The Duke (44 page)

“So you think. She tried. Your father wouldn’t let her.”

“You know nothing about my parents.”

“Neither do you.” She held out the book she had been holding, offering it to him. It was an old clothbound tome with a blue ribbon that could be used to tie it shut. She gazed at him in compassion. “Take it, Robert. It is your mother’s diary.”

He looked from it to her in wary shock, but made no move to take it. “You’ve been reading her diary? How could you?”

“I know she’d understand, especially if I can make you see how much she loved you. Darling, I’m beginning to understand why you are so angry at her.”

“Angry?
Who said I’m angry? I’m not angry. Why should I be angry?” he bellowed. “So I have to spend my entire life making up for her whoredom, what is there to be angry for in that?”

“Robert, be fair to her. Surely you realize by now that your father tainted your perception of her before you were even old enough to know better—”

“My father was a good father! He taught me right from wrong—you don’t understand.” He struggled to leash his emotions and calm his sharp, thunderous tone for he didn’t want Bel to know how volatile this topic made him. “I was all my father had,” he forced out. “Maybe he drank too much, he was a three bottle man, yes, but he had the honor to stay with her rather than drag our name through a divorce scandal after she had given birth to Jack. And how did she thank him for that? Tupped a Welsh marquess and gave us the twins. Now, I’m glad to have my brothers in the world, but don’t you think it’s strange that she kept dropping these children when she never even wanted them in the first place?”

“Is that what you think? That she didn’t want you? She suspected as much. Robert, look in these pages—” Again, she tried to give him the diary, but he brushed it off and stalked toward the door, feeling like he would fly apart if he did not get out of here. “This is absurd. I’m leaving.” He reached for the doorknob but her voice stopped him.

“Hawkscliffe thrust Morley into the role of father again today—” Bel paused.

He stopped, facing away from her. Earl of Morley had been his courtesy title as a lad, before he had inherited the dukedom. He did not need to turn and look at his mistress to realize she had opened his mother’s diary and was reading a passage from it to him.

“ ‘My poor son. He’s so consumed with guilt that he alone has his father’s love that he tries to be a father, in turn, to his little brothers. It is too much for a boy of thirteen. So serious and proper, he barely ever smiles—and never at me.

“ ‘I could forgive Hawkscliffe all of his coldness, all his unfeeling stale indifference to me, but how am I to forgive that he has robbed my child of the carefree boyhood he ought to have been given before he faces a world of responsibility so far beyond that of common men?’ ”

Hawk closed his eyes, pained.

“ ‘To be sure, our Morley is equal to his destiny, but sometimes when I see him, stiff brave little man-child, I want to take him in my arms and say, ”It’s not your fault that Papa doesn’t love your brothers. It’s mine.’ ”

“Enough,” he whispered.

His chest felt like there was a bonfire in it, churning with feelings that would tear him apart. His shoulder blades felt like steel pins from standing up straight for too many years, always bound with the duty to set the example, behave beyond reproach. Be perfect. That was the duty with which Father had charged him. Nothing less would do. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t look the fool.

He swallowed hard. He could not bring himself to turn around, but there was a mirror on the wall by him and, in it, he could see Belinda gazing at his back, looking so compassionate, so loving.

He looked away from her quickly and his gaze roamed the cluttered, dusty, half-forgotten room in the reflection as he fought with himself. He saw the velvet pillow where Mother’s favorite cat used to sit and the rush of memories that came back with it nearly reduced him to tears.

He lowered his head. Bel came and caressed his back.

“Talk to me,” she said very gently.

“I . . .” He drew an unsteady breath. “I wasn’t allowed to love her, you see. I was just a boy, I needed her—but if I showed any love toward her or need for her, my father saw it as a betrayal. I was all he had. He told me so every time he got drunk. He said everything depended on me. She could have the others—she could keep her bastards, he said, but I was
his
son. It wasn’t fair to my brothers—it wasn’t fair to me—and I knew it wasn’t fair to her either.”

She whispered his name and put her arms around him. He clutched her hard as he felt walls of anger, walls of stone toppling silently inside of him.

“When that French firing squad killed her, oh God, Bel, I wanted to ... burn down the earth. I’d been such a cold bastard to her for so many years, just like he had wanted me to be. Don’t you see? I drove her to it. It’s my fault she’s dead.”

“Robert—”

“If I hadn’t sat in judgment over her with my heart closed, looking down my nose at her as though I had no faults of my own, she wouldn’t have felt compelled to redeem herself with her foolish heroics. If only I had told her what I really wanted to say, she’d be alive right now!”

“What did you want to say to her, Robert?”

“That I did love her, Bel. Please tell me that she knew that.”

“She did,” Bel whispered, holding him tightly. “Don’t be ashamed of her anymore, Robert. She gave you the best of herself: the heart in you that loves so well.”

His composure shattered at her softly spoken words. The loss was too deep, too intricately woven into what he was. “Oh, Bel, the only one I’m ashamed of is myself.”

He sat down and put his head in his hands, grimacing with the effort to hold back tears. He lost the battle with a ragged curse, shuddering as grief overwhelmed him. Bel put her arms around him, pulled his head down to her chest, and comforted him like the mother he had never known.

Days passed.

The melting away of ancient walls in him had literally expanded his ability to love, as if his heart had swelled beyond the boundaries which for so long had been his defense, but his devotion to Belinda had begun to torment him, knowing what he risked, knowing what he had to do, the suicidal choice he had to make—his honor or his heart. He knew he could not hide his torn emotions from her much longer.

Presently he stood on the battlements of the keep, surveying his lands and busy fields on the first day of harvest, doing his best to hold guilt at arm’s length. He pushed it away yet again, suddenly noticing a lone mounted figure on the road. He squinted against the high afternoon sun.

He stared, sure that his vision deceived him, but as the solitary figure rode nearer astride a plodding, thick-bodied white horse, he could just make out the book tucked under the man’s arm, the glint of sunlight on spectacles, and he realized it was indeed Alfred Hamilton—riding toward Hawkscliffe Hall like Don Quixote come tilting at windmills.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured into the breeze.

He strode inside and sent his servants to go out to the road to greet him, others to make a bedchamber ready for him. Bel was out with the girls observing the harvesters, but he did not expect her to be out long in this heat. For his part, he went out to the courtyard and waited to welcome the old man personally the moment he arrived. Though he still felt stern disapproval for Alfred Hamilton, good breeding and loyalty to Belinda dictated that he at least receive her father graciously.

But when Hamilton arrived in the courtyard, to Hawk’s wary surprise, he got down stiffly from his horse, poked his spectacles up higher on his nose, declined refreshment and glowered at Hawk.

“Mr. Hamilton, you are welcome to my home—” he began.

“A word with Your Grace, if you please,” he cut him off in a severe tone.

Taken aback, he gestured toward the Hall. “At your service, sir. Do come in.”

He had a feeling he was in for it as he showed old Hamilton inside. The moment they stepped into his study, Hawk sat down, beginning to feel like a schoolboy back at Eton caught at some very serious mischief. The gentleman scholar clasped his hands behind his back and stared at him. The footman withdrew, closing the doors.

“Let me come straight to the point,” said Alfred. “I have come to demand, sir, that you do right by my daughter or give her up directly.”

Hawk felt his mouth go dry. “Pardon?”

“Marry
Belinda. The last time we met, you gave me some very hard truth to swallow. I have come to return the favor. You style yourself a man of honor; do, then, the honorable thing.”

Hawk absorbed this, weighing his words carefully before he dared speak. “With all due respect, sir, Belinda is quite happy as my mistress. She is protected, cherished. She wants for nothing. I make sure of her happiness daily— hourly. We are, both of us, happy.”

“You are, no doubt, but not my daughter. Belinda is a gently bred young lady. She could never be happy as any man’s fancy woman. She needs more than that from life.”

Hawk rose from his chair, peering down his nose at Hamilton with lordly indignation. “My good sir, I have protected your daughter and have been absurdly generous with her, while you left her in penury to fend for herself. So please forbear from lecturing me on what Belinda needs.”

“You will not prostitute my daughter!”

“Frankly, sir, Belinda prostituted herself and had done so before I met her. Don’t look at me as though I’ve wronged her; I’ve been her rescuer in all this.”

“For a price, Your Grace. For a price.”

Hawk dropped his gaze to the floor, his heart pounding with anger and guilt. “I’m afraid it is impossible. We are comfortable as we are.”

“And what kind of life is Belinda going to have when she no longer makes you ‘comfortable,’ you arrogant fool? When you are done toying with her—when she is big with your child?” he asked harshly. “I know the ways of men like you, sir. You will pay her off to leave you alone the moment some new pretty thing catches your eye. My daughter is no whore and, by God, no one knows that better than you! She was an innocent girl when she was attacked. She did what she had to do to survive!”

“I am not toying with her,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. “I happen to love your daughter.”

“Yes, young man, I believe that you do.” His manner turned searching. “You risked your life to strike down her enemies. But how can you stop there? You must go to the end of the line, Hawkscliffe. You must marry her. I think that, deep down, you know that as well as I.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“Because of who I am.”

“Oh, yes, who you are—the paragon—the model of manly virtue. Mr. Duke, battling your way to the top of the heap, are you? And what is one young girl’s life, one heart to trample on your way?”

“No matter what happens, I intend to take care of her.”

“Until it becomes inconvenient. Until you marry some spoiled Society chit who will forbid you to see Belinda. You love your good name more than her. Honestly, Your Grace, after all I’ve heard about you, I expected more from you than this. Just like I have—just like young Mick Braden—you have let Belinda down.”

“No, I haven’t,” he said hollowly, feeling as though he had been punched hard in the gut. He could still hear her little whisper ringing in his ears:
Everybody fails me, Robert.

I won’t
, he had vowed.

“My sphere of influence is wide and there are countless responsibilities riding on me,” he said hotly, hating it that this happy-go-lucky fool had managed to put him on the defensive. His own excuses sounded petty in his ears. “I must marry for the good of my family. For God’s sake, I can’t marry my mistress. The scandal would rock the whole party. It simply isn’t done!”

“Is this the paragon, the man of principle—bowing down to the dictates of some etiquette book instead of acting on truth?”

“Pray, do not insult me under my own roof, sir.”

“I don’t wish to insult you. Nor do I have the power to compel you to do what is right. All I can do is tell you what I learned sitting in my cell all those nights since you visited me and opened my eyes to the hard, hateful truth— that we cannot pick and choose what part of reality we will deign to see and which part we will ignore. We must be willing to look at the whole picture, the difficult and the good together. I ignored that which I did not want to see, and the person that I love most in this world suffered a wound that I can never undo.” Impotent tears filled his old eyes. “I have to live with myself, with this monstrous failure. I would take Belinda away from here today if I could, to stop you from hurting her, but I’ve lost the right to interfere in her life. I know that. I know she won’t leave you, even if I plead with her. She is in love with you. I knew from the first day she brought you to the Fleet that she was in love with you. After all she has been through, if you harm her, I swear on my wife’s grave—”

“I would sooner lose my life than harm a hair on her head.”

“I hope you think on those words.” Alfred stared at him, his book tucked tightly against him.

Hawk noticed it was not an illuminated manuscript, but a weathered Bible.