Bedchamber Games Page 25

  But even as she said it, she knew the words were a lie. Lawrence might not have planned to make a child with her, but if he found out he had, he would never turn his back on his offspring. Frankly she wasn’t sure how he would react, and that was what worried her the most. He might offer her financial support—which she would refuse. Or he might wish to see the child as it grew, to have a relationship, which meant that she would have to see Lawrence—see him but never again be with him.

  Worse, what if he wanted to take the baby from her? She doubted he would ever be so coldhearted as to rip a child away from its mother, but people did odd things when it came to their children. He might even suggest she give the baby up to Leo and his wife to raise. They had an adopted daughter now. Maybe they would want a son, assuming she gave birth to a boy. And since Leo and Lawrence were twins, it would be a simple matter for Leo to claim parentage.

  Lawrence might also feel honor-bound to do the right thing and end his engagement in order to marry her. As much as she might love the idea of being his wife, she would never agree under those circumstances, would never countenance his jilting another woman, ruining his reputation and destroying his career out of a sense of obligation to her and their baby.

  What a terrible way to begin a life together. What a miserable basis for a marriage.

  So she would remain silent and swear Bertram to silence as well.

  “This is my baby,” she declared. “Mine to raise alone.”

  “Not alone,” Bertram said gently. “He—or she—will have me for an uncle and I p-plan to spoil them quite shamelessly. The two of you will always have a home here with me, you know, no matter what may come.”

  Her shoulders sagged, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Bertie.”

  “Now, now, n-none of that. If you start blubbering in earnest, you’ll quite put me off my feed.”

  She gave a weepy laugh and wiped her eyes.

  “I’ll get started on the letter to Cousin Ross while you decide what to pack.” He smacked his hands against his thighs and stood. “And why don’t you have a lie-down before dinner? I’ve heard expectant m-mothers need their rest.”

  She nodded in agreement and got to her feet, more relieved than she’d been in days.

  Yet later as she lay in bed, trying to nap, she found herself worrying about everything that was to come, everything she would have to face without the one man she truly wanted at her side. Sliding a hand over her belly where their child nestled already, she let herself be with Lawrence the only way she could—in the private sanctuary of her dreams.

  • • •

  “You’d better find a way to wipe that hangdog look off your face. Otherwise, the whole family will be wanting to know who died and what you haven’t been telling them.”

  Lawrence pulled his eyes away from the coach window and the passing Gloucestershire countryside long enough to cast a baleful glare at Leo. “I’ll be certain to take that under advisement. In the meantime, why don’t you go get buggered and keep your opinions to yourself?”

  “As anatomically unpleasant as that prospect sounds, I think you’re the one in need of having several sticks removed from a certain tender area of your person.”

  Rather than react to the fresh gibe, Lawrence returned his attention to the bare December branches on the trees and the frost-covered fields ranging beyond—a landscape that felt as empty and cheerless as his spirits of late.

  For the first time in his memory, he was not looking forward to the annual family gathering at Braebourne, home to the Dukes of Clybourne and the Byrons for generations. Every year it was tradition for as many family members as possible to crowd inside the palatial country house, filling the large rooms and wide hallways with noise and merriment, and in the past few years, the high-pitched shouts and giggles of Lawrence’s growing multitude of nieces and nephews.

  Thalia and Esme, in fact, were riding in the coach ahead, nursemaids and babies in tow, including Thalia and Leo’s new daughter, Julia. His brother-in-law Northcote had had the smart idea of traveling on horseback despite the freezing air and threat of snow. Lawrence wished now that he’d joined him, anything to keep himself distracted from the doleful thoughts that plagued him. Or rather the person whom he could not seem to shake from his mind.

  He sighed and tried not to think about her, but it was impossible. She was the first thing he thought about when he awakened each morning and the last thing on his mind when he went to bed at night.

  Concentrating on work provided him with some measure of distraction at least, so he’d begun to take on more and more cases, burying himself under a mountain of demands in an effort to keep constantly busy. Yet as his record of court victories increased, he found that he took little joy in the wins. His friends and fellow attorneys congratulated him, but it all felt strangely hollow without being able to share it with her.

  Needing more, he’d increased his social engagements so that by the time he came home at night, he fell into bed, too tired some nights to even undress.

  Then there were the women. He’d visited more than a few, determined to lose himself in their willing flesh only to end up feeling guilty and wrong afterward. The more of them he had, the more dissatisfied he became until he gave them up entirely, finding every one, no matter how skilled or seductive, unable to compare to the one he truly desired.

  Yet despite all his efforts, he couldn’t control the dreams, or his despair as he jolted awake, his body rigid with need, her name a soundless call on his lips.

  Rosamund.

  But she was gone, and in his past, and he would forget her.

  He had to forget her.

  Still, it had been five months and he was no closer to unshackling himself from her memory than he had been the day she walked out of his life.

  He wondered how she was and what she was doing. Probably she was at home in London with her brother getting ready for the holidays. Since Ross Carrow had quite abruptly and unexpectedly packed up and returned north to his old home county, no one had seen or heard from the impressive young barrister. It was almost as if he’d never existed at all. As for Bertram Carrow, he was nearly as scarce as his cousin, no longer appearing in court and only rarely setting foot inside Lincoln’s Inn and never when Lawrence was there.

  He’d thought more than once about dropping by her town house, but what was the point? It would only reopen the wound and do nothing to change the fact that it was too late for either of them. For exactly as Rosamund had counseled him to do, he’d proposed to Phoebe Templestone, who had dimpled with graceful acceptance and cheerfully begun showing off her ring.

  His family had been surprised by the news of his engagement but offered him hearty congratulations despite any private reservations they might have held. As for Leo, who was the only one who knew the full story, he’d been outraged, railing against Lawrence for being a stubborn, short-sighted, calculating fool who’d let ambition get in the way of his own happiness.

  Lawrence had told himself at the time that Leo was wrong. That his twin had never taken the law and his career seriously and that no woman was worth giving up the professional strides and intellectual achievements of a lifetime. The work would nourish him, he’d told himself; need for the woman would fade.

  But as he stared sightlessly out the coach window, he was beginning to think he’d been wrong. He was beginning to think he’d made the greatest mistake of his life.

  But he was engaged and there was no longer anything to be done about it. Phoebe and her parents were coming to Braebourne for Christmas so they could become better acquainted with his family. She and her mother were deep into making wedding arrangements, although the only confirmed details so far were the date—June twenty-ninth; the church—St. George’s, Hanover Square, in London; and the fact that half the Haut Ton would likely be receiving an invitation.

  E
ven if things were different, Rosamund might well have moved on by now. If the men in her orbit had even the smallest amount of sense, at least one of them would have started courting her. Some up-and-coming captain of industry perhaps, a man with enough good humor and intelligence to see what a prize he had before him. If the fellow were smart, he would waste no time marrying her, wanting nothing and no one to stand in the way of claiming her for his own.

  The idea of her in another man’s arms drove him mad with jealousy, haunting him in ways he’d never imagined.

  Had she taken a new lover?

  Had she found someone else to love?

  Assuming she’d ever loved him at all. The passion between them had been intense and undeniable, but maybe that was all it had been for her. And yet there were times when he thought he’d glimpsed something more in her eyes, a tender adoration that had been visible only when she thought he wasn’t looking. An expression that could only have been love.

  If only he could see that tenderness again.

  If only he could see her.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against the cold window glass.

  God, what a shambles I’ve made of everything.

  Leo was right and he had only himself to blame for not realizing in time how very much he loved her.

  “You’re not married yet, you know,” Leo said quietly as if he could read his thoughts. “Until you’ve spoken those wedding vows, there is nothing that cannot be undone.”

  Lawrence looked at his brother with desolate eyes. “I’m honor-bound. I have to marry her.”

  “Yes, well, that is the gentleman’s code. Then again, we Byrons are a lot of rogues and scoundrels who thrive on scandal and unconventionality. And really, is honor worth a lifetime of misery and regret? Think on that, brother. Before you commit, I ask you to think long and hard on that.”

  • • •

  Lawrence stayed busy in the days leading up to Christmas. He helped cut and bring in the Yule log that would burn through the New Year inside one of Braebourne’s massive fireplaces. He went riding in the mornings with a number of his relations. He participated in a daylong excursion to an old abbey that boasted particularly fine stained glass windows and ice-skated on a nearby frozen pond that proved a great success, especially with many of the children and the ladies. In the evenings after dinner, he joined the others as they all played cards and charades, sang and played the pianoforte, and listened to recitations of poems and stories that kept everyone well entertained.

  Meanwhile, he worked at being an attentive fiancé to Phoebe—escorting her on walks through the snow-covered garden, showing her paintings of his ancestors in the portrait gallery, bringing her plates of sweetmeats for tea and partnering with her for games and holiday festivities. He listened to her musings and answered with his own, all the while contemplating what it would be like when she was his wife.

  And exactly like the weather outside, he turned colder and colder by the day.

  Leo had asked him to consider, and he had done so, his twin’s words a constant nagging refrain in his mind.

  He wanted to do the right thing.

  But the right thing for whom?

  Everyone gathered in the largest of the drawing rooms on Christmas Day to drink wassail, eat plum pudding and exchange presents. Lawrence did his best to keep up his cheerful facade, but the effort was quickly wearing thin.

  On the excuse of refilling his drink, he got to his feet and crossed the room, hoping if he managed things right, he could slip out without anyone noticing. He couldn’t stand the happy act anymore; he needed to be alone.

  He had just reached the doorway when Phoebe appeared on the other side. Obviously she’d had the same idea as he and was only then returning from wherever in the house she had been. Her cheeks were flushed, one hand in her pocket as she pushed what appeared to be a letter deeper inside.

  “Leaving, Lord Lawrence?” she asked.

  “Yes, but for a few minutes only. I shall return before you even have time to notice my absence.”

  She gave a tentative half smile. “Everyone seems to be having such a lovely time.”

  “My family is known for their exuberance, particularly on holidays.”

  She nodded, casting a glance toward her parents, who appeared a bit wooden where they sat side by side on one of the sofas, decorously unwrapping their gifts.

  The Byrons, on the other hand, were merrily tugging ribbons free and tearing off the tops of boxes, laughing and calling out their gratitude to one another while children of various ages raced around the room, playing with their new games and toys in the midst of the adults rather than being relegated upstairs to the nursery.

  “Thank you for the gloves and perfume,” she said. “They were most thoughtful.”

  Not really, he thought, since her mother had been the one to suggest them both, but hopefully they were things she would genuinely enjoy.

  “My thanks to you for the book and the handkerchiefs. One can never have too many of either.”

  “Papa suggested the book. He thought it was one you might find interesting.”

  It was. Unfortunately he’d already read it, but he was too polite to mention that fact.

  They stood, quiet in each other’s company. Awkward in a way no affianced couple should be.

  He was just about to murmur an excuse so he could complete his escape when there came gleeful calls from two of his nephews, the boys jumping up and down as they pointed at the door lintel above his head.

  “You have to kiss her now,” ten-year-old Maximillian said in a singsong voice.

  “Ew.” Zachary, Max’s younger brother, clapped his hands and bounced up and down in place. “You’ve been caught, Uncle Lawrence, and have to pay the piper. That’s the rule.”

  The boys whispered together, then snickered.

  Looking up, Lawrence saw the green-and-white mistletoe sprig hanging above himself and Phoebe. He cursed silently while Phoebe’s eyes widened and her mouth rounded into an O.

  “Actually, lads, Miss Phoebe isn’t directly underneath it with me, so—” Lawrence began.

  “Oh, go on,” Jack called from across the room. “Kiss her.”

  “The boys are right. You and Phoebe have been fairly caught.” Meg tossed a grin to her sons, her arms folded at her waist, which was still a bit thick after having given birth to a daughter, Bryn, only five weeks earlier. “Time to pay up, as Zachary so rightly said.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Lawrence?” Ned declared. “I’ve never seen you reluctant to kiss a woman before, particularly your own fiancée.”

  Several of his other relations cheered their encouragement. Only Leo looked on with a frown, his arms crossed over his chest. And interestingly their mother, Ava, who watched with a troubled expression in her clear green eyes.

  Lawrence forced a smile and turned to Phoebe. “Well, it would seem we’re outnumbered. Shall we?”

  Her cheeks turned pink, but she didn’t move away. Bending, he touched his mouth lightly to hers, then straightened again.

  “That’s no kiss,” Adam Gresham complained.

  “Yes, do it properly,” said Gabriel. “We all know you know how.”

  Good-natured laughter rang out.

  Lawrence looked at Phoebe again, noticing that her cheeks had turned an even more vibrant shade of pink. He’d never actually kissed her before, not with a man’s full passion, having shared nothing more intimate with her than another quick brush of lips after she’d accepted his proposal. Considering their relationship and his own womanizing reputation, he supposed it was a peculiar state of affairs.

  Maybe kissing her was exactly what he needed?

  Maybe it would prove so pleasant he would be able to put the memory of another woman’s touch out of his mind for good.

  Moving closer, he pulled he
r into his arms and kissed her—for real this time.

  He did his best, closing his eyes and pouring himself into the act that he’d always before found so pleasurable. He kissed her harder, wanting to want her, suddenly desperate to lose himself in her embrace. But all he could think about was how wrong it felt. That this kiss was nothing more than a betrayal, worse in its own way than kisses he’d known with the other women he’d used in an attempt to extinguish his feelings for the one he truly craved. Yet no matter how he tried, those emotions, that love, could not be killed.

  Rosamund is my love. The only one I will ever want, now and for eternity. Go to her and stop being such a blasted, idiotic fool already.

  He broke away, setting Phoebe from him, as a quiet resolve settled over him—a peace unlike any he’d known.

  Then he noticed Phoebe staring at him, her gaze strangely accusing. Around them, the room had fallen eerily silent.

  “Who is Rosamund?” she asked, her voice low but firm enough to carry all the same.

  “What?” Surely he couldn’t have heard her right.

  “You said Rosamund there at the end,” Phoebe told him. “I heard it quite distinctly. So? Who is she?”

  “Boys. Children,” Meg announced as she held a pair of maternal arms wide as if to gather close every child in the room. “Let’s go look at your presents again. You must all be eager to play.”

  “Yes, they must.” Grace got to her feet, along with Claire, Mallory, Esme, Thalia and Sebastianne, who began gently guiding the young ones away from the scene.

  The others stayed to watch. Leo, Lawrence noticed, was grinning widely. The Templestones, however, were not.

  “This is an outrage.” Lord Templestone stood, fists clenched at his sides. “What have you to say for yourself, Byron?”

  Lawrence ignored him and turned to Phoebe, his voice gentle. “Miss Templestone, if we might find somewhere private, it would appear that you and I need to talk.”

  It took her several seconds before she nodded. “Yes, Lord Lawrence, it would seem that we do.”