Betrayal Page 9

Why was she able to control the boy and achieve something Ash hadn’t managed in years?

  Ash gritted his teeth. Damn that woman! And damn her for turning up in his life once again, reminding him of his own foolishness, the idiotic tendre he had had for her. Imagine that: to be in love with one’s wife! To be prepared to forsake all dalliances just for her! Preposterous! His friends and acquaintances must have thought him a mooncalf or worse. Must have called him all kinds of fool when her betrayal had come to light.

  Damn her! Damn her to hell!

  Just then St. Asaph paused, doorknob in hand, and half turned towards his mother. His eyes glittered. “Perhaps it would have been better if you had met Martin Renner before you had ever met him.” He jerked his head in Ash’s direction and then stormed out of the room, banging the door shut behind him.

  Control the boy? Ha! Ash allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk until the meaning of St. Asaph’s words sunk fully in. He scowled at her. “And Martin Renner would be...?”

  Her cheeks glowed prettily, when she lifted her chin. “That’s none of your business, my lord.”

  “Then let me guess.” Slowly, Ash walked around the table and prowled towards her. Deliberately, he used his greater height to crowd her in, to intimidate her, to remind her exactly who was lord and master in this house and at how much a disadvantage she was.

  He stepped so close to her that he could smell her. Lavender. In the past she had worn the scent of cherry blossoms, so fresh and sweet he had always wanted to gobble her up.

  How things change...

  Now she no longer could ensnare him.

  Now he knew her for what she was: a deceitful slut.

  Adieu to cherry blossoms. Adieu to foolish passions and youthful ideals. Now he knew better than to believe in those romantic follies.

  Mockingly, Ash raised his brows. “Is this Martin Renner your current German cher ami?” he jeered. “Poor sod.”

  Her lips compressed into a thin line, and for a moment he thought he saw tears well up in her eyes—which did not satisfy him as much as it should, he noted with disgust. But then she inhaled sharply and leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “Pray have you forgotten, my lord?” Her voice was arctic. “Whom I choose to take into my bed does no longer concern you. You made sure of that seventeen years ago,” she spat. “And now, if you would excuse me, I’ll go and see after my son.”

  ~*~

  Sitting on a chair next to Finnian’s—or rather Gareth’s—bed, Georgina tried to calm the racing of her heart. Like a drum, the blood pulsed in her ears.

  Gareth had slumped down on the bed next to his brother and whispered to him. Judging from his dark face, he was telling Finn about what had happened in the breakfast parlour.

  The breakfast parlour... She shook her head. Why had she not insisted on going to Finn’s room straight away? She should have known better than to seek Ashburnham’s presence.

  She shuddered.

  How she had stood his glaring daggers at her for so long, she hardly knew. It had been awful. A horrible reminder of the day when she had last seen him seventeen years ago. So full of anger and hate. Oh, he had tried not to show it, of course. After all, it was not worthy of an earl to show such base emotions.

  That they had spilled over after all had been testimony to the intensity of his wrath and bitterness. Though what reason did he have for bitterness? It had not been his life that had been destroyed seventeen years ago. It had not been him who had to give up everything he held dear.

  With a shiver, Georgina remembered the hellish flight from England to Germany, the cold, wet weather, the pitiful cries of her baby son, and the all-consuming fear of discovery. Of losing even this last piece of her heart.

  Until now...

  She shook her head. It would not do to dwell on this now. She had known the price she would have to pay for returning to Ashburnham Hall—and to Ashburnham himself.

  And yet, despite everything, her heart had jumped when he had entered this room yesterday evening. Foolish, foolish heart. Behaving as if she were still that blissfully happy girl of nineteen and so in love with her husband she had been blind to everything else. Perhaps this was the reason why she had never perceived the dangers to her happiness, all the misconceptions...

  Sighing, Georgina rubbed her forehead.

  She did not want to revisit the past, yet how could she not, being back at Ashburnham Hall?

  And he...

  He had aged well. The softness of youth might have been all replaced by hard edges, but he was still as handsome as ever. His hair was still full and dark, his body still fit and trim. Superbly tailored coats accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

  Oh yes, he was handsome all right. Enough so to threaten her peace of mind, she admitted wryly to herself.

  Foolish heart, foolish Georgina.

  In the future she would avoid him at all costs.

  Gareth looked up. “I still don’t see why you shouldn’t stay here. Finn doesn’t either, do you?” He glanced at his brother, who, Georgina was amused to see, nodded dutifully.

  She shook her head at them both. “How truly shocking,” she said lightly. “I believe you are rather headstrong and obstinate, Lord St. Asaph.” And when Gareth gave her one of his formidable scowls, she added, “If you continue making such dark faces, you’ll have wrinkles before you are twenty.”

  Huffing and puffing, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. But then his lips curved. “Oh you...” he mumbled.

  She raised her brows. “At least I don’t set you to shrubbing the warehouse.”

  “You shrubbed the warehouse?” Finn was clearly impressed by the antics of his brother. “Whatever did you do?”

  As if to reveal a great secret, Georgina leaned forward. “Put the calico to the silks.”

  “Oh no! You didn’t!” Finn burst out laughing.

  Gareth blushed furiously, and he thrust his chin out. “But the colours matched. I have no idea why Weidel made such a fuss about it.”

  Which only increased Finn’s hilarity.

  “I don’t see what’s so terribly funny about this,” Gary mumbled.

  Looking at the two of them, Georgina felt her heart melt. Whatever the future would bring, whatever price she would have to pay, it had been worth it.

  Chapter 10

  In the afternoon Ash decided he should see how his mother was doing. But he never made it into her rooms: Clara, her lady’s maid of forty years, refused him entry. With one hand holding the door closed and blocking the doorway, she left him standing in the hallway and told him in hushed tones how the dowager countess could not be disturbed. Apparently, she had been feeling better this morning, but then—Clara sniffed—she had spotted a certain person returning to the house and her spirits had absolutely plummeted. How anybody could be so unconscientious and unfeeling as to do this to the poor dowager countess was truly beyond her. And with that, the worthy Clara slipped back into the room and firmly closed the door behind her.

  Ash rubbed his forehead and sighed.

  Feminine vapors were something he abhorred. Now, Georgina had never shown any inclination towards them. Take that ride through the woods with Guy—poor chap had been thrown and had landed in the most unfortunate way, on a piece of rock that had cracked his arm in two. A bloody mess it had been, with part of the bone poking through the skin. Yet Ginny had neither fainted nor screamed. She had paled, yes, but surely this was only to be expected. Calmly she had got off her horse and had stayed with Guy while he himself had ridden back to get help. He remembered how proud he had been because she had been so brave. Yes, she had stayed with Guy, comforted him—

  Guy.

  The memory evaporated, was replaced by others. One by one they danced through his mind, like shadows from a bygone world.

  Two young boys exploring the grounds of Ashburnham Hall together, turning the folly into a castle, a ship, a dragon’s cave even. At school th
ey had fought shoulder to shoulder, had trashed schoolyard bullies. And later, at Oxford, they had drank together, gambled together, laughed together, had stretched their minds and bodies to explore new horizons.

  For years Ash had not allowed himself to think of his cousin, of what a good friend Guy had been. The best, really. Of course, with her it now came all back. All the things he had worked so hard to forget in order to make the pain more bearable.

  Damn her.

  Had it started that day in the woods? She had always had a soft spot for all creatures weak and wounded. Would things have been different if he had stayed with Guy?

  He would never know.

  And now she was back. And all the memories he had locked away for so long, were, too.

  ~*~

  He worked away in his study that day—or at least he pretended to work while thoughts of his former wife kept intruding his mind. Would she come to apologise? Last evening and this morning she had naturally been worried about her boy, he conceded—but now, would apologizing not be the decent thing to do? The least thing she could do? When he had presented her with the proof all these years ago, she had only stared at him in the most stricken manner, rather as if her world had just come crashing down her ears.

  Ash snorted.

  It had been his world she had destroyed. By Jove, he had loved her like no other before. Like no other since. And she had taken it all and smashed it in the most coarse fashion.

  Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  Yes, he knew quite well that other men of his station looked the other way when their womenfolk strayed. After all, they had their mistresses, too. But—damn it all!—theirs had been a love match, or so he had thought. And her betrayal had cut him deep.

  Like a ferocious beast, it had gnawed away at his insides until the pain was more than he thought he could bear. The humiliation of the public scandal that had followed when the news got out that his wife had run away with her lover paled into insignificance compared to the knowledge that she had repudiated their love. That was what his brain had refused to comprehend, what had cast him into a stupor of stunned disbelief. That she could have bestowed the gift of her love and her body onto somebody else.

  Oh, the folly of boyish passions and beliefs! What damn romantic fantasies he had indulged in! He had never tired of whispering to her of love and happiness in the golden glow of candlelight that had cocooned them in their bed among the vast planes of darkness in the middle of the night. They had appeared magical to him, these candlelit midnight hours when the two of them seemed to be the only human beings in all the world.

  Candlelit hours when they had had eyes only for each other. When he could steep himself in her beauty, could get drunk on her scent, those fleeting last remains of cherry blossoms. At night their sweetness had belonged to him, only to him.

  Yet...

  All mere illusions. Nothing but the fanciful dreams of a man too young to know better.

  Sighing, Ash stood and walked over to the window to stare out over the drive and the still lake, where the elusive beauty of the water lilies was slowly fading.

  His fingers drummed on the windowsill.

  Damn, damn fool.

  If only memories could be erased from one’s brain. Cauterised like a festering wound.

  The sound of the front door opening caught his attention. She stepped out, her severe knot hidden underneath a bonnet, her plain dress covered by a cheap grey coat.

  A hideous outfit, really.

  Frowning, he leaned forward.

  She slipped on her gloves—no kid gloves, of course not.

  Another memory—shortly after their marriage, he had found the finest, softest gloves for her. He remembered how she had kept stroking the light brown leather as if enthralled by its smoothness. And how she had stroked him a few hours later in the semi-darkness of their bedroom. “To thank you for my lovely present,” she had whispered to him, her lips curved into a teasing smile. He had surrendered to her that night, had let her play with his body until all his muscles had been strung tight. Only when he had been on the verge of begging her had she finally taken mercy on him. She had straddled him, a serene smile on her lips while her hair had flown wildly around her shoulders and down her back. It had tickled his hands when he had run them up and down her spine, had fallen across his chest when she had leaned forward, had surrounded their faces like a veil when she had kissed him. And he? He had thought her an Amazonian queen, wild and proud and beautiful. And his. Dear God, his.

  The memory made him shudder.

  Weakly, he leaned against the window frame and shook his head to break the spell of the past.

  When he looked up again, she was walking down the drive, her back ramrod straight, her old coat swirling around her ankles.

  Once, in another lifetime, she had loved colours. Bright, sparkling colours that seemed to reflect her joyful nature. Even when white muslin dresses had been all the rage, she had combined them with colourful shawls, her favourite an exotic red paisley shawl with patterns in orange, white, and blue.

  Ash frowned.

  She had left it behind when she had vanished. Indeed, she had taken almost nothing, except for one or two simple dresses, her coat, some jewellery probably, and, well, one of the boys.

  Ash stared after her.

  Where had she gone all these years ago? After her disappearance he had had men search the country high and low. Her parents hadn’t seen her. Indeed, they had made it clear that they would have sent her back to Ashburnham Hall had she dared to plead for shelter. There seemed to be some indication that she had taken a stage-coach to the coast. But she wouldn’t have been able to cross the Channel from one of the official harbours—she would have needed papers for that. None had been issued from any of the embassies in London.

  Or had Guy organised these? Was this the reason why he had left before her?

  Or perhaps they had paid a fisher, a smuggler, to bring them—where?

  The same old mysteries, still unsolved. Seventeen years ago they had infuriated Ash. His anger had consumed him until he thought he would burn alive with it. He still remembered the gnawing pain in his chest where his heart used to beat before she had ripped it out.

  His hands curled into fists.

  When he noticed, he carefully and deliberately spread his fingers wide against the polished wood of the window sill.

  He would not let himself be affected like this by past hurts and pains.

  But still—the old mystery remained. And now new ones had been added to it.

  How had they lived these past seventeen years? Why hadn’t Guy accompanied her to Ashburnham Hall? Was he afraid Ash would call him out?

  Ash snorted.

  Once upon a time, if he had had the chance, he would have done it. He would have happily shot his cousin. Or run him through with a sword. He would have relished seeing Guy Crawley’s life-blood run out of him in a thick, dark stream.

  Now, however...

  He was an Ashburnham. An Earl of Ashburnham did not indulge in such base feelings as bloodlust and the need for revenge.

  Those unsolved mysteries, on the other hand, he took an interest in because he wanted them to be solved so he could put them to rest once and for all. And thus, he would ensure they would no longer plague him.

  Mysteries of the past, mysteries of the present, and the biggest mystery of all: How had the Countess of Ashburnham become a brown mouse?

  Wasn’t it time he found out?

  Ash waited until he saw St. Asaph—Gary, she had called him—dash over to the stables. He would want to exercise his horse. Another thing Ash should have noticed: while St. Asaph was absolutely wild about horses, his brother had shown decidedly less enthusiasm.

  What a blind fool I’ve been. Ash shook his head. And what a pair of clever rascals they are! He chuckled despite himself. Guy would have loved this. He would have thought it all a great joke.

  But no.

  He had resolved not to think
of Guy.

  Determinedly, Ash strode out of his study and straight to St. Asaph’s room, where the sickbed still stood. A young footman sat with the patient. He scrambled to his feet when Ash entered. “It is all right, Timms. Leave us for the moment,” Ash said. Raising his brows, he looked pointedly at the cards that lay scattered on the blanket. “Does your mother know you’re into cards?”

  A hint of red appeared on the boy’s pale face. “We weren’t gambling, my lord. Just passing the time.”

  “So I see.—Do you mind if I sit?”

  The flush deepened. “Not at all.”

  Oh yes, Ash mused, he should have seen the differences much earlier. He took the seat young Timms had vacated. “I hear you are improving. I’m glad of it.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The boy regarded him a little warily. Where his brother was full of bluster and anger, he was careful and on his guard. Of course, with him being ill, the differences were more pronounced. But what a curious trick of nature to create two boys who looked so much alike.

  And what a dastardly deed to give two men the same colouring so one could never know whether—

  With a sideways jerk of his head, Ash dismissed the thought. None of this now!

  “I... er...” Ash crossed his legs. How to start this? “I thought it would be appropriate if...” He cleared his throat. “...if I were to get to know you better.”

  When the boy cocked his head to the side and gnawed on his lip, it gave Ash’s heart a twist. She used to do this, too, when something puzzled her and she was trying to figure it all out.

  It unnerved Ash enough to make him stumble into speech again. “I should think it’s only natural, since you will be staying here from now on.”

  Blue-grey eyes narrowed. “Will I?” Oh, well, that tone was much more like St. Asaph.

  Ash shrugged. “Naturally.”

  The boy sat there very straight. “But my life is in Nassau.”

  “Well, it might have been—”

  “I work in trade for Frau Else,” the boy cut in. “In fact, I enjoy working with the fabrics.”