A Kiss to Remember Page 17

Nicholas's eyes met Laura's and it was clear from the panic and confusion within them that he was as stunned by his outburst as she had been. But there was no time to compare reactions, for a lady had emerged from the coach and was racing down the path.

  Bursting into tears, she threw her arms around Nicholas's neck and began to smother his face with kisses. "Oh, you dear wicked thing, you're alive! You're really alive! I had nearly given up all hope!"

  At first Nicholas stood stiffly in her embrace. Then his arms slowly began to rise. "Diana?" His hand shook as he smoothed her sleek dark hair away from her face. "Is it you? Is it really you?"

  Laura turned her face away, no longer able to watch the tender reunion. From her satin half-boots to the swirling ostrich plumes on her hat, this woman was everything Laura would never be—beautiful, elegant, sophisticated. And plainly adored by the man in her arms.

  Nicholas had promised her a glimpse of heaven and it seemed that was all she was going to have.

  As Lottie slipped her small hand into Laura's, a gentleman with a walking stick tucked under his arm came striding past without sparing either one of them a glance.

  Nicholas stared at him blankly for several seconds before recognition dawned in his eyes. "Thane? Thane? What in the hell are you doing here?"

  The man clapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly. "I'm charging to your rescue, of course, just as you charged to my rescue so many times on the battlefield. Surely you didn't expect me to sit idly by when I heard you were about to go and get yourself leg-shackled to some silly country chit."

  Nicholas blinked and shook his head, as if awakening from some long and fantastical dream. "I can't seem to make any sense of all this." He cradled his brow in his hand. "If I could just get my blasted head to stop pounding…"

  The woman linked her arm possessively through his. "Don't you worry, Sterling. Everything will start to make sense again once you're back at Devonbrooke Hall where you belong."

  Laura would have sworn she'd already endured the worst moment of her life. She was wrong.

  That moment came when the man she had just married slowly turned to gaze at her through narrowed eyes. She could almost see the warmth melting from their golden depths, leaving them as cold and calculating as chips of frozen amber. As she realized she had just sold herself, body and soul, to Sterling Harlow, the Devil of Devonbrooke himself, Laura took the only course of action left to her.

  She fainted.

  * * *

  PART TWO

  The prince of darkness

  is a gentleman.

  —William Shakespeare

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  … for all the right reasons.

  Laura sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing her tattered wedding gown and crooked circlet of rosebuds. She was so engrossed in staring at nothing that she didn't even blink when a pink stocking came sailing past her nose, followed by a pair of kid slippers.

  All that was visible of Lottie was her round little rump. She was on her knees pawing through the bottom of Laura's wardrobe. Every few seconds, she would toss an item haphazardly over one shoulder to a waiting George, who would catch it and cram it into the brocaded valise sitting open on the other side of the bed.

  "I don't know why you're going to all that trouble," Laura said, her voice nearly as flat as her expression. "They won't let me have those things in the gaol."

  "You're not going to the gaol," Lottie said fiercely, tossing George a crumpled nightdress. "You're going to run away."

  Laura sighed. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a rather formidable footman stationed just outside the door. Should I make it past him, which I doubtless wouldn't, I'm sure His Grace would be only too delighted to sic one of his slavering devil dogs on me."

  George threw open the window and leaned out, surveying the steep slant of the clay shingles. "We might be able to knot some sheets together and lower you to the ground."

  "Now, that's a brilliant plan," Laura said dryly. "If I should break my own neck, it would spare him the trouble of doing it."

  Lottie sat back on her heels, shooting her brother a frazzled glance.

  "He can't keep you under lock and key forever, you know," George insisted.

  "And why not? He's a very wealthy and powerful man. He can do whatever he likes with me." Laura couldn't quite hide her involuntary shiver. "Even if I did manage to escape him, where would I go? There's nowhere I could hide where he wouldn't find me."

  Lottie sank down on the bed next to Laura, patting her icy hand. "Perhaps it's not too late to throw yourself on his mercy. If you cry very prettily, he might just find it in his heart to forgive you."

  Laura slowly turned to look at her sister. "For over six years Lady Eleanor begged for his forgiveness. I can't count the number of times I caught her crying over him. Yet he never spared her so much as a second thought." She went back to gazing at the faded violets on the wallpaper. "I refuse to beg for mercy from a man who has none to give."

  "Look on the bright side," Lottie said, leaning her head against Laura's shoulder. "Perhaps he'll forget everything that's happened to him since he lost his memory."

  Laura studied the delicate garnet ring he had slipped on her finger only an hour ago. "That's what I'm most afraid of," she whispered, resting her dark head against Lottie's golden one.

  Sterling Harlow, the seventh duke of Devonbrooke, stood in the drawing room of Arden Manor for the first time in over twenty-one years. He could no longer be sure if it was time or his memory that had betrayed him. He only knew that once the room had been larger and sunnier, the roses embroidered on the settee cushions had been red instead of pink, and his mother's pianoforte hadn't been missing half a leg. Nicholas Radcliffe had never noticed such trifling things, but to Sterling, they were as glaring as the ugly watermark staining the plaster frieze.

  He flung open the doors of the secretaire and swept aside the rotting ledgers. The decanter of brandy was exactly where his father had always hidden it. His mother had pretended not to know it was there, even when his father had come staggering up the steps after a long night spent "balancing the books." Books whose columns were devoid of figures because his father had gambled away both his modest inheritance and her dowry at one of the more disreputable gaming hells in Covent Garden.

  "Would you care for a drink?" he asked Thane. "I know it's early, but I think a man is entitled to a toast on his wedding day."

  "Don't mind if I do," Thane replied, accepting the glass Sterling offered him. The young marquess was sprawled in the window seat with his booted feet crossed at the ankle.

  "It should be well aged. It was my father's," Sterling informed him. "Excellent taste in liquor was his only redeeming quality. He actually preferred port. He was a three-bottle-a-night man."

  Thane took a sip. "No wonder you've always had such a fine head for liquor."

  You never indulge in spirits.

  The echo of those gentle words sliced through Sterling's heart like a knife. His hand tightened around his own glass. It was all he could do to keep from flinging it at the hearth. Instead, he brought it to his lips, tossing back the brandy in a single blistering swallow.

  Diana delicately cleared her throat. Taking the hint, Sterling poured her a glass and delivered it to the ottoman where she sat.

  Plainly bemused, Thane cocked one eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that ladies indulged in anything stronger than sherry. Should we offer you some snuff as well?"

  She smiled sweetly at him over the rim of the glass. "No, thank you. I much prefer a pipe."

  While Sterling poured himself another drink, Thane hefted his glass in a toast. "To freedom."

  "To freedom," Sterling echoed grimly.

  "Freedom," Diana murmured, keeping a wary eye on her cousin as she took a genteel sip of the brandy.

  Sterling sank down in the leather wing chair, carelessly sweeping a well-worn Greek Testament onto the floor. He no longer had any interest
in reading about forgiveness or redemption.

  Thane tilted his head to read the spine, then snorted. "I still can't believe the chit was going to make a country parson of you. Wait till the lads at White's hear that the infamous Devil of Devonbrooke nearly traded his horns for a halo."

  "And you're absolutely sure she had no way of knowing who you were?" Diana asked.

  "Not to my knowledge," Sterling replied stiffly.

  Diana swirled the brandy around in the glass, a frown creasing her smooth brow. "That's what puzzles me the most about all this. If she wasn't trying to get her greedy little paws on your wealth or your title, then why the elaborate charade?"

  Thane leaned forward in the window seat. "According to this Dower fellow, Sterling's mother told the girl that if she wed before her twenty-first birthday, which just happens to be day after tomorrow, the manor would be hers."

  "That's impossible," Sterling snapped. "The manor wasn't my mother's to give. By law, two-thirds of my father's property belonged to me the minute my father died. She had no right to offer it to some ambitious foundling."

  Thane shrugged. "You know how women are. Leave them to their own devices for too long and they can come up with some very foolish and romantic notions."

  Diana cleared her throat again, this time more pointedly.

  "Some women, that is," Thane amended, struggling to suppress a smile. "This isn't London, you know. It really wouldn't have been that difficult for your mother to find some green clerk willing to draw up an official-looking document containing whatever nonsense she paid him to write. Perhaps she thought you wouldn't care. Your father's been dead for over ten years and you've shown scant interest in claiming your share of his inheritance. Until now, that is."

  Gazing at Sterling through puzzled eyes, Diana shook her head. "That still doesn't explain why the girl chose you. And at such grave peril to herself."

  "Why don't we ask her?" Thane suggested, bounding to his feet. "I daresay she's had enough time to recover from her brilliantly timed swoon. I'll go fetch her right now."

  "No!" Sterling shouted, startling them both.

  Thane slowly sank back down.

  "I don't want to see her," Sterling added softly. "Not yet."

  Thane and Diana exchanged a troubled glance. To escape their scrutiny, Sterling moved to the window on the north wall and drew aside the curtain. Caliban and Cerberus were galloping back and forth through Laura's flower garden, their romp punctuated by joyful barks and flying blooms.

  "It should be easy enough to extract yourself from this situation," Diana said gently. "The marriage itself isn't legally binding, of course, given that you signed the parish register under a false name."

  "And even a village this size must have a constable," Thane pointed out. "If not, we'll take the conniving little witch to London. The court takes a dim view of kidnapping peers of the realm. She'll be lucky if they don't hang her."

  Sterling continued to gaze out the window, silent and still.

  "I can make all the necessary arrangements if you like." It was Thane's turn to clear his throat. "Unless, of course, there are… extenuating circumstances."

  "He wants to know if you've compromised her," Diana pointed out cheerfully, causing Thane to choke on a mouthful of brandy.

  You're not the sort of man who would compromise his fiancée's virtue.

  That remembered declaration, delivered with such beguiling earnestness, made Sterling want to ram his fist through the window. He wished to hell he had compromised her. Wished he had eased her nightdress up above her waist in that moonlit bower and rutted her like some pagan satyr of old. If he had realized he might never get another chance, he would have done just that and more. Much more.

  "I hardly think this is a discussion fit for mixed company," Thane protested when he was done sputtering.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Thane," Diana said. "You needn't be so condescending. I'm not one of those blushing flibbertigibbets you're so fond of consorting with. Unlike most of your lady friends, I'm even old enough to button my own boots."

  "I'm flattered to know you've been studying my habits," he drawled. "Tell me, have you spies in all the London drawing rooms I frequent? Or just the bedchambers?"

  "Ha!" Diana scoffed. "Why would I need spies when your romantic exploits are touted in all the scandal sheets and whispered about behind every fan?"

  "Forgive me, my lady," Thane said quietly. "I forgot that you always had more faith in vicious gossip than you did in me."

  A tense moment passed before Diana returned her attention to Sterling. "Even if you did compromise her, I don't see that it changes anything."

  "At least we're in agreement on that much," Thane said stiffly. "The foolish girl has only herself to blame and she should still have to bear the consequences of her deceit. You may even discover that you're not the first nobleman she's tried to seduce into marriage."

  Sterling gave no sign that he had even heard them.

  "Oh, Sterling," Diana cried. "You're usually so careful. You haven't gone and gotten her with child, have you?"

  You always told me that you only wanted two children—a boy and a girl.

  Sterling closed his eyes. He could blot out the mocking beauty of the summer day, but he could do nothing to banish the dulcet sweetness of Laura's voice from his head. Or the vision of the freckle-faced, brown-eyed boy and golden-haired little girl they would never have.

  He slowly turned, each movement an exercise in discipline. "As much as I appreciate your concern, I think it best that we discuss this matter no further until the morrow."

  Thane started to protest, but Diana obediently rose, smoothing her skirt. "Of course, we'll respect your wishes."

  Thane followed her lead, casting the window a glum glance. "I wonder what the odds are of finding some decent food in this uncivilized burg."

  Although it came nowhere near his eyes, Sterling smiled for the first time since regaining his memory. "You might try asking the cook for some crumpets. But I'd stay away from the bride cake if I were you. It tends to leave a bitter taste in the mouth."

  Nicholas Radcliffe had once told Laura he didn't believe in ghosts. Which was why it came as such a shock to Sterling Harlow when they began to gather around him, forming from the late afternoon shadows that shrouded the drawing room.

  His father materialized first, shoving past him with a bottle in one hand and a top hat in the other. "I'm off to London, boy. If you want to build a silly kite, go find your mother. I've no time for such nonsense."

  But his mother was kneeling by the door, tears streaming down her beautiful face. As the ghost of the boy he had once been walked right past her outstretched arms, his small shoulders set in unforgiving lines, she began to fade.

  "Mama," Sterling whispered, but it was too late. She was already gone.

  He turned around to find old Granville Harlow standing by the hearth, a sneer twisting his thin lips. "I've never believed in coddling a child," the duke said, slapping his walking stick repeatedly across his own palm. "I'll make a man of the lad in no time."

  Sterling hurled his half-full glass of brandy at the hearth, vanquishing the old man back to hell where he belonged.

  But there was to be no vanquishing the shades that followed. Shades of Laura and the man she had called Nicholas Radcliffe. Radcliffe leaned against the mantel, grinning at Laura like the fool she had made of him. The two of them shared the window seat, entwined in a tender, yet passionate, embrace. He knelt before the ottoman, framing her lovely face in his hands before touching his lips to hers. She collapsed and he was there to catch her, there to gather her into his arms and hold her against his heart.

  Sterling sank down in the leather wing chair, grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes. It seemed that Arden Manor wasn't haunted. He was.

  A rumbling purr shattered the silence. Something plush and warm rubbed against his ankle.

  "Nellie." His voice broke as he reached blindly down to run his fingers thr
ough the heavenly softness of her fur. "Oh, God, Nellie, where have you been all this time?"

  But when he opened his eyes, it wasn't Nellie gazing soberly up at him but the small yellow kitten who bore such a striking resemblance to her. He glanced at the door. It had slipped open a mere crack, just enough to grant her entry.

  Sterling slowly withdrew his hand. Like everything else at Arden Manor, the kitten was simply an illusion. A taunting reminder of the life he would never have.

  "Go on with you," he commanded hoarsely, nudging her with the toe of his boot. "I've no time for your nonsense."

  The little cat didn't budge. She simply settled back on her hindquarters and let out a piteous meow, begging to be readmitted into both his lap and his good graces.

  Sterling surged to his feet, the last of his control snapping. "I've already told you I can't abide cats!" he shouted. "Now why don't you leave me the hell alone!"

  The kitten whirled around and darted for the door. Sterling knew instinctively that she wouldn't be coming back.

  His hands clenched into fists, he swung toward the hearth, half expecting to hear his great-uncle's mocking laughter. But it seemed the ghosts had all fled as well, leaving him more alone than he'd ever been in his life.

  Laura lay on her side in the guttering candlelight, gazing at her sister's empty bed. The all-powerful duke must have decreed that Lottie wasn't to be allowed to share her imprisonment. Shortly after noon, the stony-faced footman had ushered her brother and sister from the chamber, leaving Laura all alone to await a summons that had never come.

  She had expected bread and water for supper, but Cookie had sent up a tray laden with all manner of succulent meats and tempting delicacies. Although Laura had rearranged the food so Cookie wouldn't be alarmed when the tray was returned to her, she hadn't been able to choke down a single bite of what was supposed to be her wedding breakfast.

  She could only imagine what the villagers must have thought of the morning's debacle. They had probably found it more stirring than any of Lady Eleanor's theatricals, even the one where George's turban caught fire and the sheep ran amok through the village church.