The Duke's Deceit Page 8

  She slipped into her chemise, an old worn-out pale yellow cotton dress that buttoned up the front, and her black slippers. No one would see her, so there was no need to tie back her hair. She let it cascade across her breasts and down her back.

  She tiptoed past Lottie’s chamber and the sewing room, where Richard lay sleeping. The kitchen door creaked as she opened it. She held her breath, waiting, but no one stirred. The only sound was the tall clock in the front hall chiming four. It would be an hour or more before Lottie rose. By then Mary would have visited the stable and would be safely back in her room, hopefully snuggled beneath the covers in exhausted, forgetful slumber.

  Carrying the lantern before her, she entered the stable, being careful to step over the lumber, stored just inside the door, that Richard insisted be used to complete six stalls more than they’d ever had before. “Can’t grow, if you don’t have room,” he’d insisted, and her uncle had agreed.

  The barn smelled new. The hay was fresh; even the tack hung from shiny nails. She’d have to work hard to keep it, but never for an instant would she think of giving up her father’s dream.

  The rustling of the horses in their new stalls was comforting, as was the sight of Star and her foal tucked contentedly together in such a way that was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended. She wouldn’t disturb them.

  Suddenly her breath died in her throat, and she turned slowly around. There had been no sound, nothing to warn her. She’d simply sensed his presence.

  The face that he presented to her, in the shadowed space between the light from her lantern and the quilt spread upon the fresh hay in the empty stall next to Star’s, was unfathomable. The beguiling smile was new, and the expression in his eyes was impossible to interpret, even if she’d had the strength.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She set the lantern carefully at her feet.

  “In that dress with the light shining around you, you look like a buttercup.” His words flowed like honey. When he reached out, she took his hand.

  “Come, my sweet Mary, rest with me.”

  He pulled her down upon the quilt with him. Somehow she found her cheek resting against the smooth skin of his bare chest where his shirt lay open. She pulled back, but he held her carefully against his side, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

  “Why do you hold yourself back from me, Mary?” His quiet voice was startling in the heavy silence of the stable.

  “We shouldn’t be here like this. We shouldn’t always be touching one another. It’s … it’s not the proper way to behave.”

  Caught in the throes of an embarrassment so great, she did something stupid. She burrowed her hot face into his bare chest, breathing deeply of his clean male scent.

  “It seems to me it’s quite proper to wish to be with your betrothed.” His hushed laugh was rueful. “I was lonely here without you.”

  Maybe she was exhausted from the burden of her lie, maybe she was overwhelmed by the miracle of the foal’s birth; whatever the reason, her head reeled.

  “I never realized I was lonely until you came here.” As soon as the words passed her dry lips she regretted them, but there was no taking them back or denying their truth.

  He said her name once, a ragged inhalation as his fingers glided through her hair to bring her face toward him. The corners of his lips teased upward into a smile. “Is it proper for me to do this, Mary?”

  He tilted her head back and laid gentle kisses on her eyelids.

  “Does this banish the loneliness for you too, my lavender-scented Mary?” he breathed onto her lips, before pressing his mouth fully over them.

  The hands holding her rocked her gently back and forth against him with a sensuality so potent that she succumbed. Her mouth met his with an eagerness that exploded through her like beams of sunlight.

  These feelings were too great for her spirit to resist. Here in the stable, where it had all begun, she would steal these moments. After all, they would be all she’d ever have.

  She clung to him, their lips meeting, breaking; then she gave her mouth to him in such a way that small unknown wants settled low in her body. His hands stroked her back with a luxuriating slowness that lulled her into a sweet light-filled world of the senses that was as new as it was wondrous.

  His palm slid slowly to cup the underside of her breast, and Mary cried out, spiraling wildly back to earth. It was too powerful—and it was wrong! She ripped herself out of his arms.

  His eyes widened in response, and his wonderful hands dropped away.

  “What is it, Mary?” he murmured, his gaze searching her face.

  A moment such as this demanded the truth. “I’m afraid,” she stated baldly, meeting his liquid eyes with as much strength as she could muster.

  The strong bones of his face relaxed into a tenderness which gave birth to a new ache inside her. Stunned, she didn’t protest as his arms came around to cradle her. Gently, he laid her back on the quilt, spreading her hair out onto the blue patchwork like flames.

  Slowly he brought one hand up and, with the back of his fingers, brushed one tear away where it had escaped to tickle her cheek.

  “It’s all right, my sweet. Rest here with me while we watch over Star as Ian would wish us to do.”

  Earlier she’d thought his face unfathomable. Now, with this new gentleness sweetening his voice and softening the heavy-lidded eyes, she was dazzled by her feelings. In a last frantic effort at rational thought, she stared steadily into his eyes.

  “I shall rest here now, Richard. But you must promise to sit quietly while we have a long talk in the morning.”

  His lips touched her forehead. “It will be as you demand, my determined one,” he murmured, a thread of laughter lacing his words.

  Having made the gut-wrenching decision, she closed her lids. Her mind was set. She would tell him everything. He was strong enough to bear it. He had to be.

  She fell asleep with his fingers stroking her cheek and sorrow filling the empty ache in her chest.

  Tomorrow this dream would end.

  Richard awoke with his face buried in Mary’s glorious hair. Gently removing the silken strands entangling him, he edged away slightly. Mary lay innocently curled beside him. Her sleep-flushed cheeks glowed with color beneath the thick, straight fan of her red-brown lashes. Her ruby lips, sweetly parted in slumber, were nearly irresistible.

  Would sleeping beside her always fill him with this odd mix of contentment and pleasure? Suddenly he knew that this was an entirely new idea for him. Just as the senses of an experienced lover had returned to him, he knew that he never slept with his partners. No matter how long they talked and relaxed together in bed after love play, he would always leave them.

  Damn! Was this how his life would flow back into his empty mind, in little starts and pictures? It was happening more frequently, but not fast enough to satisfy him.

  Images of a beautiful white-haired woman with eyes identical to his often floated through his mind. There were flashes of scenes on horseback, riding hell-for-leather; then the aftermath of a great battle. Had he taken part in it?

  So many questions to be answered. So much to piece back together.

  The most perplexing puzzle lay beside him. She’d told him in her conscientious voice, which rose slightly when she wished to make a particular point, that it wasn’t proper the way they behaved, always touching one another. The burning question was why he actually felt a need to touch her when he sensed that such had not always been the case. Before.

  Before. Was his life always to be divided into two distinct parts. Before he was beamed on the head; and after?

  Another memory drifted into his thoughts, and he gathered it gladly into his small store.

  This one brought such a pang of tenderness that he reached out and stroked the sleep-warm cheek. It
was the memory of Mary’s voice calling to him in the dark, swirling world of emptiness where he had helplessly floated. He had tethered his will to her soft tones and drawn himself back to the living.

  Mary’s lashes fluttered once before lifting, her cornflower eyes glazed from slumber.

  Slowly they focused on his face and widened to once again resemble those of a wild creature, frightened and poised to flee. Mary scrambled to her knees.

  “Star and the foal?” she asked, glancing around.

  “Content.” His voice low, he knelt in front of her. Drawing her tightly to his body, he brushed aside a heavy fall of hair to taste the warm skin on the side of her neck. “As I am with you, my sweet Mary,” he breathed into the shell of her ear.

  She pushed him away and jumped to her feet. He followed in one shocked movement.

  “I can’t. We can’t. It’s not right,” she cried in a voice he didn’t recognize. Her breath came in frayed little gasps, and her eyes pleaded for understanding, the iris expanding to dull the blue to navy. “We must go into the house. We must talk. Now!”

  She swung on her heels, poised for flight.

  Stunned by the pain he saw on her pale face, he caught her shoulder. “Wait, Mary.”

  The movement caused her foot to sink into a hole beneath the quilt. She shifted, trying to keep her balance, and Richard lunged to catch her before she fell.

  Overbalanced, they tumbled, tangled together onto the quilt. The force of the fall rolled them onto the straw-covered floor. He cushioned her with his arms, curling his body around her to protect her.

  Blinding light exploded behind his eyes. The edge of a piece of lumber scraped the back of his head and down the side of his cheek as he rolled to a halt. He squeezed his lids closed against a sharp jab of pain so forceful that it filled his ears with echoes of the blow.

  Light and color rushed into the dull ache. Images of people and places overflowed his mind. Then blackness. Into that void flowed new color and images, all coming together to form one vibrant tapestry.

  “Richard! Open your eyes, Richard! Please!” The plaintive sweet tones he had heard once before called to him.

  Obeying, he lifted his lids and looked straight into her wide, deceitful gaze.

  Chapter 6

  “Thank the good Lord!” she breathed, tears pearling her thick lashes. “Richard, are you hurt?”

  “No.” He drawled the single word as evenly as he could against the biting teeth of rage that were gnawing his guts to shreds.

  Curling up in one fluid motion, he towered over her and looked around him with eyes that were aware for the first time. “I’m fine,” he added softly, studying her fawn eyes for answers.

  What a wonderful actress she was! He’d had snares set for him by the most cunning women of the ton, and the ladies of the demimonde were forever at his heels, but never had any of them demonstrated such skill.

  When had she realized what a plum had dropped into her lap?

  For the first time in this charade she played, she reached out to touch his cheek, her eyes wide and deep navy with fear. “Are you sure you’re all right? You … you look different somehow.”

  The touch of her gentle fingers fed the flames of his anger. Holding her gaze, he brought his hand to her throat, somehow resisting the urge to press against it and demand the truth. Why had she lied to him?

  If Lottie hadn’t rushed through the stable doors at just that moment, he was certain that his rage would have overcome his natural curiosity. As it was, he decided to play the game a little longer.

  “Mary, Dr. McAlister and another gentleman have just arrived!”

  Lottie’s face was a study in color contrasts—her round green eyes were bright as emerald chips, the plump cheeks apple red, but there was a white line around her usually merry mouth.

  “Who is it, Lottie?” Mary asked.

  “The stranger looks like that miniature your mother left you.”

  “It can’t be!” Mary’s voice quivered like a guttering candle.

  Richard was amazed at the reaction of the two women. They had faced the fire and resulting work with less apprehension. He strode to the stable door and stared out at the doctor and a rotund gentleman, certainly no one to inspire such fear.

  “Who is he?” Richard demanded in what he now knew was his normal disdainful tone.

  Mary peeked around the corner, then looked up at him, her wide-set eyes nearly opaque. “I believe it’s my maternal grandfather, Baron Renfrew.”

  Exercising extreme effort, Richard kept his face muscles set. He’d never met the old baron, but he’d heard enough tales of his avaricious nature to see a setup. What a charming family trap he’d blundered into!

  “Where’s your familial feeling, Mary? Shouldn’t you be rushing to greet him?”

  She stepped back as if slapped by the thread of viciousness in his voice that he couldn’t quite mask.

  “I doubt he wishes my greeting, Richard.” Her voice rose as it always did when she wished to be precise, although this time it was laced with trepidation. “I have no idea why he is here now. He’s never before even acknowledged my existence.”

  There was more to this than met the eye, Richard reasoned. And with his wits about him, he was a match for any man. He strolled indolently behind Lottie, who hovered protectively beside Mary.

  Two could play at charades!

  At their approach, Dr. McAlister nodded his head vigorously. “Here they are, Baron. Good day, Miss Masterton.”

  “Good day, Dr. McAlister,” she said evenly, her eyes riveted to her grandfather’s scarlet face. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “What abominable manners!” the baron roared at a space somewhere over Mary’s right shoulder.

  He wouldn’t look directly at her, Richard noticed, becoming further intrigued.

  “Won’t be questioned like a lackey on the front stoop. Why don’t the stupid gal show us into the parlor?”

  Richard could almost see Mary’s heart stop beating as she stood in silent shame.

  “By all means let us adjourn to the parlor, gentlemen.”

  His stress on the last word brought Renfrew’s gaze to his face for an instant before the baron turned to follow Lottie into the cottage.

  With Baron Renfrew taking a wide-spread stance at the fireplace, Richard was forced to lean against the door to observe. Lottie appeared frightened to death and Mary … he wouldn’t allow himself to even guess at what was behind her façade. At last the doctor sensed some of the undercurrent.

  “Miss Masterton, I believe you’d best sit down while we explain why we’ve come.”

  “Cease treating the chit like a lady, McAlister.” Renfrew flicked the doctor a sneer. “Being peasant stock, she’ll be sturdy enough to bear up under the facts I’ve come to reveal. She’s been lying and cheating His Grace and now she’s been caught out!”

  An hour ago Richard would have planted the baron a facer, even if he was thirty years older and Mary’s grandfather to boot. Even now he had to resist the urge to go to her and draw her trembling body into his arms. His anger with her, however, was strong enough to stop him from taking more than two paces into the room.

  Lottie turned from where she stood at the lace-trimmed windows and cried out, “More visitors, Mary. No wait! It’s your uncle, and a fine lady with him!”

  The parlor doors were flung open. Ian escorted the Duchess of Avalon in, as naturally as if they were old friends.

  Identical chocolate eyes met and held. Although he fought to still his natural inclination, surely she could sense the wave of love he felt at seeing her.

  “Your Grace, what do you here?” Renfrew barked out. “Peabody told you I’d fetch your boy home.”

  “I could wait no longer to see my son.” She stared at him, her face
so sad that it tore at his already battered insides. “Richard, I know you have lost your memory, but I want you to know I am your mother. You are the Duke of Avalon. And you are loved very much.”

  It was one of his greatest acts of self-control not to embrace her and breathe in her wonderful essence which recalled earlier and happier times.

  Richard saw a flicker of confusion on her face before she turned to Mary. “You must be Ian’s niece.”

  His mother’s kind voice seemed to soften the icy rigidity that Mary was locked in. A flicker of a smile brushed her nearly colorless lips as she executed a curtsy.

  “Dear child, I can’t thank you enough for your care of my son.” The duchess took Mary’s hand and raised her gracefully from the floor.

  “Madame, this baggage deserves none of your thanks. It is she who has kept him from you for so long!” Renfrew interrupted, striding forward, still refusing to acknowledge Mary in any way. “The gal’s deceitful, just like her mother. And as dishonest and lowborn as her father. She’s done her best to get her nasty claws into your son, but I’m here to stop her!”

  “Sir, you are speaking of my intended bride!”

  Richard hadn’t meant to defend her, but was driven by some feeling too intense to ignore. He threw an arm around Mary’s shoulder and pulled her to him. She shuddered once but didn’t attempt to free herself.

  Rage transformed the baron’s face into tight weasel-like lines.

  “McAlister told me what the stupid chit’s been about. Good God, boy, the gal’s done nothing but lie to you! You’re not engaged to this baggage. You’re engaged to Lady Arabella Hampton!”

  Mary stood as if an icy paralysis gripped her. At last she stared up at him with such raw pain on her face that for a moment he hesitated.

  “It’s true, Richard,” his mother added softly, her eyes studying his own. “Your memory loss has wiped it away, but what the baron states is true, dear heart.”