Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady Page 3

  ‘You are rested and feeling a little better, I trust.’ He went to take the chair at the head of the small rectangular table and a footman pulled out the other chair set at right angles to his. Bella sat and had her napkin shaken out for her.

  She had been fussed over by a pleasant housekeeper who had removed her wet clothes, found her a cosy wrapper and then tucked her up in bed with a cup of tea and a dish of plain biscuits. Without in the least expecting to, she had slept deeply and dreamlessly for almost two hours.

  Neither the housekeeper, nor the maid who came to wake her and help her dress, seemed at all surprised that she had turned up out of the drizzle. It was curiously hypnotic, this degree of comfort and luxury, the unobtrusive service, the lack of questions. It would not last, but she would draw strength from it while she could. And she so much needed strength. Strength to fight her own guilt and despair, strength to fight the world’s opinion.

  She had woken, knowing what she must do for her baby. Rafe might be dead, but the plan she had originally formed to deal with his almost inevitable refusal to marry her must still be tried. She felt ashamed to have to demand it now, but a steely determination had entered her heart while she slept. She would do whatever it took to protect her child, even at the expense of a man who was innocent in all this.

  ‘I feel much better, I thank you, my lord.’ It was seven o’clock on a dark, wet May evening, the seducer who had rejected her was dead and she was virtually penniless amongst strangers. Bella stamped on the rising panic; she could say nothing with the footman in attendance.

  ‘Serve the soup, Harris, and then leave us. I will ring.’

  The savoury curls of steam made her almost dizzy with desire. It was an effort to sip the soup and not to pick up the dish and drain it. It must be forty-eight hours since she had eaten a proper meal, but the rags of her pride made it important to behave like a lady in this, if nothing else.

  ‘Well, Miss Shelley.’ Lord Hadleigh regarded her with those deep blue eyes and she felt insensibly a little safer. ‘Will you tell me your first name?’

  ‘Arabella, my lord.’

  ‘And when is the baby due?’

  ‘Early December.’ That was easy to calculate; she had lain with Rafe only the once, after all.

  ‘You believed my brother would marry you? He offered marriage? Do have one of these bread rolls, they are excellent.’

  ‘Yes, he promised. Perhaps you doubt my word?’ she asked, the moment of reassurance vanishing. Elliott Calne shook his head. ‘I am sure you think me wanton. I should be ashamed to even try to justify myself. But it was a fairy tale: my Prince Charming had hacked his way through the thorns to rescue me. You are doubtless wondering how a twenty-five-year-old woman could be such a romantic. It is not like me, I assure you. I have the reputation of being sensible and practical,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘Where did you meet? In London, I suppose.’ He was too polite to comment on her morals and she was not sure how to explain it to him in any case. How could a man understand the impact his dazzling, treacherous brother had had on her? She was the lonely, dutiful, unhappy eldest daughter of the vicarage and Rafe had been the fulfilment of a fantasy.

  ‘No, in Suffolk. I live—lived—in a village near Ipswich. I am a vicar’s daughter. My two younger sisters, who could not bear life with Papa any longer, ran away some time ago. I remained. I am expected to support my father in his old age.’

  ‘How old is he, for God’s sake?’ the viscount demanded. He was certainly to the point, she observed, through her haze of misery.

  ‘Fifty-three.’ Bella took a wary sip of the red wine in her glass.

  ‘A long wait for him to become decrepit, then. I gather he is not a joy to live with. More soup?’

  ‘No. No more soup, thank you, and, no, he is not.’ It was futile to lie. Lord Hadleigh needed to understand. ‘He believes that females are natural sinners, the cause of wickedness, and it must be beaten out of them if necessary. “Woman is the daughter of Eve. She is born of sin and is the vessel of sin”.’ She quoted the sampler she had worked with her sisters. ‘My middle sister eloped with a young officer, her childhood sweetheart, the youngest ran away and I was seduced by a viscount. Papa was quite correct, it seems. I do not know where either of them is,’ she added with a pang. Bella put down her spoon with an unsteady hand and braced herself for this viscount to express his disapproval.

  ‘So, with two sisters gone by the time Rafe happened along, you were ripe for escape?’

  That was not the outright condemnation she had expected. Did Rafe’s brother understand after all? It was hard to tell whether he was sarcastic or sympathetic. How to explain the magic of the week of February sunshine that had come with Rafe, like a harbinger of joy? How to convey the sheer wonder of having such a man—handsome, attentive, sophisticated—pay her attention?

  ‘He had fallen in love at first sight, he said,’ she began, haltingly explaining it to both him and herself. ‘He was in the country, staying with his friend Marcus Daunt at Long Fallow Hall a few miles away. He admitted he was on a repairing lease because he was not feeling too well. The last thing he had expected was to fall in love, he told me.’

  ‘That must have been the infection beginning,’ Lord Hadleigh said. ‘I wondered where he had been. He was in London when he died.’

  It seemed odd that he did not know his own brother’s movements. And how strange that she had not sensed that he was ill; somehow the baby made a connection between them that should have been tangible, however much she hated him. ‘When was it? Did he…was there much pain?’ The room blurred as she struggled to get her emotions under control. This was her baby’s father; even after everything, she did not want him to have suffered agonies.

  ‘He was in some pain at first, they tell me, but he slipped into unconsciousness very quickly. Miss Shelley—’ He got to his feet and came round the table to crouch down beside her, his movements lithe. He was fit, she thought vaguely, and fast. ‘I am sorry, that was too abrupt. Here, drink some wine.’ He picked up the glass and wrapped her fingers around it, guiding hand and glass to her lips.

  She drank a little. ‘Thank you. I am all right. I wanted to know, it is better than imagining things.’ She made herself go on with her story as he went back to his seat. It was hard to look at him: he was so like Rafe and yet, so different. He seemed kind, he seemed caring. So had Rafe—at first. Beware, the voice of experience whispered. He’s a man. ‘We loved each other—I thought—but I warned him about Papa, who became angry if I and my sisters so much as spoke to the curate.’

  ‘Viscount Hadleigh is hardly the curate,’ the current holder of the title observed drily. He got to his feet, removed her soup plate and began to carve a capon. ‘Are the side dishes within your reach?’ He handed her a plate with meat and served himself.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Go on, Miss Shelley. He loved you, you loved him, but your father would object because he wanted to keep you at home for his own comfort.’

  ‘We spoke of marriage and made plans. Rafe would go back to London, organise the settlements and return to present Papa with a fait accompli—he was even going to employ a good housekeeper and bring her with him so Papa would not be abandoned. It all seemed perfect, that day. I was head over heels in love and…We became lovers. He asked and I…He said I could not love him, if I refused. So I did as he asked me.’

  She could not go on. She was not going to describe the horror of it all disintegrating about her. The nightmare. She had loved Rafe, she knew she would have learned to please him in bed if she had had the chance, if he had cared for her in return and had wanted to teach her. But—’That is all,’ she concluded abruptly and looked up to find Elliott Calne’s eyes studying her with something painfully like pity in them.

  Elliott was silent, twisting his wine glass between long fingers.

  Further intimate revelations seemed beyond Bella, but good manners insisted she try to make some kind of conversatio
n. She could not just sit and sob, however bad she felt. ‘Forgive me,’ she ventured, ‘but were you and your brother close?’

  ‘You mean, I presume, how like him am I?’ That question appeared to amuse him. The smile appeared, and goose bumps ran up and down her spine. It was some form of sorcery, that smile. In combination with those eyes it should be illegal. ‘Not very, except in looks. I am the boringly well-behaved younger brother, after all.’

  Boring hardly seemed the word. Bella made herself focus on him, not just on his resemblance to Rafe. Nor, she guessed, was well behaved an accurate description. There was an edge to Elliott Calne’s observations that suggested a cheerfully cynical view of the world and a lack of shock at her story that made her suspect that he was quite familiar with the pleasures of life.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘For a long time I was the poor younger brother as well. That does put a slight crimp in one’s descent into debauchery, unless one has no concern about debt or one’s health. I enjoy sport, I enjoy working hard, being fit. I prefer to make money, not to squander it. Then when I had it I found that working for my wealth made me value it a little more than, perhaps, Rafe did his inheritance.’

  He raised his eyes fleetingly to study the room and she glanced around too. Under the opulence there were small signs of decay, of money skimped on repairs and spent on show. Bella noticed a patch of damp on the wall by the window, a crack in the skirting, and recalled the potholes in the carriage drive. The fingers of Elliott’s left hand tightened on the stem of his wine glass, the ring that had been Rafe’s sparking in the candlelight. She realised that his eyes were on her and not the room. He glanced away again, went back to his silent thoughts.

  Bella put down her knife and fork and studied the face that was so like, and yet unlike, his brother’s. Rafe’s face had been softer than this man’s, though the searing attack of Rafe’s anger had been sharp; she felt that Elliott’s would be more ruthless and controlled under a façade that was more light-hearted than Rafe’s. She shivered and he caught it at once; he was watching her more closely than she had realised.

  ‘Are you cold?’ She shook her head. ‘Still hungry? Shall I ring for cheese, or a dessert?’ The perfect host, yet this was very far from the perfect social situation and Bella suspected that much more was going on in that sharply barbered head than concerns over her appetite.

  ‘No, thank you, my lord.’ She was as warm and well fed and rested as she was going to be; now was the moment to say what she had resolved upstairs when she woke.

  Goodness only knew how he would respond, but she was prepared to be utterly shameless. After a lifetime of doing what she was told, thinking of everyone else’s welfare, needs and whims before her own, she was going to stand up and fight for her child. After all, the world would say she had put herself beyond shame. ‘My lord.’

  He looked at her, alerted by the change in her tone. ‘Miss Shelley?’

  ‘You are Rafe’s heir, so I must ask you to do this—insist upon it.’ Her voice quavered and she bore down hard on the fear and the emotion. She had to get through this. ‘I want you to provide me with a house—just a small, decent one—and enough money for me to raise my child respectably. I can pretend to be a widow, I need very little for myself. But I must ask you to pay for his education if it is a boy or for a dowry if it is a girl. I am very sorry to have to demand this of you, but I realise I must do whatever I can for my baby’s safety and future.’

  He studied her from under level brows and with no trace of emotion on his face. Was he shocked by her explicit demands? ‘I am sure you will be a veritable tigress in defence of your cub,’ he remarked at length, bringing the angry colour up into her cheeks. ‘But, no, I will not set you up in some decent little house in some provincial town somewhere and provide for your child as you ask.’

  Bella’s fingers curled into claws. For a moment she felt just like the animal he had likened her to. ‘You must—’

  ‘I will not.’ It was like walking into a wall. He did not move, he did not raise his voice, but Bella knew, with utter clarity, that this was not an unplanned reaction. He had guessed what she would ask and he had made up his mind.

  He would have her driven back to the Peacock in Chipping Campden where she had left the stage coach, no doubt. Now that he had looked after her basic welfare and she had made her demands, he would want her out of the house. Well, she would go, she had no strength left tonight to fight him.

  But she would be back tomorrow whether he liked it or not—Elliott Calne was her only hope and she would do whatever she had to until he gave in. Anything. She would come back, and back, until he either called in the constable or gave her what she needed. If she had to she would threaten a scandal, although she knew who was likely to come off worst if she did. Blackmail, shaming, threats—whatever weapon she could find, she would use it.

  ‘I cannot argue with you now, but I will, I promise you. I should be leaving now. I will—’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ he interrupted her, his tone as pleasant as if they had been discussing the weather. ‘It is getting late and you have had a long and difficult day. I am afraid that the Dower House is draughty and my great-aunt querulous—although you will not see her tonight—but my cousin Dorothy is a pleasant enough female.’

  ‘Your—’ The Dower House and his female relatives? Was Lord Hadleigh insane? He could not deposit the woman who had been his brother’s lover, who was carrying his brother’s illegitimate child, on those respectable ladies. ‘But I cannot stay with your relatives. I am ruined! They would be mortified if they realised.’

  ‘They would be mortified if my wife-to-be stayed anywhere else.’

  Bella’s hand jerked and the stain spread like blood over the white tablecloth as her almost-full wine glass toppled. ‘Your wife? You intend to marry me? You?’

  ‘Why, yes. Have you any better suggestion, Arabella?’

  ‘I came here with a perfectly reasonable proposition, and you refused me without even discussing it and now you suggest marriage!’

  ‘It was not a suggestion. It is what is going to happen.’ Elliott cut through her half-formed thoughts. From his tone he was both making a prediction and issuing an order. He looked as though he was negotiating a business deal, his eyes cold and steady. The charming smile had gone.

  ‘It is ridiculous! I do not know you. Rafe is the father—’

  ‘Rafe is cold in the ground.’ She flinched, but he pressed on, ignoring her wordless gasp of shock at his frankness. ‘And how well did you know him? I thought you wanted the best for your child.’

  ‘I do! I would do anything for this baby…’ Her voice trailed away as she saw where this was taking her. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Exactly. I assume you mean that. You did not come here really expecting to marry Viscount Hadleigh, did you? If Rafe had been alive, he would have refused and you know it, so you had, most sensibly, planned your demands.

  ‘Now you will become a viscountess, move here, live in what—once I get this place into some sort of order—should be reasonable comfort. The difference is that you will be marrying me and not my brother. Is that such a sacrifice to make for your child or are you telling me you would prefer to live a lie in dowdy seclusion in some remote market town, bringing up a bastard?’

  The sharp vertical line between his brows and the edge to his words told her quite clearly how little he wanted this.

  ‘Of course I would not,’ Bella snapped, nerves getting the better of shock and distress and even the remnants of good manners. ‘If I thought for a moment you meant it—’

  ‘You doubt my word?’

  Now she had impugned his honour and he was on his aristocratic high-horse. It would be nice to be able to complete a sentence. Bella hung on to her anger—it was more strengthening than any of the other emotions that were churning inside her. She tried again. ‘I doubt you have thought this through. I have no desire to be married to a man who is going to bitterly resent it the moment the kno
t is tied. You would make an appalling husband.’

  Judging by the way the corner of his mouth quirked, he appeared to find her completely unfair words mildly diverting, damn him. Bella had a momentary pang of conscience over thinking such a thing, but found she was beyond caring. This was a nightmare and somehow she had to wake up.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me!’

  ‘Do you think I find this amusing? Then let me explain something, Arabella.’ Elliott got to his feet, about six foot three of intense male at very close quarters. She did her best not to flinch away when he planted his hands on the table and leaned towards her, those deep blue eyes holding hers. ‘I am Hadleigh. I am head of this family now. But if Rafe had done what he should have done and married you before he died, then I would be sitting here, a guest in your house, acting as your trustee until the birth of that child.

  ‘And if it is a boy, he would be Viscount Hadleigh and I would be Mr Calne, his guardian, nothing more. Do you expect me, in all honour, to ignore that fact?’

  Chapter Three

  ‘But you are the legal heir. You hold the title now. You cannot want to marry me,’ Bella protested.

  ‘For God’s sake, stop worrying about me or Rafe or anything else and worry about your child,’ Elliott snapped. ‘My brother should have left you alone or married you: one or the other. In fact, he should have married years ago. But he did not. Do you think I am grateful for his heedless behaviour because I now have the good fortune to inherit the title?’

  He did not sound as though he considered himself very fortunate. ‘All I can do, in honour, is to ensure that if it is a boy he will one day inherit, as my heir. It might not be legally imperative, but it most certainly is morally. No one will suspect—a child is presumed to be the offspring of its mother’s husband. With any luck the birth will be full term or later—I believe that is not uncommon with a first child. We will have been assumed to have anticipated matters a trifle, however late it is.’