My Fair Princess (26 page)

His throat went tight, and he took a few seconds before replying. “Thank you. I wish my father had felt the same.”

“He blamed you?”

Charles sighed, letting his gaze wander around the bucolic country scene. But he didn't really see it, because all he saw was his past. “Yes, as I blame myself. After all, I killed him.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Gillian plastered her ear to her bedroom door. There was no creak of a floorboard, no murmur of a maid or footman out in the hall attending to late-night duties. Everyone in the household was abed—except its master, she hoped. Charles liked to spend time in the library before retiring, often coming up last. She'd heard his quiet but firm tread almost every night as he passed by her room on the way to the ducal apartments. A few times, those footsteps had paused outside her door.

And more than a few times, she'd been tempted to fling open the door and yank him into her room. That illustrated how weak she'd become when it came to His Grace, the Duke of Leverton.

Gillian looked over her shoulder and eyed one of the windows. She'd thought about opening the casement and climbing down the wall, just to keep in practice. But the brick was in excellent repair, which would mean fewer toe holds, and the ivy twining up the side of the manor house might not be strong enough to hold her weight. The last thing she wished to do was land with a thump on the terrace just outside the library. So precipitous an appearance would hardly put Leverton in good temper.

She opened the door and slipped into the darkened corridor. Since her eyesight was excellent, she had no trouble making her way to the top of the stairs without mishap. A lamp burned on the table in the entrance hall below, and a faint light seeped out from under the library door. She hurried down the stairs and across the hall, but hesitated outside the door. It took her some moments—and a bracing mental lecture—to work up the courage to face the unpleasant task ahead. Finally, she forced herself to open the door and step inside.

Leverton sat at his desk, his head bent over a ledger. He'd taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, exposing his muscled forearms. The gentle glow from the lamp at his elbow and the flickering blaze from the fire in the grate sparked gold in his tawny-colored hair and cast shadows under his high cheekbones. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him, and Gillian had to resist the urge to rub a sore spot right over her heart.

She closed the door with a decided click. Charles glanced up with a slight frown. He stared blankly for a second, then his expression lit up with a smile that seemed reserved just for her. It held equal parts amusement and desire, and it never failed to bring heat rushing to her cheeks.

He rose and came to meet her. “Gillian, I thought you were abed some time ago.”

She dredged up a smile. “I, ah, couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd see if you were still awake.”

He tipped her chin up and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. Gillian had to stifle a moan and the overwhelming urge to lean into him.

“I hope I'm not interrupting you,” she said, mentally cursing how breathless she sounded when he released her.

“I'm happy for the interruption.” He led her to the low chaise in front of the fireplace. “I've just been going over the estate ledgers.”

She caught a faint note of irritation in his voice. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

“Not really. Scunthorpe is an extremely competent manager. That doesn't mean, however, that I agree with all the decisions he's made over the last five years.” He ruffled a hand through his hair.

She'd never seen him so casually attired, or with his hair so disordered. He'd even taken off his cravat, exposing the strong muscles of his throat. Leverton could never be anything less than handsome, but his masculine perfection, with never a hair out of place, could be somewhat intimidating. Now rumpled and in his shirtsleeves, he was so appealing that it took her breath away. Even that night on the beach, when she'd come apart in his arms, not even a button on his jacket had been disturbed. Seeing him like this . . . well, Gillian couldn't help wishing to see more, much more.

But she now knew that could never happen.

“I'm forgetting my manners,” he said, smiling down at her. “Would you like something to drink? Perhaps a sherry or a ratafia?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Must I?”

He laughed, and the husky sound of it warmed her like summer sunshine. “Of course not. What would you like?”

“Brandy would be nice. Port would be even better.”

When he lifted a brow, Gillian couldn't help feeling a tad defensive. “If one is going to drink, one might as well do it properly and not waste it on swill like ratafia.”

“That is a sensible though rather shocking philosophy for a young lady.”

“I do strive to be sensible at all times, as you know.”

He let out a snort, then went off to fetch her a drink from the sideboard between two bookshelves.

“Did you have something specific you wished to talk about?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Or were you simply feeling restless? If it's the latter, I have an excellent remedy.”

His wicked grin as he came back told Gillian exactly what he had in mind. And her body's reaction told her that it thoroughly agreed with his suggestion. But there was no point in torturing herself.

“I do wish to speak with you about our current situation, Your Grace,” she said. “It's a matter of some urgency.”

He set the glasses on a small table, then sat next to her on the chaise, his big body crowding her against the plump cushions. She edged away from him, trying not to make it too obvious.

Predictably, he noticed. Just as predictably, he didn't look happy about it. “Gillian, I thought we agreed we would not address each other formally in private.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Sorry. It's a difficult habit to break.”

“I have no doubt you will succeed with practice. Now, why don't you tell me what's bothering you?”

“It's what we talked about today. Your betrothal to Lady Letitia.”

“I thought we had exhausted that particular topic.”

They'd spent the rest of their walk home from church discussing that unfortunate period of his life. Gillian had been mystified and then appalled that Charles had blamed himself for his father's poor health and subsequent death from apoplexy. She'd told him that he was an idiot to think that way, but nothing she'd said had been enough to truly convince him.

“The part about your not being responsible for your father's death?” she asked. “No, I don't think we did reach a satisfactory conclusion on that matter.”

“But I am responsible. If I'd listened to my father about Letitia, he might still be alive today.”

“Not according to your sister. She said your father's heart had been bad for some years.”

“Yes, and my stupidity and stubbornness contributed to that,” he said in a grim tone. “He recognized Letitia for what she was. I, however, refused to see it.”

“You were young and in love.”

“I was an idiot.” He stared into the fire, his hands fisted on his thighs.

She forced one of his hands open, wriggling her fingers between his. “Young men generally are, as are young ladies on occasion. But you told me that your mother and older sister approved of Lady Letitia, as did most of your friends and family.”

“Yes, only Father and Elizabeth raised the alarm—and Lendale. He saw through Letitia and Stratton from the beginning and tried to warn me about them, but I wouldn't listen.”

She smiled. “I knew there was a reason I liked him so much.”

He finally looked at her, his gaze narrowed. “Not too much, I hope.”

“Please. He
is
only a marquess.”

Charles's lips curved up in a reluctant smile. “You are a devil, Miss Gillian Dryden.”

“So I've been told. Now, may I make another point?”

“Can I stop you?”

“Don't even try,” she said with an answering smile. “Charles, you must know that you are no more responsible for your father's death than I am responsible for the unfortunate circumstances of my birth. It is never wrong to love someone. Ever. If the person takes advantage of that, then the fault lies with him or her.”

He played with her fingers as he ruminated over her words. “So young, and yet so wise in matters of the heart. How is that possible?”

“Because it happened to me,” she said quietly.

He still fiddled with her hand, as if only half listening. “What do you mean?”

She forced herself to speak calmly. “I mean that I cannot marry you, precisely because I do know what you're talking about. I was betrayed in much the same way as you were.”

He sat up straight and turned to face her directly. “What are you talking about?”

She tried to extract her hand from his grip, but he refused to let go. She decided it would be undignified to tussle with him. “When you asked me to marry you, I believed it was because you felt duty bound to do so. Because of what happened on the beach the other night.”

“Only in part, which was why I told you about Letitia. Because of that incident, I'm a cautious man, and I would never inadvertently stumble into marriage. From the moment I put my hands on you, my decision was made, and deliberately so.”

When hope flared in her heart, she squashed it down. “And that still defies logic. I'm reckless to a fault, and I have a terrible reputation. I'm like a dog with a long, muddy tail, mucking up your pristine floors.”

His gaze sparked with quick laughter. “You are decidedly not like Letitia—or a muddy dog.”

“Perhaps not, but you need a wife whose character is beyond reproach.” She finally wriggled her hand away and stood, putting some distance between them.

“Gillian, in every important way, your character is above reproach,” Charles said.

He certainly wasn't making it easy on her. “Are you sure about that?” she hedged, foolishly delaying the inevitable.

“Do you truly need me to reassure you? Very well, then. You must realize that I have made a study of you these last several weeks, and I know you to be a woman of solid character and genuine moral fiber. You have all the qualities a man of sense would seek in a wife.”

“Good Lord,” she said, startled. “How dreadfully boring. That's not a very compelling recipe for wedded bliss, if you ask me.” Then she remembered she was supposed to be rejecting him. “Not that it really matters.”

“You did ask, but I suppose I could do better.”

“I should think so. Whoever thought I'd be the one to teach
you
proper mating behavior?”

He shook his head as he came to his feet. “My dear girl, the things you say. Then let me try to correct my oafish ways.”

He pounced on her, capturing the hands she had clenched against her stomach. He gently pried them apart, first kissing one palm, then the other. The backs of her knees went shivery and weak.

“Gillian Dryden, you are a beautiful, sweet girl. Despite your best efforts to convince me otherwise, you are also utterly charming. More important, you are exceedingly generous of spirit and very loyal, both rare qualities in my estimation.”

“I am truly all that?” she whispered, gazing up at him. She knew she must look like a lovestruck fool.

“All that and more. And as for your heart, whatever you might think—and whatever others might think—it is both innocent and true. Given all that, why wouldn't I wish to marry you?”

She could see that he believed everything he said, something she found both wonderful and awful. “But, Charles, that's just it,” she said miserably. “I'm not innocent.”

He froze for several agonizing moments. “Would you care to explain what you mean by that?” he finally said.

Did she truly have to spell it out for him? “What we did on the beach the other night . . . It wasn't the first time . . .” Her voice died as her nerve reached its breaking point. She swore his eyes had just transformed into shards of blue ice.

“You've been tampered with, to use your unfortunate turn of phrase?”

She nodded, feeling both humiliated and angry. This was exactly why she had no wish to marry and why she avoided men. Women always had to explain themselves to men. It was invariably a tedious and embarrassing exercise, and tonight was certainly no exception.

Except that she did want to marry Leverton.

She repressed the instinct to slink out of the room. Though she was ashamed of that ugly episode in her past, it hadn't entirely been her fault. And she'd be damned if she backed down in front of any man, even Leverton. The past was the past, and she couldn't change it. All she could do was move forward and try not to make the same mistake. Not be dragooned into marriage with a man who would surely come to despise her.

As she stared defiantly back at him, a subtle change came over his features. He still looked disturbed, but his frown now seemed more one of reflection than anger. “Gillian, how old were you when this happened?”

She blinked. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

There was no reason not to tell him. Perhaps it might convince him that she was past redemption and therefore entirely unsuitable. “I was sixteen.”

“Was it shortly after your stepfather's death?”

“Yes, about six weeks later. It . . . it didn't last very long, if that's what you're asking.” Despite her determination not to back down, she couldn't hold back a flush of shame. Her family had still been in mourning—she'd still been in mourning—but it hadn't stopped her from acting like a fool.

He closed his eyes and muttered a curse. No doubt he now understood how unsuitable she was to be any respectable man's wife, much less his. If she could persuade him to convince her mother and grandmother that such was the case, she might finally be allowed to return to Sicily. That, of course, made her very happy—or at least it would once she got over the sensation that she'd just ripped her throbbing heart from her chest and flung it at his feet.