Red Roses Mean Love (35 page)

"No. Stephen was here for dinner the night before last. He and Justin had a most revealing conversation which I, ah, accidentally overheard. Stephen was foxed, and revealed quite a bit of his feelings to Justin."

"He spoke of a plot to kill him?"

"Yes. And he spoke about you."

"Me?"

"Yes. That is how I knew who you were and where you lived. Hayley, ever since Stephen returned to
London
he's been miserable. He misses you. He needs you."

Hayley shook her head. "No. You're wrong."

"I'm not wrong,"
Victoria
said vehemently. "I heard it from his own lips. I know Stephen very well. Except for Justin, I am the person he is closest to. Justin is worried about him, and so am I. He doesn't sleep, he barely eats, and he's drinking far too much. He's lost interest in everything, and his eyes…
Hayley, his eyes are so empty and haunted."

"Why are you telling me this?" Hayley whispered, fighting back tears.

"Because he loves you, although he's too foolish to know it."

Hayley dropped her head into her shaking hands.
Victoria
's words crashed into her, mortifying her, confusing her.

"He wants to go to you, Hayley, but he feels he can't. Not with someone trying to kill him. He doesn't want to place you or your family in any danger."

Hayley raised her head. "Is that why he didn't tell me the
truth about who he was?"

"I honestly don't know. I only know what I overheard."

"Perhaps you should tell me what you heard."

"Of course." When
Victoria
finished, Hayley felt as battered as if she'd fallen off a cliff. She was angry at him for his duplicity, terrified for his safety, heartsick at the hopelessness of her love for him.

Victoria
reached out and squeezed her hands. "Stephen has never been a happy man, Hayley. Our father has always been very hard on him, demanding absolute perfection from him because he's the heir. As a result, Stephen is quite cold
and forbidding with most people. But since his return to
London
two weeks ago, he has been abjectly miserable. Someone wants him dead, and I'm afraid they'll succeed before he pulls himself together."

The thought of Stephen dead made Hayley's blood freeze in her veins. "But what can I do? I offered him everything I could, but he still left."

"But don't you see, he
had
to leave. He had to return to
London
to find out who's trying to kill him."

"Again, I ask, what can I possibly do?"

"You can make him happy. Do you love him?"

Hayley drew in a sharp breath at the sudden question.
Do you love him?
A hundred images of Stephen flashed in her mind; images she'd tried without success to banish.

Images of the man she loved.

Unable to deny it, she whispered, "Yes. But surely you can see how hopeless this is. Stephen and I are from two different worlds. Dear God, he's a
marquess.
I would never fit in—"

"Nonsense,"
Victoria
interrupted, waving her hand in a
dismissive fashion. "You could if you wanted to. All you would require is the proper support and patronage, and you already have that."

"I do? Who?"

"Me."
Victoria
's gaze was steady and serious. "I want Stephen happy. Even if I didn't find you delightful, which I
do, you're the woman he wants. That is good enough for me.
Now, are you certain you love him?"

"Positive."

"Then help me save him."

"How?"

Determination sparkled in
Victoria
's eyes. "I have a
plan."

Chapter 25

«
^
»

L
ights blazed from the windows of the Blackmoor country home two nights later. Elegant carriages emblazoned with noble crests pulled up the curved drive, and footmen assisted elite Society members from their seats. By the time Hayley entered the marble-tiled foyer, the party was in full swing.

Over two hundred people milled about, some on the parquet dance floor, others standing about in groups chatting. She spotted
Victoria
standing in their prearranged spot, next to a potted palm near the window.

Victoria
saw Hayley and made her way toward her. "You look lovely,"
Victoria
said when she reached her. "Your gown is beautiful."

"Thank you." She was wearing the pale aqua gown Stephen had given her. She pressed her hand to her heaving stomach. "I'm a bit nervous,"

"So am I,"
Victoria
admitted, dragging Hayley into an alcove. "Have you seen Stephen?"

Hayley's palms grew moist at the thought. "No. Is he here?"

Victoria
nodded. "Yes. He arrived about twenty minutes ago, and I'm happy to report he appeared quite sober."

"I'm still not certain this is the best idea—"

"Nonsense,"
Victoria
broke in. "We've been over this half a dozen times. When Stephen sees you here, once he's spoken to you, everything will work out." She gave Hayley's hands an encouraging squeeze. "Just remember he loves you. He simply needs to realize it."

"And if he doesn't?" Hayley asked, suddenly very unsure about
Victoria
's plan.

"Believe me, he will."
Victoria
peeked out of the alcove. "I see him. He's near the French windows leading out to the garden. Go talk to him." She gave Hayley a quick hug. "Good luck. And I want to know
everything."

"I hope I'll have good news to report," Hayley said, her voice filled with trepidation.

Victoria
gave Hayley a slight shove and pushed her out of the alcove. "You will. Now go."

Hayley spotted Stephen immediately and her heart nearly stalled at the sight of him. He stood alone by the French windows, champagne glass in hand, staring out into the darkness. His elegant black evening clothes accentuated the broad expanse of his shoulders, shoulders that appeared slumped to Hayley. She watched him extract a timepiece from his waistcoat and glance at it. He tossed back his drink, opened the door, and stepped outside.

Not wanting to lose him, Hayley hurried along the perimeter of the ballroom, and moments later stepped outside into the warm, flower-scented night air. Clouds hid the moon, but torches lit the gardens. Hayley spied Stephen heading down one of the paths off to the far right, and she hurried after him.

* * *

A pair of narrowed eyes followed Stephen's abrupt departure from the ballroom. A satisfied smile curved thinned lips.
Tonight, you bastard. Tonight you shall die.

* * *

Stephen walked down the garden path, his thoughts in turmoil. It was twenty minutes before Justin and his men would arrive at their posts, but he couldn't stand the ballroom any longer. The cloying atmosphere of the party made him feel like a caged animal. If he kept to a slow pace, he'd arrive at the appointed spot only a few minutes early. What possible difference could a few minutes make?

He wanted this over. He wanted to catch whoever was out to kill him so he could get on with life. With any luck, the culprit would strike tonight and be apprehended. Then he could go on with his life.
And just what the hell life is that? More parties? Gambling? Women?

A bitter sound escaped him. He hadn't touched a woman since his return to
London
. He hadn't felt the slightest desire to do so. He'd visited his mistress last evening, hoping to purge Hayley from his system, but once he arrived, he couldn't do anything. Monique Delacroix could entice the stars from the skies with her beautiful face and ripe, voluptuous curves, but Stephen couldn't stand to touch her. Her kiss left him cold and tasted unpleasant. When she'd caressed him through his trousers, he'd shivered, not with desire but with distaste. He'd settled for a brandy, then mumbled a quick excuse and left. Now here he was wandering around in his sister's bloody flower garden, trying to keep his mind off the one thing he couldn't stop thinking about.

Hayley.

She occupied his every thought, filled every corner of his mind, and nothing could erase her. If only—

"Stephen."

He froze, then smothered an oath of disgust. Bloody hell, he was even hearing her voice. He continued walking, but had taken no more than two steps when he heard his name again. Turning, he stared in disbelief at the woman walking toward him. He shook his head as if to clear it, for surely his eyes deceived him.
I must be foxed,
he thought. But no, he'd only had one glass of champagne. The vision walked forward, stopping about three feet away from him.

"Hello, Stephen."

She was real. This was no apparition or figment of his desperate imagination. This was Hayley. His angel. Standing in front of him wearing the pale aqua gown he'd given her, her eyes luminous and shining, a hesitant, shy smile touching her lips. He closed his eyes and swallowed, battered by a mass of warring feelings. Confusion. Amazement. Joy.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, his gaze wandering up and down her form. God, she was beautiful. And he'd missed her so damn much.

But what was she doing here? How had she found him? His heart stalled.
My God, she must be with child. That's why she tracked me down.
Myriad emotions pummeled him once again.
Hayley. His child.
His heart thumped to life, and elation he had no right to feel soared through him. He was about to reach for her, to crush her in his arms and never let her go, when his reason abruptly returned.

In only a few minutes he planned to walk into a trap to catch a killer—a killer who might very well be crazy enough or desperate enough to kill Hayley as well if she was with him. For all he knew, someone might be watching him even now. He couldn't put her life in danger. He had to get her away from him. And fast.

"I want you to go back inside. Now."

She shook her head. "I must speak with you."

"How the hell did you know where to find me?"

"Your sister told me."

"My
sister?"
Damn it, what kind of mess had
Victoria
created now? "You are leaving. Immediately."

"No. I'm staying right here."

Stephen's fists clenched at his sides. Damn stubborn woman. If anything happened to her, he was going to kill
Victoria
. Kill her with his bare hands. And it appeared he would have to carry Hayley bodily to get her into the house. But first he had to know. "Are you with child? Is that why you're here?"

The color drained from her face. "No," she whispered.

"Then why—" His voice broke off, a thought occurring to him that chilled his blood. Reality slammed into him, staggering him under its relentless weight. He knew too much of selfish human nature to believe she would track him down after the hurtful way he'd left her, unless she, like everyone else, wanted to claim a piece of him.

My God, what a fool he'd been! She was no different from the scores of fortune hunting, title-seeking noblewomen who dodged his every step. Frigid rage clenched his fists. How the hell could
he,
of all people, have been so stupidly naive?

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You know who I am?"

"I know you're the Marquess of Glenfield, yes."

Ice dripped from his voice. "So
that's
why you're here? You found out I'm wealthy and titled, so you figured you could take advantage. What's the matter? Not earning enough blunt selling your stories to feed all those hungry mouths? Figured I owed you a few thousand pounds for saying my life? Or perhaps for 'services rendered'?" His gaze roamed over her in an unmistakably insulting fashion. "I'm not in the habit of paying for sexual favors, but you were an interesting diversion. Sadly for you, I'm a bit short of cash at the moment, but I'll contact my solicitor about payment tomorrow."

Her face turned to chalk. "How can you say such a horrid thing to me?" she whispered in a broken voice. "My God, who
are
you?"

A bitter laugh escaped him. "As you said, I'm the Marquess of Glenfield. And as such, I have neither the desire nor the inclination to continue this discussion. Any association we may have had in the past is long over. I suggest you remember that and stay away from me."

She stood perfectly still for several seconds. Then she raised her chin, fury spewing from her eyes. "How on earth could I possibly have been so wrong about you? You're a cold, horrible man. A stranger." After shooting him one final glare, her expression eloquently stating her disdain and scorn, she turned on her heel.

Doubt suddenly assailed him. Her hurt, her anger, seemed so genuine. Had he made a mistake? His hand shot out and captured her upper arm.

"Hayley, I—"

Her palm connected with his cheek with a resounding smack. Jerking free of his grasp, she rubbed her arm where he'd touched her as if trying to wash away the feel of him from her skin.

"As you said, you are the Marquess of Glenfield," she threw his own words back at him, her chest heaving, her eyes smoking with fury. "And as such, I have neither the desire nor the inclination to continue this discussion. Any association we may have had in the past is long over. I don't ever want the misfortune of seeing you again." The contemptuous look she sizzled at him could have set a forest on fire. "I suggest
you
remember
that
and stay away from
me."
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked down the path, her fists clenched at her sides.

His face burned from the stinging imprint of her hand, but the pain was nothing compared to the raw agony flaying him to the very bone. His insides withered up and died with the realization that he had indeed made a terrible, unforgivable mistake. After only two weeks back in
London
, surrounded by his superficial peers, he'd forgotten that people like Hayley really existed.

She'd looked at him as if she hated him. And he certainly couldn't blame her. He hated himself.

Immobile with anguish, he stared after her.

And watched her walk out of his life forever.