by Deana James
Then with her toes curled in the rug, she looked around the walls for the bell cord.
None was in evidence. Mentally cursing, she spied her nun's habit tossed on the chair beside the bed. Again gritting her teeth, she started toward it but stopped in midstride. Toes curled under her feet, she realized she was staring at her own trunk placed at the end of bed. Flabbergasted, she blinked at it twice, certain she was mistaken.
Her hunger and cold momentarily forgotten, she crossed to it and ran her hand over its leather-bound surface. Wonderingly, she fingered the brass handles, traced her initials in gold above the lock. Its presence passed all understanding. It had gone with her to the nunnery but had remained unopened when the abbess had insisted that she wear a habit. Undoubtedly, the habit had been donned according to Sebastian's orders.
And undoubtedly, the trunk had been brought to her by order of the earl. She shuddered. From one prison to another. But at least she could wear her own clothes.
Eagerly, she flung back the lid. Inside was her clothing, neatly folded, smelling familiarly of lavender and the camphor wood press in her own room at Stone Glenn. Her eyes filled with tears. Over a year had passed since she had done more than look at these clothes in the privacy of her room.
Wool and cotton day dresses, her fine merino-trimmed spencer; in the tray drawer her silk undergarments, so long given up when the nuns furnished her with their own clothing. Allowing the sheet to drop, she held each familiar garment up, then laid it aside. One and all they seemed fragile and unsophisticated. For now she needed armor.
Even the hated nun's habit would be preferable to a dress of fine rose wool with deep lace collar and cuffs. Shivering with chill, she pulled out more garments until she came across what she sought-her royal blue velvet riding habit. In a moment she had found undergarments and her riding boots and had begun to dress herself with fumbling haste. Never had buttons and laces resisted so obstinately. Her fluttering fingers trembled as she clumsily secured her skirt, blouse, and jacket.
Drawing on her boots, she ran to the window and cautiously parted the heavy draperies noting with distaste the dust clinging to the fabric. The panes were fogged over. She wiped away the dampness to stare outward at a bleak cloudy sky. Still it dazzled her eyes accustomed for so many hours to partial darkness. Blinking rapidly, she pressed her hands against the panes of the window in frustration.
Beneath her, gray stone walls sheered straight down from her window to a flagstone terrace at least thirty feet below. She was in the second story of one wing. Across the terrace stretched another wing, probably identical. Windows gray as the day and the walls in which they were set, stared opaquely back at her.
A grim smile fleetingly curved her lips. She was a captive in this grim, gray house. How Gothic! was her thought. A Castle of Otranto. With herself as Isabella.
She turned back into the room. Does anyone even know I'm here? Does anyone care?
A mirror glinted on the door of the wardrobe. Allowing the draperies to fall closed, she peered into its grimy surface. Her reflection shocked her. Her blond hair was wildly disheveled, hanging in locks and snarls tumbled about her shoulders. Deep mauve shadows hollowed her eyes and made her white skin all the whiter. She raised her hand to push at her hair. For the first time, she saw her wrist in the mirror. In horror she looked at it, looked at both of them. How had she gotten those bracelets of bruised skin?
The leather straps.
How could she forget the nightmare ride in the jouncing coach, a ride that seemed to stretch into eternity? She rubbed her wrists tenderly, her mouth twisting. Not only was the skin tender, but the flesh beneath felt bruised to the bone.
She lifted her eyes to the mirror. Surrounded by a witch's snarl of hair, a haggard face stared back at her scarcely recognizable as her own. She looked infinitely older than when she had last seen herself in a mirror. Old and bitter. Her mouth lifted in a sneer as she pulled a tangled snarl down over her left shoulder. Her pride and joy. She felt a pain deep inside her. Her eyes burned and a sheet of tears sluiced across her eyes.
She knew herself to be a commodity. An heiress with land and money to be fought over. And a body to bear children. The drunken viscount who had come for his bottle of brandy last night had not even remembered her name. Yet he had been ready to make love to her. Like the stallion with the mare, he was ready to mate with her. And he, like the stallion, cared nothing for the mare except as a receptacle of his lust.
He had kissed her. Her empty stomach turned over and r she swallowed, tasting again the brandy in his mouth and the indefinable something that must be him. It had made her head swim, her muscles weak.
And that, she supposed, was lust, too. Her lust. She flushed. God bless you, Hewes Attewater. Her old groom's weathered face rose in her memory. The single person who had been her friend since babyhood, old Hewes had been her mentor and teacher as well. A pragmatic Cornishman whose salty conversations about men and animals she had been allowed to overhear, although he had been angry and frightened at the same time when he had discovered her hiding in the loft to watch the stallion put to the mare.
Thanks to dear Hewes, she had not totally surrendered to the desires of the flesh. At the most crucial moment, her mind had triumphed over her body.
And so it must continue to do, if she were to survive in this unhappy house. She would need to wear armor on her body and in her mind.
In the top of her trunk was a box of her toilet articles. Carrying it to a chair beside the hearth, she sat and took out her brush, her comb, her hand mirror, and small bottles of scent and lotion. Whoever had packed her things at the abbey had gotten everything. Eagerly, she opened the lotion and began to rub it gently on her wrists.
Then she raised her aching arms and brought the brush down through the mass of tangled hair. Her scalp smarted as the bristles caught in the snarls. Tears started in her eyes. Swinging the skein over her left shoulder, she began again by brushing the tangles from the ends.
A tear escaped to trickle down her cheek. Her agitated breathing and the occasional hiss of the coals were the only sounds in the dim room. In frustration she flung the brush onto the table and sprang to her feet.
A wave of dizziness swept her, forcing her to brace both hands flat against the table top and hold on for dear life. After drawing several deep breaths, she stared again at her own face. It gleamed whiter than before with a pinched look about her mouth; only her eyes showed a trace of color. Weakly she swayed as her knees threatened to give way. She must have food before all else. Beyond that she could not think.
Behind her she heard the door open. Her scalp prickled and she turned swiftly to face her adversary.
In the doorway stood Emma Felders, her hard mouth pursed tight. Her eyes were cold with hatred that she made no effort to conceal. A small tray in her hand held a silver pot and a china cup and saucer.
At the sight Vivian almost smiled. How the housekeeper must have hated to carry them to her. Vivian raised her chin and forced herself to walk calmly across the room and seat herself before the fire.
The older woman set the tray down on the table side. "Your tea, milady."
Vivian stared pointedly at the tray. The pot sat naked on it, no cozy holding its heat in. Nor did it set on a stand with a warming candle underneath it. Even if the water had been boiling when the housekeeper left the kitchen, it would be only tepid after its trip through the draughty halls. She touched the side of the pot with her fingers. Stone cold. Her eyes found Mrs. Felders, their accusation clear without words.
Spots of color appeared on the woman's cheekbones. She shifted uneasily. Then a muscle jumped as she tightened her jaw. "It's late in the day. People are about their accustomed duties. I myself had to leave a task unfinished.''
Vivian pushed the tray back and rose, conscious that everything she did was a test of wills with this woman. Ignoring the hunger clawing at her, she left the fireside for the dressing table.
The housekeeper's face was
a study. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes as she watched.
Vivian picked up her brush and extended it.
Mrs. Felders shook her head. "Lord Larnaervon requires your presence downstairs, milady. I was sent to bring you as soon as you'd had your tea. Since you don't want it, I suggest you come immediately."
Vivian stabbed the brush at the housekeeper.
The woman laced her hands together under her apron. "If you know what's good for you, you won't keep his lordship waiting. When he says 'do,' everybody around here does. He's not a man to cross. As many have found out to their sorrow."
At the reminder of the earl's ruthlessness, Vivian felt her stomach twist and the color drain from her cheeks. Her arm trembled.
Mrs. Felders's sharp eyes detected the movement. "If you'll follow me quickly," she suggested silkily, "he might still be in a good humor."
Vivian's slender figure seemed to droop. The arm lowered, then lifted. She fixed her sternest expression on her face. It was an expression borrowed from the Mother Abbess and guaranteed to make strong men quail. Determined to have herself made presentable, she extended the brush.
Drawn against her will by years of servitude, the housekeeper took a step forward. Her hand reached for the brush, then drew back. Her lips tightened. "You don't have time for that, milady."
Vivian thrust the brush into the lax hand and twisted round on the dressing stool. From her box on the table, she drew a wide blue velvet ribbon. She tossed one end over the shoulder. In the mirror her eyes met those of the housekeeper.
In the seconds that followed the air between the two women was charged. Then Mrs. Felders succumbed. With poor grace she took the proffered brush. "Oh, very well, milady, but you'll come to regret this. If not this time, then the next. You'd best be warned. He’ll make you sorry you were ever born."
Chapter 7
Piers stretched gingerly in his big bed. His head pounded from the brandy he had consumed the night before. His mouth tasted foul as an unclean stable. Carefully, he opened one eye only to moan softly in pain. A long rectangle of dim light managed to slip between the draperies. It struck his eyes eliciting a grimace as he slowly rolled over on his side away from the window and levered himself up onto his elbow.
The excruciating agony of such an ambitious movement wrung a hoarse curse followed by a groan from his parched throat. Clearly, he had succeeded in rendering himself unconscious last night. Gently, he pulled the pillow over his pounding head.
Waiting on cue for the curse and groan, Watkins entered with morning coffee. The china rattled as the valet set the tray down on the table.
Piers groaned again. "Lord Jesus and all the angels, Watkins. Do you have to crash crockery?"
"Sorry, sir. It slipped."
"We’ll, you slip away, won't you-that's a kind man-and leave me in pain. I don't want any of your damned coffee."
The valet poured as if the viscount had not spoken. “Milord, I think you'd better drink this."
At the stern tone, Piers eased the pillow down from about his face. "Why?"
"Because his lordship requires your presence in his study as soon as possible." The valet took the pillow from Piers's slack hands and shook it out. "Let me just slip this behind you, sir."
"To hell with that!" Piers pushed himself halfway up until the pain between his eyes struck him with stunning force.
The valet dropped the pillow against the headboard and guided the coffee cup into Piers's hand. "Best drink it, sir, while it's hot."
Piers swallowed some, finding it laced with brandy. He drew down his dark eyebrows and squinted at the valet. "My father, you say? What time is it?"
"Barely noon, milord."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"No, sir." The valet moved to the wardrobe and began to lay out Piers's best suit.
Preferring not to know what lay ahead, the viscount sipped the brew, sighing in relief as the alcohol numbed the pain, and the hot coffee washed away some of the debris in his mouth. At last he felt able to rise.
His agonized growl brought Watkins back with a robe. Piers listed to one side, clutching at his head with one hand, the bedpost with the other. Watkins slipped himself expertly beneath the taller man's arm and supported him.
For a moment while his stomach churned, Piers swallowed hard, ducking his head and transferring his grip to the smaller man's shoulder. When he had mastered his rebellious disgestive track, he shakily manuevered his way across the bedroom and into the hot bath already prepared in the small adjoining chamber.
Stripping naked, he sank gratefully into the steaming water. Sweat broke out on his skin as the poison of the night's drinking rolled from his body. He was beginning to feel almost human, when an ill-conceived shake of his head set his temples to throbbing with renewed fury. Pressing the heels of his hands against them, he cursed foully.
"Milord?" the valet inquired.
"Bloody hell, Watkins! Why do I do it? I can't remember anything of what happened last night. Whole evening's a fume."
"Yes, milord." The valet imperturbably soaped the broad back and shoulders, massaging the knotted muscles and nerves of the spine and neck.
Piers let his hands slide limply into the water. "That's why I do it," he murmured. "So I won't have to remember."
Watkins hesitated, not because he feared to speak. He was privy to all the viscount's secrets. Neither did he fear reprisal. Piers had never acted less than a kind gentlemen to him. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat delicately. "Perhaps it would behoove you to recall—”
"—my bride-to-be," Piers finished.
"Exactly, sir."
Again the viscount cursed. His father had gone too far this time. No question but that the man was mad. The whole Gothic scene last night had been like something out of Monk Lewis. Marrying his only son to a mute nun! Piers laughed loudly and painfully.
"Sir?"
"My bride, Watkins. I'm contemplating my affianced bride."
The valet cleared his throat. "A very kind lady, sir. Very well-bred."
Piers let his head drop back against the curve of the tub. "Too well-bred I'm afraid." He closed his eyes as he muttered, "An attic to let."
The sponge halted in its rhythmic circles. "I did not find the lady so, milord. She nursed your mother with great kindness and efficiency."
"Oh, she can do small things like that, Watkins, but only God knows whether or not she's an idiot."
The valet lifted the linen towel. "I don't believe she's an idiot, milord."
Piers's eyes remained closed. He sighed deeply. The piercing pounding had retreated to a faint dull ache and a bad taste in his mouth. With a return to physical health, he began to regain a measure of charity. He really had no objection to the girl. One girl was much like another. A casual acquaintance, a passing affection, an heir or two and then he would be on about his business. The part that rankled was that his father had selected her for him.
He opened his eyes to see the valet waiting with the towel draped over his arms. "Bloody hell, Watkins! Can't I even enjoy my bath?"
"His lordship was most insistent, sir."
"What difference will a few more minutes make to him? To me a bit more brandy and anything would be bearable." Even marriage to an idiot. He stared morosely at the smoke-blackened wall of the bathroom. What bloody difference did anything make?
At the valet's pleading expression, he rose and stepped into the warmed towel. While he dried himself, Watkins began to mix the soap for shaving.
Of course, he was only babbling. She was not exactly an idiot. After all, she could write her name in his hand. Of course, that was a slight thing, no real measure of intelligence. Still she did have an air about her. And she was beautiful. He grinned slightly as he dropped down on the stool and allowed Watkins to drape a hot towel across his face and begin to strop the razor.
He had told her she had beautiful breasts. And so she had. He shifted and tugged the towel more securely across his legs. When his ch
eeks and chin were smooth, he looked up into Watkins's lined face. "What does Larne want with me?"
The valet dabbed a tiny fleck of lather from the viscount's chin, then stepped back to avoid the explosion. "I believe he has brought a priest to the house, milord."
Piers did not change expressions beyond a short nod. "Ah, well. 'If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all.'"
Not understanding the valet merely bowed. "Will you wear the blue superfine, sir?"
"As good as any for my wedding finery."
************************************
With poor grace Emma Felders accepted the brush and touched the bristles to the crown of Vivian's head. "I can't do any more than brush it out," she warned. "There's a girl below stairs. Matilda. She has a way with hair. She can really fix it. She's the one you'll be wanting, milady."
Vivian sat stonily enduring the long sweeps. Tears started in her eyes at least twice as the snarls caught. The housekeeper glanced in the mirror from time to time. Each time she dropped her eyes after briefly meeting Vivian's.
When at last all was smooth and shining, Mrs. Felders leaned over and placed the brush on the table. "You'd best be going downstairs," she muttered direly. "His lordship doesn't like to be kept waiting."
As the housekeeper drew back, Vivian proffered the blue velvet ribbon.
"I don't know that I can—” She met Vivian's eyes in the mirror. Tightly pursing her mouth, she gathered the bright skein of hair together at the nape of Vivian's neck and clumsily tied the ribbon. The bow did not lie flat and the ends hung down unevenly.