Wren gasped. “You can’t inherit me!”
“I already have.” Drew shook his head. “Christ, but I underestimated him! He had a brilliant legal mind.” He smiled at the realization that his father had humored him for years. “Every time I accused him of paying too much attention to his amorous affairs and not enough attention to his business ones, he would smile and tell me that he didn’t need to worry about business affairs because I spent more than my fair share of time taking responsibility for them.”
“But why? George knew…”
“He knew I wouldn’t shirk my duty,” Drew concluded. “He knew I’d do as he asked. In fact, he counted on it. He could have sponsored your father’s work and provided him with a house in any county in England and I wouldn’t have noticed. He could have made a bequest to Mrs. Bertrand Stafford—even named her son as his own and arranged for Martin or any other solicitor to administer your income, handle any concerns that arose, and serve as an intermediary between us, and I would not have noticed or cared. Kit’s existence doesn’t threaten or undermine my position as marquess. Younger sons, legitimate or otherwise, don’t inherit. But my father made certain I’d notice and care.”
“How?”
“By requesting that I take responsibility for his mistresses and his offspring, by installing you in the one place he knew I’d object to, and by naming you in his will.”
“But you didn’t know that I married Bertrand.”
“It didn’t matter. Father didn’t name Mrs. Bertrand Stafford in his will. He named Kathryn Markinson Stafford in his will.”
“He what?”
“He named you knowing bloody well that I’d claim you and Kit because there was no way in Hades I could possibly mistake you for anyone else.”
Wren stared in disbelief. The man she thought was her dearest friend had betrayed her. “He left me as chattel so you could assume responsibility for me.”
“And for Kit,” Drew reminded her. “You’re a mistress, Kathryn. And even if you weren’t, you’re a woman with no father, brother, husband, or lover to protect or provide for you.”
“I don’t need anyone to provide for me,” Wren retorted. “I’m providing for myself and for Kit by completing the work my father was paid handsomely to produce.”
“That money won’t last forever.”
“It will last long enough for me to finish this work and secure a commission for the next.”
“Who paid your father to produce Flora and Fauna Native to Britain?” Drew asked.
Wren hesitated for the merest second before she replied. “The founder of the Royal Society for the Preservation of Flora and Fauna Native to Britain.”
“Who is… ?”
“Was,” she answered honestly if reluctantly. “George Ramsey, marquess of Templeston.”
Drew pinned her with his gaze. “My point exactly.”
Wren looked him in the eye. “George may have sponsored this particular work, but I’m sure that once the book is published, I’ll be able to garner more commissions.”
“Your father could have,” Drew said. “But you haven’t the formal education or the renown your father or your late husband had. And if you publish your father’s work under his name rather than your own, who will know you completed it? Who’s going to commission you, Kathryn?”
She glared at him. He knew the answer to that as well as she did and Wren would rather have bitten out her tongue than say the answer aloud.
“Well?” he prodded.
“It doesn’t matter,” she announced. “I’ll simply publish my next work myself.”
“With what? Your father was a life peer. His title and his income died with him. And if you had inherited anything of real value from your late husband, you wouldn’t have come to live with your father. You can’t afford to publish your next work.”
“I’m not destitute, Drew.” Wren lifted her chin a bit higher and straightened her back. “When Aunt Edwina died last fall, she left me a small income and a cottage in the Lake District. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to get by on. And”—she looked him in the eye—“I have talent. I’ll secure commissions.”
“You have tremendous talent,” Drew agreed. “But talent isn’t enough. You’re going to need help.”
“I’ll manage without it.”
“You don’t have to manage without it,” Drew said. “I’ll be happy to finance the publication of your next work.”
Wren eyed him shrewdly. “In return for what?”
“Your signature on a legal document relinquishing all rights to the cottage and to Kit.”
Wren sat down on the nearest chair, her knees suddenly unable to support her weight. “No.”
“The official notice of my father’s death will appear in tomorrow’s papers. Tear up the deed to the cottage and sign over your guardianship of Kit and I’ll gladly finance any project you name, and if you don’t want to go to your aunt’s Lake District cottage, I’ll set you up in a house anywhere you choose as long as it’s somewhere far away from here.”
Wren shot to her feet so fast she nearly bumped his chin with the top of her head. Drew retreated a step, shifting his weight to his heels to avoid the painful collision. “You can have the cottage. You can have anything you want—except Kit. I won’t relinquish my rights to him. I’m his mother. I love him.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re stuck with one another.”
“You didn’t know Kit existed until a few hours ago. All you have to do is go back to London.” She gazed up into his brown eyes. “Go home, Drew. Go back to London and forget you ever saw us.”
“I’d like nothing better. But the fact remains that my father named me as guardian to Kit and to you and I don’t intend to abdicate my responsibility.” Drew frowned. A trio of waxy green holly leaves from the hedgerow was tangled in the strands of her dark blond hair. He reached over to pluck it out.
Kathryn flinched.
Drew quickly pulled the leaves from her hair and let them fall to the floor. “I can’t go back to London and forget about you.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “You’ve forgotten me for the past six years.”
Wren couldn’t believe she’d spoken the words aloud But she had and there was no way to pretend he hadn’t heard them or understood what they meant. And there was no way she could take them back.
Wren turned her back on him, afraid for him to see the tears that brimmed in her eyes. Afraid he’d mistake them for weakness or longing or regret.
Or something more.
“You think I forgot you?” Drew moved close enough that the buttons of his waistcoat brushed the back of her dress and he whispered the words so that his warm breath caressed her ear and tickled the hair on her neck.
She stiffened and began to tremble uncontrollably.
Drew exhaled his frustration. “Would that I could.” He murmured the heartfelt words in a voice so low he couldn’t be sure she heard them, then put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him.
Wren’s eyes widened as he dipped his head toward hers and her pulse quickened in anticipation. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and lowered her lashes.
Drew’s kiss was hot and hungry, filled with anger and almost punishing. It began as something he couldn’t keep himself from doing and quickly turned into something more. Liquid fire rushed to all parts of Drew’s body as he covered Kathryn’s lips with his own and felt her sway against him. He pulled her closer as he deepened his kiss, tangling his hands in her soft hair, before running them down her body. The thin muslin layers of her gown concealed little as he cupped her firm breast in one hand before continuing his exploration down her ribs, past her waist, over her hipbone, and around the curve of her derriere, pulling her up against his groin. He groaned in a mixture of need and agony.
Wren was overwhelmed by her response to his sudden kiss. She gripped his broad shoulders and parted her lips to allow his silken tongue to slip through to sample the warm
recesses of her mouth. Surrounded by his arms, his mouth, his hard masculine body, and the taste and touch and smell of him, Wren melted against him. She reveled in the hot taste of his kiss and the faint, half-forgotten aroma of the exotic spices left by his shaving soap. Wren breathed in his scent and nuzzled closer to its source.
Drew groaned again.
Wren pulled her mouth away from his. She was weak in the knees and definitely in danger of losing herself in his embrace. She tilted her head back to allow him access as Drew brushed his lips against her closed eyelids, across her cheeks, and down her neck. He nipped at her earlobe, then darted his tongue into the pink shell of her ear. Wren gasped in reaction. She tightened her grip, hanging on to his shoulders for dear life, as Drew pressed hot, wet kisses behind her ear on the spot where her pulse hammered to keep pace with her raging emotions.
“Bloody hell!” Drew tore himself away and put some distance between them before their kissing got too far out of hand.
Looking thoroughly well kissed, and surprised by his abrupt retreat, Kathryn swayed on her feet as he released her. She stared up at him and Drew found the look in her gray-green eyes strangely disconcerting. She appeared confused and puzzled by his withdrawal and he was struck by the fact that she tasted the way he remembered—warm and passionate and impossibly innocent and pure.
She touched her fingers to her lips. “I don’t understand…”
“What don’t you understand?” His voice was gruff, his words much harsher than he intended. “That I came here to evict one of my father’s mistresses in order to avoid the scandal of having one mistress preside over the funeral of another, only to find that my father’s mistress was the only woman I’d ever asked to be my wife? Or that I suddenly find myself once again stupidly ensnared in the web of her attraction?” He gave a snort of laughter. “How could you understand? I don’t understand any of this madness myself.”
Wren ruthlessly suppressed the tiny surge of hope Drew’s kiss and his words gave her and concentrated instead on the purpose of his visit to Swanslea. “You’re burying George’s—lady friend—here at Swanslea Park with him?”
“What would you have me do with her? Consign her to a pauper’s grave in Ireland?” Drew raked his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.
“But your mother is—”
“My mother is dead,” Drew said. “She can’t object to my showing a little Christian charity to the unfortunate young woman who shared my father’s final moments. Besides”—he paused—“I don’t see that I have a choice. She died with him. She probably died because she was with him. We know nothing about her except her given name and no one has come forward to claim her body. He left me to see to the care of his surviving mistresses.” Drew gave Wren a pointed look. “Would you have me do less for the one who perished with him?”
“No.”
“I’ve already sent Martin to Ireland to bring the bodies home to Swanslea Park. It shouldn’t take more than a fortnight for them to get here. I plan to notify the rector and have the funerals as soon as they arrive. She’ll be buried in the family plot.” He glanced at Wren. “I think it’s what he would have wanted.”
Wren nodded. “Your guests will begin arriving for your father’s funeral once the official notice is published. Mr. Isley can take care of the animals and Miss Allerton will remain with Kit.” She looked up at Drew. “I don’t like leaving him, but George was Kit’s father. Kit should stand with you at the funeral.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll remove myself from the cottage and from Swanslea Park until the funerals are over and your guests depart.” She bit her bottom lip and stared down at the toes of her black kid slippers to keep from meeting Drew’s eyes. “We can decide the rest after.”
“You told me this morning that nothing on earth could induce you to miss George Ramsey’s funeral,” Drew reminded her.
“That was before I knew you were burying George’s lady friend with him.”
Drew felt his disappointment as the knot in his stomach tightened painfully. Somehow he’d expected better of Kathryn. He’d wanted her to prove him right. “Finding out he had another mistress lessened your resolve?”
“No,” Wren said softly. “Finding out that you were trying to do the right thing did. I didn’t realize you were trying to avoid the scandal of having one mistress at the burial of another.” She lifted her face and met his gaze. “I’ve caused you enough scandal and embarrassment to last a lifetime, Drew. And supplied the ton with all of the on-dits and speculation I intend to provide. You don’t have to worry about me causing any more scandal.”
The aching knot in the pit of his stomach grew larger. She hadn’t disappointed him after all. He’d disappointed himself. He’d done what he’d come to do. He’d succeeded in removing Kathryn from Swanslea Park, but there was no satisfaction in the victory. His empty life flashed before his eyes and suddenly, perversely, Drew wanted—needed—her to stay. “What about Kit? If he stands with me at the funeral, the ton will speculate about him. Have you considered that? Have you thought of how I should account for him?”
“Should anyone inquire you may tell them that Kit is Bertrand Stafford’s son,” Wren replied.
“Do you think anyone will believe it? Especially since Kit bears no resemblance whatsoever to old Bertrand and bears an uncanny likeness to me?”
“Then tell the truth. Tell them he’s your brother.”
“And have the wags in the ton call him illegitimate? Have them brand him a bastard? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“He is illegitimate,” Wren protested.
Drew raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you want your son to be known?”
Wren sighed. “Of course it’s not how I want Kit to be known—especially among those vicious gossip-mongers who call themselves society. But it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
“You could stand with us at the funeral.”
“And do what?” Wren was stunned.
“Protect Kit.”
Wren expelled her breath in a rush of hot air and anger. “I’ve protected Kit from the first moment I held him in my arms.”
He appeared completely calm and unflappable. “Then you should have no difficulty continuing the practice by telling anyone who’s bold enough or rude enough to inquire that he’s mine.”
She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “You mean your heir.”
“No.” Drew shook his head. “I mean my son.”
“They were there when I didn’t…when you waited for me at the altar. London society knows we didn’t get married.”
“You should know better than anyone that you don’t have to be married to make a child,” he reminded her.
“Even so, Drew, they can count. We aren’t—we never… He’s not your son.”
“He should have been,” Drew replied fiercely, finally giving voice to the idea that had eaten him alive since he’d first set eyes on Kit. “And as far as the ton is concerned, we were, we did, and he is.”
“They’ll think I married Bertrand just to give my son a name.”
“Didn’t you?” Drew moved closer, crowding her. “My father saw fit to leave you to me and I intend to claim you along with the rest of my inheritance.”
“You’re mad!” Wren’s heart thudded against her ribs. Drew had come to Swanslea Park to evict her and suddenly announced his intent to claim her.
“Quite possibly,” he answered, staring into her eyes.
“You want me to—”
“I want you.” Drew cut her off.
“But, Drew…”
“I know.” He nodded in agreement to her protest. “It makes no sense. There’s no reason to it. I cut you out of my mind and my heart a long time ago. I thought we were done with one another. But it appears that I was wrong.” Drew stared into her big gray-green eyes. “The kiss we just shared proves we’ve some business left to finish.” He reached out and gently brushed her cheekbone with his knuck
les.
His touch seemed to turn her bones to jelly and Wren fought to control her trembling. “No.”
He traced the outline of her lips with the tip of his finger. “You’re not unaffected by me, Kathryn.” He touched her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, then ran it across the seam of her lips. “There is something powerful between us. There always was. Why not explore it further?”
She stared up at him, her heart in her eyes. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He graced her with his most devastating smile. “You’ve done it before. Why not do it with me?”
Wren blinked at the burst of raw pain that shot through her body as his words sliced through her, leaving dozens of bleeding wounds in their wake. She jerked away from his touch and stepped back, out of reach. “I’ve spent the past six years praying that God would forgive me for what I did to you.”
“Then your prayers are about to be answered.”
“I prayed to God, not to you.”
“But I’m the one you wronged,” he said. “You should have prayed for my pardon as well as God’s.”
“I did pray for it,” she admitted. “And I hoped that someday you would grant it. But I will not share your bed in order to earn it.” Wren pinned him with her gaze.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Because, although I’m willing to try, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to forgive and forget the past simply because you’ll be sharing my bed.”
“Too much has happened between us—”
“Not enough has happened between us,” he said. “I’ve seen men—too many young men—die in battle. I’ve heard the whispered prayers and the regrets of the wounded and the dying. I know how rare it is to get a second chance in life and I mean to make the best of this one. You will be sharing my bed, Kathryn. Make no mistake about that. It’s simply a matter of time.”
“You would take your father’s leavings?”
“I’ll not go to my grave regretting the fact that I never made love to you.” He fixed his gaze on her perfectly formed lips. “If that means taking my father’s and Bertrand Stafford’s leavings, then so be it. Suffice it to say that I want you in my bed. How you come to be there is of little consequence.”
“I thought you had a heart,” she said, “but I was wrong.”
“Then we should make a fitting pair,” Drew retorted. “Because I’ve thought the same of you.” With that, the new marquess of Templeston walked toward the door. He reached for the cut-glass doorknob and paused long enough to turn back and look at her. “I’m not a doting old man you can twist around your finger, Kathryn. I won’t change my mind or bend to your will. Once, long ago, I wanted you to be my wife. Now, I simply want what you gave my father.”
Wren glared at him.
Drew managed a smile. “You have a fortnight to get used to the idea.”
Chapter Nine