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‘Why bring me here?’
‘You should meet some of my ancestors.’ Lance paced restlessly before stopping at an impressive gilt-framed portrait of a man dressed in scarlet trimmed with ermine, his robes bejewelled with pearls and rubies, elegant hand at his waist, one finger touching a golden key hanging from his belt.
‘The Fourth Duke of Bedmore, an incurable hedonist. There’s nothing he wanted that he didn’t acquire. Married the beautiful young Mary to get himself an heir, then made it his mission to strip her considerable fortune.’
Sara studied the portrait. Its subject was handsome, even to the modern eye, standing with a familiar, almost amused look on his face.
‘That’s how things were then. I don’t think many in the aristocracy married for love.’
Lance didn’t acknowledge her, entirely focused on the painting. ‘Mary was said to be desperately unhappy. She’d been meant for another man, but the Duke made certain promises to her and she fell for them. As did her family. Sound familiar?’
Sara shrugged. ‘It’s nice to think in some ways things have changed.’
‘Have they?’ Lance wheeled round, raising a sardonic brow. ‘When he tired of Mary he locked her in her apartments. Demanded servants pass food through a barred door he refused to open. Would release her on rare occasions, only if she “behaved”, and who the hell knows what that meant? He’s smiling. This portrait shows his hand on the only key to her chambers. For years the portrait was kept in her sitting room, above the fireplace. Areminderto her of what he could do if he wanted to. That there wasno oneto stop him.’
Sara’s breath caught, a sickening sensation twisting inside her as recognition flowed through her. Had her own life been much different? Engaged to a man who’d only wanted her pedigree, her ability to bear his heirs. Parents who hadn’t cared that Ferdinand was unfaithful, their only response the cold reminder that she’d marry, become Queen and do her duty. Whilst she hadn’t been locked in a tower, she’d been trapped nonetheless...
‘That’s horrible.’ She was unsure whether the words were for Mary or herself.
Lance jabbed his finger at the wall, continued describing a litany of his family’s sins, not sparing the past Dukes in any way. He was right. They had all been drinkers, gamblers, adulterers and fornicators, as he’d warned months ago. Some of them had been even worse. When he came to the last portrait, his own, he stopped.
‘That’s myhistory, Sara. There was not a shred of good in any of my ancestors.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t ever call me a hero when there’s ample evidence that I’m as bad as the rest.’
She must realise now. There was no way she couldn’t when faced with the evidence of his family’s infamy. Chasing off Sara’s brother had been no heroic act. It was theleasthe could do; any other man would have done the same for her.
Yet rather than look at him with distaste, she cocked her head, placed a hand over her heart. ‘Both of our families, even Lauritania’s royal family, have profited from the misery of others. Do you think I’m immune? I haven’t examined my past in detail, but there’s ugliness there too. All we can do is try to be better.’
Lance ran his hand through his hair. ‘You don’t understand.’
He had to make her, for her own good.
‘I do. You say you’re a bad man. But you can’t control my thoughts.’
She was achingly beautiful, in a blue dress covered with little roses. The portraits of his ancestors were at her back, the ghosts of his past watching them. It was time to show her the truth of being an Astill. The Eighteenth Duke of Bedmore. He’d spent most of his adult years cultivating the role, slipping into it with ease because, no matter what she thought of him, it was who he was born to be.
‘What if I wanted us to continue what was interrupted earlier? Here. Now. Told you to strip from your dress with the eyes of my ancestors upon you.’
Her mouth opened. Closed. Pink bloomed on her cheeks. Then she began to stroll towards him with a sultry roll of her hips, her fingers working the buttons on the front of her dress, one after the other. He wanted to shout at her to stop, all the while silently begging her to continue.
Sara shrugged the dress from her shoulders, the fabric sliding over her body to the floor as she stepped out of it and stopped in front of him, wearing nothing but sheer blue lace underwear. Desire mingled with the remnants of his anger, a potent mix that scorched through him with blazing heat.
‘I’m not afraid of the dead, Lance. They can’t hurt you.’
She glowed in the light pouring through the windows, the angel he’d called her in every way. A sickening burn of disgust rose to his throat. He couldn’t do this, not here in the presence of his cursed past. Not to her. He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms round her, burying his head in the side of her neck, drinking in the intoxicating scent of her like redemption.
Sara sank into him with a sigh and the fury of the morning bled away. Lance swung her into his arms. He was damned if he’d let anyone hurt her. She should be cherished. He could do something right—he would prove it. He’d look after her till the time came for her to leave.
Even though he feared the person he needed to protect her from most was himself.
CHAPTER TEN
LANCESATINhis study, looking over the books. Everything had run seamlessly until now, with this pretence that he was leaving bachelorhood behind him. Who knew being a proper duke took so much work? His workload had seemed to increase exponentially since his pretend fiancée had entered his life. Or perhaps they were simply the demands of his staff trying to make things perfect for Sara, because she’d become beloved by them all.
Now George had given him some sort of report about Astill Hall. He’d never had a report about the particulars of running the house before. He trusted his staff implicitly to do their jobs, and nothing they’d ever done had caused him to question them. But George had insisted, inundating him with information about meals and things which needed to be done on the estate. The place was becoming unrecognisable. His efficient butler had tried to involve Sara in their meeting this morning, but Lance had refused. There was no need to disturb her when she was somewhere else about the house, probably in the kitchen garden with the chef, talking about vegetables.
It was all so domestic. The pleasure of that observation slid through him till he beat it away. What on earth was he thinking? Not much, bar the satisfaction of having her here. The house, which had been a mausoleum, causing him to spend most of his time in the bright lights of London, was beginning to feel like a home again. Every night spent together, limbs entwined. There was no pretence any more, the Duchess suite now unused unless they wanted a change of venue. It was all too satisfying, too comfortable. Yet... Once that might have given him an itch, now he gloated about it all. Life with Sara felt like something gloriously never-ending.
Except it had to end. The mere thought raised a howl deep inside him. But what was he, if not a man of his word? Still, her smile over coffee in the morning, glimpses of her as she explored the house and garden, set his heart alight. Perhaps he was selfish, but right now he didn’t care.
