The Earl I Adore (26 page)

Julia's gaze flickered to Evan's, her brow reflecting the same confusion as she placed a hand on her mother's knee. “I'm so very glad to hear that. But I wonder: Do you not worry if I have children?”

Evan sent his sister a scathing glare. This was not a topic he wished to bring up—not now or ever. They had spent years insulating their mother from the stress of their father's death. He sure as hell didn't want to bring up the topic of his madness now.

But his mother surprised him. Instead of becoming agitated, she looked confused. “Whatever for? Yes, childbearing is a dangerous business, but you are of hearty stock, I am sure.” She patted Julia's hand as though reassuring her.

“But do you not worry that I may pass on . . . less savory parts of my heritage?” His sister persisted, earning another warning look from Evan.

“Julia, this is not the time—”

But their mother lifted a hand, stopping him at once. “Julia, my dear, what do you mean?”

His sister's gaze flicked to Evan for a moment. He recognized the expression in her eyes; it was the same way she had looked at him when she'd tried so hard to persuade him to try for love. Glancing back to her mother, Julia licked her lips before continuing to speak. “Because of Father's illness, Mama. Evan and I decided years ago that we wouldn't marry or have children for fear of passing the madness on, or even succumbing to it ourselves.”

Their mother's already pale skin whitened, and a hand went to her mouth. Damn it all, Julia had gone too far. He came to his feet, scowling mightily at his sister as he stepped forward to place a comforting hand on his mother's shoulder.

“You don't need to answer her, Mother,” he said, working to keep his fury at Julia from tainting his voice. “In fact, I hope you'll forget that she ever said it. Perhaps now would be a good time for Julia to play for you. I know how much you enjoy her harp.”

She looked up at him, her mossy green eyes stricken. Evan might well murder his sister yet. He offered his hand, but instead of taking it, his mother put her fingers to her heart. “John, is this true?”

“Truly, Mother, don't think on it at all. Julia spoke out of turn and—”

“Is it true?” The words were stark, an echo of pain he had hoped never to hear from her again.

He bit hard on the inside of his cheek, at a loss for what to say. He didn't wish to lie to her, but he would not
purposely cause her any more pain by bringing up memories of the darkest time in her life. “It was simply a measure to ensure that none of us or those we loved would ever have to go through something like that again.”

Closing her eyes briefly, she exhaled, her slender frame sagging. Turning to look at Julia, she said softly, “Why didn't you ever tell me?”

Julia shook her head, tears shimmering in her eyes. Perhaps she saw now how much pain she had caused. “We didn't wish to further upset you. It was an easy enough decision at the time, when neither of us knew what it was like to love or be loved.”

“It wasn't just the easy decision,” Evan cut in. “It was the
right
one. And it still is, no matter how much you attempt to justify your actions.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to rein in his temper. Sophie came unbidden to his mind, making his breath catch in his throat. He'd put her through hell because it was the right decision. The pain now was to protect her from a much greater pain later.

The tentative serenity that his mother had lived with for so long seemed to dissolve before his eyes. Sorrow and pain filled the void, and something terribly akin to guilt. “All of these years, you have lived in fear of being like him?”

Julia nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks. It was impossible to tell if they were from regret at having upset their mother, or relief for finally having the truth out between them after so many years. Either way, he could do little more than grit his teeth, wishing like hell she would have dropped the whole matter when she had the chance.

Their mother's fingers found the cross again, rubbing hard between her thumb and forefinger. “This is all my
fault. If I hadn't tried to protect you, I would have set you free.”

Evan sank back down into his chair, staring at his mother's bowed head. What on earth was that supposed to mean? Across from him, Julia brushed away the tears and looked to their mother. “Mama?” she whispered, prompting her to go on.

“I was in love, once.” The words were quiet but unmistakable. Mother glanced up then, meeting Evan's eyes. “So much so, I could hardly breathe with the force of it. James knew it when he offered for me. It was his way of showing his superiority to his younger brother. My father eagerly approved the match, uncaring of my wishes to marry Matthew instead.”

Evan stared at his mother, rapt. He could easily picture his father's younger brother, who was a very frequent visitor. He had died only months before Father had come back to Ledbury to stay. Unease gathered in Evan's gut, the way one feels when ominous clouds appear on the horizon. She had been in love with Uncle Matthew?

“So you married against your wishes?” Julia breathed, sympathy wrinkling her brow.

Tears rolled down Mother's cheeks, furthering Evan's unease. “Yes. James always showed signs of darkness, though nothing like . . . in the end.” She hesitated briefly, then pushed on. “I had no choice but to accept his hand. As soon as we married, he took pleasure in tossing me aside. He spent all his time in London, winning and losing great sums at the tables, enjoying his many . . . lady-birds, frequenting all manner of ill-reputed establishments.”

Evan was aware of his father's pastimes, but he'd never imagined that the darkness within him had always
been there. “So you are saying he had always been somewhat off?”

She nodded. “He had great swings of moods. Some days he was full of excitement and verve, and others he was empty of all that life had to offer. Even so, he could still seem normal when he wished. It was almost easy for him to fool those he ran with in London. It wasn't until after Matthew's death that he succumbed so fully to the disease.”

Evan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He hadn't considered the timing of things before. “I don't think I ever put that together before.”

Shaking her head, Julia sat back against the cushions of the sofa. “I don't understand. If Papa married you to spite his brother, why was he so affected by his death?”

“Because,” Mother whispered, her voice barely audible, “in my devastation following Matthew's passing, we argued bitterly.” She seemed lost for a moment, her eyes unfocused as if she looked into the past. “It was then that he discovered that Matthew was the true father of my children.”

E
van sat reeling, his blood roaring in his ears. Disbelief, anguish, as well as an enormous sense of relief, and a dozen other emotions clogged his throat and twisted his gut. Uncle Matthew was their father? He gaped at her, shaking his head. “Why didn't you tell us?” They were the only words he could manage to speak.

His mother brought the cross to her lips and kissed it before meeting his eyes again. “I never wanted you to doubt your rightfulness to the earldom or to think yourselves inferior for the circumstances of your birth. And there was also the shame for what I had done. Matthew and I never stopped loving each other, but that didn't make it right.”

She looked between Evan and Julia, tears heavy in her eyes. “It was my fault that James lost hold of his sanity. You children suffered so much from those months, I just wanted everything to be better for you. After he died, I had thought you moved on. That you'd healed from the pain he caused us.”

She didn't mention her own overwhelming grief, but
Evan remembered it all too well. What he'd never guessed, never even imagined, was the possibility that she would have felt guilt for some of the pain they had suffered. How could he not have known?

Raking both hands through his hair, Evan struggled to come to grips with what she was saying. Her words brought a surge of hope, and he grasped them like a lifeline. “Are you absolutely certain that we could not be his?” His heart felt as though it teetered on the edge of a precipice.

For the first time, color tinged her paper-white cheeks. “I am. James believed that both of you were born early.” She pressed her lips together, unwilling to say more.

“Good God,” Julia breathed, her hands going to her throat. “He truly wasn't our father?”

Mother nodded, sadness weighing down the corners of her mouth. “If I had known your fears, I would have told you so long ago.” Her voice was growing hoarse. He couldn't remember his mother talking as much in the last five years.

“Evan, do you know what this means?” Julia said, hope glittering in her eyes like diamonds.

He didn't answer her right away. He was too busy examining the revelation from every possible direction. Matthew and James were still brothers, so the possibility of madness in the bloodlines still remained, but to know the old earl had always shown a tendency for his illness was tremendously freeing. If Evan were destined to succumb to insanity, wouldn't it have made itself known by now?

Swallowing, he looked back and forth between his mother and sister. It wasn't impossible that his children might inherit the tendencies, but it was significantly less
alarming. He'd been prepared to pass the title to his father's cousin, had he not?

Profound relief washed through him, a desperately needed rainstorm after decades of drought. Then he closed his eyes against the sudden thundering of his heart. Could he truly be free to have her? To love her, to marry her, to live the rest of his life basking in her sunshine? Blinking, he looked to his sister. “Sophie.”

Wiping away tears, she smiled and nodded. “Yes . . . Sophie.”

She turned to their mother and gathered her hands in her own. “You've given us a great gift today, Mama. Please know that you've caused only joy by telling us. Now, I think Evan has a lot to think about.”

Their mother's hazel eyes flitted to Evan's, uncertainty in their depths. He stood and offered her his hand. When he'd helped her to her feet, he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on each of her cheeks. “Thank you, my dear mother. You've set me free at last.”

After returning to his chambers, Evan paced back and forth, a million thoughts running through his head. He felt like a condemned man who had just received a pardon. His life was his again. It was a feeling he had never known as an adult. Nothing would dictate what he did with it other than his own wishes.

God, he had to see Sophie. As soon as possible, he had to go to her, to beg her forgiveness for the pain he had caused her and her family. Would she still have him?

Of course, it wasn't just about what she thought anymore. From what Julia had said, her reputation had been well and truly ruined. Even if he married her, people would still say that she'd somehow trapped him into doing so. It wasn't fair to her.

No, he needed to come up with a way to show the world that she was his choice. That he loved her, and desperately wanted her to be his wife.

He continued pacing, mulling over all the ways he could try to accomplish such a thing. It had to be much more than him simply telling people he loved her. It had to be something that would spread just as quickly as the negative gossip had, something that no one could deny or misconstrue.

In a flash of insight, an idea came to him. He went straight to the library, grabbed the book he needed, and quickly flipped to the page he remembered. With the idea solidifying in his mind, he couldn't help but exhale a nervous breath.

With what he had planned, no one could possibly doubt the way he felt about Sophie—most especially not her.

*   *   *

“You've a letter, Sophie.”

Glancing up from her book—or more accurately, from her woolgathering—Sophie inwardly cringed at the sight of her mother standing in the doorway, her mouth pinched in a disapproving grimace. Things had been strained since their return, despite Sophie's attempts to bridge the chasm that had opened between them in Bath. Both her parents were tense and worried, which was making life nearly unbearable.

Tossing the book aside, she stood and stepped toward her mother. “I'm sorry—I know postage is a cost we can ill afford right now. I'll respond and ask them not to write again this month.”

“See that you do. Your friend Miss Bradford clearly doesn't understand the wastefulness of a two-page
letter.” Handing over the missive, Mama turned on her heel and marched out of the room, obviously unwilling to speak to her any longer than necessary.

Sighing, Sophie watched her mother go. She never would have imagined that she might miss her mother's meddling ways, but it was certainly preferable to the cold shoulder. Returning to her sunny spot on the sofa, Sophie unfolded the note, which was covered in May's chicken scratch handwriting. The second sheet of paper was tightly folded and sealed with a gummed wafer. Odd—the stationery was of a heavier stock than the outside piece.

Curious, Sophie skimmed through the note. Her friend spoke of how much she missed Sophie, and how the festival had lost its allure without her. She went on for a few paragraphs about a recent outing with Charity and Lord Cadgwith. At the end, her final sentence elicited a sharp gasp from Sophie:

Now, hopefully my ramblings have been sufficient to mask the true purpose of this letter. Open the accompanying note. Don't forget to write me back—I am dying to know what this is all about.

With her heart in her throat, Sophie turned her attention to the little square. She drew a breath, popped the seal, and made quick work of unfolding it. The handwriting was unfamiliar—perfectly correct, but without any unnecessary swoops or curls. Her mouth went dry as she realized that the words weren't in English.

Godiam la pace,

Trionfi amore:

Ora ogni core

Giubilerà.

With her heart pounding wildly in her chest, she flipped the paper back and forth, desperately searching for something more—an explanation, a signature, or even a word of English—but there was nothing else. There were only the nine tantalizing words, written in a language that she couldn't understand, but that spoke volumes to her.

Evan
.

Her hand went to her lips without conscious thought as hope cruelly sprang forth with enough force to rob her of her breath. Why would he send this? Was she still in his thoughts? Did he lie awake at night, staring into the darkness and thinking of her as she did of him? Did he remember the feel of their bodies pressed close, or of their lips and tongues sliding together?

She read the words again, imagining him whispering them to her. Especially the one word she did recognize:
amore
. Love.

Lowering the paper, she leaned back against the cushions, her eyes closed as she turned the word over and over in her mind.
Love.
Even after all that had happened, she still loved him so much it hurt—a physical pain that cut sharper than glass when she thought about the loss of him in her life. Was it possible he felt the same way?

Soon, she'd write May a letter, demanding to know how on earth she had gotten the letter in the first place. Sophie wanted to know if her friend had seen him, or spoken with him as Sophie herself had dreamed of doing again every day since they had parted.

But not now.

In this moment, she would hold on to his words, along
with the flicker of optimism it brought to her heart. She didn't know what the foreign words translated to, why he had written them, or what he had meant by them. But what she did know made all the difference:

Evan was thinking of her, and for now, that was enough.