Chapter 13 #3
“As certain as anyone who knows the two men can be. It’s not in St. Clair’s character to force a woman. You know it as well as I.”
She felt numb. “But you have no proof.”
The older woman hesitated, as if debating something. Then she sighed. “I should have known you wouldn’t simply take my word for it. Very well. I have some information I gleaned from Edgar’s servants. It’s not much, but I believe it’s closer to the truth.”
Lady Brumley adjusted her turban, making the little ship brooch bob. “It’s true that Cynthia Lennard died shortly after St. Clair left for the Continent. But the Lennard servants heard nary a hint that she killed herself over a rape. No, they believe her death resulted from a mutual love affair.”
Her heart sank. “You mean, between Lord St. Clair and Mrs. Lennard?”
“Yes. It’s plausible, even understandable.
Cynthia was twenty-five to St. Clair’s nineteen.
She was pretty and quite na?ve. Edgar swept her off her feet, but I believe she later regretted it.
His age exceeded hers by some seventeen years.
So it’s understandable why she’d fall in love with her young nephew, Ian, and take him into her bed. ”
This version didn’t please Felicity any more than the other one. Although it exonerated Ian of rape, it meant he’d had an adulterous affair with his aunt. The thought twisted her insides.
The marchioness didn’t seem to notice Felicity’s distress.
“The servants think that Ian’s guilt over the illicit affair led him to flee to the Continent.
And Cynthia died pining away for him. No one knows for certain, however.
All the servants who worked there ten years ago were paid or pensioned off to keep quiet about the scandal. ”
Felicity’s blood thudded dully in her veins.
This was almost as treacherous a tale as the other.
In the eyes of the law, it was incest, and certainly it made Ian indirectly responsible for his aunt’s death.
It was also a terrible betrayal of his father’s brother and even his father.
It was hard to imagine Ian betraying his family’s trust.
But if he’d been in love? Her heart wrenched to think of it.
She hated to admit it, but Lady Brumley’s tale explained a great deal—why Ian had gone to the Continent without telling his friends, why he’d been adamant about her staying out of his affairs, and why he hadn’t wanted her talking to Miss Greenaway.
It might even explain why he’d been so careful with her that night in her bedchamber. Perhaps he’d stopped short of seducing her because he remembered what had happened the last time he’d made love to a respectable woman.
“In any case,” Lady Brumley went on, “none of it may even be true. And if it is, it’s all in the past. It occurred when St. Clair was a green lad.
But his six years on the Continent made him into a man, a very good man if I am any judge.
That man deserves a wife, no matter what Edgar thinks or tries to do about it. ”
Felicity hardly heard her. She rose in a daze, her mind awhirl. “I must return to the ball. My companions will be looking for me.”
“But Miss Taylor—”
“Please let me go. I need to think on all this.”
“All right. Just be sensible about it. You know as well as I do that St. Clair is no violator of women. Edgar is lying—surely you can see that.”
“Yes.” Ian’s uncle would have reason to hate his nephew in either case. And he might even believe it a rape or his wife might have told him it was one to save his feelings. But Felicity knew in her heart Ian would never force a woman.
The trouble was, the idea of Ian lying with his own aunt and then running off and leaving the woman to grieve herself to death, sickened her.
Of course, as Lady Brumley said, it might all be lies. Considering the sources, how could she know? Especially when he wouldn’t confide in her?
She started for the door.
Lady Brumley called out, “If he should offer for you—”
“He won’t,” she whispered, then fled the room.
Even if he did offer again, she couldn’t accept.
This dark secret in his past still tormented him.
Anyone could see that. And as long as he refused to unburden himself, it would stand between them, an ugly beast rearing up whenever she tried to come close.
She would always wonder if Miss Greenaway were his mistress or if he still loved Cynthia Lennard.
She couldn’t be one of those ladies who pretended not to notice their husband’s infidelities.
Yet despite the speculations and probable lies, despite his secretiveness, her heart still leapt and her blood quickened whenever he turned those sin-black eyes in her direction.
Damn the seductive devil to hell. He’d certainly had a fine revenge.
She’d just been handed the juiciest bit of gossip ever and not only did she not want to write about it, she didn’t even want to think about it.
How he would laugh if he knew. With a few kisses and caresses, he’d taken the gossip out of the gossip writer. And she would never be the same.