Scandalous Love (41 page)

He was sad for her—for
whatever was causing her such anguish, and he guessed it was him. He was also
sad for himself. Because now that he had recognized his love for her, and how
much he needed her, he could no longer deny his feelings, and they were not
about to go away. Apparently his love would remain unrequited. His heart seemed
to bleed. And as she wept in his arms like a child, he suddenly felt like a
small boy again, and he, too, felt like crying. Tears came to his eyes.

He tried to remind
himself that he was not a small boy, that he was a grown man, but it did not
work.

She vented her anguish
for a long time, but eventually the sobs became hiccups, eventually the small
blows she aimed at his chest lessened and disappeared. He did not let her go
and he continued to rock her. Her fists uncurled, only to turn claw-like, and
she was clinging to his shirt.

Although she no longer
cried, a tremor swept her body. He swept his hand down her back, soothing her.
He realized that she was falling asleep in his arms. "You will feel better
tomorrow," Hadrian promised her. "Tomorrow it will not seem so
bad."

She sighed. "I
don't hate you," she whispered into his shirt. "Not really."

He almost smiled, and
another tear sparkled on his lashes. "Sleep now. In a few hours we will be
home."

Her grip on his shirt
tightened. "I love you, Hadrian. I don't hate you, I love you."

He was shocked.

Her grip loosened and
she sagged in his arms. Still stunned, he looked down at her and saw that she
was in a deep, exhausted sleep. Very carefully, very gently, he laid her down
on the seat. And he stared at her tear-ravaged face.

I don't hate you,
Hadrian, I love you.

She had only been
delirious. Hadn't she?

It was late that evening
when the Duke and Duchess arrived at Clayborough. The Duke stepped down from
the Serles' coach first, his own doormen gaping at him when they recognized him
before quickly recovering. But Hadrian had more surprises in store for them
other than his disheveled appearance in another gentleman's coach. He reached
for his sleeping wife. She had not moved or made a sound in hours. Never had he
seen a human being in such a deep sleep. Now he did not want to wake her, and
very gently he lifted her into his arms.

Nicole stirred.

Hadrian carried his wife
up the steps and into the foyer. Woodward, Mrs. Veig and his valet, Reynard,
were hurrying into the room as he entered. No one so much as blinked at the
sight of the Duke carrying his errant wife, barefoot and clad in a fur coat and
asleep in his arms. Without pausing, he addressed Mrs. Veig. "When Her
Grace awakes she will undoubtedly want a hot bath and a hot meal."

As he started up the
stairs, Nicole sighed, gripping him with her hands. He watched her face as he
strode into her bedroom. Her eyes fluttered open. Gently Hadrian laid her down
on the bed. "We are home. Go back to sleep. It is late."

Nicole smiled at him. It
was an artless, sleepy beautiful smile, and Hadrian's heart somersaulted. Her
eyes instantly closed again. He could not help wishing that he
could receive many more
of those smiles, and that they would be purposefully directed at him.

He had removed her wet
nightgown hours ago and she was naked beneath the fur coat. He took it off
quickly, pulling the many heavy quilts and bedcoverings up over her. Then he
went to the hearth and started a fire.

The last words she had
spoken to him still rang in his ears. He had been able to think of little else
during the remainder of the journey to Clayborough.
I
don't hate you,
Hadrian, I love you.
He knew she had not meant it. Had she?

He was afraid to hope.
If she had meant what she had said, he would be the happiest man on this earth.

The fire beginning to
blaze, Hadrian left the room, but not before giving his wife one last long
glance. Hadrian strode into his own rooms, where Reynard was waiting for him.
He handed him his greatcoat. "I too would like a bath and something to
eat."

"I've already drawn
your bath, Your Grace. And Woodward is bringing your meal."

Hadrian was suddenly
restless. He patted the Borzoi, who had bounded forward to greet him, but he
did so mindlessly, still thinking about Nicole. Woodward appeared at the door
with a butler's table. He wheeled it into the room and laid out the Duke's
napkin with an efficient flourish.

"Will you be taking
your bath first, Your Grace?"

"Absolutely,"
Hadrian said. He doubted he had ever been filthier in his life.

"Before you do,
Your Grace, may I tell you that you have a visitor?" Woodward asked.

Hadrian was unbuttoning
his shirt. "What visitor?"

"He arrived most
unexpectedly yesterday just after you left. He had no card, and I would have
sent him to the Boarshead Inn, but being as he had come all the way from
America, I thought the better of it and put him on the fourth floor in one of
the guest rooms."

"Is it my courier
returned from Boston?" He demanded sharply, hope leaping in his chest.

"No, Your Grace.
His name is Stone, but he would not say what he wants. Mister Stone is
presently taking a brandy in the fourth-floor library. I can tell him to await
you there until after you have dined, or I can tell him you will see him on the
morrow."

Blood rushed from
Hadrian's head, and for the first time in his life, he felt faint.

"Your Grace? Are
you ill?"

He recovered. He
recovered to turn and stride towards the stairs, taking the steps two at a
time, leaving Woodward staring after him.
His father was here.
He could
not believe it—he would not, not until he himself laid eyes upon the man.

Hadrian Stone restlessly
inspected the collection of volumes in the library—which was just one of
several in the Duke's residence. A terrific feeling of unease assailed him. He
shouldn't have come. He knew that now.

The anxiety that had
gradually intensified during the long days he had spent crossing the Atlantic
as meeting his son became more imminent was nothing compared to the distress he
now felt. He had known his son was a duke, but nothing could have prepared him
for his son's estate, nothing could have prepared him for Clayborough.

He had expected luxury,
yes. He had expected wealth. What he had not expected was a home fit for
royalty as they lived a century ago, a home of palatial proportions and
palatial pretense. All of his doubt came rushing to the fore. He was a simple
man. His father had been cobbler, his mother a seamstress. He saw himself as a
ship's captain, not as a shipping magnate. He was wearing expensively tailored
clothes, but he felt like a fraud in them, and would have much preferred a
seaman's wool sweater and rainslicker. Even this one small library overwhelmed
him, for in truth there was nothing small about it.

What kind of man was he?

Hadrian Stone greatly
feared that he was an arrogant one, and that he was about to be judged as
unworthy by his own son.

A movement by the open
door made him turn from his perusal of the stacks. A tall, powerfully built man
stood in the doorway, half in shadows. Then he moved into the room.

Hadrian Stone knew the
moment that the man stepped into the light that it was his son. His face was
Isobel's. Barely able to breathe and unable to move, he stared at the man—the
grown man—who was his son.

And the Duke of
Clayborough stared back.

Stone saw that although
his son had gained most of his stunning looks from his mother, his jaw was
strong and square like his own, and it saved him from being too handsome. And
his eyes, his eyes were the same golden amber as his own. But the resemblance
did not end there. The Duke of Clayborough also possessed the same immense
height, the same powerful build, as his father.

And then Stone noticed
his clothes. He saw a damp silk shirt and tan, soiled breeches. The Duke's
boots were glistening with rain and crusted with mud. Stone's gaze again swept
to his son's face. There was nothing dandified about the man's clothes—there
was nothing dandified about his face, either. His son was a man, in every sense
of the word, and one who had, by the look of him, endured an incredibly long,
difficult day.

Relief filled the
father's veins.

The Duke was busy with
his own inspection. Wide-eyed, Hadrian could not take his eyes off of the other
man. His father was here.
His father.
Long moments passed. Hadrian shook
himself out of the very real daze gripping him. "I had not expected such
an immediate response to my inquiry."

Stone hesitated. The
cultured tones coming from the other man were a surprise, reminding him again
that not just a different country but a different class separated them, and his
anxiety renewed itself. "How could I not come immediately?"

Hadrian shut the door
and entered the room. "I must apologize for not being in residence when
you arrived."

Stone waved at him. "Obviously
I was not expected."

The two men fell into an
awkward silence. Hadrian broke it by crossing the room. "Would you like
another brandy?"

"Perhaps I'd
better," Stone murmured.

Hadrian meticulously
poured his father a drink. "Have you seen Isobel?" The question was
casual, without intent, as he desperately sought a topic to break the ice
between them.

"No."

Startled, Hadrian looked
up, seeing the darkness passing over his father's face. He knew when to
withdraw— he knew better than to continue with the topic of his mother,
although his father's vehemence puzzled him. After so many years he would have
expected indifference, not anger. He approached the other man for the first
time, handing him his brandy. With no physical distance separating them, the two
were silent and immobile, standing eye to eye and nose to nose, staring at each
other.

"Damn,"
Hadrian finally breathed. "This is damnably awkward. How in hell does one
greet one's long lost father anyway?"

Stone laughed suddenly.
"Damn is right!" He exclaimed. "Thank God you can curse!"

Hadrian suddenly smiled,
equally beset by nervous tension. "You wish me to curse?"

"It's not that I
want you to curse," Stone said, his smile fading, "I was merely
wondering if we would continue the conversation so formally."

"We Englishmen are
sticklers for formality," Hadrian said.

"Yes, but you are
half American."

Hadrian stopped smiling.
Finally his mouth softened. "I was eager to meet you," he admitted.
"Thank you for coming."

"What father could
stay away in such a situation?" Stone asked frankly.

"Many, I should
imagine."

Stone gained an inkling,
then, into his son's soul. "I have always yearned for a son. I have no
children. None. Rather—" and he smiled, "until now."

That smile told Hadrian
everything. He had already learned from Isobel that this man was everything
Francis was not. But he had been afraid, secretly afraid, that fatherhood would
mean little to the stranger who had sired him. Yet it did not. His father was
pleased to find out that he had a son. More than pleased, if the haste with
which he had come to England was any indication. "And I always wanted a
father like all the other boys had," Hadrian admitted.

Stone looked at him.
"You had a father."

Hadrian's face turned to
stone. "I did not have a father. Francis knew I was a bastard. I did not
know the truth, however, so I could never understand why he hated me. Finding
out the truth has been the greatest relief of my life."

Stone's face was grim.
"She should have told you long before this—she should have told me."

Hadrian heard his
tone—the condemnation—and stared. "She had her reasons."

Stone instantly
recognized the loyalty his son had for his mother, and he backed off. If he
were to accuse Isobel of treachery, he would alienate his own son, whom he was aching
to befriend. "The past is the past. I am thankful that I am still alive to
see this day—to see you, my own son, in the flesh."

Hadrian smiled. "I
have looked forward to this day, too. Isobel only talked of you once but when
she did, she made it clear that you were everything Francis was not."

"Was he so
bad?" Stone asked softly, terribly concerned.

"He was a drunk and
a sodomite who hated not just me, but his wife. He was a coward and a bully. He
abused us both. Until I turned fourteen and knocked him down with my own two
fists."

Stone was horrified. He
suddenly had a clear image of Isobel as she had been thirty years ago, slender,
proud and exquisitely beautiful, being struck by some featureless man who was
her husband, a small boy holding onto her skirts. He shook off the sympathy he
did not want to feel, not for her, and concentrated on his son instead.
"Perhaps some day you will share your story with me."

"Perhaps."
Hadrian turned away.

Stone knew that he had
pushed too far, too quickly. He was an uncomplicated man; his son was terribly
complicated. Yet despite what had to have been a horrific childhood, he was
clearly a strong and honorable man. No one could talk with the Duke of
Clayborough for long without recognizing his virtue and his power.

Hadrian turned again.
"Do you want me to send for her?"

"No!"

Hadrian was again
shocked by the vehemence in his father's tone. A hazy comprehension, still
unformed, began to fill him. "You said you have no children. Did you ever
marry?"

"No." Stone's
expression was ferocious. "As I said, the past is the past." He
softened his tone. "I have no wish to dredge it up, and I am sure your
mother does not, either."

In that precise moment,
Hadrian disagreed. He disagreed and sensed the power of emotions too private and
complex for him to identify, nevertheless, shrewd instinct made him decide to
ignore his father's wishes. "You are probably right," he said
placatingly. "How long will you stay?"