Nicola Cornick Page 2

  Justin’s face turned to stone but not before she caught a flash of anguish that tore at her being. ‘Is this true, Belle?’ His cold gaze bore into hers.

  ‘No!’

  Lucien caught her arm and pulled her to him. ‘My love, there is no need to continue the act.’ His mouth crashed down on hers in a hard, possessive kiss that reminded her of exactly who was master. He lifted his head a little. ‘If you continue to deny this, I will shoot Wroth on the spot. Do you understand?’ he said against her mouth.

  She nodded, sick with fear. He released her. ‘Tell him the truth, Belle.’

  She forced herself to look at Justin. ‘Very well. It…it was a trap.’

  His eyes remained on her face, the coldness in them chilling her soul. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I…’ With sickening clarity she knew what Lucien meant to do. How could she have been so blind, so stupid to not suspect his motives for telling her to pay attention to Justin? When Lucien was only ten, his father had lost most of his fortune to Justin’s father, the Duke of Westmore, in a London gaming hell. That night he had shut himself up in his study and put a bullet through his head. Lucien made no attempt to hide the fact he considered Justin’s father a murderer.

  Lucien’s grip tightened on her arm. ‘Can you not guess? I am going to avenge my father’s death.’

  Justin’s gaze did not waver. ‘My father was not responsible for your father’s death.’

  Lucien laughed. ‘Oh, but he was. Westmore took everything from him without mercy. Your father did everything but put the gun to his head. And so I plan to take everything from your father. Without mercy.’

  ‘So you will murder me. Then you will hang. I fail to see how that will give you satisfaction.’

  ‘But I do not plan to murder you. There will be a duel. And alas, you will be the loser.’

  There must be a way to stop him. Lucien was a deadly shot; he spent hours practising—it had of late become an obsession and now she knew why. No matter why Justin had wagered for her—she could not let him be killed.

  ‘Because I abducted your wife? I won your wife, if you recall. There were witnesses.’ Justin had folded his arms. His voice was deadly calm, almost conversational as if he were merely curious about what Lucien planned.

  ‘There were witnesses to the fact you cheated.’ Lucien smiled gently. He pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket. ‘After you left, we discovered some of the cards were marked. I have signed statements from both Farley and Banbury, who by the way, was not pleased you stole the prize. So it will be an affair of honour. You may examine them if you wish.’

  Justin ignored his offer. ‘I assume there will be the usual witnesses to this affair of honour.’ His voice held more than a trace of a sneer.

  ‘Banbury will be my second and…’ Lucien paused deliberately ‘…your cousin will be yours.’

  ‘My cousin! Damn you!’ He started to move forward, then checked himself. ‘Why the hell did you involve Brandt?’

  ‘So there would be no questions about the fairness of the duel.’ He glanced towards the window. ‘It is nearly dawn. It is time to proceed. There is a field across the road which will serve our purpose.’ He looked down at Belle. ‘You will come as well.’ He motioned with his pistol. ‘Go, Wroth. I trust you will not attempt to escape or I will shoot Isabelle.’

  Justin finally looked at her, his eyes so full of contempt, she nearly quailed. ‘That is a matter of supreme indifference to me.’

  But he made no move to run and merely went with them across the inn yard, now coming to life. With the sensation of a nightmare she saw Eliza Pomeroy was there as well as Lord Banbury and Justin’s cousin, Lord Salcombe. Banbury’s expression was indifferent but Salcombe’s was grim. He was a year older than Justin, and tall and broad-shouldered, with the same handsome dark looks.

  Still in a dream, she crossed the road to the field with the others. She watched as a short balding man arrived. From his manner, and the bag he carried, she presumed he was the local surgeon. Lucien had released her and seemed to have forgotten her presence. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. If only she could stop this. But Lucien was beyond reason.

  Justin stood with his cousin. He had removed his coat and stood in breeches, waistcoat and linen shirt. Belle started towards him. He looked up, his eyes boring into her. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You must not do this! He never misses and he means to kill you.’ Justin merely looked at her. She turned to Salcombe. ‘Can you not stop this?’

  Salcombe met her eyes, his own hard. ‘It is too late for an attack of conscience, Lady Milborne. It is a pity it did not happen two weeks ago before you ensnared my cousin.’ He turned to Justin. ‘It is time.’

  She felt as if she had been slapped. Salcombe walked towards Banbury, who held the pistol case. Justin started after him and then paused. He turned and looked down at Belle, his dark eyes remote. ‘Why did you do this?’

  ‘I had no idea…I did not know what Lucien meant to do.’ She looked at him, willing him to understand.

  A cold smile touched his mouth. ‘There is no need to continue the act. We are not on stage.’ He stepped towards her and she made herself remain still. ‘By the way, I was acting as well. I intended to bed you using any means possible. But for now, I will have to be content with this.’ Before she could protest he had pulled her against his hard unyielding chest. He tilted her chin and then his lips found hers. His kiss was bruising and punishing, and when he released her she stumbled. But he was already striding across the field.

  She watched as they took their pistols and paced off. It all happened in such slow motion. The handkerchief dropping and the shots and then Justin falling to the ground. She started to run forward and then in a sort of shock realised Salcombe had helped Justin to a sitting position. She heard shouts and saw the surgeon was at Lucien’s side. Eliza caught her arm. ‘You must go to your husband. Salcombe will see to Justin.’ Confused, she allowed Eliza to lead her across the grass. Lucien lay there, a dark red stain spreading across his shirt. The surgeon had pressed a pad to his shoulder. Belle fell to her knees on the other side of him. As if sensing her presence he opened his eyes and his eyes glittered. ‘I will still win. Even if I die, Wroth will hang for my death. And you, Isabelle, will learn that allowing your affections to stray is fatal.’ Then his eyes closed.

  Justin kept his gaze on his father. ‘So when do I leave England?’

  ‘You will leave for Dover with Giles tonight,’ the Duke said coolly.

  A sob escaped the Duchess’s throat. Justin was consumed with guilt and anger that he had brought her such anguish. He forced his own voice to remain expressionless. ‘And if Milborne lives, when can I return?’

  ‘When the affair has died down. Unfortunately duel-ling is illegal and despite the fact you had no choice, you could be tried for his murder.’ His father’s expression was grim. The Duke’s immense position and power had not been enough to quell the rumours that Justin had cheated at cards and when Milborne had called him out, Justin had callously shot him. At least there had been no mention of Belle. For some reason Milborne had not seen fit to spread that tale. ‘You may be in even more trouble if he lives. He will do everything in his power to harm me through you. You will have some measure of protection away from England.’

  ‘I would rather take my chances in England.’ He could not bear to leave when his mother was so ill.

  ‘No, my dearest, you must go.’ The Duchess rose from the sofa and came to his side. ‘You will be safe with Lord Haversham, and I will not worry that Milborne will seek to have you arrested.’ She caught his hands. ‘How I wish you were not going so far away, but I cannot see what else is to be done!’

  The tears in her eyes tore at his heart. She was so thin and fragile and her hand so delicate in his that he felt he held a small bird in his palm. ‘I will return as soon as possible. I promise you that,’ he said roughly.

  ‘I will not let you forget.’ She reached up and
brushed her lips over his cheek. She smelled softly of roses, a scent he always associated with her. He brought her hand to his lips and then released it, fighting down the premonition that he would not see her again.

  If it were possible to damn Belle Milborne to hell at that moment, he would have. He cursed himself for his gullibility. From the first moment he saw her on Milborne’s arm, her face as lovely and pure as a Madonna’s, her expression apprehensive as she surveyed the company, he had wanted to protect her. Milborne’s evident neglect and her unhappiness had aroused chivalrous instincts he’d never suspected he possessed and within a week he had tumbled head over heels in love for the first time. He could talk to her and she listened as if she truly cared about him, rather than the fact he was heir to a dukedom.

  But it had all been the performance of a consummate actress. She must have laughed when he made his impassioned declaration of love. Laughed to think he was so infatuated with her that he paid two thousand pounds to save her from her husband’s schemes. He shoved aside the image of her anguished face when she pleaded with him not to accept Milborne’s challenge. He had no idea whether she had actually felt a twinge of guilt or whether she was merely acting. It made no difference. He hated her more than he had hated anyone in his life.

  Three years later, he stood at the rail of the ship that carried him towards England. He had not seen his mother again. Or his father. He had spent the last three years in the army under Lord Haversham. When his mother had finally succumbed to the wasting illness, three months after he left England, he had been on the Peninsula. His father had died a year and a half later from pneumonia, but by then Justin was in Brussels. The news of his father’s death had been delayed so by the time it reached him his father had been laid to rest in the cool marble tomb next to the woman he had loved since childhood.

  He watched the seabirds circle and dive as the cliffs of Dover slowly appeared on the horizon. He was returning home. Home to England. And to Isabelle Milborne. The hot, passionate anger he had felt over her treachery had cooled to a cold desire for revenge.

  Milborne was dead; he had finally died months after the duel from a lingering infection. He despised Milborne, but in some sense he could understand the man’s obsession for revenge. But Belle’s complicity was beyond his comprehension. That she had participated in a plot that was to result in his death was despicable enough, but that she had hastened his mother’s death was unforgivable. He had no doubt his mother’s distress had only served to weaken her already fragile health. And because of Belle Milborne, his father had died without the comfort of wife or son at his side.

  So, Belle Milborne would pay in hell for her treachery. Even if he went there with her.

  Chapter One

  London, 1816

  Belle took one last glance at herself in the looking glass. Her soft grey silk ball gown was elegant but severe. As was the rest of her appearance. Which was exactly what she wanted. She knew certain males of the ton considered her cold and had unkindly dubbed her ‘the unassailable’ but she had no desire to be viewed as anything but unapproachable.

  She picked up her gloves and tried to quell the nervous flutter in her stomach. She had been in London ten days and had accompanied her mother-in-law, Lady Ralston, and her sister-in-law, Chloe, to half a dozen affairs already, including a ball, without such apprehension. But tonight was different. The Duke of Westmore was in London.

  She very much dreaded he would be at the Hartford ball. She had not seen Justin since he returned to England nine months ago. Lord Ralston had died six months before that and they had still been in mourning and had not gone out into society until now. But she had heard enough about him. About how, despite a broken arm, he had returned to the battlefield at Waterloo and braved the enemy lines to rescue his wounded superior, Lord Haversham, from certain death. He had left England in disgrace but had returned to it a hero. And a duke, for his father had died on the eve of the battle.

  The thought of possibly meeting him nearly threw her into a panic. Only last night at a rout, she had heard two women discussing him. Usually, she did not eavesdrop but the mention of his name had drawn her attention like a magnet. By the time the women had moved away, she had learned he had just arrived in town and that his aunt, the Dowager Countess of Knowles intended to find him a wife and every mama in London was nearly in a swoon over the idea.

  Perhaps he would be so preoccupied with swooning mamas and daughters he would hardly notice her. Belle was not hopeful. Lucien had not destroyed him physically, but had managed to ruin his life in every way possible. She doubted he had forgotten that.

  Or that Belle had confessed to taking part in Lucien’s plan.

  If it weren’t for her mother-in-law and Chloe, she would be tempted to flee London. But Maria, who suffered from a nervous constitution, insisted she badly needed Belle’s support during the ordeal of a London Season. And Belle loved Chloe as dearly as if she was her own sister, and had wanted to be in London with her.

  The scratch on her door jerked her from her thoughts and reminded her she had a ball to attend. Her housekeeper, Mrs Bates, entered. ‘Lord Ralston is below. Impatient as usual.’ She sniffed. ‘I don’t know why since you are always prompt.’

  ‘Tell him I will be with him shortly.’

  She sighed. Arthur was another ordeal. He was the reason she had insisted on staying in the comfortable townhouse in Gower Street her grandmother had left her. Maria and Chloe were staying with Arthur, now the Earl of Ralston. Arthur was also Chloe’s guardian, and although Belle tried to like him, she could not like someone who so thoroughly disapproved of her. The idea of living under the same roof as Arthur had been unthinkable and so, over Maria’s protests that Belle could not possibly manage on her own, she had opened the house for the Season. Once a year, from the time she had been thirteen until Lady Townsend had become ill, they had come to London. Maria had not been able to understand that Belle wanted to surround herself with something of her family and had exclaimed that she and Chloe were her family. Belle had not even bothered to explain that she looked forward to the silence as well. A place where she could be left to her own thoughts and do as she wished.

  She left her bedchamber and went to the drawing room. Arthur was standing in front of the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back. He turned when he saw her and moved towards her. He was dressed as usual in black, a colour that only served to make his bony features even more severe. Only four years older than her five and twenty, he seemed a decade older than that. ‘Good evening, Belle,’ he said, without smiling. He ran his eyes over her dress and frowned. ‘Must you persist in dressing as if you were a governess or a poor relation? It will hardly help Chloe’s chances at making a good match if her sister-in-law is considered an eccentric.’

  ‘We will hope that any man who truly cares for her would be willing to overlook her eccentric relations.’

  His thin lips tightened. ‘And if you truly cared for her you would see to it that you do nothing to call attention to yourself.’

  What did he think she would do? Run about in her shift in the middle of a ballroom? She bit back a sharp retort. ‘I intend to behave with the utmost decorum.’ As she always did.

  Maria and Chloe waited for them in Arthur’s carriage. Belle seated herself next to the younger woman. Chloe leaned towards her. ‘Did he lecture you very much?’ she whispered to Belle.

  ‘I fear I dress like a poor relation,’ she whispered back.

  Chloe made a face. At nineteen she was very pretty with a pair of sparkling brown eyes and a smile that often held a hint of mischief. She tended to laugh off much of Arthur’s admonitions although she always gave the air of listening intently. And then she did as she pleased.

  Nearly three-quarters of an hour later they finally stepped into the Hartfords’ small ballroom. The room was already crowded with fashionable members of society—the women in silks and muslin and jewels, the men in elegantly cut evening clothes. Chloe was soon engaged for the f
irst dance and, after giving his approval, Arthur wandered off towards the card room. Maria and Belle started towards the wall where the chaperons congregated.

  They were just about to join two of Maria’s friends, when Maria gave a sharp gasp. She stared towards the double doors that led from the ballroom to the hall, her face white.

  ‘Maria, what is it?’ Belle said, alarmed.

  ‘Oh, dear God! He is here! Whatever shall we do?’

  Belle looked towards the doors. A dark-haired man was just bowing over Lady Hartford’s hand. Then he straightened and her heart nearly stopped. Even after three years, she could not fail to recognise him. Her worst fear had just come true. The Duke of Westmore had arrived.

  ‘I do not think we must do anything.’ She put a reassuring hand on Maria’s arm. ‘The best thing would be for you to pretend as if nothing is amiss.’

  ‘But what if he should approach us? I daresay he blames Lucien for exiling him to the continent although it was completely his fault.’

  ‘I doubt if he will even notice us.’

  But a half-hour later, despite her best efforts to remain hidden behind a potted plant, Belle knew she was wrong. She glanced across the room and found herself staring into his dark cool face. She yanked her gaze away, but not before she saw the slight inclination of his head. He had not forgotten her and she had no doubt he had not forgotten the past at all.

  Justin finally managed to extricate himself from his aunt’s side. Since his arrival in London, Lady Georgina had been determined that he meet every young lady she considered eligible for the next Duchess of Westmore. He had already met half a dozen girls under the age of twenty who either stammered and blushed or coyly dropped their gazes upon his being presented to him. However, none of them interested him in the least. The only woman who did had just left the ballroom.