A Lady Never Surrenders Part 28

"And that worries him?" Hetty crossed her arms over her chest. "Even when two people are from the same worlds, marriage is hard, my dear-you know that as well as anyone. But when they are from different worlds..."

Her voice grew stronger with her conviction. "If he has no faith in her ability to fit into his world now, only think what things will be like once they are married. He has to believe in her. And if he cannot..."

"Perhaps," Minerva conceded. "But Gran, it isn't your place to decide whether he can or not, whether she can rise to the challenge or not. They have to decide that themselves. You stepped in where you shouldn't, and I think you'll regret it down the road. Because if Celia continues to balk at your ultimatum-"

"She will not," Hetty said uneasily, remembering Isaac giving her the same warning. "She will come to her senses."

"And marry the man of your choice? Are you sure that's best? Because if she doesn't marry Mr. Pinter, that only leaves the duke, and she doesn't love him."

Hetty dragged in a heavy breath, remembering what Mr. Pinter had claimed, though Celia had never told her anything of the sort. "You do not know that for certain."

"I do. What's more, I think you know it, too. You seem to believe that in holding firm to your ultimatum, you're correcting the mistake you made in matching your daughter to a man like Papa. That if you can get us all happily married off, it will make up for what happened to them."

Minerva gazed at her with pity in her face. "But all you're doing is making the same mistake again. Because although Celia won't be marrying a fortune hunter if she marries the duke, she'll still be marrying a man who wants her for reasons that have nothing to do with how wonderful she is. So for your sake-and hers-I hope she sticks to her guns."

When Minerva headed for the door, Hetty called out, "Are you going to reveal to her what I told Mr. Pinter?"

Minerva paused. "I haven't decided. On the one hand, you might be right-he does need to fight for her. On the other hand, Celia is hurting..." She shot Hetty a weary glance. "Unlike you, Gran, I don't pretend to know what is best for everyone. I shall have to see what she needs from me."

After she left, Hetty stood frozen. What did Celia need? What did any of them need? She had thought they needed spouses, and it certainly seemed as if they were much happier now that they had married.

But what if she had been wrong about Celia? What if what Celia needed was something beyond Hetty's power to give?

That disturbing question haunted her for the rest of the morning.

Chapter Twenty-two.

Despite several hours of searching, Jackson and his men found nothing to indicate who was trying to kill Celia. Not a b.l.o.o.d.y thing.

So, hours after leaving Halstead Hall, he rode toward Cheapside, seething with frustration. They'd combed the woods on either side of the road for a couple of miles. They'd found hoof marks in some soft mud, but that only told them that at least one a.s.sailant had lain in wait for them, which he'd already guessed. Whoever had attacked had been careful to leave few traces.

No one in the surrounding countryside had seen anything either. The a.s.sailants had well chosen their time to strike. His horse had turned up in a nearby field, but no sign remained of the villains. That meant Celia was still in danger, the target of G.o.d knows whom, for reasons he could only dimly be sure of.

And he'd given up the right to protect her himself.

He groaned. He could have told her grandmother to go to h.e.l.l, that he was marrying Celia no matter what. But he hadn't. And though in his head he knew he'd been right to be cautious, it felt in his heart as if he'd been wrong.

He snorted. Hearts lied all the time. His heart had lied to him by telling him that rank and fortune didn't matter. He was better off not listening to it.

As you so carefully reminded me this morning, Mr. Pinter-we fine ladies don't endure severe deprivation well at all.

All right, so she'd said it with sarcasm and obvious anger, but it was true, even if she wouldn't admit it.

He'd reached the house. It was dark already, so he would stay just long enough to rea.s.sure his aunt that he was fine and perhaps eat something before he set off for Ealing again.

Handing his horse off to Jimmy, the footboy who'd been watching for him, he ordered the lad to fetch his carriage and a team from the livery, then headed up the stairs. Before he even reached the door, it swung open and his aunt burst out to grab him in her arms.

When she drew back, her reddened eyes and nose told him she'd been crying. "Thank heavens, you're all right!" she said in a voice thick with emotion. "Is it true you were shot at?"

Confound it all. "How did you hear that?"

Aunt Ada led him inside. "I sent Jimmy round to the Bow Street office this morning, where they told him that you were out searching for the villain who fired upon you and Lady Celia." She closed the door, then jerked him into her arms again. "After his lordship told me last night that you and Lady Celia were missing, I thought I'd have heart failure. He insisted that you must have run off to marry-but I knew you'd never do such a thing. It's not in your character."

She pulled back to gaze into his face. "Oh, my dear boy, I couldn't have borne it if I'd lost you, too. You're the only thing I have left of your-"

When she broke off, the blood draining from her countenance, he knew. d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, he knew for sure. He couldn't believe he hadn't guessed before now. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to know.

"Of my what, Aunt? And don't say 'mother.' You wouldn't have stopped if you'd meant her." He stared down at her, his throat tight, his breath lodged somewhere in his chest. "I'm the only thing you have left of him, right? My uncle. No, not my uncle." He uttered a mad laugh. "My father."

With a little moan, she turned to head down the hall.

The fact that she didn't deny it said it all. He followed her into the kitchen as an impotent rage seized him, directed at the man he'd always wanted to be his father. But not like this, not if it meant that the man had- "It's true, isn't it?"

Her hands trembled as she pulled a plate of food out of the oven and laid it on the table.

Ignoring it, he turned her to face him. "Admit it, d.a.m.n you!"

"How did you know?" she whispered. "When did you find out?"

"Lady Celia saw the miniatures and noticed a resemblance. I told her she was mad. Then I stared at it myself and saw it for the first time. I didn't want to believe it, but there is a resemblance."

"When you were a boy and your hair was lighter," she managed, "you looked less like him, but as you aged and your hair darkened, you started to look as he did when he was young. Fortunately, he changed as he aged, too, putting on weight and going bald. Still, he lived in terror that you might notice the resemblance in the miniature one day."

Jackson gave a cold laugh. "Clearly I'm blind about what matters most. I never saw it at all until Celia ... Oh, G.o.d, how could you not have told me?"

"I wanted to, but your mother made us both swear not to. She didn't want you resenting him for her death or for not being there in your early years."

"Yes!" he said fiercely. "What of that? All those years I thought that I had some a.r.s.e of a n.o.bleman for a father..." His throat grew tight and raw. "Well, the a.r.s.e part of that was right, wasn't it? He abandoned Mother and me."

"No, he did not," she said firmly. "He had no idea she was bearing his child when she left our house at twenty. Indeed, she had no idea herself until later. And I didn't even know they'd been together."

"But she left because he took advantage of her," he growled.

"It wasn't like that," Aunt Ada choked out as she went to fetch him some ale. "She revealed to me after you moved here that they were together only once. I was visiting a friend one night, and they drank too much wine and..." Her hands shook in pouring the ale. "He told me-she told me when I forced her to admit the truth-that they both regretted it deeply. That's why she left right after it occurred."

His aunt brought him the tankard, her eyes full of remorse as she pressed it into his hand. "She had some money she'd saved and a friend who was a seamstress. She thought she could manage on her own, but then once she was established as an unmarried lady, she found out she was with child and..."

"She stayed in Liverpool." He set the ale down. "And who could blame her for not wanting to come back where she would risk Uncle-my father-pawing her again?"

"Jackson..." she said in a pleading tone.

"So there was no elopement with a n.o.ble scoundrel, just my uncle- d.a.m.n it!" He dragged his fingers through his hair. "I don't even know how to think of him!"

"We tried to find her after she left, you know. But she didn't want to be found, didn't want me ever to learn of it. She didn't want to hurt me or ruin my marriage. I understand that." She seized his hand in hers. "I only wish it hadn't been so difficult for you two in Liverpool. I truly believe that if her seamstress friend had not lost her business..."

She sighed. "But by then, your mother had been away so long and had built up in her mind what awful things would happen if she returned. I don't think she realized how much you suffered at that charity school until that stupid boy almost killed you. That's when she swallowed her pride and came home. I was hurt for a long time after she told me the truth, but before she died, I forgave her. And him."

"Her, I understand, but how could you forgive him?" he ground out. "How could you not hate him for what he did?"

"I did hate him for a while. After she came back to us, I demanded that she tell me who your father was, and she kept refusing. Then your unc- Then William started saying I should leave her be, and I started noticing the guilt in his face whenever he looked at her."

She paced the kitchen, her hands tightly clenched together at her waist. "At first, I thought he blamed himself for not searching harder for her after she left. But soon I couldn't help noticing how tender he was with you, how immediately he'd taken you into his heart." Her voice grew choked. "And I guessed the truth."

Sweet G.o.d, what she must have suffered when she realized it. How had she borne it? "And then you had me underfoot," he said bitterly, "a living reminder that your sister and your husband had betrayed you. It must have been such a torment for you to look at me every day-"

"Don't you ever think such a thing!" she cried as she whirled on him. "You were my salvation, my darling boy. William and I couldn't have children. So when your mother brought you here..."

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and he pulled out his handkerchief to press into her hand.

She took a moment to compose herself, then went on in an aching voice, "You were worth any temporary difficulties that arose between me and William. I couldn't have asked for a better son. You're the light of my life." She smoothed back a lock of his hair. "Why else would I have worried so after hearing you were missing? If you only knew what a wretched night I had..."

As she began to cry, he drew her into his arms and held her close, torn between guilt over her worry and a growing awe to see how much she loved him. How could that be, given the circ.u.mstances? Uncle William was his father. The devil had lain with Aunt Ada's own sister!

But there was no mistaking her sincerity about her feelings.

After a moment, she drew back and wiped her tears away with his handkerchief. "You know why Lady Celia noticed the resemblance between you and William, don't you?"

He stiffened. The last thing he wanted to discuss right now was Celia. "She has a good eye," he growled as he took a seat at the table.

"And she's memorized every line of your face. Because she loves you."

G.o.d, how he wished that were true.

"I'm not the only one to notice it either. His lordship said the same thing."

He stabbed the mutton chop. "And I'm sure he was ready to flay me alive at the very possibility."

"No, indeed." She thrust out her chin. "He was delighted when he thought that the two of you had eloped. He said it was about time."

"What?" Jackson gaped at her.

"I agreed with him. But I also a.s.sured him you would never behave so dishonorably. So then he and Mr. Masters got worried about you both. I promised to send a message to his grandmother's town house as soon as I heard anything. I went over there myself this morning to give them the news from Halstead Hall, and even though he'd already heard it himself he was most grateful to see me. And eager to see you again."

She had to be mistaking his lordship's reactions. "No doubt he wants his report," he muttered as he wolfed down some supper.

"No doubt he wants to know your intentions toward his sister. You did spend the night with her. That brings with it certain consequences."

"It's not what you think," he said defensively, though it was probably exactly what she thought. "We didn't have a choice."

"Of course not. No one spends the night in an abandoned ruin of a poacher's cottage by choice."

"Exactly." He blinked. "Wait, how did you know where we spent the night?"

"The message I got came from Lady Minerva, who has quite the writer's knack for describing situations." Her eyes narrowed on him. "It was clear that you are responsible for the young lady's ruin, despite the circ.u.mstances. So I do hope you offered marriage."

"Of course." He drank a healthy gulp of ale.

"And she turned you down?"

He turned the tankard in his hand. "Her grandmother had arranged matters so that no one but the family knew of it. Which means she didn't need to marry me."

"Did she say that?"

"She didn't have to." He swallowed more ale, then set the tankard firmly down. "Her grandmother made it painfully clear."

"So you took the opportunity to get out of a match you didn't want."

"No!" At her raised eyebrow, he scowled. "Now see here, I did my duty."

"I do hope you didn't put it like that: 'My lady, I know my duty. Would you please marry me?'"

"Certainly not. I said..."

What had he said?

The only appropriate thing for me to do, having spent the night alone with her ladyship unchaperoned, is to offer marriage.

d.a.m.n. Even he knew that was about as unromantic a proposal as a man ever offered a woman.

"It doesn't matter what I said," he grumbled. He toyed with the boiled potatoes, his appet.i.te vanishing. "None of it matters. She could never fit in here, never be happy in such mean surroundings-"

"And you know this because..."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, you saw their town house," he snapped. "You saw how they live-it's grander than anything I could ever give her." Even if her grandmother allowed her to receive her fortune, which was doubtful.

"I see. So she's as missish as all that, is she?"

"She hasn't had the chance to be missish-she's never been anywhere but in the lap of luxury."

"Except for last night in that cottage. I suppose she ran you ragged, prodding you to make it more comfortable."

"Of course not. She would never-" He halted, remembering how she'd set about to feather their nest while he went in search of water. Seeing his aunt's raised eyebrow, he said, "She knew what she had to do."

"Did she? How odd for a pampered lady. Though I'm sure she complained constantly about the lack of heat and food and furnishings."

h.e.l.l and blazes, he could see where this was going. "She did not. But it was only one night, and we were hiding from killers."

"Trust me, Jackson, killers or no, if you'd hauled me about the woods and put me through such deprivation, I would have been complaining. Loudly. Repeatedly."

He pushed back from the table to eye her with abject skepticism. "No, you wouldn't. You'd make the best of things."