The Wicked One (17 page)

She relived the last half hour.  So unsettled by her earlier encounter with Blackheath that she'd been unable to sleep, she had gone down to the library intending to get a book.  She had never reached her destination.  As she'd passed through the apparently deserted dining room, she'd seen a chair pulled close to the fire and, filling it, her nemesis's commanding, splendidly handsome form.

For a moment, wild elation had chased through her —
he
was here.  Her heart had leaped.  Her body had flushed with heat.  She should have bolted right then and there, but no, she had stayed, when every instinct of survival, of self-preservation had screamed at her to run.  She had stayed because he, mighty duke and god of arrogance, was having a nightmare, laid low by something that mere mortals such as the rest of the world battled all the time.  She had stayed, because she had wanted to see the man she both feared and despised, respected and admired, rendered as human as anyone else, instead of the unreachable, inscrutable being she had come to know.  She had stayed — for reasons she did not fully understand, did not
want
to understand . . . reasons that had nothing to do with wanting to see him suffer, and everything to do with the softer, more tender aspects of womanhood that sought only to comfort; softer, more tender feelings she had long denied existed in her own empty breast.

The very thought that those soft, tender feelings might lurk there like some encroaching cancer was enough to start Eva trembling all over again.  They were feminine feelings.  Protective feelings.  Dangerous feelings.

The sort of feelings that led to broken dreams and shattered hearts.

Memories flooded her.  She saw her mother's face, twisted, bitter, poisonous, ravaged by fifteen years of heartbreak and betrayal . . .

"Men!  They're all alike, Eva!"

"But Papa's different —"

"Your father is no better than the rest!  Just because he comes home from sea with candy and trinkets, Eva, don't think he loves you!  He wanted a boy!  He wanted an heir!  But he got a girl, he got you, and he's never forgiven me for it!"

"But Mama —"

"I don't want to hear it!  Men, they're all alike, every last damned one of them, and don't you ever forget it!

But she had forgotten it.  She had married Jacques.  She would not forget it again.

"I cannot marry the duke . . . he will destroy me," she said to the darkness.  To the ghost of her long-dead mother.

To herself.

Of its own accord, her hand strayed to her still-flat belly, beneath which lay Blackheath's growing child.  No, she could not marry him.  She could not sacrifice what was left of her pride, her freedom, and yes, her heart.  She could not let her child suffer the heartbreak she had endured, by saddling it with a father.

She gazed out into the cold and misty English night.

Perhaps it was time to leave.  Time to go back home to America — where she and her child belonged.

~~~~

When Eva came downstairs the next morning, determined to eat something despite the nausea the sight — and smell — of breakfast lately produced, she found the de Montforte family already gathered around the table, surrounded by begging dogs, servants, and children running to and fro.  Laughter and chaos filled the room.  For a moment, she hesitated just outside the door, feeling like an unwelcome intruder and reluctant to impose upon this merry scene of domestic bliss.

Especially if it meant confronting Blackheath.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's going to be a girl," Juliet was saying as she buttered a piece of toast.  "Girls always make you more sick, don't you think, Amy?"

Eva froze.

"Well, I really can't say," answered Amy, whose high cheekbones, straight, dark hair, and bronzy skin proclaimed Indian blood.  Like Juliet's, her accent reminded Eva of home . . . that humble New England twang that always brought back memories of Salem, shipbuilding, Yankee frugality, and good old common sense.  "After all, I've only had Mary, so I don't know how it feels to be carrying a boy."

"I was much sicker with Charlotte," Juliet proclaimed, putting the toast in front of the blonde, blue-eyed little girl who climbed up into the chair beside her.  "Now, Gabriel, on the other hand . . ."

They're talking about me,
Eva thought, horrified. 
Talking about my unborn child, making guesses about its gender.
  She felt suddenly self-conscious; as eager to leave this happily chaotic scene to which she could never belong as she was to join it.

"Well, you can all speculate as much as you want," Celsie said as she reached for a large helping cold beef, "but since I haven't had one moment of sickness, I'm going to guess it's a boy."

She happened to glance up at the same time that Eva realized this conversation wasn't about her unborn baby at all — but Celsie's.

Celsie was pregnant?

"Why, Eva!  No need to stand there.  Come, have some breakfast."

"Yes, Celsie and Andrew have some wonderful news to share!"

The three brothers rose as Eva, feeling somewhat shamefaced for her premature judgement, and very ill at ease, entered the room.  Gareth, as usual, was grinning; he was as hard to dislike as he was to take seriously, and she knew his smile was meant to make her feel comfortable.  She was grateful for his efforts.  Andrew, on the other hand, looked resigned and uncaring; only Charles looked displeased to see her.

Where was Blackheath?

She felt a stab of disappointment.  He was not here.

Eva took her seat as conversation resumed, wondering how an aristocratic family such as this could talk about unborn babies, of all things, in not only mixed company but with children about.  She would have thought such a well-bred lot would have considered the subject inappropriate, if not vulgar.  And how could Celsie stomach the sight of food, let alone look eager to put away vast quantities of it?  Why was her face was glowing with health, her eyes bright and her smile quick, when Eva felt positively wretched?

Irritation built. 
And where the devil is Blackheath?

She smiled at her cousin.  "It appears that I owe you and Andrew my congratulations," she said, trying not to feel envious of Celsie's obvious delight at her condition and radiant health.  "How long have you known?"

"Oh, for about a fortnight, now," Celsie answered, snaring another slice of toast.  "We were going to wait awhile before we announced the news, but we couldn't — we're just too excited!"

Gareth was still grinning.  "Everyone's trying to guess whether it will be a boy or a girl, but
I'm
wondering whether it will be an inventor or a crusader for the plight of animals!"

"Perhaps it will be both," Amy put in, picking up her own little daughter and bouncing her on her knee.  "Celsie and Andrew are both people of great accomplishment."

"And how are
you
feeling, Eva?" Celsie asked, crunching her toast.

"Sick," she replied with a wan smile.  She looked ruefully down at her plate, empty still, despite her resolve to eat something.  "I had no wish to intrude upon this happy scene, but I thought I'd let you all know that I'm leaving this afternoon.  I have imposed upon your and Andrew's hospitality for long enough."

"Leaving?"  Celsie dropped her toast.  "You can't do that, you have to marry Lucien!"

"I'm not marrying Lucien."

Immediately there was a buzz of voices around the table, worried frowns and hasty protests, people getting to their feet and the women trying to change her mind.

"But you have to marry Lucien!"

"You must think of your unborn child, Eva!"

"The king has decreed that the two of you marry!"

Eva shook her head.  "As much as you all love your brother, and as much as you'd like to see me shackled to him as punishment for my crimes against you" — her gaze went briefly, pointedly, to Charles — "I cannot marry him.  I have no wish to subject myself to the abhorrent fate of matrimony.  No wish to relinquish what remains of my freedom to a man who would surely abuse it.  Yes, there is the baby to think of, but I can assure you that it will be well provided for.  My father left me a considerable estate upon his death.  My child will have everything it needs back home in America — the protection, the comfort, and the love of its mother."

Nerissa, who had been subdued and no doubt brooding over Perry, spoke up.  "But what about the protection, the comfort, and the love of its father?"

Abruptly Eva's smile vanished.  "Fathers do not matter," she said bitterly.  "It will have no need of its father, and neither do I."

There was a horrified gasp from someone, probably gentle Amy, and then a hush as all eyes went to the door.

Blackheath.  There he stood, impassive and silent, his gaze impaling Eva where she sat, quite stunned by his sudden appearance, in her chair.  Involuntarily, her gut tightened, and tingles of warning tracked up her spine.  He had obviously just returned from a long walk; he was still in his country clothes, dark gray broadcloth and mud-spattered boots, his cheeks flushed with cold.  Or anger.  His face was so still, so guarded, that it was impossible to tell which.

 The room went dead silent as everyone waited for something perfectly horrible to issue from his lips.

"Why, hello, Luce," Gareth said uncertainly, trying to alleviate the sudden tension.

"Here, have some breakfast," Charles said, motioning to the expanse of food.

But the duke only gave an icy smile, came around the table toward Eva, and, as she stiffened, bent to drop a kiss against her suddenly hot cheek.  His clothes smelled like winter wind, morning air.  His lips were as cold as the outdoors from which he'd just come.  Nevertheless, they burned her where they touched.  Made her nether regions stir.  She swallowed, hard.

"You must forgive Eva," he said magnanimously.  "Unlike the rest of you, she has yet to realize how . . . satisfying matrimony can be."

"Past experiences have dictated otherwise," Eva ground out.

"Future ones will change your mind."

"My mind is made up,
sir
."

"Your mind merely needs an . . . adjustment."

"So, my dear duke" — she smiled poisonously — "does your arrogance."

Someone snickered.  Blackheath just looked at her, his eyes inscrutable.

Eva gazed calmly back, unwilling to back down.

And Blackheath smiled.  Chillingly. 
We will continue this discussion later
, that smile — those eyes — seemed to say.  She knew him well enough by now to know that he would not give his siblings the satisfaction of seeing him argue with her.  Not, that is, when they were probably all gloating over engineering what was surely destined to be a disastrous marriage.

His warning sent, the duke plucked young Charlotte from her seat, perched her on his knee, and, holding the little girl securely, whispered something in her ear.

Charlotte's tiny hand plunged into her uncle's pocket.  "Sweets!" she squealed, brandishing a wrapped peppermint with triumph.

"Oh, Lucien, not before breakfast!" wailed Juliet.

Gareth started laughing.  Tiny Mary Elizabeth and Charlotte's little brother Gabriel immediately began screaming for their share.

The duke only chuckled.  "See if you can't find some more where that came from, Charlotte," he murmured, smiling as her hand plunged back into his pocket. "Mary's too young, but I think your little brother would quite enjoy some, don't you?"

Charlotte, two treats clutched in her fist, jumped from her uncle's lap and raced around the table toward Gabriel.

"Lucien!" howled Juliet.

Even Amy looked distressed.

But Eva noticed that Lucien was quite enjoying the commotion he had caused.  Was this how he behaved when the real focus of his frustration — herself — remained out of reach?  He was still chuckling, and out of the corner of her eye, Eva could see his lips twitching as he watched Charlotte unwrapping the sweet.  Little Gabriel was screaming impatiently for it, Juliet was trying frantically to calm him, and now even Amy looked as though she were about to tear her hair out when Mary started shrieking as well.  Eva tightened her lips.  How like Blackheath to revel in causing a stir.  She was just about to excuse herself and retreat to the safety of her rooms when he reached back into his pocket, produced a last piece of candy, and, quite unobtrusively, placed it on Eva's empty plate.

She gave a snort of laughter.  "Really, Blackheath, if you cannot buy me with the offer of making me a duchess, don't think a piece of candy will do it."

"Suck on it," he said simply, ignoring her waspishness as a footman stepped forward and poured coffee into his cup.  "It will calm your stomach."

"But how did you know —"

He merely looked at her empty plate and lifted a brow.

Slanting him a look of distrust, she unwrapped the peppermint, placed the wadded-up paper beside her glass, and put the candy in her mouth.  For the briefest instant, her stomach recoiled, the nausea rising in the back of her throat.  She paled and almost bolted — and then, just like that, the queasiness was gone — and a ravenous hunger was in its place.

Stunned, Eva lifted her gaze and stared suspiciously at her erstwhile tormenter.

He merely smiled.  "Better?"

"How did you know that would help when none of the women here knew of such a remedy?" she hissed for his ears alone.

He took her plate and placed two slices of lightly buttered toast on it.  "Like you, my mother was also sick whenever she was carrying a little de Montforte," he said affably.  "My father would give her peppermints to make her feel better.  They worked every time."

"It was a remedy your
father
came up with?"

"He was a very clever man.  He loved my mother, and it upset him to see her so ill."  He smiled, but there was something significant behind that smile.  Something meaningful.  "You see, Eva, fathers really
do
matter."

She flushed, embarrassed that he would recall her earlier remark.  "Now, here, have some toast.  And eat heartily, as I should like to go riding after breakfast and would enjoy the pleasure of your company."