?”
She wheeled her horse around, as if prepared to flee. “I told you already. I can’t help it if you don’t like my answer.”
He didn’t like it because it was a lie. “Such an accomplished actress, and yet this is an unconvincing performance. You’ll have to do better, because I don’t believe you.”
Her face hardened. “Pity, but whether you take or leave my answer hasn’t anything to do with me. Do as you wish.”
Cam squeezed the reins until the worn leather between his fingers creaked a protest. “I choose to leave it, and it has everything to do with—”
Before he could spit out the rest of his furious reply, he’d choked on the dust kicked up by her horse. He leapt after her in a second flurry of pounding hooves, devouring the space between them. She hadn’t gotten far before he caught up to her, grabbed her horse’s reins and forced her to an abrupt halt.
She kept her seat with ease, but she turned on him in a breathless rage nonetheless. “Have you lost your wits? What do you think you’re doing? You nearly unseated me!”
He tossed the reins back to her, but seized her wrist so she couldn’t bolt again. “We’re not done talking.”
She tried to tug her arm free. “I am.”
He held her fast. Her wrist felt small, the bones fragile between his fingers, but fragility was an illusion when it came to Eleanor Sutherland. “Is this how you honor your promises? We have a truce.”
She jerked her chin up. “I’ve honored the truce. You asked your question, and I answered it. We’re done.”
He urged his horse closer so he could study her face. “I’m not.”
“What’s the point in proceeding? I’ll only lie to you again, won’t I?”
He eased his grip on her wrist. “Then tell me the truth, Eleanor.”
“Lie. Truth. What’s the difference? People believe what they wish to believe. It’s easier for you to believe me a liar, just as it’s easier and more entertaining for the ton to call me Lady Frost behind my back. You don’t want the truth any more than they do.”
Cam hesitated. If he didn’t find out her story now, he’d never get another chance, truce or not. He could at least hear her out. She’d done as much for him. “You must admit it’s difficult to believe your father would allow you to refuse Durham, Eleanor.”
“I told you. He never found out about it.”
“How could he not?” His earlier anger surfaced again, but he made an effort to keep his voice calm. “Durham would have had to ask for your hand—”
“He did ask for my hand.” She tugged at her wrist, and this time he let her go. “He asked Alec.”
“Why,” Cam asked, disbelief ringing in every word, “would he ask your brother for your hand, instead of your father? The earl?”
She looked him in the eye. “Because I made certain he would. It wasn’t as difficult to arrange as you might think. For the better part of a year before my father died, he was . . . oh, shall we call it ill? Durham brought his suit directly to Alec, with no questions asked.”
Durham had asked her brother for her hand, and bypassed the earl entirely? What bloody rubbish. From what Cam knew of him, Durham was an honorable man. He’d never have agreed to such a scheme, unless—
My father? He never found out.
He froze, staring at her, her words echoing in his head until they began to take on a new meaning. She hadn’t said her father didn’t care about Durham’s suit, or even that he hadn’t known about it. She’d said he never found out.
It could only mean one thing. She and her brother had hidden the offer from her father. They’d orchestrated the proposal. Planned it, no doubt secretly, and then they’d seen to it Durham appealed to Alec for her hand, rather than to Lord Carlisle.
Ellie hadn’t wanted to marry Durham, and she knew her father would make her, regardless of her wishes. She knew he’d force her into a marriage she didn’t want.
Just as you’ll force her. . .
Cam pushed the thought away before he was obliged to examine it. “What do you mean, he was ill?”
She gave a hollow laugh. “I mean what the ton always means when they use the word “ill” with no explanation.”
“Enlighten me.” Cam’s voice was tight.
Her face went hard. “Very well. He spent the last year of his life in a dark study, the draperies drawn, awash in drink and refusing to admit his creditors. It was a simple enough matter to hide Durham’s proposal from him.”
Jesus. Cam stared at her, shocked into silence as the fairy tale of the perfect, aristocratic family crumbled into dust. He’d told himself that tale over and over again. In his version, there’d been no happy ending for his mother. For Amelia. For him. Only for them, the Sutherlands, and he’d envied them bitterly for it—hated them, even. In his head, their lives had been filled with fine horses, the most extravagant balls, and a grand, wealthy father, beaming over them all with pride. With love.
It was nothing more than an illusion, then, spun to life inside the head of a lonely, angry young boy. Even when he’d grown into an adult who’d known better than to believe in fairy tales, he’d never questioned it.
Until now. Now a different picture emerged, a far uglier one.
How had he not seen it before? He knew better than anyone that Hart Sutherland was the kind of man who withheld everything he could—held it tightly, in clenched fists. Why wouldn’t he do the same to his own family?
Had he imagined their lives to be perfect so he’d be justified in his hatred for them? He’d never met them, had never even seen the Sutherlands until he returned from India. He’d fed his illusion on speculation, not fact. On fiction, not truths. Ellie accused him of believing whatever was easiest, and here was proof of it.
“If you don’t believe me,” she muttered, “ask Alec. Before you do, though, perhaps you should ask yourself what reason I have to lie.”
Christ. She’d told him the truth. Her story was too ugly to be a lie, yet as ugly as it was, he wanted the whole of it. “You said something about creditors?”
Had there been no money, then? No fine horses, and no fancy balls?
She lifted her chin, but her face was white. “One after another, each more irate than the last. Had my father chosen a less convenient time to die, we’d have lost everything. But die he did.”
Thank God. The words hung between them, unspoken. Cam didn’t know if they were his words, or hers. “Your brother inherited the title, and put things to rights.”
“Yes, and so Lady Ice was born, for I would have been compelled to accept whoever offered for me if it hadn’t been for Alec.”
Whoever offered? No matter how inferior they were, and regardless of their character. The thought made him grit his teeth. “The other five suitors, Ellie. Why did you reject them?”
She sighed, the sound so weary Cam’s own shoulders sagged. “I refused Mr. Fitzsimmons because of his mistresses. He had three of them—at least, three that I knew of. Perhaps he had more. And I saw no reason why my dowry should go toward settling Lord Ponsonby’s gaming debts. Twenty thousand pounds lost at hazard seemed sufficient enough reason to refuse him.”
Thank God for Alec Sutherland.
For such a woman to be wasted on whomever offered—it seemed nothing short of criminal, and yet aristocratic ladies like Ellie were sold to the highest bidder every day, all across England. It was the way of things, and the aristocracy never blinked at it.
And he was no better.
No, he was worse, because he didn’t even intend to buy her. He intended to steal her. Intended to, and would still, no matter that his chest went tight at the thought, for he hadn’t any choice. Or, rather, he did, but the choice was no choice at all, for he’d always choose Amelia over any of the Sutherlands.
So he would steal her, and he’d steal from her too, just as Julian warned him he would.
“But what of Durham? He’s as unobjectionable as they come. Plenty of young ladies would be thrilled to have him.”
“Oh my yes, and all of them willing to tell me so, and take me to task for my cruel dismissal.”
“Your brother said no one knew about his suit—”
“Not at first, but word got out. It always does.”
Yes, it did. He knew that well enough. Word would get out about Amelia, too, but by then she’d be a Sutherland, or as good as one.
“Why, then?” Cam wasn’t sure why he persisted in his questions. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think about her reasons or her hopes or her dreams, but somehow it was of crucial importance he know it all—that he understand the extent of his crime.
She kicked her horse into a fast walk, as if she could escape the place and the conversation at once. “I begin to think I don’t . . . that is, I don’t wish to marry. I don’t believe it will make me happy.”
But she would marry, and soon, despite her wishes. She may have escaped Durham, but she wouldn’t escape him. He followed her. “So cynical. Why should you not be happily married?”
She slanted him a skeptical look. “Are you such a strong believer in marriage, then, Camden? Do you believe in love at first sight, as well? Oh, but wait . . . that must be why you wish to marry me. Love.”
There could have been innuendo in her words, but there wasn’t. She wasn’t flirting with him. Just the opposite. She thought the very idea absurd, and he . . .
He’d have preferred flirtation. Anything even, to such bitter sarcasm.
But she was right. He put as much faith in true love as he did in mermaids and dragons—they were fairy tales. Illusions, nothing more, but for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t like to hear his own cynicism echoed by her. She was too young, too lovely to be so jaded.
The thought was so ironic it left a taste of metal in Cam’s mouth.
You deserve to choke on it.
“You’ve no reason to think people can’t be happy in marriage, Eleanor. Your brothers appear to be satisfied with their spouses. With two such examples before you, you must have some faith in the institution.”
“Satisfied?” She looked at him the way a schoolmaster looks at a student right before he canes him for stupidity. “They are much more than that. My brothers are deeply in love with their wives, and their wives are mad for them. But they are the exception, not the rule. You couldn’t have chosen poorer examples to make your point.”
Cam remained silent. He couldn’t argue with her. Mermaids, dragons and Lady Eleanor Sutherland’s brothers. He wouldn’t have believed such love existed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.
“My sisters-in-law are fortunate in their marriages, but most ladies are forced to settle for far less. Dangerously less, in the worst case.”
She shouldn’t have to settle for less. But she would. If she didn’t, Amelia would have to, and Amelia already had less. Much less.
Didn’t she?
Amelia had him. She had Julian, and Aunt Mary. It was true she’d never known that sweetest, purest love—the love a parent had for their child—but she’d never lost it, either.
It had never been Amelia’s to lose.
But dangerously less—what did Ellie know about that? Cam shifted uneasily on the saddle as he pictured Hart Sutherland, with his cold eyes and thin, cruel mouth. He pictured Lady Catherine, gentle and sweet-tempered, and his stomach roiled with nausea.
Whatever had happened between his mother and Hart Sutherland, Amelia hadn’t had to watch it. But however bad it had been between Lady Catherine and Hart Sutherland, Ellie had seen it all. It seemed incredible to him Amelia could ever have been more fortunate than Lady Eleanor Sutherland, but maybe this was a fairy tale, after all.
Or maybe the most poignant ironies were the stuff of truth, not fairy tales.
But what difference did it make? Hart Sutherland stole something from his mother and Amelia, and Cam would have it back, one way or another. “You won’t have to worry about the worst case when we’re married.”
She laughed, but the sound was cold—not a laugh at all. “Oh, no, of course not. I’ve no reason at all to worry, given our delightful courtship.”
Cam flinched. A fair hit. She had no reason to trust him, and any number of reasons not to, but then she hadn’t looked at this from every angle yet. “You’re so determined to escape me, you haven’t even considered the advantages of the arrangement.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I can’t think how I could have overlooked them. Pray explain them to me.”
“You’d have far more freedom than most women enjoy in marriage. You could do whatever you wish.”
“I do whatever I wish now. I may legally be my brother’s responsibility, but Alec doesn’t limit my freedom.”
Cam couldn’t argue that point. Lord Carlisle gave his sisters an unusual degree of latitude. “You wouldn’t be mocked as a spinster.”
She tossed her head. “Do you suppose a lady who’s refused a marquess cares for the opinion of the ton? They mock me even now. I’m Lady Frost, remember? Why, I have my own special section in the betting book at White’s—wager after wager, all concerning my affections and marriage prospects.”
Cam’s jaw clenched. He’d put a stop to that at once. He’d not have every sotted nobleman in London wagering on his wife.
“You should make a wager yourself,” she added. “Just think, if you can bring me to heel, you stand to gain a fortune.”
Cam stiffened, but he ignored her comment. “If you truly want freedom, you should marry. A married woman has, ah, certain opportunities forbidden to maidens.”
Her cheeks flushed. “What, you mean to take lovers?”
That was what he meant. He imagined another man kissing her, touching her, his fingers trailing across that fine, pale skin . . .
Then he imagined himself breaking the man’s fingers. One by one.
In time his fierce possessiveness would fade, though. Of course it would. Once he’d had his fill of her. “Yes.” He had to force the words through gritted teeth. “Have you ever had a lover, Eleanor?”
She stared at him, shocked. “No. Of course not.”
“Ah.” He drew closer to her and lowered his voice. “You don’t need to be in love to experience the pleasures of the flesh, and those pleasures can be . . . tremendously gratifying.”
She stared at him as if transfixed, then cleared her throat. “Those pleasures . . . ah, I—that is, I imagine you’d wish to avail yourself of them?”
Cam’s groin went tight. “Immediately, often, and for as long as we both agree to indulge. You’ll be my wife, after all, and there is the matter of consummation.”
She seemed to consider that. “And once we agree we don’t care to indulge anymore? In each other, that is. You will take a mistress, and I will take a lover?”
“Yes.” He managed to choke the word out past the fury clawing at his throat.
She nodded, and hope took flight in Cam’s chest. He’d have her no matter what, but he’d rather have her willing.
“You haven’t mentioned anything about the consequences of these pleasures,” she said. “What of that matter?”
“What, you mean children?” Cam paused, aware he was in dangerous territory. He’d given some thought to children, of course, but he hadn’t come to any decision. “I haven’t a title to pass on, and I have Amelia.”
Her face paled. “Ah. So you don’t want them?”
“I didn’t say that. I only meant I don’t require them—”
Her voice came like the crack of a whip. “And if I should require them, Camden? Or, heaven forbid, if they should appear, regardless of your requirements? That does tend to happen when two people engage in pleasure, immediately, and often.”
“We can negotiate for children, Eleanor. If you truly wish for them, you’ll have them.”
“Negotiate. How generous of you, and yet what I truly wish is for my children to have the care and attention of a loving father. You can’t offer me that.”
He opened his mouth to contradict her. To argue. To lie. But the words wouldn’t come, and they lapsed into a tense silence.
Julian had tried to warn him. Cam hadn’t listened. Hadn’t cared.
Eleanor Sutherland’s freedom for Amelia’s.
Parity. It had seemed a fair trade at the time.
But that was before Ellie—before the reality of her. The truth of her, and not the illusion he’d created. That was before he understood just how much he’d be taking from her.
Cam tried to push the thought away, but something inside him kicked up in protest—his conscience, perhaps.
Or his heart.
He became so lost in his thoughts he scarcely noticed in which direction they rode, but at last a shout from Amelia roused him.
“Denny! There’s the cottage.” Amelia pointed at the small stone gamekeeper’s cottage standing on the edge of the estate. “We’re here.”
Here. Lindenhurst. He hadn’t been back for more than ten years, but as Cam stared at the cottage, every moment of the time he’d spent in that cramped place rushed back at him as if no time had passed at all.
He shivered, remembering. The walls, always damp to the touch, even in the summer, and the floors, always freezing under his feet. Four long years he’d lived there, and in that time he’d never been warm. Not once.
Amelia had been born in that cottage. His mother had died there.
All at once he wasn’t a man anymore, but a fatherless nine-year old boy.
“Cam?” Eleanor drew her horse alongside his. “Cam?”
He turned to look at her, but he didn’t see her. He saw his Uncle Reggie, four years after his father had died, telling his mother she was a disgrace to her dead husband’s name. He saw his Aunt Mary, tears on her cheeks, her hand over her mouth, holding in her sobs as his uncle told Sarah West they couldn’t live in the manor house anymore—that she and Cam would have to go and live in the cottage now.
He saw Hart Sutherland leaving his mother’s tiny bedchamber in the cottage, fastening his falls as he went.
He’d been thirteen when Hart Sutherland seduced his mother. Thirteen years old.
He’d been seventeen when she died. He saw her lying in a bed, the white sheets soaked with blood, clasping Amelia to her breast.
He shouldn’t have come here.
“Cam? Are you all right?” Eleanor reached toward him, hesitated, and then placed her hand on his arm.
He looked down at her pale fingers against his coat, then turned to her—tried to see her. Tried to feel the warmth of her hand upon him. Tried to feel her. Her.
He couldn’t. He could only see Uncle Reggie. Hart Sutherland. They’d taken from him. Stolen. From him and Amelia. From his mother. Now it was his turn to take.
An eye for an eye.
Lady Eleanor’s future for Amelia’s. It was a fair trade.
Cam pulled his arm away.
“Denny, look!” Amelia trotted up the long drive that led to the estate, then turned and waved gaily to Cam. “We’re here at last!”