Chapter Twelve

ROM THE CARRIAGE window, Anne watched the duke jump down from the steps and turn toward his sister as the tall, dark-haired beauty let out a squeal of delight. His face softened, and his arms extended toward the happy sound. Anne’s heart gave a tremendous lurch in her chest. She had never seen him look so surprised or so deeply touched. In that moment, he was more darkly handsome than ever.

This was a disaster. She was a fallen woman—she should not be anywhere near his sister, who would probably be mortified to know she stood not six feet from her brother’s ladybird. Shame and embarrassment rolled over her. Anne desperately tried to smooth her skirts and straighten her crumpled bodice. She had told the duke she must stay inside the carriage. It would be highly inappropriate for her to come out, even if she only lurked in the background and was not introduced to his sister. She would sit in the carriage until it drove around the house, then she’d slip in the back door.

She would gather her things. And she would have to go.

“Devon, thank heaven! Thank heaven you are alive and you are home safe!”

His sister’s cry made Anne twist her head toward the window again. She saw dark-blue silk flap as the duke’s sister launched herself fiercely into him. Quite a bit shorter than he, the young woman collided hard against his chest. The duke’s arms shot around her and he cradled her close. His sister embraced him tightly, then gave a squeak and moved back, placing her gloved hand on her stomach.

Anne felt her eyes grow huge. His sister’s hand cupped the pronounced curve, almost completely hidden by the voluminous folds of her pelisse. She was enceinte. Very enceinte.

Even from where she sat, Anne could see the sparkle of tears on his sister’s blushing ivory cheek. Then a delicate hand in a white satin glove lifted, and the duke’s sister smacked him playfully on his chest. “Why did you stay away, you awful brother?”

Guilt nipped at Anne’s heart. If she had tried harder to heal him, perhaps he would have accepted the truth—he was not mad, he had no need to hide, and he should go home to his family.

Or was he hiding for a reason other than war and nightmares? Could he have refused to go because he hadn’t recovered from Lady Rosalind’s death and he didn’t want to court a bride?

She knew she must turn away and give them privacy when his sister cried, “You appear to be exactly the same and just as healthy and hale as your mysterious friend promised us you were.”

Mysterious friend? Anne’s stomach dipped. Had her letter been the thing that lured his sister to come here? Surely it wouldn’t have done that. She’d written it to reassure his family.

“Mysterious friend?” the duke asked slowly. “Who are you talking about?”

“The author of that letter, of course.” His sister smiled up at him. Then she wiped tears with the back of her glove. “Goodness, you haven’t even asked how I am, Devon!”

“Wait—Ashton. It must have been Ashton.” He kissed the top of his sister’s rose-festooned bonnet. He tipped his head back, and pain and regret flashed over his handsome features. “Of course I want to know how you are. But the truth is … I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to guess exactly which of my sisters you are. I was certain I could do it by the sound of your voice. I thought I wouldn’t need sight to recognize you. But I do.”

“You daft thing, you should have asked! It’s Caroline, of course. The enormous bulge of my belly should have given it away.” His sister took his hand. Smiling, she placed it over her stomach. Anne’s eyes watered as she saw the duke’s expression change to one of amazement, then undeniable pride and admiration. But his next words to his sister truly broke her heart.

“You are enormous, Caro. Which means you should not have been traveling to see me.”

Enormous. It was the sort of teasing word a brother would bestow on a sister. Anne never had brothers and sisters, although she had learned about how dastardly a brother’s teasing could be from girls in the village near Longsworth. But the sharp lines bracketing the duke’s mouth revealed how worried he was.

“Well, I am tired of ‘lying in.’ I’ve had enough of lying on a chaise longue, waiting for a baby who seems determined never to arrive.”

“You must be exhausted,” he said. “You should sit down.”

“I’ve been sitting for hours. Though that carriage jiggled all over on the road, and I had to stop at every coaching inn to use the necessary. You have no idea what a baby does to you—”

“I don’t think I want to find out, Caro.”

“Well, you can’t find out. Not personally, I mean. Stop looking so terrified. You’ve been through war—you can’t be afraid of me simply because I’m enceinte.”

His brow quirked. “I’m not afraid. Let’s get you to a seat that isn’t moving. Are you hungry?”

Anne couldn’t help but smile as the duke hurried through a list of questions. Did she want tea? Or biscuits? Sherry? Or perhaps some pheasant and potatoes and pie? He looked so worried for his sister, Anne thought her heart would swell to bursting just watching the two of them.

Then Caroline frowned. She touched his disheveled cravat. “I’ve never seen you look quite so … rumpled, Devon.”

Heat flared again in Anne’s cheeks, but the duke answered softly, “I can’t see what I look like anymore, so I don’t seem to care.”

“You need a woman’s touch,” his sister declared.

“True,” he replied. “There is nothing like a woman’s touch to set a man to rights.” At that moment, the coachman called down to ask if he should take the carriage away, and the duke shouted in answer, “Take it to the stables.”

Anne knew what this meant. It was time for her to leave.

The carriage lurched into motion. She allowed herself one last look at the duke. At the clop of hooves and jingle of the traces, he jerked up his head. He followed the sound and his eyes met hers as she gazed through the window. He couldn’t see her, but he didn’t turn away.

Anne sank back so his sister would not see her. But faintly, obscured by the rattle of the wheels, his sister’s lovely, rich voice tumbled in through the open window. “That letter I spoke to you about. It wasn’t written by the Earl of Ashton, you know.”

Oh, no. The carriage slowed. The horses were turning so the duke’s large black carriage could move past his sister’s jauntier white one. With the softer rumble of the wheels, Anne could hear every word. And she had to.

“Apparently it was written to Mama by a lady friend of yours. Unsigned, but we were certain it was a woman’s handwriting. Anyway, Ashton’s letters are usually a scrawl. I was terribly curious to find out who this lady is. Devon, have you fallen in love?”

Anne peeped out the window in time to see the duke put his hand to his temple, as though he had just felt a sharp pain. Her head throbbed, too, as she waited for the disaster to crash down upon her.

“Oh!” His sister clapped her hand to her mouth. Her violet eyes widened, her dark lashes reaching so high that they brushed her eyebrows. “She is your mistress, isn’t she? How utterly shocking. But if she had not written, we would have had no idea what was happening to you. We would not know how much you are suffering from the memories of war and how cleverly you are conquering your affliction.”

“She wrote a letter to our mother.” The duke cocked his head and said the words with infinite care, as though he was coaxing his sister to give him a denial. But of course she wouldn’t—for this was exactly what Anne had done.

“Yes. But who is she, Devon?”

“Caro, you traveled all this way because of this letter? When you are, what—days away from the birth of your child?”

His sister had her right hand on the crook of his arm, but she waved the left one airily. “About two weeks. Of course I came once I knew you were staying away simply because you are being s-stubborn—” Suddenly his sister’s voice wobbled and she stopped. Her look of wide-eyed innocence crumpled. She turned to Devon and pressed her head to his chest. The slender shoulders shook.

He wrapped his arms around her, but he went pale. “What is it, Caro? What’s wrong?”

At that instant, the horses set off at a swift trot. The coachman must have flicked the reins. The bounce and rattle of the wheels drowned out all other sound. Anne could see the duke’s hands braced on his sister’s shoulders. Caroline was speaking animatedly, and the duke drank in every word, his face growing increasingly stony with every expressive sweep of his sister’s hands. Then they vanished from Anne’s sight as the carriage rounded the house.

“Where are you planning to go?” The duke’s deep growl startled Anne, and she dropped the silver hairbrush he had let her borrow. It clattered to the glass top of the vanity. She had tried to tidy her hair swiftly and stick the pins back in—making love in the carriage had left it disheveled. Jerking her gaze from the mirror, she swiveled on the stool. He stood in the doorway, then he took a step in and closed the door. He leaned on the head of his walking stick.

“I don’t know.” She’d thought she would not see him again before she left. “I—Where do you wish me to go?” He was her protector—she suddenly realized if she wished that to continue, she must do as he commanded. Her hands clenched as she waited. Not London. If I have to run with nothing but the clothes on my back, I’ll do it before I go to London. Then she thought of something else. “Or do you wish to bring an end to our contract now that your sister is here?”

This should be what she wanted: He would give her a settlement, as they’d agreed in her contract, and she could use the money to escape. It would be perfect, yet her heart felt ice cold. She would never see him again.

Fool. It has to happen sometime. Just as Kat told you—a clever mistress always remembers that someday there will be an end and she plans for it.

“No, I don’t want that.” His walking stick tapped against the floor as he came toward her. “My sister came all this way to meet you—the author of an unsigned letter to my mother.” The closer he approached, the more his broad-shouldered, battle-hewn body seemed to loom over her.

She quickly stood. “Your sister did not come here to see me. I saw her collapse into your arms and begin to cry—” Biting her lip, she stopped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. And I am sorry about sending a letter without telling you. You must believe my intentions were good. It bothered me that your mother was worrying about you. I have lost people I loved, and I know what it is like to be almost sick with fear. All I did was tell her you were healthy and strong. I told her in the letter I was a—a friend of one of your friends.”

Waiting for his anger was terrible. She was certain it was rumbling within him. Finally he asked, “Am I anywhere near the bed?”

She blinked. “Yes, you are. Will you let me take you to it?”

“Of course, angel.”

She led him by the elbow and he sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress. This was his bed, but he never used it—not to sleep in.

He lifted his head as if he knew exactly where she was. She was breathing quite hard. “My sister will have to stay. At least for the night.”

“Of course she will. She is your sister.”

“And any sister should know better than to flush her brother out in his bachelor quarters.” He groaned. “You meant well with the letter, Cerise. But you should have told me.”

“I know, and I regret it. I won’t keep any more secrets from you—” Anne sank her teeth into her lip again to stop any more foolish words. Worry for him had made her speak too impulsively. She was making a promise she could never keep.

Pure anguish flashed in his eyes. “Caroline has no idea what I’m like. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about my nightmares, my battle memories, my rages. She has enough troubles of her own. But I have to tell her. She has to be warned not to approach and surprise me. She’s big with child—what would happen if I hauled her to the floor? I wish you could stay, Cerise, so you can watch me, make sure I don’t hurt her. But obviously that is impossible.”

She knew it to be the truth, but it twisted her heart. “I know I cannot stay. I’m your mistress, and it would be a tremendous insult to your sister for me to be here. But you won’t hurt her. I’m certain you won’t.”

His broad shoulders slumped. “How can you be when I’m not?”

“I happen to believe you are not mad. Surely you can recognize how much you have changed. You no longer drink brandy to blot out your memories. And when I read to you—”

“Which you cannot do if you’re not here. Cerise, I don’t know if I can survive a visit with my sister if I don’t have you in my house to make me feel better.”

How her heart leapt in her chest. Yet she couldn’t stay. As he’d said, it was impossible. “Tell your sister Caroline the truth. There’s no reason why you should not. In my letter, I explained that you were haunted by memories of battle, memories that made you shout out in the night and kept you from sleeping.”

“So you were brutally honest?”

“Yes. I wanted your family to understand why you were staying away.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“So you could protect them from yourself, obviously. Isn’t that what you said to me—you wanted to send me away for my own protection? I wanted your family to know it was not their fault. In your mind, you were doing the most noble and loving thing for them that you could.”

“I was doing the sensible thing,” he countered, his jaw tight.

“You are not going to hurt your sister. All you must do is explain to her how you could react, and she will know to be careful.”

“She shouldn’t have to be careful, damn it. She’s come running to me for help, and all I am is a danger to her.” He made a fist and he slammed it with uncanny accuracy into the wooden bedpost. The entire canopy shuddered. Anne shuddered.

“Why did she come to you for help?” she asked. She clambered onto the bed and walked, on her knees, until she was behind his back. Gently, she massaged his shoulders. They were as hard and tense as iron, unyielding to her kneading hands.

“It is a private matter.”

“Of course.”

“Hell, Cerise, she asked me to promise I wouldn’t repeat it.”

“You have changed,” she said reassuringly. “You move so confidently around the house now. And when was the last time you threw a table across a room?”

His laugh was gruff and self-effacing. “I can hardly remember. But without you here, angel, I might start tossing things again.”

“If you wish, I—I could stay close by.” She had no idea what to do. All she knew of mistresses was that the lucky ones lived in beautiful town houses. But that was what a courtesan did in London. Here, in the country, she was utterly at sea.

“There’s an inn in the village,” he said. “The Black Swan. Would you take a room there, Cerise? I want you close, to visit you. When my sister leaves, you can come back to the house.”

“Is it a respectable inn?”

“Of course.” She could see his reflection in the mirror—he looked affronted.

“Then would the proprietor want to let a room to me and turn a blind eye when you came for visits?” It was the truth, but she knew she had dragged it up as an excuse. The Swan was a public inn in a village on one of the most important routes of travel out of London. She knew the story of Madame’s murder and of her own disappearance had been in the news sheets; the odds were high that people traveling out of London would have read of it. But would any of them recognize her with her dyed hair? Would anyone dream to connect a duke’s ladybird at an inn with a London whore wanted for murder?

“He will,” he said with confidence, like a man who always got what he wanted. “We will concoct a story for you. You can be an acquaintance of the family, a respectable widow traveling to visit family. The mention of my name will ensure you are not given any trouble or disrespect.”

She thought of her first visit to Mrs. Wimple’s, but she didn’t contradict him. Surely she would be as safe there as anywhere and much safer than she would be if she went back to London without money for escape.

“What’s wrong, angel?” he asked.

She swiftly massaged his shoulders to distract him. Surprisingly, he gave growls of pleasure when she gouged her fingers hard into his tight muscles. “Nothing. I was merely thinking of your sister. She looked so very happy to see you.”

He groaned and let his head drop forward, and Anne remembered that he would not know how delighted his sister had looked. He would not know how his sister had lit up as she’d flung herself into his arms.

“When I held Caro, all I wanted to do was look into her face,” he said. “At first I didn’t even know which of my sisters she was. Then, when I knew, I wanted to see what she looked like. I tried to imagine she hadn’t changed at all from the last time I saw her, three years ago. For my peace of mind, I had to think that. But I knew it couldn’t be true. Obviously it isn’t, since she’s expecting a child.”

Anne hugged his neck. “Would you want me to describe her to you now? Perhaps together we can determine how she’s changed, so then you will know. The most important things will not have altered at all. She obviously loves you very much, and I can tell that you equally adore her. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” The duke lifted her right hand and slowly, lovingly, kissed each of her fingers. “Angel, how am I going to survive the night when I know you won’t be there to read to me after I wake up hollering? Or to make love to me, against my better judgment, and successfully push every other thought out of my head?”

She had to tease or she might give in to tears. “I thought all I had done was annoy you.”

Grinning broadly, he turned and caught her around the waist. He dragged her onto his lap. But it wasn’t lust burning in his eyes. It was something she couldn’t quite read. “You are a highly unconventional mistress, Cerise, but I’ve begun to think it would be impossible to live without you.”

Impossible to live without you.

How those words haunted Anne for the two days she had spent at the inn, for she was beginning to fear she felt the same way about him. And that truly was impossible.

She cupped her tea with trembling hands. No one had pointed a finger at her and screamed, “Murderess,” but she was living on tenterhooks, waiting for it to happen. It was proof she couldn’t stay in England. How could she live the rest of her life in fear—fear that someone would recognize her and turn her in to the magistrate, fear that she would be arrested for a murder she had not meant to commit? She was still guilty, even though she had acted to save a child. The penalty for her crime would be hanging.

She set down the tea. She yearned to stay in England, and it was for the most foolish of reasons: She didn’t want to leave the duke. For two days, he had not come to see her—no doubt because he did not want to leave his sister. He was finding a way to live without her. But she missed him terribly. She worried about him. She ached for him.

But she was only a mistress. She couldn’t risk ending up hanged just to spend as much time as possible as the duke’s lover. She couldn’t. But what did it mean that she was silly enough to consider staying, even once she got enough money to run?

Swift footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Anne stiffened as they stopped in front of her door. It was madness to be afraid instantly—it could be a servant. A soft rap came, and a female voice asked, “Miss?”

Anne sagged with relief. Indeed, just a maid. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and a young maid curtsied, her eyes filled with stars. “Begging your pardon, mum, but the Duke of March wishes you to meet him in the parlor.”

That made her smile. “Thank you. You may take a message back to him. I shall be down in a moment.”

“Oh, he’s in the tap right now, mum. All the local men are toasting his victories in battle. His Grace is a great hero of war.”

“Yes, he is.” But as the girl left and Anne turned to the vanity mirror, she thought of how much he had paid for his heroics, how much they had hurt him and changed him. She quickly reviewed her gown—one of her new day dresses the duke had sent to the inn. She looked well enough. The duke had not come to her room; she wondered why. Did he want to give at least the outward appearance of respectability?

On her way to the parlor, Anne passed by the taproom. She glanced inside.

There, on a bench, sat the duke. The sight of his face and his smile made her knees wobble. She rested her hand on the doorframe, simply watching him. The way his hair fell over his brow reminded her of how carefully she had tried to cut it, working with slow diligence to ensure she didn’t stick him with the scissors. The way his smile widened reminded her of how he had grinned after falling from his horse and how she’d been so worried he was dead.

Staring at him, she felt warm inside, like a hot bun that gave a burst of steam when it was pulled open. He set down his tankard and turned. He couldn’t see her, but he must have sensed she was staring. She turned away and hurried to the parlor. A servant would take him a message, would bring him to her. In just a few moments, they would be together. Alone.

Oh, heavens, she was quivering with anticipation. Her heart pounded. What exactly should she say? She hadn’t been this nervous the first time she’d tried to seduce him.

She was very much afraid of what this meant. Only a very stupid mistress fell in love. She had lost her home, her past, her parents—why would she willingly put her heart at risk again?

“I came to talk about my sister.”

It was the last thing Anne expected. The duke flopped back on the settee by the parlor’s fireplace and rubbed his temple as though it pounded with pain.

“Caro asked me not to tell anyone, but I’ve realized I’m going to lose my mind.” He gave a wry grin. “Finally, after everything you’ve done to convince me I’m not mad, my sister is driving me insane.” He tipped his head toward the rustle of her skirts, looking astonishingly helpless and undeniably appealing. “I need your help, angel. I don’t know where else to turn.”

“What is wrong?”

“Caro didn’t come here because of your letter. She came because she was running away from home. She is nine months pregnant and she has run away.”

The maid had left a tea tray. Despite her surprise at what he’d said, Anne poured a cup and pressed it to his hand. “Why did she do such a thing?”

“Only you would take that in stride and give me a cup of tea.” He moved to put it aside, but she stopped him.

“Well, a sip will help, Your Grace.” She stubbornly lifted the tea to his lips. Her heart gave a pang. Her mother used to say that after they ended up in the stews, as though a simple cup of tea could make up for fear and poverty.

At her command, he took a deep swallow. “Caro told me she came because, as she put it, her marriage is in tatters, her heart is broken, and she is about to bear the child of a man who no longer cares for her.”

“Her husband no longer cares for her?” She blinked. “He would have to be … an idiot. How could he not love your sister, who absolutely glows with beauty and is about to have his baby?”

The duke sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t get a coherent explanation from her. She told me she could not stay at her home in London a minute longer. Her husband is the Earl of Cavendish, by the way. Their marriage, like all the ones in my immediate family, was a love match.”

“She would not tell you why she believes he doesn’t love her anymore?”

“She thought it might be because she is now the size of a house,” he answered.

“That can’t be possible,” she declared. “What sort of husband could be so shallow?”

He half-turned to her, his lip curved in a grim smile. “You give men more credit than we deserve. I’ve known gentlemen who spent the night in a brothel while their wife was at home laboring through the birth of a child.”

Anne couldn’t answer. Perhaps some of the gentlemen who had come to Madame’s had been doing that.

“Caro left her home and went to March House. That’s the ducal home in London, where my mother is living along with my two unmarried sisters, Lizzie and Win. Caro spent only two days there. Long enough to be given your letter to read—apparently every female in my family is speculating as to whom the anonymous author is.”

“I am sorry about that, but it is better than having them worry about you.”

His brows shot up. “Caro found she couldn’t tell our mother about her troubles. She came to me because she didn’t know where else to go. Since I’m a male, she thought I would understand the workings of her husband’s mind. She wants me to explain why he doesn’t care for her anymore and tell her how to win back his love. Since I won Rosalind’s love, she thinks I should know how to do it. But there’s a problem.…”

His features hardened, his expression grew resolute. “Since I can’t get Caro to calm down long enough to tell me exactly what Cavendish did, I’m guessing he was unfaithful. He broke my sister’s heart. Right now what I’d like to do is kill him. Call him out and face him at forty paces on a foggy field.”

“Heavens, no!” Panic gripped her and she squeezed his arm. “You cannot do that! You could be killed. Or, if you aren’t, you’ll kill him. What good will that do your sister?”

“None, I agree. I could just pound some sense into his head.”

Anne thought of her parents—they solved all problems by talking to each other. “Has your sister spoken to her husband? She must have confronted him over this.”

“I have no idea. When she tries to explain, she either begins to cry or she gets embarrassed. I’m embarrassed every time we talk about this, so I can’t figure out what she’s trying to tell me.” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “She married for love, had her heart broken, and I’m the last person who knows how to heal from that. My solution was to go to war, and you know how well that went.” He looked up, gave a rueful, heartbreaking grin. “As best as I can tell, she wants to win the blackguard’s love, while I want to beat him senseless. I’m almost at the end of my rope. She asks my opinion, then she won’t listen to a word I say. She gets angry with me when I point out this is Cavendish’s fault, and somehow I become the villain.”

Anne smothered a smile at his exasperation.

“This is how I behaved with you, isn’t it, when we were arguing about my brandy? Why were you so tenacious and determined to help me, when I really deserved a kick in the backside?”

“Because you deserved to be helped.”

“I’m glad you were so stubborn, Cerise.” The duke shook his head. “My sister needs a woman to confide in, but there is no one.”

There was someone—Anne shook her head. Of course she could not speak to his sister. She was a fallen woman. Besides, she knew nothing about loving husbands, and while she knew the details of her parents’ happy marriage, she had no idea how to salvage an unhappy one. “I think you must let your sister calm down; you must give her time, truly listen to her, and then try to talk to her.”

“I’ll have to struggle through this on my own, but I don’t know if I can. Charging into battle was easier than this.”

“You don’t have to struggle alone. You can come and talk to me whenever you need to.”

“I need you now.” He looked up, his eyes unmistakably hot with desire. “I’ve missed you for two days, angel. Go and lock the parlor door. I’ve hungered for the taste of you.”

She wanted him, but there was the fear of causing a scandal. “Here? In the parlor?”

“It’s more discreet than having you lead me up to your bedchamber.” A smile curved his lips. “This time you will have to be quiet.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He cocked his head. “I want you to call me Devon, angel. Would you do that for me?”

Anne caught her breath. To use his Christian name was an intimacy she had not expected. Suddenly she realized she had never been so intimate with a man—she’d never had a gentleman reveal his doubts and worries to her. No man had ever let her glimpse his heart.

As he wrapped his strong arms around her and drew her down on the settee, she whispered, “Yes, Your—Devon.”

“Good. Now ride me, angel. Do your magic.”