My Reckless Surrender

The question was odd, although at least Burnley wasn’t asking her to relate each moment of Ashcroft’s possession. “Yes.”

A taut silence descended. After a few bristling seconds, Burnley made another of those impatient sounds. “Well? Speak, girl!”

She spread her hands in confusion. What did Burnley want her to say? “I didn’t notice anything unusual. He wasn’t deformed.” Perhaps that was behind these questions. The concern some defect would pass to the heir. “But my husband is the only other man I’ve seen naked. I don’t have too many grounds for comparison.”

He scowled and his hands tightened so his bony knuckles shone white. “Most unsatisfactory. Is that all you have to say?”

Helplessly, she stared at the marquess. Lord Burnley’s wrath was a terrifying force. She had no wish to provoke it. Especially as she didn’t know how she’d incurred his displeasure. She thought he’d be delighted.

Clearly, she’d been wrong.

Her mind scrabbled for a description of Lord Ashcroft’s body. The picture was vivid in her mind, as if painted in oils. Her voice faltered as she began. “He’s tall, strong, lean. Broad shoulders. Dark hair on his chest but not too much. No scars that I saw.” Then she remembered. “And he has a birthmark on his hip shaped like an oak tree.”

It was as though something sucked the tension from Burnley. He collapsed back in his huge, high-backed chair, and his breath rattled in his dry throat. His talonlike hands relaxed and spread on the green leather blotter before him.

Satisfaction smoothed the deep lines on his face. “Ah.”

Nothing more. Bewilderment filled Diana. “Is the birthmark important?”

“Damned important, you fool girl.” The old man’s lips curved in a ghost of a smile.

When she didn’t respond, he went on. “It’s the Fanshawe mark. Tarquin Vale is indeed my son. And you carry his seed.”

Chapter Twelve

Desperately, Diana searched the old man’s face for some resemblance to the son who’d proven such a generous and passionate lover. As always, she found no likeness, apart from perhaps the green eyes. Eyes that right now sparked with something approximating joy, if Satan could feel such a positive emotion.

Perhaps Ashcroft instead resembled his wayward mother. The lady who had presented another man’s child to her husband as heir to the Vale estates and titles.

When Burnley had to

ld her about Ashcroft’s parentage, he’d been remarkably close-lipped about the countess. He’d snapped Diana down when she’d asked about the woman who had given birth to his bastard son.

The marquess lifted a bell on the desk and rang it sharply. Immediately, Fredericks entered, officious as ever. “Yes, my lord?”

Burnley made a sweeping gesture. “Wine.” He returned his attention to Diana. “Sit, girl.”

Blinking with astonishment at this acknowledgment she was human, she subsided into a chair. In truth, her legs were close to giving out. She felt so tired, she could hardly speak. “Thank you.”

She accepted a glass of claret from Fredericks and sipped, but the fine vintage tasted acrid on her tongue. Everything tasted acrid right now. She knowingly deceived Lord Ashcroft, so she couldn’t claim any particular morality, but she loathed Burnley’s crowing triumph.

The man she used was worth a million of her coconspirator.

Her coconspirator had what she wanted, God help her.

Burnley took a gulp of wine as Fredericks left with a discreet bow. The liquor couldn’t be good for the marquess’s health, but she forbore commenting. He was old and sick. He was welcome to what pleasures remained. She just wished those pleasures didn’t include his gloating satisfaction.

“I take my hat off to you. I didn’t believe you’d do it.”

She didn’t find his admiration gladdening. After tasting her wine, she set it down on the desk. She felt sick and light-headed. Tiredness, she told herself, although she knew most of her malaise stemmed from self-disgust and a long, hard sexual session after many chaste years.

When she didn’t speak, Burnley’s tone became aggrieved. “I would think you’d be happy. If your womb quickens, you’re set for life. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. Not when you finally faced the fence and jumped it.”

Second thoughts. And third and fourth thoughts into the thousands. She couldn’t reveal her conscience’s writhing discomfort. It would be like speaking the King’s English to a Mongolian nomad. Burnley had no acquaintance with scruples.

“If I get with child, I’ll become your wife,” she said dully.

He slammed his hand on the desk in a brief return to the vigorous man she remembered. “Damn you, chit. If our plan works, you’ll be a marchioness with guardianship of the heir and control of this estate until the boy reaches his majority.”