Fallen (35 page)

Looking back at the man behind the massive desk, he tried one last time to reach the father within. "We loved you, you know. Manny and I both loved you. We would have done anything to make you happy." The duke's grim expression did not change. "I wonder. Could anything in this world make you happy?" If possible, the man became even stiffer at those words.

"Happiness is a maudlin catch-phrase for the masses. It is not for the likes of us. We have responsibility. Duty. Tradition."

"Oh, I am quite happy," Julian announced, sorry his father could not understand. "Izzy makes me happy. Leaving Dearingham makes me happy. Seeing a new land makes me happy. See, it is not at all a difficult concept. Does nothing make you feel this way?"

"I hardly think you and I could have the same definition of contentment, but yes, if you must know, Dearingham brings me contentment."

"Contentment is a pallid cousin to happiness, Your Grace, but if that is so, then I wish you well of it." Bowing with the barest of courtesy, Julian turned to the doors.

"Wait! The boy. You will send the boy?"

Pausing in his departure without turning, Julian nodded. "But not until it is necessary."

Defeat laced the duke's next words. "But you will teach him his duty?"

"Indeed, I shall. Of course, I hardly think you and I could have the same definition of duty." With that, Julian passed through the dark doors, down the emptily echoing hall, and away from the chill of Dearingham forever.

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Izzy waited for her husband to catch up. She did not often win these little races, so she enjoyed his rueful expression when he came abreast on his mount. She shot him a mildly triumphant glance, then tilted back her head to feel the sun on her face.

Summers in the Colorado territory were brief but welcome. She had come to love this craggy land, with its green grassy valleys and its harsh, elemental winters.

Lowering her gaze, she idly examined her own fingers wrapped about the reins. If her age showed the most in her hands, it was as hard-won marks of battle—against life, birth and death, and this magnificent land.

They had left it all, position, society, their friends and helpers, and boarded that ship with only a few belongings and their horses. Julian and Isadora Rowley.

Timothy and Betty had been snapped up by Lady Greenleigh immediately, and Timothy had risen swiftly to stablemaster, after which he promptly married his best girl, while Betty had proven her grace under fire by providing hairstyle after fashionable hairstyle amidst the chaos of six young ladies preparing for a ball simultaneously.

Eric Calwell had wed Celia Bottomly shortly after her interval of mourning had lapsed. Then, he had fathered one strapping son, five exquisite daughters, and, oh yes, one captivating hellion who could not seem to make up her mind which she wanted to be.

When they had first arrived from England, she and Julian had nurtured the small string of horses brought from Dearingham. Adding carefully to this number from the lovely creatures on these shores, they had distilled a splendid strain based on the strength and speed of Tristan, and the Arab intelligence and sensitivity brought by Lizzie.

Izzy looked up once more, breathing in the crisp dry air.

Here they had brought their magnificent horses for a new beginning. She had given her love five sons and a daughter, and they all rode these mountains and ran the family stock.

So many years, and so much laughter and sorrow. Julian rode beside her, in the saddle he had once proclaimed ridiculous, as straight and tall as he had been the day she had confronted him in the Marchwells' yellow parlor.

His waving hair was now more silver than dark, as was her own, yet his body was firm and his passion everlasting. Yes, she was very happy with her accidental marriage.

The pounding of approaching hooves brought her back from her recollection of that morning's delight, and they reined in to await the rider. Cocking one eyebrow, she guessed, "Eric? No, Ian."

"Matthew," was Julian's prediction, and he was correct. As their eldest son neared, Izzy was struck again by his resemblance to the man she had fallen for so long ago. Matthew was the spitting image of Julian, riding the spitting image of Tristan. It often made her blink.

"Father, there's a letter from England. It's addressed to the duke of Dearingham," shouted the young man as he advanced.

Ah, she thought.
It has come
. She examined Julian's expression, but saw nothing but wry surprise.

"It's not too late." He gave her a sideways look. "Are you sure you don't want to be a duchess?"

He knew what her answer would be, the same as he knew the sighs she made in her sleep, and the way she smiled and cried when she first held their children in her arms.

He laughed when she shuddered with horror at the idea. Very well, then. It was time to play dead, he thought, with something of relief. The seeds of the plan had been planted long before, with the willing help of Eric. A rumor, a sad story of a horse gone wild, and most of England already believed him perished.

"Are you feeling bad about the lie?" Izzy smiled fondly at him, and edged her mare closer. Reaching out, she stroked one hand down his cheek. He caught her wrist and pressed a kiss to her palm.

"It's no lie. The man that London knew as Lord Blackworth died years ago. I could never be happy there, after all that happened."

As her son reined to a stop before them, Izzy took a long, loving look at the child—no, the man—she might soon lose to those distant English hills.

"Who do they mean, Father? Is it you? Are you the duke, after all?"

Julian smiled fondly at his son, the pride of his heart. He studied the strong young figure before him, and knew his son would do well, for himself and for Dearingham.

"No, Matthew. It is addressed to you. You are the new duke of Dearingham."

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