Chapter Twenty

L ucien stared down at her as she took the cognac and mumbled her thanks. She looked perfectly at home there, curled up in the large chair with her legs tucked beneath her and weary from the day. She looked as if they ended every night like this, with Phillip finally calm enough to fall asleep and Lucien bringing her a drink to help her relax. All she needed to do to complete that domestic fantasy was let down her hair.

God help him if she did.

“Phillip suffered a seizure last night,” he told her quietly, not knowing exactly where to begin to give her the explanation she needed to understand the situation she’d stumbled into. “He doesn’t have them often, and thank God they’re not usually severe, but when they happen, they frighten and frustrate him. Hell,” he muttered against the rim of his glass as he took a comforting swallow, “they frighten and frustrate me, so I can only imagine how awful they must be for him.”

Her eyes softened sympathetically, yet she said nothing. He found an inexplicable comfort in her silence.

“We can’t predict when they will happen or what will cause them. Normally Mr. and Mrs. Porter are able to reassure him and care for him, but sometimes they have to send for me. That’s what happened last night. I had to ride out from London right after I’d left you at Vauxhall.”

“And tonight?” she asked quietly. “Did he have another seizure?”

“No. He was upset that I was leaving.”

She swept her gaze over him, as if not noticing before that he wore his riding clothes or that his jacket and greatcoat rested on the nearby settee, ready to be donned before he left.

“He was angry,” Lucien explained, “and he accidentally knocked over the table and broke the vase, which frightened him and sent him into a new fit of crying and yelling. That was when you arrived.”

Thank God she had, too. Lucien had no idea how long it would have taken him to calm Phillip this time if she hadn’t distracted him with her smiles and stories. He didn’t blame him. Apparently, all the Grenier men were besotted with her.

She didn’t ask the question he’d been bracing himself for… What is wrong with your brother? Thank God, she didn’t. Because he had no idea how he would answer.

Yet she continued to gaze softly up at him, waiting.

So he took another gasping swallow of cognac and dove in. “Phillip was born this way, with differences in his physical appearance—his face, hands, feet—difficulties with moving and speaking, a slowness in learning. I’ve hired dozens of doctors from all over Britain and the Continent, and none of them have been able to tell me anything helpful. They’ve seen people like Phillip before, but there’s no name for his condition, no definite cause, and no cure. They’ve seen very few patients who have lived past ten years of age, with most not surviving infancy, so they have few cases for comparison. But Phillip showed the same symptoms as the others when he was a child—difficulty paying attention, a fixation on certain belongings and people, repeating the same activities over and over, outbursts of all kinds…”

“And seizures,” she murmured.

He blew out a harsh breath and rubbed hard at the mountainous knot of tension at his nape. “Which makes everything so much worse for him. He worries and frets, becomes easily frustrated especially when he can’t find the right words or make his hands work as he wants them to. He has trouble interacting with others, either being too hesitant or too bold—it’s as if he can’t find the place in-between, or if he does find it, he doesn’t know how to navigate there.” He took another swallow of cognac. “The doctors examined him and concluded that for the rest of his life he would be no more mentally fit than an eight-year-old.” He stared down into his glass. “Then they all advised the same thing.”

“Which was?”

“Put him into an asylum and forget about him.” He felt the rising bitterness like acid on his tongue. “After all, they said, he’d be dead soon enough anyway.”

He felt rather than heard her catch her breath, so attuned had he become to her.

“I will never put my brother back into an asylum.” The conviction in his voice left no misunderstanding of that. “I am not my father.”

He tossed back the last of the cognac.

Wordlessly, Jess held her own untouched glass out to him. He gratefully took it, even though the inadvertent brush of her fingers against his provided more comfort than the brandy ever could.

“But he’s doing well,” he continued, “far better than the doctors believed he would. It takes him a long time to learn, but when he does, he’s got it, whether it’s schooling or doing his chores.” He gestured the glass toward the pianoforte. “Even music. His fingers trip over themselves sometimes when his hands don’t work as he wants, but he doesn’t let that stop him. We should all be so resilient.”

Although Jess said nothing, her eyes glistened with empathy, and Lucien knew those unshed tears weren’t for Phillip but for him.

He hesitated under the full gravity of what he was about to reveal, then said quietly, “Phillip is thirty-five.”

She blinked with confusion. “But that would make him…”

“My older brother,” he finished for her. “Yes.”

Her lips parted as the full ramifications of that sank over her. “But…but you…”

“Usurped his right to the title and claimed it as my own?” His lips twisted with wry amusement although the situation wasn’t at all humorous. It was either that or punch his fist against the wall. “Perhaps the Grenier men are nothing but self-serving opportunists after all.”

Her brow rose slightly. “Or, knowing the truth about them as I now do, perhaps there’s a more complicated story to them.”

If Lucien ever stopped to consider how deeply she was able to see into his soul, he would have been terrified. Instead, inexplicably, for first time since his days at Eton with Chase, Shay, and Devlin, he didn’t feel alone.

Blowing out a tired sigh, he sank to the floor at her feet and leaned back against the chair. “Phillip is the first-born son and should have been the heir. He should be duke now, not me. But my father didn’t want the world to think he’d sired a monster.” He couldn’t conceal the hatred in his voice. “So when Phillip was born, Father told all the servants that the baby needed medical attention, that he was taking him to the doctor, and then rode away with him in the carriage. What he actually did was take him to a foundling hospital and left him there. When he came back, he and my mother told everyone the baby had died. They had me two years later.” A sad smile twisted his lips. “My father wanted the perfect heir. He never thought he’d end up with two of the least promising ones in our family’s history.”

No amusement laced her voice when she asked quietly, “Is that what they told you, too—that Phillip had died?”

“They didn’t tell me anything.” He took a sip of brandy and offered the glass up to her, but she declined with a soft shake of her head. “I found out when I was fifteen, when my mother died. There were letters hidden among her things that mentioned Phillip. I had no idea until then.”

“What did your father say to defend himself?”

“Nothing. Because I never told him I knew.” He twisted around and leaned his head back to look up at her. “He would have found a way to stop me from uncovering the truth, and I needed to know what happened to my brother, if he were even still alive.”

“What did happen to him?”

“Shortly after he was born, my mother managed to go behind my father’s back and remove him from the hospital. She was terrified the old duke would find out and hurt her or Phillip, so everything was done in absolute secrecy. She was able to find a married couple with no children of their own whom she paid to take him in and raise him as their own. He was only ten months old then. Mr. and Mrs. Porter are still caring for him.”

She glanced toward the stairs where Mrs. Porter had led Phillip to bed. “And doing a fine job, it seems.”

“An excellent job. Phillip shares their last name, and no one who saw them together would ever suspect he wasn’t truly theirs.” He turned away and let his head hang heavily between his shoulders. “After Mother died, I took over paying for Phillip’s expenses, ensuring the Porters had a safe place to live, that no one would ever find out his true connection to our family. Every bit of my allowance—and then some—went to care for him.” He finished the brandy and set the empty glass aside on the floor. “That’s why I became a mercenary after I was expelled from university and my allowance was cut off. The only skills I possessed involved fighting. My father knew that, yet prevented me from taking any sort of commission with the British.”

Jess rested her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

He continued quietly, “That’s why I stayed overseas in the wars until the old bastard died and I inherited.”

He reached up to cover her hand with his, and she laced her fingers between his.

“That was when I bought this place and moved all of them here, close enough to London for me to attend to any problems that might arise, far enough away that no one would suspect any connection between them and the Greniers.”

“That’s why you pretend to be such a despicable creature, isn’t it?” she murmured. Her words were not a question. “The blacker your reputation, the further away everyone will stay.”

“Except for you.” He leaned his head back on her lap and gazed upside down at her. “Leave it to the most intriguing gel I’ve ever met to also be the most dogged.”

“I will take that as a compliment.” She leaned over and brought her mouth to his, to place an inverted kiss of healing on his lips. When she straightened, she combed her fingertips through his hair, and the soft touch soothed the boiling unease eating at his gut.

“Phillip has a good life here,” Lucien continued, needing her to know that. “He has acquaintances in the village, including the vicar and his family who give him school lessons, and he even helps man the stall on market days. Everyone in Ealing believes that Phillip is truly the Porters’ son, and the Porters certainly feel that way about him. They’ve dedicated themselves to him, being far better parents to him than his blood parents ever were.”

She softened that reminder with another brush of her fingers through his hair. “But anyone who sees you together will realize you’re related.”

“No one sees me with him. I make certain of it. Have to.” He closed his eyes beneath the comforting caresses of her fingertips at his temple. “Because the dukedom isn’t mine. I’ve stolen it.”

Her fingers stilled.

“I never wanted it,” he confessed, “but I have no choice now except to continue the fraud. If anyone finds out, I could very well be removed from the title and all its privileges, the dukedom stripped of all its property and accounts—How would I care for Phillip if the dukedom was taken from us? I have no way of supporting him without it.” The weight of the world settled onto his shoulders. “God only knows what would become of him then.”

“And that’s what you meant when you said that you could never marry anyone,” she said as softly as the shadows around them.

He nodded faintly. “A fraud duchess for a fraud duke… What woman would agree to that? None I would ever want.”

She said nothing, but her hands slipped down to his shoulders and began to knead the knots of tension there, as if she knew exactly what he needed. He slumped his head forward and let himself have this rare moment of peace.

But it wouldn’t last. “You know enough to destroy me now,” he murmured. “I suppose you can force me to marry your sister after all.”

Her hands paused for a beat, then continued their soothing massage. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

He turned to look up at her, his chest clenching with concern. “Did something happen to Amanda’s baby? Is that why you came looking for me tonight?”

“Amanda and the baby are fine.” Yet she didn’t meet his eyes, dropping her gaze to his shoulders as her fingertips pressed into the hard muscle. “I came looking for you because Amanda returned from Ireland. She finally shared the truth with me.”

She nudged him until he turned back around and faced the softly lit room.

As she massaged his shoulders, she told him about her sister’s return, why she had attempted to seduce him that night in Lord Hawthorne’s garden, how she urged Jess to stop punishing him. He didn’t interrupt as she told him about Amanda’s situation and the true father of her unborn child, although his anger was pricked at Amanda’s accusations of Jess, who had only acted out of love for her sister. He couldn’t fault her for that, even though he was the victim of her determination.

“That was why I went to Brixton House to find you,” she confessed quietly. “I needed to ask your forgiveness. What I did in attacking your reputation was out of line. I had no right to do that. I overstepped, and I am so very sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He reached up and squeezed her hand. “But I don’t understand why Amanda would manipulate her situation to make it look as if I were the father when the outcome would have been the same. She knew I wouldn’t marry her, that she’d still have to travel to Ireland for her confinement and give up her baby.”

“Because of me,” she answered sadly.

He turned his head to look at her and raised a brow questioningly.

Jess shrugged. “I’m certain she thought I’d be more forgiving if I thought she’d been wrongfully seduced by a rake rather than going willingly into her situation with eyes wide open to all the consequences.”

“Would you have been?”

“No.” She gave a long sigh. “I think I’d have been more forgiving if I’d known it was all due to love.”

Turning back to face the room, he brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss to her palm. Then he placed it on his chest where he was certain she could feel his heart beating.

“So you know nothing more about the father,” he asked, “only that his first name is Henry and that he’s an administrator for the East India Company?”

“Amanda was careful not to share anything else. She doesn’t want me to find him.” Lucien could practically hear the grimace he was certain marred her face. “Besides, he’s most likely halfway to India by now anyway.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps we can use what we know about him to narrow down who—”

She leaned down and silenced him with a lingering kiss to his nape, her fingers curling into his chest. “I’ve finally learned my lesson and know not to interfere anymore.” Each word tickled warmly over his skin. “Amanda was right.”

He frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s what I do” she whispered. “What I’ve always done—I charge ahead to force others to do what I want, consequences be damned.” Then she confessed, barely louder than a whisper, “Just as I did with our father. She wanted to stop me from doing it again.”

He twisted around to search her face, and the sadness he saw there nearly undid him. “Your father?”

She gave a jerking nod and refused to meet his eyes. “I told you he left us. What I didn’t tell you is that he left…because of me.” The confession came hoarse and full of pain. “I yelled at him, told him he was a terrible father, a lazy drunk, a selfish waste of a man—I told him that we would be better off without him, and that unless he changed, he needed to leave.” Her voice lowered so much that he barely heard her add, “So that’s exactly what he did.”

His heart broke for her. Good Lord. For her to blame herself for something like that, to carry that guilt inside her all these years… Instantly, all he knew about her snapped into place, and he realized why she’d done what she had. He even understood now why she had dedicated her life to her art, because she could control the world she created on her canvas, because she could make that world perfect and escape the guilt that never left her slender shoulders.

Slowly, Lucien pushed himself to his feet. He turned to face her, placed his hands on the chair arms on both sides of her, and leaned in to bring his face level with hers. “Listen to me, Jessamyn.” He stared hard into her eyes even as he noted the watery tears forming in their depths. “It was not your fault that your father left. He was a heartless bastard who abandoned—”

“You can’t say that. You didn’t know him.”

Anger heated his chest that even now she would defend that man, all in order to keep the blame on herself. “I know he abandoned his children when they needed him, and any man who does that is a heartless bastard in my book.”

Her expression softened with understanding. After all, his own father had done the same thing to Phillip.

“His leaving was not your fault,” he repeated. He wished he could simply will her to believe it, but he knew she still adamantly blamed herself and would for a very long time. “I know because I used to blame myself for our father abandoning Phillip, because I was the son and heir he wanted. It took me years to finally understand that the blame was his , not mine. For God’s sake, Jess.” He shook his head. “Do you really think a sixteen-year-old girl could make a grown man do anything he didn’t want to do or hadn’t already been considering?”

She blinked rapidly to blink away the gathering tears, even as understanding finally registered on her face.

He caressed her cheek. “I’ll forgive you, Jess, if you forgive yourself first.”

He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Sweet Lucifer , how much he wanted to kiss her! Just lean in, capture her full lips beneath his, and kiss her until she melted bonelessly in the chair, until she moaned softly with rising desire and fiercely kissed him back with all the passion he knew she possessed. He’d seen the fire in her, and he craved it the way deserts craved the rain. From the way she held her breath, her lips parting invitingly, she wanted exactly that, too.

But he couldn’t. Not tonight. She was too vulnerable, and any encounter tonight wouldn’t end with only a kiss.

Lucien cleared his throat and straightened, dropping his hand away. “I can’t escort you home tonight. I rode my saddle horse from London, and the farm doesn’t have a proper carriage. You’ll have to spend the night here.”

Good Lord, that sounded far more seductive than he meant. Jess must have realized it, too, from the way her eyes widened.

“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” he clarified. “You can sleep there, and I’ll take you home in the morning.”

She nodded, then bit her bottom lip. “And what excuse do I give for being gone all night, only to arrive on the arm of a rake?”

“You’re a grown woman who knows her own mind.” He held out his hand. “You don’t have to give any excuse at all.”

Clearly, she was unconvinced by that argument. Yet she placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet.

He took a candle from the wall sconce and guided her upstairs through the sleeping house, all dark, quiet, and closed up securely for the night. There was no sound from Phillip’s bedroom as they passed his door at the top of the stairs, while battling snores came from Mr. and Mrs. Porter’s room directly across the hall. That was the reason he had claimed the bedroom at the far end of the house as his for nights like these when he needed to stay over, peacefully separated from the Porters’ snores by a dressing room and sitting room. Jess would be fine in the bedroom across from his.

“It’s small but comfortable,” he assured her as he opened the door to show her inside. He placed the candle on the fireplace mantel, and its small circle of light revealed a bed, dresser, and washstand. “Would you like me to bring up a pitcher of water for you?”

“That’s not necessary.” But she seemed preoccupied as she swept her gaze around the room.

“My bedroom is across the hall in case you need anything.”

She gave a curt nod.

“Goodnight, Jessamyn.”

With a parting nod, he retreated to his room and stepped into the cool darkness. A slant of moonlight falling through the window cast soft shadows around the large bed, but the rest of the room was dark, including the fireplace where he hadn’t bothered to have a fire built, not thinking he’d be spending a second night. But he didn’t need any light. He’d spent enough time here to know where every piece of furniture sat in his three rooms. A farmhouse with a master’s suite of rooms… It would have been preposterous, if it wasn’t also a pretend farmhouse.

A fraud, he supposed as he removed his cravat and began to unbutton his waistcoat. Just like him.

The soft click of the door caught his attention, and he stilled, his hand on his chest.

Jessamyn stood in the doorway, framed in the moonlight. His throat went dry at the sight of her.

“You said…in case I needed anything…” she said haltingly.

She was nervous, and he didn’t blame her. At that moment, he was as nervous as a green lad himself. His heart somersaulted hard against his ribs, as if he’d never had a woman in his bedroom before.

“What do you need?” Somehow, he managed to keep his voice from cracking.

She closed the door behind her and whispered, “You.”