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Authors: Maya Rodale

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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The damage to her virginity and to her marriage. To her life. It was almost laughable, what had happened. Almost.
It had been her wedding night, seven years ago. She and her new husband had stopped to spend the night at an inn on their way from London to Grafton Park. His Grace had elected to leave her in their room while he had a drink downstairs. Phillip had planned to spend the evening with a local trollop. He had simply entered the wrong room.
Her door had been unlocked for her husband.
In the darkness, the mistake was made.
She had been expecting her husband, a man of the same size and build as Phillip. She had been instructed by her mother
never
to question or contradict her husband. She was confused, but she followed the only directions she had been given. Do not question. Do not do anything other than lie there.
Grafton had entered with a candle to illuminate everything, after Phillip had finished with her.
She had been sent on to Grafton Park, while her husband chased Phillip to London. There had been a duel, though Jane knew her husband fought for his pride and not her honor.
They never spoke of it. In fact, they rarely spoke. Grafton certainly never, ever touched her.
“I’m sorry,” Phillip said to her now.
“I am, too,” Jane said. “What, may I ask, is your connection to each other?” she said, referring to Phillip and Miss Sullivan.
“She is my fiancée.”
“If he apologizes to all the women he has wronged,” Miss Sullivan added.
“Make sure you leave a candle burning on your wedding night, in case the wrong man happens to enter your chamber. You’ll want to realize the difference before it’s too late.”
“
Hmmph
,” Lady Palmerston muttered. “Your husband should have never left you alone in the first place. And all for ale in a roadside pub. The stupidity of men never ceases to amaze.”
“You know what happened that night?” Jane questioned, again, with a wave of panic.
“Phillip explained—and don’t be vexed at him. The poor man didn’t have a chance, being trapped in the carriage with me and my curiosity all the way from London.”
“Dare I even ask what stories people are telling in London?”
“It seems everyone has forgotten the incident,” Lady Palmerston answered.
“Except for Grafton,” Jane muttered.
“Mama!” Charles burst into the room. She couldn’t help but smile, even though she had told him to stay upstairs. She opened her arms to him, and her son came and sat beside her on the settee.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, he’s just so fast . . .” the maid said, red in the face from rushing after the boy.
“It’s all right. What is it, darling?”
“I wished to meet our guests.” If her son noticed that she tensed, he gave no indication. Jane summoned her courage and met the gazes of her guests, with a plea in her eyes.
“This is
my
son, Charles.” And then she performed the rest of the introductions. Her little darling conducted himself like the duke he would one day be.
Charles didn’t seem to notice that the ladies were not watching him but Phillip. To see them next to each other—a sight Jane never expected to witness—there was no denying that Phillip was his father.
Phillip shook the boy’s hand and looked over his head to her. She could see the question in his eyes:
Does he know?
Jane shook her head no, and Phillip merely nodded in response.
In that little exchange, she forgave him. This time, at least, he had thought to ask first before ruining everything for her all over again.
Neither Lady Palmerston nor Miss Sullivan said anything questionable, either, and their expressions said that they understood that this little boy was everything to her.
After Charles met their guests, he left with the maid without a complaint, reminding his mother about the cake she had promised him.
“We should go now,” Miss Sullivan said. “We should hate to keep you from him any longer, and hate to keep him waiting any longer for the cake you promised him.”
As Jane walked out of the drawing room, Lady Palmerston paused to speak with her. “Please write to me in London if you should ever have need of anything. Especially if that old fool of a husband of yours gives you trouble.”
Good-byes were said, and the ladies exited, leaving Jane alone in the foyer with Phillip.
“He seems like a good lad,” Phillip said, visibly uncomfortable.
“He is. Charles is everything to me,” Jane said. She clutched her skirts, so afraid that Phillip would ruin something again.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and this surprised her. She thought for a moment before answering.
“Perhaps one day you might explain to him why his father despises him. But it would be best for him, and for me, if you stayed away. And if this visit was not mentioned in town.”
“Of course. You know, my father hated me, even though I was his. At least Charles has a mother who loves him. I wonder how things might have been different if I had that.”
“I do love him. Very much.”
“I am sorry, Lady Grafton, about our mistake—”
“I don’t regret him,” she said, and tears were stinging her eyes.
“No, I meant that I am sorry about what I have done to your marriage. But at least you have not been left completely alone. You have the boy.”
“Yes. Please don’t say anything.”
“I will not do or say anything unless I receive instructions from you. But if he should ever ask after me, I . . .” Phillip’s voice trailed off, and he looked off down the hall. “I will be there for him if you need me to.”
“Thank you, Phillip.”
Phillip elected to ride up with the driver rather than in the carriage with Angela and her aunt. He needed to think, and he desperately needed to avoid their pitying or questioning expressions for as long as possible. He sure as hell did not want to
talk
about it.
Rumors were easy to dismiss and ignore. But the small flesh-and-blood image of oneself was not. He had a child.
Or rather, he had sired a child. A brat that looked just like him, with an old duke to despise him. Of all the things he could have in common with his child, it had to be that, didn’t it? And he would, one day, have to explain to the boy why his father hated him. And he would tell Charles that drinking and whoring may get his father’s attention, but it wouldn’t get his love. And he would tell that kid not to make the same mistakes he did.
But could he tell Charles that he was a mistake?
Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. But at least Charles had his mother. He would know he was loved, and that was more than Phillip ever had. One couldn’t miss how protective she was of him.
One also couldn’t miss how Phillip was dismissed.
And that was just as well. He had nothing more to give to them, even if he had wanted to. But he had given Jane someone to keep her company, since Grafton had abandoned her.
After arriving at the inn, finding a moment alone with Angela was remarkably easy, and for that Phillip was glad. Lady Palmerston left them alone in their private parlor to go speak with some acquaintances she had encountered in the hall.
The door wasn’t even entirely shut when Phillip took Angela in his arms for a deep, hungry kiss. It was exactly what he needed: a reminder of why he was going on this quest. He needed a taste of the prize, and she gave it to him.
“Phillip, do you want to talk about it?” Angela asked.
“Of course not,” he replied, even though he might have; he just didn’t know where to begin.
“Well, I do.”
Of course.
“After Lucas, I was sad when I got my menses, even though I should have felt relieved. I had thought that if something good could come out of such a wretched situation, it might somehow make it all better, or worth it. And I felt guilty, too, because I wouldn’t have been able to provide for it. But I would have loved it, and the baby would have loved me. And Lady Grafton loves her son, and he seems to be the only one who loves her. She has something good from you.”
“His father hates him. Just like mine hated me.”
“But you don’t hate him.”
“I’m not his father. Not in any real sense.”
“No, but you can explain things to him one day. And he has his mother, who very obviously loves him and—”
“I’m as wicked as the stories say,” Phillip said, cutting her off, to avoid indulging in the fleeting surge of jealousy he felt for his own child. Jealousy, and relief. Lady Grafton loved their son, and Phillip hadn’t had a mother’s love.
“Perhaps. But you are not as heartless as they say you are.”
“Angela,” he murmured and drew her into his arms again. He wanted so badly to see the good that she saw in him. He wasn’t heartless, not so long as she was around. She didn’t just own his heart, she was it. Dear God, since when did he think such romantic drivel? He must be well and truly besotted.
Lady Palmerston entered their private parlor with the newest a copy of the
London Weekly
, which was already a few days old. After supper, she had only read as far as the second page when she set down the news sheet and gave Phillip a long look.
He felt uneasy. He quite nearly felt like begging her not to show Angela. Because, though he did not know for certain, he had a very good idea of what the gossip column said about him now.
“Oh, go on then,” Phillip said, resigned. He quit the room. He would be sleeping alone tonight. Again.
 
Lucas smiled when he saw Huntley exit the private parlor, alone, looking quite grim. He had been waiting for their return in the common room of the inn all day, imbibing all the while, and he waited while they dined. He went unnoticed by them due to the poor lighting and large crowd. He didn’t know the reason why Huntley appeared so grim, but Lucas suspected it had something to do with their call on Lady Grafton this afternoon.
That had been easy enough to figure out. He had no idea why they visited, but he suspected it might have something to do with the rumors from years ago. There had been a duel between Grafton and one of the Kensington twins; there was disagreement as to which one actually fought. But it was widely believed that Lady Grafton was the reason. She bore a child nine months later. For all anyone knew, the child was the duke’s legitimate issue, but the fact of the duel and that Lady Grafton was last seen in London at her wedding was, for some, confirmation enough that the child was Huntley’s.
He suspected they had verified it this afternoon. Angela couldn’t possibly marry such a scoundrel now that she had likely seen evidence of his greatest sin. She probably told him such, which was why Huntley left their private parlor, alone, looking dejected and resigned.
Lucas ordered another drink from the barkeep in celebration. And he kept watch. Lady Palmerston emerged eventually, with Angela, who looked positively furious. He had consumed so much ale that he was seeing double, but not so much that he didn’t recognize that now was not the time to press his suit.
The following morning he slept late and learned that they had left an hour before. He thanked the heavens for Lady Palmerston’s unique carriage, for it was easy enough to be pointed in the correct direction.
By noon he had caught up with them at an inn, where they must have stopped to change horses. Lucas didn’t have time to rest his mount, for he saw Phillip entering the carriage just before it drove off once more.
Lucas followed, of course.
He was getting bloody sick of following and never catching up. He was always watching her and waiting. After seven years he was still waiting for his chance to marry the woman he loved. He was still waiting for his chance to absolve his guilt. And every moment that Angela spent with Huntley was a moment in which his chance at redemption and marriage to the one woman he had always wanted slipped away.
He had tried to discredit Huntley. He had hoped that the scoundrel’s own sins would prove to be an insurmountable obstacle. But no . . . Like the worst sort of vermin infestation, Huntley was proving impossible to exterminate.
Exterminate
. That gave Lucas an idea. But no, he couldn’t resort to that just yet. He did not want another lost life on his conscience. He just wanted
her
.

 

Chapter 23

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