Authors: What A Woman Needs

Caroline Linden (32 page)

BOOK: Caroline Linden

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“I had loved her since she was fifteen,” he said softly. “She was a beautiful girl, so gentle and so merry. She never looked at me again, when Nigel began to pay her notice. I think she did love him, for she was never the same after he died. But I loved her, and I married her.”

Stuart frowned at his feet. Under those circumstances, might he not hate the child, too? The proof of his wife’s love for another man. If it were Charlotte ... He ground one palm against his burning eyes. Would he be able to stop loving Charlotte, even if she carried another lover’s child? Stuart didn’t know, but he suspected, deep down, that he would never be able to look at the child with affection.

And his mother! His poor mother, left brokenhearted and married to another man for the sake of her child. She had never loved Terrance or Belmaine; all her sacrifice had been for him.

“We might have muddled through, she and I,” continued Terrance in the same faraway tone. Long-lost happiness lent his features warmth, and made him appear younger, almost handsome. “She wanted you, desperately, and I wanted her to be happy. Once she bore the child, I told myself, we would begin again. We would have our own children, and she would forget my brother. I waited; I said nothing, did nothing, waiting for you to be born, for her to turn to me at last. But she never did. She died in childbed, leaving me to raise my brother’s bastard as my own.”

The bottom dropped out of Stuart’s world. “
What?
”

Terrance looked away. “You were an infant and needed a mother. Amelia was a poor relation of your mother’s. Belmaine approved, and the marriage was hushed up to allow us to pass the child off as hers.” Stuart sat like stone. Terrance plucked at the quilt over his knees. “You are the image of Nigel. All my hatred of him was diverted onto you. He stole the girl I loved, seduced her and ruined her, and then his child killed her. When you were young, I tried not to see him in you, and to raise you not to be like him. But every time I looked at you, it was Nigel I saw instead, and when Belmaine suggested you and Amelia live at Barrowfield, I agreed. It was kinder to all of us.”

“Why did no one tell me?” Stuart demanded without heat.

Terrance closed his eyes. “Amelia could not have children, we learned. If she had borne a child, my child, we might have told you the truth. But then, perhaps not; it was too cruel to shame them, the mother who conceived you in sin and the woman who raised you when she knew she would never have a son of her own body.”

Stuart tried to absorb it. It made sense, in a way. The affection his grandfather had always had for his mother—Amelia, he corrected. The distance between his parents, and the bonds between them. Why Terrance had taken him to the ravine where his natural father must have died, and asked not to be called “Father.” And most of all, why Terrance had turned him out; the rumors of Eliza Pennyworth’s disgrace must have seemed like the ultimate insult to Terrance, who had already borne indignity upon indignity for Stuart’s sake.

A soft noise behind him disrupted his thoughts. Stuart turned to see his mother, standing in the shadows. She held a tray in her hands, and her face was pale. “That’s almost true,” she said quietly. Terrance started at her voice, then put up one hand as if to hold her back.

“Amelia—please—”

“Terrance, did you really think it was because I couldn’t have children?” She came forward. “I would have told Stuart years ago. It is his history, and his right to know. But you wouldn’t allow it, because you still loved her, and I didn’t have the courage to face that.” She turned to Stuart, and her chin wobbled once.

“I do love you as my own child, and did so before I knew there would be no others. You were an innocent child, and bore no shame or guilt for what Nigel or Aimee did.” Stuart said nothing, turning over his real parents’ names in his mind:
Nigel and Aimee
.

“I did not still love Aimee,” said Terrance.

Amelia turned to him. “You did,” she corrected softly. “You always did. You never noticed me, even after we married, because you had no room in your heart for anyone but her. I married you because I loved you, but you never would have looked at me if not ... if not for Stuart.”

Stuart got to his feet. This was outside his story, and he didn’t need to hear it now. “Excuse me,” he murmured, heading to the door. He paused at his mother’s side, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

“I am so sorry, Stuart. For so many things. I tried to be a good mother to you.” Her smile was weak and full of sadness, and Stuart understood. She had been torn, forced to choose between the husband she loved, but who did not love her back, and the only child she would ever have, who wasn’t even hers. Stuart glanced back at Terrance, who was still staring at Amelia with a stunned expression. What must the man be feeling, he wondered, having learned he had spent his whole life throwing away happiness and hanging on to bitterness.

“Amelia, I never knew ...” he heard Terrance say as he closed the door. His mind awhirl with what he had just learned, Stuart went in search of Charlotte.

He found her in the drawing room, far from alone. Angus Whitley was fidgeting at Lucia’s side. As Stuart paused in the doorway, the bell rang, announcing yet another guest. Whitley glanced up, and leaped out of his seat when he saw Stuart, practically sprinting across the room.

“Drake, thank God,” he said fervently. “All’s well, I trust? Come in, come in, take my seat. I’ve got to take my leave, an appointment, you know, haven’t seen my parents in weeks.”

“What’s the matter?” Stuart glanced at Lucia. “I thought you were engaged here.”

“Yes, well ... The thing is, you see, Drake, she’s quite overbearing,” explained Whitley in a whispered rush. “Never lets a fellow take the lead, if you take my meaning. Exhausting work, keeping up with her.”

“Well, I shouldn’t let it worry you,” said Stuart, trying not to laugh. “How old are you now, Whit?”

His friend’s eyebrows shot up. “Thirty next month. Why?”

Stuart shook his head, grinning. “Nothing of import. I’ll make your good-byes, if you wish.”

“There’s a mate, Drake.” Whitley clapped him on the shoulder and slipped out the door, casting one more furtive glance at Lucia, who was deep in conversation with Charlotte and didn’t seem to care if Whitley left. Stuart started across the room toward the two women, only to be stopped by a familiar voice.

“Good God, Drake, tell me that’s not the woman who’s been sleeping in my bed,” said Philip, staring. Frowning, Stuart twisted to follow his gaze.

“It was my bed at the ...” But Philip was looking past Charlotte to Lucia, who sat in voluptuous profile. “Ah, no, not Lucia da Ponte. The woman with her, the shorter beauty.”

Philip didn’t take his eyes from Lucia. “Excellent. Well done. Introduce me.” He started toward the two women, and Stuart followed obediently, thinking that Lord Philip had returned in Pip’s place. The young man about town had grown into a young nobleman.

Charlotte sensed him approaching and turned with a smile. With something resembling a naughty smirk, Stuart bowed briefly. “Lucia, Charlotte, may I present to you Lord Philip Lindeville, an old friend of mine? Philip, the Contessa de Griffolino and Signora da Ponte, lately of Milan.”

“Milan,” said Lord Philip, bowing. “A marvelous city.”

“Indeed,” said Lucia, eying him with interest. They were of a height, and shared similar coloring. Lord Philip had dark hair, slightly long and wavy, dark eyes, and a lean build that spoke of youth and vigor; he was a darker version of his older brother, the Duke of Ware. He looked exceptionally well next to Lucia, Charlotte noticed. “Were you recently there, my lord?” Her accent seemed thicker than usual.

“Scarcely a month ago.” Lord Philip had ceased to regard Charlotte at all by now. His voice dropped a register. “I have missed it immensely since I left, its culture and its people.”

Lucia nodded languidly, displaying the arch of her neck. “As have I. It was my home for almost twenty years, but you see I have ventured forth in pursuit of English adventure.”

“Excellent notion,” said Philip. “I trust you have found one?”

Lucia sighed. “Alas, no. I believed so, but found I was mistaken. If not for dear Charlotte, I would have withered away to nothing from boredom by now.”

“That,” declared Philip, “we cannot have. Come, let us discuss the sorts of entertainments that might suit you.” He offered his arm, and Lucia slid her hand the entire length of it before nestling her fingers in the crook of his elbow.

“How very kind of you, my lord,” she purred. Philip laughed softly, bending his head near to hers to reply in a manner that left no doubt of his intentions.

Charlotte turned away as they drifted off, absorbed in each other, her eyes tearing with suppressed laughter. It appeared Lucia had found her muse, at long last. She would have to find a better pianoforte.

“How old is he?” she whispered to Stuart as he drew her away.

“Five-and-twenty,” said Stuart with a wicked grin. “He’s got five good years left.” Charlotte choked, then burst out laughing, clinging to his arm. He laughed with her, reveling in the sound. He would have to make her laugh more, he thought. With a quick glance around to make sure they were unneeded, he whisked her out of the house to the garden, to a bench almost hidden in the sprawling hedge.

He told her many things Terrance had told him, about her father and about his. Some things he left out; he was still trying to absorb them himself. He would have a lifetime to tell her everything, after all. It was still unbelievable to him, that she would be there every day.

“And he’s restored my income,” Stuart finished. “So all your worries about marrying a penniless beggar can be put to rest.”

“Oh, Stuart.” She smiled and shook her head. “And you can keep Oakwood Park now.”

He nodded. “Yes. Or we could live at Honeyfield until Susan marries. By then the house at Oakwood may be livable again.”

She squeezed his hand.“What relief you must feel, not just about that but about everything.”

He looked over the garden. Susan was tossing a stick for Amelia’s terrier, actually smiling as the little dog raced in circles around her. Philip and Lucia had followed them and were deep in conversation near the house. “Everyone is safe and happy, and that is a great relief. Even Terrance may find himself more at ease, now he has discovered someone loved him all along. I cannot blame him for being bitter; all his life has been a sacrifice to atone for someone else’s sins.”

“At least he did not discover it too late.”

He turned to her. “And you? Are you comforted to learn your father regretted sending you away?”

She heaved a pensive sigh. “I suppose. It seems his regret came later than it should have, but I shan’t dwell on it. What’s done is done.”

“Which only leaves us to decide what will be done,” he said, lifting her into his lap. “When do you wish to be married? Where do you wish to live? And do you think anyone would notice if I kissed you here and now?”

“Damn their eyes if they do.” She kissed him, long and sweet, and then rested her head on his shoulder. “So. Susan has returned, sadder and wiser but unharmed. Your father has realized he misjudged you and treated you unfairly, and your mother will no longer be caught between the two of you. Lucia has a new muse, for five years or so, which means she’ll be staying in London to put Marcella Rescati in her place. And I have a priceless Italian treasure that does not rightly belong to me, and enough worthless statuary and paintings to fill a museum, which—sadly enough—are all mine. All in all, an excellent day’s work.”

“And me,” he said. “Don’t forget me. I’m slightly less worthless than your statuary now.”

“I would never forget you,” she said softly, winding her arms around his neck. “I have you to fill my heart.”

Author’s Note

In painting the fresco of the Battle of Anghiari, Leonardo da Vinci attempted to replicate a technique he had read about in the writings of Pliny. Unfortunately, it was not suitable for use on walls, a point Leonardo either overlooked or ignored, and the paint did simply run down the walls; what little remained of the painting crumbled away within a few years. Eventually the magistrati commissioned Giorgio Vasari to paint the wall, and all that was left of Leonardo’s work was a small collection of studies and some copies made by others, most notably
The Battle Of The Standard
by Peter Paul Reubens. In 1976 the wall was examined with ultrasound, but no traces of Leonardo’s painting were ever found.

About the Author

Caroline Linden earned a math degree from Harvard College and worked as a programmer before realizing that writing romance novels is much more interesting and exciting than writing code. She threw away her actuarial textbooks, unchained her Inner Vixen, and never looked back. She lives in New England with her family and is currently working on her next historical romance, which will be published in 2006. Please visit her online at
www.carolinelinden.com
.

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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3158-1

BOOK: Caroline Linden

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