Silver Splendor (27 page)

Elizabeth stood absolutely still, unable to credit his shocking statement, unable to think past a fog of disbelief. Her mouth felt like parched clay. “This can’t be true. It can’t be.”

“It is, Libby. I wish to heaven it weren’t so .”

“Why didn’t Mama ever say anything?”

“Because she wanted to forget the past, to leave behind the heartache she’d found in England.”

“The… affair she’d had?”

Owen nodded. “When His Grace learned of Lucy’s pregnancy, he set her up in her own household. And when you were born, he acted the proud father, even gave Lucy that ring you always wear.”

Elizabeth numbly touched the lump beneath her cambric wrapper, the sterling silver ring hanging from its chain. “This belonged to my…” She faltered, the word “father” sticking in her throat.

Owen’s lips curled into a sneer. “To your blood father, who pretended to care so much about you, until the duchess presented him with a son and heir. Then the duke dismissed you in favor of his legitimate child. He no longer had a place in his life for a two year old girl born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“And you?” Elizabeth whispered. “How did you become my father?”

“I was the vicar at a nearby church… and I loved both Lucy and you with all my heart.” Owen’s expression softened for an instant, as if he were recalling some deep, abiding emotion; then his stony look returned. “When I saw how Lucy had been hurt, I convinced her to marry me, to start a new life in America, where the duke couldn’t track you down and take you away. That’s just the sort of depraved thing he’d do.”

Swallowing a nauseating knot of pain, Elizabeth tried to convince herself the story was fabricated, a fairytale like the ones he used to tell her at bedtime. Yet it would explain so much… Owen’s moodiness, his hatred of the nobility.

“But you did bring me back to England.”

Owen nodded gloomily. “On her deathbed Lucy made me vow to do so. She was so proud of your artistic talent, but we lacked the money and the connections to help you. She had a wild notion the duke would act as your patron. I told her it was useless, that His high and mighty Grace of Rockborough didn’t care a fig about you. But she was adamant and so I promised her. When we arrived in London, I felt honor bound to post a letter to the duke, arranging a meeting.” His eyes were brilliant with tears. “But I couldn’t go to the meeting, Libby. I couldn’t hand you back to that rotten scoundrel.”

Staring at Owen, she tried to reconcile his familiar image with the stranger who had shaken her belief in her own identity and in his honesty. Something inside Elizabeth shifted, shattering her life like an earthquake and leaving an agonizing emptiness within her breast.

“How could you have lied to me for so long?” she choked out.

“I was afraid, Libby,” he said in a low voice. “Afraid I’d lose my only daughter.”

“But you suspected my relationship to this duke had something to do with these attempts on my life.”

“I’ve been afraid of that, yes. It was only after I wrote to the duke that someone tried to kill you. The duke would have known where we were living because the address was on my letter. That’s why I agreed to move in here with Lord Nicholas, to keep you safe —”

“Keep me safe!” Uttering a cry of disbelief, she shook her head slowly, trying to think past the haze of hurt. “A man tried to fell me and you never once warned me it had to do with my past. I thought you always did the right thing, like the perfect father.” Her voice caught on the bitterness in her throat. “I considered you to be a great man.”

“‘Great men are not always wise’.” Hands outstretched, Owen took a step closer. “Can you ever forgive me, Libby? As God is my witness, everything I did, I did out of love for you.”

“Out of love for me?” she said, her voice ragged with doubt. “Or out of hatred of my true father?”

“Never mind that villain. The duke doesn’t matter … he doesn’t care about you, not the way I do.”

Owen walked toward her, his steps tentative, his eyes imploring her understanding. Elizabeth stiffened; she couldn’t forgive him, not yet. The wound inside her was too raw… .

“I need time to think,” she whispered. Pivoting, she fled to the sanctuary of her bedroom and slammed the door.

Pressing her flushed cheek against the cool wall, she ignored her father’s knocking. No, she corrected herself, Owen Hastings was not her father. She no longer knew what to call him.

The rapping ceased abruptly. Only the rasp of her breathing disturbed the silence. Her heart felt like a throbbing ball of pain. The gaslit room blurred before her eyes. Feeling the splash of hot moisture on her hand, Elizabeth looked down, uncomprehending, until she realized she was crying.

Her fingers lifted to the ring; it hung like a leaden weight around her neck. Her real father had once owned the ring, not her grandfather, as Mama had told her. Dear God. Even her own mother had lied to her.

Elizabeth felt lacerated, her emotions cut to the bone. In the space of a few words, the image of her beloved father had altered; the memory of her perfect mother had changed. If she could no longer believe in her parents, who
could
she trust?

Nicholas.

Half stumbling in her haste, she darted across the bedroom and wrenched open the door into the hall.

Nicholas sat before the Hepptewhite rolltop desk in his bedroom. Flicking back the sleeve of his burgundy silk dressing gown, he concentrated on checking the production figures for his farmland in Sussex ana meticulously reckoning each sum on the list. Over the scratching of the fountain pen, he could hear Quinn tidying the dressing room, the clothes being brushed, the boots being polished. Normally the familiar sounds of the valet’s movements blended into the background. Tonight they grated on his nerves.

The image of Elizabeth’s gypsy beauty intruded as well. Instead of numbers, Nicholas kept seeing the terrified lavender of her eyes, the trembling curve of her lips, the milky paleness of her complexion. Tonight’s incident had brought home to him how precious she had become. He wanted to hold her close and keep her safe. How fulfilling it would be to find her waiting and willing in his bed each night.

But that wasn’t what Elizabeth wanted, Nicholas bitterly reminded himself. The vow he’d overheard her say weeks earlier echoed in his mind:
I intend to devote my life to art… I’ve no time for a husband and children.

Subduing a wave of deep desolation, he forced his attention to the ledger before him. When he’d added the same column three times and arrived at three different sums, Nicholas flung down the pen in disgust. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t steep, he couldn’t do anything but dream about an unconventional sculptress who wouldn’t spare the time to fall in love with a besotted English earl.

Thrusting back his mahogany armchair, he got up and stalked to a marble topped side table. Crystal clinked as he splashed brandy from a decanter into a glass. As he took a swallow, Quinn appeared in the doorway.

“Your pardon, my lord. Shall you be requiring my services any further tonight?”

“That will be all.”

Bowing, the valet departed, the door closing quietly.

Silence hung heavy around Nicholas. Draining the brandy glass, he set it down sharply. He went to a window and parted the curtain to stare moodily outside. Clouds drifted over the sliver of moon and the scattering of stars. The gardens lay in an abyss of shadows. He half hoped the cutthroat would sneak back tonight, for Dobson and Pickering were armed and patrolling the grounds.

Nicholas yanked tight the sash of his dressing gown, wishing it were that villain’s neck. By God, if the police failed to work fast, he’d have to take further steps, perhaps confront the duke and his family. He must be damned careful, though, because he might end up frightening the would be killer into taking rash action, action that could have dire consequences to Elizabeth.

Tomorrow morning Owen would tell her the truth. Leaning against the window frame, Nicholas wondered how she would react when she learned her beloved father was not her blood kin after all. It was difficult to imagine; Nicholas’s own father, the fourth earl, had been a cold and reserved man, hardly the model of a loving parent. His death ten years earlier had been a somber experience, but more like the passing of a distant relative. The sadness had receded quickly as Nicholas had shouldered the myriad duties of the earldom.

What if Elizabeth hated him for instigating the confession? The possibility struck him with the force of a blow. Would she leave here, never want to see him again? No, he wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. He was committed to preserving her safety. She didn’t yet know it, but his heart was committed as well.

A sudden rapping on the door invaded the painful thoughts. No one in the household disturbed him once he’d retired. Unless one of the footmen had seen something outside…

Nicholas hastened across the plush Persian rug and yanked open the door. To his utter surprise, Elizabeth stood there, her fragile figure limned by the low lit gas jets in the hall. With a glance he took in her appearance, the charmingly feminine curves revealed by her lace and cambric robe, the hair tumbling to her hips in gleaming, jet black waves. Her face arrested his attention. Her eyes were great pools of sorrow, tears dampening her long inky lashes. His blood chilled with shock and warmed with compassion.
She knew.

“Nicholas, I need… to speak to you.”

Her voice was hesitant, quavering. Emotion stormed his better judgment. He reached out to her, drew her to his side, unable to stop himself from tunneling a hand into the heavy silk of her hair. He shoved the door shut as Elizabeth burrowed her face against his chest and wept, her body trembling. Nicholas felt helpless to comfort her. The only feminine crying he’d encountered before had been the childhood tantrums of Cicely and the crocodile tears of a jilted paramour. Elizabeth’s grief evoked a melting tenderness, a profound sympathy.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, gently stroking her hair. “I’m here, love… I’m here.”

He didn’t know what else to say. How could mere platitudes ease her pain? Because she was always so strong, her vulnerability moved him deeply. Bending his head, he kissed the sweet scented crown of her hair. At least she had come to him. The knowledge chased the darkness from his spirit. It was a beginning, the first step in winning her love.

It seemed the most natural move in the world to draw her to a wing chair by the hearth, to nestle her small body in his lap, to tuck her face into the cradle of his shoulder. The curve of her waist scorched his palm and her herbal aroma entranced him. His heart ached with the need to console her; his loins burned with the desire to possess her.

He slid his hand upward, over her arm, feeling muscles that were dainty yet firm beneath her smooth cambric sleeve. Unspoken love words crowded his throat… words he clamped his lips tight against voicing. Taking half guilty joy in holding her close, he listened to her sobs, wanting to absorb her pain and resisting the powerful urge to touch her breasts. By God, he should protect her, not take advantage of her weakened state.

Her hair rippled loose over her shoulders. Moving his hand beneath the heavy curtain, he gently massaged her nape until her weeping lessened. Elizabeth shifted in his lap, her thigh brushing his groin. Fire shot through his veins. Lifting her head, she gazed at him with eyes like misty lavender blue velvet.

“You know about my —” Her voice broke and she wiped her wet cheeks with the sash of her robe. “About Owen, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Nicholas admitted quietly.

“I’ve lost him. I haven’t a father anymore.”

Compassion tightened his chest. “That’s not true,” he said, sweeping a stray tear from her lashes. “Owen is as much your father as he ever was.”

Like a kitten seeking affection, she pressed her cheek into his palm. “Then why do I feel so numb, so lost?”

“Give yourself time, love,” he murmured, stroking the satin skin of her face. “As soon as the shock passes, you’ll see that he meant only the best for you.” Recalling his own father, Nicholas added, “Owen’s been a far more loving parent than most.”

“I know that in my mind, but somehow I can’t feel it here.” Clasping his hand, she pressed it to her heart.

Their eyes locked; his longing leapt. Beneath his palm, Nicholas felt the beating of her heart. Did the pace quicken, or was it only a trick of his fancy? When Elizabeth lowered her gaze, he reluctantly drew his hand away.

“I’ve soaked your lapel,” she said, touching a dampened spot on his dressing gown.

Winding unsteady ringers into the hair at her temple, he said, “It’ll dry.”

“I didn’t mean to pour all my troubles on you.”

Soft as the sweep of a feather, tenderness touched him. “I’m glad you came to me, Elizabeth. I hope you’ll always feel you can turn to me.”

Her lips parted; she seemed about to speak. His pulse pounded with hope. Would she finally admit her need for him was emotional as well as physical? To his immense disappointment she glanced away and withdrew her hand. A faint flush tinted her cheeks; if it hadn’t been absurd he would have thought her gripped by shyness. But timidity was not a trait he associated with Elizabeth Hastings.

After a moment she cautiously met his gaze. “You’ve known about my past for a long time,” she said. “That’s why you invited the duke to tea, why you’ve been warning me to be careful.”

To his relief she didn’t seem angry at his interference. Absently he ran his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“I traced your ring through the coat of arms.”

“The sterling swan,” she murmured, drawing the silver chain from beneath her nightdress. Cradling the ring in her palm, she touched the crest with the tip of one finger. “I’ve always thought of this as my trademark, my talisman.” Her eyes grew bitter and sad; the ring slipped from her hand and nestled in the valley between her breasts. “But it certainly hasn’t brought me much luck, has it?”

“Most people would be thrilled to learn of a connection to the nobility.”