He liked Catriona.
He wanted to see her.
To kiss her again.
Cristo. What was wrong with him? He was not meant to make attachments here. He was meant to return to Spain, to fight Boney’s forces, to honor the memory of Maria and Francisco. He was meant to go where he belonged.
Footsteps in the hall behind him predicated the arrival of his butler. “Sir?”
He turned to Johnstone, irritated for the interruption upon his solitude as much as furious with himself for the emotions swirling within him. “Yes, Johnstone?” he snapped. “What can it be?”
“Her ladyship has yet to return from her trip to the village, and I am wondering if we shall postpone dinner to accommodate her schedule,” said the stalwart domestic.
He frowned. “I was not aware her ladyship was going to the village today.”
Where had she gone and why? More importantly, why was she tarrying so long? She had not spoken one word of her plans to him. But then, he supposed she might not after what had transpired between them. He had proven himself a rutting beast, and then he had fled like a cobarde, a coward who could not face his own wife.
“Lady Rayne took Miss Olivia to the village,” Johnstone informed him.
That his butler should know his wife’s whereabouts and he should not seemed dreadfully wrong. It nettled.
“Who the devil is Miss Olivia?” he asked next, for that was not lost upon him either. He knew of no such person.
“The, er, young lad Lady Rayne has taken under her protection,” the butler explained, for once at a loss for words. “He has turned out to be a girl. Named Olivia, my lord.”
“Olly?” Alessandro stared, baffled by the revelation.
“Yes, my lord.”
The pícaro was a female named Olivia. The discovery was only slightly less disturbing than the feelings he was beginning to develop for his wife. Of course, as his mind worked to make sense of the news, he had to admit, it made sense. He had been perplexed at the lad’s softness of face and voice, his slightness of form.
“La vida es loca,” he muttered to himself, passing a hand over his face.
“Indeed, life is mad, my lord,” Johnstone droned, his expression impassive. “I quite agree.”
He glowered at the domestic, irritated at the man’s tenacity. “Do you know when Lady Rayne and Olly-Olivia departed for the village, and when we might expect them back, Johnstone?”
“They were in search of appropriate attire for Miss Olivia, my lord. I could not say,” his butler replied. “But Lady Rayne did mention she ought to return before dinner when she departed.”
Sí, when she had departed without telling him where she was going.
When she had departed without informing him the dirty little squatter she had taken under her wing had turned out to be an Olivia rather than an Olly.
Alessandro seized upon that, allowing his irritation with her to overtake his longing. “Postpone dinner for an hour, if you please, Johnstone,” he directed. “Surely her ladyship will have returned from the village by that time. If you need me, I will be in the study.”
Johnstone bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
“Gracias,” he muttered.
“De nada, my lord.” With that parting shot, the butler took his leave.
Alessandro glowered at the fellow’s back before abandoning the somber gallery with its missing paintings and returning to the equally depressing study. When his wife returned, he would have a word with her. A rather severe word. He did not appreciate being left in the dark about matters within his household, and she would know it.
*
It was well past the appointed hour for dinner when Catriona, her lady’s maid, and Olivia returned from their impromptu trip to the village. They had managed to find some reasonably fine cloth and even a few dresses for Olivia. Fortunately, Sadler was a deft hand at sewing, and she was leading the charge in seeing the child properly clothed as befit a genteel young lady.
The grimy, breeches-wearing scamp would soon be no more. And Catriona was making it her mission to see Olivia properly dressed, educated, and given the chance at life she had deserved all along.
But when Johnstone greeted them at the front door, his aggrieved expression suggested the buoyancy of victory was about to plummet to the earth.
“Run along Olivia,” she told her charge. “Sadler will see you are washed and dressed in one of your new gowns for dinner. I shall see you later.”
Olivia doffed her cap, reminding Catriona that something would need to be done with her shorn locks and that her old habits would not leave her with the mere donning of a dress and petticoats. Sadler shared a look with her before leading the girl off to the massive staircase.
“Is something amiss, Johnstone?” she asked after her lady’s maid and Olivia were beyond earshot.
The butler cleared his throat. “It is his lordship, my lady. Forgive me, but I fear I made an error. I had not realized Lord Rayne was not privy to the identity of Miss Olivia.”
She frowned. “Do not worry yourself over it. The discovery was a new one, and his lordship was quite busy with his ledgers. I did not want to burden him with it when I was able to have it all in hand myself.”
“Nevertheless, his lordship was distressed when I relayed the information to him. I am afraid he has—”
A loud bang, followed by a muffled male voice that was undeniably angry, interrupted the butler’s words.
“What was that?” she asked Johnstone.
The domestic sighed. “That, I fear, is his lordship.”
“What is he doing?” she dared query. Whatever it was, it sounded angry.
And violent.
The butler grimaced. “After my regrettable discussion with the earl, he discovered a portrait of his mother missing from the study.”
Alessandro’s beloved mother. Anguish sank through her along with dread.
“Thank you for the warning, Johnstone,” she said sincerely. Though she had not been the Countess of Rayne for long, she had already come to deeply appreciate her husband’s staff. They had welcomed her, and they were efficient and attentive. Most of all, they cared.
And she was grateful for them. All of them.
“Of course, my lady.” Johnstone looked as if he was about to add something, but paused.
“What is it?” she asked, concern washing over her anew. “Is there something else I should know about?”
“No.” The butler cleared his throat, casting his gaze to the floor. “Rather, I think you are good for his lordship, and I am pleased to see it. We are, all of us belowstairs, well pleased to see it. I am happy to serve you, my lady.”
The prick of tears came to her eyes, filling them. She blinked them away lest she made a fool of herself. The butler’s words were everything she wanted to hear. She wanted to believe them herself so badly she ached with it.
Yes, she wanted to be good for her husband.
Good enough to make him stay.
Good enough to win his love.
She swallowed down the knot of emotions clogging her throat. “Thank you, Johnstone. I consider that the highest of compliments. You pay me a great honor.”
“The honor is all mine, my lady.” The butler bowed.
Another loud crash echoed through the hall then, reminding her she had an irate husband to attend to. Exhaling on a sigh, she thanked Johnstone again before excusing herself and making her way to the source of the sound.
The study.
During her tour the previous day, she had discovered a great deal of dust, along with heavy, outmoded furniture carved with Greek deities. A handful of paintings had decorated the walls, along with some shelves and curiosities. The carpet had been faded and in need of repair, she had noted.
Aside from that and the chair behind the desk, the chamber had been fairly unremarkable. The chair bore a carving of a god she did not recognize, though she had noticed the nose appeared to have been lopped off and then reaffixed with
glue, as perfectly imperfect as the rest of Marchmont.
As perfectly imperfect as her husband was.
She reached the closed study door to the dissonant music of another thud sounding within, followed by a curse she did not recognize. Spanish, no doubt. On a deep breath, she opened the door and crossed the threshold.
As the portal clicked closed behind her, she took in the panorama before her.
The study had turned into a battlefield. The floor was littered with ledgers. A chair was upended and broken glass glittered from the hearth. An entire sideboard, complete with decanters and glasses, had been left on its side, the crystal shattered.
In the midst of it all stood the man she loved, hands clenched, fury emanating from him. His dark gaze lanced hers. And she understood one fact. Her husband was livid.
“Alessandro,” she said softly, hoping to blunt the swell of his rage. “What are you doing?”
“Where have you been?” he asked instead of answering her question.
His voice was low and guttural, a blade sheathed in velvet.
“To the village,” she said, daring to close the distance between them by taking another step closer to him. “You did not answer my question.”
“You do not have the right to ask me questions when you hide things from me,” he said, his lip curling. “There will be no secrets in my household. Do you understand me, Catriona?”
She stiffened, for she understood quite well. She understood him better than he could imagine. Her beautiful husband was hiding more scars than she could count beneath his perfect exterior. And she was paying the price for every blade that had inflicted its mark upon him.
Losing his wife.
His son.
The battles he had fought.
Returning to his estate to discover it pillaged and on the brink of ruin.
Secrets.
It was a waterfall. Or perhaps, more precisely, a flood. But she was not about to allow either of them to drown in it.
“I understand,” she said, crossing the chamber to him. “But you must, in turn, understand this, I did not keep anything from you.”
He clenched his jaw. “The squatter is a female, which you neglected to tell me. You went to the village to procure her a dress, also without telling me. I learned these facts from the butler.”
“You told me your duty to me was finished for the day,” she reminded him bitterly. “Just before you walked away from me. Have you forgotten that, husband?”
He took a step forward, bringing him closer to her. They were nearly thigh to thigh, his angry heat radiating from his body into hers. He leaned down until his lips almost brushed hers. “I forget nothing when it comes to you, wife. Nothing.”
She raised her chin. “Then perhaps you might remind yourself of the bargain you made with me. A marriage of convenience. You only remain here until you get me with child. I owe you nothing, not even fidelity, after I birth your heir. That is how you wanted our marriage to be, Alessandro. You chose those terms, not anyone else.”
His nostrils flared. “You accepted them, my lady.”
“Perhaps I do not accept them any longer,” she told him, mustering the courage to be honest. “Perhaps I have changed my mind and now, I want something more.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Such as?”
“Such as a husband who will not abandon me one day soon,” she dared to say before spinning on her heel. “Do not expect me at dinner, my lord. I find I have lost my appetite.”
“Catriona,” he called after her.
“Do not wait for me,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I am exhausted after a long day, and I need rest. Good evening, Lord Rayne.”
With that final shot issued, she slammed out of the study.
On the way to her chamber, the sounds of further desecration of the chamber her husband occupied ringing through the house, she recalled she had been meant to calm him rather than further infuriate him. But then she sternly reminded herself she could only offer so many olive branches. If he refused to take them, the choice was his.
Chapter Twenty-One
Catriona regretted her hasty decision to eschew dinner later that night as she rolled onto her stomach in her bed and flipped another page in The Silent Duke. The starving grumble echoed through the quiet of her chamber, further taunting her. Though the book was well-written and engrossing, she could not concentrate. The tumult of emotions roiling within her were rendering her enjoyment of the cleverly crafted words impossible.
As was her hunger.
How could she have been foolish enough to fall in love with a man who had done nothing but promise to leave her? With a man who had told her his heart would forever belong to another? He had given every part of himself to his first wife, and there was nothing left for her.
Closing her eyes against the tears, she released a heavy sigh. It seemed no number of attempts at distraction could change the truth. Her life was a series of mistakes. Of loving men who would never love her in return. How wrong she had been to believe marrying Alessandro would give her freedom. She would have been happier in Scotland, disgraced and ruined.
At least her heart would have remained whole.
A knock at the door joining her chamber to her husband’s startled her.
What could he want? Had he come to exercise his husbandly rights? The notion made heat unfurl through her, even as she knew she must not allow it. Her heart could not bear such intimacy tonight, not when he remained so removed from her in every other way. Not when he insisted upon maintaining the distance between them.
“I do not want company tonight,” she called out, for it was the truth.
He had hurt her far too many times. Small hurts. Just enough to make her bleed.
The door opened despite her denial of his entry. He stood on the threshold, bearing a tray in his hands. In the warm glow cast by her candlelight, he was a half-shadowed mystery.
Her heart ached at the sight of him.
“I brought you some sustenance,” he offered. “I thought you may be hungry.”
As if on cue, her stomach growled.
She frowned and pressed a hand over it as if she could absorb the sound and make it cease to exist. “I am perfectly well.”
“You must eat, querida.” His tone was disapproving. He moved into her territory now, striding toward her, and as the light licked over his form, she was reminded of why she had not wanted him within her chamber.
He was temptation incarnate, and she could not resist.
But his irrational anger earlier could not be so easily forgotten. Nor could the cavalier manner in which he regarded their union. Theirs was a marriage of convenience.
A most inconvenient one.
She sat up in bed, clutching the bedclothes to her as if they were a shield which could protect her from his magnetism. “Go away.”
She did not want his tenderness or his tray of food or the pretense he cared about her when she knew otherwise, and to devastating effect. The scent of roasted chicken reached her, and her stomach growled anew. Drat the traitor.
“I was forced to suffer through dinner alone,” he said. “The scamp dined in the nursery, leaving me to hurl insults at Johnston in Spanish for entertainment. Did you know he understood them all?”
She was not surprised. “I have no wish to dine with a churl.”
Uninvited, he seated himself on the edge of her bed as if he belonged there, lowering the tray between them. “A peace offering, querida. I am sorry for being curt with you earlier.”
“I accept your apology, but you can take the food and go,” she insisted stubbornly, for she knew she must not soften toward him.
He had taken his anger out on her without cause, to say nothing of his brusque dismissal of her in the wake of their passionate encounter at breakfast. Her heart was battered, and she must protect it now at all costs.
“Catriona,” he said softly. “You must eat. If you are with child, the babe needs nourishment.”
&
nbsp; “Of course that is all you care about,” she snapped bitterly. “How could I forget I am nothing more than a broodmare to you?”
“I have always been honest with you.” He covered her hand with his.
She resented his touch, the effect it had upon her. The way it made her want him. “Yes, you have. But I am tired now, and I wish to be alone. Please go.”
His jaw clenched. “He stole my mother’s portrait.”
“I am sorry.” And she was. “I know how much you loved her.”
“Sí. She was a good woman. A good person. Far better than I am.” Idly, he stroked her inner wrist with his thumb.
She would be lying if she said it did not affect her. Lying, too, if she said the anguish in her husband’s expression did not bring a fresh rush of tears to her eyes.
“Even if you are not able to find Bramwell and bring him to justice, and even if you do not find the portrait, he cannot steal your memories from you,” she said softly. “Your mother will always be in your heart.”
“You are a good woman too, querida,” he said, his dark gaze intent upon her. “My mother, she would have liked you. Maria would have, too.”
His words shocked her, sending an incipient rush of hope through her.
She quashed it. “Thank you for the dinner. Perhaps I will eat some after all. Alone.”
He nodded, removing his hand from hers before standing. “I will go, as you wish. I asked for some of the plum tartlets you like.”
He had noticed she liked plum tartlets?
No, heart, she reminded herself firmly. This man cannot be trusted.
She swallowed. “That was most thoughtful of you, my lord.”
He gave her a grim, lingering look before bowing. “Sleep well, querida. Tomorrow is another day.”
Another day, she thought to herself as she watched him walk away from her for the second time. Another day of loving him, another day of knowing he would never love her back. She glanced down at the tray he had left her and snagged a tartlet.
It was bittersweet on her tongue.
*
From the mullioned windows of his father’s study, Alessandro had a perfect view of the overgrown gardens.
Earl of Every Sin Page 22