The Third Duke's the Charm (20 page)

“Just go back to the country with her and my father. It is what you desire anyway.”

The ambiguous statement wasn’t very satisfying, but she’d already discerned he wasn’t fully sharing the situation with her. “I will if it is what you wish. Is there some reason you can’t come with us?”

“A myriad of reasons,” her husband said frankly, letting her go. “I’ve dozens of meetings and suddenly all the business of the estates falls to me. I can do this, contrary to my father’s doubts, but I would have little time for you here in London anyway. Go with them, and send word to me. To be honest, to have someone who I know will tell me the truth would be comforting.”

“Your father and Vivian would never lie to you.”

“No, but to protect me, they might not be as honest as they could be. I suspect both of them wish to shield me, which, I admit, grates a bit on my pride.”

She understood his reservations. Charles wasn’t a man to hide behind a façade. He had assumed, as they all had, Lucien would shoulder this responsibility. The game had changed, Lucien was gone, and Charles had absolutely no choice.

She knew it. If there was one thing she’d learned growing up with her stern father, it was a sense of duty. It might not be to a ducal title, but to his parish, the vicar was the leader in not just spiritual matters, but almost everything else.

“Am I going to need to learn the difference between a stalk of corn and a weed?” she asked facetiously, relieved, if she were truthful with herself, at the idea of going home. Not that the ducal mansion was precisely home, but it was close enough to the small village where she grew up to count. She longed to see green pastures again and breathe fresh air.

But without Charles . . .

“I’m not staying here without you long.” His embrace was a sensuous slide of his hands around her shoulders so he drew her close. “God help me, Lou, I would never let you go if I didn’t want my father to know you and I wasn’t worried that Viv might need you.”

“Why would she—”

“She just might,” he interrupted and kissed her.

Chapter
Twenty-one

The aftermath of a good rain was like heaven. Vivian took in a long, deep breath, the scent of damp soil like the finest perfume. Her skirts brushed a glossy rhododendron, sending a shower of droplets, the huge pink blossoms drooping with moisture. It was a shame really that the ducal gardens of Cheynes Hall were so meticulously maintained that there was nothing for her to do, but then again, the duke had a hand in every aspect of the planting, pruning, and the arrangements of the bed and paths, so naturally they were absolutely stunning.

A cough alerted her he was nearby, the hacking sound deeper and the attack even more pronounced than they had been a few weeks ago. Standing still, she waited for it to pass before she turned down the path in that direction, her slippers crunching the wet gravel. It was crystal clear he didn’t wish to discuss his illness, not with his son, and certainly not with her or Louisa. He’d even taken a separate carriage on the journey over, and she was sure that was to keep them from witnessing the persistence of his cough.

It was time to tell him.

Quite frankly, she wasn’t sure what kind of reception her news would receive, but before long the choice would be taken from her anyway. They’d been in the country a month now and she had been growing more certain each day about the child when her courses still didn’t come, the bouts of illness in the morning persisted, and she’d found herself napping in the afternoon. There was one advantage to being a spinster at her age, for most of her friends were married and consequently had children, so she’d heard the varying complaints over the symptoms often enough to at least have a modicum of knowledge on the subject.

She was pregnant. That idyllic interlude that afternoon had given her Lucien’s child. Would he have been delighted? She thought he would be. Didn’t every man want a son?

It was difficult, but she had started to think of her fiancé in the past tense and it burdened her heart.

“Your Grace, might I have a moment of your time?”

The duke was there, bent over a flowering bush, a pair of clippers in his hand. He straightened, his nod an acknowledgement of her presence. “Good afternoon, my dear. This rain was timely, was it not?”

“Perfect,” she had to admit, though she didn’t want to get distracted from her purpose. If they started discussing agricultural cycles she might never tell him, and she’d steeled herself to do this today.

“Lucien would have been delighted. It’s in time for the first planting of—”

“Speaking of Lucien,” she interrupted, which was rude, but it only happened because she was nervous. “I rather need to speak to you about him.”

The duke’s thin face showed as much emotion as he ever displayed. “Is there some word?”

“About his return, no.” She hated hearing the words as much as she hated saying them. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to give you that impression.”

“I see.” He slipped the clippers into the pocket of the apron designed to protect his clothing. He suddenly looked very tired. “I keep hoping. Not very practical of me, I suppose.”

“I keep hoping also,” she agreed quietly.

“What is it you wished to discuss then?”

Faced with the outright question, she almost lost her nerve, not certain she could say the words. “I . . . well, I . . .”

The duke looked at her keenly. “Yes?”

“I think I am going to have his child.”

For once it seemed the Duke of Sanford was without words. His face, more gaunt even since their arrival only four weeks before, reflected his consternation. Vivian rushed on. “We were due to be married so soon.”

Lord, that didn’t make it any better, did it?

She tried again, wishing she had even a fraction of sophistication so she could handle this better. “It was reckless of us, I suppose.”

It was better, but not much. It sounded as if she was excusing herself for being wanton, when actually, she didn’t regret that beautiful, enlightening afternoon at all. Not even now.

“I . . . I mean . . .” she stammered, and if she’d blushed when telling Charles, from the fiery rush to her cheeks at this moment, it was far, far worse now. “What I am—”

“I believe I know what you mean. My son seduced you.” He turned away, gazing out over the gardens, his profile remote.

It wasn’t her intention to blame Lucien. “I was willing,” she said with as much dignity as possible. “He didn’t trick me into anything, or persuade me against my will. It just . . . happened.”

“I see.” Then to her surprise, he said, “I realize the implications for you are awkward, but please believe me when I say this is gladsome news. I have lost my son. To know he isn’t completely gone gives me a selfish joy. He usually is so responsible. He must have truly been entranced by you. That makes me happy also. I would like to think he’d experienced love.”

She blinked, not quite sure how to respond to that sentiment. “Your Grace, I have no assurances that that is how he felt.”

For that she received a look of humorous reproof. “You have always followed an unconventional path, my dear. I admit at first I was surprised when Lucien suggested an alliance between you, but then when I contemplated it I realized he was much like you are. Independent and indifferent to censure from people whose opinions he didn’t value. No wonder he was drawn to you. It seems the attraction was mutual. Rest assured you will have the protection of my influence to insulate you from censure, at least as much as possible.”

For as long as possible
. He didn’t say it, but the words hung between them. Charles would not desert her either, so that had never been a concern. This pregnancy would be a scandal, but there was no help for it and she wasn’t sorry at all, truth be told. Besides, she rather thought she could also count upon the support of the Duchess of Eddington. Between her and the duke, she would be insulated at least from the inevitable whispers.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Have you seen a physician?”

“Not yet.” It was a bit difficult as a young unmarried woman to seek out medical advice on her own without raising all sorts of questions.

“Then I will summon my personal physician at once. Let us make sure that you and my grandchild have the finest care.”

“That is most kind of you.”

“Vivian . . .”

He rarely used her first name, and even as she turned to leave, she swung around.

“Thank you for loving my son.”

The rush of tears was not a surprise. She was entirely too emotional lately, and considering the circumstances, she absolved herself of any guilt regarding the problem. In a choked voice, she said, “I still do.”

“So do I.” His smile was bleak as he once again removed the clippers from his pocket and bent over the bush. “So do I.”

***

He doubted that he looked even remotely like an exalted marquess, but Lucien relished the simple linen shirt and loose-fitting pants simply because they were clean. It was nice also to borrow a knife sharp enough to trim his beard into some semblance of order.

The fish was delicious. Cooked simply over a fire and swimming in some sort of oil, it was strangely spiced for his palate, but he didn’t care. There was also thick bread, olives dipped out from a stone crock, and a potent drink made from lemons and sweetened with honey.

All in all, it was the best meal of his life.

He’d been ill. The aftermath of deprivation had maybe brought it on, but he wondered as he slowly recovered from the feverish fog if he hadn’t caught some sort of infection on the ship.

He had no idea what day it might be, no notion of where he’d washed up when the sea had chosen to relinquish him. This had been the first day he’d been able to eat more than a few spoonfuls of broth.

It wasn’t cold outside but he’d still shivered under a blanket until finally he awoke, sweating and aware, but weaker than ever. “Where . . .” he’d managed to ask, but the answer meant nothing. That had been yesterday and though his outlook was improving with the food and the break in his fever, he was hardly free.

The real question was how the devil did he find out where he was, and without money, get back to England? It didn’t help that he didn’t speak the language, though he’d had enough Latin hammered into him at Eton and Cambridge to pick up some of what was being said. Unfortunately, articulating his questions was not very successful, he found, and though he suspected the local dialect had evolved into a language that resembled either Spanish or Italian, his accent rendered it impossible for anyone to understand even the simple words he could remember.

However, it was surprisingly easy to smile at the woman who served him his meal and communicate his gratitude, for she smiled back and nodded, offering the pan and the spoon. It was tempting, but he had no idea if he was consuming the meal that was intended for the entire family, so Lucien declined with an uplifted hand.

“
Bueno comida
.”

His few, attempted clumsy words made her laugh. She was short and sturdy with slightly crooked teeth and wore long brightly woven skirts, and her dark hair was tied back with a piece of cloth. Her husband, or Lucien assumed that was who had rescued him from the beach, didn’t appear to be around at the moment, but then again, Lucien was hardly much of a threat.

“De nada.” She bent to take his plate.

Gently he caught her wrist. “
Señora
 . . .”

She gazed him with inquiring eyes but at least didn’t seem to be frightened. “England,” he said finally. Surely she would recognize that word. “I am a lord . . .”

And what would she care, her simple costume and the small square room indicative of the circumstances of the generous people who had rescued him. But he didn’t want to bring Artemis down upon them either, and even if it wasn’t for Vivian waiting for him back home, he would need to remove himself from the vicinity as soon as possible rather than cause trouble in reward for their generosity.

Was Vivian waiting
?

He rather thought she was. In the midst of all of this, he thought she would not denounce him but would believe this was a situation out of his control, and instead of focusing on the reality of a missed wedding and absent fiancé, she would instead worry about him.

That conviction was a great deal of why he’d fallen in love with her. She was different, and he wanted her to be that way.

“I must get to England,” he told his benefactor, releasing her arm in case he alarmed her. “
Te amo
.”

That had come out wrong from the expression on her face, first a faint blush and then amusement.

He’d meant to indicate why he needed to return so urgently. Because he loved Vivian and he had to get to her as soon as possible. Surely, since his hostess was female, she would be moved by the romantic intent of his plea.

“
Amore
.”

A good try, but still not effective. She laughed, but she was no longer embarrassed, giving him a knowing look. He muttered dryly, “You don’t speak French by any chance, do you?”

His angel just looked at him blankly.

“No, monsieur, but I do. And English as well. How shall we converse?”

He glanced up. The man who had entered the dwelling was well dressed enough to make Lucien aware of his simple clothes, not that it mattered. He was lucky to be alive, so the cut of his trousers was extremely unimportant under the circumstances.

“You are English?”

He bowed. “Colonel Gerard Landscomb. Retired from King George’s army.”

Lucien wasn’t positive he could struggle to his feet and certainly didn’t want witnesses if all he managed to do was collapse, so he nodded. He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but surely his battered state was obvious because he hurt like hell all over. “I am the Marquess of Stockton. Forgive me for not rising. I had a bit of an accident.”

Until he was aware of where he was in relation to Artemis—or whatever the devil his real name was—and his not-so-kind associates, he wasn’t going to tell his story. For all he knew, this man was part of the kidnapping conspiracy.

Pale blue eyes regarded him with assessment. The visitor was middle-aged, looked quite fit, with a wide-brimmed hat to cover what might be a completely bald head, and a thin mustache showing a hint of gray. He chose a small wooden bench with the ease of someone who had been in the house before. “So I understand, my lord. Fernando claims he found you washed up on the shore.”

“So he did and I am forever in his debt. Er, what beach is it, might I ask? I have no idea where I am.”

“Minorca, my lord. A small island just off the east coast of Spain. Part of the coast is quite rocky. I think you are a lucky man to have drifted into a cove with a beach. You could have been easily battered to death.”

“I am afraid it feels like I was.” Lucien sat up more fully with a wince. “I rather thought the climate was Mediterranean. My Spanish is less than perfect. Can you please express my gratitude for both the rescue and the care I have received?”

The colonel spoke in rapid words that were hard to catch and held a distinct hint of his native accent, but the woman must have understood for she looked up from where she was washing a bowl in a small wooden tub and nodded and smiled.

Landscomb observed, “Friendly people here, mild temperatures, and the food is superb, though I admit I miss a good beefsteak now and then. I was a bit at loose ends after my wife died, rattling about in our cottage all alone, and decided the winters in Yorkshire were a bit too bleak for me any longer. How did
you
come to be here, Stockton?”

Lucien pondered an evasive answer, and decided if the older man was associated with his kidnappers he was in trouble anyway; how many half-drowned English lords washed up on a small island? His location would not be a secret and he wasn’t in any shape to make an effective escape.

On the other hand, there had to be a port and he was going to need help getting transportation back to England.

As evenly as possible, he said, “It is a rather interesting story, Colonel.”