Ariadne's Diadem (6 page)

“I realize that, for you are still consumed with grief for the cousin you loved, but nevertheless it is your duty to accept your destiny.”

“I realize that,” Hugh answered earnestly.

The lawyer resumed his seat and toyed thoughtfully with the stem of his glass. “There is one problem—at least, it
may
be a problem. Tell me, is there a lady in your life, sir?”

“A lady?” Hugh repeated blankly.

“Are you married? Betrothed, maybe? Or do you have an understanding with anyone?”

Hugh became very still. “Why do you ask?”

“No doubt you knew that your late lamented cousin was to have been engaged to Miss Anne Willowby of Llandower in Monmouthshire?”

“Yes.” Hugh was puzzled. Where was this leading?

“Well, the match was a condition of the seventh duke’s will, and although the eighth duke died before the betrothal actually took place, I’m afraid the stipulation remains in force as far as you are concerned.”

Hugh was thunderstruck. “I beg your pardon?”

“In order to inherit, you will have to marry Miss Willowby.”

Hugh stared at him. “If this is a jest...”

“No jest, sir, merely a statement of legal fact. To inherit the Wroxford title and fortune, you must make Miss Willowby your bride.” The lawyer spread his hands, apologetically. “I fear that is how it must be, sir.”

The ash fell from the end of Hugh’s cigar. His mind was racing, for this certainly had no place in his scheme of things. “Isn’t there
any
way out of it?” he asked then.

“Sir, if there was, you may be assured that your late cousin would have found it.” Mr. Critchley’s displeased gaze followed the gray-white ash to the floor, where it scattered only too visibly upon the costly Axminster carpet. The lawyer cleared his throat. “Do I take it that you consent?” he asked after a moment.

Hugh could only nod, for what other choice did he have?

“I will write to Llandower immediately. Shall I inform the Willowbys that you will leave within a day or so?”

“Leave? For Llandower, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever for? My cousin certainly wasn’t obliged to go there.” Hugh intended to postpone things as long as possible.

Mr. Critchley shifted a little uncomfortably. “Forgive me for having to point this out, sir, but your cousin was wealthy in his own right—through his mother—so he could afford to delay. I fear you do not have the same...er, cushion, so to speak...so you do not get anything until the clause is met.”

Hugh knew when he was up against it. “Oh, very well, yes, I will leave within a day or so.” He was mindful of his wish to appear in a good light, so he went on. “Maybe it would be appropriate if I wrote as well? If I use your facilities here, it can be sent with your letter.” And it will cost me nothing, was the unspoken addendum.

Mr. Critchley was impressed. “Excellent. By the way, perhaps I could presume to recommend a certain hostelry in the neighborhood of Llandower? It’s called the White Boar, and although five miles away, is a clean and comfortable establishment with an excellent table. I know of it because my widowed and somewhat eccentric sister fancies herself a writer of Gothic novels and has become a devoted Wye Valley sightseer in recent years. The area is a magnet for artists, poets, and writers of all description, for it possesses the requisite gorges, mountains, rapids, castles on crags, lush meadows, and woodland, et cetera. She always stays at the White Boar and speaks of it most highly.”

“Then I will stay there too, sir. Thank you for your advice.”

“Not at all, sir, not at all.”

They both rose to shake hands, but as he went to the door Hugh paused, glancing down at his cigar as if searching for the right words to say something exceedingly delicate. “Mr. Critchley, I am curious to know what would happen if...heaven forfend...Miss Willowby should expire? I mean, we now know that the clause applies to whoever becomes heir to the dukedom, but what of the lady? Will
her
heir—a sister perhaps—have to obey it as well?”

The lawyer was a little startled. “No, the will is most specific in naming Miss Willowby as the bride concerned, so her demise would negate the clause entirely. Where the bridegroom is concerned, however, it merely refers to the heir to the dukedom. So if you in turn were to pass on, which also heaven forfend, of course, the dukedom will become extinct.”

Hugh did not hum beneath his breath as he strode bitterly back to Kitty’s house in Knightsbridge. His cane lashed angrily from side to side, and his fashionable spurs rang on the fine pavement as he considered the full implication of his late uncle’s will. At first he contemplated making himself so obnoxious that not even regard for her beloved father would induce the Willowby woman to throw herself onto such an odious marital pyre. But such a course offered an uncertain conclusion, for what if, come what may, she remained determined on the match? Then there was Kitty to consider. The advent of another bride was bound to mean forfeiting the sensuous favors he had lusted after for so long and had only just begun to enjoy! The answer was simple. Anne Willowby had to go.

When he arrived at the house and told Kitty what had happened, she wasn’t at all pleased; indeed she was so beside herself at having her dream snatched from under her nose again, that it took a great deal of persuading to prevent her from having him thrown out immediately. The chestnut-haired actress was hardly able to believe that once again she was apparently being cast aside because a titled lover needed to marry elsewhere, and in furious silence she swept up to her rose brocade boudoir, intending to slam the door in Hugh’s face should he dare to follow. He pushed his way past, and they faced each other at the foot of the sumptuously draped four-poster in which she had given her all to an unconscionably long list of gentlemen. A rather florid watercolor hung above the headboard, depicting a bacchanalia of naked nymphs and other mythical beings cavorting in a grove, and from behind one of the trees there peered a creature very like the beggar in the grove above Naples. Its eyes seemed to rest mockingly on Hugh as he implored the furious actress not to reject him.

Still too angry to trust herself to speak, Kitty flounced to the window and twitched the lace curtain aside to look down at some boys playing with hoops in the street below. Her rich red-gold hair spilled smoothly about her shoulders, and her primrose muslin robe parted to reveal a shapely thigh. Her full, pink-tipped breasts were evident through the diaphanous material, as was the slenderness of her tiny waist. She was twenty-six years old and unbelievably beautiful, but the sweetness of her visage belied the sourness within. There was nothing soft or caring about her, nothing gentle or endearing, just a magnetic voluptuousness she didn’t hesitate to use to her own advantage. Most men found her irresistible, unless, like Gervase, they discovered what she had caused to happen to her tragic little brother.

Hugh was at last able to put into words the thoughts he’d had on leaving Mr. Critchley. “Kitty, I swear you will have the world itself if you will only wait until I can bring about Anne Willowby’s demise.”

Kitty’s lustrous hazel eyes swung from the boys, one of who reminded her sharply of her brother. “Bring about her demise?” she repeated incredulously, a hand creeping to the creamy expanse of bosom revealed by the plunging décolletage of her robe.

“Yes, for it is the only certain way of being rid of her.”

“You’re prepared to go to such a length?” Incredulousness began to give way to a thrill of erotic excitement.

“I will do anything to keep you. Kitty.”

“I’ve never had a man want me
that
much,” she breathed. A new light had begun to gleam in her eyes, but then her gaze sharpened once more. “When will you do it?” she demanded.

“I swear it will not be long. I have undertaken to leave for Llandower within a few days.”

“Do you promise you will do it?”

“Yes,
oh, yes,”
he whispered.

She smiled a little. “I really believe you will,” she murmured.

Encouraged, he ventured to approach her, slipping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair. “I want you, Kitty,” he whispered, becoming aroused by the perfumed softness of her body through the diaphanous robe.

She pressed back against him. “And you’ll still make me your duchess?”

“Yes, oh, yes...” His hands moved up to cup her full breasts. She pushed her nipples into his palms, savoring the desire kindled by his wicked promise, and his arousal became almost unendurable. “Oh, Kitty, Kitty...”

She turned to link her arms around his neck. “Make love to me. Your Grace,” she whispered.

He caught her up in his arms and bore her to the bed, where she lay with impatient eagerness, her fiery copper hair spreading over the pillows. Hugh was conscious of the watercolor and the creature gazing at him from behind the tree, but he didn’t glance up as he hastily tore off his clothes, and then lowered himself into Kitty’s waiting arms.

Chapter Six

Several days later, Anne was on the point of setting out for a late ride when the letters arrived from London. She had been kept busy all day with problems on the estate, and had just spent three long hours in her father’s study composing letters to importunate creditors who had heard of her match and thought the Willowbys were suddenly overladen with wealth, so she was in much need of a little relaxation. She wore her nasturtium riding habit and a black top hat from which trailed a long white lace scarf, and she was just pulling on her gloves by the table in the hall when Martin hurried in with the mail he’d intercepted.

The letters were both addressed to her father, but since she was empowered to act on his behalf in everything during his absence, she read them both. The contents caused her to sit down a little weakly beside the table as she tried to marshal her thoughts. Gervase was dead, and instead she was expected to marry the cousin he had accompanied to Italy? It was hard to take in, but common sense prevailed. She didn’t know
either
of them, and she still had to save Llandower for her father if she could, so what earthly difference did it make which man she married? That was that then—she would go to the altar with the ninth Duke of Wroxford instead of the eighth, although heaven alone knew what her parents would make of this latest development.

At least Hugh Mowbray was going to call in a few days’ time, which was more than the late unlamented Gervase had ever done! She glanced again at his letter. It was couched in the sort of courteous and considerate terms she’d always looked for in vain from Gervase, and when she recalled the frosty missives tucked behind the candlestick in the drawing room, she could only hope that Hugh Mowbray lived up to the promise that seemed evident in this single communication. The thought of Gervase’s letters dispelled any fleeting idea she might have entertained about wearing mourning for him, for he didn’t deserve so much as a single black ribbon!

Anne knew she would have to wait until later to inform Mrs. Jenkins of the new duke’s impending visit, because the housekeeper had gone to visit her sister in Peterbury, so she tossed the letters on the table and then hurried out to the courtyard, where Joseph was waiting with her favorite roan mare. The evening shadows were already beginning to lengthen as he helped her onto the mounting block so that she could slip easily onto the sidesaddle. After telling him she intended to ride east to see if the bluebell wood was in full bloom yet, she kicked her heel and urged the mare out of the courtyard. But she hadn’t ridden far when she changed her mind about the bluebells, for she’d set out later than she intended and wouldn’t reach the woods before darkness fell. So instead she decided to ride north along the river as far as the bridge carrying the Peterbury road.

The Wye was beautiful at any time of year, but it was particularly so in April when the hawthorn was in bloom and the meadows were full of cowslips. She reined in for a while by the jetty, where willows draped their fresh-leaved fronds in the current and tall reeds swayed in the slightest breeze. The rowing boats bumped together from time to time, as if impatient to skim out on the swift water again, and flowers filled the spring evening with fragrance. Suddenly, she remembered her seventh birthday and the wonderful moonlight picnic she and her parents had enjoyed on the jetty. After a fine feast prepared by Mrs. Jenkins, they’d rowed a few hundred yards downstream to the medieval stone-edged spring known as St. Winifred’s Well, which lay on the opposite bank just before the river formed white rapids to carve its way through a rocky but leafy gorge. Everyone had enjoyed it so much that the exercise had been repeated every year since...until now. Sadness swept over her then, for she knew that once she was Duchess of Wroxford, there would never again be a birthday picnic on the jetty or a moonlight trip to St. Winifred’s Well.

She glanced at Llandower. If there was a paradise on earth, it was here, she thought, and it was up to her to do all in her power to save it for her father. She wondered how her parents were. Was the visit to Ireland going well? Or was it an unmitigated disaster? She wished she knew, but there hadn’t been any word at all since they’d left.

She rode on, observed only by the cattle grazing in the rich meadows. The sun’s rays slanted crimson when the bridge came into view several hundred yards ahead, and everything was so calm and peaceful that it seemed nothing could possibly happen. But happen it did, for suddenly there was a flash of lightning—at least she thought it was lightning. The mare reared, and Anne screamed as she was flung from the saddle. The Wye glittered in the setting sun as she fell on the very edge of the bank. She wasn’t hurt and wanted to get up again immediately, but a strange lassitude came over her. It was a delicious, irresistible weariness, and she had to close her eyes and sleep. The last thing she remembered was the heady scent of cowslips and the sound of the mare cantering back to Llandower.

It was no ordinary sleep, of course, and far from being a natural occurrence, the lightning was the result of divine intervention, for at the very moment Anne had set out for her ride, in far -off Italy an angry Bacchus had at last come to punish Sylvanus for the loss of Ariadne’s diadem.