Web of Love (32 page)

“My lord?” Her eyes shifted to his legs, clad in blue knee breeches, but could not lift to his face.

“You forgot to tell me that our liaison had consequences,” he said.

“You are referring to Sir Jasper's announcement at dinner?” They were very foolish words, she knew. But she could think of no others.

“I suppose there are not many men,” he said, “who find out in just such a way that they have fathered a child. But under the circumstances I suppose I should be thankful that I found out at all. Tomorrow your secret would have been safe. Tomorrow I leave for Wiltshire.”

“My secret?” she said. “It has not been a secret, my lord. I have told a few people. I had no occasion to tell you.”

“Ah, of course,” he said. “How foolish of me to think that I am of any importance in this matter. I merely planted the seed. I am merely the father. A quite irrelevant person once the seed has been sown. It is conceited of me to feel that I should have been told.”

“I think you are under a misapprehension,” she said. “It is Charlie's baby.”

She could feel him looking at her. She watched the card games in progress at the other side of the room.

“I see,” he said. “It was a happy coincidence, then, that after five years of marriage he finally got you with child at the last possible moment. Nothing shows yet. It must have been the last moment.”

“Yes,” she said. “A happy coincidence.”

“Happy for the Simpson family,” he said. “Very happy for Sir Jasper, who has a new grandchild to look forward to. Someone to replace the son he has lost and comfort him in his old age.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And happy for Miss Simpson, who will have a new brother or sister.”

“Yes.”

“Happy too for Mr. Phillip Simpson, who has thought himself his father's heir since June. He must be hoping with his father that the child is male so that the family property and fortune will be restored to Charlie's line again.” He leaned toward her suddenly. “What did you say?”

She tried again. “Yes,” she said.

“Ellen,” he said, “I never thought you a coward. I have seen proof time and time again that you are capable of extraordinary courage. Now I see you are capable of extraordinary cowardice too.”

She looked at him for the first time, her eyes flashing. “Prove it!” she said. “Prove that I am lying. Prove that the child is not Charlie's. That I am too cowardly to admit the truth. Prove it!”

He shook his head. “I cannot do so,” he said, “and would not, even if I could. But you and I both know the truth, Ellen. You are carrying a child that is mine and yours. And it always will be ours, however much you wish it could be Charlie's, and however much you look for signs of him in the growing child. You will be fortunate indeed if it does not have green eyes.”

“Charlie did not have green eyes,” she said, “and I do not.”

His eyes passed slowly and almost lazily over the other occupants of the room, none of whom were paying them any attention. “You know, Ellen,” he said, “you are fortunate that we are in such a public place and must pretend to be holding an amiable and quite unimportant conversation. Very fortunate. For the past hour or so, I have been in shock. I am only just beginning to feel anger.”

“You have nothing to feel angry about,” she said. “This has nothing to do with you, my lord.”

“I want to pick you up with my two hands,” he said quietly, “and shake you until your teeth rattle. I want to take you across my lap and beat you until you are too sore to sit down. Both of which acts I am saved from committing under present circumstances. And it is as well. I have never abused a woman physically and have never thought to. But I want to do you terrible violence, Ellen. And I am deadly serious despite the amiable expression I must put on for the other occupants of the room.”

“I think we have already said everything that needs to be said between us,” she said, hearing her own breathlessness, and unable to control it. “You should not be here, my lord. You said good-bye to me at your mother's house.”

“We have not said one fraction of what needs to be said between us,” he said. “I did not know at that time, Ellen, that you have my child inside you. You had chosen to deceive me, to keep from me what every man has a right to know. We have not by any means finished speaking, you and I. And will not be until you have the courage to look into my eyes and tell me the truth so that we can discuss like rational beings what we are to do about our child.”

“My child will be well-cared-for,” she said. “By me. You need have no fear of that.”

“But this child is not yours,” he said. “It is ours. It will be well-cared-for, Ellen. By you and by me. We will jointly decide where and how it will live.”

“We will see,” she said. “I believe you will find that you will not be allowed to harass me.”

“I will take the risk,” he said. “I have a child of mine to consider.”

They sat side by side, both watching the card players, both apparently relaxed, both taut with anger and tension and awareness of each other.

“Ellen,” he said at last, very quietly, “tell me the truth. Please? I loved you for those six days, and you loved me. It was a kind of love, anyway. At the time, it was very precious to both of us. It has gone and can never be rekindled, I suppose. But there has been that between us. Tell me the truth. I will not make trouble for you with your family. You may do what you wish with regards to them. But look at me and tell me the truth.”

She felt quite incapable of either moving or opening her mouth. It would be so easy to do. And the right thing to do. It was what she wanted to do, to have part of the burden of a secret guilt removed. Even if she could not look at him. Just to say the words—
It is your child, Dominic.
Just to say them. It should be so easy.

She said nothing at all.

“The silent treatment, then?” he said at last. “That is all I am worth to you, Ellen? You cannot even look me in the eyes and tell me once more that I am mistaken?”

She stared straight ahead, her mind forming the words, knowing exactly what the words should be. Knowing how few and how simple they were and how much better she would feel after saying them. Knowing how the words needed to be said. Knowing that he had every right to hear them.

She said nothing.

He got abruptly to his feet. But one of the card games had come to an end without their noticing the fact. Susan Jennings had crossed the room toward them.

“Such a pleasant evening,” she said, taking a vacant seat and smiling up at Lord Eden, who resumed his own seat. “Of course, Mrs. Simpson, you must feel, as I do, that it would be easier to remain at home alone and grieve. But one must make an effort to continue with life, mustn't one?”

“Yes,” Ellen said.

“You are in many ways fortunate,” Susan said, unfurling a fan and fanning herself slowly with it. “You have a daughter to take about with you. And you have another event to anticipate.” She glanced archly at Lord Eden and laughed. “But we must not put his lordship to the blush by discussing such matters.”

“Is Mrs. Courtney staying in town long, Susan?” Lord Eden asked.

“She talks about going home,” she said. “Papa and the boys are so helpless when she is not there. But she knows that I need her. And she will not abandon me in my time of great need. It is a great comfort to have one's mother close, Mrs. Simpson.”

Ellen inclined her head.

“You are going into Wiltshire tomorrow, my lord?” Susan said. “Your family will miss you dreadfully, I am sure.”

“After Christmas,” he said abruptly. “I will be going into Wiltshire after Christmas. I plan to spend a few months first at Amberley Court.”

Susan's face brightened. “But how happy your mama must be,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “She will be happy to have her family all together again at Amberley.”

“Of course,” Susan said, “I must be going into the country soon too. Mama is restless, and Lord Renfrew is about to betroth himself to Lady Penelope Varley, I believe, though he has been obliging enough to assure me that I may always have a home with him. I shall doubtless spend what is left of my year of mourning quietly at home.”

“Then I shall look forward to seeing you there, Susan,” he said.

“You are very kind,” she said. “You will like Amberley Court, Mrs. Simpson. The valley and the beach and the cliffs. I am afraid of heights, of course, and can never enjoy the cliffs. I hope you are not as silly as I. I am sure I spoil everyone's enjoyment. You will find plenty to do there. And the young people will amuse themselves. Your stepdaughter will be happy there.”

“I rather think Mrs. Simpson might qualify as one of the young persons, Susan,” Lord Eden said.

Susan looked at him with large, remorseful eyes. “Of course,” she said. “Pardon me, ma'am. I did not mean to imply…Why, I daresay you are not above five or six years older than I. It is just that you were married longer, and your husband was older than mine. And of course, you are
enceinte
. But I did not mean to imply that you were old.”

“Mrs. Jennings, ma'am.” Sir Jasper was smiling down at all three of them suddenly. “Mr. Winslow is in need of a partner for the next hand. Would you oblige?”

“Why, certainly,” she said. “It is very kind of you to ask, I am sure, sir.”

Lord Eden too got to his feet, though he stayed for a moment when the other two had moved away.

“You will be able to get out the words at your leisure, Ellen,” he said. “You are to be at Amberley for three weeks? Or do you plan to change your mind about going? Do so, if you will. But you will not escape from me. You will tell me the truth, with your eyes on mine, before you can hope to see the last of me.”

“I shall be going to Amberley Court,” she said. “I do not change my mind as easily as you seem to do, my lord.”

He nodded and turned away. “We will talk further there, then,” he said. But he turned back after taking only one step in the direction of the tables. “Have you seen a physician, Ellen?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And is all well?” he asked. “There have been no recurrences of the fainting spell? I assume it was your condition that caused that.”

“The doctor says I am in the best of health,” she said.

He looked at her broodingly before moving away abruptly.

 

E
LLEN DID NOT SLEEP
at all that night. The accusation of cowardice had cut to the heart of her guilt. And the more so because she had no defenses against it. He had been quite right. She was a coward.

Less than a month after the death of her husband she had conceived another man's child. And rather than admit that fact to the world, she had allowed other people—members of Charlie's family—to believe that it was his. She had never lied to them. But she had allowed them to believe a lie, and that was just as bad. Now she seemed to be in a quite hopeless situation.

But worse had happened. She had finally lied outright. She had told Dominic that the baby was Charlie's. A pointless and an unnecessary lie. Why had she said it? She could not answer her own question. It had been wrong, of course, to withhold the truth from him in the first place. She had realized that all along. But to lie to him when the truth was out was utter madness. And she did not know why she had done so and why she had not been able to put the matter right when he had given her the chance to do so.

Oh, yes, she was a coward. She had prided herself so much on her independence, on her ability to survive even the crushing blow of Charlie's death. And yet she was too cowardly to admit that the child she was carrying was illegitimate. Even though she was not ashamed at all of its illegitimacy. Even though she had loved its father when he had begotten it in her.

She slipped out of the house the following morning and had the carriage drop her outside the Earl of Harrowby's house. She willed him to be at home, not to have departed for one of his clubs already. But she need not have feared. It was too early for him to be abroad. She had to wait in the morning room while his valet hastily dressed and shaved him.

Ellen was nervously pacing the room when he finally made an appearance. She shot across the room almost before he could get any greeting out, and straight into his arms.

“Ellie?” he said, one large hand going to the back of her head. “What is it, girl?”

“He has found out,” she blurted into his neckcloth, “and I lied to him and told him it is Charlie's. And if it is a boy, he will be Sir Jasper's heir. And Phillip will be defrauded. Papa. Oh, Papa, I have made such a mess of things. And me five-and-twenty years old. I have made such a mess of things.”

“Ellie,” he said, rocking her comfortingly in his arms, “we all make a mess of life sometimes, girl. But there is usually a way out if we want it dearly enough.”

She closed her eyes and let the comfort of his arms flow over her.

“Come into the breakfast room with me,” he said. “Have you had breakfast? And you shall tell me what it is you were trying to tell me just now. It didn't make much sense, Ellie, girl. It is the father who has found out?”

She nodded against his neckcloth and lifted her head away from him. “I didn't have breakfast,” she said.

Sometimes, she thought afterward, one did not need anything more to help one solve one's problems than a truly sympathetic ear. Her father had said very little. She had done most of the talking. He had not given any advice or any comment on what was right or wrong. He had offered to go with her to Sir Jasper Simpson's, and she had been very tempted to say yes. But she had not. She had decided herself what must be done, and she would do it alone. She was very much afraid, but she would do it.

“Papa,” she said when she was leaving, wrapping her arms about his neck and standing on tiptoe so that she might lay her cheek against his. “Papa, the very worst thing I ever did was to turn my back on you, thinking that somehow it was the honorable thing to do. I don't care if you are my real father or not. I really don't care. You are my papa, and that is all that matters.”