My Fair Mistress (35 page)

A wry laugh nearly escaped her lips. He hadn’t even waited to hear her answer, the conclusion apparently foregone in his mind. After all, what woman would refuse to marry the father of her baby in order to give the child a name?

Well, my baby can have my name,
she decided in a sudden stubborn burst of defiance.

With a tug, she freed her hand from Rafe’s. “I thank you for the honor of your proposal, but I am afraid I must decline.”

He stared at her, puzzled disbelief on his face. “Excuse me? What did you say?”

Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze. “I said that I will not marry you.”

His dark brows twisted into a scowl. “Don’t be absurd. You have to marry me. You’re having my child.”

“You have done as duty requires and offered to accept responsibility for the baby. I do not wish to wed you, however, so I hereby free you of your obligation. You may leave now, your conscience absolved of any guilt. I will see to the baby.”

He sprang to his feet, an expression as black and fearsome as a thundercloud descending over his features. She trembled, reading the anger that snapped like a pair of whips in his eyes.

“See to it how?” he demanded. “I can tell you’ve done a measure of thinking on the subject, so what are your plans?” Suddenly he paled. “Good God, you’re not intending to give the baby away, are you?”

She flinched as if he had struck her. “No, I would never do that.”

“Then what?” he asked, towering over her. “Surely you cannot think to openly have the child. Even as a respected widow, Society would never condone such an act.”

“I am well aware how Society would greet such news.” Turning her head, she glanced toward the window. “I am considering a trip abroad.”

“
Abroad?
Where abroad?”

“Italy perhaps.”

“Italy!” he blustered. “Out of the question. In case you haven’t heard, there’s a war going on. What if your ship was attacked? What if it sank? No, you are
not
going to Italy.”

“Scotland, then. What harm could come to me there?”

“None, except you’ll have to live among the Scots. As a rule, they don’t have a great love for the English aristocracy, and since you won’t be staying with some rich lord, you might not find it to your liking. Especially since you’ll be pregnant, with no husband in sight.”

“I’ll tell them I’m a widow, which is no lie since that’s exactly what I am. I just won’t mention that my husband’s been dead these past five years.”

“Or that you’re carrying your lover’s baby.”

“You’re not my lover anymore,” she shot back.

“True enough. But that baby you’re carrying is as much mine as yours, and I have a say in its upbringing.”

“You have
no
say.”

A muscle rippled in his jaw. “I will once I am your husband.” His eyes narrowed. “Or are you trying to arrange matters so you won’t have to go abroad at all and you can still keep the child?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about you and another man. I understand you’ve been very cozy with Lord Summersfield again. Is that your hope, that you’ll be able to marry him instead of me?”

Her mouth dropped open. “Lord Summersfield! Where on earth did you get such a notion?”

His eyes sparked deep green with a glare she might have mistaken for jealousy had she not known better. “Never mind how I came by the information,” he said. “Is it true? Are you going to marry Summersfield and somehow convince him that my child is his own? Is that why you’ve been seeing him, because you’re pregnant and in need of a husband?”

“
How dare you!
I have not been seeing him or any other man. I don’t know where you would get such an insulting idea.”

“The newspapers have it all wrong then about him dancing attendance upon you again. Or did he ever stop?”

A raw shiver of despair ran along her spine. “Get out.”

“Not until we have this settled.”

Leaning down, he set his hands onto the arms of her chair, boxing her in between. “Whatever other ideas you may have, you are going to marry me, Julianna. Summersfield and Italy and Scotland, those are fancies that are never going to happen. This baby is mine and will be raised as my child. My legitimate child. Your only task is to decide when and where we will be wed.”

“I am not marrying you.”

“Fine. I will make all the arrangements for our nuptials, then. You can busy yourself by selecting a gown and having your personal items packed for the move to my house.”

Her heart beat painfully beneath her breast. “You cannot force me to marry you.”

“That is true, I cannot. But I can inform everyone of your acquaintance that you are with child.
My
child. An ad in the
Times
should do the trick very nicely.”

His threat drove the breath from her lungs. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would dare anything for the sake of my son or daughter.”

“But you would be ruining more than my reputation. You would ruin my family as well.”

“Regretful but necessary. Of course, you can prevent it. You have only to say the word. So I ask you again, Julianna.
Will you marry me?
”

In that moment, she knew why he was called The Dragon. She’d heard he could be ruthless, even cruel, but until this moment, she hadn’t realized the depths to which he would go to have his way. She had never known he could be so heartless.

She wanted to tell him to leave, wanted to toss his ultimatum in his face and dare him to actually follow through on it. But what if he did exactly as he promised and broadcast their affair and her pregnancy before the entire world? Rafe didn’t strike her as the sort to make idle threats. When he pledged something, she suspected he did not back down.

If there were only herself to consider, she would have cast caution aside and told him to take himself and his marriage proposal and jump into the Thames. But she did not live in a vacuum, and her actions would affect others, most particularly those she loved, like Harry and Maris.

Even more, she had her child to consider. If the truth was universally known, her baby would forever be labeled a bastard, shunned and ridiculed, condemned to walk through life with a burden she had forced upon him as surely as if she had fastened the chains herself.

How could she do that to her child? How could she ruin his life simply because marriage to his father would surely break her heart?

Her shoulders sank in defeat. “All right, Rafe, I will marry you.”

With a satisfied nod, he straightened to his full height.

“But know this,” she continued in a low voice as he began to move away. “I will never be your wife.”

He stopped. “What?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You may force me to the altar but you cannot force me to pretend happiness inside this sham of a marriage.”

“Julianna—”

“If you do this, know that I will hate you.”

She saw a flicker of regret move across his face, or at least imagined she did. An instant later, the look was gone, an impenetrable mask in its place.

“That is, of course, your choice, madam.” Stepping back, he bowed. “I will apprise you of the wedding details shortly. Good day, my lady.”

Refusing to return his farewell, she watched as he made his way from the room. Only after she heard him leave the house, followed by the sound of his carriage wheels moving away, did she let loose the torrent of emotion bottled up inside.

Burying her face in her hands, she began to sob.

Chapter Nineteen

M
R. RAFE PENDRAGON to see you, Your Grace,” announced the Duke of Wyvern’s very proper butler from the doorway of the duke’s palatial study.

Of course, everything about the duke’s ancestral home was palatial, from the main entrance, whose drive was flanked by four hundred giant oak trees, planted in the eleventh century by the first duke himself, to the sprawling expanse of the more than 250 rooms that made up the regal home known as Rosemeade.

Rafe watched as his friend, Anthony Black, glanced up from the stack of letters before him, a smile breaking across the duke’s dark-haired, saturnine countenance. After tossing his ink pen onto the surface of his desk, a massive hunk of polished wood that was said to have been carved from a lightning-felled great oak nearly three hundred years before, Tony rose to his full six-foot-three and came around to greet him.

“What an excellent surprise!” he declared, reaching out to clasp Rafe’s hand for a hearty shake. “I was starting to go mad from the plague of correspondence my secretary has heaped upon me. You are just the excuse I need in order to take a break.”

A smile curved over Rafe’s mouth. “Glad I could provide a welcome interruption.”

Tony glanced across to his butler. “That will be all for now, thank you, Crump.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

With a bow, the servant withdrew, leaving the two men alone.

“So, what brings you out of the city in the middle of the week?” Tony asked, his footsteps silent on the plush blue-and-gold Turkey carpet. “You don’t generally have time for a visit, even if Rosemeade is little more than a three-hour journey from London, give or take a bit of traffic.”

“There’s something I need to discuss.”

“Ah. Port or whisky first?” the duke offered, opening the glass doors to a tall satinwood liquor cabinet that stood along one wall.

“Whisky.” Accepting the drink a minute later, Rafe dropped down into a chair.

Returning with a snifter of dark-hued port in hand, Wyvern resumed his seat behind the desk. “Tell me, then, what is on your mind?”

“Titles.”

Tony drank a swallow of the liquor, curiosity gleaming in his intense, midnight-blue gaze. “Really? Whose title in particular?”

“Mine. I have decided to acquire one.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes, for myself. Did I not just say? Though, of course, I realize one doesn’t actually
buy
a title, but instead performs a service for the monarch. I thought a more-than-generous donation to the war effort would be an effective persuasion.”

The duke took another large swallow of port, then set down his glass with a quiet click. “I’m sure it will be. Forgive me for being astonished, though. How many years is it now that I have been trying to convince you to take a title?”

Rafe gave a wry smile. “Several, if I recall correctly. I believe your ‘suggestions’ began when you realized I had enough money to actually manage the trick.”

“I
suggested
it because unlike most of the wealthy Cits who try to muscle their way into the peerage, you actually have the manners and education to comport yourself once you arrive. God knows you’re as blue-blooded as most of the lords I know, and quite a bit more than some.”

“I thank you for the vote of confidence; however, I doubt I will be so warmly received by most of your brethren in the Ton.”

Tony frowned. “A great many of them are terrible snobs, I agree, but if you want this, I know you can make it work. And I will gladly see that you are received. Vessey will as well, I am certain.”

“Yes, you and Ethan are loyal friends. You always have been, and I thank you.”

The duke waved off Rafe’s statement with a hand.

“So why? Why now, when you have never wanted this before?”

And still don’t want it, if truth be known,
Rafe thought.

But his life was about to change in the next few days. He would have a wife and child, and for them, he wanted more.

If he had a title, his son would inherit not only a solid financial legacy but an aristocratic name as well. The boy would not have to suffer the indignities Rafe had faced growing up. Oh, there might be the occasional sneer about his father’s lack of proper lineage, but the world would never be able to find fault on his mother’s side. And if he and Julianna should be blessed with a daughter instead, the girl would benefit as well. When the time came, her chances of making a good marriage would be virtually assured.

But more than the child, there was Julianna herself.

Even now, anger smoldered hot as ash inside him to think she had decided not to tell him about the baby. If her brother hadn’t interfered, Rafe might never have known. For that alone, he supposed he owed Allerton his thanks.

As for Julianna, he had to admit her refusal had stung. After the way she’d pleaded with him not to end their affair, he’d hoped she might be glad of his proposal. At the very least, he’d assumed she would be relieved that he was willing to take responsibility for their child. But then, as he had to remind himself, she hadn’t wanted him to know about the baby, obviously determined to keep him out of her life forever.

Apparently her tears that last day in Queens Square had meant nothing, her emotions based solely on passion. Perhaps her rejection shouldn’t have surprised him, but considering her choices—marriage to him or bearing an out-of-wedlock baby that she would never have been able to pass off as anything else—her acceptance had seemed certain.

Unless she’d lied and had been planning to marry Summersfield, after all.

Whatever the case, she’d left him no choice. Though he hadn’t enjoyed it, he’d been compelled to force her hand. When she’d said he wanted no bastard children, she was right. Their baby must have a name, and that name would be Pendragon.