The Worthington Wife Read online

  At that moment, Cal got it. He understood what he’d just been given.

  Power.

  Now, Cal sloshed the blade in the water and shaved the other side of his face. He patted his skin with a wet cloth, then slapped on some witch hazel. He got dressed in his tuxedo, tied the white bow tie, put on his best shined shoes.

  From his trunk, he took out a faded snapshot. It was seven years old. He didn’t know why he’d brought it with him. He should have burned it a long time ago. It was a picture of a pretty girl with yellow-blond hair and a sweet face. Her name was Alice and she had nursed him when his plane had been shot down in France. His brother, David, had ended up in the same hospital, three days after Cal got there.

  Alice had taken care of David when both of his legs had to be amputated below the knee. Cal had fallen in love with her. The problem was David fell in love with her, too, but without his legs, he wouldn’t propose to Alice. And with his brother being in love with her, Cal wouldn’t propose, either.

  Cal tucked Alice’s photograph into the corner of the dressing table mirror.

  David had wanted to come here, too. He supposed David had a right to see the house their father had grown up in. He would bring his brother over from America.

  The problem was, David was a forgiving kind of man. He was a stronger man than Cal. David wasn’t going to like what he planned to do.

  But Worthington Park was Cal’s chance at revenge.

  * * *

  The Countess of Worthington was shaking. Julia had only seen the countess like this twice—when the telegram had come with its cold, direct message that Anthony had been killed, and the day John Carstairs, her second son, had died in an automobile accident.

  “You must have a sherry. Or a brandy. You look very ill.” She looked up to summon a drink, but Wiggins was already there. The butler must have almost run at undignified speed to return, and he now presented a delicate glass of sherry on his silver salver.

  The countess stared blankly at it, as if she didn’t know what to do. Julia took the drink and pressed it into Lady Worthington’s hand. The countess’s pallor terrified her. She looked more gray than white and quite severely ill.

  Julia felt panicked—Lady Worthington had been very ill after Anthony’s death. No one had known how to bring her out of grief. Julia had tried very hard to do it. She’d promised Anthony she’d be there for his mother and sisters should anything happen to him, and she always kept her promises.

  “The boy is going to destroy us,” Lady Worthington moaned.

  “He is going to do no such thing,” Julia said firmly. She would not allow it. Her mother, Zoe, Nigel and Isobel were conversing with Diana and her younger sisters. The younger ones kept glancing over, looking nervous and curious.

  “Have the drink, Sophia,” Grandmama insisted. “You will need it.”

  At Grandmama’s firm words, Lady Worthington suddenly took a long sip. “I know what he is going to do,” she whispered. “He wrote a letter.”

  “A letter? What did it say?” Julia asked.

  “He threatened us. Simply because he had asked for money and we had the good sense to refuse him. His mother was a grasping, scheming creature. She is the reason my husband’s younger brother is dead.”

  “Goodness, what happened?” Julia asked. “What did she do?”

  The countess put her hand to her throat, to rest on the large diamond that sat there. At fifty, the countess wore a fashionable gown—blue silk with a loose, dropped waist, covered in thousands of tiny turquoise and indigo beads. The Worthington diamonds—huge, heavy and square-cut—glittered on her chest. “I can’t speak about it. It is enough to know he is a danger.” The countess grasped Julia’s hand. “You must not listen to a word he says.”

  But the plea made Julia uneasy. She remembered Diana’s words—that the countess had reason to feel guilty. But the look in the woman’s eyes was pure terror. “What is it that you fear he will say?”

  “He will tell you lies! Everything that boy says will be twisted and untrue. He will try to make you believe—” Lady Worthington stopped. Her hand clutched the center diamond of her necklace, as if clinging to it gave her strength. “That is not important. You, Julia, should have loyalty to us. Do not welcome him. Do not show him friendship. He will use you to destroy us. Do not forget that. You must be on our side.”

  “Of course I am.” But the countess’s words seemed so...extreme. Surely the countess was too upset to go into dinner. Excuses could be made. Julia leaned toward her grandmother. “Perhaps I could take her upstairs—”

  “No,” the countess cried. “I will not run and hide from Calvin Carstairs. I will protect my family from him. When you have children, you will understand...you would do anything on earth to keep them safe.”

  And Julia understood. The countess had lost both her sons. She would not allow anyone to hurt her daughters.

  “As soon as the boy is downstairs, we will go in for dinner.” The countess lifted her chin. Julia was amazed by the woman’s strength and spirit.

  Until the countess directed a sharp gaze at Diana, standing across the room. “Sometimes you must do something rather terrible to protect those you love.”

  Julia didn’t understand. She had never seen the Countess of Worthington like this. Lady Worthington was usually so gracious, so kind. The tragedy she’d suffered in losing both her sons had broken the hearts of people on the estate, for she was so well loved. When Julia had lost her brother Will to the influenza outbreak and her own mother had sunk deeply into depression, Lady Worthington had been like a mother to her and Isobel.

  She had never dreamed Lady Worthington would push anyone into marriage—despite Diana’s warning that her mother would scheme to do it. She had thought Diana was exaggerating. Diana had always been dramatic. They had been such opposites—it was why they had always been great friends. “You can’t mean to force Diana into marriage—”

  “I will do what must be done.”

  “But not that. You cannot force Diana to be unhappy for the rest of her life—”

  “Better that than poverty. Julia, this is not your concern.”

  The sharp words stung. But the raw fear in her ladyship’s eyes startled her.

  Yet it was wrong that both the countess and Diana wanted this marriage—it would be a disaster. It was something she felt she could not allow to happen, because it would only cause pain.

  Yet, how did she stop it? It might be true that she had no right to interfere, but she also couldn’t stand aside and watch a disaster unfurl—

  Wiggins’s stentorian voice suddenly cut over all sound. “The Earl of Worthington.”

  From where she stood, Julia could see the entrance to the drawing room. The new earl stood in the doorway...

  Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore an immaculate tuxedo jacket, black trousers and white tie. His hair was slicked back neatly with pomade, which darkened it to a rich amber-gold. The severe hair brought out the handsome shape of his jaw, the striking lines of cheekbones you could cut yourself on. Even from across the room, the brilliant blue of his eyes was arresting.

  Beside her, a feminine voice drawled, “He was right—he does clean up rather well.” Diana had moved beside her, perhaps sensing her mother’s sharp glance. But Diana set down her empty glass then glided across the drawing room toward her cousin.

  Julia had put out her hand instinctively to stop her friend. But she was too late. And what could she do?

  She didn’t know how to be there for Diana. To be pregnant and unmarried was a nightmare.

  Diana’s silvery laugh sliced through the room. She was right at the new earl’s side, smiling into his eyes, running her strings of glittering jet beads through her fingers. Flirting for all she was worth.

  “What’s wrong, Julia?”

  Zoe
, looking lovely in a beaded dress of deep green with an emerald-and-diamond choker around her slim neck, came to her side.

  She couldn’t talk about Diana’s secret, not even to Zoe. She smoothed her face into a look of ladylike placidity. “It’s nothing.”

  “Do you really think Cal is the vengeful monster the countess paints him to be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not stopping the countess from pushing her daughters at him,” Zoe observed.

  Julia watched Diana move so close to Cal her bosom pressed to his bicep. Cassia, tall and blonde like Diana, but only twenty-one, had approached him, too. She smiled demurely at him—Cassia was always gentle and sweet. The youngest daughter was Thalia: eighteen and bookish. And when Thalia looked as if she wanted to escape, her mother propelled her to talk to Cal.

  Then Julia realized Cal was watching Lady Worthington. Just for a moment, then Diana ran her finger along his sleeve and got his attention again.

  But Julia had seen the cold, hard rage that seethed in that one fast look.

  “I think the countess might be right,” Julia said softly.

  Zoe looked at her surprised.

  Wiggins stepped in the drawing room and cleared his throat. “May I announce His Grace, the Duke of Bradstock. His lordship, the Earl of Summerhay. His lordship, Viscount Yorkville.”

  Nigel immediately moved to greet his good friend Summerhay.

  “Oh no.” Julia swallowed hard. At least it would be easy to keep track of the three of them—Bradstock had black hair, Summerhay was blond, Yorkville had auburn waves. Other people arrived also—members of the local gentry, and an older gentleman to make appropriate numbers.

  “Don’t worry. I’m on your side,” Zoe promised. “I don’t think you should marry a man you don’t love for his title.”

  It wasn’t the right time to speak of it, but Julia suddenly felt she needed to take charge of something. “Zoe, I want to ask if you would consider lending me money.”

  Her sister-in-law stared in surprise. “Whatever for, Julia?”

  “For war widows who have been left destitute. I would like to loan money to the women. They will pay me back over time. All they need is a few pounds to start them on the direction of a new and better life. I asked Nigel for a loan against my dowry, but he refused.”

  “Did he?”

  “He thinks my work is too scandalous and it will ruin my marriage prospects.” She couldn’t help it—she glanced at Nigel, who was talking to the three peers who’d just arrived. For all she knew, he was pleading with them to propose to her.

  “I would be happy to loan you the money, depending on the amount and the terms,” Zoe said. “Is there a great chance these women will default?”

  Zoe was never foolish. She was smart and shrewd. “I don’t think so,” Julia said honestly. “But I will start with modest amounts. If a woman defaults, I will be able to repay out of my pin money and my dress allowance.”

  “Your dress allowance.” Zoe shook her head, obviously amused.

  “Do you agree with Nigel?”

  “I love my husband, but when it comes to what should be considered scandalous for a woman, we never agree. I am happy you are helping these women.”

  “You don’t fear for my marriage prospects?”

  “I already know who you should marry. Noble Dr. Dougal Campbell.”

  “Zoe...” Julia swallowed hard, aware of the sharp jolt of pain in her heart. “He just wrote to tell me he is engaged to someone else. I have lost him forever.”

  “Then it was not a great loss, Julia, my dear,” the dowager duchess declared.

  Julia jumped at the firm, autocratic tones of her grandmother. She turned to find the dowager duchess had walked up beside her and looked ready to deliver advice. Julia dearly loved her grandmother, but as Grandmama looked pointedly at the Duke of Bradstock, she swallowed hard.

  “It is if Julia and Dr. Campbell were perfect for each other,” Zoe pointed out, sipping her drink and toying with her long string of beads.

  Her grandmother linked arms and swept her away from Zoe. “Bradstock keeps watching you,” Grandmama said bluntly. “Why do you think he has never married? He is waiting for you. You could be a duchess with one simple word. And that word is yes. Julia, you must be settled. Where shall you live, if you end up a spinster?”

  “Grandmama, I won’t say yes to a man just to have his house. There’s absolutely no reason I couldn’t have a flat in London and have a job—”

  She had to stop. Grandmama staggered back with her hand on her heart. “If I find you behind the counter at Selfridges, my dear, it would be the end of me. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

  “No, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want my unhappy marriage on yours,” Julia said.

  The dowager’s brows rose. “Touché.”

  * * *

  Cal was seated between the Duchess of Langford and Lady Julia at the long, wide, polished dinner table. His cousin Diana sat near him, talking flirtatiously to the man beside her—another earl—but glancing at him. The dining table would have stuck out both sides of the narrow tenement building he’d grown up in. The walls and floor of the dining room were covered in Italian marble shot with streaks of pink. On the table there was enough silverware and cut-glass crystal to pay a king’s ransom, and half the room was covered in gold leaf.

  So damned opulent it made anger boil inside him.

  Lady Julia turned to him, a lovely smile on her face, and asked, “What do you think of Worthington Park?”

  Up close, Lady Julia—sister to the tall, black-haired Duke of Langford—was even more stunning.

  Smooth, alabaster skin. Thick, shining black hair. Huge blue eyes. Her cool, controlled expression fascinated him. Like nothing could ever upset her. Though once he saw her looking at Diana and she’d looked real worried. Maybe because Diana was flirting with him.

  Once or twice, he’d seen a look of terror on Lady Worthington’s face. That hadn’t stopped her pushing her three daughters at him. His cousins, damn it. English royalty married their cousins, but it seemed like a strange thing to him.

  The countess obviously hoped the backwater hick from America would be so bowled over by her pretty English daughters and their jewels and their manners and their titles—each one was “Lady” something—that he’d kiss the ground they walked on and jump down on one knee to propose marriage to one of them.

  As if that would happen. He would never marry one of them—one of the aristocracy.

  “Looking at this place,” he said to Julia, “I can’t believe no one ever chopped the heads off the English aristocracy.”

  He figured that would stop her trying to converse with him.

  But it didn’t. “I can assure you that many members of the aristocracy have been afraid of that very thing for quite a long time,” she said smoothly. “But it is that fear that can lead to more justice for people, for better conditions and more decency—if it is pushed in the right direction.”

  That answer he hadn’t expected. “You almost sound like a socialist.”

  “Are you one, Worthington?” At his look of surprise, she added, “That is how you are to be addressed now. By your title.”

  “I remember the lawyer telling me something like that. But having to hear that title is like having a bootheel ground into my heart. I’d prefer you call me Cal.”

  Her lips parted. God, she had full, luscious lips.

  But then, why shouldn’t she? She’d never slaved in a factory for fourteen hours a day. Or spent hours over a tub of steaming water, destroying her hands to scrub dishes.

  A footman came by, holding a dish of oysters toward him. When Cal had made his money—a fortune that this family knew nothing about—back in the States from bootlegging and other
enterprises that he wouldn’t talk about, he’d dined in a lot of nice restaurants. He’d liked knowing he could have whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. But the amount of food coming out—and going back—shocked him.

  “How much food do you people eat at dinner?” This was the third course and they hadn’t gotten to anything that looked like meat.

  “There will be several courses, especially at a dinner party,” Lady Julia said softly. She kept her voice discreet, he noticed. “I expect the Worthington cook, Mrs. Feathers, wants to impress you.”

  “Why? No one else around here does.”

  Lady Julia faced him seriously. “The servants all know that their livelihoods depend on you. On whether you are satisfied with them or not.”

  “They don’t need to knock themselves out,” he said. “I’m dissatisfied with this on principle.”

  Her lips parted—damn, he couldn’t draw his eyes away from them. He wanted to hear what she would say, but then the duke sitting on the other side of her started talking to her. Not her brother, but the Duke of Bradstock. Black-haired and good-looking, Bradstock talked like he had a stick up his arse and couldn’t find a comfortable place on his chair.

  “Lady Julia, have you given up that shocking hobby of yours?” the duke asked. “Or hasn’t your brother taken you in hand?”

  Julia turned from him to Bradstock.

  For some reason Cal felt damned irritated to lose her attention. Julia was the type of snobbish woman he should avoid. But he liked talking to her. And that surprised him.

  “I am not in need of being ‘taken in hand,’” Julia said.

  “He should forbid these forays into the sordid underbelly, Julia,” Bradstock went on.

  Cal had no idea what they were talking about, but he could tell Julia didn’t like what the man was saying.

  “I am over twenty-one, James,” she said crisply. “If I choose to do charitable work, I do so. When I told you of my work, I did not think you would hold it against me.”

  “It shows you have a good heart, my dear.” The duke laughed. “There’s charity, my dear Julia, but surely this is beyond the pale. These women don’t want help. They’ve found a métier that they enjoy.”