The Duke's Secret Desire (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 4) Read Online Free PDF Page B

is true that the child you carry belongs not to your late husband but to your Indian lover?” Bartholomew demanded, goaded beyond patience by her trust in her brother and her refusal to credit him with noble motives for her safety.
    Arya stared at him in disbelief. “You dare to make such an accusation against me? When have I ever given cause for such an insult? I went from my father’s palace to my husband’s bed and at no time during that journey did I ever commit any act which would have dishonoured either. I have been faithful to my duty. You should grant me that much, you with your talk of duty!”
    “Arya, I’m sorry, I met with the Major General and he told me of the rumours.”
    “And you gave them credence? You have known me since my marriage and have you ever seen me conduct myself in a manner which was in the least improper?”
    “Arya, you must believe me when I tell you that your brother is after his own ends, not your welfare. I should not have reacted as I did, I admit that, but you were gone. What was I to think?”
    “Were you to immediately leap to the conclusion that I was a faithless wife? You are overly fond of rumours; you hear that I am an unfaithful wife and you believe it. You hear that my brother intends to do me harm and you believe it. Yet you expect me to trust what you way when you can offer nothing in the way of evidence.”
    Arya’s voice was shaking but inside, her heart was breaking. Bartholomew had been the man to whom, in silence and in secret, she had given her heart. She had married him trusting in his account of her late husband’s concerns and hoping that his proposal meant that he had some regard for her, which she stupidly thought was a token of affection. She had been a fool. Bartholomew had taken advantage of her ignorance and her isolation. He held no affection for her. Her brother was the only one who could help her now.
    “Where are you going?” Bartholomew demanded as she headed away from him.
    “I am going to bed,” she declared.
    “Do not leave the house,” he told her. “I realize that you don’t believe me, but you are in danger.”
    She didn’t answer. She knew what she needed to do. Her brother was the only one she could trust. He would look out for her; everyone else was intent on motives which served their own purposes. All of her dreams were dashed. It was time to think of her unborn child.
    “Arya,” he called after her. “I mean what I say. You must not leave.”
    At the foot of the staircase, she turned. “Am I to be your prisoner? Are you aiming to subjugate me as thoroughly as your Empire is trying to subjugate Bharatpur?”
    “That’s not fair. I am trying to protect you.”
    “So you say. But you have not been successful in telling me what, exactly, you are protecting me from. Good night.”
    “Arya —”
    But his wife continued her ascent up the staircase, her head high and regal, refusing to acknowledge his presence or that he had any right at all to make demands on her. As she made her way up the stairs, he watched from below. She was so beautiful; the generations of breeding marked her bones and her carriage so that even the graceful glide of her hand upon the railing seemed majestic. He was used to European royalty and the ponderousness of ceremony with which British monarchs established their status. But the slender woman disappearing from his sight was queenlier than any ruler who ever sat on a throne of England.
    He wished he could take back his angry, accusing words. How could he tell her that it was his love for her, and his jealousy, that had risen to the bait of the Major General’s words? Seeing her now, he knew that she had never been faithless to her husband, nor would she ever succumb to any dishonour. He would make it up to her, he resolved. Once their tempers had cooled, and they were able to react calmly, then he would be able to apologize, and she to hear him. Perhaps he would then even be able to proclaim his love