A Reckless Desire (29 page)

Was she still to be Mrs. Willow, or should she confess her role in the wager? What had Rivers told his family? How much did they know of who she truly was?

“Yes, Your Grace, Lord Fitzroy has been an excellent friend to me,” she said cautiously. She'd succeeded as mad Ophelia; she could succeed again as Mrs. Willow, if that was what he wanted. “In fact sometimes it does seem as if we've known each other all our lives.”

“An excellent…
friend,
” the duchess repeated, delicately making it clear that she understood their true relationship, but that she didn't care. “How fortunate that you have found each other.”

Lucia flushed. So the duchess had guessed she was Rivers's lover. What of it? She was, wasn't she? And if Her Grace was going to continue pouring her tea as if she truly were Mrs. Willow, then who was Lucia to disappoint her?

The younger ladies made happy sighs and coos of appreciation, a sign that she hadn't entirely faltered yet. Still, she glanced pointedly at Rivers, praying he'd understand that she needed his guidance. “Isn't that so, my lord?”

Rivers smiled and ladled more sugar into his tea, clearly enjoying himself much more than she.

“Indeed it is, my dear,” he said. “We met long ago on the Continent, Celia. Her late husband was an acquaintance of mine. A military gentleman.”

“Oh, sweet heavens, how very sorry I am for your loss,” the duchess said, reaching out to pat Lucia's sleeve. “So young to be a widow! I, too, was scarcely a bride when my first husband was taken from me. How generous of Rivers to offer you solace in your grief.”

“The Fitzroys are most accomplished at offering support and comfort,” Lady Geoffrey said, smiling in sympathy. She was the most elegantly exotic woman that Lucia had ever seen in England, with golden skin and pale amber eyes and the merest hint of a foreign accent to her words that made Lucia wonder where she'd been born. “Before our marriage, I suffered through some difficult times, and I doubt I would have survived if not for Geoffrey's strength to lean upon.”

“How fortunate for you, Lady Geoffrey,” Lucia said softly, turning toward the other woman. The mention of marriage to a Fitzroy brother made her uneasy, for there was no question that she and Rivers would never be linked in that way. “Such devotion is a marvelous thing in a husband.”

“My Harry has that quality as well,” Lady Augusta said, her hand resting protectively over the swell of her pregnant belly. Lucia recalled Rivers saying how these two young women had so far produced only daughters, to the disappointment of his father, and how the entire family was anxiously awaiting the birth of this baby, and praying it was male. To Lucia, that had seemed an unfair judgment on both the mothers, and the infant girls, and she felt even more sympathy for Lady Augusta now that they'd met. Lady Augusta, or Gus, as Rivers called her, was the least daunting of the ladies, her round freckled face and coppery hair cheerfully engaging, if not fashionable.

“No gentleman could be more loyal to me and our little girls than Harry,” Gus continued, “no matter what the rest of the world says.”

The duchess leaned forward with concern. “Hush, hush, Gus, please don't vex yourself,” she said. “Pray remember why we've come here, to remove you from the stresses of town, for the sake of the babe.”

But Gus didn't seem to hear her, or chose not to. “Have you any children of your own, Mrs. Willow?”

“No, my lady,” Lucia said. This was another awkward question that struck too close to her heart, and she was unable to keep the sadness from her voice. Because she'd had neither brothers nor sisters, she had always dreamed of having a large family of her own, and more than once she'd had to stop herself from including Rivers as the father in that dream. “Mr. Willow and I were not blessed.”

“Children
are
a blessing, the greatest blessing in life,” Gus said. “My three daughters are my little angels, a constant joy to Harry and to me.”

Rivers laughed. “Your daughters are little hellions, Gus, and you know it,” he teased. “Not that it makes them any less delightful.”

Gus didn't deny it. “They are still a blessing,” she said firmly. “I'd wish nothing less for your friend Mrs. Willow.”

“Mrs. Willow and I have had other exciting events to occupy us at present,” he said, smiling at Lucia. “Isn't that so, my dear?”

Lucia blushed with confusion at that endearment. What was he doing anyway? How did he wish her to answer?

“Forgive me, my lord, but perhaps we should not speak of that now,” she said. “It might not be, ah, suitable.”

“Now you intrigue us, Mrs. Willow,” Serena said. “Surely these events that Rivers mentioned cannot be unsuitable for discussion here.”

Gus nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, you must tell us the truth, Mrs. Willow. One never can know with Rivers.”

“Don't badger her, Gus,” Rivers said. “She won't tell, and neither will I. It wouldn't be a secret if we did.”

“His lordship is quite right,” Lucia said. She set her saucer down on the table beside her, fearing it would rattle in her hands. “This—this secret is still not ripe for telling. Suffice to say that in my present situation in life, I owe his lordship everything.”

“Everything?” repeated the duchess, clearly astonished.

“Everything,” Lucia repeated, her gaze locked with Rivers's.

“Everything,” he echoed softly. “That's very generous of you, Mrs. Willow.”

There was no mistaking how blatantly he was letting his admiration for her show in his eyes. Part of her—a sizable part—wanted to gaze back at him in exactly the same way, and even to rush across to his chair and fling her arms around his shoulders and kiss him for being so ridiculously important and perfect to her.

“It's not generosity, my lord, but the truth,” she said, forgetting being nervous and uncertain as well as the ladies, and seeing only him. He had that power over her, or perhaps it was she who could focus so completely on him. “You have given me more than ever I deserved.”

He swept his hand grandly through the air. “You exaggerate, madam.”

“Not at all,” she said, raising her chin. “You gave me hope where I thought I had none, and made opportunity from the most insubstantial of dreams.”

“ ‘A dream itself is but a shadow,' ”
he said, quoting Hamlet. “You know that as well as I.”

She smiled, for the next line of the play was strangely apt, as likely he'd already known.
“ ‘Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.' ”

He didn't answer, but smiled, letting her words float there in the air, meant for him, meant for her. She was only vaguely aware of the two other young women beside her, listening rapt, their tea forgotten.

“Puzzles within puzzles, Rivers!” exclaimed the duchess, perplexed. “What is the meaning of these lovely words that you and Mrs. Willow are tossing back and forth like a golden ball?”

He grinned, still not looking away from Lucia. “No puzzles, Celia,” he said. “These lovely words belong to the playwright Mr. Shakespeare, and Mrs. Willow and I often recite scraps of his plays back and forth to amuse ourselves.”

“Will you please recite more, Mrs. Willow?” Gus begged. “I vow you are more magical than any London actress.”

“Perhaps another day,” Rivers said, setting aside his cup as he stood. He bent down and kissed Gus's cheek with genuine fondness. “Mrs. Willow and I have imposed upon you long enough, Gus. You must be weary if you came down from London this morning, and I wouldn't want to risk my brother's wrath by tiring you with my nonsense.”

“Then you must promise to bring her back while we are here in the country,” Gus said. “I'm not permitted to do
anything,
and you've no notion of how tedious idleness can be.”

Serena rose, gliding over to rest her hand on Gus's shoulder. “Yes, Mrs. Willow, I hope you'll return,” she said, smiling warmly. “No matter how close a friend you are to Rivers, he cannot keep you entirely to himself.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” the duchess said. “Fresh company is so hard to come by in the country, and you are a rare delight. You must bring her back to us, Rivers, and soon.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Lucia said, overwhelmed by their kindness. Her head was still spinning when Rivers handed her into the carriage for the drive back to the Lodge.

“Well, now, that worked out well enough, didn't it?” he said as soon as the door latched behind them. He reached out and pulled her close, his arm familiarly around her shoulder. “I didn't expect Celia and the others to be there, but you, my darling Mrs. Willow, could not have made a better impression upon them.”

He tried to kiss her, but she twisted around to look him squarely in the eye. “You truly didn't know they'd be there, Rivers?” she asked. “It wasn't another of your tests or trials for me?”

“Not at all,” he said, and with such forthright indignation that she believed him. “Why in blazes would I have contrived to have you first meet my stepmother lying in the middle of the state bed?”

Her cheeks warmed at the memory, yet she laughed, too, because it had been so mortifyingly preposterous.

“No, you wouldn't,” she agreed. “They all know now that I'm your mistress. A blind man could have seen that. And yet those ladies were so kind to me, Rivers. Such grand noble ladies! They needn't have been kind, not at all, and yet they were.”

“There are plenty of noble ladies who believe themselves grander than God, but not those three,” he said. “None of them would ever judge you for what you were, but only on what you are.”

“Is that what you wished me to say, then?” she asked uncertainly. “Did you want me to tell them who and what I truly am?”

“I wanted you to tell whatever would put you at your ease in their company,” he said with maddening logic. “You chose to say nothing, and that is well enough, too. I told you, it was your decision.”

“But I couldn't tell them, Rivers,” she protested. She understood perfectly well; why couldn't he? “They are
ladies,
and they would not be pleased to have either a playhouse tiring-girl or your mistress sitting as their equal.”

“You are no longer a tiring-girl, nor will you ever be one again,” he said firmly. “Besides, you misjudge those good ladies. The duchess does look for good company wherever she finds it. She truly doesn't care about a person's station or past, nor do the younger women, either. It's not my place to tell their stories, but each one of those ladies has suffered from life's unfairness, one way or another, and they would never fault you for not being of their rank.”

“But you cannot deny that rank makes them different from me, Rivers, just as it makes you different,” she said slowly, remembering the richly appointed rooms, one after another, that she'd seen earlier in his family's house. “It's part of you, and you cannot escape it. That's why you took me there in the first place, isn't it? For me to see where you lived as a boy?”

He grunted, noncommittal. “In a way, yes,” he admitted. “I thought you'd enjoy seeing it. Quite the gilded pile, isn't it?”

She shook her head a fraction, unwilling to dismiss the afternoon with a jest. “I have not met your father, Rivers, but from what you have told me of him, I can see that the Hall is his, grand and formal and stiff, while the Lodge is all yours.”

“To be sure, Father's left his mark on the Hall,” he said, “but the estate more rightly belongs to all the dukes of Breconridge, past, present, and future, with father only the current example of the species.”

He was in a good humor, expansive and relaxed, and she hated to ruin it, but she still had questions.

“Breconridge Hall is undeniably beautiful,” she said carefully, “and yet while it was your home when you were a child, it can never be yours again.”

“It belongs to the dukes of Breconridge,” he repeated patiently. “I've explained that before. When Father dies, it shall go to Harry, who will become the fifth duke.”

She linked her hand into his, toying with his fingers. “And after that? What if he and Lady Augusta never do have a son? What then?”

“Then the estate goes to Geoffrey and his sons,” he explained. “Lucia, I've already told you this.”

“But now that I've met them, I want to be sure I understand,” she said. “What if Lord and Lady Geoffrey have no sons?”

“You are the pessimist today, aren't you?” he said, only half-teasing. “Then the estate would pass to me, and my sons. But that is not going to happen. Both Harry and Geoffrey and their wives are young and clearly capable of producing a half-dozen sturdy boys among them. Now, if you please, Lucia, I would rather we not discuss this any further. Regardless of what you or I say, Breconridge Hall will always be inherited by some young Fitzroy fellow or another. That cannot be changed, and never will.”

The carriage bumped over a rut in the road, a jarring shake that gave extra emphasis to the finality of his words.

But it all made sense now to Lucia. He had promised to trust her with his past, and he had in fact trusted her with more than perhaps he'd intended, or realized.

“That is why you took me there,” she said softly. “You must remain who you were born. You cannot change your life, or your lot in it, but you have changed mine.”

He frowned. “You have changed yourself, Lucia,” he said, pointedly ignoring her observation about him. “I've only made it possible with a bit of advice and a few fripperies along the way. You did all the work. Look at how much you've accomplished, too. I cannot wait to see the look on Everett's face. You must admit the transformation has been quite a success.”

“I suppose it is,” she said slowly, for this was hardly the conclusion she'd expected from him. “You will win your wager.”