Fallen (30 page)

Celia's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, Izzy, I had so hoped you were happy. I know you love him so. I trusted your marriage would bring you joy in time. Tell me, is it so disastrous?"

Izzy sighed. "No, it is not disastrous. It is simply as if we are not wed at all. We live in this house together and pass like acquaintances in the park. He nods, I nod. Then we part, seeing no sign of one another for another day. It is so very tormenting, to live with him and never touch him." She fought back tears as the familiar ache of his rejection rose once more.

"What?" Celia was aghast. "What about… ?"

Izzy shook her head negatively. "I cannot. I
will
not. He does not love me. He came out with it directly on our wedding night." She confessed every detail of the midnight scene which continued to haunt her memory.

Julian dark and brooding, telling her he wanted a "real woman, not a lie." Julian drunk and morose on the night he should have felt joy.

" '
In vino Veritas
,' " Izzy quoted softly.

Celia frowned. "
In vino
idiots!" she declared. "Men might become maudlin and muddled, yes, but truthful? Hardly. Never did my father promise more prettily and sincerely to cease his infernal gambling as when he was on the outside of an abundance of spirits.

"I put no stake in what a man says while overindulging, and I suggest you do the same. Honestly, Izzy, I have never known you to be so faint of heart. Where is the fire and spice we have all come to treasure in you? If he does not love you, and I am not so sure of that as you, then
make
him love you!"

"But
howl"

Izzy looked at her friend, who shrugged helplessly, no answer at hand. She looked at Betty. The little maid bit her lip, shaking her head.

It seemed she wasn't the only woman in the world who lacked the knowledge.

Julian had been summoned to his father's study, so he paid no heed to the people arriving in droves. It was not until he heard the familiar bovine bellow coming from inside the shabby rental coach before the open front doors that he discovered the infamous Marchwell clan had descended upon Dearingham.

Signaling an underfootman, he whispered a warning. After a wide-eyed nod, the fellow whispered respectfully to a lower footman, who then deferentially caught the ear of an upper footman, who blanched and reported most politely to the duke's butler.

This man stood imperiously above them all at the pinnacle of the grand steps rising to the giant double doors of the house. The grand fellow shooed away the upper footman like a pesky dust-mote, but his gaze had sharpened on the mussed, travel-worn trio approaching him.

Hildegard looked horrid, as usual, in her favored shade of puce, and Melvin appeared as though he might melt like wax in the late August heat. Trundling along with them was Sheldon, who looked as though he could equally use a bath, a purging, and a good thrashing.

The duke's butler, the very flower of snobbish English servitude, halted their peevishly complaining progress with one upraised palm.

"I fear there has been a mistake, sirs and madam. The duke of Dearingham is not at home today."

Startled, Hildegard looked about her as several minor members of society were greeted and led inside by the footmen. Indicating this activity with one spatulate thumb, she wagged her head derisively at the stiffly obstructive man.

"Looks like the duke is at home, after all," she sneered and moved as if to pass him.

He stepped before her so smoothly, it was as though he had always been there. With resonant tones ringing over the din of the incoming guests, he announced, "The duke of Dearingham and his family are not at home…
to you
."

Hildegard flushed darkly, and Melvin cast nervous glances at the suddenly silent crowd observing them. Even the horses seemed to supply a lull in the noise. One by one, the faces around them turned slightly away, or looked over their heads, or simply openly sneered. It was obvious that the Marchwells were no longer to be considered in good odor with society.

Oblivious as usual to anything but himself, Sheldon stepped forward before his seething but publicly chastened mother could snatch him back.

"Hey now, you old bollix. My arse hurts and I want my tea. Let me in before I tell my cousin—"

With one raised fingertip, the butler pulled three underfootmen from the throng. With no more than a flick of his eyelids before he turned away to more important things, he gave the order for the burly threesome to hike a sputtering Sheldon up by the armpits, carry him down the grand marble steps, and deposit him—none-too-gently—on the cobbled drive.

Unsteady from his swift progress, Sheldon staggered, then sat his portly, unlovely behind smack into a fresh stack of horse droppings.

With many a titter and snicker, the crowd turned away to higher business, namely the dissection of the fashion, status, and virtue displayed by one another.

A humiliated Hildegard grabbed her howling son by the ear and hauled him back to their ragged hired coach. "Now you've done it, you little idiot," she raged at him. "You and your sister, you've ruined me! Now the doors of society will be closed to me forever, you poisonous little cretin…"

When the driver protested at letting the boy into the coach "all daubed in shit-like," his mother simply tossed him up on the rear running-board. She then hefted herself into the coach, followed by the nervously head-bobbing Melvin. As the carriage wheeled smartly on down the circular drive, Julian could see Sheldon, clinging to the rear handholds with a filth-slicked grip, bawling most piteously to be let in.

Watching the entire circus from the doorway, Julian smirked appreciatively. Well, they had been warned. He must remember to compliment the butler on his unaccustomed lack of finesse. Most appropriate, on this occasion.

He stretched wearily. His father was expecting him. He really needed to be prompt if he was to deal well with the man. Not to mention his new title.

It was gone. The pillar he had built his life upon since the death of his brother was gone. Julian
rubbed his hand over his brow, and left it to cover his eyes. Shaken, he waited for his father, the mighty duke of Dearingham, to continue.

"You should not be so surprised, Eppingham. You know I have never thought you fit to inherit. A useless young sot like you? No, the child is my heir. Or your first son, should this one disappoint and be female.

"And I shan't allow my heir to fall into your fruitless ways. I did a fine job molding your brother. It could not be helped that he was of flawed clay. No, the deed of settlement was your grandfather's to revise, and he agreed heartily that you were far too unreliable. You would gamble it all into the ground, or sell off what was not entailed.

"Look at what happened when flames threatened the house. You saved every single horse, sacrificing your heritage for your silly playthings. You are too bloody irresponsible to be trusted with Dearingham. For four hundred years this estate has been in Blackworth hands. You would kill it off in four months."

Julian lowered his hand to stare uncomprehendingly at his father. Fruitless? Kill off Dearingham? He had known his father did not like him, nor approve of him. What he had not known was that both his father and his grandfather had mistrusted him. Upon what did they base that opinion?

True, he had run with an unruly pack at one time. He had frequented his share of houses of ill-repute and gambling halls, as well, but not to destructive levels. He had never run through his means like many young men of the
ton
, most of whom eventually inherited anyway. He had no debts to his name at all, having always lived within his income.

When he had been in residence at Dearingham, he had endeavored to be a good manager, though it was true his heart had not been in it. But never, not once, had he behaved irresponsibly with the estate or its funds.

He doesn't know me
at all
, he thought, stunned. It would do no good to explain Izzy's role in saving his stock. Julian was sure his father had heard the tale before, but he apparently had discounted it, as he had discounted his son.

This man who was his father had no idea of who he was. All he saw was the young wastrel Julian had been at twenty-one. He had judged him unfit then and had never bothered to take a second look.

Julian closed his eyes against the irony of it. For the past thirteen years he had strived to gain his father's good opinion. Strived for naught, since the man's notion of his youngest son had been formed at birth. Not once in all his memory had his sire spared him a word of praise. Now Julian saw clearly that his own wild ways had been simply a ploy to gain some recognition from the cold statue he called Father.

He had to laugh at himself, albeit bitterly. He was hurt and disappointed, not at the loss of the estate and the wealth, but at the loss of his father's respect. Respect that he had never owned to begin with. Yes, he thought, fruitless was an apt description. All his efforts had been fruitless, after all.

With a slight, caustic smile, he rose smoothly from the chair that moments before he had sunk into in shock. He stood for an instant, giving a nonchalant tug to his waistcoat and smiling at the duke. Yes, the duke and not Father. No, never had he truly been a father to Julian, or Manny either, for that matter. Never had he been aught but a hard marble effigy of a man.

Casting only a bitter, brittle grin in the duke's direction, Julian strode from the suddenly suffocating room. Izzy. He wanted, no,
needed
to see her. Needed the fresh open meadow of her thoughts to pull him from the dark cavern of his own.

He found her directing the arrangement of the coming night's seating in the dining room. The great house was full to the brim with circling vultures and cackling hyenas. In other words, the cream of the
haut ton
was in residence. He grimaced when he thought of what the lot of them would say when it was learned that he had been disinherited in favor of his own unborn son.

The scandal would feed society's gossips for months. Everyone knew that the deed of settlement came up for renewal every few generations for most families of the nobility. It was merely understood that one would keep the property and assets entailed to the eldest male in direct line, but there was no law to that effect.

When the rumor of his disinheritance hit the rounds, he imagined a veritable wave of reformation amongst the young lordlings awaiting their estates. He gave a harsh chuckle. The brothels and gaming halls would wax empty for the next few weeks, he was sure.

And while they patted their pockets and reassured themselves of their due, they would laugh at him. He would be a clownish figure, indeed. The Landless Marquess. The Deprived Duke.

He closed his eyes. He really did not want to tell Izzy. It suddenly struck him that losing his inheritance meant that all her loss and sacrifice on his behalf had come to naught. Rage swept him. Rage at himself, his father and grandfather, even the Marchwells. All her life Izzy had given, and others had taken.
He
had taken.

And now he had only his empty title to give her in return. And he could not even tell her.

Coward.

With a muttered curse, he turned away, almost running as he called for his horse to be brought 'round.

«
^
»

Julian raised his eyes to see the public taproom in which he sat. The grime on the smoke-stained walls of the tavern could not be hidden, even in the dim lantern light. All about him, rough men drank to ease their rough lives. A glass of bad brandy sat untouched before him. One whiff of its harsh bouquet had been enough to warn him off.

Why was he here?

The woman moved close to him, wrapping her arms about his neck and whispering lascivious invitations to continue their conversation in her room. Her scent struck him, a fetid mixture of strong perfume, sweat, and rut. She squirmed restlessly against him, her breath coming hard in his face, but her eyes were flat and apathetic.

It was no use. It seemed that Eppingham was truly gone, and Julian only desired the sweetness of his own wife. Turning his head in revulsion, he hoisted her off his lap, settled an amount on the tapster, and left.

He felt soiled. He wanted to bathe away the whore's touch, wash away her scent. Wishing he had never attempted this relief, he rode away as fast as his self-disgust and his horse could carry him.

Turning and twisting before the long mirror, Izzy tried to see if her small pot-belly seemed any larger tonight. It should, for something miraculous had occurred and she was sure it showed. The baby had moved within her. She had felt it, the first flutter. In fact, if the last hour had been any indication, her child was a veritable butterfly.

She could not wait to share the news with Julian. She hoped the little one wouldn't stop before his father got home.

The thought of Julian's large hand pressed to her belly brought back images of the night in the garden. Heat spiked through her, and she chewed her lip. These feelings came more strongly every day, and she could no longer deny her natural need for Julian.

She could feel the bond created between them by the child within her. She needed him, and she believed he needed her, as well.

The news would bring them together. If he touched her, she would ignite, she was sure of it. Could she make him ignite, as well?

If he asked again tonight, and Izzy hoped to ensure that he would, she would say yes.

Her hands shook a little as she tied her wrapper, but the Tightness of her decision rang clearly through her. It was time to build what they could, for each other and their child.

Deciding she couldn't wait one moment more than necessary, she took herself off downstairs. Imperiously sending the duke's grim butler on his way, Izzy waited happily in a small sitting room off the front hall. The great house was empty once again, the guests having set off after the funeral the day before.