Blake Stephens, the oldest of the duke of Penevey’s four sons, albeit his only illegitimate one, seethed with fury.
His pride had made him a fool. A trapped one.
The moment Lady Tara had accepted his marriage offer, he’d known he’d made a mistake.
He didn’t want to be married. He liked being a bachelor. He wallowed in his freedom. He had his mates, a group of the finest sportsmen in London, he had more money than he could imagine spending, and he’d had what mattered to him most—his father’s respect, or so he had thought.
Penevey had wanted Blake to marry the Davidson chit. He’d advised Blake that it was time for him to be respectably settled and the marriage would be a good one for any children that might come of it.
Children had been the right argument for Blake. He planned to have them someday, and he didn’t want them to suffer from the shame of his dubious parentage or the vicious teasing he had received in school. It had not been easy being Penevey’s bastard. Blake had earned the respect of his peers, but he’d had to constantly prove himself. They had tested him hard. Meanwhile, his younger half brother Arthur, the duke’s legitimate heir, was accepted everywhere in spite of being a horse’s ass.
Too late did Blake learn that Penevey had pushed him to marry Lady Tara Davidson not for Blake’s well-being but to keep Arthur away from her. Arthur had tumbled head over heels in love with the lovely Tara, and, yes, Blake had received great satisfaction when Tara had chosen him over Arthur . . . but that was before he’d realized Penevey had paid the earl of Tay to accept Blake’s suit. Penevey had played upon Blake’s jealousy of his half brother to remove the threat of Tara from his heir. He had not wanted Arthur associated with a Scottish nobody, no matter how beautiful.
But his bastard was a different story. . . .
And then Tara had decamped.
If London knew she had jilted him, Blake would be a laughingstock. He did not like gossip, especially directed at him. He’d fought hard for everything he had, and on a whim, Lady Tara had been willing to humiliate him. He was already furious that Penevey knew she’d run and had given him strict orders to make it right. Penevey did not want to take the risk that Arthur would be the one to chase after her. No, she was only good enough for his bastard.
Bitterness set heavy in Blake’s gut.
And it did not help that Tara Davidson had just left the room without so much as a backward glance at him. She really did believe that a few pretty tears and a pretense of contriteness was all that was necessary as an apology.
She was going to make his life hell.
And he was stuck.
At least her sister had enough sense to know he was angry. She eyed him warily.
He eyed her with interest.
Blake had not met the notorious Lady Aileen before. He’d heard about her. The Crim Con case investigating her adultery had been the talk of London during a slow and lazy summer. Her husband, Captain Geoffrey Hamilton, had not held back in painting his wife as some lascivious Jezebel. Peter Pollard, her lover and one of Hamilton’s fellow officers, had not made any appearance to defend either himself or her. Since Hamilton’s father had held a Ministry position and Geoff was considered a war hero, the divorce had been speedily approved. It had not helped her reputation that within six months of the divorce, both men had died in battle.
Now, face-to-face with the woman who had launched a thousand wagging tongues, Blake could see what Hamilton and Pollard had admired. Before, he’d been hard-pressed to understand why such a profligate womanizer as Hamilton would begrudge his lady one lover, but here was a woman any man would jealously guard.
To the conventional, she wouldn’t be deemed half as pretty as Tara. Although her hair was thick and shining, it was brown with just a touch of gold but not striking enough to raise comment. Her mouth was too wide, too generous for beauty. Her eyes were not as blue as her celebrated sister’s, and she would have been dismissed as too tall by the people who chronicle such things. Height didn’t bother Blake, provided the curves were there. He was a tall man, and he liked a woman willing to look him in the eye.
Of course that didn’t have anything to do with one’s height as much as it did one’s intellect, and Lady Aileen struck him as possessing a keen mind, a trait Blake valued. He also liked the energy that swirled around her.
Of course, she’d just energetically used her intelligence to argue for her sister to unceremoniously reject him. That was a strike against her.
Of course, she, too, had been left behind.
She stared at the empty doorway as if puzzled at how quickly the tables had turned on her. Her shoulders lowered, giving her the air of being graceful in defeat—until she swung her attention to him and the lines of her mouth tightened.
For a long second they took each other’s measure, then she said with a tartness her lilting accent could not sweeten, “Well, are you happy? You will have a wife. It’s not right, you know. One shouldn’t be ‘forced’ to marry.”
“I knew your husband.”
His intent was to surprise her, and he succeeded. Her manner changed. She reacted as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
“Relax,” he said. “If I’d been married to Geoff Hamilton, I would have done anything I could to free myself of him.” He rose from the chair, his empty glass still in his hand. For a second he had to stretch his muscles. “That was a punishing coach ride. I don’t like being tucked into small spaces.”
“Especially with a man like my father.”
Blake shot her a glance. The earl of Tay was known for his rambling monologues and prodigious drinking. What most people didn’t know, and Blake now did, was that the earl had a whole array of disgusting personal habits, from flatulence to picking at body parts. Blake never wanted to be that close to the man ever again.
“It was not a pleasant trip,” he commented.
“But you achieved what you wished. You have a bride.”
That was, unfortunately, true. . . .
“How did you know my husband?” Lady Aileen asked, her manner defensive.
“I was in school with him. We did not like each other. He was a scoundrel, a liar and a cheat.”
“He was.” The words hung in the air between them.
Usually, women were eager to babble their business. He’d thought them all magpies. But Lady Aileen was tense, her lips pressed in such a way that he knew she was determined to say no more. She expected him to think the worst of her. After having been the target of gossips for most of his life, Blake understood.
He changed the subject. “So you believe in love,” he said, walking over to the liquor cabinet to place his empty glass upon it.
“Certainly,” she replied a touch too briskly. “Don’t you?”
“Oh, certainly,” he answered, echoing her breezy tone and letting her know he saw through her. “After all, I am here, aren’t I?”
“Very well . . . I don’t believe in love.” She raised her arms as if asking him what he wanted to do about it. “But my sister does, and I’m certain you have little feeling for her.”
“Why would you say that?” Blake asked, curious to know her impression of him.
“It was very obvious,” she said. “You barely looked at her a moment ago, and you don’t act like a wounded swain. When you didn’t rise when my sister and I entered the room, I thought it was poor manners born out of a sense of arrogance. And I’m not going to say you aren’t arrogant—but . . . ,” she said thoughtfully, “I don’t think you are afraid to let her jilt you.”
“Afraid? No, but my pride is all I have that is truly my own. I have no desire to be known as the man Tara Davidson refused to marry, not without a hand in my own destiny.”
“Oh, you will have a hand in your destiny, sir. You’ll have a miserable hand, one that will make you rue the day you agreed to this marriage.”
He already did wish he wasn’t promised to marry, but no good would come from admitting it to the sister.
“I also know that Tara will make you a beautiful and dutiful wife. You will be the envy of your peers, and your children will be precious replicas of the two of you—”
“You sound resentful,” he observed.
“Although,” she continued, ignoring his statement but exerting the authority of her opinion, “the two of you will live separate lives. That is completely to be expected, since it is so common. But it makes me sad to contemplate the possibility. While I am not acquainted with you, I do know there is more to my sister than meets the eye. She deserves better than a cold marriage.”
Her blunt assessment stung. “Says the woman who is divorced.”
Her chin lifted a notch. “Yes, I am divorced and at peace with it. Trust me, I am not comparing my marriage to yours.”
“That is comforting,” he murmured.
“Because if I did,” she went on, her smile growing steely, “I would have a pistol in my hand and not allow you a step closer to Tara.”
“I shall consider that a warning,” he answered.
“It’s a promise. But if I were you, I would be afraid to give up my life to another. ‘Till death do we part’ can be a very long time.”
“Not if we have separate lives,” he reminded her.
She gave him an assessing look. “Is that what you really want? A life spent avoiding your wife, of pretending all is good?”
“So I take it that you plan on marrying again?” he challenged, baiting her, wanting to know what she would do.
A sad smile crossed her face. “You said you knew my husband. Perhaps you did not know him as well as you thought or you wouldn’t have asked such a question.” She walked to the door. “We eat early in the country, Mr. Stephens. Dinner will be in two hours. I pray you make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, you have only to ask a servant.” On those words, she left the room.
And with her went that strong sense of presence, of vitality.
Aileen Davidson Hamilton was a force of nature. And perhaps one of the most interesting women he’d ever met. She didn’t hesitate to speak her mind. Nor was she coy or flirtatious in the way one would imagine a woman rumored to be promiscuous would be. He found her directness and her loyalty refreshing.
He walked to the door. The hallway was already empty. She’d disappeared somewhere in the house. He leaned against the door frame and wondered what he would do, what he could do, to honorably escape a marriage to Tara.
Because she was right—he would not be able to stand the married life she had described.
His mother had been the most manipulative woman he’d ever known. And his early years of being raised in her room at Madame Lavatt’s whorehouse had taught him that any woman could give a kiss as quickly as a slap. They were mercurial, difficult, grasping and greedy.
They were also a necessary evil for any sexually vigorous man, and Blake was that . . . although he was wise in his choice of partners. Discreet. He valued quality over quantity.
He also knew himself well.
If Tara had not been the loveliest woman in London, if everyone had not wanted her, especially Arthur, he wouldn’t have courted her no matter how hard Penevey had pressed. There had been a challenge in winning the woman they had all wanted. However, when he’d paid calls on Tara, there had been times when fifteen minutes had seemed like fifteen hours. She bored him.
But he had a feeling he would find Lady Aileen anything but boring.
It was said that a wise man stayed away from a clever woman. Blake had always wondered what the saying meant. He’d known women who were witty and humorous . . . but he’d never met one he’d consider “clever” in a dangerous sense.
He believed he’d just met one.
I had not heard that Lady Tara was planning to return to Annefield,” Jane Sawyer said.
She and Ruary were riding on the tree-lined road to Aberfeldy. At least once a week, she managed to steal away from her father’s watchful eye and catch Ruary at whatever stable he was working at that day. She valued these rides. She liked being near him, and not just because she adored looking at him. He was a handsome man. But there was also something about his presence that filled a need deep within her. Something she’d not felt with any other man before.
If that wasn’t love, then she didn’t know what was.
But this was the first time she’d been with him and sensed that his thoughts were far away from her . . . and perhaps on Tara Davidson?
Ruary gave a small start at her mention of Lady Tara. A dull red rose up his neck. “I don’t believe anyone was expecting her.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be married sometime soon?” Jane knew the answer. The whole countryside knew. It was all anyone could talk of since they’d first heard the news a month ago.
“I don’t know what she is supposed to be doing or not doing,” Ruary answered, a note of annoyance in his voice. “I work for the earl of Tay. I don’t keep track of his daughters.”
He kicked his horse into a trot. The action itself was a signal that in his mind the discussion was over, and that was very unlike him. Ruary was known for his patience. Even the annoyance in his voice was not his usual manner.
Jane had to wonder why.
Ruary trotted a good ways up the road before he realized she was not beside him. She was surprised at the distance he’d traveled; in the past, he would have noticed her absence immediately. She halted her horse.
He reined in his horse and frowned before walking back to her. “Is there a problem?”
For a long moment, she studied this man she loved so dearly. Her heart always gave a little skipping beat whenever she saw him, just as it had that first time they’d met when he’d come to talk to her father about training the very mare she was riding.
That he had chosen her for his wife filled her with pride . . . and also a sense that perhaps he wasn’t aware of how plain and ordinary she was. On market day, women would stop and stare when they saw him, and there would be admiring whispers and giggling, even when Jane was standing right there by his side. It was very clear they didn’t think Jane was worthy of such a fine-looking man, a fear she equally harbored.
“Jane, I’m already late for Laird Breccan. I told him I would see him before afternoon.”
“I know.”
Something in those two simple words seemed to give him pause. “Are you all right? You are very quiet.”
Jane started to speak, then realized she didn’t know what she wanted to say. The words roiling in her mind came from her worst fears, her doubts.
And when she did answer him, she was startled to hear herself say, “I love you.”
She had not said these words to him. She’d felt he should speak them first. Even when he had asked for her hand, he had not mentioned love. Instead, he’d said he’d come to “greatly admire” her.
Then there was the day he said she gave him peace . . . but, of course, that was before Lady Tara had returned.
Her declaration hovered in the air between them.
He spoke. “I appreciate you as well, Jane. That is why we are going to marry.”
Had such a statement been enough before?
It was not now.
“Did you not hear me, Ruary? I didn’t say I ‘appreciate’ you. I said, I love you. I can’t wait to be your wife.”
“Jane, I can’t wait to marry you either,” he answered, but something was missing in his tone.
Something had always been missing, and she’d not noticed its lack until this moment.
“Lady Tara isn’t going to marry, is she?” Jane guessed.
Ruary had the good grace to appear startled. “I don’t know, Jane. I don’t know.”
His repetition of the phrase gave him away.
He did know.
And she realized she had a choice to make. She could pretend as if all was well.
Or she could confront the niggling doubts that had started to assail her the moment Lady Tara had come out of the dark grain room, where she’d obviously been with Ruary.
“I don’t mean to annoy you,” she said.
“You aren’t annoying me. I just—” he started and then stopped. Releasing a breath of feigned exasperation, he said, “I sense you are accusing me of something, and I don’t know of what.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” She had trouble meeting his eye. “It’s just that you have become my life,” she said, studying the well-worn leather of her gloves holding the reins. “I care so deeply for you that I can sense your moods, and I believe there is something strained between us right now.”
“What is strained is your sudden, odd behavior. Are you unhappy? Is that what you are trying to say?”
“No, of course not,” Jane answered, caught by how quickly the focus of this conversation had turned to her. “I want you to be happy—”
“I am happy. I am.”
There was that repetition again, and that is when Jane knew that his feelings toward her were changing. Her mother had told her that when a woman loves a man, she can sense what he cannot say.
Ruary and Lady Tara, together, was not innocent.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked her, leaning over to lift her chin so that she had to look at him.
A deep weight pressed against her chest, making breathing difficult. “I just want you to be certain,” she murmured.
“The time for being certain was before I went to your father. The banns have been announced once, and they will be announced again this Sunday. You will be my wife, Jane—” He broke off, studied her a second and then said, “Unless you have doubts?”
“I have no doubts at all,” she rushed to tell him, and she prayed that was true.
“Good,” he said, and, for a moment, she expected him to kiss her. She wanted him to.
Ruary rarely gave into passion. He respected her that way. He was always circumspect, and this was public road.
Still, she hoped, and was once again disappointed when he dropped his hand and leaned back in his saddle. “Perhaps I shall see you on the morrow?”
“Of course,” Jane answered, picking up her reins and trying to not let her discontent show.
He gifted her with a smile that melted her heart, then rode away with a wave of his hand. Jane watched him before turning in the direction of her home.
And knew all her suspicions were correct.