Shattered Rainbows (27 page)

Though the mansion had not changed outwardly, he felt a subtle difference in the atmosphere. It was charged with the hush of a household waiting for death. A footman in powdered wig and knee breeches stood outside the duke's chambers. Recognizing a Kenyon, he opened the door with a bow.

Michael took a deep breath, then entered, crossing the sitting room to his father's bedchamber. He tried to remember if he had ever set foot in it before; he didn't think so. He and his father had never been on intimate terms.

The bedroom was claustrophobically dark and heavy with the scents of medicine and decay. It was a shock to see his father's wasted body lying in the bed, dwarfed by the velvet hangings and massive carved posts. Abruptly it hit home that the ogre of his childhood was dying. As a soldier, he respected the power and finality of death, and he found himself feeling some compassion. The fourth Duke of Ashburton had finally found an enemy he could not bully into submission.

A dozen people were clustered uneasily around the room: his brother and sister and their respective spouses, the duke's valet and secretary, several physicians. His sister,the Countess of Herrington, scowled at Michael. "I'm surprised to see
you
here."

His mouth tightened. "If my presence is unwelcome, Claudia, that can be remedied."

His brother frowned at the byplay. "This is not the place for squabbling. I invited Michael because Father wants to see him." Though all of the Kenyons were tall, with dark chestnut hair and chiseled features, the Marquess of Benfield had the cold eyes and flinty authority of a man who had been raised to be a duke. There were times in their childhood when the brothers had gotten on fairly well. There were only two years between them, and as a child Michael had called his brother Stephen.

It had been decades since he had used any name but Benfield.

"Is that Michael?"

The hoarse whisper caused everyone to turn to the bed.

"Yes, sir. I've come." Michael stepped close and looked down at his father.

The duke was a shadow of his former self, all strained bones and will, but in his eyes, anger still smoldered. "Everyone leave. Except for Michael and Benfield."

Claudia started to protest. "But Father—"

The duke cut her off. "Out!"

There was a shuffling as people left the room. Though Claudia's face was stiff with anger, she dared not disobey.

Michael glanced at Benfield, but his brother gave a slight shake of the head, as much in the dark as Michael.

The duke said in a thin, rasping voice, "You want to know why I called you here."

It was a statement, not a question. Michael braced himself; he'd been a damned fool to think there was a chance of an eleventh-hour rapprochement. There could be no reconciliation where there had never once been harmony. Wondering what parting shot his father had in store, he said, "It isn't unreasonable for a father to wish to see all of his children at such a time."

The duke's face twisted. "You are not my son."

Every nerve in Michael's body went taut. "As you wish, sir," he said coolly. "It doesn't surprise me to be disinherited, though I'll be damned if I know what great crime I've committed. I've never understood."

The age-paled blue eyes blazed, "
You are not my son
!Can I say it any more clearly than that? Your whore of a mother admitted it freely."

Michael felt his lungs constrict until he could scarcely breathe. As he struggled for control, he looked from the duke to Benfield, seeing the same bones and coloring that faced him in the mirror every morning. "With all due respect, I look very much like a Kenyon. Perhaps she lied in order to anger you." God knew that the duke and duchess had fought like pit vipers.

The duke's face reddened with a fury that had festered for decades. "She spoke the truth. You were fathered by my younger brother, Roderick. I found them together myself."

Benfield sucked his breath in, his face showing the same shock that must be on Michael's.

"She didn't like my affairs, so she decided to pay me back in kind," the duke continued. "Said she'd always fancied Roderick—that he was better looking and better in bed. That I should be grateful to her, because if anything happened to Benfield and you inherited, the duke would still be a Kenyon. Grateful! The bitch—the treacherous, bloody-minded bitch. She knew I had no choice but to accept you, and she reveled in it."

He went into a fit of coughing. Hastily Benfield offered him a glass of water, but the old man waved it away. "Roderick had always resented me for being the elder. Georgiana gave him not only the chance to cuckold me, but the possibility that Roderick's son would inherit. Vicious, the pair of them."

Michael felt numb from head to toe, and his lungs were barely capable of expanding. Strange to think that he had been brought into existence to serve as a pawn between a man and a woman who despised each other. No wonder his childhood had been saturated with hatred. "Why did you choose to tell me now?"

"A man has a right to know who his father is." The duke's mouth twisted. "And since Benfield will be head of the family, he should know the truth. Maybe now he'll get busy and sire a son. Besides, he's soft and might treat you like a member of the family if he doesn't know better."

"You needn't worry," Michael said, unable to conceal his bitterness. "He's never been very brotherly in the past."

"You're just like Roderick," the duke snarled, ancient fury vivid in his expression. "The same damned green eyes. Smart, strong, arrogant, better at everything than my own son." Ignoring a choked exclamation from Benfield, he finished, "I should have exiled you to the Indies, as I did Roderick."

Michael wanted to lash out, to wound the man who had tormented him all his life, but what was the point? The duke was dying, and the hatred he had nurtured had been its own punishment. "I suppose I must thank you for finally being honest with me. Good day, sir. I wish you a peaceful death."

The duke's bony fingers bit into the coverlet. "I despise the fact of your existence, yet I… I couldn't help but respect you. You served with honor in the army, and you built a fortune from no more than a younger son's portion. I would have liked an heir like you." He gave Benfield a contemptuous glance, then looked back at Michael. "I wanted another son. Instead, I got
you
."

"I would have been your son if you had wanted me to be," Michael said tightly. Feeling on the verge of dissolution, he turned and walked toward the door.

An ashen Benfield intercepted him, catching his arm. "Michael, wait!"

"For what? The duke has said everything worth saying." Michael jerked his arm away. "Don't worry, I'll never darken any of your doors again. I wish you much joy of your inheritance."

Benfield started to speak, then stopped, silenced by the ice in Michael's eyes.

He swung open the door to the duke's sitting room. Claudia and the others stared, trying to divine what had happened. Looking neither right nor left, he walked across the room and into the hall. Down the polished stairs, one hand on the banister because he was less steady than he pretended. Past the butler, then outside into the blessedly cool air. It soothed the suffocating heat in his lungs.

So he was a bastard. It explained everything: the duke's obvious loathing, the smug way his mother had petted and spoiled him when she was in the mood. Claudia and Benfield had sensed the duke's attitude and become contemptuous in their turn. What should have been a family had become a holocaust.

He had never known Roderick, who had died in the West Indies when Michael was an infant. He had vague memories of being told by the elderly Kenyon nurse that he was just like his poor dear uncle. She had been more accurate than she knew.

Instead of returning to Lucien's house, he deliberately went in the opposite direction. Now that the first shock was over, the news of his birth was curiously liberating.
It hadn't been his fault
. He had done nothing to justify his father's— no, the duke's—ruthless criticisms and savage whippings. When he was sent to Eton instead of Harrow, the traditional Kenyon school, it was not because of his personal failings.

All of his attempts to be the best, to prove himself worthy, had been doomed to fail, because nothing could have made the duke accept him. Yet the struggles had not been valueless, for they had shaped his character, made him what he was. Feeling
like an outsider, he had developed an empathy for other outsiders that was unusual in someone raised as the son of a duke. That empathy had led him to befriend Nicholas and Kenneth and others, greatly enriching his life.

Though the news was jarring, it was of no real significance. He was still the man he had always been, both his flaws and his strengths. If he ever told the truth to his closest friends, they would not care. They had provided shelter, both literally and emotionally, when he was growing up, and they would not abandon him now. He had become a wealthy man through mining and investments to prove that he did not need the duke's help. Because of those efforts, now it didn't matter that he would inherit nothing.

He thought back, reinterpreting the past in the light of this new knowledge. He had not lost his family, because he had never really had one. Oddly, he found that he no longer hated the duke. A better man might have treated his wife's bastard more kindly, but the duke had never had much kindness in him. It was characteristic of the duke's cruelty that he could be so disdainful of his own son in front of Benfield's face. Pride and propriety were his ruling passions, and it could not have been easy to be continuously confronted with the proof of his humiliation.

After Michael walked his way to peace, he returned to Strathmore House. It was better to know the truth than to remain in ignorance. Nonetheless, he felt almost as exhausted as during his long convalescence after Waterloo. Thank God for Nicholas and Clare, who taken him into their own home and cared for him like a brother. With such friends, he didn't need a family.

His tranquillity lasted until the footman handed him a card. "There is a lady waiting to see you, my lord."

Her heart pounded when she heard the salon door open and his familiar footsteps. She donned the serene expression of Saint Catherine, then slowly turned from the window.

Michael had seemed younger, more carefree, that time she had seen him in the park. Now that she was closer, she saw that the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened, and he seemed strained. But there was warmth in his voice when he said, "Catherine?"

Dear Lord, would she be able to carry through such a deception? Throat tight, she said, "I'm sorry to bother you, Lord Michael."

"Are we on such formal terms, Catherine?" He crossed the room and gave her a light, friendly kiss. "It's good to see you. You're as lovely as ever."

Releasing her hands, he asked, "How is Amy? And Colin?"

"Amy is wonderful. You'd scarcely know her. I swear she's grown three inches since last spring. Colin—" she hesitated, searching for words that would be partially true, "is still in France."

Unsuspicious, Michael said, "I'm forgetting my manners. Please, sit down. I'll ring for tea."

Knowing she must speak before she lost her nerve entirely, Catherine said, "I'd better state my piece first. I need some rather unusual aid. You—you may want to throw me out when you hear what it is."

Michael's expression became serious and he studied her face. "Never," he said quietly. "I owe you my life, Catherine. You can ask anything of me."

"You give me more credit than I deserve." She swallowed hard and reminded herself of why she must lie. "I'm afraid that… that I need a husband. A temporary husband."