it was making him cross as two sticks. But then again, did he really want to arrive any sooner than was necessary?
The Christmas house party at Blackwood Manor sounded so appealing when he accepted, but now he was not so sure. Perhaps the allure was enhanced by a desire to escape Marie, who had been lurking about again, doing her best to accidentally run into him. Presumably she had tired of her other aristocratic conquest—and probable father of the child she kept tucked away—the Earl of Baton. The boy certainly resembled Lord Baton, with the same tow-head, cornflower blue eyes and elongated bone structure—more beautiful than handsome, with highly refined features. There was no doubt in Foxleigh’s mind that his brief dalliance with Marie had not produced this child, no matter what Marie might have once claimed. Her story was perpetually changing.
His own swarthy complexion, coarse features, black hair and dark eyes bore no resemblance to the boy, whatsoever. But the lies that woman told! Though she had certainly bedded enough English gentlemen because of her beauty, facility with the arts of flattery and deception were her principle charms. She knew how to insinuate herself into a man’s mind. She could locate and prey upon his vulnerabilities to craft precisely the falsehood he most wanted to hear. Oh, but she was so sympathetic to the loss of Foxleigh’s beloved father. She had just lost her husband and then her own dear Papa, and could never be consoled. Yet having Foxleigh to condole with was such a comfort. He was a saint for rescuing her from her own dark moods, and they bonded over their mutual grief.
Foxleigh clenched his teeth at the memory. What a ruddy idiot he was to take her into his bed, but she made it seem so natural. Then she went away, and he was devastated, though in retrospect it was the kindest thing she had ever done for him. It was no doubt calculated to increase his attachment by her absence. He snorted with contempt. Anything to become a rich duchess. But the hiatus from her had the opposite effect. It gave him time to come to his senses, to meet and fall in love with a woman of true merit—beautiful inside and out, strong-willed but with powers of reason to match. She was more widely read than he, could beat him at both chess and whist, and she made him laugh, often at himself.
A sad smile forced its way, unbidden, onto his features, before dissolving into a scowl, as he remembered Marie’s sudden return and her insistence that the child she carried was his. But she was gone again as soon as she learned that the Foxleigh inheritance was scarcely more than a title and a moldering estate with a millstone of debt hanging around its neck. Then it became clear to her that the child must belong to another, richer man. Her sanctimony was palpable. It was only that she could never dream of burdening such a noble man as Foxleigh with a child that was not his own.
Marie Dubois was a truly despicable and morally bankrupt adventuress. And she had cost him the only woman he would ever love. His fiancée must have got wind of his prior affair. She disappeared without a trace, and he never found her. He eventually gave up. Why shackle her to a life of want?
Only now he was rich. Foxleigh could provide luxuriously for a wife and a hundred children. But he had no hope of finding his love now. The trail was cold. She might not even be in England anymore. His life thus far had been oppressed by perverse timing.
He spoke to the empty carriage seat across from him. “Perhaps I should go to the colonies and look for her there.” It would be convenient to get away, especially with Marie once more making herself as odiously available as possible. But this fantastical plan of escape would not save him from the immediate peril of suffering everyone else’s nauseating happiness and festive joy. As appealing as some yuletide merriment with his friends and family would be, he did not know if he could endure the relentless spectacle of their domestic bliss when his own prospects were so permanently shattered.
His bitter reflections were disrupted by a sudden lurch. The carriage was gaining speed.
“What the deuce?”
A hail of shots sounded. One of the men yowled in pain before the carriage careened and tipped, hurling him from his