Heartless (21 page)

Was it an apology? Ashley was not sure. But the words did cast him in the role of younger brother, who could not be expected to behave responsibly. The words irritated and hurt him and struck him with their truth. He should have realized that someone other than her nurse would be looking for the child.

“I am sorry,” he heard himself saying. The words came out sounding as if he was anything but sorry. But he had spoken them at least.

Luke did not reply for a while. “I trust you, Ashley,” he said. “That was not my meaning when I saw you with her.”

Although he had been holding the child's hand? Oh, yes, deuce take it, it had been his meaning. But Ashley supposed it was as close as he was going to get to an apology from his brother.

Emily, walking quietly between them, holding on to an arm of each, looked up at them, one at a time, and smiled her serene, sunny smile at each.

Did she know. Ashley wondered, what had been going on across the top of her head? He was given the strange impression that she did, that she had maneuvered it. An impossibility, of course. She was a deaf-mute child.

•   •   •

Dealing
with a family was not at all easy, Luke was finding. He was out of the habit. Indeed, he had deliberately cultivated independence. He was not enjoying being part of his family again. He especially resented being the head of it. Sometimes he longed for his life in Paris with a deep nostalgia.

Anna spoke to him about Doris one morning while they were out riding. He resented the introduction of the topic at a time of day that he was beginning to think of as all their own, just for themselves. He liked to ride a little behind her, admiring the graceful picture she made in the saddle, wishing that they could be alone together somewhere, perhaps in Paris, with no one to concern themselves over except themselves. And he consciously enjoyed each such morning. Soon her pregnancy would be far enough advanced that he must forbid her to ride altogether. Then he would be able to ride alone again. The prospect was surprisingly unappealing.

He resented her introducing a serious topic into their conversation. He relied on Anna to add light to his life.

“Luke,” she said abruptly, “Doris is unhappy.”

Just as if he had not noticed for himself. Just as if he did not feel uneasy about it, though he had nothing for which to blame himself. “She is sulking like a sullen child, waiting to be noticed,” he said more coldly than he had intended.

“That is exactly what your mother says,” Anna said quietly.

So his mother, too, was coldly ignoring Doris? It was like her to do so. Was he like his mother, then? Had he grown to resemble her over the years? He could remember Doris's riding up before him on his horse as a child though their parents had always scolded her when they knew and told her that only babies had to share a horse with their brothers. He had encouraged the child because he had enjoyed her chatter. Only now did he realize that he had been a lonely boy who had basked in the adoration of his much younger brother and sister. He could remember Doris's telling him on one occasion, her head snuggled against his chest, that she was going to marry him when she grew up. She had been maybe five years old at the time.

“I do not believe there is anything I can do to help her, madam,” he said to Anna now. “Putting an end to that association and sending her home to prevent clandestine communications and a possible repetition of the attempt to elope were the only things to be done. I am not sorry that I did them.”

“No,” Anna said, “you were quite right to save her from herself, Luke. But—”

“But what?” He did not need Anna as his conscience. He hoped she was not going to adopt that role.

“I believe she feels that it was your own consequence and the pride of the family you were safeguarding,” she said. “I believe she feels that you do not love her, Luke.”

You cannot marry me, Dor,
he had told his five-year-old sister with a chuckle.
I
am your brother. But I love you more than anyone in the world,
she had protested, gazing up at him with hurt eyes.
More than Mama and Papa and George. A little bit more than Ashley.
He had hugged her thin little body with one arm.
I
love you too,
he had told her.
More than anyone else except Ash
—though he had adored George too.
I
love the two of you equally. We will always love each other in a special way because we are brother and sister.
She had snuggled against him as he guided the horse.
I
am going to ask the king,
she had said.
He will let me marry you, Luke.

There had been a lengthy silence between him and his wife. “Do you?” she prompted, her voice rather tense. “Do you love her?”

“I know nothing about love, Anna,” he said. “I made that clear to you the morning after our wedding. I can only perform my duties here to the best of my ability. You would do well to remember that it is pointless to appeal to sentiments I do not feel.”

She did not reply but after another short silence spurred her horse, first into a canter and then a gallop. He kept pace with her and lifted her silently down when they were back in the stables. He did not know if the gallop had been a deliberate defiance of his order. But he did not scold her. He would be ripping up at the wrong person. She had shown him his own inadequacy and he resented being made to feel guilty.

He resented the fact that she had set herself to arouse his conscience. Doris was his sister, his family. He would deal with her as he saw fit. He did not need Anna to prompt his actions. He needed Anna only for . . . But he frowned. No, that was unfair. He needed Anna for more than just that.
Needed?
He frowned again over the word his mind had chosen.

He did try to talk with Doris. But he made the mistake of summoning her to his office and retreating behind his desk when she came. She did not help matters, of course, when she refused the offered seat at the other side of it. She preferred to stand, she told him, and did so, establishing a sort of parent/child disciplinary relationship before anything of any significance had been said.

“You are unhappy,” he said.

She laughed.

“Doris,” he said, “it was intolerable. Even if you could have adjusted your life to poverty and to a loss of status and all the luxuries with which you have been surrounded since birth, you could not have been happy with Frawley. He wanted your fortune more than he wanted you.”

“Perhaps even so he wanted me more than I am wanted here,” she said, her eyes and her voice cold.

“You belong here,” he said. “You have family here. You are my sister. Do you not believe that he was willing to take money—five thousand pounds—in return for giving up his courtship of you?”

“Perhaps,” she said, “you have never known a poverty so extreme that five thousand pounds can be an overwhelming temptation. Doubtless it seems a paltry sum to you.”

“Zounds, Doris,” he said, frowning, “are you defending him?”

“I hate him,” she said calmly, “because I believe you. But I hate you more for tempting him and exposing that weakness in him.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “You hate me for saving you from an unspeakably dreadful future,” he said.

“Yes.” She added no further explanation.

I hate you,
she had told him once; she was perhaps eight years old at the time. An elderly dog of which she was passionately fond had been ill and suffering and Luke had deliberately taken Doris out of the way while the poor animal was shot and buried. She had been distraught on their return, especially when she discovered that he had known and had kept her away.
I hate you. I'll never ever love you again.

How had he handled the situation then? He had grabbed her and hugged her tightly to him while she struggled and kicked and screamed. He had held her until she had finally dissolved into tears and then he had rocked her and cried with her despite his nineteen years. And then he had carried her up to her room and sat with her on his lap until she fell asleep and he could set her down gently on her bed.

That was what he had done then. But then was not now. Now he drummed his fingers on the desktop and looked at her with shuttered eyes.

“You will remain here over the winter,” he said. “Perhaps next year I will permit you to go back to town. You will have forgotten Frawley by then and will be ready to make a more eligible match.” He had intended the words to sound conciliatory.

She half smiled at him. “Am I dismissed now?” she asked.

He nodded.

She turned away, but she stopped before proceeding on her way to the door. “I always thought,” she said, “that the worst thing in the world would be never to see you again. I was very wrong. The worst thing has proved to be your coming home. I hope that Anna has a son. I hope she has many sons. Because if Ashley ever becomes duke, perhaps I will lose him too.”

•   •   •

And
then there was Henrietta.

“Luke,” Anna said to him one day after she had lain down on her bed and he had covered her with the blankets—he had seen that she was tired after an afternoon call and had insisted on bringing her upstairs to rest. “Henrietta feels that the furnishings and draperies should be changed in some of the rooms. She feels that the house should reflect the fact that this is the middle of the eighteenth century. She wanted me to speak to you about it.”

He seated himself on the side of the bed. “And what do you feel?” he asked her.

She hesitated. “I like the atmosphere of antiquity and elegance here,” she said. “I hate the thought of changing anything. But I can see her point.”

“We will follow your wishes,” he said.

“But it is what she planned with her husband,” she said, looking unhappy. “I think she finds the situation difficult, though she is always very sweet about it and swears she is happy to have me here. Perhaps we should . . .”

He leaned toward her. “Perhaps we should remember,” he said, “that you are my duchess, madam, and not Henrietta. There will be no changes in the furnishings or draperies of the house. The decision is mine, made on your recommendation, and will not be changed.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “She is my friend,” she said. “I do not want to make her unhappy, Luke. She told me what happened.” She bit her lip. “About why she married your brother rather than you.”

He straightened up. “I suppose,” he said, “it was inevitable you find out sooner or later. 'Twas all a long time ago. 'Tis all ancient history.”

She smiled rather wanly.

And rather than discuss the matter further, as he supposed he ought, he got to his feet and strode from the room without another word. There was really nothing else to be said and he preferred not to talk about such matters with Anna. Anna was his present and his future. He did not want her entangled in his past.

But there was still Henrietta. Always Henrietta. If he was out riding alone, he met her. If he was out walking alone, he met her. If he was in the library or some other room alone, she joined him there. Always accidentally. She was always distressed to find that he was in that particular place at that particular time.

He realized that it was all deliberate, just as that first meeting at the stile had been. Henrietta had not hardened her heart as he had. She had suffered every day during her marriage and every day since, she had told him. And now, even knowing him married and knowing he could not marry her even if he were not, she could not stay away from him. She was unhappy having him close but could not stay away.

And what about his own feelings? Was he still attracted to her? Yes, certainly there was that. She was a very attractive woman. Even a dispassionate mind would be forced to admit that. But deep down did he still love her? Was he still capable of love?

He honestly did not know the answers. But he lived in dread of discovering them. And he lived in dread of those arranged meetings, fearing what might come of them if he lowered his guard for even one moment. Yet he would not express his displeasure to Henrietta. There had been so much pain in her life.

•   •   •

Henrietta
had ridden alone to Wycherly to call on her brother. She was in the habit of riding alone, of visiting alone. Restlessness had been a part of her nature since—since she had made some foolish and disastrous choices many years before.

Having Luke back home was intolerable, she had just told William. Once he had been hers, entirely hers, clay in her hands. She remembered him crying in her arms when she told him she must marry George. She remembered that he had challenged George to a duel for her sake and almost killed him, too. She had always wondered what would have happened if he had succeeded. Could she have married him? Would she have?

But it was intolerable having him back. She had known they could never marry, but she had pictured them living together at Bowden, the duke and duchess, though not married to each other. She had pictured herself as mistress at Bowden, doing what she wished there, as George had never allowed her to do. She had pictured Luke, indulgent and loving her. She had never believed all those stories about him.

But he had brought home a wife. It was impossible to know if he was fond of Anna or not. But he clearly meant Anna to be mistress at Bowden. And he had got Anna with child.

Henrietta, riding homeward down the dark, winding driveway leading from her brother's house, gazed down at the road ahead. She would never forget her disappointment at giving birth to a stillborn son. She would never forget George's telling her, brutal as always, that he was glad, that he had never been more happy of anything in his life. That he would make sure she had no more chance to bear a child of his.

Luke would be his heir, he had said with a curious, twisted smile.