Fallen (25 page)

No. Izzy was his wife, and she bore his child. But here in London, Eric would always be in her sight. How could she forget her feelings for him, if she saw him forever about?

Maybe things could be different at Dearingham. It was nearly time for his annual turn of duty on the estate, anyway.

Set on the North Downs of Surrey, it was cooler there, and cleaner than London. His father would not be there for a while yet, until after several weeks of grouse hunting in Scotland once the season ended.

Best of all, it was far from London, and from Eric.

Sounds from the drive drew his attention to the window. From here he could see a battered Eric mounting stiffly in the dusk. Grimly, Julian felt a moment of pleasure at the beating he'd given him. It had not solved anything, and the rift between them might never heal, but in his present turmoil, it had been extremely satisfying to belt someone.

As Eric rode away, however, Julian felt as though his heart had lost the last thread connecting it to the world around him. He had lost his brother Manny so long ago and now it seemed he'd lost Eric. Izzy, he was not sure had ever truly been his. Or ever would be.

The gray dusk gathering over the grounds reached the house, and it began to shroud him as well.

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Once at Dearingham, life settled into a pattern. Julian rode the estate at his grandfather's bidding, and Izzy avoided him. He wanted to talk to her, but found his previously glib tongue useless in the face of her melancholy.

In the fortnight they had been in residence, he had seen her only rarely. Betty was skilled in creating excuses for her mistress, but Julian was quickly losing patience.

Today, Julian rode from cottage to cottage, checking the state of each man and beast within his grandfather's realm. The estate responsibilities invariably made him restless. He found himself uncomfortable with the way the cottagers swept their caps from their heads and bowed to him, even knowing as they did that he was not the true heir, not the man of which destiny had robbed them.

He had recently begun to truly dread the day he would take the title, becoming the duke and reaping the final heinous profit from his brother's senseless death.

Manny had loved the people of Dearingham and had relished the responsibility of maintaining the generations-old tradition of lord and peasant, of fealty and
noblesse oblige
. He had been born to govern these men, women, and children, these fields and beasts.

Julian had never envied his brother's future, preferring to dream of adventure on distant shores, of finding the lost treasures of Egypt, of scaling the Alps.

Although a small part of him had rejoiced at finally receiving some small attention from his father after Manny's death, his duties as heir had always left him feeling deficient and inadequate. Here, in the country, only the breeding of fine-blooded horses had ever captured his interest.

To work with the beautiful, intelligent animals soothed him, and to bring such beautiful examples of horseflesh into the world gave him satisfaction as nothing else could. Even his father had to admit his skill, though the marquess called his horses "worthless playthings" that had nothing to do with the estate.

Of that, Julian had no doubt. His horses were much finer than anything the estate had ever given to him. Could ever give him. Looking at the green rolling hills against the gray stormy sky, he suddenly felt cold.

Dearingham went back as far as the title itself. Clear back to the Middle Ages, and the time of knights who won the day in battle for their king and were awarded great tracts of land and peasants to rule.

The house was everything a duke could want, built for the centuries. From where he and Tristan stood, Julian could see it in all its grandeur. The mansion was built in a massive E-shape. Facing west, the main entrance was a study in magnificence, with massive doors wide enough to let in a king's entourage, as in the past they had.

Julian rarely used that entrance himself, preferring to come in the less stately doors at the rear of the middle wing, where he and his father resided, and where most of the bedchambers were located. His study was there, as was the one used by the marquess.

The south wing was the sole domain of the duke. Although Julian's grandfather had not left his bed in years and never entertained a guest, he retained a full quarter of the structure for himself and his retinue of servants. It was a gloomy hall, and Julian spent as little time there as possible.

The third stroke of the E was the servant hall. Although every bit as grand as the rest of the house, the kitchen hung off the end of the wing like a poor relation.

Built in wood, the kitchen was the result of the invention of the modern stove. Not wishing to damage the exterior architecture of the building with ugly stovepipes, it had been decided by someone—Julian was not sure who—to add on to the end of the servants' wing.

Just beyond the kitchen were the stables. This was quite convenient for Julian, and kept him from spending one instant longer in the house than was necessary. He had only to step out of the stables and cross the garden to the family entrance.

There had been a minor castle once, too. He and Manny had often played in the ruins. His brother had read him ancient records of the estate with awe in his voice, reverently turning the old hide pages and peering endlessly at the cramped script of their forebears.

He had teased Manny so, reminding him that the old knights had been an ignorant, unwashed lot, and had probably never even seen the records, much less writ them in their own hand. "Shut up, Eppie," his brother would say mildly. "I'm reading."

While Julian had chased serving maids and escaped his tutor to ride wild over the estate, Manny had dived heart-first into training for his eventual role as duke.

The history and the heritage had been enough for Manny, enough to make up for the whippings, for the howling tirades, for the days of wide-eyed fear and nights of cringing in their rooms.

The old duke was mad, only no one seemed to realize it but them. Their father left them there for months at a time to be "brought up in the tradition of the dukes of Dearingham," a tradition that apparently required heavy blows and howling abuse.

Looking about him now at the bucolic countryside, Julian saw the seething darkness that still lived underneath. The old duke was in residence, of course. He always was. While his harsh hands had shriveled and twisted with age, and his enraged bellow been reduced to a rasping snarl, the malice lived on unabated.

Though he had been confined to a chair, then a bed for twenty years, the old man kept a choke-hold on the estate affairs. Even now, Julian was executing specific orders from his grandfather, even following the prescribed route on Tristan.

Heaven forbid he should have a thought of his own, especially if it countered the duke's plans. It had taken the old man nearly a week to recover from Julian's suggestion that the old stovepipes be replaced, or at least reinforced. They were supposedly good for years yet, and why was he worrying about such useless things when there was real work to be done?

It was just as well the duke kept him so busy just now. He could not stand the temptation of Izzy's nearness. Not when he needed her so badly, and when the shame of the past seemed so recently gone. Izzy's sweetness, her scent, and her softness fairly overwhelmed him at times.

Only when he was out, seeking distraction in the tedious complaints of the cottagers, could he forget her skin, her magnificent hair.

Julian groaned. He was doing it again. She was driving him mad. Stark, staring mad. She no more wanted his attentions than those of Tristan. Of course, it was difficult to know for sure, as every time he came near her, she ran for the chamber pot.

Turning Tristan toward the mill stream, Julian gritted his teeth and set off on yet another tedious item of duty. By the look of the black thunderclouds rolling in, he had best do as much as he could before the storm. And he desperately needed to get his mind off Izzy rolling naked in his bed.

Now that she had seen Dearingham, Izzy had a better idea of the sort of wealth and status Julian would be inheriting. It was more than she could imagine, she was sure, and certainly more than she would ever want. But it was his due, and she could not blame him for doing whatever was necessary to gain it.

Yet he was ever susceptible to his father's desires, ever dancing on the strings of love and duty; she could see it whenever he received a letter from the man. Izzy wondered what would happen the day Julian finally grasped that no matter how he conformed to his father's will, the marquess was incapable of returning the love that his son was not even aware he waited for.

Walking now, Izzy passed deeper into the boundless forest, taking a path she had discovered some days ago. The rich green beauty of the estate drew her with the same intensity with which the monstrous cold house repelled her.

She had been given a suite of rooms so opulent and extensive that she was sure she had not seen them all yet. She and Betty had the whole apartment to themselves, and they rattled about in it like marbles in a barrel.

It was very beautiful, and very barren of warmth. All the fires the servants could make did nothing to heat the cold, loveless spirit of the house. She hated it, every splendid inch.

Needing the living harmony of the outdoors, she spent her days in restless pursuit of peace in the lush August landscape. She was soothed by the ancient trees, the hills and hollows, the small piles of stone and slate that marked the place of a tiny cottage long abandoned.

She sometimes saw Julian on these walks, riding Tristan in the distance, or speaking to the cottagers whose small neat homes sat just past the expansive park-like grounds around the great house.

Halting for just a moment, she briefly gave in to the constant queasiness that plagued her. Leaning into the strength of a giant shading oak at the edge of a large clearing, Izzy relaxed the iron control she usually kept over herself and allowed the sneaking hand of weariness to steal her will.

She was able to fight down the nausea most of the time, but sometimes when she was with Julian, or thought of him, the turmoil within her manifested itself without. It was terribly embarrassing.

With closed eyes, she could feel on her skin the refreshing breeze that had lured her out today. Tipping her head back to be supported by the tree, she forced herself to consider leaving Julian.

It would not be impossible. She had her inheritance, still in the lovely box he had given her, tucked safely in the bottom of one of her trunks. She had people she could turn to, Celia, Lady Greenleigh, even Eric.

But could she leave him? As little as she wanted her child influenced by the marquess—or the strange duke, Julian's grandfather, she had never yet met—she truly believed her husband had a right to raise his son. If he could overcome the emotional void of his own childhood, she thought she could see a good father in him.

What sort of mother would she be? Her own mother had been wonderful, but her mother had also been a happy woman. For Izzy, the loss of her independent future and Julian's indifference to her love had made her unquestionably unhappy. Could she survive this tormenting existence? Did she have any choice?

For all her dreams of freedom, of independence from anyone's rule, she knew that she would toss it all away if only Julian would love her. True, she might always long for someplace where she could be truly useful, and not simply a broodmare or an ornament, like most of the ladies in Julian's circle, but…

Was she so very odd, to think of freedom and adventure when others thought only of husbands and position? Which mattered more?

Movement in a distant portion of the fields caught her eye. Julian, astride a prancing Tristan, was returning once more from his weekly round of the tenant properties. She smiled wistfully as the sight of magnificent man and horse disappeared into the cloaking trees.

They were so beautiful. Her heart ached with love for her husband. Sighing, she admitted to herself that one of her reasons for walking out every day was to catch a secret glimpse of him. And to fill her empty days.

Izzy didn't know what to do with herself. The household was run competently, and while there were definitely changes she would make, it was not really her place. She was not truly the lady of the house. She had struck up a relationship with the head groundskeeper, and he seemed to be receptive to her ideas, but it would take time before she could begin to make a difference in the coldly unadorned gardens surrounding the house.

Certainly not today. Already weary, though it was just past noon, she thought she had best lie down for a while. By the look of the sky, a summer storm threatened. Perhaps she would choose another book from the extensive library to keep her company. There was a comfortable window seat in her chamber where she could read and watch the sky.

She sighed. Was this to be her life, sneaking peeks at Julian and reading her days away? If so, she would go quietly, thoroughly mad.

After his rounds, Julian tossed his gloves and crop to the nameless footman waiting in the entry and took himself off on the long stroll to the library wing. There was a book in the vast roomful that Izzy might like, a gardening treatise written by a previous duchess of Dearingham. He'd been searching for it for some time, trying to find a way to break the ice between him and his wife.

It wasn't much of a gift, but he doubted Izzy would be impressed by jewels and he wasn't about to try chocolates again. Not after last time. It had taken him too long to clean up, and he'd felt particularly silly, too.

He wondered how she spent her days. Although he sometimes saw her at breakfast, if she was feeling up to it, they rarely spoke.

It seemed every time she looked at him, she started to feel nauseous. It put quite a damper on his ego, to be frank. She would sit quietly as long as she could, then spring up with astonishing speed and disappear. It was odd, and not a little daunting. He wanted her, and he wanted their friendship back. She seemed to want nothing to do with him.