Tempt the Devil (17 page)

“It's sad to keep our loved ones trapped in our hearts and never speak of them. We kill them again with our silence.”

“For years, how she died has haunted me. I should have been on my knees with gratitude that I knew her at all. She was beautiful and spirited and full of life. Yet I've locked her away in the dark like a prisoner.”

“Oh, my dear.” The endearment slipped out before she could catch it. Just as she couldn't stop herself from surging forward and taking him in her arms.

She'd only comforted two men in her life. Not men, boys. Perry, years ago when his father tormented him to the edge of madness. Leo as a child.

So why did it feel so natural to draw Lord Erith's head down to her shoulder, to press him against her breast, to try and infuse warmth into his cold, cold sorrow?

She expected him to resist. But he came shaking into her embrace.

Silence reigned. She didn't speak, even when she felt the dampness of his tears against the skin of her neck.

E
rith reined his horse in near a stand of oaks in Hyde Park and waited for Roma to catch up. She was several hundred yards back and bouncing about like an ungainly sack of potatoes on her long-suffering mount. Beside her, a groom jogged along with a stoic expression that indicated he'd seen it all before.

His daughter certainly hadn't inherited either of her parents' facility in the saddle. Odd he'd never known that about her. But then she was basically a stranger. The magnitude of the task he'd set himself before he left Vienna struck him yet again.

This visit to London proved a salutary lesson for his conceit. He'd imagined his children would fall upon him in tearful gratitude the moment he showed a spark of interest. He'd imagined any mistress he selected would be the easy conquest women always were.

Laughable how divided his imaginings proved from hard reality.

He'd left Olivia toward dawn. He hadn't made love to her again. Even though he'd been hard and ready, he couldn't bear another unfulfilling encounter.

Or unfulfilling on any level but the basest.

At sunrise he'd walked out, purged of sixteen years of poison. He had so much to thank Olivia for. When they first met, he'd thought she was extraordinary. Little had he known how extraordinary she truly was. Yes, he still missed Joanna. He'd always miss her and mourn the tragic waste of her death. He'd always regret that their last words had been spoken in temper and that he'd failed to save her life.

But over time, that harrowing afternoon had become the sum total of his memory of his wife. Since leaving the house in York Street this morning, a flood of recollections had washed away much of the old rancor.

He remembered the golden weeks of courtship, the sweetness of the first time they made love, their joy at the birth of the children. Afternoons of laughter. Evenings of dancing. Nights of almost innocent pleasure.

He recalled other things too that until now he'd forgotten or had felt too racked with guilt to dwell on. That Joanna had been obstinate and a little too fond of her own way. That at times he'd wished she would catch onto a joke more quickly or read a situation's undercurrents.

Ever since that moment of ineffable sweetness when Olivia took him in her arms, Erith had felt Joanna's dear presence. Her ghost hadn't been vengeful or accusing. Instead, he'd felt bathed in love and forgiveness.

His lighter heart had prompted him to ask Roma, who usually ate breakfast with him in sullen silence, to come riding. She hadn't responded with great enthusiasm. But then she never responded to anything he said with great enthusiasm. She'd greeted him with surly dislike when he arrived from Vienna, and her attitude hadn't warmed since. He'd allowed her to get away with her open resentment because he felt guilty.

He wasn't letting her go unchallenged any longer.

He'd returned to London on a quest to reconcile with his family. A quest he now intended to pursue with his full powers.

He'd been wrong to blame himself all these years for Joanna's death. It had just been a tragic, horrible accident.

But his appalling treatment of his children was his fault. Dear God, perhaps even an unforgivable fault. It was time he remedied his sins. It was time he and his children came to an understanding. Affection was perhaps too much to ask, although he'd sell his soul to establish even an ounce of the respect and love he'd witnessed between Olivia and her son yesterday.

Unfortunately, he suspected things with his daughter would worsen before they improved.
If
they improved. An uneasy, lowering truce had persisted thus far. Would it disintegrate into open warfare before he left for Vienna?

Roma was puffing when she reached him. She was plumper than Joanna had ever been. From what he saw, her activities mainly involved lying on a sofa in her room devouring the latest novels and scoffing bonbons. It was a puzzle how she'd exerted herself to catch a nonpareil like Thomas Renton. Although occasionally Erith had chanced upon her laughing with a friend and glimpsed a different side to her. And she seemed popular enough when he'd escorted her to the endless balls that formed her nightly entertainments.

“Do you remember your mother, Roma?” he asked as she brought her horse alongside his.

He'd deliberately selected a smaller mount than Bey for himself. Even so, he still towered above her. The groom hovered outside earshot but kept a watchful eye on Roma. It suddenly struck Erith that perhaps his daughter had trouble staying in the saddle and the fellow had rescued her before.

The thought should have roused wrenching memories of Joanna's accident. But Roma was such a completely different rider, and one who rarely extended herself beyond a trot,
that he found it hard to worry. His pride winced to think a child of his so inept a horsewoman.

She sent him a sulky glare, familiar from weeks of sharing Erith House in fulminating hostility. “Aunt Celia has told me about her. I was only two when she died.” She spoke as if she expected him not to know.

“Of course I remember how old you were,” he said mildly. “And William was three. If you like, I could tell you about her.”

He caught a flash of vulnerability in the blue eyes with their thick dark lashes. Eyes that broke his heart every time he looked into them because they were so like Joanna's. Then the sullen recalcitrance returned, making him wonder if he'd mistaken that brief flare of pain.

“You didn't care about my mother. You don't care about us. You're here for my wedding just for the public show. Then you'll go back to Vienna and your mistresses and your drinking and your gambling and forget all about your family again.”

The rancorous tirade startled him. It revealed more spirit than he'd ever seen in her. She urged her horse forward, but she was such an execrable rider that he had no trouble keeping up.

“I loved your mother, Roma. Your mother loved me.”

“Well, I'm sorry for her then,” the girl said dully. “You're not worth loving.”

Joanna hadn't thought so. For Joanna's sake, he had to persist with her daughter. It might be too little too late—it was—but he had to form some relationship with this girl he loved but didn't know at all.

And he'd have to fight the same battle all over again with his son. William dealt with his father's long ago desertion by pretending his father didn't exist. To date, the boy had only come up from Oxford once to see him, and that was clearly under sufferance.

With every day that passed, Erith witnessed what damage
his selfishness had wrought. A heavy weight of discouragement settled in his gut as he recognized that his sins were almost certainly irredeemable.

But God help him, he had to try to fix what he'd done.

“I wish you would go away again,” Roma said stubbornly. “I wish you had never come back.”

The words might be childish but they stung all the same. “You and William are the most precious things in my life.”

Her sarcastic laugh rang of his own sardonic humor. “That's why you left us with Aunt Celia when we were little and never came near us.”

This girl broke his heart, but he couldn't pretend not to love her. He'd die for her. Unfortunately, dying for her would be easy. Making up for his grave wrongs against her was much harder.

“I beg your forgiveness,” he said in a low voice.

She frowned. “I don't understand.”

He pulled his horse to a stop. “Do you want to get down and walk?”

“No, I want to go home.” Her sulkiness didn't emerge as naturally as usual.

“Do you really?”

She cast him a look of intense loathing under the shadow of her hat. “If I do, will you let me?”

She asked the question as if it held some significance. He couldn't imagine why that should be, but he answered her seriously. “Yes, of course. I'm not an ogre, Roma.”

“No, you're just a man who never gives a thought to anyone's convenience but his own.”

“That's not true.” He should be angry. But his principal reaction was astonishment. Since he'd returned to London, Roma had rarely brought herself to address him, unless she whined about a bonnet she wanted or a ball that clashed with another engagement.

“Yes, it is. Have you ever once asked William or me what we want? Have you ever given me a choice about anything?”

“You were a baby, sweetheart.”

The involuntary endearment was a mistake. She visibly bristled. “I'm eighteen now.”

“Do you want to go home?”

She paused. He wondered if she was obstinate enough to insist on her way. Eventually she shook her head. “No.” Then with a hint of bitterness, “It's taken me all my life to get this much attention from you. It seems a pity to cut it short.”

Oh, yes, she definitely had more backbone than he'd given her credit for. She no longer looked like the girl who slunk around Erith House trying to avoid his notice.

He dismounted and helped her down. Roma was smaller and rounder than Joanna but looked enough like her mother for the resemblance to cut him to the quick every time he looked at her. Now that she was more animated, the resemblance was stronger than ever. He realized with a shock that his daughter was a beauty. A young woman with her own wishes and tastes and ambitions. Of which he knew nothing.

What a bloody criminal mess he'd made of everything.

In silence, they walked, leading the horses. It was a pleasant morning and sunlight dappled the fresh spring growth. In spite of lack of sleep, Erith was keyed up after the astonishing emotional turmoil of the last twenty-four hours. Ending in this fraught confrontation with his daughter.

“Can I tell you why I left you and William with my sister?” he eventually asked. Roma didn't vibrate with belligerence anymore, but he wasn't sure how long the current détente would last. How ironic. He was renowned for his skills as a diplomat but had no idea how to placate one angry, hurt young girl. “It wasn't because I didn't love you.”

“Why are you being so nice?” Roma's voice was laden with suspicion.

He smiled. Her wariness inevitably reminded him of Olivia. “Because I'm your father and I want you to feel that you're my beloved daughter.”

“It's too late.”

The quiet words made his heart slam against his chest in grief. Dear God, if she was right, his life had come to ashes.

How appalling that she believed that. He knew his behavior had given her the impression he didn't care. When the tragic truth was that he'd cared too much.

“Is it?”

She cast him another glare as she removed her hat. Her brown hair was untidy and flat, and strands had come loose to frame cheeks that still hadn't lost the roundness of childhood. “You've never wanted to talk to me before.”

“I hoped you'd let me at least explain.”

“Why bother? You'll just go away again. Anyway, I'm about to be married. I have my own life.”

“Aren't you at least a little curious about your father?”

“I used to be. But I'm a woman now. I have other things to worry about. You aren't important to me.”

That was so obviously a lie, he suspected they both recognized it as such. Color rose in her clear white skin.

“Well, pray grant me a woman's patience and hear what I say.”

He waited for her to snipe about patience being something he'd demanded for too long. But she studied him with her heartbreaking blue eyes and nodded. “As you wish.” Then couldn't resist adding, “Although I can't see what good it will do.”

He gave a grunt of sour amusement. “Confession is good for the soul. Perhaps it will help me even if it doesn't help you.”

She didn't smile but he knew she listened as they strolled along the shady path. The muffled clop of the horses' hooves on the leaf litter, the soft jangle of bits, and the distant bird-song calmed the storm in his blood.

“You're very like your mother, you know,” he said softly. “She had your eyes and your hair and sometimes I catch an expression on your face that's Joanna come to life.”

“I know. Aunt Celia is always telling me. Anyway, I've seen the marriage portrait.”

Of course she had. He'd forgotten sending the large Rae-burn across to his sister's home before he left for his first diplomatic posting. Obscurely, through the blind haze of grief, he'd imagined his children would feel some connection to the absent parents in the picture.

In retrospect, his painted likeness seemed a vilely poor substitute for a real father's presence. Almost cruel, in fact.

He wondered why he'd never seen this so clearly. He wasn't a stupid man. But learning about Olivia's past yesterday had made him think about so many things differently, including how he'd treated his children.

He'd been a bad father. He'd let himself down. He'd let Joanna down. Worst of all, he'd let William and Roma down. He wondered again if anything he did could make amends when the sin was so heinous. But dear Lord, he had to try.

“From the first moment I saw your mother at Almack's, she owned my heart. She was younger than you are now. Seventeen. And I was only eighteen. But the match pleased our families and there was no barrier of rank or fortune. We were young, we were frighteningly innocent, and we were madly in love. Nobody saw any reason why we shouldn't marry as soon as decorum allowed.” He and Joanna had been so hungry for each other in that first rapturous flight of love.

Roma eyed him with cautious curiosity. “I can't imagine you ever being the same age as I am.”

He laughed shortly. “Believe me, I was.”

She sounded doubtful, which amused him, in spite of the moment's seriousness. He remembered feeling the same about his elders. He'd even said as much to his father when he pushed for a quick marriage to the woman he already knew was the love of his life. He might have been young, but he'd known his heart. Better than he'd known it any time since.