Never Deceive a Duke (20 page)

“Why?” she echoed. “Why does it matter any more?”

“It matters,” he answered, his voice hollow. “I need to understand—these scars, your life—how can you have hated yourself so much? What happened? I find myself frightened for you, Antonia. And frightened for myself.”

“It was my husband, Eric,” she whispered, drawing her hands away and wrapping her arms around her body. “My husband is what happened. I was…so
angry
with him.”

“Antonia,” he said quietly, “you did not harm yourself because you were angry. You are far too sensible for that.”

For an instant, Antonia sat perfectly still. No one had called her
sensible
in—well, years and years. A rush of gratitude choked her for a moment. “No, no, I did not,” she finally answered. “He had left us, you see, Beatrice and me, at his country house a few miles from London. I thought we had married to be together. That it was true love. I did not know—no one told me at first—that Eric had a mistress in Town.”

Gabriel shut his eyes. “Oh, Antonia.”

“He had kept her for many years,” she pressed on. “They had
two children,
Gabriel. I never dreamt—I had thought our marriage perfect. He had wooed me and won me, and said that he loved me to distraction. But it all turned out a lie, and me a fool. We fought often over it, and because of that, he moved us to the country. Afterward, Beatrice and I saw him only once a month, perhaps. I became with child again—a desperate gesture, was it not?—but it did not help. Every time, the fights grew worse. I hated him for humiliating me, and I hated him for ignoring his daughter.”

“Poor child,” Gabriel whispered.

Antonia shook her head, lips pursed. “The thing is, Gabriel, in looking back, I do not think Beatrice really cared or understood,” she whispered. “I think it was just me—my jealous pride. I did not mean to, but I used her. And it cost me everything.”

“What happened, Antonia?” he asked. “What happened to Beatrice?”

She forced herself to look straight into Gabriel’s eyes. “One afternoon Eric started back to London late,” she said. “He was oddly desperate to go—to
her,
I suppose. It was overcast and drizzling. I could hear thunder in the distance. And he had his phaeton brought round, of all the idiotic things to drive. We were fighting, as we always did. Fighting about his leaving, fighting about the lateness of the hour. I accused him of leaving us for her.”

“It sounds as if he was,” said Gabriel quietly.

“Eric called me a shrewish cow,” she whispered. “I accused him of ignoring Beatrice, of never spending any time with her. I don’t know why I said it; by then she scarcely knew him. But he looked at me, and it was as if he simply snapped. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Put the chit in the damned carriage and I will take her back to London. Perhaps that will put an end to your whinging.’”

“Good Lord,” murmured Gabriel.

“I was horrified, of course, and it showed,” she said. “But Eric seized upon the notion like a madman. ‘No!’ he said to me, ‘No, damn you, you wish the child to spend time with her father—then by God, let me have her!’ Then he snatched her up—no coat, no hat—and drove away hell-for-leather.”

“Christ, the child must have been terrified.”

“No, no, Beatrice thought it a great joke,” said Antonia. “And I shall never forget the look Eric shot me as he whipped up his horses. It was a look of…of utter
triumph
. Beatrice was with him, not me. And she was happy—screeching with joy—until they made the turn at the foot of the drive. Later they said…they said that the shoulder was soft from the rain. The carriage—it just went over. I saw it all. I knew—oh, God, I
knew.
”

“It would have been quick, Antonia,” Gabriel rasped. “She would not have suffered.”

But Antonia felt almost numb now. “The servants carried the bodies back in a cart,” she whispered. “It had begun to pour rain. Someone…someone tried to take me away, but I would not go. Blood and mud and water was everywhere. On them, on the floor. And then I looked down…and realized it was
my
blood.
My
water. It was like my life’s blood—my child’s life’s blood—flowing out of me. I knew then that my temper had killed Beatrice—and that it was going to kill the child that was coming.”

“Was there…no chance?”

A lone tear ran down her cheek, singeing her skin. “I named him Simon,” she whispered. “He was so perfect—so beautifully made. They christened him at once. They knew, you see. He lived two days. And then…and then I had nothing to live for.”

“Oh, Antonia,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”

She turned her wrists over and stared at them through a well of tears. “I do not even remember this,” she said. “It was the first of many things, Gabriel, that I do not remember. I did not lie to you about that. But Nellie—she found me. In the rose garden. I had a paring knife. Father came, and took me to a place—a country house—where I could rest, he said. And he left me there.”

“Dear God. For how long?”

Antonia lifted her shoulders. “Months,” she said simply. “And when I came out, Papa took me to Greenfields—that’s his estate—and within a few weeks, he told me he had arranged a marriage with the Duke of Warneham. That the duke was willing to have me, and that I was lucky. I did not care enough to fight. I just…did not care.”

Gabriel set an arm about her shoulders and drew her to him. She let his warmth and comforting scent surround her, and let her eyes drop shut. “I had to know, Antonia,” he said quietly. “I am so sorry for making you relive it.”

“I relive it every day,” she said. “But perhaps a little less? No, that is not right. A little less obsessively. It is as you once said, Gabriel. I will mourn my children every day for the rest of my life, but eventually, perhaps, not with every breath.”

“I hope you can reach that point,” he said, “for your sake, Antonia.”

They sat quietly for a long moment, and Antonia could feel his gaze. He was measuring her. Wondering, perhaps, if he had pushed her too far. But it had been almost a relief to tell him. She was so tired—so desperately tired—of not talking. Not feeling. It was as if she had turned herself off and was only now reawakening—to pain, yes, but perhaps to some of life’s joy, too. The warmth of the sun. The sound of the fountains in the garden. The small pleasure of deciding what to wear each day.

And then there was the physical pleasure which Gareth had given her, which was not just reawakening but healing. The comfort of his voice and his touch, and the reassurance of his sheer strength and broad shoulders—things which shouldn’t have mattered but strangely did. She was falling; falling fast and hard again. She was waking up, coming back to life, and she could not seem to stop. She was not even sure she
wanted
to stop.

“Have you never been in love, Gabriel?” she asked softly.

He surprised her, answering without hesitation. “Yes, once,” he answered. “Passionately so, I thought. But it did not end well.”

She laughed a little bitterly. “The passionate ones never do,” she said. “I think it is better to fall in love slowly.”

He had leaned back into the bench and propped his booted feet upon the stone ledge. “Is that what happened with you and Eric?” he asked, crossing his boots at the ankles. “Was it love at first sight?”

She hesitated. “It is pathetically embarrassing. Must I say?”

“I wish you would,” he said quietly.

Antonia drew a deep breath. “He was at Cambridge with James, my brother,” she said. “I had known him forever, I think, and had been infatuated with him for just as long. And when I came out, he danced attendance on me. It was like a fairy tale. Then he offered for me—and like the child I was, I really believed I was going to get my happy-ever-after.”

“I am sorry you did not, Antonia.”

“Don’t be,” she answered. “I mourn my children, not my husband.”

The branches beyond the folly clattered, and a pair of squirrels came racing down the tree. For a long while, she watched them leap and chase one another, all the while wondering if Gabriel was secretly laughing at her girlhood fantasies.

When he said nothing, she turned to him. “What about you, Gabriel? You give the impression of a man whose heart has been broken.”

He had tipped his hat down as if he might be drowsing, but he was not. She knew him too well now to be fooled. Finally, he spoke. “I suppose I wanted a fairy tale, too,” he said. “But of a different sort. I fell in love with Rothewell’s sister.”

“Oh,” she said sharply. “Your business partner?”

He tipped his hat back up. “You have been paying attention,” he said.

Antonia blushed and looked away. “What is her name?”

“Xanthia Neville,” he said. “Or Zee, we often call her. Now, of course, she is the Marchioness of Nash.”

There was a wistfulness and an affection in Gabriel’s voice which was unmistakable. “Zee,” she echoed. “It sounds so…so light. So pretty and carefree. Is she?”

“Pretty?” said Gabriel. “Yes, she is very beautiful—in an uncommon way. But carefree? No, Xanthia is all business.”

“She is married now, you said,” she said. “Was that the end of it?”

He scrubbed a hand around his lean jaw, which showed just a hint of shadow. “No, we ended it many years ago,” he said pensively. “Zee was not interested in marriage—not to me, at any rate.”

“Did you ask her?”

“It was understood,” he said a little irritably. “We had…things had…happened. It was assumed by her brother that we would marry. Yes, I offered for her—often enough to humiliate myself.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “Were you in love with her for a long time?”

Antonia was surprised when he hesitated. “I have been thinking about that a great deal of late,” he confessed. “I have been trying to figure out when and how it started.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not precisely,” he confessed. “You see, her eldest brother hired me into the shipping business—as an errand boy, really. It was a small concern then, just three or four ships, if you can imagine. And it was there I met Zee. We were close to the same age, and I just…I just envied her life so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted what she had,” he said. “I wanted the security of a family. Zee had two elder brothers at that time, Luke, for whom I worked, and Rothewell, who ran the sugar plantations. They loved her unconditionally and protected her fiercely. I just…wanted that. And when I grew older and found myself attracted to her, I believed…I
think
what I believed, deep down, was that if we married, then…then I would be a part of them. I would be—well, the fourth Neville. They could never turn their backs on me.”

“Oh, Gabriel,” she murmured. “Did you fear they would?”

“I was just the hired help,” he said grimly. “How did I know what they might do? I had learnt to trust no one. I was an orphan they’d taken on charity, without a penny to my name and scarcely a rag to my back. Luke died not too many years after that, so it was just Xanthia, Rothewell, and me. I was afraid of losing them, Antonia.”

“I see,” she answered. “I think I can understand how you might fear that.”

Suddenly, Gabriel laughed and set his fingertips to his temple. “Good God, I cannot believe we are having this discussion,” he said. “I asked you one simple question…and now I feel like I’m telling you the pathetic story of my life.”

“The question you asked me was not simple,” said Antonia quietly. “And I should like…I should like to hear the pathetic story of your life. Indeed, we have been circling round it for days now.”

He looked at her strangely. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She shook her head. “Do not lie to me, Gabriel,” she said. “I know unfailingly when a man is lying to me. It is a skill I learnt in a very hard school.”

When he said nothing but merely set his jaw in that hard line which was becoming so familiar to her, Antonia spoke again. “You hold yourself at a distance from me,” she said. “From everyone, really. I think…I think something very bad happened to you, Gabriel.”

He looked away. “It was a bad life,” he said. “For a time.”

Antonia set her head to one side. “I watch you, you know, with your friend Rothewell. You do the same thing with him—hold yourself at a distance, I mean. And it makes me wonder, Gabriel, if you really have anyone to trust.”

The jaw unclenched a fraction as he seemed to ponder it. “I trust myself,” he finally said. “And in some ways, yes, I trust Rothewell and Xanthia.”

She wished, inexplicably, that he would say he trusted
her
. But he did not. And why should he? She was not precisely stable or clear-thinking. And never—not even when she’d been well and whole—had she been the sort of capable, cool-headed woman this Xanthia Neville sounded. Antonia felt pathetically wanting in comparison. Perhaps she now understood the meaning of Gareth’s three little words—
“just this once.”
His heart had already been given.

“What was your life like at Knollwood, Gabriel?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject. “Was it a misery? Was Cyril really so terrible to you?”

He looked at her in mute amazement. “Cyril?” he finally said. “Terrible? What a strange thing to say. He was a boy, not much younger than myself. He was too innocent to be thought terrible by anyone.”

Antonia was confused again. “You did not envy him? You did not feel less than him?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I liked Cyril a great deal,” he said. “He was the only playmate I ever really had.”

“Did you play together often?” Antonia was surprised.

Gareth gave a crooked smile. “More than his parents wished, I am sure,” he said. “It was never their intent we should be playmates. But Cyril was lonely, too. He was…just a boy, like me. Mischievous, sometimes. Even a little petty, as all children are.”

“But you were older, were you not?”

“By a few months.”

Antonia considered it for a moment. This was very different than the impression her late husband had given. “And you were not…you were not in the Royal Navy, either, were you?”

His incredulity was obviously growing. “Antonia, what are you talking about?”