The Reluctant Duke (A Seabrook Family Saga) (24 page)

“Who is it
from?” Thomas hissed out between stabs of pain, having pushed his body beyond
its comfort level.

“I do not know.
It came by hired messenger,” his valet replied.

“Give it to
Myles.” Thomas struggled to adjust his position on the bed. “Myles, please read
it aloud.”

Thomas
Seabrook, Duke of Wentworth,

I know how
you came to be in possession of the Hamilton fortune and that Hamilton is not
the real family name. Trenton is. If you would like to keep this information
from your newly acquired bride and from the gossip rags--and I do believe when
the Prince finds out you married the granddaughter of a traitor you will be
stripped of you title and lands--my silence can be bought for fifty thousand
pounds. Place the money in the London National Bank in Account Number
00516
within three days.

“The bastard,”
Myles said as he handed the letter to his friend. “Surely you are not going to
comply?”

“What else can
I do?” What else could Thomas do indeed? Well, for starters he could sit Emma
down and have a long talk with her about her father, the game of cards, his
suicide, and the will. Then add the devastating information about her father’s
family, their forced departure from England in disgrace, and her real family
name.

Acid burned
inside Thomas’s stomach, threatening to send bile up and out. Emma would likely
hate him, if and when she found out the truth––whether it came from him or from
someone else.

So Thomas had
two choices: pay the money, knowing the blackmailer would want more down the
road. Or he could tell his wife everything.

Finding out her
father killed himself would break her heart. Thomas didn’t want to tell Emma
the truth and risk hurting her. He decided that telling her the truth about her
father’s death––and by doing so, tarnish the memory she had of the father she
adored––was not an option. He made a promise to Hamilton, and he planned to
keep it. The business of the family name was ancient history. Thomas did not
believe the prince would punish Emma and his family for something that happened
so many years ago.

“Why is this
happening now?” Thomas asked his friend. “It was over a year ago that I
inherited the fortune. And who besides the three of us knows?”

“I have no
answer as to why the blackmailer waited so long.” Myles answered. “Maybe it has
something to do with your marriage to Emma. More likely he finally got up the
nerve to follow through on a blackmail he has been planning for the past year
when you first inherited the fortune. Your marriage probably gave him the
courage to take action now. Besides the three of us knowing, Hamilton’s
barrister was the only other. Could he be so low as to do this? Or could a
servant at White’s have spied on us that day?”

 “Damn,” Thomas
hissed. “I can’t think with my side burning. What do you suggest I do? Tell
Emma everything? That I won her father’s fortune, and her, in a game of cards?”

***

“Y . . . You
what?” Emma stood frozen in the doorway connecting her suite of rooms to her
husband’s. Her trembling hands reached out to steady her, to keep her from
collapsing to the ground. Every muscle in her body refused to work; it was as
if she were paralyzed. Except it also felt as if someone had literally reached
inside her chest with long talons and shredded her heart to pieces.

The empty void
where her heart used to be was replaced with an agonizing sense of betrayal and
physical pain.

The
eavesdropping had happened by accident because Emma thought Thomas was alone
and resting. She meant to surprise him with a kiss. Instead, she heard his ugly
words of truth spoken to a friend. Not to her.

Thomas’s
questions clarified what she often wondered about, especially when her father
first died. Her father had always said she would inherit everything. And if
Thomas had lied to keep these nasty secrets, what else had he lied about? He
probably did not even want her as his wife.

Dear God. Emma
forced herself to look at her lying husband. His face told all. It turned
whiter than it had been, and in his blue eyes she glimpsed shadows of guilt.
The sense of betrayal and shock gave way to anger so strong she thought she
might explode.

“Is . . . Is it
true?” Her voice shook but she did not care. “Please leave us.”

Emma stared at
Myles and Amesbury, and they both exited the room without a word. Very smart on
their part to fear her wrath and leave.

With the
closing of the door, Emma turned to Wentworth. She would no longer think of him
as her husband or use his Christian name. Rage boiled inside her, a rage she
couldn’t contain.

“You lied to
me. You lied about everything. You stole my inheritance and my life. You took
everything away from me. But worst of all,” she whispered, fighting to hold
back tears that fell anyway, “you made me fall in love with you!”

Her words were
suffused with venom and anger. Wide-eyed, Emma watched this person she thought
she knew struggle to get out of bed. Pain crossed his features and burned in
his eyes, but this time she refused to care. Thomas shuffled, bent over, toward
her––one hand pressed against his bandaged side, the other with fingers spread
wide into the air, reaching for her. His eyes, wide open and moist with tears,
seared into her soul as he pleaded with her.

Pleading for her
forgiveness? Never in this lifetime or the next would she forgive him for his
deceit.

“It is not what
you think. What I said is not the truth of it,” Thomas choked out.

That was the
last thing Emma heard him say before she slammed the door connecting her
bedroom with his––and locked him out.

“Oh, dear God,”
she cried out as she slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her bent
knees and hugged herself. “How could Wentworth have lied to me about this?”

Tears fell like
steady rain, threatening to drown Emma in her sorrow. Vise-like tightness in
her chest threatened to crush her heart and soul to dust. Visions of her
handsome father, smiling, swarmed through her mind. Memories of his infectious
laughter and the scent of his cologne haunted her. What Emma would give to have
him here so he could hold her in his arms and tell her everything would be
fine. She wanted to wrap her arms around his wide girth and feel the solidity
of him––but that wasn’t possible. It never would be.

“Damn you…you
vile man,” Emma sobbed. Her throat was raw. “How could you?”

Wentworth made
her fall in love with him, and now her heart was broken. It felt split down the
middle, like the two halves would never be whole again. The agony of her life
was unbearable. Emma lay down on the thick rug, curled up on her side, and
allowed the cold emptiness to fill her.

***

Two days had
gone by since Thomas witnessed Emma’s world collapse around her, and he knew
all that was thanks to his lies. Well, not lies per se––more precisely, to
untold truths. Explaining anything more to her turned out to be impossible as
Emma barricaded herself in her suite of rooms, refusing to allow anyone in
except her maid. Hour after hour the clock ticked on the wall, signaling time
wasting away. Time he needed to beg his wife’s forgiveness and to explain.

Thomas forced
his body to keep moving so his muscles didn’t tighten up. He paced his room
with the aid of a cane, swearing at the pain it caused. He refused to
acknowledge his body’s limitations brought on by his illness and surgery.
Despite everything, he physically and mentally pushed forward. Bloody hell,
Thomas had nowhere to go but forward.

Myles and
Amesbury left that morning for London, promising to find the person responsible
for the blackmail letter. They would go straight to the Bow Street Runners with
the letter. Pay them whatever it would take to end this madness. But what good
would that do now? Emma sent word, by way of Rosie, that she wanted out of the
marriage and planned to set out for London, and then sail to Boston on the
first passage available.

***

And now Thomas
didn’t even give a fig about the money. All he cared about was the pain he
caused Emma. The past two nights, as he listened to her cry in the next room,
the horror of the pain he caused plagued his dreams to the point where he could
not close his eyes and sleep.

He’d never
forget the look on Emma’s face when she’d screamed at him. Her face had been
pasty white as if in pain, her eyes wide with blue swirls of turmoil and shock.
The memory was embedded in Thomas’s brain for all eternity. The fact that she
admitted that she loved him tortured him even more. Oh, he loved her as well,
but she did not know that. Something he would rectify if and when the time was
right.

The sounds of
her sobs continually hummed in his ears. How had he been such a fool to think
her father’s secrets would never be revealed? The moment Thomas started falling
for Emma he should have told her the truth about all of it…even though he’d
made an oath to a dying man.

There was no
longer a need to keep that oath. Emma knew some of the secrets, but not the
reasons behind them. He needed to find a way to get Emma to listen…to explain
what happened.

Nothing
mattered to him now but Emma––and her happiness.

 Thomas loved
his family, and that love ran deep. It was something he took for granted. His
family would always love him no matter what stupid things he did, just as he
would always love them in return. Even after the incident with Sebastian, he
still loved his brother. Blood love, as far as he was concerned, never
dissolved.

He had never
realized how loving a woman deeply, with every fiber of his being, would be
different than the love he had for his family. The love he had for Emma
consumed him. It was the kind of love that set his insides aquiver whenever she
stepped into a room. And sent his brain away and replaced it with a man lost
for words. He would do anything to make her smile. And knew he would lay down
his life for her.

If she had any
feelings left for him, it was worth risking everything to make this right.
Pacing his room and wallowing in self-pity would not correct the wrong he did
her.

What could he
do?

Using up the
last of his physical strength, he sat down at his desk and penned a letter.

My beloved
Emma,

My heart is
breaking because of the pain I caused you. I tried to protect you by keeping
the truth about my association with your father from you. I see how wrong that
was. Your father was a great man, and he loved you dearly. My coming to inherit
his fortune did not come about the way you think. Yes. We did play cards and he
lost, but that is not the end of the story.

I am not the
heartless, unfeeling cad you think I am. Please, I beg of you, let me explain.
Your father made me promise to keep the truth from you until you wed or turned
five-and-twenty. I have a letter for you, written in your father’s hand. When
we returned to Wentworth House I planned on giving it to you. I was not
purposely keeping secrets from you, only carrying out a dying man’s wishes. After
we get to London and you have the proof of all that transpired between your
father and me, you can decide what you want to do. If you still want to go back
to America I will send you with a large yearly sum so you will not want for
anything. In my heart of hearts I hope you will stay and be my wife, in more
than name only. Be my companion in life and love.

The decision
is yours to make, and I will honor whatever you decide.

Forever
yours,

Thomas

After sealing
the letter with hot wax and putting his mark on it, Thomas made his way to the
bell pull and tugged on it. While he waited for Giles, he opened his wardrobe.
It was high time he dressed and joined his family.

“Your Grace,
you rang?”

“Yes, I left a
letter on the desk. Please see that it is delivered to my wife immediately. I
don’t care how you get it into her hands. If she refuses to open her door stick
it under. Then I would like a sponge bath as I plan to join my family
downstairs for dinner.”

“But Your
Grace,” Giles frowned, “do you think it wise to push yourself so soon?”

“I don’t care.”
Staying cooped up in his room like a hen in a henhouse, knowing the
fox-of-a-blackmailer was out there, was driving him crazy. “After I freshen up
I’ll need your assistance to dress.”

“Very well,
Your Grace, I shall return,” his valet replied, still frowning as he took the
letter and left him.

Feeling
cleaner, Thomas paced his room, his hands flexing into fists over and over
again as he tried to control the self-loathing boiling up inside him for the
way he’d handled things with Emma.

Thomas had
always considered himself intelligent. He should have known that secrets such
as his never remained hidden forever. He should have told her the truth from
the start, even if it shocked her. But at the time, Thomas didn’t know Emma
well, and he had his honor to consider.

Soft footsteps
paused outside his sitting room door. Every muscle in his body tensed up as he
listened. A letter slid beneath his door and the footsteps hurried away. Thomas
forced himself not to fling open the door and run after Emma––to plead with her
to give him a chance to explain.

Instead, with
hands that trembled, he picked up the folded parchment, brought it to his nose,
closed his eyes, and sniffed in the jasmine scent of Emma. With trembling
hands, Thomas opened the folded parchment.

“Steady man,”
he whispered to himself.

Your Grace,

My father
obviously thought highly of you, or he never would have allowed things to
transpire as they did. So to honor my dear departed papa, I have taken into
account what you wrote in your letter and look forward to reading the letter
Papa penned to me.