The Perfect Bride (22 page)

"Which
would give you great pleasure," he snarled.

"You
persist in thinking that I hate you, Julian, when in fact I have no feeling for
you at all. You no longer affect me in the least."

"Is
that so?"

His
ominous tone sent a disquieting frisson through her. Even by the lantern’s
imperfect light she could see that something was terribly wrong with him. Rage
and self-hatred subsumed whatever vulnerability she had once imagined in his
eyes. Julian LeFevre seemed to be a man at the end of his rope.

Uneasily,
Amanda looked around. Felicity and Lord Sommersby had long since moved beyond
earshot. Only darkness lay beyond the lantern’s light.

"Tell
me, Amanda: Is it just me you scorn, or men in general?" His eyes were
challenging.

"The
only men I scorn are those in the habit of taking advantage of innocent
females," she replied pointedly, refusing to be cowed.

Julian's
lips curled in an ugly smile. "When are you going to admit that I took no
advantage you did not willingly cede? You wanted me, Amanda." Menace
flared in his eyes. "And I daresay that beneath that prim exterior, you
still do. Or perhaps by now, any man will do."

He
moved toward her.

Amanda
shook her head. "Stop it," she commanded with a bravado she was far
from feeling. "You took advantage of my innocence, my inexperience. There
is nothing manly about that."

Julian
flinched as if she had struck him. He reached for her.

"My
dear
Amanda," he said with a hiss, pulling her to her feet. "I
will show you what a man is. I daresay you will not forget it."

“You
flatter yourself, my lord.”

He
made no pretext at seduction as he covered her mouth with his. She knew he was
driven not by desire, but by anger, pure and simple, and the need to assert his
mastery. She wrenched away from him, but he caught her arms and pinned her
against the wall. She heard a tear as one sleeve protested the sudden violence.
Triumph lay in his eyes.

"A
true man would not do this, Julian," she said in a hoarse whisper.

"You
think I add cowardice to my sins?" he growled as he tightened his grip on
her.

Amanda
knew his strength was vastly superior to hers. They were utterly alone. He
could do whatever he wished, and she would be powerless to stop it. Oddly, though,
she was no longer afraid.

"Only
you can be the judge of that," she said softly.

For
a moment, his eyes showed her the hell in those black depths. Then, with a sudden
curse, he released her.

"Very
well, Amanda," he rasped, turning away. "Keep whatever virtue you still
possess after all these years."

Then
something very strange happened. He put his head in his hands and began to
shake as if in great pain. Amanda, in the act of straightening her gown — the
tear would need mending — stopped and stared at him.

Gingerly
she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Julian?" she asked hesitantly.
"Are you ill?"

He
gave a bitter laugh. “Do not play the compassionate martyr, Amanda. I know I
have wronged you. A gentleman would apologize. But I have never been that.”

“No,”
Amanda agreed. She had never seen him so undone. “Perhaps it is enough that you
thought of it.”

He
studied her, perhaps trying to discern whether she was joking. Evidently he
decided that she was not, for he took a deep breath.

“Finding
my mother’s marriage lines is the only remedy I need.”

Confusion
filled her. "Marriage lines?"

He
nodded.

"The
papers — the documents you are seeking," she said with dawning awareness.
"Dear Lord, Julian. Is there some doubt about your...your
legitimacy?"

Bleak
confirmation lay in his answering silence.

"But
how — how could you inherit a dukedom if such a thing is in doubt?"

He
said nothing for a long moment. Then: "There are two possible answers to
that question. One is that the question of my lineage came to my attention
after I inherited."

"Of
course," she said. "When you find the papers, everything will be — "

"The
other possibility," he continued ruthlessly, "is that I inherited the
title suspecting all along that I was a bastard."

Amanda
stared at him.

"And
now," he said, his eyes stark as a moonless night, "I find that
strange dreams torment me, make me doubt myself and other...things for the
first time. I suppose that is the punishment of a man who chooses to pretend he
is legitimate when he may not be, to occupy a title and possess the wealth that
does not belong to him."

Speechless,
Amanda reached for his hand, thinking only to comfort. Her fear of him had
vanished. She brushed a lock of his thick black hair off his brow. He caught
her hand and brought it to his lips.

"What
is this?" A deep baritone fractured the silence. Lord Sommersby emerged
from the shadows.

How
long had he been there? Amanda wondered. Long enough, she decided. His
penetrating gaze took in the tear in her sleeve, which exposed a small swath of
bare skin at the shoulder, and her hand’s rather intimate contact with Julian’s
mouth. Belatedly, she pulled her hand away.

Behind
the earl, Felicity gave a shocked gasp. "Amanda!"

"Do
be quiet, Felicity," she ordered in her best chaperon's voice.
"Despite what you may think, nothing is amiss."

Felicity
gaped at them. Lord Sommersby moved forward.

Amanda
felt the instinctive urge to flee as the earl  reached for her. But he said not
a word, only set her firmly away from Julian. Then he planted himself squarely
in front of the duke.

Physically
the men were almost of a piece, though the earl was taller and his shoulders
broader. His was a self-possessed strength, as if he took for granted that he
could defeat any man, as if knowing that formed the core of his being.

That
was the difference between them, Amanda realized. For all his physical power,
Julian was weak — in spirit and heart. He would never be the man Lord Sommersby
was. The earl would never threaten or abuse a woman. Discipline, control, and
perhaps even compassion ruled whatever uncivilized forces lurked within him.

"You
will leave at first light," he told Julian.

There
were no threats, no lectures, no crossing of sabres. The two men regarded each
other steadily, and in that silent exchange, Julian admitted defeat. He turned
and made his way out of the tunnel.

***

"The
tunnel leads to a large cave," Felicity explained. "Lord Sommersby
says the smugglers likely stashed their goods there to protect them from high
tide. It is the perfect place for us to hide!"

"Hide?"
Stephen's gaze was troubled.

Felicity
made an impatient sound. "Do you not see, Stephen? We shall run away. No
one will find us, and when the commotion passes, we shall escape to Scotland
without a care of being overtaken."

"Scotland?"

Shyly,
Felicity nodded. "I did not think we possessed the funds to obtain a
Special License."

"You
want us to elope?" he said, aghast.

"It
is terribly romantic, do you not think?" When he only regarded her with
deepening horror, she frowned. "Surely you do not wish me to marry Lord
Sommersby?"

"No
— of course not. Especially if you do not wish it."

"I
do not,” she said shyly. “It is you I love."

Sighing,
he took her into his arms. "You deserve more than a mad dash to Gretna
Green, my dear."

"I
do not care as long as I have you," Felicity murmured.

"But
think of the scandal," he protested. "Your parents would be
horrified."

Felicity
frowned. "I should not like to cause them pain, but I see no way around
it. I cannot talk to Papa, since he is gone. Who knows when he might return? No,
I am afraid we must take matters into our own hands."

"I
cannot like this, Felicity. You deserve more than to start married life out in
such a way. Are you sure this is what you want? I have very little funds and
little prospect of advancing beyond the status of a lowly scholar. I am afraid
that is the fate of a seventh son —"

"Time
is short,” she interjected. “I wish to know all about your family, but for now all
I need know is whether you still want me for your wife." Her voice broke
on the last, and he tightened his embrace.

"I
want nothing more," he reassured her. "But is there no other way? Can
you not talk to the earl? Or Miss Fitzhugh? Perhaps she can advise us."

Felicity
thought of the scene she and Lord Sommersby had come upon this afternoon between
Amanda and the duke. "Amanda has her own concerns. As for Sommersby, well,
I cannot think he will understand. I believe he has ice in his veins."

"Then
he has not formed an attachment for you?"

"He
has said very little to me, if you wish to know the truth of it. I do not think
the man has any regard for sentiment. Or for me, either."

"Then
he is a fool," Stephen murmured as he brought their lips together.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Simon
savored the fine French brandy like an old friend, letting its pungent fragrance
sting his nostrils and awaken long-dormant memories.

Blood
ran thick as the wine back then, but victory was all that had mattered. Death
stood sentry, his presence an accepted part of the landscape. Wellington rode
the ridge, the allies' cockades in his hat, urging his troops on in the face of
the blazing French twelve-pounders. Rifle-fire, round-shot, musket, and grape
resounded through the hills as the enemy fell back to the plain. Under a sky
darkened by battle smoke, it was impossible to tell who was friend or foe.

Fifteen
thousand British gained their eternal rest in that bleak cornfield. Simon knew
a survivor's guilt for prevailing when worthy men had not, for killing and
maiming and knowing that he would do so again without a moment's thought. But
though he had lived, a part of him had died that victorious day at Waterloo.

War
did that. The longer a man went about the business of killing, the longer that
part of him capable of feeling slowly withered. The more a man killed, the more
the inside of him died.

Simon
had not felt anything for a very long time, except rage at the futility of
measuring victory by the gallons of blood spilled and of sacrificing brave
young soldiers to a tyrant's greed. He had learned to restrain his rage, but
the more he did so the more uncivilized grew his true self.

That
was the only explanation he could muster now for the savageness that swept him
as he sat in his study, draining some long-ago smuggler's brandy and mulling
that scene in the tunnel when Miss Fitzhugh had shown her true colors.

It
was one thing to hear her tell Thornton she was not averse to his kisses — indeed,
even wished to deepen the acquaintance. The part of him not horrified at
provoking such a response had thrilled at the possibilities.

It
was quite another thing to discover her stroking Julian's cruel brow, allowing
him to lavish kisses on her hand — and probably a great deal more of her
besides. To Miss Fitzhugh, apparently, one man was as good as the next.

Mortifying
as it was to acknowledge his naiveté, Simon knew the truth when it blasted him
in the face. Miss Fitzhugh's flushed features and torn frock had betrayed more
eloquently than any words the intimacy between her and Julian.

He
had never known much about females. Despite his recent dream, no women walked
the fields where he had fought. In the hellish storm that portended Waterloo,
he had slept alone under his muddy blanket of straw — and for most of the
nights afterward. Simon had never cared to share his nightmares.

His
mother was the only woman who had ever engendered tender feelings in him, and
he had failed her miserably. The fact of his youth did not excuse his inability
to protect her from poverty, degradation, death. A man did not fail those who
depended upon him. A man must lead, and he must bear the burdens of leadership
as best he could — without complaint, without giving into the despair that
swirled around him in the faces of raw recruits and experienced soldiers alike.

And
if a man could not bear those burdens, he must at least pretend that he could.
He must shield himself in the armor that kept despair at bay and prevented
anyone from penetrating the stone fortress he had erected around his aching
heart.

And
if he could not always keep his armor whole, he could at least drown his
thoughts in the bottle of brandy Jeffers had left near his elbow.

"Lord
Sommersby?" The familiar female voice came from the hall through the door
he had shut to ward off visitors.

"What
is it?" he growled, hoping to discourage her from stopping in.