The Secret Pearl(59)

He was well aware that she had never stopped loving Thomas. She had never had any feelings for her husband or for the occasional lovers she had taken since their marriage. Thomas was the love of her life.

He had not known it or even suspected it during those months when he had returned from Spain and fallen in love with her and become betrothed to her. She had seemed willing enough. More than that, she had seemed eager. She had told him she loved him. She had allowed him to kiss and fondle her.

But he had been the Duke of Ridgeway and had had a reputation as something of a hero. And her parents had been ambitious for her. She had always been intended for him.

He had not suspected, though she had told him later, on one of the many occasions when she had wanted to hurt him, that even then she had loved Thomas and for as far back as she could remember.

He had known it only when he returned the year after Waterloo, when she had been betrothed to Thomas and horrified to see him. She would have married Thomas even though he was no longer the duke or owner of Willoughby. She had loved him totally.

But Thomas, who would have married her as the Duke of Ridgeway, part of the trophies that he had unexpectedly inherited from his slain brother, no longer wished to do so when he was simply Lord Thomas Kent again.

But he had not told her. He had become her lover and sworn undying love to her. He had impregnated her. And he had left her in a great hurry after she had told him.

He had told his brother that he was going and his reason for doing so. He had not told Sybil.

God help him, the duke thought, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his steepled fingers, he had done everything in his power to persuade Thomas to stay. He had himself loved Sybil so dearly that he had been unable to bear the thought of her grief on being abandoned or of the predicament she would be in.

But Thomas had left.

When Sybil had called with her father two days later, he had told both of them only that Thomas had gone. He had given no reason. And when she had accused him of sending his brother away because there was no room for the two of them at Willoughby, he had only shaken his head and put up no other defense at all. He had felt so desperately sorry for her. And so she had come to believe her own suggestion.

One week later he had called on Sybil and offered for her. He had repeated the call for three days until she accepted him—with ashen face and dead eyes.

She had been three months with child when they married.

And he had known even at the time that he had done things all wrongly, that he should have told her the full truth, made her listen, however painful it would have been to her. She was entitled to know the truth. And only the truth would have given their marriage any chance of success. But he had been too hopelessly in love with her at the time, too full of pity for her. He would have died rather than give her unnecessary pain.

And now he had allowed Thomas to come back—into his home and into Sybil’s life.

Was he insane?

He pushed his chair back roughly from the desk and got to his feet. It must be breakfasttime. There were guests to entertain and a riding lesson to give and a day to be lived through.

Sitting and brooding would accomplish nothing whatsoever.





HIS GRACE WAS LOOKING TIGHT-LIPPED AND impatient, Fleur saw when she led a reluctant Lady Pamela to the stables after breakfast. He was standing with one booted foot on the lower rung of the paddock fence, a riding crop beating rhythmically against his leg. He was bareheaded and looked very dark and forbidding in his black riding coat.

“Ah, there you are at last,” he said, lowering his foot to the ground.

Fleur curtsied and released her hold on Lady Pamela’s hand. She turned back to the house.

“May I ride with you on Hannibal, Papa?” the child asked.

“Nonsense,” he said impatiently. “You will never learn to ride that way, Pamela. You are five years old. It’s high time you could ride alone. Where are you going, Miss Hamilton?”

“To the house, your grace,” she said, turning back again. “Is there something else you wish me to do?”

He was frowning. “Where is your riding habit?” he asked, eyeing her cloak and the pale green cotton dress beneath.

“I don’t possess one, your grace,” she said.

His lips thinned. “Boots?”

“No, your grace.”

“You will have to manage without, then,” he said. “Call at Houghton’s office tomorrow morning. He will have made arrangements to send you into Wollaston to be measured for a habit and boots.”

There were two horses and a pony, all saddled, trotting around the paddock under a groom’s guidance, Fleur saw in a glance over his shoulder. She was to ride too? Suddenly the day of her temporary reprieve seemed like a very glorious new creation. Suddenly it seemed that the sun must have burst through the clouds.