Surrender to the Earl (22 page)

Audrey froze, a knot of worry unfurling inside her. She almost went up the stairs, telling herself it was none of her business, but she was a stronger woman than that now.

She reached for the door, found it partially closed, and pushed inside. The silence was deafening, but for the tick-ticking of the coal settling in the grate.

“What truth do you wish to tell me, Robert?” she asked in a cool voice.

“You can leave us, Michael,” Robert said impassively.

“Good night, Audrey,” Michael murmured as he went by.

Although she nodded, she didn’t spare another thought for him, simply walked slowly toward where she believed Robert was standing. “Well?”

“I have two things to tell you,” he began at last.

His voice was more somber than she’d ever heard before, and it gave her a sick twist of fear. She’d been so happy—had it all been a lie?

“I was referring to my part in the death of your husband, of our commander, and another soldier in our regiment.”

“Your part?” she repeated faintly.

“Blackthorne, Rothford, and I. I feel you need to hear the whole story.”

“All right.”

“We were escorting what we thought were thieves and their families, women and children, all so hungry. They were prisoners, but it just didn’t seem right to us, especially their destination—a place where they’d be interrogated further, using measures only used in time of war or great need.”

She felt a spasm of queasiness at what might be done to people to coerce the truth out of them—innocent or not. “Go on.”

“So we disobeyed orders. We
allowed
them to escape.”

He emphasized “allowed” so she’d understand that they must have looked the other way.

“Did you think you were doing right?” she asked in bewilderment.

“We did.”

“Then how can you blame yourselves for the decision?”

“Don’t you understand, Audrey?” he demanded. “We let them return to their lives and their villages, as if we knew better than our superiors. Soldiers are taught respect and obedience, loyalty to one’s commander—and we lost sight of that, and even our commander died as a result.”

“They weren’t villagers?” she whispered, twisting her fingers together, feeling the scene unfold in her imagination, the one she kept primed and ready to show her what she assumed the world looked like. Just now, it seemed like a curse.

“Perhaps they were, but they brought others with them when they attacked our regiment. Three men died, including our commander, Cecilia’s father.”

“And my husband,” she said stonily.

“And your husband. From the beginning, Michael tried to insist that we’d made the best decision we could at the time, under great stress, that it wasn’t our fault. I don’t believe that, and neither does Rothford. I felt guilt for what we’d done, and it only continued to grow. And when Michael was to be sent home to recover from his wounds and meet his bride, Rothford and I decided to resign our commissions and return as well. We had to do something to atone for the consequences of our decision.”

He stopped speaking, and she stood still, hugging herself, trying to think logically, without the emotions that were so powerful and overwhelming two years before. But there was bitterness beneath her words as she said, “So you came to me, Martin’s widow, to express your condolences.”

“And I offered you my help,” he reminded her. “It was the least I could do after all you’d suffered. That was all you wanted from me—you made it perfectly clear you didn’t want a husband.”

“But you would have offered yourself like some sort of sacrifice?” she asked in outrage.

“I might have considered it, but I knew you were too proud, too independent.”

“I was not independent when you met me.”

“But you wanted to be, and I wanted to be of assistance.”

She remained quiet for a moment, trying to rethink the last few weeks. He was right about everything he said—where she was concerned. But . . .

“I cannot lie to you and say that I loved Martin,” she said. “Regardless, I’m able to see an honest mistake for what it was. You didn’t mean to cause his death.”
And perhaps the death of my child,
she thought, with the resulting flare of grief.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “You have every right to blame me for not telling you up front. But . . . I thought it would hurt you all over again, and perhaps complicate what I could do for you.”

“And perhaps shower you with my grief?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I honestly thought the news might hurt worse. I didn’t know if you loved Blake or—”

“But none of this conjecture matters,” she interrupted tiredly. “You offered your help, and I took it, and now I have my own household, and the love of my sister again. I could have been trapped there forever without you.”

“Those are kind words, Audrey, and I appreciate them. But there’s one last thing you need to know.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired, Robert. Can this not wait?”

“I know about the child you lost.”

She went still, and though the grief was still there, confusion bubbled inside her. “But how . . .”

“Blythe accidentally told me.”

She felt suddenly cold, as if she were growing distant from her body. “When?” she whispered. “You two were barely speaking when she first came to visit me.”

“Over a week ago,” he answered.

“That’s not what I mean—was it before you suddenly wanted to marry me in truth?”

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t need to see his face to understand the reality. “You only wanted to marry me out of guilt and pity.”

“Audrey, I had already come to admire everything about you. I cannot deny that hearing about your child altered things, but my feelings have continued to grow—”

“I’m not marrying you,” she said flatly. “My God, I even—gave myself to you! How you must have pitied me.” And she’d been so stupid as to fall in love with him. God, she was a fool. Everyone had tried to warn her, and she’d been so convinced she’d never fall for a man’s lies again.

“I didn’t pity you! I wanted you, Audrey, and you wanted me.”

“But I can’t trust your reasons anymore, Robert. I can’t trust
you.
We’ll simply end this now. You gave your pathetic blind widow her scandalous affair.”

“I want more than an affair, Audrey,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “We deal so well together.”

No words of love, but she couldn’t be surprised. “We both have too much guilt, Robert—you for the death of my husband, and me for whatever I did that caused my child’s death.”

“Whatever you did? My God, Audrey, you learned that your husband had died. The grief—”

“Grief? I felt little for him after the way he’d treated me. But perhaps I caused my little boy’s death with my terrible fear that they’d take him away from me. My father was horrified that his flawed daughter might give birth to an equally flawed grandchild. My baby was just a thing to him, and when he was born dead—I think they were all relieved. Now you can be relieved, too, for you’ve done enough for me.”

“Audrey, don’t—”

“I was right all along—only as a single, independent widow will I find even a modicum of happiness. I can’t even trust my own motives where you’re concerned—maybe I was going to use
you
to have a baby. God, I can’t take this.” She wouldn’t have been hurt again if she’d never let anyone close—how had Robert made her forget that?

She turned and hurried away, forcing herself not to run. When she reached her bedroom, she couldn’t even have the release of crying. Everything inside her felt so very cold and remote and—dead.

Chapter 22

A
udrey was sitting on the edge of her bed when the door opened. She prayed it would only be Molly, come to help her undress for bed, but she heard Blythe’s cheerful voice. To her ears, it was like raucous screech of a bird, making her wince.

“I told Molly to go to bed, since she’s been dealing with the puppy. I’m here to help.”

And then she must have looked at Audrey, who couldn’t master the emotions necessary to hide her despair.

“Audrey, what’s wrong?” she cried.

When Blythe sat down on the bed beside her, tried to put her arm around her, it was too much. Audrey shook her off and rose to pace.

“Robert knows about my baby,” she said, feeling her despair replaced by anger as she said the words aloud.

Blythe burst into noisy tears. “Don’t blame him—it’s my fault!”

At least she’d admitted it. “Tell me the truth—tell me everything! I cannot take another lie.”

“Oh, Audrey, I didn’t mean to. Robert and I were discussing how the servants seemed to be hiding Louisa’s baby from you, and the truth just . . . came out.” She blew her nose in a handkerchief. “I had no idea he didn’t know. I’ve been trying so hard to be worthy of your trust, to prove that I’ve grown up. I spent so much of my childhood resenting that you were different, that Father made us treat you that way. You were always so independent, like you never needed us—I wanted to be needed,” she added on a whisper. “I came here thinking I could be of help, even though Father sent me.”

“What are you saying?”

“He thought—he thought you would want to come home, and I was to tell him when you were ready. I was supposed to tell him everything that happened, but I didn’t, I swear. He even sent a letter to the Sanfords with your coachman on that first day, telling them that you were only hurting yourself, and that you should be at home.”

Audrey closed her eyes on a groan. “Another reason they had problems with me from the start.”

“But I saw you, Audrey, I knew you were going to be successful, and I wanted to be a part of it, to help you. And now I’ve ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin everything, Robert did,” Audrey said coldly.

“Robert? Why are you blaming him when this is my fault?”

“Because once he knew about the baby, he courted me out of pity, made me fall in love with him—I am such a fool!” She fisted her hands.

“Oh, no, you’re not!” Blythe insisted, catching her hand and making her stop pacing. “You need to hear what I’ve seen. I’ve been watching Robert all this time, and he’s fallen in love with you right before my very eyes. There is such tenderness—”

“You mean pity,” Audrey interrupted with bitterness.

“Eyes can be powerful, and you don’t understand that. I know the difference between pity and love. Do you not think I have seen others show their pity on their faces? He
loves
you Audrey! It shines from him. Can you not feel it?”

“No,” she whispered. “And he never said it. I don’t trust a single thing I’m feeling, and I won’t make another terrible marriage. I’d rather be alone.”

“How can a marriage be terrible if you love him?” Blythe asked plaintively.

“During my first marriage, there was no love at all, and I still felt betrayed when Martin left me behind. But if I love Robert—imagine how he could hurt me? I won’t do it, I won’t marry him,” she insisted, even as she knew she sounded almost hysterical.

Blythe only blew her nose again. “I . . . I feel responsible for this.”

“You aren’t. He should have told me he knew, and instead, he seduced me.”

Blythe gave a little gasp. “Oh, Audrey . . .”

“Now don’t you pity me, too, I couldn’t take it!” She covered her face with both hands. “Just—just leave me be, Blythe. I forgive you, because it was just a slip of the tongue.”

“I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness,” she whispered.

“Then that makes me
certain
I forgive you. Go to bed, Blythe. I’ll be all right.”

Blythe put her arms around her, and Audrey accepted the hug, and even tightened it for a fierce moment. She would get through this, and she would have her sister, even if she never rid herself of this terrible ache deep inside where her bright love used to be.

R
obert stood in one of the guest bedrooms at Rose Cottage, staring at the wall that separated Audrey and him, feeling tired and frustrated and angry with himself.

The guilt he bore for helping cause the death of her husband—
that
she’d understood and thought an honest mistake, though it changed everything about her life.

But withholding that he knew the truth about the death of her child? How had he not seen how important that would be to her?

Because, of course, he always thought he knew best. He’d spent his entire life trying to be a different man, a better man, and still hadn’t managed it.

But it wasn’t too late. He and Audrey were meant to be together, however their relationship had come about. The more he knew her, the more amazed he was by her strength, courage, and compassion. He no longer felt pity or duty-bound—he’d fallen in love with her. Every time he was separated from her, the days stretched out as if with no reason, if he couldn’t share them with her.

But would she ever believe this? He had to find some way to convince her of the truth.

A
udrey delayed coming down to breakfast, but it didn’t matter. Robert was still there in the morning, waiting for her, his “Good morning” full of a resolution that didn’t bode well for her peace of mind.

Peace of mind? She’d barely gotten a few hours’ sleep, and her mind felt sluggish and sad. Any peace was cowering in a corner as her dark thoughts chased each other around.

When she heard no other voices or movement, she asked, “Where are my other guests?” keeping her voice impassive.

“They breakfasted and went walking with Blythe. Your sister said you usually walk with her, but she didn’t want to disturb you.”

Audrey only nodded.

“Michael and Cecilia will be leaving soon after.” He paused, then asked softly, “How are you?”

She felt the barest brush along her arm and pulled away. “I can’t force you to leave, Robert, but I need you to do so, to stop visiting me.”

“I won’t give up, Audrey. I’ve fallen in love with you, and somehow I’ll find a way to prove it to you, to make you believe.”

“You’re just hurting me!” she whispered, backing away. “And for all I know, you’re only concerned because there might be a child.”

“And I would love our child, even as I love you.”

She whirled and departed for her study, feeling the sting of tears she’d become so good at suppressing. She slammed the door hard, and barely resisted sliding down to the floor. She didn’t want to think of their child, or how it would force her to marry, make her give up her independence. She wouldn’t want her child to suffer Arthur’s fate, that of a nameless bastard.

And she wanted to cry because she’d spent the last three days missing Robert terribly, had felt everything brighten the moment he’d arrived to share the tenant feast with her. And he’d destroyed all that. All along she’d been softening toward him, imagining him lonely but for the memories of a brother he’d never been permitted to love, parents who hadn’t loved him. If he knew, he’d think she was pitying
him,
she thought bitterly. Everything was so complicated.

When Michael and Cecilia were preparing to leave later that morning, Audrey felt composed, although she imagined she could not hide that something was wrong. She was simply grateful that Robert would be leaving as well.

But he didn’t plan to leave, had even brought his own horse, to her frustration.

As the men were saying their good-byes, she felt a touch on her arm.

“Audrey, may I speak privately with you?” Cecilia asked.

“Of course.” Curious in spite of herself, Audrey led the way across the hall to her study, then turned to await what the other woman had planned.

“Robert has said nothing to either Michael or me, but I can see that problems have appeared overnight. You both seemed so happy yesterday.”

Audrey hesitated, but she didn’t want to lie—lies were what had put her in this position. “I discovered . . . some unsettling truths.”

“Was it about their military service and the terrible tragedy that took my father’s life, along with your husband’s?”

Audrey nodded without elaborating, unable to bear the thought of one more person’s pity. “Did Michael withhold the truth from you?”

Cecilia sighed aloud. “He did, and probably for the same reasons Robert did—guilt and shame. I don’t think we could punish them any more than they’ve already punished themselves.”

“This isn’t about punishment,” Audrey said tightly, “but trust.”

“I withheld things from Michael, painful things about my family and our past. I told myself it wasn’t his business, or even that I didn’t want to relive everything.”

“But this
was
my business—this concerned my dead husband.”
And me, when Robert hid his reasons for courting me. How many times can I believe what a man tells me?

She’d withheld the truth about her baby—but that didn’t affect Robert at all. It was her private sorrow, something she was trying to leave in the past as she began her new life.

Or did it concern him? Did it give him a complete picture of her, one he deserved? She was so confused.

“Audrey,” Cecilia said, “it is not my place to try to change your mind. I only ask that you give it much thought before making any final decisions. I cannot tell you how wonderfully happy the two of you looked together. Michael told me he’d always hoped Robert would at last find the family he deserved.”

Those words were as sharp and painful as a knife, but she forced herself to nod. “Thank you for the advice, Cecilia. I will keep it in mind.”

“Write to me, please? I would truly like to consider you a friend.”

“I will. I have to warn you—my handwriting is atrocious.”

Cecilia chuckled, and they hugged in parting.

After Michael and Cecilia had gone, Robert and Audrey stood in the entrance hall for a frozen moment. She heard the tap of Blythe’s slippers as she walked away.

“Audrey, we should talk,” Robert asked.

“No.” She turned and closed the study door behind her.

But all day long, he remained at Rose Cottage, and she was forced to encounter him whatever she did. He didn’t try to force her to listen to explanations, he was always just . . . there.

For Robert, the day was interminable. He wasn’t going to be like Audrey’s puppy, trying to follow her around, but he ate meals with her, and in between walked the grounds he’d come to enjoy. The management of Rose Cottage and the larger estate had helped him come to grips with the management of his earldom, and he would always have fond thoughts of it. He’d hoped it might even become Audrey’s dower property again when they married.

As the evening approached, and his presence in a feminine household risked scandalizing her neighbors, he realized she was just waiting him out, as if to see if he’d leave—or show himself as a man who’d risk a woman’s reputation to have what he wanted. But he wouldn’t do that, for those would only be the tactics of his father, and Robert didn’t have to be him. Loving her had taught him that.

But maybe Audrey didn’t know that.

After dinner, he found her alone in the drawing room, crocheting slowly, her expression one of concentration as she used her nimble fingers to count the stitches she’d already made. He imagined Blythe had retired early to bed after a day warily watching the two of them.

Audrey tilted her head toward the door.

“It’s me,” Robert said. “I’m leaving, but I’d like to talk to you before I do.”

“I can’t stop you.”

He deserved that. He stepped inside, closed the door, then crossed to sit beside her on the sofa. At least she didn’t stiffen, only continued to crochet.

“Ever since I became the earl, I’ve spent years trying to be different from my father.”

“I know this.”

“You don’t know why. Just as you didn’t want to talk about your baby, I didn’t want to talk about another death, one that happened before I even bought my commission.”

“You’ve told me about your brother, and I had already heard about your business partner who took his own life.”

Robert stared at her. “So you knew something about my past, and didn’t ask me about it, didn’t speak up.”

She lowered her crocheting. “It’s not the same thing. Your actions after you learned about my baby’s death are what I am most disappointed in.”

“Then you can be disappointed even more when I tell you that I was so determined to get in early on the initial railway investments, that I manipulated Stephen Kepple. I wanted his participation, even though others told me he wasn’t strong enough for the risky investment I’d proposed. So I befriended him, got him to invest, and the deal went bad. Everyone lost money. And Kepple killed himself. I’ll never know if he realized he’d been manipulated into joining, or if he regretted how much money he’d invested. And then I knew that I was a bully, just like my father.”

“A bully,” she echoed.

He could hear the bitterness in her voice, but he put aside the pain of that. “I bought a commission the next day, determined to be the kind of man I’d once idolized, the retired army officer who lived near Knightsbridge Hall. He was the only man who’d ever stood up to my father, regardless of the difference in their stations. Following orders, being in command, all these things helped change me into a man who understood being part of a regiment, and not just out to do whatever I thought best.”

“Then what happened when you met me?” she demanded.

“You wanted my help, and I was grateful to offer it. And once I knew you, I fell in love, yet I still hurt you. A man wants to be depended upon, to protect and cherish his wife—surely that can’t be all bad. Or that’s what I told myself. It was far easier to think that than to admit that it was all about me and how I couldn’t live without you.”

Audrey drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing.