2Rakehell (10 page)

Alone. Abandoned.

Unwanted and unloved.

She whimpered as he drew away. His hand caught her chin and
he gently shook her back to her senses.

“I need you to come with me,” he told her, ripping her out
of her state of confusion as he reached behind her neck to release the catch on
her collar.

* * * * *

The physician’s office was filled with books, all manner of
interesting models and even something macabre floating in a jar on a shelf but
Primrose couldn’t take her eyes off Adam.

He sat in the physician’s office, long legs crossed
casually, his black topper perched in his lap, his fingers drumming impatiently
on the armrest of the camel leather chair. His dark hair seemed to wrestle the
pomade his valet had combed into it. Errant waves curled at the top of his
starched, white collar. His frock coat fit his broad shoulders perfectly.
Primrose leaned across the narrow expanse between their chairs and brushed a
bit of lint away with her gloved fingers.

A dimple deepened on the side of his face when he glanced at
her in thanks.

Primrose’s stomach did a flip when their eyes connected. She
half wondered if Adam hadn’t brought her to Dr. Gallagher’s office to confront
him about conspiring with Thorley. She cleared her throat. “Exactly what do you
hope to discover?”

His forehead furrowed. “I don’t know. But something seems
amiss with…the earl.”

Relief washed through her. She wanted to tell him if he’d
seen the earl’s illness progress from the beginning he would understand.

Gallagher rushed into the office. Adam rose to his feet and
Gallagher inclined his head. “Lord Black,” he greeted. “I would have been more
than happy to pay you a call at Scarborough Hall.” His gaze swiveled to
Primrose and he nodded again. “Lady Black.”

Guilt nibbled at her. She’d seen Gallagher coming and going
from Scarborough Hall on nearly a daily basis but she hadn’t been in the same
room with the man and her husband.

“Please take your seat,” he said to Adam as he skirted his
desk and sat.

Adam gracefully sank back into his chair. “I hope that our
conversation will remain private, Dr. Gallagher.”

The doctor pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
“But of course, my lord.”

“What is the nature of cure you’ve prescribed the earl?”
Adam’s question was pointed. Almost accusing.

Gallagher raked his hand over the three strands of hair
still clinging to the top of his round head. He sat forward, obviously rattled
by Adam’s question. “Mostly laudanum for his spells. A blood purifier. Some
herbal remedies. Very standard procedure in cases such as these.” He seemed
straightforward.

“And what is the earl’s diagnosis may I ask?”

“Senile decay. Plain and simple. With episodes of palsy.”
Gallagher sat back and folded his hands over his paunch. “Granted the earl is
younger than most with such a diagnosis but unfortunately I come to no other
medical conclusion. It saddens me to be so frank with you, my lord, but there’s
no sense avoiding the issue at hand. If you are here to know how much longer
before you inherit the title I cannot rightly say. Weeks. A month or two at the
most.”

Primrose’s heart broke for her husband. In spite of their
father-and-son disagreements she knew it weighed on Adam to watch his father
waste away. She reached to cover his hand with hers but he snatched his away.

A muscle in his jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed. He shot to
his feet. “I have nothing but concern for the earl. I know you and he have a
long and conspiratorial relationship.” He glanced at Primrose and she cringed.
“However I cannot accept this diagnosis. Nor can I condone his treatment. That
waif hired to care for him is inept and in my opinion lazy. I demand you send
me a more experienced nurse immediately. I’d also like the apothecary’s name so
that I might review the efficacy of the earl’s treatment.”

Gallagher rubbed his face. “Mr. Patrick Wright is the
apothecary. He is the best in his field.” He clambered to his feet. “My lord, I
assure you we are doing our utmost in Lord Thorley’s case.”

“With laudanum? I know for an absolute fact opiates are not
cures for anything.”

Gallagher shook his head. “The best we can hope for is to
make him comfortable in his last days. I never meant to insinuate that you’d
only returned to Scarborough Hall in order to claim the title.”

“Come,” Adam barked at Primrose.

Still stunned, she blinked. He’d used the same tone and word
earlier but with an entirely different connotation. When they were together he
was every inch as forceful but here his command was far different. She gained
her feet and glanced apologetically at Gallagher before she moved toward the
exit.

Adam whirled and pulled open the door for her. It closed
with a resounding boom behind them, garnering the attention of several patients
in the waiting area.

Adam didn’t speak until they were back inside the coach. “I
want to know everything. When did he first start to show symptoms? And who has
access to his medicines other than that insipid nurse?”

* * * * *

After Adam ordered for them he handed the menus back to the
waiter. The world around him blurred as he leaned back in his chair and watched
Primrose sip her wine. Had he ever realized what a true beauty she was? Clad in
a gown of blush-colored satin that brought out the lovely hue of her cheeks,
she looked every bit the prim and proper wife—though he knew she was so much
more. Her dainty high lace collar slenderized her graceful neck. A jaunty hat
perched atop her piled-high golden coiffure and the way the feather bobbed when
she moved her head made him smile.

It’d been too long since Adam had been in the company of
well-bred ladies wearing clothes. He smiled at the thought.

Primrose leaned slightly forward. “They’re all staring.”

Adam’s gaze darted around the small restaurant, recognizing
several faces from past season’s parties, most of them old hens who nattered on
about anybody and everything. As soon as he made eye contact with them they
hurriedly averted their gazes and turned back to their cups of tea and petit
fours.

For the first time in his life he completely realized
Primrose’s position in society. Though she was the wife of the man who would
inherit an earldom she was still an American, an outsider.

Guilt flared within him that he’d thrown her to the mercy of
these societal cutthroats. He marveled at the fact she’d waited for him all
that time. How would he ever make amends?

He smiled. “Let them stare. They’re all pea-green with envy
over your beauty.”

Primrose’s eyes widened, making her look delectably
innocent. Her cheeks colored. “Don’t tease me,” she joked.

“Oh I’m not teasing, darling. You are stunning.” His voice
dropped to a whisper. “Even more so when you are wearing your collar.”

Her lips parted and she sucked in a quick breath. His effect
on her tickled him. He’d flirted with scores of women, dropping compliments
meant to make their clothing melt away but with Primrose his praise was
sincere. She was different. She was…well…his.

The knowledge was a revelation.

He glanced around as if others might see it written on his
face. He cared for her. He cared what happened to her.

He’d thought any sort of real affection had been driven from
him when he’d heard his mother’s deathbed confession.

Panic and something else he couldn’t define fluttered in his
stomach, making him wish he’d ordered something stronger than a table wine. He
felt control slipping through his fingers and he grappled to seize it firmly
once more. “I’m taking you to the club soon.”

Her glass stopped midway to her mouth. She ceased to blink.
“The…club? When?”

Ah there it was.

He inhaled deeply as control clicked like the workings of a
precision clock. His world shifted blissfully back into place. “Soon.” Maybe it
would do him some good to see her under the lash of another.

Perhaps witnessing her submission would clarify the riotous
emotions churning in his gut.

“I-I’m not ready,” she blurted. But in contradiction to her
declaration her pupils enlarged. She moistened her lips with the tip of her
tongue.

Oh she was ready, all right. She’d been ready.

He just hadn’t been keen on introducing her to that part of
his world yet. Something about taking her there seemed irrevocable. It would
change them both, connect them in a way that shook him in his boots.

He’d always assumed he’d inherit the title and estates once
the earl died and live out his guilt-ridden life at Scarborough Hall. But suddenly
the thought of keeping secrets from Primrose, of subjecting her to further
scrutiny by the highly judgmental members of the ton had become unthinkable to
him.

A deep need to be all the things he knew inside he wasn’t
welled like a rogue wave, choking him. He snatched his napkin off his lap and
coughed into it. “Excuse me,” he muttered.

He’d never cared what anyone thought of him until scant
moments ago when he’d gazed across the table into his wife’s blue eyes and saw
a future unfolding between them.

He felt sick. He was no better than his mother whose memory
he’d cursed on a daily basis since she’d told him who he was—who he wasn’t.

Without warning the blurry cause of five years of anger
became crystal clear. It had nothing to do with Primrose or even Thorley for
that matter. No. Adam grieved for the man he thought he was, the one he wanted
to be—the one Primrose needed him to be.

The world seemed to close in on him all at once. His vision
blackened at the edges and he struggled to remain conscious. He gripped the
edge of the table.

“Adam? Are you unwell?” Concern permeated her words. “Adam?”

He set his wine on the table. His gaze darted around the
room.
Look at them all. They think I’m one of them. They have no idea…

“Adam?”

He swallowed thickly.
She thinks you’re one of them.
He
took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I’m…I’m not the rightful heir,
Primrose.” He’d uttered the words before he could stop himself.

There goes my control again.

Her pink lips pursed. Her forehead crinkled with concern. “I
don’t understand. What are you saying?”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them.
He leaned forward so that no one else would hear. This was hardly the time for
his confession but he could contain it no longer. His heart hammered so hard he
thought his chest might burst. “The earl…the earl is not my father.”

Primrose shook her head. “You can’t mean that.”

But even as she protested, he saw the cogs in her brain
spinning as past events clicked into place. Stunned realization hardened her
eyes.

He wanted to kick himself. Hard. “I cannot hope for your
forgiveness. I don’t ask for it.”

She stared, obviously in shock. “How…who…”

“Some artist or some such sired me. My accursed mother
admitted it to me on her deathbed. The title should rightfully belong to
Hamish.”

He expected her to cry, at least to storm out. She didn’t.
Such compassion filled her eyes that it compelled him to look away.

“This explains everything,” she said, her voice oddly devoid
of emotion—of accusation.

Their gazes met and held.

She continued. “It explains why you had to be tricked into
marrying me. Why you left Scarborough Hall. Why you entombed yourself in those
sordid drug dens. Oh Adam, if only I’d known.”

“You could have married Benedict and been happy.”

She blurted a sardonic laugh that attracted the attention of
several patrons nearby. “Benedict? Adam, please,” she continued, her voice
barely above a whisper now. “Do you really believe I would have ever been happy
with him? After everything that’s passed between you and me?” She gave him a
self-deprecating smile. “How can you be so blind?”

This was not the reaction he’d anticipated. It most
certainly was not the response he deserved. Confusion rattled him.

“It doesn’t change anything of course,” he explained. “Since
Thorley accepted me as his own I cannot by law relinquish the earldom when it
is passed to me. But…Primrose…it’s not fair to you. If you’d rather we didn’t
try to have a child I understand.”

“Marrying for a title was my parents’ aspiration. Not mine.”
She dropped her gaze and then lifted it once more, looking up at him bashfully
from under lowered lashes. “I married for…for a different reason.”

His mouth refused to work. His pulse rioted and he ceased to
breathe.

She cleared her throat. “Granted my feelings weren’t as…intense…as
they are now—” she started before he interrupted.

He couldn’t comprehend this. He wasn’t ready to hear a
declaration of affection from her. Given that was what she was about to
proclaim. Was the woman mad? And yet a tendril of hope snaked through him.
“What are you trying to say?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. An odd
mixture of fear and happiness lurked in her eyes. “It wouldn’t matter to me if
you were a cobbler or a blacksmith.” She blinked, obviously near tears but even
Adam could tell her sentiment stemmed from something other than sadness.

For most of his adult life he’d chased the dragon to avoid
experiencing such maddening, conflicting lunacy. Feelings were for other
people. For poets and artists. Not him.

Oh why wouldn’t the bloody floor just open up and swallow
him whole?

Then reality crashed down around him. She didn’t have
feelings for him. Most likely she couldn’t sort out her emotions either. After
all, he’d been her first lover. It was the sex that had her all agog and gazing
at him with those shining eyes. Nothing more.

His chest tightened and he grasped for control. He waved his
hand at her in nonchalant dismissal. “Don’t be droll. This is serious. I have
done a good many horrid things in my life but I’m not ready to be an…an earl,
especially when the title should rightfully go to my cousin.”