His Sinful Secret (26 page)

“No need to worry over it, my lady. Shall I have hot water sent up?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“What kind of accident?” Michael demanded. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Julianne.”

Though she’d avoided meeting his eye so far, she was forced to look at him, the tone of his voice soft yet implacable. In turn, he was staring at the child nestled in her arms. Chloe, incredibly, had fallen sound asleep.

“Could we possibly discuss this upstairs?” To her dismay, there was the faintest wobble in her voice, and, unexpectedly, the prick of tears stung her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m quite cold and wet, and I truly had the most awful day.”

No, she refused to start sobbing in front of everyone, but despite her resolve, a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Fitz, get into dry clothes before you catch your death,” she heard Michael say decisively. “Rutgers, we’ll need a maid for the child and that hot water as soon as possible. Please discreetly make our excuses to my mother.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Julianne let out a small gasp as she was suddenly swept, sleeping child and all, into a pair of strong arms. The sound of booted feet rang on the marble floor as Michael carried her down the hallway.

“You’ll ruin your clothes,” she protested, but, quite frankly, he was warm, solid, and smelled wonderful, which, she suspected, with wet filth clinging to her skirts, she did not.

“It seems to be happening quite a lot lately,” he muttered.

“Besides,” he went on, “this seems expedient, and I must confess I am more than a little curious to hear exactly what course of events led to you arriving home dripping wet and carrying a street urchin.”

“She isn’t a street urchin,” Julianne said defensively, though, to be fair, with Chloe’s ragged clothes and less than clean appearance, she could see how he’d come to that conclusion.

“No?” He started up the staircase, carrying them both with seemingly little effort. “Who is she, then?”

A rather difficult question to answer. In the end, Julianne said simply, “Ours. She’s ours.”

 

Pouring another glass of claret, Michael watched his lovely wife pick at the savory chicken glazed beautifully with a reduction of honey and port. They were in her bedroom, a small table had been carried in and dinner delivered discreetly by Julianne’s maid. In a light blue satin dressing gown that draped her slender body, his wife had been extraordinarily quiet during their informal meal. But then again, he’d stopped the rush of her initial explanation by saying he didn’t need to hear it until she’d had something to eat and time to reflect on what she was going to say.

A strategic delay. A good idea? He wasn’t sure. It was an undeniable fact that he often dealt with those accustomed to deception, not delectable young ladies with moving, midnight blue eyes. Dealing with his wife was quite different from dealing with his usual adversaries.

But he
was
used to interrogation. He was exceptionally good at it. That he would get the truth, especially from someone like Julianne, was not in question.

Waiting was one of the most effective ways of rendering the suspect nervous enough to reveal her deepest secrets. For instance: the child.

It wasn’t hers. It had been his initial, gut-wrenching reaction that maybe, just maybe, she’d not been the trembling virgin on their wedding night. Certainly she had enjoyed their lovemaking and not been nearly as shy as he’d expected,but then again, there had been physical evidence of her loss of innocence, and he had also experienced the moment when he’d breached her maidenhead.

No. Not hers.

So, what in God’s name was she doing showing up with a waif in her arms, and as defensive as a lioness with a cub?

“You should at least make an effort to eat,” he said with as much neutrality as possible. “Whatever you have to tell me can’t be so catastrophic that you need to make yourself ill.”

“It might be.” Julianne reached for her glass of wine and took a swift, convulsive sip. Her eyes shimmered, and he fervently hoped she wasn’t going to cry again.

He’d endured two days of relentless torture by the French in a filthy little cell and held fast, but that one glistening tear streaking down her cheek earlier had undone him.

“Julianne,” he began to say.

“You haven’t eaten much either,” she pointed out, her hand visibly trembling as she set down her glass.

To be honest, his arm hurt, he’d been so damn worried about her that he’d nearly worn a path in the hallway waiting, and now . . . well, he was just too confounded to eat.

“
And
you are studying me as if I am an exhibit at a museum. Some sort of curiosity you are trying to understand,” she added in a small voice.

He might just be guilty of said crime. Michael shifted slightly in his chair. “I understandably have questions, but at the same time, I hope not heartless enough to put you through an inquisition when you are tired and hungry. Finish eating.”

“I can’t. It would be easier to just tell you.” Glossy strands of her hair, still damp from her recent bath, framing her face, his wife delicately set aside her fork. “Chloe is Harry’s.”

His brother—the perfect paragon of a ducal heir—had fathered an illegitimate child?

“I don’t know the exact date of her birth, but I’m told she’s almost three.”

Michael had to admit the disclosure took him off guard. And he prided himself for not being off guard often. His brother hadn’t been a rake particularly, and though his older sibling had enjoyed life, Michael had never had the impression that Harry was promiscuous or careless. He sent a swift glance at the bed, where the small form slumbered under the tumbled blankets. “How the devil did that happen?”

For the first time that evening, Julianne showed a hint of amusement. “I can testify firsthand, my lord, you know exactly how it happens.”

He smiled wryly. “Not quite what I meant, my dear. Start from the beginning, if you please.”

All humor vanished. “The beginning? I wasn’t there at the beginning. I had no idea about Chloe until he died. I didn’t know what to do.” Julianne’s voice was hushed and barely audible. “Your parents were in such grief. Leah sent me a note and asked for us to meet. She knew I was Harry’s intended. She told me she’d had his child . . . that he’d been paying her for Chloe’s care and to keep it all quiet. If I didn’t do the same, she would contact the duke and duchess. I wasn’t sure they could bear it at the time, so I agreed.”

It took a moment to assimilate that information. “This woman blackmailed you?”

“I suppose that is one way to look at it.” Julianne’s delicate features blanched. “I prefer to think of it as helping to care for Chloe.”

“How in the name of Hades do you even know the child is my brother’s?”

“Have you really looked at her?” Slender shoulders straightened, and her gaze was defiantly direct at his blunt question. “She is unmistakably a Hepburn. She looks nothing like her mother. Besides, he must have known Chloe was his, for he was the one paying for her support. She showed me notes in his hand, outlining the arrangement.”

All Michael had seen was tousled chestnut curls and a small, wan face. His experience with children was nonexistent, but notes sounded a bit more convincing. “You’ve been paying ever since his death? How?”

“My father, naturally, gave me a small allowance . . . and I sold a few bits of my grandmother’s jewelry.”

Michael had no idea what to say. A young, unattached woman her age had little recourse, and no matter how generous her father might have been, her spending stipend could not have been much, with her family providing for her every other need. Whereas
his
father—the child’s grandfather—was a rich man. She needn’t have made the sacrifice.

“Since we married,” she went on in a soft voice, “it has been much easier. The generosity of the pin money you gave me was enough to pay her and not have to worry over it.”

There wasn’t much question that he was at a loss. Michael carefully set aside his wine. “A part of me wants to thank you,” he said with raw honesty. “But a part of me wants to also demand to know why you didn’t tell me about my brother’s child before now. I am your husband, Julianne.”

“I didn’t know you well enough to judge how you might react.”

And more than once she’d mentioned how he held himself aloof.

Damnation, he
did
hold himself aloof.

Her reticence could be entirely his fault. No, not so—it
was
his fault.

Julianne said evenly, “I wasn’t trying to deceive you, but you know better than anyone how devastated your parents were by Harry’s death. I assumed he didn’t want them to know or he would have told them already about Chloe, and so I didn’t do it just for them, but also for him.”

For Harry. The man she’d envisioned would be her husband almost her entire life. Michael was the substitute. The substitute marquess, the substitute heir, and, yes, the substitute husband.

She went on haltingly, “I vow to you I tried to help, not particularly to keep her hidden. I hated that part of it.” Julianne’s expression was poignant and vulnerable. “I’ve discovered that once you embark on such a journey, secrets hold you prisoner.”

Secrets. He was well versed in that arena. She spoke the absolute truth. But her secret was born from good intentions, and the only sin was of omission. The vow was unnecessary.

“Did you love him?” Michael didn’t even know he was going to ask the question. It was spontaneous, and he found the answer was important to him.

Julianne looked bewildered. “Love him?”

“Harry.”

“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to her virtually untouched food. There was a pause, and she said softly, “No. Not in the way you mean.”

How selfish of him to experience a rush of relief. God, would he take that from his brother too?

None of what he had inherited had he wanted. Not even Julianne. But that had changed. The title didn’t matter, the legacy of the dukedom was more a burden than a prize, but his lovely wife was different. He definitely wanted her.

“I might have loved him eventually. I think I would have in time.” She sat there, beautifully disconcerted, gazing at him with those glorious eyes. “Still,” she went on, her voice taking on a peculiar husky tone, though also curiously full of dignity, “I don’t know how I am so sure of it, but strange as it is, I know—
I know
—it would never be like it is with you.”

Was Antonia correct? Suddenly this was important. So very important.

“How is it with me?” Michael was usually more adroit at controlling his tone, but in this case he failed miserably. To his dismay, he
wanted
her to say she was in love with him. That passion had translated into a deeper feeling. That though he’d done his best to keep her at arm’s length, he’d failed.

How odd. He wanted to know he’d failed.

Because he’d certainly not been able to keep himself from getting involved.

Suddenly the bedroom seemed small despite its palatial size, and Julianne was too close, with her dark blue eyes and rose-tinted lips. Her tempting figure, so lushly curved in the right places and slender in others, was covered only by a thin dressing gown. He wanted her, he knew, his fingers tightening on the stem of his glass, but he also wanted her answer more.

A lot more. The emotional over the physical.

Unprecedented in his life when it came to a woman.

A certain part of her took issue that he could even think to pose the question.

The trouble in answering was the nature of the man asking it. Had he been someone else—anyone else—she could have sworn there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice, but this was Michael.

Vulnerable? No. Before this moment she would have sworn it impossible. Yet the way he was looking at her, unmoving in his chair, his brilliant hazel eyes so focused . . . maybe he did want to know.

Would he even welcome a declaration of deeper feeling?

In indecision, Julianne took a shuddering breath.
Or,
the voice of reason pointed out,
maybe it would merely make him take a step backward, which would ruin the hard-won closeness I’ve sensed growing between us.
Was he testing the waters, or was he trying to decide if he should head for dry land as soon as possible?

She wished she were a bit better at this sort of game.

He had unquestionably more experience. For that matter, Antonia Taylor would no doubt know exactly what to say in response. It would be witty, they would both laugh, and the personal moment would be avoided.

“Not like I thought it would be.” It was an answer worthy of one of his evasions.

He didn’t accept the equivocation, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. “Fair enough. How did you think it would be?”

“I have already told you I didn’t know you as well as I knew Harry.”

“And I have already conceded that is true.” He lounged there, imposingly tall, informal now that he had discarded his cravat and coat and unbuttoned his shirt, and drinking wine with seeming unconcern. But she’d already learned he was never casual.

It was always there in his dangerously beautiful eyes. He could hide almost everything, but not that intensity.

“I think eventually I would have loved Harry,” Julianne said carefully. “But I doubt I would have ever fallen
in
love with him. I do not have much experience, but I think the concept is different.”

“Loving a person and falling in love is not the same?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What are you saying?”