“I have little strength left to fight. I worry about you, about my dependents, about my life’s work, and my legacy. Consider, also, you are three-and-thirty already. It is my fault for taking the best years of your youth and not giving you children. I know you want them. It is clear in your face whenever you hold a baby in your arms or crouch down to talk to a toddler. You would be an amazing mother, and I have deprived you of that. This way, you could have it all. You could have all what should be rightfully yours for all the years you have been my wife and helpmate.”
“But it would be a dangerous deception. A lifelong deception. I don’t know if I’m capable.”
“Just consider it,” the duke said, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “You, too, are running out of time, Hannah. After I die, society will expect you to keep a year of mourning. Even if you want to remarry after that, it could take time. And we don’t know if you’ll be able to find a worthy man. Fortune hunters will besiege you, a rich and beautiful widow. Many will try to take advantage of you. But Brentworth is a good man. With him, you could have a baby before the year is out. You could keep your home, your status. And if you so desire, you could marry him after I die. Just think about it. Please.”
With that, he closed his eyes and soon fell into a sleeping stupor. The conversation was over. The duke had obviously used all his strength. Dazed, she got up to go to her bedchamber,stopping on the way by the duke’s valet room to wake the servant and ask him to go sit with his master for the rest of the night.
When she got to her own room, she lay down in bed, even though she wouldn’t sleep. Her emotions were in a riot.
Harold had a point. Neil Blackwell was a greedy, entitled wastrel who would no doubt run the estate to the ground. Harold gave him a generous allowance. A more enterprising man could have built his own fortune with that money. But Blackwell considered work beneath himself. His only pursuits were vice and debauchery. The years of living above his station had racked up massive debts. As if that wasn’t bad enough, there were other, more disturbing, rumors involving women he had misused.
Her husband had been trying to break the entail for years, without success. Now that his health had taken a turn for the worse, Harold was right to worry about his legacy and his dependents.
And what about her? She could have a baby. Possibly before the year was out. She hugged a pillow to her chest, a yearning she had not allowed herself to acknowledge consuming her. As the years had gone by, she had resigned herself to being childless. When Harold stopped visiting her bed, she had assumed he wasn’t capable anymore and had blamed herself for not conceiving before.
But he had kept a mistress. Was he capable with his mistress? Hannah didn’t want to know. The fact was, he had preferred that other woman to her. She could almost forgive him for that, for their relationship had never been a passionate one. But not for letting her think she was the problem. For depriving her of a child while he cavorted with another woman.
And to enjoy a man’s touch... and not just any man. Brentworth. She had been deprived for so long. Sometimes, alone in her bed, she hungered for things she had neverexperienced. She had tried to bury those needs, but every so often, they resurfaced to torment her.
She would have liked to think she had the moral fiber to reject such a deceitful scheme out of hand. But God help her, she was tempted.
Was it really immoral if her own husband was asking her? If he had, for all intents and purposes, severed their marital vows? Not just by his words, but by his actions, too. Did she still owe him loyalty?
But it was more than that, wasn’t it? She would have to live a lifelong deception. Her child would never know who his real father was. Not to mention that someone could find out. The possible consequences were so many!
And what about Brentworth? He would have a say on the matter and also share the consequences.
She tossed and turned, beating her pillow as if it contained the answers she sought. Doubts, fears, duty, desire. Her mind swirled between right and wrong.
It would never work. This was just a mad scheme. And yet, she still considered it. Damn Harold, the wily old fox! He certainly knew how to manipulate her. She feared she had already succumbed.
CHAPTER 3
GABRIEL TOOK THE FRONTstairs leading up to his country estate, Brentworth Park, two at a time. Coming back from a gallop around his estate at sunrise always left him invigorated and ready to face the problems of the day. It was his favorite activity, one he engaged in every morning.
And thank goodness he still had this small pleasure, because he would spend the rest of the day dealing with a multitude of problems. Trying to save a bankrupt estate from ruin was arduous and heartbreaking work.
His man of business awaited him in his study like every other day. With his somber clothes and perpetually dour expression, Barrett looked like a black vulture. Almost like an ominous sign of what awaited the estate if he was unable to raise the capital.
“Good morning, Barrett,” Gabriel said, stepping into his study.
The room was both a sanctuary and a prison. The desk loomed in the center, stacked high with piles of papers, most of them bills. At least a steaming cup of coffee also graced the surface of the desk. His butler always made sure it awaited him when he returned from his ride.
“Good morning, my lord,” his secretary replied, not looking up from the paper he was scribbling on.
“Have we received news about the loan I requested?”
“We have, my lord. Unfortunately, they are not good. The bank refuses to lend the money without a hefty collateral. I’m afraid with all the properties entailed, and those that are notentailed, mortgaged to the brim, we simply don’t have the assets they require.”
“I see.” Nothing surprising there. He had not expected the bank to lend him the money he needed to rescue his estate. But he had hoped.
He sat down to read the correspondence while savoring the coffee. The hot, bracing liquid was the only comfort on this chilly morning.
“Do we have the money to make the next payment?”
“We could make a small payment, my lord. At this rate, it will take years to pay off the debt, but at least the creditors are not demanding more. But there’s still the issue of the mortgages. Those have not demanded payment yet.”
Yet. That ominous brief word loomed large on his mind. He was barely staying current with the everyday operational costs and paying down the merchants and other creditors. It was not a matter ofif, but rather ofwhen, the holders of the mortgages demanded payment. He would be forced to sell or relinquish whatever property was not entailed. But then he would lose the income from those properties, and after paying the mortgages, there wouldn’t be much capital left to save the main estate.
