Chapter Eleven
Lord Burnley’s carriage rolled through the impressive stone gates marking the boundary of the Cranston Abbey estate.
After several tumultuous hours of reminding herself why she’d gone to London, Diana had a firmer grip on her unruly emotions. Every mile she traveled away from Lord Ashcroft helped.
When she embarked on this plan, she’d known she needed to be strong. That she needed more strength than she’d ever imagined was difficult but not a disaster.
She’d be careful. Ashcroft need never find out what she was up to. The affair would reach its natural end as all his affairs did, and he’d move on to his next conquest. She’d become a marchioness and create a fulfilling future here with her child.
Simple.
Nothing changed her original arrangement with Lord Burnley. Ashcroft might prove more complex, more compelling, more…everything than she’d expected. But that didn’t alter her mission. Or the rewards that awaited her if she held her nerve.
The moon was at three-quarters, sailing in a clear sky above the thick woods that covered the hills behind the Abbey. Not that she needed light to see where she was. She knew this place better than any other in the world. The estate encompassed the geography of her heart.
Joy surging, she leaned out the window and drew a deep, steadying breath of fresh country air. The fragrances of Cranston Abbey filled her senses. Rich earth. Dankness from the lake, low because of the hot weather. Newly cut grass.
But her happiness at her homecoming was for once tarnished. Under the familiar essences, another scent lingered. A scent reminding her she was no longer the woman who had departed through these gates for London. Although she’d washed before leaving Chelsea, traces of Ashcroft’s passion clung to her skin and hair. It was like he was still with her.
The deceit she practiced in London seeped down to poison the place that had always been her personal heaven. Would that be the case from now on? Or would the potent magic of Cranston Abbey keep her transgressions at bay?
No matter. Cranston Abbey was worth it.
She repeated the words over and over like a silent prayer as the carriage followed the lime-tree-lined driveway. They rounded the bend in the road, and just as the genius who designed house and grounds had intended, the Abbey sprang into view like a perfect miracle.
However many times she witnessed this marvel, wonder still transfixed her. Down in the valley, the magnificent baroque façade seemed to call a welcome, telling her it missed her, that it wanted to enfold her inside its elegance forever. That she and only she could ensure its well-being.
She’d adored Cranston Abbey all her life, first ignorantly as the bailiff’s motherless daughter, cosseted by the denizens of this enchanted kingdom. Only later had she comprehended how lucky she was to be part of this splendor.
When she married William at nineteen, she’d loved him. But if he hadn’t been Lord Burnley’s secretary and librarian, tied to the estate, she wondered if she’d have accepted his offer. She’d received several marriage proposals before William’s and always refused, claiming her father needed her. Her love for the Abbey was strong, infinite, self-sacrificing, and it had only grown stronger over the years.
But her love had always contained a bitter core.
However she dedicated her life to this beloved place, she could never lay claim to it beyond what her employer allowed. Until Lord Burnley offered a satanic bargain that would give her all she coveted if she compromised every principle.
She’d hardly hesitated.
As she watched the long, symmetrical façade of the house loom closer, she couldn’t help thinking she’d made the right choice. She would become the custodian of Cranston Abbey. Her blood would continue forever in this place, her footstep would echo in its corridors, her ghost would haunt its galleries.
Nothing would stop her.
Not lying to a man who showed her only consideration. Not the fermenting guilt that weighted her belly even now as she surveyed the treasure that awaited if she persisted with her quest.
Could she already be pregnant? The idea was impossible to encompass. Yet it was as real as the ebony window frame under her gloved hands.
In agonized tumult, she closed her eyes and relived again the liquid surge of Ashcroft’s seed into her womb. Dear God, let a baby form. Let the child be a boy. Let him grow to be a worthy custodian of the Abbey.
Fredericks ushered Diana into the house and down the elaborately painted and gild
ed halls toward the library. Diana hardly glanced at the images surrounding her. Although she knew every panel. She knew every inch of this estate like a mother knew every feature on her child’s face.
It was late, well past midnight. Burnley had summoned her, he’d be waiting. Even old and ill, he exercised despotic power over his domain.
The marquess sat at his desk, a Boulle monstrosity that reputedly had once belonged to Louis XIV. Diana suspected the French king’s arrogance hadn’t matched Lord Burnley’s.
He ignored Diana and studiously completed reading the document before him with eyes that needed no help from spectacles. As she regarded him, she noted the toll of a lifetime of lovelessness, scheming, and acrimony. Lord Burnley had always been considered handsome. No longer. Now the evil in his soul was written on the harshly carved features.
Lamplight was kinder than day, but nothing hid the ravages of disease. Not long ago, he’d been a strong, terrifying figure, a monolithic presence in the lives of his tenants and servants. That was before last year, when fire killed his two sons and their families.