Her Secret Affair Read Online Free Page B

and he’d known, even as a lad in leading strings, not to bother her. Yet still he had adored her, and he had lived for the rare times when she’d half-smothered him with attention. He could understand now the sorrow that had ruled her life. She had endured a worthless lecher for a husband. And Kern was the only one of her six children to survive infancy.
    She had died when he was ten years old. He had the hazy memory of seeing her lying in the coffin, her slim hands crossed over her white bodice. When it came time to close the lid, he had panicked, imagining her shrouded in darkness, defiled by worms. He had thrown himself against the vicar. He had kicked and screamed, and Lord Hathaway had borne him outside, holding him until he cried himself to exhaustion.
    Lynwood had not been present. He had been off on a jaunt to the Continent, and though he’d rushed home upon receiving news of his wife’s grave illness, he had arrived a week too late for her funeral.
    Likewise, on the morning Kern was to set off for his first term at Eton, his father had been insensible after a night of carousing. Hathaway had stopped by to slip Kern a purse of gold coins and to wave adieu as the coach set off.
    Kern had always known he would wed Hathaway’s only daughter when she came of age. Like him, Lady Helen Jeffries had lost her mother at a tender age. Helen was eighteen now, and he was twenty-eight. They were to marry in two months’ time, near the close of the Season. The match was utterly satisfying to him, for Lady Helen was both genteel and sweet-tempered, and the alliance would join two great dynasties.
    If Hathaway still considered him an acceptable son-in-law. If Kern could weather the storm whipped up by one Isabel’ Darling.
    His fingers tensed around the tasseled hand strap as the carriage turned the corner into Grosvenor Square. Curse the blackmailing purveyor of smut. If ever he saw her again, he might be tempted to strangle the bitch, to put an end to her scheming once and for all.
    The horses came to a stop in front of a stately town house built of pale stone. A footman carrying a lighted torch opened the door of the carriage. Donning his hat, Kern stepped out onto the paving stones and paused a moment, breathing the cool evening air scented by the ever-present tang of coal smoke. He braced himself to face Hathaway.
    Discretion was the marquess’s most valued trait. Now Kern had to inform him that his daughter, by virtue of her betrothal, could be made an object of ridicule. And Kern was honor-bound to offer to withdraw his suit.
    His steps leaden, he mounted the stairs to the pillared doorway where a servant ushered him inside the elegant entrance hall. He knew this place as well as his own house, from the marble stairway to the ancestral portraits on the paneled walls. He said to the footman, “Is Hathaway in?”
    The man took his cloak and hat. “Aye, m’lord, but his lordship is engaged with an out-of-town guest.”
    Blast. Kern was impatient to see the unpleasant task over with and done. Now he would have to cool his heels. “Show me in, then.” Hearing the hum of voices, he motioned the servant forward, following him into the high-ceilinged drawing room with its green-striped chaises and gilt chairs.
    “Lord Kern,” the footman intoned.
    Kern’s gaze was drawn to the mantelpiece where his host stood. A small yet imposing man, Lord Hathaway exuded the prideful presence of a war hero. His bushy white eyebrows were drawn into a frown, his salt-and-pepper hair unnaturally rumpled.
    Nearby sat his younger brother, the Reverend Lord Raymond Jeffries, pastor of St. George’s Church. Beneath his fine clerical garb, his shoulders were slumped. With both hands, he gripped the ivory knob of his walking stick, keeping the blunted tip planted in the rug. His hawk-nosed face wore an uncharacteristic look of sullen resentment.
    The charged animosity in the air startled Kern. He had the distinct impression that his presence