"Elizabeth…" he breathed, raking a hand through his hair. "Damn that woman and her venomous tongue."
"Unfortunately, shortly after she arrived in London, Laura was privy to a rather malicious conversation detailing her various shortcomings."
"Shortcomings?" Sterling surged to his feet. "She doesn't have any bloody shortcomings! She's lovely and generous and loyal and funny and far too clever for my good. Why, any man would be lucky to have her for a wife!"
Diana arched one sleek eyebrow.
Sterling sank back down in the chair, avoiding her eyes. He supposed Elizabeth wasn't solely to blame for Laura's misconception. After all, he was the one guilty of seeking out her bed in secret each night, treating her more like a mistress than a wife.
He tapped his pen against the leather blotter. "How much time do you need to plan a ball?"
"With Addison's help, a week and a half," Diana said firmly, as if she'd already anticipated his question.
"Then you'd best get started." As she turned toward the door, he added, "Oh, and do make sure that Lady Hewitt receives an invitation."
Diana gave him a feline smile. "With pleasure."
Sterling was reviewing Diana's meticulously prepared guest list on the morning of the ball when Addison poked his head into the study, his nostrils pinched as if he'd been subjected to an unpleasant odor. "There's a man to see you, sir. A Mr. Theophilus Watkins."
The manservant had proven himself to be an impeccable judge of character over the years. It was one of the reasons Sterling had trusted him to look after Diana all the years he was away.
"Very well," Sterling said warily. "Send him in."
Addison ushered in a well-dressed man, but instead of leaving the two of them alone, as was his usual custom, he moved to stand at rigid attention behind Sterling's right shoulder.
The stranger offered Sterling a dapper bow. "Theophilus Watkins, Your Grace, at your humble service."
Despite his words, there was nothing humble about the man's demeanor or his hungry smile. Sterling's eyes were drawn to the marble-headed walking cane in the man's gloved hands. He handled it more like a weapon than a fashion accessory.
"How may I be of service to you, Mr. Watkins?"
Watkins settled himself into a chair without being asked. "You may not be aware of it, Your Grace, but I've already been of service to you. It was my fine detective work that got you rescued from those greedy ruffians who abducted you. If not for me, you might still be in their clutches."
Sterling stared at him for a long moment without blinking. If not for this man, he might be happily wed to a woman he adored. He might be living at Arden Manor in blissful ignorance of his own identity with no boring ledgers to keep and no properties to review. He might be happy.
Suddenly, Sterling was as enraged as he'd been since finding out Laura had deceived him. He wanted to slam this man against the wall, wanted to press his forearm to the wretch's throat and watch his smug face turn purple.
He cleared his own throat and shuffled some papers from one pile to another. "My cousin left me with the impression that you'd already been compensated for your efforts."
"Oh, I was. And quite fairly, I assure you. But I thought you might want to throw in a little something extra for my trouble." He caressed the marble head of his cane. "Since it was your hide that I saved."
Sterling tapped his lips thoughtfully. "You know—I believe I might have just the thing."
He crooked a finger at Addison. Addison leaned down and Sterling whispered something in his ear that made the manservant's eyes widen. As he dutifully marched from the room, Watkins settled back in the chair, propping his cane against its arm and grinning like a crocodile. He was obviously expecting Sterling to provide him with a nice fat purse.
The two men exchanged small talk about the weather until Sterling heard footsteps approaching the study.
He leaned forward, smiling pleasantly. "I'm only too aware of your fine detective work, Mr. Watkins. You were the one who beat my wife's devoted manservant to a bloody pulp, weren't you? Or did you hire some bloodthirsty thug to do your dirty work for you?"
Watkins's smile faded. Addison swept open the door and Dower came strolling in.
"Dower, Mr. Watkins here was just leaving," Sterling said briskly. "I was wondering if I could presume upon you to escort him out."
Dower shoved up his shirtsleeves, revealing the thick ropes of muscle that corded his upper arms. "It'd be me pleasure, m'lord."
"You might want to take him out the back way," Sterling instructed. "There's no need to upset the ladies."
Dower snapped off a smart salute, then hauled a sputtering Watkins out of his chair without giving him time to retrieve his cane.
"Damn you, Devonbrooke! You've no right to treat me this way! I know all about your kind. You think you're so high and mighty, but I've heard about that wife o' yours, I have," he snarled, his crumbling diction betraying his East End roots. "You're probably not the first bloke she tricked into her bed, just the only one stupid enough to marry the little slut."
Before he even knew he was going to do it, Sterling had vaulted over the desk and slammed his fist into Watkins's face. The man slumped in Dower's arms, out cold.
"Aw, 'ell," Dower whined. "Why'd you 'ave to go and spoil all me fun?"
"Sorry." Sterling rubbed his raw knuckles, not feeling the least bit repentant. He retrieved Watkins's cane, snapped it in two over his knee, and thrust the pieces down the front of the man's coat. "Just leave him in the alley with the rest of the garbage, won't you?"
"Aye, guv'nor." Dower began to drag Watkins toward the door, making no effort to support his bobbing head, not even when it rammed into the doorframe. "Although that's too kind a fate for the likes of 'im."
"I couldn't agree more," Sterling murmured.
Haunted by the man's cruel words, he wondered if it wouldn't be too kind a fate for him as well.
* * *
Chapter 25
« ^ »
And I wish those dreams
could go on forever…
"Lady Hewitt was right," Laura wailed. "You can polish me all you like, but I'll never be anything more than a lump of coal!"
As she turned away from the mirror and collapsed across Diana's bed, flinging one arm dramatically over her brow, Diana and her abigail exchanged an exasperated look.
"Don't be silly, Laura," Diana snapped. "You're simply suffering from a case of nerves. Why, you're going to be the loveliest woman at the ball."
Laura sat up. "Why? Did you forget to invite anyone else?"
Even Diana had to admit that no one would have mistaken the young duchess for a diamond of the first water at that moment. She wore a ratty old dressing gown stained with numerous splotches of tea. Her hair was wrapped in curling papers that stuck out from her head at all angles and her face was smeared with a thick layer of Gowland's Lotion, the miracle cream that was guaranteed to bleach away even the most disfiguring of freckles.
Diana gently wiped a smudge of the stuff from the tip of Laura's nose. "You may look a fright now, but by the time Celeste here is through with you, you'll be the toast of London."
Laura's countenance brightened. "Toast? I'm so ravenous I could eat a whole loaf of bread. Could we ring for Cookie to bring up some toast?"
"Perhaps later," Diana promised. "But right now we need to concentrate on getting you dressed."
"Why? So your cousin can parade me in front of all of London? So all the lords and ladies can sneer down their noses at the penniless country chit who tricked him into marriage? I knew he was determined to have his revenge on me, but even for him, this is too diabolical. I should have married Wesley Trumble or Tom Dillmore. They might have been hairy and smelly, but they weren't mean." She flopped back down on the bed. "Your cousin is a devil. I hate him!"
"Of course you do," Diana crooned, frantically gesturing to Celeste to fetch the duchess's silk stockings while she was distracted.
Before the
maid could begin to roll them over Laura's ankles, she sat up again, her sullen scowl replaced by an expression of abject misery. "I shouldn't blame him, you know. God wouldn't be punishing me if I hadn't been so wicked. I was the one who mistook my will for His, the one who coveted, the one who lied, the one who…"
That somber soliloquy of Laura's sins might have gone on for days had Lottie not come barging into the bedchamber, carrying a plate laden with sweets.
It hadn't taken Laura's sister long to figure out that the north wing was one of the best-kept secrets of Devonbrooke Hall. Diana had created a cozy haven there for herself, a world away from the chilly marble and oppressive mahogany of the rest of the hall. The floral-chintz-draped walls and fitted carpeting provided the perfect backdrop for the fluffy white cat who reclined on an overstuffed ottoman in front of the hearth like a sultan's most cherished wife.
As was her custom, Lottie was already talking when she entered. "Oh, Laura, you should see all the treats Cookie has prepared for tonight! There are sweetmeats and gingerbread and ices and a syllabub decorated with sugared violets and the most enchanting little heart-shaped French cakes soaked in rum. She gave me some of each to taste and Sterling said that even though I was too young to dance, I could stay up all night if I was so inclined."
Laura's gaze was locked on Lottie's plate. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. "I'm starving. Give me some of that."
Lottie picked an unfortunate moment to turn truculent. "No, it's mine!" She hugged the plate close to her breast. "Go get your own."
Laura rose from the bed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Give it to me now, you greedy little brat, or I'll smack you, I will."
Lottie's mouth fell open. "You most certainly will not! You've never smacked me. Not even when I needed it."
"Well, there's always a first time, isn't there?" Laura snatched the plate out of her grasp.
Lottie's plump lower lip began to quiver. "You're a mean old duchess, you are, and I'm going to tell Cookie!" She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.
"Celeste, why don't you go see if the laundress is done pressing Her Grace's gown?" Diana suggested softly, watching in horrified fascination as Laura began to cram pastries into her mouth, one right after the other.
As the maid obeyed, Diana circled Laura, unable to look away.
"Oh, Lottie was right!" Laura exclaimed, rolling her eyes in rapture. "These French cakes are exquisite." She polished off the last of them, then licked the crumbs from her lips, grimacing when she got a bit of the lotion as well.
"Good Lord." Diana sank down on the ottoman, nearly crushing a startled Snowball. "You're with child, aren't you?"
As the disgruntled cat darted under the bed, Laura slowly sank back down on it, her own bottom lip beginning to tremble.
"How long have you known?" Diana asked gently.
A single tear spilled from Laura's eye, tracing a crooked path through the lotion. "I've suspected for nearly a week now, but I wasn't sure until this morning when I tossed up my breakfast in my washbasin and bit poor Addison's head off for no reason at all. I thought the dear man was going to burst into tears."
"This couldn't have come as a complete shock to you, could it? Especially given my cousin's nightly visits to your bedchamber."
Laura's eyes widened. "How did you know?"
"This may be a large house, but I'm not blind. Or deaf."
The lotion couldn't stop Laura's ears from blushing a fiery pink. "Well, you needn't avail yourself of any romantic notions. He was just doing his duty."
"And with unflagging enthusiasm, I might add," Diana said dryly. "Have you told him?"
Laura shook her head. "Why should I? Once I've given him his precious heir, he'll just shuffle me off to one of his properties, preferably in Wales or Scotland, and forget I ever existed."
"That might be more difficult for him than you realize."
Laura watched warily as Diana sank down on the bed next to her.
"When my cousin first came to Devonbrooke Hall, my father delivered on everything he had promised. Sterling might have been deprived of affection, but he lacked for no luxury." Even now, Diana could still feel the old sting of envy. "There were toys of every imaginable sort, a fat Shetland pony, the finest of tutors. Yet every night, I'd find him sitting in the window seat of the nursery, gazing out into the darkness. Although he would never admit it, he was waiting for his mother. Somewhere in some forgotten corner of his heart, he still believed she might come for him."
Laura drew in a ragged breath. "When did he stop believing?"
"Ah, but there's the rub. I'm not so sure he ever did." Diana took Laura's hand in hers. "You have to be stronger than she was, Laura. You can't afford to give him up without a fight."
"But what if I lose?" Laura whispered.
Diana gave Laura's hand a fierce squeeze. "Then you'll simply have to sweep up the pieces of your broken heart and go on, just as I have."
As the duchess of Devonbrooke appeared at the top of the marble staircase that spilled down from the gallery, a feverish murmur swept through the ballroom.
The cream of London's aristocracy had gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers to witness her debut into their exalted society. Upon receiving their invitations, many of them had rushed back from their country houses, crowding the narrow lanes with their barouches and town coaches. There had been no grand entertainments at the hall since the last duchess had died, and they were nearly as eager for a look at the fabled house as they were for a glimpse of the Devil of Devonbrooke's notorious young bride.
As it turned out, they were not to be disappointed by either.
The ballroom was vast enough to spare them the heat and crush of most such gatherings. The floor gleamed beneath their feet, the delicate scent of waxed cedar mingling with the perfumes of the ladies. Wall lights fashioned from pink wax complemented the mellow glow of the chandeliers.
But they both paled before the radiance of the woman standing at the top of the stairs.
The rich brown velvet of her hair had been swept atop her head in a gentle swirl, anchored by a pearl-studded coronet. A handful of curls had been allowed to escape, accenting her luminous eyes and arched sable brows. Freckles dusted her cheeks like shimmering flecks of gold. By the following evening, both matron and belle would be painstakingly trying to duplicate the effect by powdering their skin with gilt.
Her slender figure was well served by a high-waisted gown of white sarcenet draped with a gauze overskirt of the iciest teal. Both her puffed sleeves and her hem were edged with alternating ribbons of satin and lace. Her pale throat was unadorned except for a slim silver chain that disappeared into the low-cut bodice of her gown and led to much speculation as to what fantastically extravagant gem she might be hiding.
Sterling was standing near one of the French windows, sipping champagne and conversing with Thane, when the low-pitched murmur began to swell.
He turned to find his wife standing on the stairs.
The first time he laid eyes on Laura Fairleigh, Sterling had decided she was no beauty. He had been wrong. Her grace went far beyond mere prettiness. The hint of defiance in her unflinching gaze and uptilted chin only made her that much more beguiling to him.
Thane nudged him. "You all right, Dev? You look as if someone just punched you in the chest."
"It's not my chest I'm worried about." Handing Thane his champagne flute, Sterling began to wend his way through the crowd.
Although there was really no need, since Laura had already captured the attention of every eye in the ballroom, Addison dutifully stepped forward to announce her. "Her Grace, the duchess of Devonbrooke."
As Laura began to descend the stairs beneath the assessing eyes of society's finest, she had only one thought—she was thankful that trains had gone out of vogue so she didn't have to worry about tripping over hers and rolling the rest of the way down the steps.
Her feet didn't falter until she saw her husband standing at the bot
tom of the stairs, waiting for her. His honey gold hair cut a dazzling contrast to his black tailcoat and the starched white frills of his shirt. Although his eyes were somber, that elusive dimple of his flirted with his cheek.
"It's traditional for the ball to be opened by the guest of honor," he murmured, extending a hand.
Slipping her gloved hand into his, Laura allowed him to lead her to the center of the floor. Recognizing their cue, the musicians launched into a tinkling minuet.
Laura had never considered the minuet to be a particularly passionate dance, but each time she and Sterling came face-to-face and lightly clasped hands, the look in his eye made her heart beat faster. They danced as they should have at their own wedding breakfast, their measured motions no less tender or erotic than the dance they'd done in her bed only last night. By the time the last delicate note sounded, Laura was as breathless as if they'd been dancing a reel.
The hearty applause had yet to die out when an auburn-haired beauty whose ample breasts were threatening to spill from her low-cut bodice came rushing over. "Your Grace," she purred, sinking into a deep curtsy that only increased that danger.
"Why, Lady Hewitt, isn't it? I trust your husband is well." Sterling scanned the crowd, most of whom were watching their exchange with rapt interest. The guests nearest them were in danger of straining their necks in their transparent attempts to eavesdrop. "Did he accompany you tonight?"
"I'm afraid my Bertie is laid up with a rather nasty case of the gout." She made a pretty moue. "I suppose that's one of the hazards of marrying a man much older than oneself. I'm frequently left to look after my own needs."
"Such a pity. I was rather looking forward to making his acquaintance. Have you met my wife?"
Lady Hewitt spared Laura a cool nod. "How do you do, Your Grace. I've heard much about you. All of London is a-twitter with talk of your whirlwind courtship.'" She imbued the words with as much malice as she dared.