Of One Heart

chapter 5





London, England

February 5, 1533



Dawn had scarcely colored the eastern sky when the noise of the River Thames coming awake disturbed the slumber of Iris, Lady Dangerfield. She frowned slightly, still half-asleep, forgetting for the moment that she lay in the Marquess of Sandhurst's bed. His town house was fashionably situated on the Strand and overlooking the river, but this daily commotion on the water could become tiresome.

Iris opened one eye to find her bed partner still sleeping a few inches away. Clearly, Sandhurst was used to the clamor. Her irritation melted away as she gazed at him, lost in the spell he cast so effortlessly, even in his sleep.

Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst, would become one of the wealthiest men in Britain upon the death of his elderly father. Not only would the coveted title of Duke of Aylesbury be his, but also vast estates in Gloucestershire, and Aylesbury Castle in Yorkshire.

The mere thought of such riches and prestige made Iris ache inside, for she had married Timothy, Lord Dangerfield barely two months before meeting Sandhurst at Hampton Court. She'd been satisfied with Timothy until then, but the instant she glimpsed that proud head across the garden and felt the heat of his compelling brown eyes even from a distance, Iris lusted for him. Then the Marquess of Sandhurst had slowly, casually, made his way to her side. When he reached out with strong, agile fingers to lift her hand to his mouth, she'd burned for him, nearly fainting.

That had been four years ago, and the force of her ardor seemed almost to amuse Andrew. He was fond of her, but Iris knew that even if Timothy should die Sandhurst would not marry her. He did not seem to want to be bound to anyone except himself. Naturally he would have to marry one day to produce an heir. Iris tried not to think about that. The idea of another woman having what she burned to possess was torture.

Longing to touch him now, she stared instead. Her gaze lingered on his tousled hair, which curled slightly against his brow and along the nape of his neck. As a child, Sandhurst had been fair, but he was thirty-two now and his hair had darkened to a rich deep brown. Iris thought him the most splendid, masculine creature alive, and there were few women who would disagree with her. His face could have been sculpted, particularly the cheekbones and aristocratic nose. Just above his upper lip, on the left side, was a scar that cut down into the firmness of his mouth—this obvious flaw made him doubly captivating.

"My dear Iris," he murmured suddenly in a voice husky with sleep, "you are a woman of breeding. Were you never taught that it is rude to stare, especially at this uncivilized hour and at such length?"

There had not been even the flicker of an eyelash to betray his consciousness. Iris blushed, but whispered, "Forgive me, my lord. I only was staring because I could not touch...."

"Why not?" One side of Sandhurst's mouth quirked slightly, brown eyes opened lazily, and he was turning on his side to reach for her.

Even in winter his skin was golden brown against Iris's pale flesh. Leisurely he traced her breasts with one fingertip, smiling as he gathered her closer and breathed the scent of roses in her coppery hair.

"But... what about this uncivilized hour?" Iris somehow managed to tease, her breath already coming in little gasps.

"Perfectly fitting." Sandhurst kissed her then, before she could ponder his words. How convenient that she was always so hot and willing...

A loud, irritating tapping began on the bedchamber door. Impossible, he thought dimly. No servant could be so foolish. The racket continued until he finally lifted his head and shouted, "God's life, stop that!"

"Sandhurst? Are you awake? It's Rupert! I must speak to you!"

Rupert! What the hell was his illegitimate twit of a half brother doing in London—at his town house—at dawn?

"Don't you know what time it is? Go downstairs and have them bring you an egg or something. I'll join you after I've bathed and dressed."

"No, no, no!" Rupert's tone grew shrill. "I must speak to you now. I'm coming in!"

Furious by now, Sandhurst threw off the covers, bare feet meeting the chilly, rush-strewn floor. He yanked on his hose before throwing open the door.

"Be grateful I'm sparing your life, crackbrain!"

Across the chamber Iris clutched the thick covers against her chin and stared in shock. It wasn't often that Sandhurst lost his temper.

Now he was leading the slight, spindly younger man to his dressing room. Rupert gaped openly in Iris's direction until he suddenly found himself closed in with his ominous-looking half brother.

"Don't be angry, I implore you!" he whined. "I've come to help you!"

Sandhurst took a deep breath before replying coldly, "Pray explain. Quickly."

"The duke is here. Our father!"

"I appreciate the clarification," he said sarcastically. "Just tell me what the devil is going on!"

"Well, well, we were all settled in at Aylesbury Castle for the winter. Patience, my dear wife, and Father, who had a chill, and our younger sister. Cicely—"

"Rupert, I bloody know who lives at Aylesbury Castle! I am still a member of the family." It galled Sandhurst to be instructed by this stammering fool. If his own mother, the duchess, were still alive, Rupert Topping would never have managed to infiltrate the family. Five years ago Andrew's mother had died after an accidental fall, and the duke, ill and lonely in his castle, had allowed his old lover. Jane Topping, to take residence with the son she insisted was the duke's. Sandhurst, already estranged from his father, lived far to the south in London, and Cicely, at eight years of age, was not a fit companion for a crotchety old man. So Jane Topping made herself at home, while Rupert, then nineteen, treated his father as if he were God. After Jane, too, died, Rupert had stayed on, playing the dutiful son in the Marquess of Sandhurst's absence. Even the horse-faced Patience Topping, recruited as Rupert's wife last year from the village of Bubwith, had wormed her way into the family's bosom.

Lord Sandhurst's scorn for the entire situation that the duke had allowed to develop was almost surpassed by the repulsion he felt for his obsequious half brother. As a consequence, Sandhurst stayed far away from his family and the already cool relationship with his father virtually disappeared.

"Oh, I know that you are one of the family, my lord!" Rupert was blubbering. "You'll never know how grateful I am—How honored—to know that I am your relative! I would do anything to help you, to bridge the gap between you and our father, to heal the wounds, to—"

Pained, he closed his eyes. "I perceive your meaning."

"Well, the thing is, I had a suspicion that Lady Dangerfield might be here, and I was afraid that our father's valet might come to your chambers to inform you of our visit. Kettlewell tells Father everything—he's almost like a spy!" Something in Sandhurst's eyes caused Rupert to get a grip on himself. "Well, that's getting ahead of the story. You see, this is what's happened. We were all settled in for the winter, as I told you, when King Henry sent word that he wanted to meet with Father at Whitehall. We had no idea what it was about, but the duke allowed all of us to accompany him. Cicely was especially eager for the chance to visit you!" He paused to nod cheerfully several times. "We arrived in London two days ago and went immediately to Whitehall. Exciting times, I don't mind telling you! Father met with the king, then last night he suddenly announced that we must come to your house at once. It was quite late when we arrived—you were, umm, asleep—and the servants saw us to our beds."

Now that the gist of the story was revealed, Sandhurst hated to prolong the interview, but curiosity got the better of him. "You are not exactly privy to the intimate details of my life, Rupert, so I wonder what led to your suspicion that Kettlewell might find Lady Dangerfield in my bed."

Rupert blushed and dropped his eyes. "Lord Dangerfield arrived back from a journey to Cornwall yesterday. As I understood the story, he went to his home, but his wife was absent. Then he—uh—visited the court at Whitehall, where he imbibed a rather injudicious amount of ale and told anyone who would listen that Lady Dangerfield was embroiled in an open affair with you, that she was doubtless in your bed as he spoke, that—"

"Am I to assume that you were one of those people who 'would listen'?"

"Only for your sake, Sandhurst!" Rupert assured him eagerly. "Only to help you!"

"I'm a grown man. I don't want your help." He turned away before reason fled entirely and he said something brutal. "Leave me now to bathe and dress. You may tell my father when he awakens that I will join him in his chambers."

Sandhurst returned to his own bedchamber to discover that Iris had gone back to sleep. Drawing back the covers, he lightly spanked her shapely bottom and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"You'll have to get up, I'm afraid." He spoke distractedly, staring out the leaded-glass windows. Snow swirled against the panes. "Didn't you tell me that your husband returns from Cornwall today?"

"Yes, but not until midday." Iris ran her fingertips down the long, tapering line of his back. "Come back to bed, my lord," she purred. "I'm still hungry."

"Save your appetite for Dangerfield. He's back, and he knows you weren't in his bed last night. I'd suggest that you dress and hurry home to appease him, if you still can...."

* * *

Joshua Finchley, faithful valet to the Marquess of Sandhurst, prepared a hot bath for his lordship, then laid out fresh clothing and took his leave. Unlike most noblemen, his master preferred to shave, bathe, and dress himself.

It was past eight when Sandhurst stepped into the corridor, clad in rich gray velvet. Puffs of white silk showed through the slashings of his doublet, which was sewn tight at his narrow waist. A neat white fraise stood up against his golden-brown neck.

"Andrew!" cried a familiar female voice. He turned to find his sister, Cecily, running toward him, her face alight with love and excitement.

"Child," he murmured, and caught her up in his arms. "How you've grown."

"I'm almost a lady. I'm thirteen. A boy in Yorkshire has already asked for my hand!"

Sandhurst blinked, then smiled. "He was refused, I trust!"

"Of course, silly!" She stood on tiptoe, beaming up at him. Gleaming black curls framed her heart-shaped face which was dominated by beautiful sable-brown eyes. She was petite and slender, with gentle curves that he hadn't remembered... no longer a baby sister. "I've missed you so! How can you leave me up there with... them like this?" Cecily's voice had dropped to a whisper. She glanced down the hall toward Rupert and Patience, who appeared to be standing guard outside the duke's bedchamber.

"I'm not a fit guardian for a young lady," he replied with more than a twinge of guilt. If only their mother hadn't died, none of these problems would exist.

"Do you think it right that I'm being raised by—"

"My lord?" Rupert and Patience called in unison. "Your father awaits."

"I'm coming." He looked down at Cecily's earnest little face. "We'll talk about this later, all right?" Then, walking down the corridor toward the duke's bedchamber, Sandhurst could only feel a familiar rush of hostility. This was his house, after all, and he was thirty-two years old, yet other people continued to attempt to manipulate his life! They arrived without an invitation, ordering him about—

"Andrew? Andrew, where are you?" came the querulous voice of his father.

Lord Sandhurst paused for a moment and closed his eyes. Old instincts rose to the surface, but he pushed them back. He'd learned, years ago, that fighting with his father gained him nothing but frustration, though it had taken him many more years to perfect a more subtle approach. Opening his eyes, he practiced a smile on Rupert and Patience as he went through the doorway.

"Father, it is good to see you." Approaching the bed, Sandhurst extended his hand.

The Duke of Aylesbury wore an old nightgown faced with fox. He sat up in bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, his white hair combed back from his craggy face. In his youth the duke had looked not unlike his handsome son, but now his excellent bone structure served only to accentuate sunken cheeks and a sharp chin. His life had been bitter, made bitterer still by this rebellious son and heir who had the effrontery to smile at him and extend his hand in pretended affection.

"I'm too old for your games, Andrew. Sit down."

A muscle moved in his jaw. "I'd prefer to stand."

"I see no point in wasting time on aimless chatter," the duke continued. "I've come to tell you that you're going to be married. King Henry has found a wife for you, and I've agreed."