The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce
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The memories began to return. He had arrived home after a long rehabilitation in the military hospital, his entire family there to welcome him, along with neighbors and friends. But Julia, his fiancée, had not been there—and she had only visited him twice in the hospital. He had immediately left his family to call on her, but she hadn’t been home. Instead, he had found her at Clarewood, the Mowbray ancestral home—in Tom’s embrace.
Since that long-ago spring day in 1813, he had intended to never set eyes upon either Julia or Mowbray again. He had been determined to ignore their very existence, as if the love-struck couple did not exist—as if she had not been his lover, as if he had not risked life and limb to rescue Tom from a certain death.
But society was a very small, incestuous place. A year or so later, he had heard that the Mowbrays had had their first son—in October. He hadn’t wanted to allow his mind to go there, but the math was almost irrefutable. As he had left Julia just after the New Year, Stephen could so easily be his child, even though Mowbray had been sharing her favors then, too. And then he’d heard the gossip—that the boy was a changeling, adopted or even the son of one of Julia’s lovers. Although both of his parents were impossibly fair, the boy was as dark as a black Irishman.
Stricken, he had sought out the boy at Clarewood, to see for himself. Rex had taken one look at the darkly complexioned child and it had been clear he was a de Warenne.
The de Warenne men took after one of two ancestors. They were either golden or impossibly dark, and usually, they had the brilliantly blue de Warenne eyes. Rex saw a child that could have posed for his brother Tyrell’s childhood portrait—or his own.
They had reached an agreement long ago. It was hardly the first of its kind in the ton. The Mowbrays would raise Stephen, for Julia was insistent, and Mowbray would provide the kind of inheritance that Rex never could. In return for forsaking his child to the couple so Stephen would have a future of wealth and privilege, Rex would be sent annual reports and allowed an occasional visit. The truth, however, was to remain concealed. Mowbray did not want anyone to know that Julia had been with another man.
It was unbelievably ironic, because a decade had passed and Stephen would have far more than a pleasing inheritance from Mowbray. When Clarewood passed on, Tom had inherited the dukedom, for his older brother had died in a shipwreck. More importantly, there were no other children. Apparently, Tom was incapable of fathering his own child. One day, Stephen Mowbray would be the duke of Clarewood, one of the wealthiest and premier lords in the realm.
He was doing what was best for his son. There was no doubt about that. But now, a knife was being twisted ruthlessly in his heart. Rex opened the letter.
As always, Stephen was excelling at every study and every endeavor. He was two levels ahead in his reading and undertaking advanced studies in mathematics, which remained his favorite subject. He was fluent in French, German and Latin, beginning dance instruction and already adept with a saber, enough so that his master wished to enter him in a tourney for those his age. His horsemanship was equally impressive and he had received a Thoroughbred for his birthday. He was already taking meter fences with ease. And recently, Mowbray had taken him on his first fox hunt.
The script had been blurring since he had begun reading the letter. Rex could no longer see—there was another short paragraph to read. Drops of moisture stained the page, which was shaking. He laid the letter down and gave up. Tears streamed but he could not stop them.
He was so tired of pretending that Stephen was not his. He hated these letters—and he wanted to hold his son. He wanted to teach him to jump those fences; he wanted to take him fox-hunting. But how could he? This was for the best. He did not want Stephen exiled to Land’s End as he had been.
He fought for composure. God, if only he could see Stephen, even once. But he had never visited the boy. If he were going to go through with this arrangement, he knew he must keep the greatest distance possible between them. Meeting Stephen as a stranger would be impossible—he was sure the anguish would rip him apart. He would probably wind up in an opium den, and God only knew that he drank too much as it was. Or he would meet the boy and change his mind. How selfish would that be?
And he could try to remind himself that one day Stephen would know the truth, but there was no consolation to be gained. It would be decades before he could ever approach Stephen and tell him the truth of his paternity, unless Mowbray died an early and untimely death. Rex despised Mowbray, but not enough to wish such a fate upon him.
Rex looked at the dark stone walls surrounding him, closing in on him, and felt as if he were being buried alive, there at Bodenick, where he had toiled so tremendously to turn ruins into a lucrative enterprise. But Land’s End had become a place of exile from the moment he had realized he must forsake his son. It did not matter that he had chosen the exile. The day the yearly letter arrived was the day that he always felt the utter hopelessness of his life. It was the day there was never enough air, and that the weight of his life became crushing.
Rex seized his crutch and swung it viciously. The lamp fell to the floor, shattering, and his carefully organized papers flew everywhere. He stood, leaning against the desk for balance, and thrust the crutch violently at the remaining items on his desk. A glass, decanter, paperweight and more papers were swept to the floor.
He panted, closing his eyes, fighting for control. This day would pass. It always did. Tomorrow he would inspect his broodmares, return to work on the new barn, and begin to fill the pond he’d made in the gardens behind the castle tower. His body continued to shudder. His breathing remained hard and labored. The pain and despair clawed at his heart—he could feel talons inside his chest.
He glanced down at the decanter, which had not broken. He bent, the springs in his crutch allowing it to contract as he wished, retrieving the bottle. Long ago he had learned how to use the crutch in every possible way. It was custom-made, with springs and hinges, and he was no longer aware of its existence. It had become an extension of his body. It had become his right leg.
A quarter of the whiskey remained and he drained as much as he could in a single gulp.
A housemaid hurried into the chamber. “My lord!” She cried, taking in the mess he had created with a single, wide-eyed glance.
Rex finished off the contents of the decanter and then placed it on the desk. He slowly looked at his housemaid. There was a better way to forget.
Anne was on her knees, picking up his papers. She was twenty years old, buxom and pretty and very, very lusty. She had come into his employ two months ago, making it clear she wished to do far more than clean his house and launder his clothes. He refused to deny himself pleasure and passion—he could not survive without sex—and had been tiring of the affair he was having with the innkeeper’s widowed daughter. He had instantly hired Anne. Her first chore had been to join him in bed and they had enjoyed themselves immensely—and had been doing so ever since. He hadn’t been her first lover and he would not be her last. He had compensated her for her extra duties by providing extra stores for her family, who were tenant farmers in a neighboring parish, struggling to make ends meet. Her salary was also a generous one.
Recently, though, he had seen her flirting with the village blacksmith, a handsome lad her own age, newly arrived in Lanhadron. He sensed where that was leading and did not mind, as she deserved a home and family of her own. In fact, as long as he could find a new servant—and a new mistress—he would encourage the match and give them a handsome wedding present.
But she hadn’t married the young blacksmith yet. And pleasure brought escape. He wished to escape into her body now. “Anne. Leave the mess for later.”
She started, looking up, her eyes wide. “My lord, you care for your papers the way me mum cares for my little sisters. I know how important your papers are!”
He felt a new tension arise, there in his breeches, straining at the wool fabric. And it was as he wanted. “Come here,” he said very softly.
She became still, understanding him. And slowly she stood, laying some papers on his desk, their gazes locking, a flush now on her full cheeks. She began to smile. “My lord, didn’t