Read The Sins of Viscount Sutherland Online
Authors: Samantha James
The Sins of Viscount Sutherland (20 page)
W
hen Claire left for Wildewood the following morning, Gray had already departed for London. It was in his mind that when he was able, he would close up the house for good. There were too many broken dreams left behind. Too many hurtful memories.
In London, he shut himself away in his study.
The trays left in the hall by the butler were left untouched.
When he came out, it was to have Dawes fetch another bottle of brandy.
Such was the state of affairs when Dawes admitted the Duke of Braddock.
Clive did not ask admittance into the study. He simply strolled in boldly. “Gray, I saw your carriage—”
Gray reared up from the shadows. He’d been sleeping on a small settee. “What the bloody hell—”
“Yes,” drawled the duke. “My sentiments exactly.” He went to the windows and tugged the drapes wide. Sunshine flooded the room.
Gray scowled. He sat back, shoving his fingers through his hair. His shirt was half in, half out. “What the devil are you doing?” He regarded his friend through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Get the hell out, Clive.”
“I think not,” said the duke.
He took a step toward his friend, only to stop cold.
“Good Lord! Is this stench what I smell like when I’m sotted?” He sniffed in distaste.
“A good deal worse,” snarled Gray.
Clive picked up the cravat that lay unwound on a chair, the jacket thrown to the floor.
Gray glared at him. “For pity’s sake, you are not my maid! If you want to do something for me, get me another bottle!”
A black brow hiked upward as Clive considered his friend. “I think I shall join you, after all.” Clive claimed a glass from the tray and poured while Gray moved to sit behind the desk. Then Clive took the chair across from him.
“Gray,” he said quietly, “what the devil are you doing? What the blazes is going on?”
Silence spun out. For the longest time Gray said nothing. Then: “She’s left me.”
“Claire?”
“Of course it’s Claire! She’s gone back to Wildewood.”
“Whatever for?”
His mouth twisted. “I am doing as my wife wants. She wants me to leave her alone, and so I have.”
“Is that what she said?”
“She didn’t need to.”
“You fool.” Clive didn’t bandy words. “You blind, bloody fool.”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “I am your friend and so I will forget you said that.”
He lifted his glass to his lips, but did not drink. Slowly he lowered it.
“It hurts to love her,” he whispered.
“Then treat her like it. Don’t turn your back on her!”
“I did not turn my back. Is that what you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” Clive was frustrated. “For God’s sake, man, she’s your wife. You should be with her!”
“She accused me of running away. But I’m not! I just—couldn’t stay there. It’s too . . . empty.”
“And so you will wallow in self-pity, the way you have since Lily died.”
“Watch your tongue, Clive!”
“Oh, come. You know it’s true.”
Gray’s lips thinned. “Clair is better off without me.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. She’s better off without you.” The duke gave a nod.
Gray’s eyes glinted but he said nothing.
The duke set aside his glass. “Listen to me. I’m the last man to offer advice when it comes to love—”
“Yes,” Gray bit out. “You are the last man who should offer advice. So don’t.”
“You stupid fool, would you throw away what you have?”
“Clive, didn’t you hear me? She doesn’t want me.”
“And you will not fight for her? For the both of you? For all of you? Will you just give in?”
Gray reached for the bottle. “Another?” he drawled.
The duke’s eyes narrowed. Bluntly, he spoke. “You will lose her, Gray.”
“What do you know of it? You have no experience with marriage. You have no experience with love!”
“Listen to me. I’ve seen the way you look at her, Gray. I know you love her.”
“Yes, well, that’s all well and good, but it doesn’t seem to matter to my wife.”
“Have you told her you love her?”
Gray’s eyes slid away.
Clive sighed. “I thought not.”
As it happened, Clive hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes when the knocker sounded again.
The butler admitted Charlotte Sutherland. “Good day, Dawes,” she greeted him. “Where may I find my son and daughter-in-law?”
Dawes looked almost guilty. “You’ll find my lord in his study.”
Charlotte smelled the odor of stale smoke and liquor even before she entered. “Gray! My word, what are you about? Where are Claire and Alexa?”
“They’re at Wildewood, Mother.”
“Gray!”
“Have you come to counsel me, too? You needn’t bother. I’ve already received a lecture from Clive.”
“Clive!”
Her son smiled grimly. “Yes. That’s what I thought, too.”
“Gray, what is going on?”
“As I told Clive, my wife has left me.”
Charlotte was shocked.
“She’s better off without me, Mother. I deserve this.”
“Rubbish!”
“She thinks I don’t love Lexie.”
“Poppycock!”
Gray was sprawled on the settee. Charlotte sat and took his hands in hers. “Gray . . . it was hardly an ideal situation when the two of you first wed. But Claire loves you. I’ve seen it. You must trust her, my son. You must trust yourself.”
Gray shook his head. He stared straight ahead until his eyes grew dry and began to water.
“You don’t understand.” His voice grew hoarse. “I—haven’t been a very good husband. I haven’t been a very good father.”
“Dearest, we all make mistakes. Don’t let the past get in your way. Don’t let it stand in the way of your feelings for Claire. She will heal you, if only you will let her.”
As it happened, at that moment, Penelope sat in the drawing room at Wildewood. She had come immediately upon receiving a letter from Claire.
Penelope held her old friend’s hands, her eyes swimming. “Claire,” she whispered, “Gray loves you. I know it! You’re not a coward. Give him a chance. Give your marriage a chance.”
“I’m afraid,” Claire whispered. “I want . . . what I’m afraid he can’t give.”
Penelope laid a hand on hers. “I don’t believe that, Claire. Give him a chance. Give your marriage another chance.”
“Go home to your wife,” said Clive.
“Go home to your husband,” said Penelope.
“Go home to your family,” said Charlotte.
In London, Gray pondered.
At Wildewood, Claire pondered.
She wasn’t yet ready to give up.
Neither was Gray. But first—first there was something he knew he must do.
Upon arriving at Brightwood from Wildewood, after Penelope had come to speak to her, Claire was disappointed to find that Gray had gone to London. Lexie was sleeping, sweet little mite, so she put her to bed in the nursery. A nap was in order for her as well. After dinner and a good night’s rest, she decided, she and Lexie would travel to London.
She would go to the ends of the earth for her husband, if that’s what it took.
London seemed a small enough distance to travel after the long, long journey they had endured. She was more determined than ever. They belonged together, she and Gray. She wanted more children. Gray’s children. As many as God willed. She wanted them to share the present, future hopes and dreams.
She didn’t hear when Gray arrived home. Mrs. Henderson told him Claire was napping, so he headed for the stairs.
He started to pass the nursery, but a rustle caught his attention. He glanced inside just as his daughter began to cry.
Her nurse didn’t appear. He stood uncertainly.
Finally, he stepped in, slowly crossing to the cradle.
The baby was squalling in earnest now. Her cries gained pitch and volume.
Gray stood as if paralyzed, staring down at her.
Dammit, where was her nurse? Gray stood helpless above her.
“Hush, little one. Hush.”
She cried harder.
Unable to bear it any longer, he reached out and slid his hands beneath her body.
She stopped screaming the instant he touched her.
Time stood still.
Slowly, as if it hurt—as indeed it did!—he brought the babe toward his chest.
There was a blanket covering half her face. Perhaps that was why she cried. He pushed it aside, away from her nose and mouth.
Everything inside him seemed to freeze.
He remembered holding William—on his chest—rubbing his back during those times he fussed at night . . . holding him while Lily slept.
Not once had he done that with this babe.
She drew his gaze helplessly. Gray allowed himself to look at his daughter—really look at her.
Soft, golden hair covered her scalp, a shade lighter than Claire’s. Her cheeks were rosy and plump.
His chest grew tight. Raw emotion seared his soul. He touched her cheek. Clasping her tight against his chest, he looked into eyes as pure as the skies above.
His
eyes—
A dry, jagged sound broke from his throat.
“Lexie. Oh, God,
Lexie
.”
C
laire watched from the doorway, the back of her hand dammed against her mouth to keep from crying out. Her heart constricted; her eyes were misty and wet. She couldn’t hold back a sob, and Gray looked up.
Wordlessly, he held out a hand.
On shaky legs she crossed to him.
He laid his hand alongside her neck and tipped her face up to his. “I pray that you can forgive me, Claire. I’ve done so many things—”
His voice wasn’t entirely steady. The catch in it cleaved her in two. Her fingers stole up and pressed against his lips. She gave a shake of her head. “I don’t want to think of that. It’s been a long journey, but what matters is now. What matters is the future.”
His gaze roved hers. “I love you, Claire. I love you more with every breath. I need you more with every breath.”
Joy surged through her. She buried her face against his neck, her throat hot. “Oh, Gray, I love you, too,” she cried. “I love you so.”
His thumb slid down her throat. He lowered his head to hers.
A sudden cry reminded them they weren’t alone. Lexie was nuzzling against his chest, her face turned toward him, crinkling as she gave a demanding cry.
Gray’s laugh was rusty. “My pet, I can’t help you. I think you need your mother.”
He passed her to Claire.
Later, when Lexie had been fed and lay sleeping in her cradle, Gray caught her hand and brought it to his lips.
He took a deep breath, his gaze searching hers. “There’s something I need to do,” he said quietly.
Claire lifted her chin. “I know,” she whispered. The muscles in her throat locked tight. She read what was in his mind. In his soul.
A few minutes later she watched from their bedroom window as Gray’s legs carried him toward the hill near the church.
He was going to say his good-byes to Lily and William.
Her eyes grew damp all over again.
He returned a short while later. As he entered their bedchamber, he raised his head.
Her eyes clung to his. Clung . . . and held.
She sensed a peacefulness within him, a peacefulness that had never been there before.
Wordlessly he held out his hand.
This time when Claire raised her face to his, her smile was dazzling.
“Welcome home, my love,” she whispered.
In the nursery, Lexie had just begun to sit upright by herself.
“I can’t believe how quickly she’s growing,“ her mother marveled.
“Soon she’ll be walking to us,” said Gray.
Claire laughed. “I can’t wait!”
Gray’s eyes turned a smoky blue. He captured her in his arms and nuzzled the side of her neck. “What do you say we give her a brother? Or a sister?”
Claire tried to hold back a smile and couldn’t.
Gray’s lips quirked. “I know that look, my love. What is it you’re hiding?”
She splayed her fingers wide on his chest, loving the muscles beneath her fingertips. “So you think we should give our daughter a brother or sister?”
“I do.”
“And what would you say if I told you we already have?”
His lips quirked. “Well,” he chuckled, “I can’t say I’m surprised . . .”
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The Marquess of Ranelaw will never forgive Godfrey Demarest for ruining his sister—now the time has come to repay the villain in the same coin. But one intriguing impediment stands in the way of Nicholas’s vengeance: Miss Antonia Smith, companion to his foe’s daughter. Having herself been deceived and disgraced by a rogue, Antonia vows to protect her charge from the same cruel fate. She recognizes Ranelaw for the shameless blackguard he is, and will devote every ounce of her resolve to thwarting him. But Antonia has always had a fatal weakness for rakes . . .
London
April 1827
B
eneath hooded eyelids, Nicholas Challoner, Marquess of Ranelaw, surveyed the whirling snowstorm of white dresses. A debutantes’ ball was the last place the
ton
expected to encounter a rake of his appalling reputation. A rake of his appalling reputation should know better than to appear at any such respectable gathering.
With his arrival, the chatter faltered away to silence. Ranelaw was accustomed to causing a flutter. Neither curiosity nor disapproval distracted him. As the orchestra scratched a trite écossaise, he scanned the room for his prey.
Ah, yes . . .
His jaded gaze settled upon his mark.
The chit wore white. Of course. The color symbolized purity. It convinced buyers in this particular market that no human hand had sullied the merchandise.
For Miss Cassandra Demarest, he’d ensure that promise was a lie. Nothing much excited him these days, but as he contemplated his victim, satisfaction stirred in his gut.
After the brief, shocked silence, the room exploded into hubbub. Clearly Ranelaw wasn’t the only person convinced he belonged elsewhere.
A fiery, subterranean elsewhere.
The guests were right to be perturbed. He carried mayhem in his soul.
A smile of wicked anticipation teased at his lips as he studied the girl. Until a caricature in black stepped between him and his object of interest, spoiling the view. He frowned, then turned when Viscount Thorpe spoke beside him.
“Sure you’re ready for this, old man? The tabbies are giving you the cold eye and you haven’t asked Miss Demarest to dance yet.”
“A man reaches the age to set up his nursery, Thorpe.” He glanced up again, seeking his quarry. The black barrier hindering his inspection resolved itself into a tall woman with a nondescript face. At least what he saw was nondescript, under tinted spectacles and a lace cap with ugly, dangling lappets.
Thorpe scoffed. “Miss Demarest won’t give you the time of day, my good fellow.”
Ranelaw’s smile turned cynical. “I’m one of the richest men in England and my name goes back to the Conquest.”
Thorpe released an unimpressed snort. “The name you’ve done your best to disgrace. Your courtship won’t be the doddle you imagine, my fine friend. Miss Demarest has the kingdom’s most fearsome chaperone. You might gull the filly, but the redoubtable Miss Smith will send you packing before you get your paws on the girl’s fortune. Before you get so much as a whiff of it, I’ll wager.”
“I’m not interested in Miss Demarest’s fortune,” Ranelaw said with perfect honesty. “And surely you don’t rely on some sparrow of a spinster to circumvent me. I eat chaperones for breakfast.”
He ate courtesans and widows and other men’s wives for lunch and dinner, with much more pleasurable result. He trusted very little in his life, but since his first heady experience of sex, he’d trusted the fleeting delight he found in a woman’s body. He asked nothing more of his lovers, frequently to their chagrin.
Thorpe’s eyes brightened with greed. “A hundred guineas say Miss Smith dismisses you with a flea in your ear when you make your bow.”
“A hundred? A paltry risk for a sure thing. Make it five.”
“Done.”
Lady Wreston wove through the throng to greet the arrivals. Thorpe had made sure his aunt sent Ranelaw a card for the ball. Nonetheless she looked less than overjoyed to see him.
A pity. She’d looked overjoyed to see him yesterday afternoon in her summerhouse. She’d looked even more overjoyed half an hour later with her drawers around her ankles and a hectic flush heightening her famous complexion.
Devil take their delicious hides, but women were a capricious sex.
Ranelaw glanced past his comely hostess to where Cassandra Demarest shifted back into sight. He’d had the girl followed since her arrival in London a week ago and he’d observed her himself from a distance. She was a fetching little piece. Blond. A graceful figure. Ranelaw had never been close enough to read her expression with accuracy. Doubtless it would reveal the same vacuous sweetness that shone from the face of every maiden here.
If one excepted the chaperones.
His attention returned to the woman leaning over Miss Demarest like a sheltering tree over a ewe lamb. As if divining his thoughts, the chaperone stiffened. Her head jerked up and she focused on him.
Even across the room, even through her spectacles, her gaze burned. Severe, assessing, unwavering. Absolutely nothing fetching there, but he found himself unable to look away. Uncannily the surrounding cacophony faded to an expectant hush.
As blatant as a tossed glove, she flung down a challenge.
Then she turned to answer something her charge said, Lady Wreston bustled up in all her plump glory, and the instant of hostile awareness splintered.
Unaccountably disconcerted by that wordless exchange of fire, Ranelaw bowed over his hostess’s hand and asked to meet the Demarest heiress. Millicent, Lady Wreston, couldn’t hide her flash of pique, but she knew what their world demanded. Girls were born to be wedded then bedded. Single men did the honors. Even single men who had sown a continent of wild oats required a legitimate heir.
The polite fiction of his interest in the marriage mart was convenient, although he rarely used respectability to cloak darker intentions. Hypocrisy counted among the rare sins he didn’t commit on a regular basis. Nor did he indulge in willful self-deception. He knew that he’d roast in hell for what he plotted. Cassandra Demarest was an innocent who didn’t deserve the fate he intended. But what he wrought was too important for him to ignore how perfectly the girl fitted his purposes. He couldn’t allow scruples to discourage him.
Scruples and he had long been polite strangers.
He lingered to soothe his hostess’s vanity, all the while watching Miss Demarest’s every move. She’d accepted a dance, and her partner now returned her to the fearsome chaperone. The fearsome chaperone was a long Meg under that loose, rusty black gown at least five seasons out of date.
Then the Demarest chit spoke and the uninteresting Miss Smith smiled.
And became no longer quite so uninteresting.
Ranelaw felt winded, like someone had just punched him in the belly.
Ridiculous, really, to be intrigued. So the crone possessed a lush mouth. Except now that he sauntered closer, he recognized Miss Smith wasn’t a crone after all. Her skin was clear and unlined, with a soft flush of color like the pink of dawn. He found himself wondering about the eyes behind those unbecoming spectacles.
Good God, what was wrong with him?
The haggish chaperone demonstrated signs of desirability. Who the hell cared? He had other fish to fry. Young, unsuspecting fish trapped in a net of vengeance.
Lady Wreston performed introductions. “Lord Ranelaw, may I present Miss Cassandra Demarest, the daughter of Mr. Godfrey Demarest, of Bascombe Hailey in Somerset? This lady is her companion, Miss Smith.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ranelaw watched the chaperone straighten as if scenting danger. She was more awake than her charge, who blushed and dipped into a charming curtsy.
“Delighted, Miss Demarest,” he murmured, bending over her gloved hand with a deference he knew the girl—and her dour companion—would note.
“My lord.” Cassandra Demarest had long, childish eyelashes tipped with a gold darker than the luxuriant curls framing her piquant face. She inspected Ranelaw from under their shadow.
A natural coquette.
He wasn’t surprised. Nor was he surprised to discover a beauty. She was as bright as a daffodil.
His skin prickled under the chaperone’s glare. Curse the crowlike Miss Smith. He needed to concentrate on his goal, not some disapproving and insignificant old maid. Although with every second, he revised his estimate of the chaperone’s age downward.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” A waltz struck up.
“I’d love—”
Miss Smith interrupted. “I’m sorry, Lord Ranelaw, but Miss Demarest’s father strictly forbids the waltz. She has a country dance free after supper.”
The dragon didn’t sound sorry. Her husky voice was surprisingly resolute, considering she rebuked a man so far above her in rank.
“Toni, surely Papa wouldn’t mind under these circumstances,” Miss Demarest said in a winning tone.
Toni—an intriguingly pretty name for such a starched board—arched a blond eyebrow. “You know your father’s rules.”
Miss Demarest was clearly used to wheedling her own way. Ranelaw prepared for a childish outburst, but the girl took denial in good spirit. Apparently he was mistaken in both women. Miss Demarest wasn’t altogether a brainless flibbertigibbet. The black beetle showed unexpected promise.
How interesting . . .
More white-clad butterflies joined the group. Introductions were performed. The chaperone hovered protectively.
Wise chaperone.
Lady Wreston wandered away while Thorpe questioned Miss Demarest about mutual acquaintances in Somerset. Thorpe was related to half the nation and anyone he wasn’t related to was apparently his dear acquaintance. The quizzing could continue into tomorrow. Taking advantage of the diverted attention, Ranelaw shifted nearer to the companion. She was even taller than he’d thought. In bed, she’d fit him perfectly.
What particular Gehenna spawned that thought?
“The chit won’t take if you terrify all the eligible gentlemen, Miss Smith.” Music and conversation restricted his taunting remark to her ears.
She started but didn’t retreat. He found himself respecting her courage if not her sense of self-preservation. She kept her gaze fixed on Miss Demarest, who giggled at one of Thorpe’s quips in a way Ranelaw found remarkably irritating. Would she giggle when he fucked her? He feared it likely.
“My lord, I hope you will permit me to be frank,” Miss Smith said sternly.
He could imagine what the dragon wanted to say. She’d displayed only dismay when Lady Wreston introduced him to Miss Demarest. His reputation had preceded him. He counted on it as a weapon in his arsenal of seduction. Young girls found his wildness deplorably romantic.
Silly poppets.
“And if I said no?” he asked lazily.
“I’d still find myself compelled to speak.”
“So I imagined,” he said with a boredom that was completely feigned. Most people disapproved of him. Few had the backbone to tell him so to his face.
“Pray suffer no insult when I tell you I consider you neither eligible nor a gentleman, my lord. Miss Demarest can do considerably better than the Marquess of Ranelaw, even if your intentions are honorable, which I take leave to doubt.”
He burst into laughter. His first unguarded response since entering this stuffy ballroom.
The woman had nerve. Damn him if she didn’t. His interest, reluctantly aroused, became intent. He’d have the girl. No question. And before he was done, he’d have the chaperone as well.
He’d strip away that ugly gown. He’d unpin that wrenched-back hair—whatever color it was under that horrible cap—until it tumbled around her shoulders. He’d kiss those untouched breasts. He’d teach her to relish a man’s caresses.
He reminded himself that the duenna was a side benefit of the main game. But his instincts didn’t accept that. Right now, his instincts were pitched to hunting sharpness because of a desiccated maiden of uncertain age.
“You don’t mince words, Miss Smith.”
“No, I don’t,” she said calmly. Still, blast her, without moving away. Didn’t she know he was dangerous?
He waved off a footman bearing a tray of orgeat. He despised that sickly sweet swill. Bugger it, he wanted a real drink. And he wanted to get his head screwed on right. For God’s sake, he was accounted a connoisseur of the frail sex. He refused to let a prune-faced virgin divert him from his quest.
A prune-faced virgin who stood so close, he caught teasing hints of her scent. Something wholesome and clean. Something indicating innocence.
Of course it did.
“I make a difficult enemy,” he said in a low voice.
She shrugged, still without looking at him. “Set your sights on another heiress, Lord Ranelaw.”
“And that’s a commandment from my lady disdain?”
At last she stared directly at him. The tinted glasses obscured her eyes, but he couldn’t mistake her jaw’s stubborn line. “You can’t possibly consider this a challenge. A country miss and a harridan of a chaperone?”
He felt an unaccustomed urge to laugh again. He had the oddest conviction that she knew him better than anyone else here. “Why not?”
The primming of her mouth only drew his attention to its pink fullness. A spinster companion had no right to such kissable lips.
Now he’d actually met her, the prospect of bedding Cassandra Demarest flooded him with ennui. Whereas the idea of shutting Miss Smith’s delectable but scolding mouth with passionate kisses, then thrusting hard between her spindly thighs made him vibrate with anticipation. Vinegar became his beverage of choice. He must have a maggot in his brain. He rarely found troublesome women appealing. Miss Smith had
troublesome
written all over her scrawny form.
Years of practice helped him conceal these unsettling reactions. Instead he tilted a knowing eyebrow and spoke in an indolent drawl that would irritate her to her undoubtedly thick and scratchy undergarments. “You know, for a woman little above a servant, you have a damned impudent manner.”
Again she didn’t back down. Her drawl almost matched his for self-confidence. Who
was
this woman? “Only impudent? How disappointing. When I strove for insolent, my lord.”
