My Reckless Surrender Page 13

  “If I get with child, I’ll become your wife,” she said dully.

  He slammed his hand on the desk in a brief return to the vigorous man she remembered. “Damn you, chit. If our plan works, you’ll be a marchioness with guardianship of the heir and control of this estate until the boy reaches his majority.”

  “It mightn’t be a boy,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time since he’d broached this scheme.

  However he chose to ride roughshod over her uncertainties, Lord Burnley’s ambitions faced enormous stumbling blocks. “If it’s a girl, you’ll still be rich beyond your wildest dreams. And the girl gets all my property that’s not entailed.”

  “I mightn’t get pregnant.”

  He glowered. “You’re damned gloomy for a woman with a fortune in her sights. Don’t forget, it’s not just you in the lap of luxury, but your father and that Gypsy slut as well.”

  She liked to tell herself her father’s future had weighed heavily in her decision to cooperate with Lord Burnley. But in her heart, she knew it was the lure of this house that made her betray everything she believed in.

  She still remembered her astonished elation when Burnley suggested the scheme. The interview had been awkward, difficult. A man who never admitted weakness had to explain he was riddled with cancer, and one irreversible effect of the disease was impotence.

  At last, she’d comprehended Burnley’s deep anger since the fire. It wasn’t sadness for so many lives lost. It was frustration that he was in no position to spawn a new heir.

  To secure the succession with a child of his blood, he needed a woman willing to whore herself to his bastard son. The bastard son Burnley despised and who remained ignorant of his heritage. The woman had to be of otherwise unimpeachable virtue and discretion because once she fell pregnant, she’d become Lady Burnley.

  His bailiff’s widowed daughter was perfect on all counts.

  God help her, she’d agreed within a day. Presented with the promise of taking over the running of Cranston Abbey, she couldn’t say no.

  Weak, greedy Diana.

  But the risks had seemed so minor and the rewards so princely. As marchioness, Diana had no ambitions to cut a figure in society. Instead, she intended to live quietly, raising her son to love the estate as she did. After all, the Abbey would be his when he turned twenty-one.

  The chances of running into Lord Ashcroft once the affair ended were minimal. He’d have no reason to assume the child she gave Lord Burnley was his.

  Unless he calculated the months…

  Unless he was suspicious…

  Unless the child looked like him…

  Before she’d met him, she’d assumed Lord Ashcroft wouldn’t care about eventual consequences. She’d since discovered he cared deeply. After today, one thing was starkly clear. If he ever found out she’d deceived him and stolen his child, he’d be furious.

  Burnley watched her with his reptilian regard. “Does he want to see you again?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ruffian is a connoisseur of the petticoat brigade. You have hidden talents, Mrs. Carrick.” He spoke the last words with a sarcastic edge as if reminding her she’d lost any claim to virtue.

  She hardly noticed. He couldn’t castigate her more than she castigated herself. Her honor was gone. She could never claim it back.

  “Don’t wait long.” Burnley shifted in his chair and fleeting pain contorted his face. “The more he uses you, the more likely his seed takes. We can’t assume once is enough.”

  She cringed at his frankness although she should be accustomed to it. His plan wasn’t that different to mating a prize sow to get a litter of fat piglets.

  With every moment, the old man looked more drained as his elation faded. His assertion that she didn’t have long to achieve her aim wasn’t his usual bullying. It was true.

  If she was any judge, Edgar Fanshawe would claim his seat in hell well before winter.

  Timing was everything.

  In a little over three weeks, she should know if she was pregnant. Otherwise, she’d have to wait into September. After that, the fashionable hordes returned to London. Her chances of concealing her scandalous liaison would diminish. She also acknowledged the undeniable risk that Lord Ashcroft would tire of her. She might have decided he possessed unexpected qualities, but facts spoke for themselves—he never stayed with a woman long.

  “I’ll return to London in the morning,” she said, rising. “I’d like to see my father before I go.”

  “If you must.” Burnley paused to catch his failing breath.

  She didn’t like this man, she feared him, she knew how cold and manipulative he was. But simple humanity made her protest that he sat up working when he needed his bed. “My lord, why don’t you rest?”

  He scowled, his eyes filmy. “We’re not damn well married yet, girl. Save your nagging until there’s a ring on your finger.”

  She should have known she wasted her concern. “Your pardon, my lord.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment. “And when you get back to London, wring Ashcroft dry.”

  The next morning, Diana appeared at the door of the study in the neat little house where she’d grown up. Familiar scents overwhelmed her. Paper. Ink. Her father’s old spaniel Rex. The dog raised his head from the rug before the unlit hearth and banged his tail in welcome.

  John Dean dictated a letter to Ezra Brown, the young man from the Abbey staff whom Burnley supplied as assistant in Diana’s absence. Sun poured through the open casement window behind her father, lighting him like a saint in a devotional painting.

  The young man had his back to the door and didn’t realize he was under observation. Her father, however, tilted his grizzled head and directed his gaze to exactly where she stood. She was used to this immediate awareness of what went on around him although she knew it disconcerted strangers.

  “Diana?” His soft voice was warm with pleasure, and his face lit with expectation.

  “Yes, Papa.” She stepped into the room as the secretary turned in surprise. He was a shy young man who reminded her of William before she’d married him. “You look well.”

  It wasn’t completely true. Her father looked tired and harried. And the stacks of paper on his desk were considerably higher than they’d been before she left. She’d already noticed the air of neglect the house wore in Laura’s absence. The knowledge only added another layer to the suppurating guilt that had become Diana’s constant companion.

  Her father stood and stepped unerringly around the desk, opening his arms wide. “Daughter, I’m glad you’re back.”

  She’d sneaked into the house and slept in her room for the few remaining hours of the night. After the decadent splendor of Lord Peregrine’s house or even the more modest luxuries of Chelsea, the narrow cot had seemed incongruously innocent.

  For all her exhaustion, she’d tossed and turned, and disturbing, difficult dreams shattered what scraps of slumber she snatched. Most involved Lord Ashcroft banishing her from his life, contempt darkening his lean face.

  Eventually, she’d lain awake listening to the familiar sounds of home. The faint creak of the house as it settled. The chirp of a night bird. The distant bustle of their two servants starting work before dawn.

  Every sound insisted she no longer belonged in this haven of safety.

  She’d risen early to alert the staff to her presence. She’d told them not to let her father know she was here. They’d been puzzled, but they’d obeyed. While her father might be titular head of the household, Diana had been mistress since long before her marriage.

  She’d eaten in her room, then dressed in one of her old gowns. It too felt unfamiliar, and her eyes, freshly accustomed to fashionable clothes, immediately recognized that the dress was cheap and worn.

  Now she rushed into her father’s embrace. His arms closed around her with the unconditional love she’d known since she was a little girl.

  If he learned of the evil she did, would he greet her wi
th affection? She buried the troubling thought as she buried her head in his shoulder. Hot tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. The arms she snaked around his waist returned his hug with unusual fervor. She tried to draw on his strength as she had so often.

  Awareness of her sins prevented her taking comfort from her father’s presence.

  He was the one who broke away. Diana straightened her spine and battled for composure. She summoned every acting skill. He’d immediately divine the slightest hint of distress or falsehood.

  She’d considered not seeing him. But the gossip mills at the big house would soon alert him to her visit. If she didn’t look in on him, he’d worry.

  He worried anyway. As was clear from the frowning, fond glance he leveled on her. “I’ve missed you, child.”

  “I’m so glad to see you, Papa.”

  Most days they worked closely. She might be bailiff in all but name, but he was still a source of advice and wisdom and experience. She suffered a pang of nostalgia for the busy, worthwhile, honest life that had been hers until she left for London. She also missed her father, his integrity and his sweetness and his endless trust in her.

  A trust she no longer deserved, she was grimly aware.

  John Dean directed a glance toward his secretary. “Ezra here is a worthy substitute, but you and I are such a team.”

  “I hope he isn’t working you too hard, Mr. Brown.” She made herself smile at the young man.

  Brown blushed and stood with an eager expression. She’d long ago realized Ezra Brown harbored a tendre for her. She’d thought he’d grow out of it, but he never had.

  “He’s taught me a great deal, Mrs. Carrick, even in this short time. I’ll be sorry to return to my work at the Abbey.”

  She deliberately made her tone light, as if she spoke of unimportant matters. “You won’t be going back just yet, Mr. Brown. I’m only here to collect a few belongings. I’m for London this morning.”

  In a few minutes if his lordship’s carriage arrived on time. She’d delayed this meeting until the last possible moment so her father couldn’t quiz her.

  Her belly clenched with anguish as she watched disappointment shadow her father’s expression. “Must you? There’s work here. Work only you can do.”

  How typical he wouldn’t mention that her absence left him lonely and lost, rattling around this house like a pea inside a box. She’d even taken Laura away.

  Mr. Brown ducked his head, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as if he scented an argument in the offing. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Dean. I’ll find Mr. Parker and ask about the lumber for the west wing.”

  “Yes, yes,” her father agreed with a hint of impatience.

  John Dean was the kindest of men. The edge in his tone indicated that his assistant wasn’t everything he’d hoped.

  When they were alone, Diana forced herself to persevere with the story she and the marquess had agreed upon what felt like so long ago, although it was only a matter of weeks. Disconcerting to think subterfuge had completely altered her life in that short time.

  “Lady Kelso is most insistent I return.” She hoped her father wouldn’t hear the lie. “Lord Burnley wrote to say he appreciated my efforts.”

  Her father looked unconvinced. “Why should Lady Kelso care whether a stranger does her bidding? What are you and Laura to Lady Kelso? You waste your time in London, Diana. And I…need you.”

  Regret gnawed at her. She knew what the admission cost him. “Lord Burnley is most insistent I stay with Lady Kelso for the summer, Papa. You know what we owe him.”

  They did in fact owe Burnley more than she wanted to acknowledge. He’d allowed her father to continue in his position even while Diana took over the reins of the estate. Most employers would have pensioned her father off, but for some reason, Burnley showed a loyalty to his bailiff he’d shown nobody else in his self-indulgent life. And Burnley had given her a chance to prove her mettle when the majority of men would have dismissed her as a useless female.

  Her father grumbled under his breath and fumbled for his stick. It was a sign of his distress that he missed it and knocked it clattering to the floor. Rex whined and struggled onto his arthritic legs, shuffling over to nose at his master’s leg in canine comfort.

  Swallowing more stinging tears, Diana bent to pick up the stick and pass it to her father. She wished to heaven she hadn’t waited to see him. She’d thought their interview before she left was bad enough, but this was worse.

  Perhaps because after what she’d done with Ashcroft yesterday, she could no longer claim to be his pure daughter. The woman he’d raised to be a credit to him. The realization of how she’d changed made her feel sick.

  Her clarity of purpose sank into a mire of conflicting emotions.

  Before she’d left for London, everything had seemed straightforward. She’d sleep with a man who would care only that she offered a willing body. She’d get pregnant. She’d take over Cranston Abbey as its custodian until her son reached his majority.

  That tidy, inevitable progression of events now seemed almost laughably implausible. She hadn’t considered the subtle influence of personalities. Hers. Burnley’s. Her father’s. Laura’s. Above all, Ashcroft’s.

  You are such a naïve little fool, Diana.

  She’d entered into Lord Burnley’s plot too lightly, without considering final costs. Excitement at the promise of becoming mistress of Cranston Abbey had blinded her.

  Surreptitiously, her hand flattened across her belly, knowing her father wouldn’t see. Could a child be growing there? It still seemed unbelievable, but after yesterday she might indeed be pregnant. She hoped her baby grew up to be a better person than its mother.

  When Burnley broached the scheme, six weeks playing another woman with another life had appeared easy. After experiencing Ashcroft’s passion, she knew if she didn’t bring this affair to a swift end, it would destroy her. Already she felt torn in two with what she did.

  “So when will you be home?” her father asked sharply. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  Clearly, her daily letters reporting completely mythical activities with Lady Kelso, Lord Burnley’s cousin, hadn’t soothed his displeasure. She laid her hand on top of the fist that clutched the head of his stick. “Papa, I told you, I may have to stay until September. If I change my mind now, I’ll displease Lord Burnley.”

  Her father’s anger evaporated, but to her dismay, concern replaced it. “There’s something you’re not telling me, child. I fear you’ll find yourself beyond your depth with people not of our class. I’d hate you to be hurt.”

  She stiffened, then forced herself to relax before her father sensed her discomfort. Wildly, she cast about for something to allay his fears. “Papa, I do Lord Burnley’s bidding.”

  “While I’m always grateful for his favor, Lord Burnley’s schemes are usually to the advantage of Lord Burnley, Diana.”

  That was true, but this scheme worked not just to Burnley’s advantage, but to hers too.

  She tried to sound lighthearted even as remorse weighed down her heart. “Papa, I’m too smart to let anyone take advantage of me.”

  Her father’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “I know you think you are. You’re far away and among strangers. I worry when I can’t watch over you.”

  She wondered if he realized the irony of what he said. “Papa, don’t worry. Please. I’m enjoying the city and wearing nice clothes and sampling some high life.”

  His smile sliced at her heart. “I don’t want your head turned.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s screwed on tight.” If only that were true. She’d felt ridiculously giddy when she made love to Ashcroft, and she wasn’t sure her balance had returned yet.

  Her father continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps you’ll meet a nice young man. You bury yourself at Marsham, and you never see anyone new. You deserve a life of your own, not to spend your years chasing after your decrepit old father. Is that what
this is about, Diana? Is that what you can’t bear to tell me?”

  Oh, Papa…

  She leaned forward and hugged him with a mixture of guilt and love. “No, no, no. I told you—Lady Kelso needs someone to run her errands while her companion visits her sick mother in the north. I’m not husband hunting.”

  No, she already had a husband lined up. A great catch indeed. At least in the world’s eyes.

  Her father wouldn’t support the match. He wouldn’t like his daughter stepping outside her class, however rich the bridegroom. Nor would he want her to marry an old, sick man for his fortune. Her father’s principles were immovable, probably one of the reasons Lord Burnley kept him on despite the drawbacks.

  Men of scrupulous honesty were rare. Her father, unlike his daughter, was incorruptible.

  A discreet knock announced Mr. Brown’s return. “Lord Burnley’s carriage is outside, Mrs. Carrick.”

  Her father frowned, his displeasure reviving. “This visit hardly merits the name, Diana.”

  How she wished Burnley had left her in London, trusted her to follow her own strategy. This short conversation would do nothing to allay her father’s fears for her in the big, bad city.

  She hugged him again, wretched to feel how stiffly he accepted her embrace. She was distinctly out of favor. As she deserved to be.

  Would this plot drive a permanent wedge between her and her father? Dear heaven, pray not. She loved her father more than anyone else. She couldn’t bear if he turned away. Worse, she couldn’t bear to hurt him.

  Everything hinged on falling pregnant quickly.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. It’s only for a few weeks.” The words were as much for her reassurance as his. Her sight glazed with distress, she drew away and turned for the door. “Don’t come out. I know you’re busy.”

  “Of course I’ll see you off and wish you Godspeed,” he snapped.

  She took his arm although he knew the house so well, he was unlikely to have difficulty. The contact was for her benefit. She wanted to confirm the love that had sustained them for so many years.