A Taste of Seduction (10 page)

He could barely breathe because her words were true. Why hadn't he believed her? The evidence in front of him had been overwhelming, and his pride had destroyed any chance of rational thought. She'd forsaken him for another! Or so he had thought.

He watched her breasts rise and fall rapidly as she fought to contain her emotions. She sighed and said, “You've seen me, seen that I'm recovering well, so your conscience can breathe freely. If you don't intend to let me prove my innocence, then you may as well leave.”

The letter was burning a hole in his jacket pocket, but he was hesitant to bring it forth. If her story was true, then what could he do? If she
had
been abducted, then how on earth could she ever forgive him? It would mean he'd walked away from her without a backward glance, happy to leave her to her fate. “I want the truth too. Much of my future hinges on it.”

Her head moved on the pillow as she watched him. Her eyes narrowed. “Then we are in agreement. Show me the letter.”

“What of the journals?” Before she could berate him again, he added, “May I remind you that a madwoman is out to kill me and my friends, and probably you? That takes precedence over our situation.”

She leaned up on one elbow. “I agree. That is why Beatrice and Marisa will help me. They will look for information on Victoria.”

“I think you should let me scour the journals. Time is of the essence—for all of us.”

“I thought your visit was to ask after my health—and to let me see the letter, as you promised.”

“Then what is this display about? What else is it you want from me?”

She sighed and pulled the bedsheet up to her chin.

“Never mind. I have to go back to Scotland once I've appointed a man of business to sort out my son's estate. It will be a few months before I can return to London for any length of time. Once my son's inheritance is secure, then I will have to decide where I wish to make my home. I don't want it to be awkward should we bump into each other.”

She wasn't leaving for good, then?

A home. He didn't want to admit where he called home. When he was in London he lived at his brother's house, the family townhouse, although he was thinking of purchasing a townhouse a few streets over once he married. However, the place he retreated to, where he spent the majority of his time, was the old hunting lodge, Lathero, where Evangeline and he used to meet.

It held his best and worst memories. Over the past five years he had found no joy in his visits because the memories were too painful. Only his vines, his love of making wine, kept him there.

He'd almost sold Lathero when Evangeline left him, but he couldn't bring himself to part with it. Perhaps it was to remind him that he could not always get what he wanted.

He looked into her eyes, and it was as if she could read his thoughts. Her look was filled with shared memories.

He remembered the day she'd given herself to him. It was the day they had planned how and when they would elope. It had been a hot summer afternoon, humid and sultry. Here in her bedroom he could almost smell the grass and flowers that had surrounded them on that fateful day….

Had she already known on that day that she'd marry Viscount Stuart? The thought made him ill, his stomach churning with outrage. Only a day later he'd received her letter informing him she had to help her family and that she would wed Viscount Stuart.

“You are remembering that day under the tree, aren't you?” she whispered.

He held her gaze and watched as tears filled her eyes. When he slowly nodded, she said, “I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was perfect. Making love with you was like touching heaven.” At his silence she added accusingly, “Did you not remember anything I said to you that day? How could you think I'd want to marry a man for a title?”

“And money for your family,” he snapped back.

Her lips firmed into a thin line, anger flashing in her eyes. “We had discussed how to control Mother's spending and help Edward.”

He couldn't hold her stare. Panic gripped him. Once again he thought, what if the story she had told last night was true and he had left her to her fate? God forgive him, for he never would. Bile squirmed like a sea of snakes in the pit of his belly.

Suddenly he had to know the truth.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

Her hands shook as she opened it and scanned the contents. Her face paled, and he saw her swallow.

“It's a very good forgery. Even I had to look carefully.” She leaned closer, pushing the letter under his nose. “But look at the letter
f
. I do not do little loops like hoods on my
f
's. Do you have any of my other letters to compare?”

If he said yes, he was admitting that he'd kept them all these years, but he was past hiding from the truth, no matter how painful. “I have them all.” He saw her start at his honesty. “I brought a few with me.”

She watched him pull a bundle of her letters from his other pocket. Hope all but sang in her veins. He'd kept her letters—that must mean something. However, she had to focus on proving her innocence.

She handed the incriminating letter back to him, and watched his face as he carefully studied the evidence. He turned the pages of one of her love letters, peering closely at the letters. Then he started going through each one of the letters, his fingers flicking through them faster and faster.

She saw the exact moment he became convinced of her innocence. His face paled, and drops of sweat marked his forehead. He licked his lips. Then he dove for the chamber pot sitting near the entrance to her dressing room and promptly cast up his accounts. She didn't feel any sympathy for him.

When he finally rose to take his seat once more, the bleak look in his eyes revealed his pain and sorrow. He reached for her hand. “I am so sorry. God forgive me. I—I don't know how to make this right….”

“That's a start.” She covered his hand where it held hers tightly. “Why did you not believe me? I loved you—so much,” she choked out. “You owe me an explanation at least.”

“The letter was delivered by Stowe.”

Her heart missed a beat. Stowe was the young stable lad who was devoted to her. When he was only eleven, she had brought him home from the village when she'd caught his father beating him, and given him a job in the stable. The job paid little, as they did not have money, but he had a roof over his head and food in his belly, and he loved horses. So when she'd needed someone to send notes between herself and Hadley, she knew whom to trust.

Her hands began to shake. “Stowe brought you the letter.” Understanding began to dawn, and she felt ill. “You therefore thought it was from me.”

“Yes. I even asked him, and the boy said you told him to put the letter in my hands.”

She bent forward her body, heaving with the pain of betrayal. Not Stowe. She could not believe it.

“Perhaps he was threatened in some way…” Hadley's words petered out.

“Oh, God.” She turned to him, finally understanding how thoroughly her mother had planned her abduction. “If Mother has hurt Stowe, I'll kill her.”

“I read your note,” Hadley continued slowly, “and when I said that it couldn't be true, Stowe swore that the contents were correct. I never considered for a moment how cruel your mother would or could be, or that Stowe would deceive me. He seemed just as upset as I. Now I know why, because he lied.” Hadley hung his head, cursing under his breath. “We didn't stand a chance, did we?”

“I guess, against the world, our love was not enough,” she whispered. “Now I understand why, even when I told you to your face that I hadn't written the letter, you still didn't believe me. Stowe was our ally. How could you know it was a lie?”

“I
should
have known. I knew you.”

“Does anyone ever really know another?” She hadn't realized she'd spoken out loud until he raised his pain-filled eyes to hers.

They sat in silence, the realization of shared, shattered hopes and dreams creating a cavern of hopelessness between them.

The silence stretched on as the light began to fade. It wasn't until a maid entered to stoke the fire in the grate that they both roused from their thoughts.

Hadley rose to take his leave, his face pale and his eyes filled with sorrow.

At last he said, “You must hate me. I hope that one day you can forgive me.”

Her heart wanted to reach through her chest and embrace him. “You still don't appear to know me. I could never hate you. It was not you who arranged for me to be abducted. It wasn't you who lied. I know exactly where the blame sits, and it is not with you.”

“But I should have known. I
should
have.” He threw his hands up. “I should have saved you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Now there are two women I'd like to kill—our villainess and your mother. What do you intend to do about your mother?”

She briefly closed her eyes. “Nothing.” At his startled look she explained, “Nothing I do to her will change what happened. What's done is done. I can't take back the last five years. I prefer to pretend she does not exist.”

He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but he merely bowed and made to leave, all talk of the journals forgotten.

“I'll contact you if the ladies and I find anything of note in the journals,” she told him.

His hunched his shoulders in shame. “Thank you. That is more than I deserve.”

She sighed. “Of course I'll help. I'd never want to see you injured or killed. Besides, it will also protect my son.”

He stood looking at her, a range of emotions swirling in his blue eyes. She watched him swallow hard. Finally he nodded and turned to leave. Just as he reached the door she asked quietly, “Do you still paint?”

His hand stayed on the latch. “No.”

“Why not? You were very good. You found joy and release on the canvas.”

He looked at her over his shoulder, his face a mask of pain. “Five years ago I lost my muse.”

“Perhaps you might get your muse back now?”

A shudder ran through him. “Perhaps.” On that soft, defeated-sounding word, he departed the room.

Evangeline lay back on her pillows, numb in thought and body. She had got what she'd wanted, his admission that he'd made a dreadful mistake, and yet it hadn't been his fault. He was not to blame. Five years ago the world, or fate—or her mother's gambling—had ensured there would be no happily-ever-after. Could there be now?

A tear slid down her cheek, and she didn't bother wiping it away. What could she do now? The last five years had been all about surviving and finding a way to be free. Well, she was free now, and it filled her with fear.

She had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. She would be twenty-five in three months. Still young. She yearned for more children, a sibling for Sealey, yet the idea of marriage scared her witless.

Could they go back? Could they start again and have that which had been torn from them both? And then there was Sealey…

Hadley was to marry. Why was he going to marry Claire? She had forgotten to ask him, so wrapped up in her victory had she been.

Love warmed the coldness she felt. He'd loved her once, enough to marry a woman with no dowry and an evil, gambling-addicted mother. Could he love her again?

She could play the Sealey card. Hadley would likely do anything to marry her once he learned of his son. Was that fair to either Hadley or Sealey? Once again Hadley's free will would be compromised. She wanted him to choose her—to choose
them
.

Her pride made it impossible to use her son to persuade Hadley to marry her instead of Claire. She wanted to know that he loved her. After she'd had his love before, a life tied to him without that love would be unbearable.

The worst outcome would be if Sealey's parentage became common knowledge before this villainess was caught. Sealey would be in grave danger. Better to wait until the Libertine Scholars captured the evil woman before learning what, if anything, could be between them.

Should she tell him about his son, or shouldn't she? Part of her wanted to rush into Hadley's arms and reveal all, but she was a wiser, more cynical woman now. To err on the side of caution was best, for her son's safety must come first. She would tell Hadley when they caught the enemy, or before he married Claire. The latter, she hoped, would not occur if he still loved her enough.

“Love” was a scary word—easy to spell, easy to define, easy to say, but very difficult to believe. When you found love, you had to have faith that it was reciprocated. She prayed he would love her enough this time to give up Claire.

She closed her eyes and began to doze. The next three weeks would determine the outcome of her life.

For the first time in months she felt she could breathe. She knew he still cared for her, she had her son, and she had hope. Hope that she and Hadley would have their happily-ever-after.

Because she still loved Hadley.

Her shoulder burned, and she understood she had a more serious problem. Hadley could be dead in three weeks if this madwoman was not caught.

Hope was a trinket she'd cling to. The last time, love hadn't won, couldn't have won, against those evil enough to destroy them. She couldn't bear to give her heart and fill herself with hope once again, only to have that hope snatched from her grasp. It would end her.

And Hadley had a woman set on killing him.

Her priority right now was helping her friends find a monster. She hoped the journals held the clues Hadley needed. It would be the only useful thing her husband had ever done for her.

She rang the bell to summon Rachel. She would not be attending any social functions tonight, not with her injury. So she would jolly well put the time to good use.

She drew out one of Dougal's journals and began reading. Like the man, his written words were tedious, droning on and on.