Part 11 (2/2)

If the Almighty had sent her a letter, signed, witnessed, and notarized, she could not have felt more certain that He, in His infinite wisdom-about which she had entertained doubts on more than one occasion-had made her expressly for this purpose.

”I was making absolutely certain there wasn't anything to think about,” Gwendolyn told her mother. ”There isn't.”

Mama gazed at her for a long moment. ”Yes, I heard the celestial summons-as clearly as you did, I don't doubt. Papa is another matter, however.”

Gwendolyn was well aware of this. Mama understood her. Papa did not. None of the males of the family did. That included Abonville. Gwendolyn was sure the marriage idea was one her grandmother had planted in his head while convincing him it was his own. Fortunately, Genevieve had an enviable talent for making men believe just about anything she wanted them to.

”We'd better let Genevieve talk him round,” Gwendolyn said. ”Otherwise he will create delays by raising a lot of needless obstacles, and we have no time to lose. There's no telling how long Rawnsley will retain his reason, and he must be of sound mind for the legalities.”

That wasn't Gwendolyn's only anxiety. At this very moment, the Earl of Rawnsley might be taking one of his reckless rides and risking a fatal tumble into a mire.

Then she would never have a chance to do something truly worthwhile with her life.

Before she could voice this concern, her mother spoke.

”Genevieve has already begun working on your father,” she said. ”She knew what your answer would be, as I did. I shall go downstairs and signal her to administer the coup de grace.” She rose.

”Thank you, Mama,” Gwendolyn said.

”Never mind that,” Mama said sharply. ”It is not what I would have wished for you, even if you will be Countess of Rawnsley. If that young man had not been Bertie's friend, and if he had not looked after your idiot cousin all through Eton-and doubtless saved his worthless neck a hundred times-” Her eyes filled and her voice was unsteady as she went on, ”Oh, Gwendolyn, I should never let you go. But we cannot leave the poor boy to die alone.” She squeezed Gwendolyn's shoulder. ”He needs you, and that is all that ought to matter, I know.”

Dorian Camoys stood, trapped, in his own library.

Less than a fortnight had pa.s.sed since the duc d'Abonville had turned up at the door.

Now the Frenchman was back-with a special license and a female he insisted Dorian marry forthwith.

Dorian could have dealt with the Frenchman and his ludicrous command easily enough. Unfortunately, along with Lady Pembury and the girl Dorian had not yet met and knew better than to consider meeting, Abonville had also brought his future grandson, Bertie Trent.

And Bertie had got it into his head that he would stand as his friend's groomsman.

When Bertie got something into his head, it was next to impossible to get it out. This was because Bertie Trent was one of the stupidest men who'd ever lived. This, Dorian had long ago recognized, was the reason Bertie was the only friend he'd ever had-and one whose childlike feelings Dorian couldn't bear to hurt.

It was impossible to rage at Abonville properly while trying not to distress Bertie, who was so thrilled about his best friend marrying his favorite female cousin.

”It's only Gwen,” Bertie was saying, misconstruing the issues, as usual. ”She ain't half bad, for a girl. Not like Jess-but I shouldn't wish m'sister on anybody, especially you, even though you'd be m'brother then, because I can't think of anything worse than a fellow having to listen to her the livelong day. Not but what Dain can manage her-but he's bigger than you, and even so, I daresay he's got his hands full. Still, they're already shackled, so you're safe from her, and Gwen ain't like her at all. When Abonville told us you was wanting to get married, and he was thinking Gwen would suit, I said-”

”Bertie, I wasn't wanting to get married,” Dorian broke in. ”It is a ridiculous mistake.”

”I have made no mistake,” said Abonville. He stood before the door, his distinguished countenance stern, his arms folded over his chest. ”You gave your word, cousin. You said you recognized your duty, and you would marry if I could find a girl willing to have you.”

”It doesn't matter what I said-if I did say it,” Dorian said tightly. ”I had a headache when you came, and had taken laudanum. I was not in my senses at the time.”

”You were fully rational.”

”I could not have been!” Dorian snapped. ”I should never have agreed to such a thing if I had. I'm not a d.a.m.ned ox. I shan't spend my last months breeding!”

That was a mistake. Bertie's round blue eyes began to fill. ”It's all right, Cat,” he said. ”I'll stick by you, like you always stuck by me. But you must have promised, or Abonville wouldn't have said you did, and talked to Gwen. And she'll be awful disappointed-not but what she'll get over it, not being the moping sort. But only think how we could be cousins, and if you was to make a brat, I could be G.o.dfather, you know.”

Dorian bent a malignant glare upon the accursed duc. This was his doing. He'd filled Bertie's head with the kinds of ideas he was sure to set his childish heart on: standing as groomsman for his dying friend, becoming Dorian's cousin, then G.o.dfather to imaginary children.

And poor Bertie, his heart bursting with good intentions, would never understand why it was impossible. He would never comprehend why Dorian needed to die alone.

”I'll stick by you,” he'd said-and Bertie would. If Dorian wouldn't wed his cousin, Bertie would stay. Either way, Dorian wouldn't stand a chance. They would never let him die in peace.

Once Dorian was no longer capable of thinking for himself, Bertie-or Abonville or the wife-would call in experts to deal with the madman.

And Dorian knew where that would lead: he would die as his mother had, caged like an animal...unless he killed himself first.

But he would not be hurried to his grave. He still had time, and he meant to enjoy it, to relish his sanity and strength for every precious moment they remained.

He told himself to calm down. He was not trapped. It only seemed that way, with loyal, dim-witted Bertie on one side, prating of G.o.dchildren, and Abonville on the other, blocking the door.

Dorian was not yet weak and helpless, as his mother had been. He'd find a way out of this so long as he kept a cool head.

Half an hour later, Dorian was galloping along the narrow track that led to Hagsmire. He was laughing, because the ruse had worked.

It had been easy enough to feign a sudden attack of remorse. Given years of practice with his grandfather, Dorian had no touble appearing penitent, and grateful for Abonville's efforts. And so, when Dorian requested a few minutes to compose him self before meeting his bride, the two guests had exited the library.

So had he-out the window, through the garden, then down to the stables at a run.

He knew they wouldn't pursue him to Hagsmire. Even his own groom wouldn't venture onto the tortuous path this day, with storm clouds roiling overhead.

But he and Isis had waited out Dartmoor storms before. There was plenty of time to find the cracked heap of granite where they'd sheltered so many times previously, while Dorian beat back the inner demons urging him toward the old habits, the illusory surcease of wine and women.

Even if they searched, his unwanted guest would never find him, and they would give up awaiting his return long before he gave in. He had not yielded to his private demons or to his grandfather, and he would not yield to an overbearing French n.o.bleman obsessed with genealogy.

There would be no more submitting to Duty. The new Earl of Rawnsley would be dead in a few months, and that would be the end of the curst Camoys line. And if Abonville didn't like it, let him uproot one of the French sprigs and plant him here, and make the poor sod marry Bertie's cousin.

Because the only way she would marry Dorian Camoys, he a.s.sured himself, would be by coming into Hagsmire with the entire bridal party and the preacher, and even then someone would have to pin the groom down with a boulder. Because he would dive into a bottomless pit of quicksand before he would take any woman into his life now and let her watch him disintegrate into a mindless animal.

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

Or so Dorian thought at first, until he noticed that the rumble didn't pause, as thunder would, but went on steadily, and steadily grew louder. And the louder and nearer it came, the less it sounded like thunder and the more it sounded like...hoofbeats.

He glanced back, then quickly ahead again.

He told himself the recent confrontation had agitated him more than he'd suspected, and what he believed he'd just seen was a trick of his degenerating brain.

The ignorant rustics, who believed pixies dwelt all over Dartmoor, had named Hagsmire for the witches they also believed haunted the area. During mists and storms, they mounted ghostly steeds and chased their victims into the mire.

The hoofbeats grew louder.

The thing was gaining on him.

He glanced back, his heart pounding, his nerves tingling.

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