A Scandalous Secret (14 page)

‘He does not improve upon closer acquaintance?’

‘He does not,’ she said, without mincing matters. ‘Still, I do not like to think of Lizzy remaining alone. She always dreamed of marrying for love, and when Papa decreed otherwise, I fear he ruined her life.’

‘Surely you exaggerate, ma’am,’ he protested.

‘The night before my sister’s wedding,’ Dorinda said confidentially, not certain why she was telling this to him, ‘I went to her room and found her weeping as if her heart would break. After that, for four years I never saw her cry - nor laugh, either. It was as if she had forgotten how - as if my familiar, merry sister had died.’

‘And after four years? What then?’

‘It was when she knew that she was to have a child,’ she explained. ‘Then, at last, I saw something of the old Lizzy I thought I had lost forever. In many ways, Nicky has been her salvation, I think. Perhaps because he is so very different from his father.’

‘He does not resemble the late earl?’

‘Not in the least.’ Dorinda shook her head. ‘Nicky’s build is more slender, and that chestnut hair is quite—’ She stopped abruptly. Describing her nephew, it suddenly occurred to her that the man before her bore an uncanny resemblance to the little boy. Of course, Mr Markham was older, but still ... now that she thought of it, they even had the same trick of rolling the buttons of their coat sleeves between their fingers when they were distracted or ill at ease. A curious coincidence. Or was it? Mr Markham could almost have passed for Nicky’s father. Dominick Markham….
Nicky….

No. It was madness. Her mind recoiled in panic from the thought. She did not believe it. She could not believe it. She
would not
believe it. But in that instant, her heart rather than her brain knew it to be true. Dominick Markham was Nicky’s father!

‘Lady Barrowe,’ the man was saying to her, ‘are you ill?’ She realized then that she had been standing there staring at him with her mouth hanging open. ‘You look as though you’d seen a ghost.’

A ghost! If only it were that simple. At that moment, she would have welcomed some supernatural explanation. It was the natural - all too natural - evidence that had so thoroughly overset her nerves.

‘I shall be well in a trice. It is just ... I thought for a moment ...’ Her mind whirled like a mill-wheel, and she babbled pure gibberish. ‘I must go, sir. Pray excuse me.’

Her barouche was now ready, and she turned away to enter it
with relief. She could not bear to stand here with him for even a minute longer.

‘Let me help you, ma’am.’ He was all concern, taking her elbow and assisting her as she lifted her foot.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, not daring to look at him again.

‘Perhaps I should go with you,’ he said, obviously not satisfied with her appearance.

‘No!’ she said, so sharply that she surprised even herself, and certainly startled the gentleman. More quietly, she added, ‘I appreciate your concern, but I do not require any assistance. Good day, Mr Markham.’

She instructed her coachman to drive on, and left Dominick standing by the drive, looking bewildered. And well he might! She was quite disoriented herself.

It was impossible, of course, for him to be Nicky’s father. He had only just met her sister. Or had he? Of Dominick’s past, she knew nothing; but she would have sworn that Lizzy’s life was an open book. Yet she could not help but recall that Elizabeth was the only person who had known about Mr Markham’s late brother. And, now that she thought on it, their conduct at the squire’s party had been most peculiar. What really lay behind the mutual antagonism she had sensed? There did not seem to be any cause for it, unless....

For the first time, she began to speculate on the real cause of her sister’s recent moodiness. And what of Mr Markham’s unusual interest in her tale of Lizzy’s sad marriage? It had been far more than curiosity or idle sympathy. If he had been her sister’s lover, it would explain a great deal. And what part in this fantastic farce was played by Miss Thornwood? No, no. She must stop these wild conjectures. They were to no avail. She must speak to Elizabeth herself.

But she could not. How could she ask her own sister if her son,
the Earl of Dansmere, had been sired by their neighbour? It would be impertinent, to say the least - especially if it were not true. And on the face of it, it seemed so improbable. Mr Markham’s fortune was but recently acquired, and eight years ago he would never have had the opportunity to move in such circles as theirs. How could he have known Elizabeth?

It must be a freakish fancy. Yet, try as she might, Dorinda could not banish the suspicion. Indeed, her heart insisted that it was truth, whatever her head might urge. She began to dread the very sight of Elizabeth, for there seemed no way to broach a subject which was as indelicate as it was momentous.

* * * *

If Elizabeth had been reduced to wretched unhappiness by the news of Dominick’s engagement, and Dorinda stunned by her suspicions as to his involvement with her sister, the gentleman himself was in an equally unenviable position. He returned home in a frame of mind which was less than cheerful.

Lady Barrowe had given few details of her sister’s marriage, but enough to make him distinctly uneasy. A girl of seventeen, wed against her will to a man older than her own father.... No wonder that on their night at the inn, she had told him she would rather be a maid than the countess. Only now was he beginning to understand the sad, lonely Bess who had reached out to a stranger when he offered her what she had never yet known.

By the time he dismounted and made his way slowly into the house, he was aware of the first stirrings of something he had never felt before in his dealings with her: remorse. Added to this was his growing sense of frustration at his rash actions over the last few days.

He had offered for Gwendolyn Thornwood out of sheer pique. After Lord Maples’s revelation, followed by that dreadful game of cap verses, he had been determined to prove to everyone – but
especially to a certain countess - that he could wed one of the most eligible girls in the country, from one of the finest families: He, the lowly clerk, who had made a fortune from trade.

After dinner last night, he had allowed Gwendolyn to manoeuvre him out on to the terrace for a ‘breath of air’. She was setting her cap at him in the most obvious manner, which would once have merely amused him. Now, however, when she fluttered her lashes at him and made play with her fan, he responded in just the manner she desired. No doubt, had he waited, he might have married a woman of even higher rank - the daughter of some impoverished baronet, perhaps. But he did not want to wait, now that Elizabeth was so eager to be riveted to His Lordship!

So when Gwendolyn - most improperly - presented her soft, pink lips for his delectation, he had readily obliged. What did it matter if he did not love her? She was out to catch herself a wealthy husband, and he supposed there were worse fates than to marry a pretty girl - even if she were a pea-goose. So, putting aside his dreams and desires, he recklessly made his offer. Naturally, the maiden accepted and hastened to drag him off for a more formal declaration to her father.

Now his fate was sealed. He was marrying into the gentry, into a family of high standing in the county. He had shown them all, even Aunt Winnie - who was far from pleased when she learned the news. So why was he so thoroughly miserable?

He was sitting there in his study, feeling very sorry for himself, when his aunt entered through the door which he had left slightly ajar. With her close bonnet, ubiquitous shawl and plain dark sunshade, she was evidently dressed for an outing.

‘Where are you off to, Aunt Winnie?’ he asked, forgetting his manners in his surprise at this unexpected sight.

‘Where’ve I been, is more like it,’ she retorted, briskly untying her bonnet and casting aside the parasol. This was most mysterious.

‘Well, where
have
you been?’

‘I’ve been to have a talk with Elizabeth - which is what
you
should have done long ago, if you had any sense.’

‘Elizabeth?’ he said stupidly, staring at her. He could not have heard aright.

The countess,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t be such a nodcock.’

‘Great God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What did you go to see her for? To discuss Nicky?’

His aunt settled herself carefully in a chair before answering. ‘We did say a few words about your son, yes,’ she allowed. ‘But what I went to see her about was this hare-brained betrothal of yours.’

‘Aunt!’ Dominick was appalled, and angry as well. ‘You had no right to do such a thing. My betrothal to Miss Thornwood is no concern of either yourself or Lady Dansmere.’

‘Well, of course it is,’ she answered, never batting an eyelid. ‘If you mean to marry that ninnyhammer, I’m going to have to live in the same house with her - unless you mean to throw me out into the street!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Aunt Winnie.’

‘And I wish you would tell me,’ she went on, as if he had never spoken, ‘how it cannot concern your own son’s mother? Especially seeing as how you’re only marrying the squire’s brat to spite her.’

Dominick could feel his temper rising. Really, this was the outside of enough - even for his aunt. ‘That was quite uncalled for, Aunt Winnie. You ought to know better.’

Miss Trottson gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Don’t try to bamboozle me, Dominick. You never cared two straws about that Gwendolyn chit - hardly looked twice at her until you heard that Elizabeth was going to wed Lord Oswald.’

He stared determinedly at the floor, not wanting her to read the truth in his eyes. ‘Gwendolyn,’ he said, ‘is a very ... nice ... girl.’

‘No doubt. But you ain’t in love with her. You’ll end up hurting yourself, Miss Thornwood and the countess, too.’

‘I fail to see how it can affect
her.’

‘That’s because you’re blind as a bat - like most men.’ She paused to straighten her shawl, which had fallen off one thin shoulder. ‘Can’t you see the poor woman’s in love with you?’

He raised his head sharply at this. ‘Please, Aunt,’ he said, his voice strained even to his own ears, ‘do not say such things, even in jest.’

‘She ain’t going to marry Lord Maples, either!’ she informed him.

‘You did not mention
that
to her, Aunt?’ he demanded. ‘The viscount told me the news in strictest confidence. I should never have spoken of it to you or anyone else.’

‘If it’s a question of honour, or some other nonsense you men value so highly, you needn’t fret over it. The man is a rogue. He was lying through his teeth.’

That, at least, I can believe,’ he admitted. ‘I had a talk with Lady Barrowe this morning at the manor.’

‘And what did she have to say?’

Dominick related the gist of his chat with Dorinda, and described her precipitate departure. ‘When we parted company, she looked most distressed. I think she had not meant to reveal so much to me.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Aunt Winnie said. ‘But I’m glad to know more about your countess. Poor child, she’s not had a very happy life, I’m thinking. Her father must have been a monster.’

‘Yes,’ he said shortly, biting back a few choice epithets he could have used to describe that deceased gentleman. ‘Still, just because the countess was forced into marriage and did not love her husband, there is no reason to suppose that she is in love with me.’

‘But she is.’

‘And how do you know that?’ He ran his fingers through his hair, not caring that he was ruining his normally well-groomed appearance. He added with bitter sarcasm, ‘I suppose she told you so?’

‘Yes, she did.’

Dominick could not believe his ears. ‘She told you this? You -you must have misunderstood, Aunt,’ he said, his words stumbling over his own tongue.

‘Don’t be silly, boy,’ his aunt said, with some asperity. ‘I was sitting closer to her than I am to you, and my hearing is as good as ever it was. I ain’t in my dotage yet, either.’ She then elaborated on what had passed between herself and Elizabeth in the garden at Merrywood, leaving him in no doubt that what she said was true.

‘My God.’ He tried to comprehend the enormity of this revelation. She loved him! He hardly dared to believe it.

‘Is that all you have to say, Dominick?’ His aunt looked put out as he continued to stare blankly at her. ‘Have your wits gone begging?’

‘It is only—’ he began, still trying to collect himself. ‘Did she really say ... if I had asked her to marry me, she would have... ? No. It is impossible. How could
I
have done such a thing? What do I have to offer a woman of her rank and position?’

‘You have the one thing the lady wants, Dominick - and what Miss Thornwood, I fear, will never have: your love.’

Chapter 9

The day for the proposed expedition to Salisbury duly arrived. It was clear and sunny, a fresh summer breeze tickling the flower-beds and flirting with Elizabeth’s skirt as she stepped up into Mr Markham’s stylish new landau. It had been built, Gwendolyn was eager to inform her, by his own manufactory.

Dominick himself was to handle the reins, and his fiancée was perched on the box beside him, laughing and chattering, obviously in high gig. Gwendolyn was attired in a crocus-coloured morning-gown so bright it almost made Elizabeth’s eyes water.

Fortunately, Elizabeth was seated facing the rear of the open carriage, in deference to Miss Penroth, whose sensibility was invariably affected by being driven backwards. Miss Penroth’s violet gown and Peter Thornwood’s dark coat provided a less spectacular view, but one much more congenial at the moment. It was stupid of her, no doubt, but she could not bear to watch Gwendolyn in all her triumph.

Elizabeth’s own gown, of bishop’s blue, though severe in cut, was comfortable and elegant. But then, she was no giddy young girl and could not pretend to be. The viscount, beside her, was as immaculately groomed as always. His valet certainly earned every penny of his wages.

The drive to Salisbury was uneventful. The landau was exceptionally well sprung, and none of its occupants had cause to complain of discomfort. Gwendolyn took care to explain to the company that it was one of ‘Mr M’s special designs’ which was responsible for such smooth performance. The pair of well-matched greys from Tattersall's, expertly driven by their owner, contributed to their ease as well.