Miracle (6 page)

Turning his gaze to Clayton's, regarding his clenched jaw and pale face, he hurried to add, "Sorry. I occasionally forget your aversion to water."

Clayton moved restlessly about the room, eventually ending up at the liquor cabinet, where he poured himself a potent brandy. Trey remained quiet until his brother had sufficiently fortified himself, then he continued. "Which brings us back to my proposition."

"I'm not certain I like the sound of that word—
proposition
." Clayton drank down the brandy and put his glass aside, one side of his mouth turning up in a manner that shouted obstinacy.

"I trust you'll hear me out completely before coming to any hasty conclusions," stated the duke.

Clayton remained silent, the soft morning light spilling through the nearby window casting shadows across his features. It was all coming to him now, why Trey had brought him here. While his brother might be wily and desperate enough to marry some commoner and get her with child in hopes that their grandmother would cough up a portion of his future inheritance, he would not stoop so low as to court her. Imagine the duke of Salterdon prostrating himself before some plebeian. Unthinkable.

"She's really very charming, Clay."

"No."

"But—"

"Absolutely not."

"You
might even find her appealing. And interesting. I would go so far as to call her . . . fascinating!"

Clayton turned toward the door.

"Clay," the duke called. "I beg you . . ."

Clayton Hawthorne, Lord Basingstoke,
Hawcroft
,
Winchfield
,
Bishopstoke
, and
Tichfield
, among others, paused in his escape and looked back. His brother stood stiffly before the French doors, sunlight spilling over his shoulders, his demeanor rigid, his brow slightly sweating.

"I'm in trouble," the duke confessed.

"How much?" Clayton demanded with little inflection.

"What difference does it make? You've already loaned me more than most men realize in three lifetimes; I refuse to plead a loan from you again."

"Brilliant of you, considering you haven't repaid the thirty thousand you already owe me. Have you considered altering your lifestyle a bit, or is it inappropriate of me to call that to Your Grace's attention?"

Trey raised both eyebrows.

Clayton continued to regard his brother impassively, the old, familiar temper flaring to life somewhere deep in his belly. Though he did his best to conceal it, the emotion must have shown.

Trey's hands clenched, his eyes narrowed, and he laughed dryly. "Really, Clay, we've grown too old for these silly inclinations toward resentfulness of my birth advantage. I can hardly be held accountable for the fact that I was born first, and was therefore in the position of inheriting our father's title."

"And his fortune."

"You've not done so badly, Clay—"

"Correct. While you squandered away our family's fine name, reputation, and wealth, I was securing my future: plowing the ground, planting crops, and turning Basingstoke into one of the finest houses in England—all while you stood back with your nose in the air and condemned my plebeian traits. But who, may I ask you, is now begging for help?"

For an instant, Salterdon lowered his eyes and shifted his shoulders within the exceedingly fine cutaway coat before bringing his eyes back to Clay's. Clayton shook his head. "This time, I have no intention of fighting back the wolves for you, Your Grace."

"Clayton, I made bad investments—"

Clayton turned his back on his brother, strode gracefully and deliberately down the immense, marble-floored gallery toward the front doors where the
majordomo
stood like a sentinel, prepared to spring to his assistance.

"
Dammit
, Clayton, listen to me!" the duke shouted, bringing Clayton to an abrupt halt. He pivoted to face his own likeness.

Clay had seen that look before—not simply in his brother's eyes, but in the face of every fool who had ever been overly infatuated with the power and prestige their station in life could give them. They would sacrifice anything to keep it: honor, pride, dignity. In the end, they usually lost it all anyway with a single throw of the dice. Clay should know. He had won Basingstoke Hall in the same manner.

Finally, the duke of Salterdon wearily covered his face with his hands. His shoulders sank as he said more softly, "I have no place else to turn, Clay. The banks refuse to advance me any more loans. There are certain . . . gentlemen who are threatening to confront grandmother if I don't pay up soon. We both know grandmother refuses to grant me any further loans until I marry and produce an heir."

Silence.

Clayton took a long breath and slowly released it. Behind him, the majordomo's quiet footsteps retreated down the hall, and a door shut gently in the distance.

"What do you want me to do, exactly?" Clayton asked.

"Court the lass. Make her fall in love with the duke— agree to marry the duke. Bring her back to London for the wedding at which time I, the duke, will stand before the vicar and pledge my vows. She'll never be the wiser; we're identical, after all. If the duchess has a difficult time telling us apart, the girl certainly shall. Once the child has been conceived, I'll simply send the girl away to live in my country home in York."

"And if the chit doesn't care for the duke?" Clay asked pointedly.

"Don't be ridiculous. There hasn't been a woman whom you've set out to seduce who hasn't fallen heels over head for you."

Silence again. The seconds ticked by like tiny eternities; the air between them seemed charged with electricity.

Finally: "Grandmother will never accept it, Trey. The
moment
she learns that you've married a commoner she'll have the marriage annulled and pay the girl off—"

"But that's the beauty of it, you see. She's not a commoner. She's
Lady
Cavendish—the daughter of some deceased lord with a penchant for old castles—"

"No." Clayton shook his head. "I don't care if she is the bloody queen of England—"

"Dammit!" Trey swore through his teeth, "You owe me, Clay."

Clayton did not move. He didn't so much as blink but regarded his brother with a cold passivity that made Trey take a step back before catching himself and planting his feet.

"You owe me," Salterdon said in a quieter, more tentative voice. "If it wasn't for me, you would be dead now, and we both know it. In your gratitude that day, you vowed to me that you would someday make it up to me, that I wouldn't regret having risked my life to save yours."

"You bastard," Clayton growled. He turned toward the massive front doors, threw them open, and stalked down the curving stairwell toward his horse and groom.

Behind him, Trey yelled, "I take that as an agreement, Clayton."

Snatching the reins from the groom's hands, with the horse snorting and prancing in place, Clay flashed his brother a dark and malignant glare.

The duke of Salterdon broke into a relieved smile, and cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, "I swear you won't regret it, Clay. You may fall in love with her yourself!"

"The hell you say," Clayton returned, and gracefully mounted the high-spirited steed, adeptly lacing his fingers through the reins, little caring that his gloves were still tucked inside the waistband of his tight black breeches. The wind caught his dark hair as he drove his heels into his stallion's heaving sides and he muttered under his breath: "For me to fall in love with any girl, my
blackhearted
brother, would take a miracle." bringing Clayton to an abrupt halt. He pivoted to face his own likeness.

Clay had seen that look before—not simply in his brother's eyes, but in the face of every fool who had ever been overly infatuated with the power and prestige their station in life could give them. They would sacrifice anything to keep it: honor, pride, dignity. In the end, they usually lost it all anyway with a single throw of the dice. Clay should know. He had won Basingstoke Hall in the same manner.

Finally, the duke of Salterdon wearily covered his face with his hands. His shoulders sank as he said more softly, "I have no place else to turn, Clay. The banks refuse to advance me any more loans. There are certain . . . gentlemen who are threatening to confront grandmother if I don't pay up soon. We both know grandmother refuses to grant me any further loans until I marry and produce an heir."

Silence.

Clayton took a long breath and slowly released it. Behind him, the majordomo's quiet footsteps retreated down the hall, and a door shut gently in the distance.

"What do you want me to do, exactly?" Clayton asked.

"Court the lass. Make her fall in love with the duke— agree to marry the duke. Bring her back to London for the wedding at which time I, the duke, will stand before the vicar and pledge my vows. She'll never be the wiser; we're identical, after all. If the duchess has a difficult time telling us apart, the girl certainly shall. Once the child has been conceived, I'll simply send the girl away to live in my country home in York."

"And if the chit doesn't care for the duke?" Clay asked pointedly.

"Don't be ridiculous. There hasn't been a woman whom you've set out to seduce who hasn't fallen heels over head for you."

Silence again. The seconds ticked by like tiny eternities; the air between them seemed charged with electricity.

Finally: "Grandmother will never accept it, Trey. The
moment
she learns that you've married a commoner she'll have the marriage annulled and pay the girl off—"

"But that's the beauty of it, you see. She's not a commoner. She's
Lady
Cavendish—the daughter of some deceased lord with a penchant for old castles—"

"No." Clayton shook his head. "I don't care if she is the bloody queen of England—"

"Dammit!" Trey swore through his teeth, "You owe me, Clay."

Clayton did not move. He didn't so much as blink but regarded his brother with a cold passivity that made Trey take a step back before catching himself and planting his feet.

"You owe me," Salterdon said in a quieter, more tentative voice. "If it wasn't for me, you would be dead now, and we both know it. In your gratitude that day, you vowed to me that you would someday make it up to me, that I wouldn't regret having risked my life to save yours."

"You bastard," Clayton growled. He turned toward the massive front doors, threw them open, and stalked down the curving stairwell toward his horse and groom.

Behind him, Trey yelled, "I take that as an agreement, Clayton."

Snatching the reins from the groom's hands, with the horse snorting and prancing in place, Clay flashed his brother a dark and malignant glare.

The duke of Salterdon broke into a relieved smile, and cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, "I swear you won't regret it, Clay. You may fall in love with her yourself!"

"The hell you say," Clayton returned, and gracefully mounted the high-spirited steed, adeptly lacing his fingers through the reins, little caring that his gloves were still tucked inside the waistband of his tight black breeches. The wind caught his dark hair as he drove his heels into his stallion's heaving sides and he muttered under his breath: "For me to fall in love with any girl, my
blackhearted
brother, would take a miracle."

Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a

book known to him by heart; and his friends

could only read the title.

VIRGINIA WOOLF

Chapter Two

The Isle of Wight

Wind whipped up the bleak, staggered faces of
Rocken
End Race and slammed like a cold, gusty fist against the walls of the lighthouse. Shutters rattled. The stack of wood piled against the clammy stone wall shifted and collapsed to the floor. Miracle cast it a grieved glance, repositioned her tottering acorns, and closed her eyes again, muttering the old Druid love spell, ignoring the howl of the wind.