The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series) (27 page)

"What were you thinking?" His eyes searched her face.

"I was told it was fashionable."

He twirled a strand around his finger. His warm breath brushed across her face. "I suppose it suits you."

"But you don't like it?"

"No." The light in his eyes softened the word.

Her heart pounded in her breast.

He stroked a finger down her temple. "Sophie, I have to go back downstairs. If you stay, have Amelia guide your choices on what entertainments are appropriate for you to attend."

"Amelia?" Her insides dropped like a stone.

"She'll be staying with us. I believe you said you were looking forward to the diversions of London. I have no desire to keep you imprisoned. You may attend as many balls and amusements as you wish. I only beg you to allow yourself to be guided in your choices."

Sophie wavered. Temptation warred with dismay. "By Amelia?"

"If I pick and choose your entertainments, how shall I ever escape the moniker of jailer? No, I want you to be free to make your own choices."

He didn't look like he wanted her to be free. He looked like he'd eaten rotten meat.

"I would, anyway."

He leaned closer. His grip tightened on the dressing gown. "I know."

She searched his face. She didn't doubt that he wanted her to stay. His earnest offer to give her complete freedom spoke volumes. But why? How much of his change in heart correlated with Amelia's arrival on his doorstep?

She drew a deep breath. She didn't want complete autonomy from Keene, but she did want to stay in London.

"It is the normal way of things, to have a more experienced woman show you around during your first season. And Amelia is available to help."

His gaze intensified, and he leaned fractionally closer.

Sophie melted into his dark gaze. How could she refuse him anything when he looked at her like that? "I'll stay."

His grip loosened. He looked over her head. "I'll have the servants prepare you a room."

Dread filtered down her spine in an icy wave. If she had delayed answering any longer would he have swayed her with kisses? She flushed. It would have been ample persuasion.

He stepped to the side, crossed the room and opened a door. "This used to be my mother's room. It will be yours now."

Holland covers shrouded the furniture. Did Keene really want her here, or was she just to cloak Amelia's presence? And why was the mother of his child staying with them?

* * *

Keene stood alone in George's library. Tension tightened the cords of his neck into knots. He picked up an empty crystal decanter from the sideboard and lifted it to the light. A few drops of brown liquid dribbled across the bottom of the glass, while the sunlight shone through refracting blue on the wall across the room.

Keene knew beyond a shadow of a doubt his handling of Sophie stank. He'd found it hard to resist the lure of an already mussed bed and his wife wearing only a shift under his dressing gown. The iron grip he held on his desire threatened to disintegrate to rusty dust.

He hadn't thought he could kiss her and walk away, and he had wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt. He didn't trust himself to stay in the house, knowing that in his room Sophie waited for her clothes to arrive.

So he'd headed for the one place sure to remind him of the necessity of avoiding Sophie's bed until her deception became impossible to carry.

George's butler entered the room. Concern knitted the old man's brow. "I'm sorry, sir. We can't seem to locate him. I don't believe he stepped out. Would you care to wait?"

"I might look in on the baby."

"Very good, sir."

Keene climbed the stairs to the third floor with wary trepidation. On one hand he greeted the news that George couldn't be found as a temporary reprieve. On the other hand, George's disappearance worried him. Given that the man was suicidal not so very long ago and that his servants had lost him in his own house, could despair have overruled his will to live?

Keene doubted he would be of any help in alleviating George's mind. Although he intended to leave out Victor's part in the impromptu plan, Keene would have to say that he had invited Amelia to stay with him. But George's refusal to let Amelia take her daughter didn't make sense to Keene. Why keep a child fathered by another man?

What purpose could be had by holding the baby here?

How would a man ready to off himself care for a helpless infant?

The only comforting piece of information was that Amelia claimed her husband never looked in on the child, had rarely been within a stone's throw of the nursery. Nor had he so much as glanced at Regina the few times Keene had brought the baby down and urged George to hold her.

An unnatural quiet pervaded the house. Of course, with Amelia gone, George couldn't yell at her. Even the baby was silent.

Keene walked down the stark hallway of the third floor, his boots clicking against the polished wood floor. The nursery door stood ajar.

He understood George's resentment of the child, understood his own father's favoritism of his flesh and blood son. But more than that, his heart ached for the misery of a child without a choice in fathers.

He pushed the door all the way open and drew to an abrupt halt.

George leaned over the crib, both his hands over the rail.

Good Lord, what was he doing? Surely he hadn't banished Amelia so he could . . . Keene could barely finish the thought. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him. George wouldn't, would he?

* * *

 
"What do you mean to do, Amelia?" Victor asked.

"Whatever are you talking about?" She glided across Keene's drawing room, skirting around furniture.

Victor gave her a hard look. She had absolutely no reason to treat him like a
pariah
. "I mean, what are you about, coming here? To Keene's house?"

"I only thought that he should have a care of George. He has stood by him through this."

"I doubt your husband would have welcomed my presence in his home." Guilt covered Victor like a mantle. "By the hounds, I did not know you would marry him. I did not know you carried a child. I took a bullet for this . . . What do you want of me?"

She paled and turned away. "I want nothing of you."

He knew that. She made that obvious by giving him a wide berth, dipping her eyes, avoiding him in polite company. She had turned to Keene in her most desperate moment, this time. Had Victor failed her when she had turned to him before? "Bloody hell, Amelia, I have enough affection for you that I should not misuse you."

"Not set me up in a cottage?" The words came out as if each one choked her.

Victor's anger ebbed like a low tide leaving behind the refuse of his life. He sank down on a sofa, his face in his hands. "I was mad at Keene. I meant it for him."

"Why?" whispered Amelia. "Why slander me? Have you not done enough?"

"You wouldn't understand." Victor wasn't sure he understood it himself. Standing across from Keene that dawn, the weight of the Spanish tooled pistol in his hand, watching him wrestle with his conscience, anger and envy spurted through Victor like a malicious poison. He'd egged on Keene enough to shoot.

Amelia's skirts rustled. When the white muslin of her gown entered his sight, he tilted his head back to look up at her.

Frown lines marred the smooth skin of her brow. "I am sorry. You did nothing wrong. It was my fault. I was weak and foolish." She turned and sank down beside him.

Her apology sat like a sour lump in his stomach. He had seduced her, or she had seduced him. It didn't matter. As a gentleman he was responsible for protecting a lady, sheltering her from himself if need be and taking care of her if he failed in the first two.

"You are right. I have turned to Keene for my own selfish reasons. I think he above all others has the best chance of convincing George to allow me to have my child."

Our child.
But she wasn't really his and never would be.

"I will do whatever it takes to get my daughter."

"That's the part that scares me, love."

Amelia rose to her feet and sidestepped away from him. "If George could get past the circumstances of her birth, I think she would be better left with him."

Victor jerked.

Amelia hovered near an armchair, her expression once again smooth, faraway, as untouchable as marble.

Victor studied her for the longest time. Heat and fire hid under that cool mask, and Amelia didn't trust him with it. Did she trust Keene? Or George? Herself?

As if aware of his studied interest she turned toward him, a winged eyebrow lifted ever so slightly in inquiry.

"You realize that if the baby shows any sign of his paternal lineage"—Victor heard the opening door, but didn't turn his gaze away from Amelia—"everyone shall suspect it is Keene's."

Amelia blinked at him as if the idea had never occurred to her. Perhaps it hadn't.

Victor turned his head slowly, knowing he had said too much.

Sophie stared at him from the doorway, her blue eyes large in her pale face.

Each beat of Keene's heart pounded like a stone against his ribs. His gaze was riveted on George leaning over the crib. Bursting rockets couldn't have turned his attention. Dread oozed from his every pore in a feverish sweat. He hesitated to step forward, yet fear spurred him on. He dashed into the room, his footsteps loud against the polished wood floor.

"Quiet, man, I just got her to sleep," said George.

Keene stopped, one foot held in the air. "What?"

"I am following your advice. The least you can do is not make me regret it." George turned around. He slowly assessed Keene. "Surely it is a little beforehand for evening clothes?"

Keene set his foot down gingerly. "What advice?"

George returned his attention to the crib. "To make my peace with the child. To hold her. She seems a spirited little imp. She must get it from Victor. She certainly doesn't get it from her mother."

Anxious energy rocketed around inside Keene until he didn't know what to do with himself. He tiptoed over to the crib, feeling awkward and slovenly.

The baby lay on her stomach. The rise and fall of her back marked her steady breathing. Her little rosebud lips were pursed as if she suckled even in sleep. Downy wisps of dark hair poked out of her cap. She looked perfectly healthy and unharmed.

"You look done in," said George.

As if his words had inspired it, exhaustion descended over Keene like a cloud. He knew the comment could be attributed to his wearing last night's clothes. He couldn't have changed from his evening clothes with Sophie in his room and escaped unscathed. Keene straightened. He had not come to consider his own problems.

Keene looked at his friend, taking in George's clear eyes, the lucid expression. "You kicked Amelia out."

"I suggested she leave for a while."

"Do you still mean to divorce her?"

"I don't know. I thought I needed some time to think this through."

"I daresay."

"Clearly."

"You have stopped drinking, then?"

"I think the servants have contrived to hide all the spirits, if there are any left." George stroked the baby's back. "I gather I am a mean drunk."

"I don't recall that."

"Perhaps I am just mean to Amelia. It would help if she would say something in her own defense, but she just sits there and takes my abuse. I feel worse and worse and yell all the more."

"Some would think a submissive wife a godsend."

George flashed him a look. "I trust I should not wish for a wife as troublesome as yours, but I should wish she would not look upon me as if she were a slaughtered doe that I just brought down."

"Bloody hell, George. You've exiled her from her home, withheld her child."

"Why doesn't she fight for anything?"

"Why must you punish her so?"

"I don't know. I can hardly stand the sight of her. I can barely stand that she married me as a last resort."

"That's not what she said to me."

George moved to a straight chair beside the crib. "You know it's true. She should have married you first, but then both Victor and I told her you would not marry as long as Richard held his spot as your heir. Then she cast out her lures for Victor, but he could not marry her for his pockets are to let. Amelia only has her breeding to recommend her, as much good as that has done."

"If you married your first choice, you would be with that toothless orange seller in Windsor." A thirteen-year-old George had been crushed when he finally worked up enough courage to purchase an orange from the pretty little peddler and her smile revealed unsavory gaps. "Besides, I think Amelia respects you more than she respects either of us."

George rubbed his face. "I'm sure she does not now."