playing a game when he’d tripped up Gervase. Of course Cullum couldn’t have known that Gervase would go over the cliff when he lost his balance. Cullum would never had done such a stupid thing if he’d thought.
But the whispers had grown and the stares had become more accusing. He couldn’t walk into the village without feeling the eyes on his back, hearing the forest fire of whispers as he passed. And in his own house it was worse. Everyone looked at him askance. His father had beaten him with such savagery that even now he carried the memory in his nerve endings, but worse than the physical pain had been the contemptuous rejection that had banished him to dark corners of the house, where he lurked, ignored, while Philip basked in the golden warmth of approval. Philip, who had tripped Gervase. Only no one would believe that truth; to speak it would bring worse punishment.
But Philip was the younger twin by two minutes, and Gervase’s death had left Cullum heir to the earldom. His father had raged at this, had screamed at lawyers when they’d told him nothing could be done to change the laws of primogeniture. Philip could not be his heir while his elder brother lived. So his elder brother, in a black despair, had removed himself.
Twelve-year-old Cullum Wyndham, no longer able to endure the taunts and the cruelties, seeing himself through his father’s eyes—the unworthy and unwanted son—almost believing himself now that his twin’s version of the accident was the truth, had disappeared one day. His clothes had been found on the beach. It was said in the village that the guilt had been too much for him. And the Earl of Wyndham had rejoiced in the heir he wanted.
And now Lord Rupert Warwick stood in St. James’s Palace and observed his twin. It had been eighteen years since he’d called himself Cullum Wyndham, and he felt no regrets for the loss of the tormented lad who’d staged hisown death. But the desire for vengeance burned like hot coals in his vitals. He had come to claim his birthright, and Octavia Morgan would help him to that end.
Deciding abruptly that he’d indulged his obsession sufficiently for one day, Rupert left the palace. He would play a waiting game for a few days, give Miss Morgan time to reflect on the pleasures of his company—and, he hoped, to miss those pleasures—give her time to see herself as someone who could indulge in them again and turn such indulgence to their mutual advantage.
T he Earl of Wyndham dallied pleasantly with his mistress, who seemed disposed to single him out this morning for special attention. “Will you drink tea with me this evening, my dear sir?” she inquired prettily as he escorted her to her carriage at the end of the levee.
“Do you expect a large party, ma’am?”
The viscountess seemed to consider this as she stepped aside to avoid a dog’s bone left carelessly by some royal pug in the middle of the corridor. “One or two, perhaps.”
The earl smiled, responding smoothly, “I’m not sure I’ve the time to share your favors, my dear ma’am.”
Lady Drayton was so unused to objections to the way she played her courtiers that she looked at him in surprise and, in even greater surprise, realized that there was something chilling behind the sweet smile, that the clear gray eyes held a shadow of menace. It was a look that the Countess of Wyndham would have recognized immediately, setting her knees atremble, but Lady Drayton had no reason to fear the Earl of Wyndham. And yet she found herself saying, “Well, if you would prefer a tête-à-tête, Philip, I’m sure it could be arranged.”
“Such indulgence, my dear. I protest you do me too much honor.” His smile broadened and he took her hand, raising it to his lips. “Shall we say at five-thirty?”
The viscountess inclined her head in agreement, displeased with the arrangement merely because it had been pressed upon her. Yet she couldn’t decide how she hadcome to agree so tamely.
But the whispers had grown and the stares had become more accusing. He couldn’t walk into the village without feeling the eyes on his back, hearing the forest fire of whispers as he passed. And in his own house it was worse. Everyone looked at him askance. His father had beaten him with such savagery that even now he carried the memory in his nerve endings, but worse than the physical pain had been the contemptuous rejection that had banished him to dark corners of the house, where he lurked, ignored, while Philip basked in the golden warmth of approval. Philip, who had tripped Gervase. Only no one would believe that truth; to speak it would bring worse punishment.
But Philip was the younger twin by two minutes, and Gervase’s death had left Cullum heir to the earldom. His father had raged at this, had screamed at lawyers when they’d told him nothing could be done to change the laws of primogeniture. Philip could not be his heir while his elder brother lived. So his elder brother, in a black despair, had removed himself.
Twelve-year-old Cullum Wyndham, no longer able to endure the taunts and the cruelties, seeing himself through his father’s eyes—the unworthy and unwanted son—almost believing himself now that his twin’s version of the accident was the truth, had disappeared one day. His clothes had been found on the beach. It was said in the village that the guilt had been too much for him. And the Earl of Wyndham had rejoiced in the heir he wanted.
And now Lord Rupert Warwick stood in St. James’s Palace and observed his twin. It had been eighteen years since he’d called himself Cullum Wyndham, and he felt no regrets for the loss of the tormented lad who’d staged hisown death. But the desire for vengeance burned like hot coals in his vitals. He had come to claim his birthright, and Octavia Morgan would help him to that end.
Deciding abruptly that he’d indulged his obsession sufficiently for one day, Rupert left the palace. He would play a waiting game for a few days, give Miss Morgan time to reflect on the pleasures of his company—and, he hoped, to miss those pleasures—give her time to see herself as someone who could indulge in them again and turn such indulgence to their mutual advantage.
T he Earl of Wyndham dallied pleasantly with his mistress, who seemed disposed to single him out this morning for special attention. “Will you drink tea with me this evening, my dear sir?” she inquired prettily as he escorted her to her carriage at the end of the levee.
“Do you expect a large party, ma’am?”
The viscountess seemed to consider this as she stepped aside to avoid a dog’s bone left carelessly by some royal pug in the middle of the corridor. “One or two, perhaps.”
The earl smiled, responding smoothly, “I’m not sure I’ve the time to share your favors, my dear ma’am.”
Lady Drayton was so unused to objections to the way she played her courtiers that she looked at him in surprise and, in even greater surprise, realized that there was something chilling behind the sweet smile, that the clear gray eyes held a shadow of menace. It was a look that the Countess of Wyndham would have recognized immediately, setting her knees atremble, but Lady Drayton had no reason to fear the Earl of Wyndham. And yet she found herself saying, “Well, if you would prefer a tête-à-tête, Philip, I’m sure it could be arranged.”
“Such indulgence, my dear. I protest you do me too much honor.” His smile broadened and he took her hand, raising it to his lips. “Shall we say at five-thirty?”
The viscountess inclined her head in agreement, displeased with the arrangement merely because it had been pressed upon her. Yet she couldn’t decide how she hadcome to agree so tamely.
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