Heartless (33 page)

It was folded only once and written in the same hand as the journals. Why would Derringer’s mama hide it instead of writing it in her book with the rest of her feelings and secrets?

Leandra gripped the journal, recalling some of the shocking things the woman had revealed in her private writings. She’d felt only a twinge of guilt at reading them, but nothing prepared her for the lack of compunction the late duchess felt at playing her husband false. At least she had waited until the birth of her son to dally, Leandra thought with unaccustomed cynicism.

Dismissing Liza firmly, Leandra sat down at the little writing desk in the corner of her sitting room. With a tiny bit of guilt for yet again invading the privacy of another, she unfolded the missive.

The writing was the same, she noted upon closer inspection, but it appeared rather forced, hurried, agitated. Two discolored spots in the paper indicated the possibility of tears. A shiver of unease snaked through her body.

Her eyes passed over the missive, widening with each word. By the end of the first paragraph, she was visibly shaken. By the end of the second, tears gathered in her eyes. And by the end of the third and final paragraph, her tears dried and a feeling of dread pooled in the pit of her stomach.

Leandra crossed to the bellpull. A moment of tense waiting was rewarded with the arrival of Liza. “Quickly, Liza, where is Mr. St. Clair?”

“Mr. St. Clair, your grace? In his grace’s study, I believe.”

Leandra fled her room and nearly ran to the study on the ground floor. She wished a trifle crossly that the castle wasn’t quite so big, but brushed it aside with her customary sensibility.

Customary sensibility? Where exactly had that particular quality fled to when she had been faced with her husband’s usual incivility?

Shaking her head, her goal uppermost in her mind, Leandra missed a pair of midnight eyes that watched her movements suspiciously—and a trifle sadly.

Derringer’s eyes narrowed. What had his unwilling bride in such a pother? With the grace of a jungle cat, he stepped into her path.

Leandra, of course, could not avoid the imminent collision with Derringer’s muscular form. He wrapped one arm around her waist and twitched the paper from her clenched fingers.

“What is this, soon-to-be-absent Lady Derringer?”

Despite the lie in the words, she retorted, “None of your business, your grace.”

Derringer glanced briefly at the bit of handwriting that was visible. His black brows rose. “Is it not, my unwilling-companion-in-life? I do believe this is my mother’s hand, unless I’m very much mistaken. Am I mistaken, Leandra?”

The stern note in his voice warned her of the wisdom of a candid answer. “Perhaps it is.”

“Then you were looking for me, I suppose?”

“No.”

Derringer leaned his head back, keeping her firmly locked in his embrace. “No? Then who were you looking for, Lady Doesn’t-want-to-be-a-duchess?”

Leandra’s brows drew down at his annoying appellations. “I was taking it to your cousin Martin, since it regards his brother.”

The sudden tension in the arm around her sent a chill through Leandra.

“His brother?”

“Yes, your grace, his brother, Gabriel St. Clair.”

“I see. And what, pray tell, does this mysterious letter reveal about my dear cousin, bride-of-my-heart?”

Leandra was not fooled by the softness that touched the endearment. He could not possibly mean anything by it, she knew. It was inconceivable that he had any feelings for her whatsoever considering he threatened her and then told her exactly what he thought of her.

“If you want to know, read the damn letter yourself, Lord Heartless!” she snapped. She wrenched herself from his grasp and tried to escape but he stopped her by the simple expedient of catching her hand.

“Let me go.”

Derringer sighed. “Leandra, we have to talk and I don’t mean to let you leave me until we do. Can you not at least grant me a few moments of your precious time, my heart?”

Before she could respond to this astounding, strangely humble request, Martin St. Clair walked into the corridor. His pale blue eyes passed from Derringer to Leandra and back to the duke with a vague hint of inquiry. He said nothing, however.

Derringer released Leandra and stared at his cousin. “Can I help you, Martin?”

Leandra noticed the dangerous silky tone that her husband employed when he was angered. Was Martin as cognizant of this fact?

If he was, he didn’t reveal it. His face was suitably blank as he replied, “I was just coming in search of you, Hart.” He eyed the paper in the duke’s hand with an intensity that disturbed Leandra. Derringer noticed as well and shoved the note into the pocket of his black leather breeches.

The look of odd interest left Martin’s bright eyes and he once again glanced at Leandra. Derringer, rather than taking the hint that Martin wished to speak to him alone, offered, “Perhaps you would like to talk to my wife instead? I understand she’s looking for somewhere to go.”

The duchess turned shocked eyes on Derringer. Of course he would assume she had nowhere to go. But did he have to inform his cousin of her imminent departure? Or imply that she was looking for… a protector, for lack of a better word?

The duke laughed at his cousin’s astonishment. “Never mind, Martin. I do believe she is of two minds on the subject.”

Leandra had, indeed, been of two minds. But after his assured belief of this, she once again decided it would be best to leave based solely on obstinacy.

“Go back to my study, Martin. I’ll be with you shortly.” Derringer turned to his wife as soon as the door to the study closed. “Have you nothing to say, my bride?”

“You assume much to think I would stay with you, your grace. You threaten my life, you tell me I am nothing more than a convenience, and you mock me before servants, family, and friends as often as possible. Why on earth should I even consider staying here?”

“You are my wife,” he stated simply, unemotionally.

“Scarcely,” she retorted. She immediately regretted her words. The implications were obvious and she knew her husband would hear the longing she’d failed to hide.

“Merri, my love, is that frustration I hear?” He took a step closer, his expression turning wolfish. “I have been neglecting you, have I? Should I remedy that oversight?”

Despite every effort to the contrary, Leandra felt a blush climb her cheeks. “Never!” she said. It came out, however, as little more than a breathless whisper.

A devilish twinkle lit Derringer’s eyes. “You sound quite as though you desire my attentions, oh, worshiped one.” He stepped closer still, shortening the distance between their bodies to a mere inch or two. “Do you?”

“No.” Again, it was the merest sound.

“You lie.”

Before she could think or react, her husband captured her head with one hand and pressed his mouth to hers. Desire flared as his lips moved over hers. Her arms crept around him, her longing for this man overcoming all the warnings her head presented.

She shouldn’t love him, indeed she should cut him from her life with the greatest relief. But she knew as he made love to her lips, drew her closer until their bodies were pressed intimately together, she was as hopelessly lost as she’d feared. She would never love another as she loved him.

And she could never truly give up on him. Somewhere in there, somewhere buried deep was a man loving and kind. All she had to do was find him, coax him out.

The sound of someone clearing his throat finally broke them apart. Even then, their eyes remained locked. Leandra stared into troubled eyes, dark as pitch, clouded with a question she dare not consider at the moment.

With a will of iron, she whispered, “That was unfair, Hart. I am a green girl, as you very well know.”

The strange vulnerability in his eyes disappeared, replaced with mocking contempt. “What do you want, Prestwich?” he asked, his eyes never leaving his wife’s.

“I daresay it would be best if we spoke alone, Derringer.”

Leandra turned and beheld an attractive gentleman nearly as dark as her husband. His eyes, however, were an odd gray-green color and held a note of pity in their depths. She found herself oddly resentful of his assumption.

Drawing herself up to her full height—which brought the top her head somewhere in the vicinity of her husband’s chin—she inquired in the best duchess tones she could, “And, who, if I may be so bold, are you, sir?”

Laughter flashed through Prestwich’s pale eyes. Derringer saw it. He was amused himself by his wife’s quick rise to the ranks of the peerage in attitude as well as name.

Prestwich resisted the urge, however. He smiled rather pleasantly, bowed respectfully, and introduced himself. “I am a friend of your husband’s, your grace,” he added with a cynical look thrown Derringer’s way.

“I very much doubt that, Sir Adam,” returned the duchess. “My husband doesn’t have friends. If he ever did, he has long since alienated them through his boorish behavior.”

The duke shrugged when the other man leveled a questioning look on him. “I’m like an open book, Prestwich. Easily read.”

The baronet snorted at this. “In a pig’s eye,” he muttered.

Leandra smiled despite herself. Prestwich caught it and shrugged. “I am truly a friend whether his unholy lordship chooses to recognize that fact or not.”

“I believe you,” Leandra murmured. “I will leave you now.” She dropped a slight curtsy out of respect and walked away.

“You do have a habit of trying to destroy your life, Derringer,” remarked  Prestwich thoughtfully.

The duke stared at him, saying nothing.

26

“And I don’t know why you insist that I stay out of it, Adam. This affects Levi, too, you know.”

Sir Adam Prestwich glared at his wife. “We are dealing with a possible madman, Brianna Prestwich. Not some schoolboy out for a lark.”

“A
possible
madman?” she interjected, snapping up the one unknown in her husband’s statement.

“It is impossible that he be other than completely unbalanced. Remember,” he added darkly, “you are not pregnant now. I will beat you.”

Bri released an annoyed sound that Adam might actually have called a growl—had his wife been an animal. “Very well, Adam, you win. I will not get involved in apprehending the villain.”

The baronet’s eyes narrowed. “You will not get involved in the investigation, either.”

This time she really did growl. “I hate you.”

Prestwich laughed outright. “No, you don’t. You love me and that’s why you are so upset that you feel obligated to obey.” He stepped close enough to wrap his arms around her. “Promise me, Bri.”