The driver grinned, showing black stumps and missing teeth. “Right’chyar, gov.”
Peter strode across the wide road and through the gate built into the chest-high wall in front of the house. The front garden was an ailing thing, lacking water and attention. The house was one of the striped monstrosities which were common in St. John’s Wood. The color variation in the thick horizontal stripes came from the two types of stone used to build the walls, rather than paint.
As Peter had seen Townsend’s designs only a short while ago, which used two different colors of stone for the walls of the country house at Farleigh, he knew a more subtle hand provided a far more pleasing and sophisticated façade than these jarring colors.
He rapped on the door and rang the bell, then rapped again.
The woman who answered the door was gray-haired and stick thin.
“Mrs. Thistlethwaite?” Peter guessed.
“Do I know you, sir?”
“I know of you,” Peter said. “Is Blackwood home?”
“Well, yes, but he’s indisposed.”
“I’m sure. I’ll speak to him, anyway. Which way?” Peter stepped into the house.
“Sir!” the woman cried.
“Announce me,” Peter demanded. “Peter Wardell. Lady Annalies’ cousin.”
The woman’s eyes grew bigger. “Sir…Lord Wardell, you cannot be here,” she whispered, her face turning gray.
“It is Mr. Wardell,” he corrected her. “And manifestly, I am here, and I know Blackwood is here, so you may relax. The damage is done. Where is he? I will not leave without speaking to him. You can tell him you did your best to rebuff me at the door.”
That seemed to mollify her. She shut the door behind him and picked up the front of her skirts. “This way,” she said stiffly.
The house was a rabbit warren of rooms and corridors, turns and dead ends. The room she showed him to was merely another closed door along another corridor. She tapped and cracked the door open a mere inch. “There is a Mr. Wardell to see you, sir.”
“Not now,” Tobias Blackwood said. His voice was breathless. “I’m not at home.”
Peter lifted his voice. “I’m already at the door, Blackwood. I’m not leaving until I’ve had words.”
“Peter…?” Blackwood gave a breathless cough. “Let him in, Mrs. Thistlethwaite.”
She stepped out of the way and sniffed.
Peter smiled at her and thrust the door open.
The room beyond was dim, for the curtains were half-drawn, cutting off most of the sunlight. Blackwood sat in a wing chair drawn up to the window, but not close enough to sit in the sun. He didn’t rise to his feet at Peter’s entrance.
“Don’t get up,” Peter told him curtly.
Blackwood grimaced. “What are you doing here, Peter? It is dangerous, coming here.”
“As you well know,” Peter replied. “Annalies doesn’t know I am here. You won’t tell her, either.”
“I won’t?”
“Not unless you wish to ruin your nice arrangement,” Peter said dryly.
“I don’t know what she told you—”
“She didn’t have to tell me anything!” Peter railed, his anger rising like froth on beer, threatening to spill over. “I could read between the lines well enough. You knew she was about to leave, so you manipulated her pity to make her stay. Is the illness even real?”
Blackwood put his hand over his eyes. “A year, I’m told. Less, if I don’t manage it properly.”
Peter braced himself, trying to ward off the pity which wanted to form. “That makes it even worse,” he said harshly.
Blackwood dropped his hand to look at Peter, startled. “How could it possibly be worse?” he demanded.
Peter squeezed his fist, controlling his temper. “Not only will you force her to stay with you, you will pull her through the…the horror which comes at the end. An honorable man, a man who really cared, that man would find a way to sever contact, so she is spared what is to come.”
Blackwood’s hand dropped into his lap, a helpless gesture. “I love her,” he whispered. “I couldn’t bring myself to do that.”
Peter sighed and scrubbed at his hair. “Then you know you should, at least.”
“Yes.” It was a weak whisper.
The pity won. Peter’s anger died. “For what it’s worth, Blackwood, I’m sorry. You’re a somewhat decent man, and I know you care for her. I know you don’t want to deliberately hurt her.”
“I don’t.”
“Only you will, in the end,” Peter said bleakly. He turned to leave.
“Wait! Please…”
He paused.
Tobias hoisted himself to his feet, using both arms. Peter could see his weakness in the way his wrists quivered with effort to push himself to his feet. He drew a slow breath, recovering, then crossed the carpet. “I know you care for Lisa, too, Wardell.”
“So?” Peter replied, his tone cool.
“When I…afterward…will you be there for her?”
“You must ask that?”
Blackwood shook his head. “You don’t understand. Lisa is an artist, with an artistic temperament. She is ruled by passions.”
Peter wanted to laugh at him. “She is ruled by her passions because she is her father’s daughter. Seth Williams was Black Irish, in every sense of the word. He was also a hard-headed realist who gave up his life to preserve the family. Annalies has that quality in her, too. It is like biting into metal, when you expect soft pudding. It will strike you hard, if you don’t make allowances for it.”
Blackwood’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You’ve felt that strike, then?”
“More than once,” Peter said coldly. “Annalies is with you because she made a hard, clear decision.” He considered Blackwood. “You’re making her regret her decision.”
Blackwood had the grace to look uncomfortable. “That is beside the point—”
“It is the entire point. It is why I am here,” Peter ground out.
Blackwood shook his head. “It is fate which brought you here. I see that now.”
Peter stared at him, astonished. “What on earth does that mean?”
“Annalies is…passionate. We both agree on that.”
Peter ignored the memory which dropped into his mind, of warm lips, a soft body and clever fingers against his flesh. He closed his mind upon it, before his body responded. “What of it?” he demanded.
Blackwood shifted on his feet, discomfort growing. His gaze met Peter’s and shifted away quickly. Then he looked back again, his chest rising as he pulled in a deep breath. For courage?
“I am weaker than I would prefer to be,” he said, his voice quiet. “There are things I cannot…perform.”
Peter drew back. “God above, man!” His voice rose.
“You don’t understand,” Blackwood said quickly.
“I understand far too well,” Peter replied, his tone strident.
“I say this only because I am thinking of Lisa. It has nothing to do with me.” Blackwood’s voice was rising, too.
Peter yanked open the door. “You are trading her about like cattle. You disgust me, Blackwood. And for a moment I actually pitied you!”
THE JOURNEY TO FARLEIGH HAD become a familiar one to Annalies, only this time there were two hacks waiting at the station platform, one of them clean and new. She moved over to the new one, while the driver of the old one scowled at the lost trade.
Annalies looked up at the driver of the new cab. “You have just begun to ply your trade, sir?”
The man was grizzled, round-faced and affable. “There’s so much business going back and forth to Farleigh these days, miss, old Angus back there can’t keep up.” He jerked his thumb back at the other cab. “I thought, seeing as people looking to reach the house won’t stop in the near future, that I’d capitalize on it, so to speak.”
“Very enterprising of you. If your cab does not smell of liniment, then you should do well. To Farleigh Hall, please.”
She climbed into the cab, which had no smell at all which she could detect. The hot, dry air wafted in the open window as the carriage moved forward.
The journey to the house seemed to last forever and take no time at all. She emerged from the cab when it halted and paid the driver while trying to take in all which had changed since the last time she had been here, which had been barely a week ago. The very last stones of the old manor were dismantled and hauled away. All that remained now were gaping wounds in the earth, which the laborers were filling and tamping down. They sweated heavily in the sun.
Annalies spotted James Scott as he came toward her, a shovel in one hand.
“Mr. Wardell is at the house, my lady,” Scott said.
“Thank you.”
“Best to walk right around in a big circle, my lady,” Scott added. “There are holes and furrows everywhere which might turn an ankle.”
“I should have had the cab drop me at the house itself,” Annalies said. “It would be faster.”
“Aye, there’s already a cart track going right around the trees,” Scott replied. “I’m thinking it should be turned into a proper road.” He touched his forehead and headed back to the earthworks.
Annalies pretended not to see the speculative stares the working men sent her as she walked carefully around the wide perimeter of the work and back to the path which led from what had once been the main house, to the grounds man’s house.
The garden was still, except for birds and other creatures moving among the cool roots. No human moved among the growth.
Annalies tapped on the front door, for there was no knocker and no bell. The door yawned open at her first touch, then swung slowly closed again. She realized someone had left the door open to allow heat to escape but had failed to prop it so it remained open.
She pushed the door open again. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then she heard, far away, the rattle of something which sounded like china. Perhaps Mrs. McGraw was in the kitchen at the back of the house. Annalies knew the way there. She moved through the house and stepped into the stone-floored, narrow and long room which appeared to have been added to the house some time after it was first built.
The kitchen was empty, the oven door ajar and the coals spread to cool.
The clanking of china came again, this time from the left. A table and benches sat at the far end of the kitchen, with an oil lamp on the table, and a basket of mending beside it.
Puzzled, Annalies moved toward the table, listening hard for the repeat rattle of china.
There were two wide French doors in the outer wall, there. Sunlight gleamed, beyond. It was filtered light, such as one found beneath dense trees. One of the doors stood open.
Annalies approached the doors as more rattling sounded. She saw beyond them and understanding came to her. The old, large conservatory at the back of the house was actually attached to the house itself. This was the entrance.
She saw verdant, tall bushes and an abundance of dark green, glossy broad leaves, the fragile trailing lace patterns of ferns, up-thrusting palms, and more. The conservatory was badly overgrown.
Annalies stepped onto the dark red, glossy bricks and pushed through the leaves, sidestepping thorns and snags, and keeping her dress well out of the way.
The brick path led her to the center of the big glass room. Above, the panels of the roof were lifted and propped open, to allow hot air to escape. Even so, the temperature in here was at least five degree warmer than outside, thanks to the dazzling sun playing upon the glass.
Another chink of crockery. This time, she recognized the sound. Someone was moving terracotta pots around, letting them click against each other.
She rounded a large tropical palm. She had reached the center, where the path became a big circle, with a large potting bench to the left, and more doors to the right, opening onto the potager garden, outside.
Annalies halted at the perimeter, her breath catching.
Peter straightened, his hands dropping away from the big pot he had been moving. He stood, surprise skittering over his face.
Heat rose up her neck. Peter wore no shirt. His trousers hung low on his hips because he had dispensed with the suspenders, too. The flesh over his chest was softly tanned, making her wonder distractedly how often he went without a shirt.
“What are you doing here?” Peter demanded, reaching for the shirt which hung over the branch of a miniature lemon tree.
“I…” She couldn’t think of words she might speak. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the curves and angles of his chest and the flat belly below. There was a line of dark hair arrowing from just below his navel, down below the band of his trousers.
As he moved, his skin gleamed. He was heated and sweating.
Her heart slammed and skidded. Her entire body seemed to clench. Her extremities throbbed. “Why aren’t you working on the house?” It was an inane question, the only one which came to her.
Peter turned the shirt over and over, looking for the opening. “They need skilled laborers now. And this place needs the work. Damn it.” He gripped the shirt in his fist, giving up. “You should be in London, painting your heart out.”
The reminder let her find the words, at last. “Mrs. Thistlethwaite told me you called on Tobias six days ago.”
Peter scowled. “Do you not worry about her discretion concerning your private life, if she spilled that news at the first opportunity?”
“She did not spill the news at all. I had to pull it from her, this morning. Tobias has been brooding since you left. Mrs. Thistlethwaite is devoted to him. When I mentioned to her that he was worrying about something, she told me you came to visit him and that the two of you argued. Loudly. Almost violently, she said. You slammed the front door hard enough to break one of the panes.”
“I did?” He shook his head. “Send me the bill.”
“Oh, I will,” Annalies replied.
The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked upward.
“Tobias refuses to tell me what you argued about,” Annalies added.
Peter drew in a breath. It had the effect of making his chest rise, pulling her gaze back to the rounded muscles there. The heat in her throat worked higher.
“I won’t tell you either,” Peter warned her. “If that is why you are here, you have wasted your time.”
“Oh, I know it was about me,” she assured him.
“Naturally. You are the only thing I have in common with the bastard.”
“You call him that, even now?” She realized she was drifting closer to Peter but couldn’t halt her feet.
“Now, more than ever,” he growled. His voice was low, reverberating in his chest.
Annalies longed to press her fingers against his skin, to check if it was as hot, as smooth, as it appeared. She curled her fingers into a fist to prevent her hand from moving.
“Why are you here?” Peter added.
“You argued over me. I want to know…I must know that the two of you did not conspire to arrange my life for me in some way.”
He laughed. It was a low sound, which swiftly grew harder and louder.
Annalies took a step backward, startled.
“We argued,” Peter said, finally. “It implies a lack of consensus. Nothing could be arranged under those circumstances.”
“You both have strong opinions about how I should live my life,” she pointed out. “Who won the argument determines whose opinion I must tear down.”
Peter shook his head. He tossed the shirt so it landed back on the branch.
“Why do you look like that?” she demanded.
“Go home, Annalies. Your life is yours to do with as you please.”
“He is letting me paint what I want,” Annalies said. “He even admired them, yesterday. Does it mean your opinion held sway?”
“I mean it, Anna. Go home. Please.” His voice was a low growl. “Nothing can come of this interrogation.”
Her heart thrummed,
quite separate from the throbbing need making her body ache. “You have never held anything back from me, before. I came here because I thought for sure you would tell me what Tobias will not.”
“He will not tell you because it makes him appear bad,” Peter shot back.
“Explain it to me!” she cried.
“No!” he roared back.
Annalies stepped back, startled and a little afraid of the sudden anger in him. The tendons in his neck and arms flexed.
Peter raised his hand. “Don’t. Don’t look like that.” His voice was quieter, but tight with control. “We argued, because I refuse to make decisions for you. I’ve spent the days since calling myself a fool and more, because if I’d simply agreed with him, then I could have what I want.”
“What do you want?” she breathed. Only, she knew. She already knew.
Peter’s gaze was steady, spearing into her soul. “Go home…” he whispered. His tone was nearly a plea.
Annalies reached up and slid the pin from her hat and put the hat and pin on the potting table beside her. She took the five steps which separated them, halting only when her breasts and hips touched him. Sparks shot through her at the contact.
Now she could smell him—the heat and the scent which was purely Peter, the one she recalled late at night, when she was alone with her thoughts.
Peter froze. Even his breath stilled. Only, she could see a pulse throbbing in his neck, running far too fast.
Annalies put her arms around Peter’s neck. “This is my choice.” Her voice was thick with lust.
Peter’s hands settled on her waist and she thought he might try to push her away, so she quickly raised on her toes and kissed him. She put everything she had of herself into the kiss, as if the day would end when she was done.
His arms came around her, pulling her against him. Her heart leapt.
Peter groaned and took possession of the kiss, smothering her with his heat and power and the driving need which thrummed through him, which she could detect with her highly sensitive, aching body.
It was the wildest kiss she had ever experienced. It drove all thoughts from her mind, leaving raw longing behind. Annalies clung to him, unable to do anything but accept what he did to her.
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