Season Of Secrets
“Are you leaving already?” He kept his tone deliberately neutral as he sat up, knowing he had agreed, accepted, Sylvie’s decree that she would only stay with him for a few hours, but he had hoped, after the enjoyment of their lovemaking—Whatever he might have hoped, it was obviously not to be. “When will I see you again?”
She finished fastening the belt of the robe before looking up at him with dark and guarded eyes. “I—I will send you a note tomorrow.”
His brows rose. “A note...?”
“Yes.” She turned away. “I will leave your robe downstairs in the library after I have dressed, and then let myself out—”
“Give me a minute and I will come down with you.” Christian swung his legs to the side of the bed.
“No! No,” she repeated more calmly, the dullness of her eyes appearing like dark bruises in the pallor of her face as she refused to so much as look at him. “I—We will talk again tomorrow.”
“Talk?” he repeated sharply.
“Yes,” she sighed. “We will talk. I—There is something—I must
go!” She hurried to the door, wrenching it open before turning back to him briefly, her expression anguished. “Please believe that I—that I am sorry.”
Christian tensed, stomach churning. “You are not ending our association already?”
“No! I—” She gave a shake of her head, tears now glistening in the darkness of her eyes.
Relief flooded him. “Then what are you sorry for?”
“For everything!” she choked. “I am sorry for everything,” she repeated shakily.
“I do not understand, Sylvie...” He gave a pained frown. “You are not ending our association and yet you are sorry. What—”
“Tomorrow, Christian. I will explain all tomorrow,” she assured him dully. “Do not follow me now. I—It is for the best—Tomorrow,” she repeated before stepping out into the hallway, the door to the bedchamber closing quietly behind her.
Christian had no idea what had just happened. One minute he and Sylvie had been lying satiated in each other’s arms after the most satisfying lovemaking Christian had ever known, and the next she had run from him as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
Tomorrow.
Sylvie had said she would explain all tomorrow.
And he hoped that explanation did not include the ending of their relationship, because having now made love with Sylvie again, that possibility was even less acceptable to Christian than it had been four years ago...
“The Earl of Chambourne to see you, my lady,” Sylvie’s butler announced from the doorway of her private parlor.
Sylvie ceased her restless pacing as she turned to him, the deep-brown gown she wore only emphasizing the pallor of her face. “Please show him in, Bellows.”
After a sleepless and troubled night, Sylvie had written a note and had it delivered to Christian only an hour ago, requesting that he call upon her at his earliest convenience. She should have known, after the manner in which she had fled his home the night before, that Christian’s ‘earliest convenience’ would be almost immediately.
Quite what she was to say to him, how to explain, was still not exactly clear to her. She only knew that she owed Christian an explanation. For her behavior both the previous night and four years ago...
* * *
Christian gave the standing and unsmiling Sylvie a searching glance after the butler left the two of them alone. Her golden curls were fashionably styled, her brown silk gown also the height of fashion, and yet—and yet there was an air of fragility about her, a translucence to the creaminess of her skin, and a haunted look in the dark depths of her eyes. “Tell me,” he demanded without preamble.
She gave a shake of her head, not of denial, but as if she was at a loss to know quite how to proceed. She closed her lids briefly before opening them again, her chin rising as if for a blow. “There is something that I wish—no, something I must tell you.” She moistened her rosy-pink lips. “I have thought about this for most of the night, have considered all the consequences of—of my admission, but I can see no other way. No other honorable way,” she added huskily.
Christian frowned darkly. “You are making me nervous, Sylvie.”
She swallowed. “I assure you, that is not my intention. I—You see—”
“Mama? Mama, Nurse says I may not visit with you just yet, that you are too busy this morning!”
Christian had turned at the first sound of that trilling little voice as it preceded the opening of the door and the entrance of a little green whirlwind that launched itself into Sylvie’s arms before turning to look at him curiously.
His eyes narrowed as he found himself looking down at a beautiful little girl of possibly three years old, dressed in a green gown, with dark curls and—and moss-green eyes...
His own dark curls and moss-green eyes?
Chapter Ten
“Please say something, Christian,” Sylvie choked, having just returned from taking a reluctant Christianna back to the nursery and her flustered and scolding nurse. The tears streamed unchecked down Sylvie’s cheeks as she saw that Christian’s face still bore an expression of shocked disbelief. “Anything!”
His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed. “What do you call her...?”
Sylvie gave a pained frown. “I—Her name is Christianna.”
His breath left him in a hiss. “You named her for me?”
“Yes. Christian—”
“Dear God, Sylvie, she is so beautiful!” The tension leached from his body and he dropped down into one of the armchairs, his face pale, his expression tortured as he stared up at her. “Is she—Can she be the reason you accepted Gerald Moorland’s offer of marriage four years ago?”
“Yes.”
Christian gave a pained wince. “And did he know—”
“Yes, he knew. Oh, not who the father of my babe was, but I never tried to deceive him into believing the child was his,” Sylvie assured huskily. “Please believe—I did not know what to do when I realized I carried your child, and although Gerald’s life had been dedicated to the army, and he had never shown any inclination to marry, he nevertheless offered—Gerald was a friend of my father’s—”
Christian looked at her sharply. “Your parents know—”
“No.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “They have always believed that Christianna was a seven-month babe.” Sylvie twisted her fingers together in her agitation. “Only Gerald knew she was not. And he was too much of a gentleman to ever reveal the truth to anyone.”
“And—and did you grow to love him...?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “Not in a romantic way. But he became my closest friend.”
“You were not—It was not a physical marriage?” Christian prompted sharply.
Sylvie smiled slightly. “Gerald did not think of me in that way. He did not think of anyone in that way,” she added softly as she saw Christian’s incredulous expression. “He really was married to the army. Although I never had any doubts that he cared for both Christianna and me. For the short time he was alive after Christianna’s birth, he was a wonderful father to her.”
“I am glad of it.” Christian nodded.
“You do not really mean that!” Sylvie groaned.
“Of course I do.”
“How could you? Because of my lack of faith in you, in myself, I have denied you the first three years of your daughter’s life!” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I am so sorry for that, Christian.”
“Why did you not write to me?”
Sylvie closed her eyes briefly. “After you left me, there were rumors on your estate of the women you had been seen with in London before you rejoined your regiment—”
“They were untrue.” He looked at her bleakly. “I did not so much as look at another woman. Why would I, when it was you I wanted? You I intended to return to? You whom I loved?”
Sylvie looked at him searchingly, seeing the truth in the bleakness of his expression. As she heard the past tense in his last statement. “I am so sorry, Christian. So very sorry that I ever doubted you.” She turned away to stare sightlessly out of the window overlooking the garden. “I cannot bear to think of how much you must now hate and despise me!”
Christian rose abruptly to his feet to cross the room in three long strides before grasping Sylvie’s shoulders and turning her to face him. “I could never hate or despise you, Sylvie,” he assured her gruffly as he cupped either side of her face to brush his thumbs across her cheek and erase the tears. “How could I when I fell in love with you the moment I saw you swimming half-naked in that river four years ago? And it is a love that never died, Sylvie. Never,” he assured her fiercely as her eyes widened incredulously, hopefully. “Yes, I felt angry and betrayed when I returned to England and found you had married another man. And I behaved abominably for the next four years—”
“So I believe.” She smiled sadly.
“I am not proud of those years, Sylvie,” he acknowledged. “How could I be? But I did not know how else to get through the pain of loving you and knowing you were so far out of my reach, that you belonged with another man. And all this time!” He gave a self-disgusted shake of his head. “Was the reason you agreed to become my mistress, but with that proviso that we meet in my home and not yours, because you wished to protect Christianna from me?”
“Partly,” she acknowledged.
Christian looked at her closely. “And the other part?”
Sylvie released her breath in a sigh. “The other part was that I only had to see you again, to be with you again, to know, despite denying it to myself, wishing it to be the contrary, that I still had feelings for you.”
He stilled. “As I only had to see you again the night of my grandmother’s ball to know that I have never stopped loving you.”
She gasped. “You believed I had married Gerald for his money and title—”
“And it made no difference to the love I still feel for you!” he admitted fiercely. “I knew that night that I wanted you back in my life—that I had to have you back in my life, in any way that you would allow!” He drew in a ragged breath. “How you must now hate and despise me because I tried to force you into my bed!”
Sylvie huskily gave a self-derisive laugh. “Did it seem last night as if I felt forced into responding to your lovemaking?”
“No...” Christian looked down at her searchingly. “And it was lovemaking, Sylvie. No matter how I might have behaved the night of my grandmother’s ball, how much I tried to continue to despise you for believing you had married an old man for his title and fortune, once I held you in my arms again, kissed you, I could never do less than make love with you.”
Yes, for all of those things, Sylvie knew that Christian’s lovemaking the previous night had been every bit as tender and caring for her own needs as it had ever been in the past. “You did not know of Christianna’s existence then...”
His hands moved to tightly grip her shoulders. “If anything, that only makes me love you more,” he assured her fiercely. “You did what you believed you had to do to in order to protect our daughter when you accepted Ampthill’s offer, what was necessary to protect both Christianna and yourself!”
“And by my doing so, you have missed the first three years of your daughter’s life,” she repeated sadly.
“But God willing I will not miss any more. Or that of any other children we might be blessed with?” He looked down at her uncertainly.
Sylvie gazed up at him searchingly, seeing only love burning in Christian’s beautiful moss-green eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Asking,” he corrected huskily. “I am asking what I should have asked you before I left four years ago. What, in my arrogance, I believed could wait until the next time I returned to England.” He gave a self-disgusted shake of his head.
Sylvie swallowed. “And what is that?”
“That you do me the honor of marrying me,” Christian pressed softly. “I had never loved until I met you that summer, Sylvie. Nor have I loved again since. I loved you then, and I love you still, and if you will consent to become my wife, I swear to you that I will tell you, show you, every day for the rest of our lives together how very much I love and cherish you!”
Tears welled in her eyes once more, but this time they were tears of happiness. “I realized last night that I have never stopped loving you either, Christian. I loved you then, I love you now. I will always love and cherish you.”
He looked down at her searchingly for several long, disbelieving seconds, his expression turning to one of wonder as he saw that love shining in the darkness of her eyes. He fell to his knees in front of her. “Sylviana Moorland, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Allow me to love and cherish you for the rest of your life?”
“Oh, yes, Christian!” She threw herself into his arms. “Oh, yes, yes, and a thousand times yes!”
“You have made me the happiest of men,” Christian choked as he stood up to take her gently in his arms and kiss her with all of the tenderness of a man deeply in and forever in love.
And ensuring that Sylvie became the happiest of women.
At last...
Chapter Eleven
The London home of Lady Jocelyn Ambrose, Dowager Countess of Chambourne.
* * *
“—and the wedding is to be next month,” Lady Jocelyn concluded gleefully to her two closest friends.
“But Chambourne is not marrying the woman you had chosen to become his future wife?” Lady Cicely Hawthorne said doubtfully.
“Well. No.” Some of Lady Jocelyn’s glee abated. “He did not care for Lady Vanessa at all. But he is to marry. Which, after all, is what we had all decided upon, is it not?” Both ladies turned to the silent Dowager Duchess of Royston for confirmation.
“Yes. Yes,” Edith St. Just acknowledged briskly. “Although I agree with Cicely, in that it would be more of a triumph if Chambourne had decided upon the lady you had chosen for him.”
Lady Jocelyn looked suitably deflated. “Perhaps one of you will be more success in that regard than I.”
“I am not at all sure of any degree of success in regard to Thorne,” Lady Cicely admitted heavily. “Since his first wife died four years ago, he has shown a decided aversion to the very idea of remarrying.”
“And yet he must, for he is in need of an heir, the same as our own two grandsons,” the dowager duchess dismissed briskly.
Lady Jocelyn looked at her curiously. “How go your own efforts in regard to Royston?”
“Nicely, thank you.” Edith St. Just nodded regally.
“You believe he will marry the woman of your choice?” Lady Cicely looked suitably impressed.
“I am sure of it, yes.”
“How confident are you of that?” Lady Jocelyn challenged daringly, still feeling slightly stung in regard to her friends’ reaction to her news of Chambourne’s forthcoming marriage to Lady Sylviana Moorland, the Countess of Ampthill.
“So confident,” the dowager duchess assured haughtily, “that I am willing to write that lady’s name on a piece of paper this very minute and leave it in the safekeeping of your butler, only to be returned and read by all of us when Royston announces his intention of marrying.”
“Is that not rather presumptuous of you, Edith?” Lady Cicely raised skeptical brows.
“Not in the least,” the dowager duchess dismissed briskly. “In fact, call for Edwards and we shall do it now. This very minute.”
Ellie, sitting in her usual place in the window beside Miss Thompson and Mrs. Spencer, could only watch with a sinking heart as Edith St. Just did exactly as she had said she would.
Could only wonder as to the name of the lady—and secretly envy her—written on that innocuous piece of paper, which was taken away by Lady Jocelyn’s butler some minutes later...
As she knew beyond a doubt that it would not be her own name.
Despite the fact she had fallen in love with the arrogantly disdainful Justin St. Just several months ago...
* * * * *
To my very special Dad, Eric Haworth Faulkner, 6/2/1923–6/12/2012. A true and everlasting hero!
The dedication of this book says it all for me. My Dad was a man who was and always will be a true hero to me, in every sense of the word. He was always very proud of my writing, but I am even prouder to have enjoyed the absolute privilege of being his daughter. I hope you will all continue to enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoy writing them!
Chapter One
Late April, 1817—the London home of Lady Cicely Hawthorne
‘I, for one, am disappointed that you do not seem to be any further along with finding a bride for Hawthorne, Cicely,’ Edith St Just, Dowager Duchess of Royston, gave her friend a reproving frown.
‘Perhaps we were all being a trifle ambitious, at the start of the Season, in deciding to acquire suitable wives for our three grandsons?’ Lady Jocelyn Ambrose put in softly.
The three ladies talking now had been aged only eighteen when they had shared a coming-out Season fifty years ago and had become fast friends, a state of affairs that had seen them all through marriage and their children’s marriages. They now had their sights firmly set on the nuptials of their errant grandchildren.
‘Nonsense,’ the dowager duchess dismissed that claim firmly. ‘You had no trouble whatsoever in seeing Chambourne settled—’
‘But not to the bride I had chosen for him,’ Lady Jocelyn pointed out fairly.
‘Nevertheless, he is to marry,’ the dowager duchess dismissed airily. ‘And if we do not see to the marriage of our respective grandsons, then who will? My own daughter-in-law is of absolutely no help whatsoever in that enterprise, since she retired to the country following my son Robert’s demise three years ago. And Royston certainly shows no inclination himself to give up his habit of acquiring a mistress for several weeks before swiftly growing bored with her and moving on to the next.’ She gave loud sniff.
Miss Eleanor Rosewood—Ellie—stepniece and companion to the dowager duchess, glanced across from where she sat quietly by the window with the two companions of Lady Cicely and Lady Jocelyn, knowing that sniff only too well: it conveyed the dowager duchess’s disapproval on every occasion.
But Ellie could not help but feel a certain amount of sympathy towards Lady Cicely’s dilemma; Lord Adam Hawthorne was known by all, including the numerous servants employed on his many estates, for being both cold and haughty, as well as totally unapproachable.
So much so that it must be far from easy for Lady Cicely to even broach the subject of her grandson remarrying, despite his first marriage having only produced a daughter and no heir, let alone finding a woman who was agreeable to becoming the second wife of such an icily sarcastic gentleman.
Oh, it would have its compensations, no doubt; his lordship was a wealthy gentleman—very wealthy indeed—and more handsome than any single gentleman had a right to be, with glossy black hair and eyes of deep impenetrable grey set in a hard and arrogantly aristocratic face, his shoulders and chest muscled, waist tapered, legs long and strong.
Unfortunately, his character was also icy enough to chill the blood in any woman’s veins, hence the reason he was known amongst the ton as simply Thorne!
Hawthorne’s cold nature aside, Ellie was far more interested in the dowager duchess’s efforts to find a bride for her own grandson, Justin St Just, Duke of Royston…
‘Adam is proving most unhelpful, I am afraid.’ Lady Cicely sighed. ‘He has refused each and every one of my invitations for him to dine here with me one evening.’
The dowager duchess raised iron-grey brows. ‘On what basis?’
Lady Cicely grimaced. ‘He claims he is too busy…’
Edith St Just snorted. ‘The man has to eat like other mortals, does he not?’
‘One would presume so, yes…’ Lady Cicely gave another sigh.
‘Well, you must not give up trying, Cicely,’ the dowager duchess advised most strongly. ‘If Hawthorne will not come to you, then you must go to him.’
Lady Cicely looked alarmed. ‘Go to him?’
‘Call upon him at Hawthorne House.’ The dowager duchess urged. ‘And insist that he join you here for dinner that same evening.’
‘I will try, Edith.’ Lady Cicely looked far from convinced of her likely success. ‘But do tell us, how goes your own efforts in regard to Royston’s future bride? Well, I hope?’ She brightened. ‘Let us not forget that a week ago you wrote that lady’s name down on a piece of paper and gave it to Jocelyn’s butler for safekeeping!’
The dowager duchess gave a haughty inclination of her head. ‘And, as you will see, that is the young lady he will marry, when the time comes.’
‘I do so envy you, when I have to deal with Adam’s complete lack of co-operation in that regard…’ Lady Cicely looked totally miserable.
‘Hawthorne will come around, you will see.’ Lady Jocelyn gave her friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
Ellie, easily recalling the forbidding countenance of the man, remained as unconvinced of that as did the poor, obviously beleaguered Lady Cicely…
‘Oh, do let’s talk of other things!’ Lady Jocelyn encouraged brightly. ‘For instance, have either of you heard the latest rumour concerning the Duke of Sheffield’s missing granddaughter?’
‘Oh, do tell!’ Lady Cicely encouraged avidly.
Ellie added her own, silent, urging to Lady Cicely’s; the tale of the missing granddaughter of the recently deceased Duke of Sheffield had been the talk both below and above stairs for most of the Season, the duke having died very suddenly two months ago, to be succeeded by his nephew. The previous duke’s granddaughter and ward had disappeared on the day following his funeral, at the same time as the Sheffield family jewels and several thousand pounds had also gone missing.
‘I try never to listen to idle gossip.’ The dowager duchess gave another of her famous sniffs.
‘Oh, but this is not in the least idle, Edith,’ Lady Jocelyn assured. ‘Miss Matthews has been seen on the Continent, in the company of a gentleman, and living a life of luxury. Further igniting the rumour that she may have had something to do with the Duke’s untimely death, as well as the theft of the Sheffield jewels and money.’
‘I cannot believe that any granddaughter of Jane Matthews would ever behave so reprehensively,’ Edith St Just stated firmly.
‘But the gel’s mother was Spanish, remember.’ Lady Cicely gave her two friends a pointed glance.
‘Hmm, there is that to consider, Edith.’ Lady Jocelyn mused.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ the dowager duchess dismissed briskly. ‘Maria Matthews was the daughter of a grandee and I refuse to believe her daughter guilty of anything unless proven otherwise.’
Which, as Ellie knew only too well, was now the end of that particular subject.
Although she knew that many in society, and below stairs, speculated as to why, if she truly were innocent, Miss Magdelena Matthews had disappeared, along with the Sheffield jewels and money, the day of her grandfather’s funeral…
Chapter Two
One day later—Hawthorne House, May-
fair, London
‘Do not scowl so, Adam, else I will think you are not at all pleased to see me!’
That displeasure glinted in Lord Hawthorne’s narrowed grey eyes and showed in his harshly patrician face, as he heard the rebuke in his grandmother’s quiet tone. Nor was she wrong about his current displeasure being caused by her unexpected arrival; he had neither the time nor the patience for the twittering of Lady Cicely this afternoon. Or any afternoon, come to that! ‘I am only surprised you are visiting me now, Grandmother, when I know you are fully aware this is the time of day that I retire to the nursery in order to spend half an hour with Amanda.’